New
Writing Contest! Whcih story do you like best?
Nova
23.1%
3
It is the hand that wields the blade
53.8%
7
The Night Raid
23.1%
3
13 votes
Apr 5, 2010 6:55 PM
#1
| Here are the story entries that are up for this month's writing contest! :D good luck to all!!!!!!! ^^ Nova By: nguyenkid  Charlie."Class, quiet down now." Ms. Pierre said demanding. She was a teacher as old as the Velociraptor at the museum. "Your science projects are STILL due next week!" She announced as she passes out homework. Her horn-rimmed glasses just added to her teacher profile. I totally respect teachers and all but they got to cut us some slack. I also pity them since they are forced to do so and will have to correct them all. The worst nightmare; stacks of illiterate adolescent nonsense. "Man! This sucks!" Leaning back so far in her chair, Sam who sat in front of me whispered to me upside-down. "We don't have time for projects when we are practicing all next week for the match against Heights!" I whispered back. Being a sophomore takes a lot out of people particularly for a lazy guy like me. Life at Monument high, Boston (Home of the pilgrims and currently 4.5 million people) is tough for any hormone-filled teen. In this diverse city, the rules of high school are always changing. Say good bye to jocks and cheerleaders and hi to gangsters, Goths, hijabs and random clichés. No popularity contest here. Samantha has been my best friend since fourth grade. More known as Sam due to the fact that it is more fitting to her tomboy personality. The only person who called her by her full name was her mom. Our meeting was weird but it was something of this sort. A chubby kid steals my Kit-Kat in the midst of my time with precious and rare red clay-do (Red clay-do ruins easily). I tried to get it back. Sam interfered and punched him right in the face. We were sent to the principal's office and I got my Kit-Kat back. Sam told me how she always hated that chubby kid who always stole things. she finally found a reasonable excuse to repay him. That was how we came to be and still are. I’m not saying I let a girl defend me. Sam isn’t a normal girl and won’t hesitate to stand up for anything she thinks in. I’m more than capable to defend myself and so is Sam. We’ve been close all the time and have always helped each other out. We’re closer then family at times. Sam was a rebelous person as well as she was a tomboy. Her eyes are brown with a slight hint of yellow and they never focused on the details. Just matter of facts. Logic was her specialty. She would sort everything in logic and answers would come to her. Possibilities was her escape when matters of her mom was brought up. Sam's always wearing some somewhat cherry red top that would matches her fall-colored scarlet hair. Her hair was neither straight nor curly at times but always absurdly, naturally tidy. If the situation was right, and usually it was, with Sams hair hidden by a cap, she would be mistaken as a boy. It could be her fault since her posture and even her walk were both boyish. These days no one wanted helpless girls. Cinderella’s days would end when they met Sam. I was putting in my locker combination and getting the supplies for next period when Sam came up and asked, “Have you even started your project, Charlie?" “Maybe" I said sarcastically. This is a game we play. the routine of a perfected skit used at school. “Well of course not. You're going to procrastinate until the very end. Then you're going to ask for my help" "Oh, you know me so well, Sam!" She knows very well that procrastination is my own specialty. I still get an A- which is incomparable to the effort I put into it and that’s perfectly fine with me. Sam gets an A+ when she spent hours on and I find that illogical. Contemplating, I walked into the classroom and sat down. How am I going to waste away my weekend? I can’t misuse this valuable time I am only given twice weekly. Being lazy takes incredible effort! The teacher started to write something educational on the board, I subconsciously copied it down and continued to think. I weighed my options, science project or pizza and movie? The responsible thing to do would be to get my science project done. But I'm not a responsible person, so movie it is! Than again, I already watched the entire list of good movie that came out this month. You see? This is what I get for not being time efficient. I’ll probably just go over Sam’s house and re-watch something. I popped back into reality as the last period bell rang to find Sam was now staring intensely at me. “It’s very surprising that you can completely ignore the teacher and still look like you're paying attention." She commented. “I know you're jealous." I retorted with every ounce of pride. I trained my mind very hard to accomplish this mindset. I went to my locker to pick up my backpack and walked to the baseball diamond. I have been playing baseball since fourth grade when I was introduced by Sam. She was the ace pitcher in the baseball team. Sports would obviously be predicted in her personality. I started out as an outfielder but gradually over the years I became a really great shortstop and first baseman. I’m always praised with my intense analysis and reaction. I caught up to Sam, we did our warm-ups and put our equipment on. Baseball season had just started and we were intensely training to defeat Dorchester Heights, our rival. We can’t allow anything to get in the way of our victory, especially science projects. Baseball is intense even when we are just practicing. I fell in love with it the instant my bat made that beautiful earth-crackling sound as it connected to the ball. I became addicted to sweating and the smell of sand kicked in the wind. We practiced for half and hour before we changed and met outside. I breathed out a refreshing sigh, leaning on the wall, I said, “I finally decided. Tomorrow, Let's see what we can watch over your house.” “Yea, sure” Sam responded while in the process of fixing her boy look; Tying her hair up with cap and hood. We started walking. While we were walking home we talked about what we were going to do over the weekend. "I thought you had this master list of all the movies to watch” She did that finger-quoting thing around master. ”and couldn’t afford to do anything with me.” “I miscalculated and now I have the spare time. Got anything on your mind you want to watch?” I asked. "I think we should watch--" She paused and squinted "Hey, is that Claire and Rick? I wonder what they're doing here." She pointed at the people walking towards us. We ran up to them and I ask “Hey, Why are you heading back to that mad place?" I’m talking about that place where we are insisted on sitting and learn. "Claire forgot her study guide for the math test tomorrow" Rick answered. Here’s Claire, she is Sam's girl bestfriend. Remember how I mentioned the extinction of Cinderellas? Claire had only managed to survive because she’s a hybrid. She uses make-up, she’s boy-crazy and she wears skirts. She is the total opposite of Sam. That’s a big thing. Pigs would not only fly but also levitate if anyone saw Sam wearing skirts. Claire's hair is long and blonde. Her eyes are multi-colored, mostly grey but they sometimes change to blue or green. Claire’s hair had more freedom than Sam’s. Always let down and forced into shape. With a skirt nowhere near her knees but still borderline appropriate, Claire likes to tease guys that way. Surprisingly, Claire doesn't do cheerleading but she does track. The fact that she has more chests are solid proof that Claire and Sam couldn’t be more different from Sam. It still surprises me till this day that Claire is Sam's girl best friend. Of course Sam needs a girl to talk to about those things they desperately need to talk about in the bathroom. And I truly have the gratitude that she does. The guy with Claire is Rick. He is Claire's boyfriend. Very tall and tough, he’s the perfect match for the quarterback in the movies. He is the typical hero I'll-save-the-day Kind of guy. Which nowadays make him a bit sexist. He believes girls should be innocent princesses and saved by guy knights. His dirty blonde hair and blue eyes make him and Claire a perfect couple. He also does track. Claire and Rick are the fastest sophomores in the school. They met on the track team and since they shared a common interest, I guess, they started dating. "Just got out of practice?" Claire asks "Yea. Catch up with you later." Sam said "Kay, Bye!” “Shoot” I said, “ Out of practice. I just remembered that Mom order me to clean my room right after I got out of practice! Let me do it really quick. Go on after me! Sorry” I apologized as I started running down the street. "Sucks to be you! Better hurry, you're going to miss the good ones!" Sam yelled from behind me. I really saw no reason to clean up a mess that would later be accumulated again into a larger size. You don’t want to anger the monster. I’ll just quick stash everything and head towards Sam’s house. Just as I split from Sam, sprinting home, I began to hear a small buzzing sound, almost like a Cicada. Suddenly, the buzzing sound got louder and faster. I slowed to a walk and was looking around for the source of the annoying sound, only to find that it was coming from everything. The buildings, trees and sidewalk were all screaming. Everything started to become distorted like far off images in a heat wave. The sidewalk was being swirly and I started to walk more off-balance then a drunk. My heart was beating so heavily in my chest I could hear it pounding. I bumped into someone in an attempt to walk. He looked familiar, like someone at school but I couldn't tell with all the craziness. Everything was looking more and more like a kaleidoscope and less an anything by the second. What’s happening? I thought. After that everything flashed white....then it was black. It is the hand that wields the blade By: sinnige69  “It is the hand that wields the blade, which is never cut.” Useless expressions like these are what always get me to think. I think about them in context; a samurai film, with its choppy quality and questionable voiceovers. It reminds me of the horrible despair that mirrors my relation to it. Brave heroes and warriors of legend battle nefarious evil and their own demons, setting aside their swords only to mock me, only to say “you will never be like us, you will never experience excitement, courage, adventure and glory the way we do, as you sit there in your modern living room, dressed in your cashmere house robe, 24.99 on the price tag. No, there will be no happy ending for you.” This is not entirely true, however. To say that I have no demons to battle, well my very existence is a kind of demon. What is one to do?- What is one to do when they are trapped in a life of the utmost luxury: food education, work, things all readily accessible and at their fingertips? Does one complain about it- that they feel unfulfilled even with these commodities? “What of the children in Africa? Do you think they complain as their villages are ransacked and their families starve?” well then, does one protest? We are merely cogs in the system, bits of clockwork that serve the faceless machinations of society, merely cogs that are meant to eat, sleep, have children, and pay taxes? “What of anarchy? How would you like it if a man could walk into your home, kill you and your precious family, and make off with all of your things?” Then… does one resign? Does one consign themselves to the ultimate tranquility of defeat, to truly accept the insignificance of their life and melt into sublime apathy as they wait for death? “What of hope? Is it not better to try for happiness, even if a lifetime of toil brings only a few sweet moments to the totality of one’s existence?” for all the thought I give this, I cannot banish my discontent. All I can do is hope that fate-if there is such a thing- holds brightness in my future. With this thought I shake my head and banish the mocking samurais from my TV screen. I can bear their sneers no longer. The next day brings a soft rain that patters at my window. It is one of the few mornings when I wake up in a good mood, as I love the clouds. I hear many people say that they dislike this weather, and granted it can be dreary and utterly depressing at times, but on a day like today the clouds create a blanket of wonderful thickness that casts a silvery luminescence on those who would rest beneath it. Any who knew me so well to know my thoughts and preferences for weather might call me gloomy, or depressing. However it is simply untrue. At times, I feel an overwhelming contentment, a happiness that invades every corner of what I like to call my soul and addresses my mind with answers to any questions I can think. Unfortunately, this state of mind is fleeting. It is usually brought about through benevolence; when I desire to become someone who can help, who can spread relief and happiness to all people. But who cares? That is the attitude my heart adheres to, as I find myself feeling once again deflated. Who cares about these people? Does anyone truly deserve to be served in this way? And how could I be happy if I sacrifice myself to serve others? But might I still be called gloomy, if I do indeed feel this way and in some cases act upon these feelings, if only briefly? I think not. If anything it shows my desire to lead a fulfilling life, my desire to find a suitable lifestyle to this end. As for my apathetic attitude? Is that not just a tool to which I cut away those moods that I ultimately feel will leave me empty? I just don’t get it sometimes. Disregarding these contemplations, I go down to my kitchen and brew coffee like I do every morning. The brown, vaporous liquid is in quick pursuit of my cold, plain cereal. Down the stairs of my building, I stand at a bus stop slick with wetness from the falling rain. I see the punctual Miss Dawson from 32B. A not-so-elderly looking woman (and by this I mean she is on the dusk of her middle agedness and the dawn of her descent into old age) who appears at this stop every morning at the same time. She wears old, outdated clothes, smells like… well the smell is implacable, neither good, nor bad. It is the scent that follows one from their home like a devilish red flag protruding from their garments and screams “this is the smell of me and my life, and as you can see, it is nothing special”. She looks old and wrinkled, maybe from a life of smoking or sun exposure, and wholly unattractive. I think “what is the meaning of this? How can such unattractiveness exist?” Will this lady be content to stay in her odd smelling house forever, knitting and feeding her cats? I doubt it. I also doubt that one such as her will find happiness in love. Her appearance would not be able to attract anything more than the grizzliest of suitors. And so that antagonistic voice speaks to me: “Is beauty not only skin deep? Can one not find attractiveness in the heart and the soul of a person, rather than their face?” Ah, I think, the age old consolation to the query, however if one- if anyone- is asked to think of true love, do they not envision beauty, for example a woman-or man- with raven, ebony hair that cascades like waterfalls and rivers down to the neck and eyes that shine with intensity of only the most brilliant diamonds, and a body and skin to match and complete the opalescence of such a magnificent figure? Or… does one imagine Miss Dawson from 32B? Whatever the case, I can be sure that the true love of mine-if there indeed is one- will be of a beauty I can appreciate. The bus rolls on the stop. The doors open, and I smile as I step aside to let miss Dawson board first. She smiles kindly in return, and sits at her regular seat adjacent to the driver. I take a seat and watch the raindrops splatter against the pane of the window. My thoughts turn back to Miss Dawson. I see her with an utterly plain and boring expression on her face. Is she happy? I cannot tell. If it is true that there is a fate, a divine plan for all people, why is it necessary for Miss Dawson to be so god-awfully repellent? Furthermore, why is there any suffering? Why are there children who die? Unsettling thoughts like these make it hard to believe in any sort of fate or significance and are ultimately the root of my discontent. I look for ways to reconcile this. Cogito Ergo Sum; I think, therefore I am. Am I the only one who truly exists? Is everyone else here an illusion to stimulate me, and that’s why bad things happen to them? After all how can you truly know what- nay, if- someone else is thinking. I know I exist because if I were to think “I do not exist” there would have to be a me in existence to think it. But what of Miss Dawson? I cannot know that she thinks, or even truly exists. Is she an illusion to my senses? There is no way for me to know. It does not matter, however. My reason will tell me to believe others exists as it is the most rational explanation, and furthermore, how could I feel significant or happy if everything around me was a lie, an illusion, a hollow husk. Well, I think, another explanation splattered like a raindrop on the window I stare at. What if- What if, I think, the inconsistencies and inequalities we feel during life are compensated for in the afterlife, like reincarnation, or heaven? I wonder. They sound so nice but ultimately are disprovable and do not explain the nature or reason for life as it is. Splat. Another idea sundered on the glass of my mind. The bus slowly pulls into the central hub, as steam slowly drifts off the wet, warm road, I depart.I take note of the people in the crowd: a man with a hat, a woman with a daughter, a daughter with a balloon. I wonder if any of these people hold answers to my questions; antithetic to my discontent, or are they all as simply ignorant as I? I finally settle on the bench-like ledge that supports a large window and a young girl. The girl is blonde, of medium height and green eyes, sporting a black, crested blazer and a red plaid skirt. A high school student, I can relate. Time passes, and busses roll by. I begin to feel awkward from the speechless moments that continue on, slower than any bus or any snail, hour or season for that matter as there is nothing slower than a moment or series of moments that one would turn their impatience towards. We are both aware of it, or at least it appears that way because as I have stated earlier, it is impossible to know what or if another person is thinking. Two people so silent besides one another, and yet so painfully aware of each other. It is maddening. So I speak: “crappy weather we’re having, eh?” The fact is, I love the weather, but I know better than to share my odd fancies with people and expect them to understand. She looks at me, unfazed, as if she knew and expected me to break the ongoing silence. “Yea…” -Is that it!? Is that all this wretched girl will say, after I so carefully employed a conversation starter tailored to fit her? After all, I could have said “God! I do love this overwhelming grey, damp wet weather we’re having” (of course when I put it that way it does sound bad) or “Don’t you feel like your education is pointless, I mean none of us know what our lives are about, shouldn’t we spend our time trying to figure that out instead?” Now I resolve to try again, this time I will get her to speak and drive away this awful silence. ‘Not one for conversation, are you?” I smile. There, I have done it. I have called her out on her wretchedness, her conceitedness for all to see. My smile, it is not of friendliness or politeness, it is of victory! She smiles back. This, I was not expecting. Has she realized my plot; my plan to drag her thoughts from her? Her smile is that of a hyena, or some other deranged beast. She is up to something. This I know-I know it surely as if it were painted as clearly on her demeanor as the clouds are upon the grey sky-but I hush my thoughts as the time has come for her to speak. “I’m actually kind of shy” she chuckles half-heartedly “did you wanna talk about something?” This answer, or this question, I should say, seems innocent enough, although I am still unsure of her intent. I can still see that beastly quality in her bright smile; I still expect a forked tongue to reveal itself from behind those rounded lips. She is like the others: offering friendly hands and friendly smiles, but truly she is out to hunt and maim. I will test her, I think. I will offer her my true thoughts; expose my neck to her mysterious smile. This way, through her reaction, I will know what she really is. “I feel like life is pointless.” I sigh, and look away dejectedly. Now, now I will know the truth. She stares at me somewhat stunned. Then, with a concerned face says “why do you think that?” I turn to her. She appears caring and genuine; she wants to know the nature of my melancholy. She might have insulted me or turned away. But no. She is one who cares. “Well” I say, “it’s just there’s so much pointless shit in this world; people starve and die young, people suffer, and why? I can come up with no answer.” Her face of concern does not change. She moves in closer and puts a hand on my shoulder. Yes, she puts a hand on my shoulder, to think she could be so benevolent as to do such a thing. I am certain now that I misjudged her. No longer is there a hidden forked tongue or beastly snarl in her face, just the beautiful caring face of a young woman. “There are many tragedies in life but all we can do is press on and try to find our own meanings, our own things to protect.” I smile. At her words, a genuine smile, not of victory or other conceited origins. “I never got your name by the way.” She smiles, and tells me it’s Sheena. I kindly tell her mine in turn. We talk more of things like school, weather and philosophy until her bus pulls in. She gets up to leave but I feel I must spend more time with her. So I ask her, innocently “maybe you’d like to get together sometime?” Her smile widens. It is a wicked, deathly smile. One of which could scarcely be seen on the most demented of countenance, witches and other nefarious things even. The beastly snarl returns and the forked tongue reveals itself. Then, as if in a maniacal howl, she speaks: “sorry, I don’t think it would work.” She crosses the steam ridden roads and disappears a face in the crowd. I sit, on that ledge, bleeding. Bleeding a wound so unfathomably deep it could be described no other way than mortal. If only I had realized, guarded myself against her, rather than exposing myself so carelessly. As I sit and bleed for hours upon that ledge I think “It is the hand that wields the blade, which is never cut.” I laugh stupidly. “Why didn’t I listen? The Night Raid By: AthenianMonty  Sunday evening, thirteen hundred hours. Major Kolon stood just outside the vast, thick forest. He was alone and in a vulnerable position. He only had on him his clothes and his gun. No one believed him, but he knew the enemy would be coming soon. Major Kolon tried to frantically reassure himself: They’ll just laugh at me like they always do, always talking behind my back, saying I’m crazy. I’ll show them who’s crazy.Since first dawn, Kolon had taken it upon himself to ensure the safety of his men, whether they liked it or not. To his men, Major Kolon had a “few screws loose.” He was a coward, a devilish coward, and a man of paranoia. Several of his men had taken their liberty to report Kolon’s insanity to The Brass, but The Brass reassured them Major Kolon was no coward nor an insane man. He was merely a man of “carefulness” and “assurance.” If Kolon were to describe himself, he would say he was none of these but a loving man looking out for his own small platoon; that is, he would very well say he was a martyr, even though he was devoutly atheistic. Kolon had stronger affections than any mother could have, and it was a cosmological joke to have Major Kolon born as a man with this trait. The sun was past its highpoint, yet it continued to scorch Kolon with its bare heat. Neither the burning sun nor the calm leaves of the forest would deter him from his vigilance. All of this was a matter of life and death; and he did not want to die at his young age of forty-five. Keeping his left hand on his gun holster, Kolon took a quick glance at his watch. Eleven o’clock--Damn watch stopped running again,he thought. He was in the middle of enemy territory for several hours, seven hours to be precise, and it was starting to take its toll on him. The trees rustled, and he promptly took aim and fired. There was no response; so, he went further into the forest to check for a body, but he saw no signs of anything at all. He slowly returned his pistol to its holster, however he kept his fingers firmly pressed as any gunslinger would. Those blood-thirsty monsters are out there. I know it. I’ve seen what they are capable of doing at the front lines. They're just waiting for us to drop our guard. I’m not going to let them get past me, no matter how many of them there are. Kolon, being caught up in his own thoughts, never noticed the sound of twigs and leaves breaking behind him. They’re here! He turned about-face and fired. A scream resounded through the region: “Major, its me!” The bullet had missed its mark, and ricocheted into a tree. “What are you doing out here, Charles?” Major Kolon demanded fiercely. “You’ll be dead before you know it!” “Thankfully,” Private Charles retorted, “Your aim is lousy. What are you doing out here, Major? Everyone back at base has been wondering where you‘ve been.” “I’m keeping watch for those monsters. I know they’re here...” Private Charles had heard this story several times, both from the Major as well as the other members of the platoon. And for himself, he was sick of the unreasonableness of the Major’s paranoia. “Sir, if I must say, we are far from enemy lines. In fact, we are deep inside our own territory. I highly doubt they would come this far and--” “Private,” Major Kolon addressed him as sincerely and respectably as possible, “Private, I’m telling you, you haven’t seen these wolves like I have. They’ll do anything--Go anywhere. This is for your sake as much as it is for mine. Go back to base if you don‘t believe me, or stay here and watch with me.” Charles thought about the decision, but decided in all reasonableness that the Major was being very unreasonable. “I’ll be going back to the base.” Charles decided to humor Kolon, though. “I’ll leave you my gun, however. Come back before sunset, at least. It’ll get cold out here before you know it.” The night air fell and Major Kolon still had yet to return. “He’s probably still out doing his silly war games or something,” Chaplain Reginbald said to the others. But only Private Charles was listening, for everyone else were either reading or playing ping-pong. “Leave ‘im be,” Lieutenant Wilmur said while reading his newspaper. “If eenythang, he’s got a bad case of mojo. Prolly kill us all if we were with ‘im.” “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Charles replied. “Its getting late, shouldn’t he have come back yet?” “We haven’t heard any gunshots,” the Chaplain assured Charles, “So we can be sure he hasn’t killed himself with his gun. He‘ll come back when he‘s hungry.” Charles felt some assurance, but was still worried for Major Kolon. Even if Major Kolon was some psychopath, he was still their Major. Charles’ assurance was destroyed when he heard a gunshot. “Prolly sumthang in a tree,” Wilmur said. The short-lived peace was broken by a second shot, then several more shots. An entire clip was soon heard as well. Everyone broke out of their leisure in the utterance of “The hell?” Private Charles and Lieutenant Wilmur made a dash to the outskirts of the forest. More shots were fired--These shots were most likely from the gun Charles lent to Kolon. At the very least, Kolon was alive, as he could be heard screaming God’s name along with every other deity in existence. Night had not completely fallen yet, and the two were guided by Charles’ intuition of the path and the sun’s twilight. When they had finally come to find Major Kolon, he was covered in blood. The entire area was filled with splats and pools of blood--A skirmish had definitely occurred. “How--Where is the enemy? That’s impossible,” reasoned Charles. “How did they get in this far?” “Private,” Major Kolon addressed him, “I told you these wolves go anywhere--Do anything.” He bent down and picked up the remains of a body. “You all said I was crazy, coming out here every other day. Told you they were out here.” Kolon did not reveal the body of an enemy soldier, but the body of a silver-haired wolf. |
asianvampbabbleApr 10, 2010 12:27 PM
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Apr 6, 2010 1:13 AM
#3
cutiep809 said: It is the hand that wields the blade (your vote) im too |
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Apr 6, 2010 5:35 AM
#4
cutiep809 said: It is the hand that wields the blade (your vote) |
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