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Thread: Scriptorium Editorial for April 2012

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    Default Scriptorium Editorial for April 2012

    Welcome to the Scriptorium's Editorial for April 2012! The Winter Writing Competition just recently came to its conclusion and we have the results for you, along with some reviews on the winning entries.

    Recent Articles
    Articles stored since our last editorial. Yes, even with the competition we were fairly busy with normal duties. We sweat blood for you all...

    March 2012

    Assassin's Creed Brotherhood (Singleplayer) 4/3/2012
    Mago Barca 4/3/2012
    Hasdrubal Barca 4/3/2012
    Hannibal Barca 4/3/2012
    The distortion of the image of Charlemagne in the Einhard’s ‘Life of Charles the Great 4/3/2012
    The Impact of Air Raids on the Outcome of the Second World War in Europe 4/3/2012
    The UN as a Worldwide Peacekeeper 4/3/2012
    Dawn of War 2: Retribution (PC) 4/3/2012
    Implementing Marian Reforms in M2TW 4/3/2012
    The Shimazu Campaign Guide 4/3/2012
    Borderlands 26/3/2012
    Causes and Effects of the Franco-German War 26/3/2012
    Crusader Kings 2 Review 26/3/2012

    And below are the competition winners for you to read:

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Forlorn Hope - by Inarus
    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.

    Victory Shall be Ours! - Maximinus Thrax

    Victory Shall be Ours!

    Victory shall be ours!

    Lo there, over those barren mounds, most valiant sons of the Republic!
    Behold the vast armies of the tyrants, set against our rightful path,
    Blinded by their own oppression, their march seemingly chaotic,
    Tens of thousands of doomed soldiers, eager to confront our wrath!

    Bringing forth the Light of Freedom in this glorious age of reckoning,
    As sole masters of our destiny, we will let the whole world know
    That slavery will be abolished, no more nobles and no more king,
    No more of these putrid remnants, only truth and valour will outgrow!

    The time is ripe to weed out the evil, to forever banish the injustices.
    Let’s overthrow these thrones of hatred, foul lairs of great impunity!
    Let’s set this corrupt world ablaze and mold a new one from its ashes,
    An eternal Temple of our Liberties, the most revered Abode of Equity!

    O you deserving progenies of Mars, the vengeful god, fear not I say!
    Act boldly and embrace your fate, defend your homeland and your colours,
    Stand your ground and glare ahead, for hostile efforts will be sent astray!
    Exult and praise the name of France, o brave ones, for victory shall be ours!

    Catherine - by HeirofAlexander
    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.

    Artistic Representation - by Radzeer
    Artistic Representation Artistic representation

    It was early morning. The bookstore was not yet open, but the lights were on and people were busy inside. A shipment of new books has arrived the night before and had to be neatly arranged on the shelves before the customers arrive. But there was something else inside that building. An invisible, lost spirit was drifting back and forth after a long journey. Then it found something.

    I felt a bit dizzy first. What a strange place... Lights were everywhere, and books with markings. I looked around. To my left, there was some strange, dragon-like animal.
    Dinosaurs, said the marking. I wondered what that would be. To my right, a portrait of a man in battle gear. Memoirs of a quarterback... Hm, possibly a great general, but his armor was not familiar. Then I realized that I had a marking too... Ronins. It was a little insulting. I am not proud of that.

    I was a ronin. I remembered charging the enemy lines, hoping to fight brave and erase the shame upon me. Yes, the shame for not committing seppuku when the head of my clan was ordered to... But I did not want my family to die, so I sent them away and became a ronin. At Sekigahara, I had fought like a lion, killed several men... and I didn't remember the rest.

    When I recognized that I have a new life, nothing was familiar. Also, I could not move or speak. But I could still see, hear and think. And remember, which was most unusual. I spent a few hours looking around, trying to read the markings and observe the people. Everything was strange but I felt peace. This new life certainly seemed more tranquil than my previous one...

    Suddenly I moved. Rather, I was picked up. I could hardly see who it was, except that it was a woman. She held me gently, her hand was warm and her skin was fair. I could catch a glimpse of her summer dress, but I have not seen her face. She must have been beautiful, I thought.

    She put me down on some flat surface. "Are you interested in medieval Japan, miss?" asked a polite but indifferent voice.

    "A little. But this is going to be a present. Could you please wrap it?" This voice was like that of angels, enchanted and playful.

    "Certainly, miss." And I was covered with something and lost all my senses for days. It was similar to being asleep without dreams. When it happened to me for the first time it was frightening, but then I learned to use it for meditation.

    When I regained my senses, I saw an old man. He had glasses and a neatly trimmed beard, some wrinkles but not too many. There was wisdom and joy in his eyes. "This is great, thank you!" he said looking at me. Then he added something. "And this time they finally picked the right art for the cover. This warrior looks quite authentic."

    I was not sure whether I should take that as an insult or as a compliment. I
    was authentic.

    "So how did you know that I wanted to buy this?"

    "Oh, I remembered you mentioning this a few weeks ago. I was just hoping that nobody buys this for you before I do." This was the voice of that woman who captured my heart. But I still could not see her face.

    "You know me too well."

    "Of course I know you." Her voice was full of love. "Happy birthday, Dad! Come, and let's see if I could find your taste in cake too." And in a minute, they were gone.

    Over the next weeks I learned that the old man is a teacher of some sort. There were many books on his shelf, mostly about Japan but some were on Korea, China or military history in general. There were also a few that I could not figure out. The strangest among those was a book with the marking
    Shogun. I expected to see Tokugawa Ieyasu on the cover, as that would have meant that he won the battle of Sekigahara and became the shogun. But to my great surprise the two figures on the cover were a European man and a Japanese woman. It was impossible for either of them to become the shogun, so that was the most mysterious book I have ever seen.

    The days have gone slowly and there was nothing for me to do. I tried to put together pieces of this world to understand where I am, but I only had some fragments of conversations, the occasional glimpse at the outside world when I was placed by the window, and the markings on other books I could see. I realized that this was not Japan, but that was all I could conclude, so mostly I just waited patiently for my time to pass. Sometimes I wondered how my actions in this life would be judged, as I was not able to do anything. I convinced myself that if I am patient then I would eventually reborn as somebody better. I had a lot of time to think, and I only regretted not seeing my family again. I hoped that they could live a long and peaceful life.

    One day I heard a longer conversation. I was always fascinated how the old man could speak into a small device and hear somebody through it too. "Yes, I have the tickets... I have been looking forward to this trip for a long time. Just think about it: I have studied this country, but never been there... I think the board was very generous to support this trip... No, my health is fine. Talk to my doctor if you won't believe it... Yes, I know this is a long flight. Don't worry, I will be fine. I'll take a few books to read... Of course I will call you when I arrive... I love you too."

    And this was how I made it back to Japan.

    To my disappointment, the setting was hardly more familiar. The sky was the same and so was the air and some of the buildings, but everything else had changed. My initial joy turned into sadness. I realized that I truly had no idea what happened over the many years while my spirit drifted in the void. And then came the day which changed everything.

    The old man went to visit somebody. As we were on the train, a mother and her daughter sat down right next to him. The daughter was about seven or eight years old and seemed fascinated with everything around her. Soon she and the old man started to chat. A few minutes later she asked something.

    "May I see that book, please?"

    "Certainly," said the old man and I found myself in the hands of a child.

    "Is this man on the cover a ronin?" she asked.

    "Yes, although this is just an artistic representation," he responded. I wish I could have frowned.

    "Very nice," she declared. "He seems brave. The ronins were brave, right?

    I liked this child. And as she lifted me to see the cover better, I could also see her face which seemed strangely familiar. There was something in her eyes I have not seen a long time ago.

    "Yes, they were brave," said the old man continuing the conversation. "For many, courage was the last thing they had."

    "Have they fought in the battle of Sekigahara?"

    The old man was surprised. And I was too.

    "I am sorry, sir," said her mother who was silent until now. "I hope she does not bother you."

    "No, not at all. I just wonder how she knows about Sekigahara. I assume they learn about it in school."

    "Yes, but she knows more than that. We have a family legend about Sekigahara."

    "It is told in our family that my great-great-great-great grandfather was in that battle on Tokugawa Ieyasu's side," said the girl proudly. "He fought honorably and died that day. As a reward, the Shogun restored the honor of his family, giving back their samurai rank."

    If I could open my eyes wide I would have done that. Was this possible? Or was it just my imagination playing tricks on me? Her eyes were familiar, but many thousands had fought in that battle and hundreds must have been rewarded in some way. Maybe I just wanted to find some relation where there was none. But I felt that there was something in how this child looked at me, as if we had an invisible connection across time. I felt tranquility and happiness.

    My sacrifice was not in vain, and I was rewarded.

    Suddenly the train stopped. Everybody looked up. A whistle was blown, and a man came running. "Everybody, please leave the train immediately!" he shouted. "There is a fire! Everybody out!"

    There was a great confusion, as there was smoke in the car already. Some coughed and others cried as all hurried toward the doors. All except me. I was left there on the seat but I could see the little girl looking back from the door. She extended her hand and pointed at me, but her mother held her firmly and in the next moment they were gone.

    The train was empty.

    There was smoke and I felt the heat. Then I saw the flames too, crawling closer with each passing second. I had no fear. A life ends, I perish in the flames and will reborn again. It was a good life, and I had no regrets.

    Well, maybe one. I really wished to hear again the voice and finally see the face of that woman who was like an angel and first held me in her arms when I woke up to be born in this now passing life.

    The flames engulfed the train, slowly swallowing everything inside. But right before they reached the book with the picture of a ronin on the cover, an invisible spirit broke free and started to drift again across time and space.

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    Top News

    The Scriptorium Writing Competition concluded last week, with 3 entries moving onto the finals for the chance to win the bronze, silver, and gold medals, as well as the Librarian's Choice Award for one other lucky participant. Listed below are the medal winners.

    Winter 2012 Competition Winners

    1st: Long Fiction Entry, Forlorn Hope, by Inarus
    2nd: Poetry Entry, Victory Shall be Ours!, by Maximinus Thrax
    3rd: Short Fiction Entry, Catherine, by HeirofAlexander

    Librarian's Choice

    - Long Fiction Entry, Artistic Representation, by Radzeer

    Category Reputation Winners

    50 Rep to runner-ups and 25 to second runner-ups
    Long Fiction
    Runner-Up: Diving Shadow, by Basileos Leandros I
    Second Runner-Up: Changes in North Korea: An Analysis of Recent Trends, by Diamat

    Short Fiction
    Runner-Up: Shiranu ga hotoke, by gumption
    Second Runner-Up: The grief of war, by Ciloron-Celebmîr

    Runner-Up: War, by Mhaedros
    Second Runner-Up: The Way of the Sword, by General Brewster

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    Other News

    Nothing else to report here this time around. The Scriptorium will likely be seeking one or two librarians in the next month, so if you are interested be sure to send a PM to Hader to apply.

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    Article Reviews

    Our reviews for the Writing Competition medal winners.

    1st: Long Fiction Entry, Forlorn Hope, by Inarus - Review by Påsan

    Forlorn Hope

    Author: Inarus
    Winter Scriptorium Writing Competition: First Place

    The winner of the January Scriptorium Writers Competition this year is a truly dramatic piece of writing about the horrors of war and the sacrifices made in them. The story puts the reader into the mind of a young idealistic English junior officer in the Napoleonic Wars, freshly appointed to lead the "Forlorn Hope" charge in an attempt to wrestle Ciudad Rodrigo from French hands. Through his eyes the reader gets an avid and believable description of the horrors of the Napoleonic battles weighted against the young man's unshakable belief in his county and personal courage.

    As a scenario that could have been pulled straight out of Napoleon: Total War it is indeed a great read for anyone that have a interest in historical warfare or just likes an action packed short story full of cannonballs and bayonets captured in readable violence. It is authentic enough to captivate the reader without going much into background detail or nuances that would take away from the drive of the short story. Absolutely a recommendable slice-of-life piece of Historical fiction.

    2nd: Poetry Entry, Victory Shall be Ours!, by Maximinus Thrax- Review by SonofPeverel

    Victory Shall be Ours!

    Author: Maximinus Thrax
    Winter Scriptorium Writing Competition: Second Place

    Maximinus Thrax's poem, "Victory Shall be Ours!" sets the reader in the ranks of an army fighting in France. This is no ordinary army fighting for their king, this army fights for freedom from oppression, tyranny, and for the will of the people. By the end of this speech the reader can only be left with one thought: "Vive la revolution!!! Vive la France!!!!" Poetry submissions were great this time around but of all of them, this one definitely has the most lasting impression.

    3rd: ShortFiction Entry, Catherine, by HeirOfAlexander- Review by StealthFox


    Author: HeirofAlexander
    Winter Scriptorium Writing Competition: Third Place

    HeirOfAlexander's "Catherine" tells the story of a deeply conflicted lady who questions her relationship with her husband, but in the end remembers what it is that makes their love special. The story opens by showing Catherine's frustration with her husband, Robert, as he focuses on ruling the kingdom and directing his military campaigns. This military campaign is also a troubling concern for Catherine as she fears losing her two sons who she still imagines as her little babies. As Catherine worries over the future she begins to recall the past. She remembers her wedding day where Robert was dressed in armor shinning so brightly that one could not gaze upon it long. Her affection seems to grow as she reminisces, and she eventually calmly falls to sleep at peace.


    Librarian's Choice: Artistic Representation, by Radzeer - Review by Hader

    Artistic Representation

    Author: Radzeer
    Winter Scriptorium Writing Competition: Librarian's Choice

    It's always a pleasure to hold these writing competition's and receive magnificent pieces of writing that otherwise might not have existed. And we have the Librarian's Choice award for just such submissions to be recognized.

    Radzeer's entry, Artistic Representation, was one that I and most librarian's felt was the most eloquent and had the best flow; and interesting stance taken in the writing and presentation of the piece. I'm sad it wasn't able to win on of the colorful medals in this competition but at the same time glad it didn't so I could give it this award myself (honestly the award I think is coolest to receive).

    Radzeer's story here starts and ends a short but very beautiful plot detailing the musings of the spirit of a Ronin, and the details of his past life and his distaste towards it and that title of Ronin. We're in a modern bookstore, where a book about the Ronin is purchased by an eager young girl, whom you will later find out has an unexpected significance to our Ronin friend. It is a fairly short read though, and I cannot say much without completely giving away those details that make this a nice read. So get off your lazy bums and go read it already!


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    Closing Remarks

    Thanks for reading the editorial this month. We hope everyone enjoyed this winter writing competition, and once again a big thank you to all those who took the time to participate. And congrats to the winners!

    See you next time,


    Did you know there is a whole family of TWC Publications? Just click through the pictures below if you want to check them out.

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    Last edited by Hader; April 02, 2012 at 01:31 AM.

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