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Thread: Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Short Fiction

  1. #1
    StealthFox's Avatar Consensus Achieved
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    Default Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Short Fiction

    Here are the submissions for the short fiction category. Please vote for your favorite one.

    And bear in mind, anonymity is still required here. Authors of any works below may not declare what submission may be theirs, or in any other way ruin the anonymity of theirs or another member's submission. Those found to be doing so here or anywhere else will be rightly and sneakily punished (You were warned when you submitted to this competition that if you screw up you will be publicly flogged and embarrassed). The thread is for discussion of the articles at hand and voting, NOTHING ELSE.


    One other note: the non-fiction and themed categories did not receive enough submissions to stand in this contest alone, so the few entries into those categories have been combined here or in long fiction.


    A Letter - Entry 1
    A Letter A Letter

    My dear Aline,
    how are you? Your reply has my soul singing with jubilation, with an ecstasy that words cannot fully voice. Though my response has taken longer than it should have, believe me when I say that I read and reread every word of yours, no matter how short. After years of silence and regret, I take what little I shall receive.

    Forgive me if I have opted to speak in English and hence alienate you somewhat with my verbatim choosing. Over the years, as you must surely already thought, the words of my German homeland have surely vaporized and grown foreign, no matter my best efforts to muster enough strength to keep them dear. Truly, I refuse to ever forget my mother tongue, for if I were to lose that I would not only lose it, but lose you, everyone I knew in Germany and hold dear. Most of you who reside thousands of miles away, a distance my imagination and longing cannot overcome, shall perish if I forget the language of my youth. Most of you, with whom I had the pleasure of growing up, knowing since the age of 6, would be just pictures without emotions connected to them.

    I ask myself, lately more often, what has this journey for a better life brought me? Granted, there are many things that this land has opened for us, a land where I feel at home, where I am not a stranger with dark hair and dark eyes, but rather a human being. Yet, at the same time, the amount of hardships and struggles have multiplied and there is not a lack for new strives. Deep down, the Jew in me can never reconcile the fact that for the remainder of my time on this place we call Earth, I will be forever commanded to wander and go into exile; an exile of the soul.

    Though the sun smiles here more often than it did from where we shared precious moments of innocence and blissful youth, and my heart and mind have become more diligent, a certain strain has also created in me a silence, more tormenting than a storm, to which, no matter how I hard I try, peace cannot be granted. I am restless in this land. I miss you and all those of you to which my memory pays homage each and every night, when I awake with wet cheeks. They say time heals all wounds. That is not true. Time only attenuates these wounds.

    I hope dearly that you will be able to read and understand, for within these few words, not much important to many, I am pouring my heart and soul.

    Much has changed. I shall begin law school this upcoming fall and continue my studies. I am not sure what to make out of it. There is a peculiar part of me that is very excited and ready for this new turn of events. Yet, and here is yet another yet, I am bewildered and frightened-very nervous as well as anxious. I am not sure what good this will do for me. Looking back, at a time when we were still playing in the yard of our elementary school, I recall of how I wanted to be a hero. Now, when Fortuna has granted me some sort of accomplishment, I feel more lonely than ever before. Much time has passed, and this new step to be about to be taken only reminds me that my beloved parents, for whom I would fight Satan himself, have aged as well and sooner or later shall no longer be here with me. Just today, as I slumbered quietly, the image of my father's passing grieved me to my very core. I hate this feeling, this feeling of powerlessness. I cannot tame time. That damning hour is drawing near. Soon, tears will pour out of me and shall not cease. I have become very melancholic.

    Maybe it is the dramatic in me that sours my mood, maybe it is just this refuge that still confirms to me that I am alive and well, that I am still capable of feeling and caring. Maybe, this pain of mine is reminding me that I am a mortal and must make the most of my time here, for surely I am not one of those blessed billions who hold on tight to the immortality of the soul. That voice, that powerful voice that drove Avraham away from his native land, what that voice has procured is everlasting, until we are no more. Then, I believe, we shall feel nothing anymore, as slowly our bodies will rot, eaten by worms or some other insect that nourishes on our proof of existence. The atoms will become part of something new and the eternal recurrence shall continue. Uncontested.

    I am depressed. Clearly. Writing to you I thought would lift my spirit and allow me to masquerade my sentiments, protecting you with that necessary veil to keep you safe. But sadly, to you, out of everyone, I am unable to lie. My irony is immune to you. I wonder why.


    First to Fight - Entry 2
    First to Fight War. War never changes. War is a big son of a which kills people...lots of people.
    My name is Hermann Fock. I come from a town between Potsdam and Wittenberg called Beelitz. I was born on 1st September 1918. As I learned later in life, at the time I was born, World War 1 was not over. My family established in Beelitz in 1894, right after mom married dad.
    Back then , Europe was still not at war and Germany was a peaceful country ruled by William II. But all changed in 1914: WW1 started and, after four years, the war ended. But that war left me without a father to love and take care of me. Poor dad was killed at Havrincourt by a British sniper.
    In 1937, a new chapter in my life began. When I heard about Hitler's plans, I joined the Wehrmacht. It was the thought of revenge that pushed me to join the army. It was hard to accommodate, but in the end I became a soldier. I felt like I could change the course of the incoming war. I felt like I could do something heroic. But it doesn't work like that. You can easily get killed if you do something foolish.
    In the middle of August 1939 I was taken aboard Schleswig-Holstein, an old ship of the Kriegsmarine built before World War One. I was part of the "Stoßtruppen" (Shock troop) assault company.
    It was so hard to leave mom alone. But I took my rifle and grenades and I left home. It was so hard for me. I started crying in the middle of a field thinking that I won't come back. I said a prayer and I met a soldier just like me who was going home. He was feeling very, very homesick. I left him. But after ten minutes, I heard a gunshot and when I looked back I saw that guy dead, shot by SS.
    I took the train to the coastal city where we had to embark on Schleswig-Holstein. After a few conversations, I realised that we will start World War Two.
    When we were all on the ship, it departed. Our destination was the Free City of Danzig, more exactly the Westerplatte Peninsula.
    We reached Westeplatte on August 26. The attack on Westerplatte Peninsula was planned for that day but it was delayed because of a treaty between Poland and United Kingdom. That night I heard a rumor saying that the attack will start on 1st September. Next day, on 27th August, we received a confirmation that the attack will start on 1st September.
    At that moment I was thinking "Damn, the war will start on my birthday! But I have no other option than joining the assault." I instantly thought about my mom, that was probably standing on a chair and crying. Oh...poor mom. She must've been very sad that I left her alone for this damn war.
    I wanted to run back home, but I couldn't. My comrades will shoot me if I do that. I resigned to the thought that I will probably die.
    Finally, after two days of crying and pain, the big day came. The tension on the ship was so high, that all were sweating. Suddenly we heard a gunshot. It was a cannon on the Schleswig-Holstein. It was the first shot from WW2. It was the beginning of a war, the beggining of a massacre.

    Few minutes later, we advanced into the city under Polish fire. Oh, it was hell in there. Some minutes later we were trapped into a crossfire zone. Some of my friends died there. I was almost received a bullet to the head from a Polish rifleman. I was very lucky. The bullet passed 2 cm away from my head and...and...it hit my best friend, a man called Wilhelm. We knew each other since we were eight.
    I suddenly froze and began crying. A soldier near me dragged me to cover and I still remember his words: "Try not to get shot because that'll be your ticket to Hell, son!". Yeah...very encouraging.
    We contoinued attacking the Polish at Westerplatte and we got what we wanted: their surrender. Major Henrik Sucharski, the Polish general, surrendered to our general, Friedrich Georg Eberhardt. The battle was over, but the war wasn't. It was just the beggining of the beggining.
    I wrote a letter to my mother, telling her that I was alive, we have beaten the Polish and victory was close.
    Next day we continued our advance through Poland.


    The Grief of War - Entry 3
    The Grief of War
    The grief of war

    It was the fourth day since the southerlings invaded the lands of Xarhûn. Young boys and even girls had been conscripted into the somewhat aged army of the king. Àlyad was one of those boys. His parents were killed in the last invasion of those hated southerlings and he had been living with his grandfather for years since then. His grandfather was a renowned physician within the court of the king and he could use the help of his grandson after his wife had died. Àlyad joined the army voluntarily to avenge his parents’ deaths by swearing to kill many of those, as he called them, camel faeces. Now at sunset he was preparing his armor and weaponry for the day to come, the showdown on Srenyxatü, The Heated Plains. He stared at the sun, it glowed orange as it slowly disappeared beyond the horizon. He took an amulet out of his pocket and held it against his heart. The amulet belonged to his mother and it was all he had left of her. A tear dripped from his eyes. The sun had now completely set, he smirked thinking about the upcoming day, when he would finally give those southerlings what they deserved.

    He found himself riding close to the king, as he was trusted by the king like his grandfather. King Ûlrad, a harsh but just ruler, said that this was the last chance for Xarhûn to defend themselves properly. He was right, Àlyad knew, the cities of Xarhûn were weak and unprepared for sieges and battles. They were outnumbered four to one and hope was vested in their allies to come to Xarhûn’s aid. With them Xarhûn would stand a chance against the overwhelming numbers of the southerlings. Doubt gnawed the mind of the young boy, but he was determined to go down fighting and to take as many southerlings as possible down with him.

    When they arrived at the very spot they expected the southerlings to be, they found nothing but sand and here and there some ash leftover from the campfires that had been there. The southerlings had definitely been there, but it seemed they’d retreated.
    Suddenly they heard the horns of the southerlings followed by the horn of Xarhûn. Far over some duns the battle had commenced. ‘How could we have missed that?’ Àlyad thought as they rode towards the two fighting armies. He actually didn’t care as long as he could kill some southerlings.

    The armies fought a long battle and Xarhûn was on the retreat. Àlyad found himself surrounded by many southerlings as they flooded over the fields. Still he stood strong as he struck down one after another until a deviated arrow pierced his right shoulder. He slew one other southerling and bravely faced his death. A sword approached his neck with the speed of lightning and everything turned black.

    In the end, Xarhûn's allies saved the day. Primitive men saved the king of death and forced the southerlings to retreat. As the remaining men searched for survivors they found the decapitated body of Àlyad. In his hand was his mother’s amulet. They took it with them and gave it to his grandfather who died of grief some weeks later. The battle would never been forgotten and was written into the Chronicles of Xarhûn.



    The Duellists - Entry 4

    The Duellists

    The Duellists

    Two pistol shots echoed simultaneously across the small grove… The sun had been already inclining to the other side of the firmament, an unwilling witness to mortal pettiness and all that is vain.

    The young man uttered a most terrible groan before staggering backwards and falling upon the ground, covered in frozen snow. The fatal bullet had hit him right in the heart and the blood was now steadily flowing over the snow, forming a small crimson pool on the left side of the body. Overwhelmed by gnawing pain, he turned on his right side in an unavailing attempt to lean on the elbow. The widened eyes were glistening with both terror and hatred as he stared at the man in front of him. An incoherent mumble was heard whispering out of his rigid mouth; instead of words, he spurted out blood mingled with spit and warm air. Collecting the last remaining drops of physical strength, the young man outstretched the trembling left arm to grasp the long coat of his victor. He clenched the fist in despair as he understood that his nemesis was out of reach. His mind had ultimately admitted the defeat… The somber death took possession of this agonizing body as he laid the coarse-haired head down on the snow, exhaling the last breath…

    The aged doctor hastened to check the pulse for any remaining signs of life, ascertaining in the end that it was too late. He then turned his eyes to the figure attired in black who was standing still in front of the corpse, shaking the head in disbelief.

    But the absent-minded man wasn’t even paying attention to the doctor. A blank expression was imprinted upon his countenance. The empty eyes, devoid of any kind of emotions, kept fixating at the iced ground for minutes. His right arm still clasping the flintlock pistol was hanging loosely alongside the body. With a mechanical motion, he raised his hand, contemplating the exquisite weapon for a few moments before throwing it with sheer disgust behind a nearby shrub, enraged by the very sight of such a contemptible object…

    It wasn’t the first time he had used that particular piece of weaponry. As a former officer, who partook with bravery in many campaigns in the wars which recently had swept the old continent, he was also a keen duellist, equally skilled with swords and pistols. On numerous occasions, he defended his honour against fellow officers, cuckolded husbands or even disdainful highborn aristocrats. His steadfast arm was feared and admired by opponents. Aroused by an evergrowing fame, the ladies from the upper echelons of society often sought his company for he possessed a charming personality, despite the rugged appearance. As a matter of fact, most of his duels had been fought over amorous matters. The young man laying dead at his feet had challenged him two days before the tragic aftermath, hurling verbal insults at him in front of the entire royal court, during a soiree. The impudent stripling was thoroughly convinced the seasoned officer is his love rival. The protagonists were extremely well acquainted with each other. Because of that, the officer ignored him at first as if nothing had happened; he knew that it would have been below his dignity to stain his hands with the blood of a mere child, unaccustomed with the sharpness of the sword or the stench of the gunpowder. But the defiant young man made his intention more than clear, slapping him in the face with the gloves and calling him a coward. The distinguished audience gasped, shocked by this unforeseen turn of events. Such public humiliation was too much to be endured, particularly by a temerarious officer with a most solid reputation.

    Now, the atone duellist was gazing at the departed offender, brooding over his fate. A cold breeze began to blow as the evening was setting in. All of a sudden, an irresistible thought shook the victor’s mind, disturbing the very essence of his existence. It abruptly brought the man to his senses, opening his eyes about what he had really done, instilling an rush of staggering feelings into the swooning head. It was remorse… Many had perished by his unyielding arm but he never felt remorse for anyone before, not even once. How would he live from now on, knowing that he commited such a despicable act? How would he be able to sleep at night, overburdened with everlasting guilt? Would God ever forgive him for this murder? What about his friends? The despondent soul went down on his knees, asking for remission from the corpse. An effusive torrent of sorrowful tears flooded the once proud face.


    The anguished man noticed his opponent’s discharged pistol laying in the snow. He could have snatch it to blow his brains out somewhere deep in the dark forest, away from the doctor and the seconds. A straightforward method reserved only for the most brave. The ghosts of his depraved past materialized inside the convulsive mind, laughing savagely at their repentant executioner but in the end the voice of reason prevailed, like a beacon of hope in a tumultuous sea of negativity, banishing the suicidal thoughts. A shameful death cannot erase the doleful memories of countless victims nor undo any wrongdoings. A new man rose to his feet, a more compassionate human being determined to assume his misdeeds and suffer the consequences.

    The doctor and the two attendants were still leaning over the young man’s inanimate body. The former duellist took a brief look at him for the last time, recalling with fondness that he used to watch over him for many years, as his caretaker and elder brother, following the early death of their parents.

    “The road to hell is paved with good intentions, or so they say” thought the man to himself, before fading away into the golden sunset…



    The Slaves of Greed: A Tale of their Origin - Entry 5
    The Slaves of Greed: A Tale of their Origin This is a tale of the old classical times. There was a lad, a young messenger. It was a time of turmoil. A foreign invader marched his legions in the lands. What had he brought? Warriors marched in lines, great fortifications and new weapons. They were all good, but not like the Celtic warriors. The Romans were strong, almost invincible. But some warlords resisted. There was one among them, Cathasach. He fought the Romans fiercely, and even lost an eye. Another nasty cut in the thigh, and a painful time in the cold. He had a lad, who was his aide and messenger. The lad’s name was Lóegaire.

    The lord trusted him beyond all his many warriors and guards. He was the only one who knew of his lord’s wealth and weakness. But he also grew wary, for the lord had a dangerous temper, and became a different person when the drink took him. But Lóegaire always believed that his time would come. Soon he would not believe his luck. A spy in Roman service approached him. They conceived a plan. That he had to do away with his lord, the hated nemesis of the Romans. Lóegaire could seize the lord’s pile of gold, and another bag of it offered by the Romans. Lóegaire was torn, on one hand by the duty to his lord, on another the promise of good life. He decided what he must do.

    On the day of battle, Lóegaire stood a hill, his bow ready. As his lord came into sight, he fired an arrow. The single eyed lord never saw the arrow, but only felt it piercing his throat.
    As he fell, he shouted, “Treachery! Where is Lóegaire? It is only him that I trust most.”
    And so the deed was done. Lóegaire took the lord’s wealth, and hid in his lair. At the right moment, he collected his reward from the Romans. But as he returned to his lair, he spotted a mighty problem.

    “My loot is hidden, but not safe” he muttered on and on.
    He came upon a scheme, and summoned a sorcerer. He explained his problem and asked for a solution. He needs a guardian for his gold. The sorcerer closes his eyes and taps the ground three times with his staff.
    Behold! There appeared ten swarthy faced creatures, with stature that of half a man.
    Lóegaire said, “But any skilled warrior can best them”
    The sorcerer taps the ground again and says, “They shall have the skill of craftsmanship. Their craft shall surpass than that of any man.”
    But the sorcerer was clever. He asked for the bag the Romans gave Lóegaire as his price. The bag given, Lóegaire was reduced to nothing more than a thief and a traitor. They left the lair, now having those creatures as guardians.

    Thence came there a druid, follower of the old Gods, and loyal to the slain lord. As the druid ventured forth, one of the creatures there shot an arrow into his thigh.
    Enraged, the druid bellowed, “Creature! Have you no mind? Why do you serve a treacherous thief?”
    But the creatures just stared. The druid understood.
    He chanted an ancient incantation, and said aloud, “Let them have a mind, and a tongue.”
    The creatures told him the entire tale, for they were not sworn to silence.

    Towering with rage, he thought hard to avenge his lord. He said another incantation and proclaimed, “Since you served greed, that shall be your weakness, your master, and you it’s slave. Since you readily served a thief and a traitor, they shall be your mortal enemies.”

    Drawing himself to full height, he continued, “Since you would gobble all that is good for your greed, you shall be called Goblins.” And he left.

    When Lóegaire came back to his lair, he was slain by the goblins. As he fell, the goblins said, “Thief! You had been warned.”
    Last edited by StealthFox; March 05, 2012 at 01:33 PM.

  2. #2
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    Default Re: Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Short Fiction

    Catherine - Entry 6
    Catherine
    Catherine
    She had chosen not to sleep with her husband tonight, but in one of the guest chambers. How he could be such a fool, she thought, so what if it is from the King, he just cannot leave. The room was dark; the walls painted black, and it only contained a bed, a chair and a small table. It was not to live in, but a place to sleep for people visiting or just passing by. Yet she preferred an unwelcome room over an unwelcome husband. They rarely fought the two of them, but when they did it was over something serious.

    The household also knew. So when Lady Catherine had asked two of the maids to ready one of the guestrooms, they had obeyed without asking any questions.

    Now Catherine sat in the chair, thinking how uncomfortable it was, but also what Robert was thinking. He probably has his mind on the campaign he is about to set out for, and does not spare a single thought for me. Catherine looked as miserable as her thoughts, she had cried for many hours, and skipped her evening bath. Her eyes were red and sore, her beautiful brown eyes.
    Catherine had the red hair that two of her and Robert’s children had, she was tall for a woman, though not as tall as a man, and had an aristocratic face. She was slim, and had the thin arms of a woman.

    How can he do this to me? He will take with him everyone that rules here, and leave it to me. I cannot rule these lands. And my sons, my two eldest sons. He takes them away from me too. They can die. Paul is only seventeen, he is of age, but he is still a boy. Catherine still saw the little boy she had seen so many years ago, that little fragile thing she had held in her hands. The little attention drawing boy, that she loved with all her heart, as with her other children.

    Now it will all be taken from me, and I might never see them again. How come he does not understand that I cannot rule here, and that I cannot survive here without him? I need him. A window blew up, distracting her from her own thoughts. We really should repair those windows; it is only a slight breeze, what if it was a full storm outside? I would rule better than Robert, I would see that things are done, not just said. Just about to go satisfied to bed, she thought again. What am I saying? How can I rule better than him? He is the best thing that has happened this part of England. He is the best thing that has happened to me! I would never rule better than him.

    Catherine recalled their wedding day. As a reward for serving the King in war with great courage, Robert had been granted the Lordship of this castle, and a wedding in Westminster. The King and Queen had been there, and the Archbishop had wed them. It was such a lovely day, a day that changed her life. The Westminster Chapel had been stuffed with people and the chapel was decorated with beautiful blossoms, white as snow. It seemed like the whole of London had been there, both in the chapel and in the streets outside. It was just like a royal wedding. The weather was perfect, the temperature and the wind; it was like God himself wanted this to be a great day.

    The feast was unforgettable, silver cutlery, plates that looked like gold. Stags and boars from all over the kingdom, hunted for this very wedding. Spices from all over the world, the pheasants smelled so good that your mouth watered. That was a good day, perhaps which will be my happiest memory of Robert? Robert had worn his armor, polished to the point that it was hard to look at it for more than a few moments.

    That day he truly had been a knight in shining armor. Like the ones from the stories the old women told little children. Catherine knew better though. She had seen him, coming home from battle, from month long campaigns. There was nothing glorious about it; he was always filled with blood and dirt. He stank more than a dozen skunks and was as tired as a man who had not slept for a week. But that one day, the tales had come true.

    Robert had later told her that if the wedding had not been on the King, only her dress would have made them bankrupt. It was one of the most beautiful works that the best of the sowers in England. It was white, and embroidered with beautiful handiwork.

    I might as well go to sleep; I will not get what I want by sitting thinking. Besides I will look terrible in the morning. Catherine fell more or less easily to sleep.


    Shiranu ga hotoke - Entry 7*
    Shiranu ga hotoke The way the port city of Toruyoko spread towards the sea, reminded Ichiro of a predator cat lounging in the sun.
    The peninsula on the right pointing south, a leg, splayed for balance. The hill where the bulk of the city sat, the head and paws, topped as it was with a mighty shiro and two, great towers. And then the other leg, Ichiro’s own army encampment, stark white tents against Japan’s rolling green fields.
    How he wished he were down there now.
    He turned to Katsu Taiko. “Tell me again.”
    “The traders call themselves Portuguese. They are a Christian people and they bring a new weapon I think you should see,” the stout man said.
    “Why should I see this new weapon? Do I not have the finest blades and armour, the strongest bows?”
    Katsu bowed, “Yes. This is different. I mean, my lord, that these weapons would be of great use to our enemies. They are like small dragons in the hands of men. Dangerous. We must ensure the safety of your shogunate.”
    Ichiro’s curiosity stirred. “Dragons? Alright, gather the guards and fetch my katana. I will see these dragons for myself, then decide what’s to be done.”
    ~*~
    The city was loud and crowded. Ichiro liked it that way; it meant that his rule was a success. Silence in a city meant stagnation, then death.
    Cries of ‘seii taishogun!’ followed him as he made his way to the main port, his samurai flanking him, keeping the people back. Katsu lent his voice to the march so the people knew who approached. Ichiro’s father would have been more cautious, but in the end it was that fear that allowed Ichiro to depose him. No, life was for living, not hiding behind walls.
    The trader ship was easy to spot among the more traditional Japanese transports. Its lines were sleeker, the dark wood sitting low in the water. Many people gathered beside it and its crates of trade stuffs.
    Katsu’s voice cut through the air, “Make way for Ichiro Shogun!” The people scattered, leaving a group of foreigners exposed. Ichiro had not met these Portuguese before, but they all looked the same as other foreigners.
    With their ragged clothes, they didn’t look like they could tame dragons.
    Katsu spoke to them slowly in Japanese. Ichiro could see these foreigners didn’t speak his tongue, but everyone knew that if you spoke slowly and gestured a lot, realisation would eventually dawn. The trader seemed shrewd enough at any rate, the man knew what they were looking for. He spoke to one of his men, who opened a crate and withdrew a long object packed in dried grass, then proceeded to do things to it.
    Ichiro tried to watch the man, but the trader had begun to speak loudly now, gesticulating with his arms. A moment and Ichiro understood the man was describing a battle. His fingers were men or horses, his arms a mighty host and the air his battlefield. He made quite a show of it. Now one army, wearing hats, were sorely outnumbered while the other army had cavalry charging to finish them… the trader paused, and took the wooden object off his man. Ichiro noticed a flame poking out through a hole along its length. The trader pointed it at a target of wood some thirty feet away, about the size of a horse.
    The weapon gave a great snap! Smoke pluming out of its mouth, accompanied by a crack as something hit the target.
    In a flash Ichiro’s samurai had hands on their swords, but that was the only reaction they gave, to their credit. Katsu looked thoughtful, perhaps even troubled. For himself Ichiro could feel his heart bounding in his chest and blood thumping in his ears, but he had managed not to blink. His eyes were fixed on the wooden target.
    It had a hole in it. Far off-centre, but it was there. Ichiro could see the potential right away for such a weapon. What would he do if this ended up in his enemy’s armoury? He held his hands out so he could fire it. The trader spoke and pointed to his man, communicating that the weapon had to be reloaded first.
    Ichiro watched, fascinated. The man worked quickly but by the time the first minute had passed, Ichiro was imagining the man pin-cushioned by arrows.
    At last it was handed it over, the flame burning bright. Ichiro looked at it carefully, taking the details in. It was pretty, engraved with scrolls and patterns. The wood was polished and smooth. He felt sure these things added nothing to the weapon however. The heft was off too, it was a strange weapon compared to the bow.
    Ichiro lifted it to his shoulder as he’d seen the trader do, aimed, then pulled the lever. It felt like the dragon bit him in the shoulder as it fired, but he kept it as steady as he could and he heard the crack from the wood target.
    With a smile Ichiro noted that he’d hit closer to the centre than the trader. “Katsu, what does this man want?”
    “Trade rights, my lord. Silk and such.”
    “What does he want for these weapons?”
    “Just trades. So he says.”
    Ichiro’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps I should copy these weapons, better that I don’t have to trade for them… “How many does he have? I will take them all.”
    Katsu looked reluctant. “He has two, with supplies for firing them. Also he will provide training for those that will use them. He has indicated they are a gift in return for the trade.”
    Ichiro looked at the trader, who wore a very large smile. “It is well they are a gift, Katsu. These are not elegant weapons and to tell you the truth it is only their potential that appeals to me. But you can communicate to him that I am pleased and I thank him, but I do not need training…Katsu what is wrong? You look like you’ve swallowed a diseased koi fish.”
    “I’ve been thinking, my lord, that perhaps I was in error telling you about this trader. And as your steward I must caution that trade with foreigners could introduce strange ideas to your people. But more than that, I fear where these weapons will lead us.”
    “Nonsense, they are but a tool to be used as we please. An advantage I mean to capitalise. Where could they possibly lead us except victory?”
    “I just… I remember when we first used the tetsuho.”
    Ichiro nodded, “Half the time they were fired into our own men, I know. But these are much more accurate, and powerful. With these as prototypes – we could make even better ones.”
    “And that’s the part that worries me, my lord. Where will it end?”
    Ichiro laughed, “Perhaps I should make you ‘taiko’ in truth. All those heavy thoughts will do your back in and you will no longer be any use! Now come, tell the barbarian we agree to trade, but I want more of these… what are they called?”
    “They are called matchlocks, my lord.”
    “Matchlocks,” Ichiro mused, “I will remember that.”
    End.



    * This entry was originally submitted to the themed category.
    Last edited by StealthFox; March 05, 2012 at 01:08 PM.

  3. #3
    Boustrophedon's Avatar Grote Smurf
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    Default Re: Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Short Fiction

    I voted on every poll

  4. #4
    Påsan's Avatar Hva i helvete?
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    Default Re: Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Short Fiction

    That's the spirit

  5. #5
    Aikanár's Avatar no vaseline
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    Default Re: Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Short Fiction

    drew the straw


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  6. #6
    Shankbot de Bodemloze's Avatar From the Writers Study!
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    Default Re: Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Short Fiction

    Voted! Some great short-fiction, if only I could vote for them all Good luck!
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    Default Re: Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Short Fiction

    Voted
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  8. #8

    Default Re: Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Short Fiction

    Voted!

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  9. #9
    The Vengur's Avatar Bloodthirsty Lunatic
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    Default Re: Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Short Fiction

    Voted.
    Quote Originally Posted by trance View Post
    I might have inherited the stature and alcohol consumption of our ancestors, but Vengur got the ruthless, psychopathic bloodlust.
    Quote Originally Posted by s.rwitt View Post
    New rule: -one player each session will be designated the "Vengur Handler". It is like a dog handler in real life but you have to also pay attention to where his weapon is pointed at all times, make sure he does not have access to a parachute while in a chopper, keep him from running into buildings which the rest of the squad is currently suppressing, etc. An AGM/ACE compatible leash has been added to VAS.

  10. #10

    Default Re: Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Short Fiction

    When does the polls close?

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  11. #11

    Default Re: Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Short Fiction

    Voted.

    Quote Originally Posted by HeirofAlexander View Post
    When does the polls close?
    The first round of voting lasts 10 days, it started on the 5th - so that should be around the 15th of this month. Then the next round starts at some time after that - then the results.

    I believe that's how it goes.

  12. #12
    StealthFox's Avatar Consensus Achieved
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    Default Re: Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Short Fiction

    Quote Originally Posted by gumption View Post
    The first round of voting lasts 10 days, it started on the 5th - so that should be around the 15th of this month. Then the next round starts at some time after that - then the results.

    I believe that's how it goes.
    That is correct.

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