Scriptorium Winter 2012 Writing Competition - Finals

**Nyxos** · March 17, 2012, 08:28 AM

Here are the submissions that made it to the finals. 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.

Forlorn Hope - Long Fiction

Forlorn Hope

Forlorn Hope

Loosely based upon the Siege of Ciudad Rodrigo in 1812 performed by Anglo-Portuguese forces against a French garrison, part of the Napoleonic Wars.

The Siege of Ciudad Rodrigo made the name of the junior lieutenant, David Egerton, for on the morning of January the 19th, he was assigned to the Forlorn Hope.

It was with blind optimism that he had requested this great honour, this opportunity for certain promotion, a chance to outshine his fancy family name and be known as David, not just as his father’s son. He would be the first through the breach, and all the men of the great King George III would follow him and look up to him; it would be his finest hour for sure. When he had left the General’s tent on that bitter winter morning, blessed with the news of his appointment to the Forlorn Hope, he pictured himself in his mind’s eye, standing proud and tall upon the shattered walls, redcoats bravely following behind and all about him the flash of muskets and the roar of cannons. The glory of it!

And now, standing firm upon the field of battle, heart filled with courage, he observed about him the regulars and their weary faces, eyes full of trepidation, poor dishevelled sods! Most would not last the night. Hooves sounded in the distance, growing closer and closer, a galloper come to command him onwards! The horseman came into sight, crimson uniform upon a black steed and the rider’s words were just a whisper in the night, ‘General Wellington commands you advance into the breach.’ The young lieutenant that was David Egerton nodded, unsheathed his sword and rested it upon his shoulder; he took a single, tentative step forward and, all of a sudden, realised that he was nervous. A lump formed in his throat but he swallowed it down and reassured himself that this, here and now, was his hour, and nothing could be greater than this moment. He took another step forward and visualised himself back parading troops in camp, but there were no bellowed commands here, no hard stomping of boots upon stone; here, in the cover of night, they were but shadows and those damnable French Frogs were utterly unaware.

The breach loomed ahead, a slope of rubble leading up to the battlements illuminated by a handful of torches; to young David it should have been a hungry gaping jaw in the thick impenetrable expanse of wall, but every stride towards it without a greeting of musket fire simply emboldened him. In the distance a whistling sounded and as David contemplated the serenity of the moment, the quiet footsteps on the grass and the crickets chirping about his feet, he came to realise that the whistling was growing louder and closer and-- The explosion threatened to hurl him aside, upturned earth caked the right side of his face and his hearing was obscured by a shrill ringing in his ears. He stood for a moment, dazed by the impact of cannonball and that patch of ground several feet to his right, now become a crater obscured by smoke.

And as his hearing returned to him, as the sound of musket fire reached his ears, as a bullet tore past his cheek leaving a shallow crimson scar, it dawned upon that far too young boy, just what a war really was.

He could have dropped to the ground there and then and cowered crying for mother, he could have turned and ran and never stopped, he could even have allowed the next French bullet to find its target and thus evade the ultimate dishonour of cowardice. But Englishmen do not cry like newborns, Englishmen do not flee, tails between their legs; Englishmen stand their ground, Englishmen fight in the face of formidable odds and so Englishmen triumph.

Or at least those were the myths he reassured himself with.

‘Sir!’ came a desperate cry and David was wrenched back into the moment. With his sword he gestured to advance whilst he ran his free hand across his cheek to examine the severity of his wound. The flow of blood seemed heavy yet, as another cannonball smashed into the ground just behind his company, he could not tend to it. He dived forwards, into the ditch before the walls and took a deep breath, trying to relax his shaking limbs but to no avail. He knew he could not stop for a moment longer, for each second lost was a second closer to a Frenchman reloading. Yet, with the frogs aware, the Anglo-Portuguese forces reinforcements advanced, their heavy ordered footsteps sounding far behind him; but it was David and his men who had to secure the breach, engage the defenders, and deter further fire from the main force until they could arrive. He rose suddenly, and as one, so did his men, the brave Forlorn Hope, and this their stand against French aggression, a bold few men in the face of countless muskets.

‘For God and King George!’ David roared as he began to scale the breach. A moment later a volley of musket fire greeted them and half of the Forlorn fell.

Upon the battlements, André Bouchard tore open another paper cartridge with his teeth and proceeded to empty its contents into his musket: half the powder to prime the gun and the rest, followed by the bullet, poured into the muzzle. Three shots a minute he could average, but twenty seconds was long enough for the Forlorn to ascend the breach. He raised his head and musket to take careful aim yet his vision fell upon a shimmer of steel illuminated by the torches as something arced downwards. Sweat beaded on his brow, panic overwhelmed him, and his thoughts flashed back to his wife and children left behind in distant Paris. The icy touch of the Officer’s sword caught him at his shoulder blade, its long swift stroke opening his breast to the elements and his warm blood erupted from the wound, flooded down his chest, pooled at his feet.

As André fell, David staggered too, his hand moving to his left side where blood steadily trickled. He felt suddenly cold and leant against the wall, a redcoat brushed past him in haste and the resounding crack of a musket stopped that Englishman in his tracks, he fell to the ground at David’s feet, one arm sprawled across the back of the dead Frenchman, his eyes staring up at the sky, slowly glazing over.

In a second, David’s mind flashed through the ascent of the breach, the rain of bullets, the corpses of his men rolling down the slope whilst the surviving Forlorn ascended with desperation, with no choice but to climb or die. And David himself, staggering at their head, pierced by a bullet buried in his side, blood dyeing his redcoat black like ink, it could not have pierced anything vital. Or so he reassured himself.

The roar of cannon brought him back to the present and suddenly his survival instinct kicked in. Pressing his free hand on his wound to staunch the flow of fluid, he moved as swift as his battered body could, engaging the nearest frog who was firing upon the English reinforcements now ascending the breach. Yet inexperience overwhelmed him, attacking hastily and leaving his side exposed, and the frog reacted with alarming speed, parrying the attack with his musket then driving the butt of the gun into David’s wounded side. He buckled in shock, pain flooding his torso, but despite the agony gnawing at him, he retaliated before the Frenchman could strike again. His sword swing was low, striking the man’s leg and swiping the frog off his feet, and then he brought the blade down hard and fast, delivering a single, final, forceful thrust between the ribs. Blood erupted and infantryman Gérard Laurent breathed his last.

A flash of motion in the corner of his eye forced David to turn around, he saw a blur of blue and a shimmer of silver and instinctively he raised his blade. The French officer’s sword met with his own with a gentle clink lost in the cacophony of musket fire and dying screams, but to David the swords and the frog officer were all there were in the world. In his mind, all his lessons in distant England regarding the Gentleman’s art of swordplay were revived; his sword flashed one way, the Frenchman parried, then he thrust to the left only to meet with the frog blade once more. David jumped back now, and was surprised that his wound was only an itch in his side; some wonderful chemical of the body was soothing the pain as he fought the dance of death with this gentleman of France. Their swords met again and the two officers paused for breath, resting their blade against their opponents and staring pensively into the other’s eyes. Suddenly, the Frenchman thrust towards David’s heart and the redcoat leapt aside, almost stumbling over a corpse as he raised his blade to parry another desperate lunge. Growing weary, the frog thrust for a third time, but David ensured it was his last, dodging the strike and feinting one way to force the frog to leave his flank exposed, and, successful, David lunged. Like a knife into cheese, the sword cut deep and easily, and the Englishman twisted the blade before wrenching it free.

He bent down, taking from the fallen officer a pistol attached to his belt. Suddenly a flood of pain raked his abdomen, followed by a rush of cold which surged over him, sending a shiver running down his spine. Bent double, he spied, out of the corner of his tear-drenched eyes, a flash of blue and instinctively raised the pistol he had collected, pulling the trigger instinctively. The sound was deafening, the flash blinding, but outside David’s very little world it was lost amongst the ordered volleys of the organised lines of infantry now assembled upon the battlements.

The walls had fallen; whilst the few Forlorn had struggled to hold out upon the battlements, floods of British and Portuguese forces had made steady progress in ascending the breach, hindered only slightly by musket and artillery fire. Now, as a weakened David strove to regain his footing, the Anglo-Portuguese forces had formed up into narrow but organised lines upon the walls, releasing volley after volley upon the fleeing French far below.

It took David all his strength to stand up, and when he did, he looked with relief upon all his allies forming up about him. It came to him then that he had survived the storming of the walls and that the city would assuredly fall now with no walls to hide behind; he had had his victory. He looked up at the towering Cathedral of Santa María that stood beside the breach and thought for a moment of thanking God. The moon, no longer hidden behind a mask of clouds, shone down upon the domed roof of the tower and as he gazed upon this spectacular sight, David’s eye was drawn by the glint of something in the arches of the tower peak. Sweat beaded on his brow, panic overwhelmed him, and his thoughts flashed back to fairest England, his family home and its sprawling gardens, his portly father, his young sister, his beloved mother.

The men garrisoning the Cathedral tower let loose a volley.

Fired from a “Modèle 1777 corrigé” musket, and travelling at an average speed of 900 feet per second, there was nothing stopping the round ball of lead as it hurtled its way towards the young officer. Though the target had been the commander of the Light Division standing close to David’s side, muskets are not renowned for their accuracy and it was with more luck than skill on the Frenchman’s part that sent the bullet spinning towards David. It caught him between the eyes and drove on into the mushy filling behind before exploding out of the back of his skull, coated in a mess of brain. He never had a chance.

David slammed to the ground colder than ever before and as his blood pooled about him there arose in the city the screams of the Spaniards. These were people the soldiers stormed the city to save, these were the people David had died for, and these were the people who would suffer no less than twelve hours of murder and rape before the Anglo-Portuguese officers would reign in their unruly men.

The Siege of Ciudad Rodrigo made the name of the junior lieutenant, David Egerton. It adorns his gravestone.

Catherine - Short Fiction

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.

Victory Shall be Ours! - Poetry

**Hader** · March 17, 2012, 05:22 PM

Remember, anonymity...

**Aikanár** · March 17, 2012, 06:23 PM

voted

**m_1512** · March 17, 2012, 11:51 PM

I am a bit confused here. Isn't there a Gold for each category, or is the Gold for overall competition itself?

But yeah, voted.

**Hader** · March 18, 2012, 01:21 AM

Originally Posted by m_1512

I am a bit confused here. Isn't there a Gold for each category, or is the Gold for overall competition itself?

But yeah, voted.

Originally Posted by Rules

Only 4 medals are up for grabs. One gold, one silver, and one bronze, plus the Librarian's Choice award. The top placing entries in each category will move on to a final round of voting to decide medal winners. Runner-up and second runner-up in each category will receive rep rewards, 50 for runner-ups and 25 for second runner-ups. Assuming adequate entries to each category, only 3 out of the 5 will win a medal. Fourth and fifth place in the finals will be given 75 rep and 60 rep respectively.

**m_1512** · March 18, 2012, 02:57 AM

OK.. I thought the 4 medals were for each category.
When'll be the whole results declared?

**Mhaedros** · March 18, 2012, 04:18 AM

Is there any way one could see how many votes each submission got in the first vote?

**Heiro de Bodemloze** · March 18, 2012, 05:04 AM

Voted!

**Dubh the dark** · March 18, 2012, 06:56 AM

Originally Posted by m_1512

I am a bit confused here. Isn't there a Gold for each category, or is the Gold for overall competition itself?

But yeah, voted.

I'm confused too, I don't understand this change in set-up.

**lolIsuck** · March 18, 2012, 10:14 AM

What happens with the 75 and 60 rep awards?

**StealthFox** · March 18, 2012, 10:42 AM

The winner of this round will receive the first place gold medal, and then second and third place will receive silver and bronze. It was originally intended to have five entries make it to the final round, but that didn't work out as themed and non-fiction categories had to be combined with the others. So, the medals are given out at this final round for the overall competition, and not for individual categories.

The second and third place runner-ups that did not make it to this final round will receive rep awards. The fourth and fifth place entries that were intended to make it to the final vote would have received rep awards too, but since we don't have a fourth and fifth entry that rep will be placed back in the fridge to save for a later competition.

**Hader** · March 18, 2012, 12:36 PM

Results will be declared publicly with the release of our next editorial, which will be out soon after voting ends.

No you cannot see how many votes a submission got and never will.

Four medals up for grabs people...that means one Librarian's Choice which you won't know of until later, and the three you are voting on now will win one of the three bronze/silver/gold medals.

+ everything StealthFox said.