Now, this may be a bit like the short story contest, except it's not really a contest, so no pressure there. Of course, I suppose that lowers the amount of people who will want to join...
Whatever the case, this will be just like writing short little, oo, exercises, I suppose. No set word length, one or two paragraphs will do, but if you can make it long, great!
If you write a segment, I or someone else may critique your work, if you so want, but if you don't want to be critiqued, just say the word.
All of the rules of the Art, Music, Writing section apply; that means NO sex, NO excessive cursing, and NO excessively disturbing scenes.
There will be a theme every so often, so try to keep the piece pertaining to that theme.
This time, the theme is: Write a death scene. You know the type, an important or beloved character is on his deathbed, or laying on the ground mortally wounded, and another main character is talking to him, or the dying character is fighting with himself to stay alive, that sort of stuff.
Knowing the amount of writers we have on AG, I don't see this being too active, but you know.
Every object around seemed to be grey. Every tree, every building was covered with dust and time. Wind was hardly noticeable, as there was nothing for it to pick up. The only thing of merit in that desolate sanctuary was a lone being. He was hardly indistinguishable from his surroundings being a grey object himself. The only thing that gave him the ability to stand apart was a thin film of white layered across his head.
-Several hours earlier-
It is the year 1930 on a planet that keeps a very similar calendar as Earth's western civilizations. It is obvious that some great war is happening; buildings are crumbling, bodies lie scattered over countless miles of land, explosions rock the soil every few seconds. One small group of nomads has managed to outlast the chaos; they are simply called, "Twelve." They were designated by a vowel followed by a consonant. You could say these people were a brand of witches. The general public (before their destruction) endearingly referred to them as demons. I guess the joke's on them.
The twelve were against the war, but they were for the war. They hated fighting, but they loved slaughter. These people wanted the obliteration to be their doing, but alas, the weakness of the planet's inhabitants brought it into motion.
There is one amongst the twelve that is different, in a sense. He still loved causing havoc, but for a different purpose. I will not explain the difference, for it would take up the rest of the story. I will only say that he was too smart and just to kill without meaning backing the swing of his blade. It drove him to strive for better. The twelve let him live simply because they knew that if they tried to kill him, they might not survive.
-One hour left-
"What are we to do?" said Ab, showing no emotion. "What would you like to do?" replied Ur. "I wish we could be no more," answered Oz, who is the one who hates the mindless fighting. "You would say something like that, Oz. Why don't you go to hell," said an unnamed, unimportant member of the twelve. "Why don't you," retracted Oz. And before the unnamed person could blink once more, a depression in his skull formed, spraying blood through the air. Nobody turned to see the outcome. They knew this time would be approaching soon anyway. Person by person over the next hour, the twelve were massacred. His methods of killing were quite unorthodox. It seemed that his favorite way was to grind the bones of his victim in his hands and let the almost unnoticeable wind carry the dust away. Sometimes, though, the wind was not in his favor.
@Xzeno: Yeah, I felt that too, after I went back and looked at it... that's fine though, it took me five minutes, hah.
@Marioman: Very good. One of the longer entries, I can appreciate that.
Mmkay, anybody mind a theme change? I think it's about that time. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ New Theme: The Apprentice
Not as broad of a theme. This time, I would like for you to write about being a student, apprentice, or disciple, learning under a master of his profession. Or you could take a more humorous take on it and write about being a student under a buffoon who shouldn't even be doing what he does, whatever. Originality is good, people.
If anybody still wants to stick to the death theme, you are welcome to up until Sunday at midnight by AG time. Other than that, stick to this theme, and do your own unique take on it if you can.
This is a very good piece, but for the sake of criticism I will possibly pick at your writing more than it probably deserves.
joints bent back as though in he's last final moments he was trying to escape
I'm guessing that the "he's" was an obvious error.
Overall, I think you catch the description of the terror in a creepy fashion (for lack of a better word), and your diction is of course the main strength of your writing. Few writers manage to bring such a terrible scene to such vividness as you, and that deserves to be commended.
Now, there is one major fault I think with this piece, and it comes from the concept of horror. The idea of horror is, above all concepts, an obsessive one. The idea fixates upon one's mind, leeching, leeching, leeching still until it has one's whole mind captive. You make several asides from the perspective of the officer that may be realistic in terms of his thought, but in the end act more like a distraction from the horror in the reader's eye. The officer seems to attached to the details, so utterly professional that the horror simply does not take on the dimensions it should until it is too late. The best way to remedy this? Make sure these remarks do not come across too nonchalantly. Everything in the officer's mind must be identifiable as a train of thought that derails into the terror he faces.
Keep Secretive Spies have to keep secret. If they are to open about what they do; they might not be so old on there deathbed. Jake James is a spy for the FBI. He just was kept prisoner in the mob. The mob was A.K.H. One lonely summer day Jake was doing what any person would do. He was shopping for his valentine. On the roof top the A.H.K sniper loaded his gun. Aimed. Fired. Everything for Jake went black and white. He saw his valentine in the distant. Yelling for her nothing came out. Laying in the puddle of blood layed Jake; Trying to goto his Valentine everything went black. By Frozenfire12
"Ready!" barked the instructor. The class collectively pulled their bowstrings back and nocked their arrows. "Aim!" continued the instructor. The class shifted their arms, pointing their bows towards the targets. "FIRE!" There was a THWACK! THWACK! sound as dozens of arrows flew into their collective targets. Most hit the bulls-eye. The tutor, whose name was Romael, strode down the row of targets, inspecting each. The pupils who failed to hit the bulls-eye were promptly whacked with a willow switch. Wincing and rubbing their red, soon to be swollen cheeks, the punished students stood at attention and continued to fire their weapons. Romael was the archery teacher at the Samarone Military Forces Barracks, the official training academy for soldiers in the Samarone Army. Most of the attendees were children whose parents were either nobility or soldiers themselves, sent there so they could become officers when they graduated. Watching her instructor limp away from the aisle(the limp was from a prior battle injury), Akira Glass quickly dropped her bow and quiver and stealthily escaped the room.
She met her real instructor about five minutes later. Cpt. Cordrimmond was hidden in the shadows, but Akira found him easily enough. She was a scout; that was her job, spotting people. "Well?" asked Captain Cordrimmond. Akira shrugged, biting her lip in worry, condradicting her "uncaring" attitude. "Bad," she answered. "Double watches, double training, 24/7. They're preparing for war, whether they realize it or not." "Do you think they're attacking?" Cordrimmond inquired. "Probably," she confirmed. "Preliminary battle plan reports on the headmaster's desk." "Are they invading?" "No, I think they're going to attack our troops stationed at the colonies." "Why?" "They must think it's a peremptory assault; the Hearthfire Massacre's got everyone worried." "Damn! Chances of getting reinforcements?" "Zilch. King Wyman thinks you're off your rocker, and I'm supposed to be dead. You killed me, remember?" "Don't remind me. How much time do we have?" "A week. Tops." "Well then, we'd better get a move on." "Great. What'll we do first?" "The first thing you are going to do is ten reps, patrol and shooting. And do it yourself this time; I know you got a mercenary to do your last one. I'm going to the colonies. We can't win this war by force; we need to stop it before it starts." Akira sighed. "So, you get to do all the fun stuff. What else is new?" Cordrimmond smiled a rare smile, briefly. "That's one of the very few perks of being the commander. Now let's go."
"Okay now, up, left, right, and... flick! Almost, now try again, and this time with more rhythm!" An old man and a young boy sat in a small stone-walled room; the boy tracing charms in the air, and the man searching through a pile of scrolls. "Mister Dalburn, can I stop now?" complained the boy. "I've practiced this one all day, and I still can't conjure even a spark!" Dalburn chuckled at this, and the boy gave him a questioning look. "Well, young William, I think I know why. You've been attempting to cast an infatuation charm!" "In... Fat... What? What's in... infatuation?" "Nothing you need to be knowing about yet, boy! You're not even thirteen years old yet!" Dalburn continued to search through the scrolls until he found one labeled with a crude sketch of a ball of flame. "Here we go! Try this, boy." Dalburn handed Will the scroll, and stepped back as the boy traced the charms on the graph in the air. After the final stroke was traced, the charm glowed bright red in the air, and a small firey orb apeared in front of the boy's open palm. "I did it! I did it!" Will shouted, making the ball dance around in the room. "Careful now, Will. That's real fire, and if any of the scrolls caught fire, you would have to redraw them." Will's concentration broke, and the fireball dissappeared, but both he and Dalbus were laughing. They would learn to cherish these moments in the coming days, for William's training in the mystic arts was not just another skill. Dalbus had seen in his dreams dark clouds rolling across the lands, and he feared that this may have been tied to the boy's fate. Dark days would fall upon the kingdom of Gale, and they had to be prepared for the worst...
"Boy!" I cringed as I heard my masters shouts, slacking off was not taken well at the School. I tried to bury my self deeper into the brush to keep the irate man from finding me. But it was for naught, I felt the vice like grip on my arm and resigned my self to fate. "You have skipped the lesson for the last time!" Your scores in enchantment, illusion, and summoning are abysmal, you only saving grace is that you have mastery of combat magic that hasn't been seen in centuries. Yet you sit here and laze about while out side of these walls Mages are dying to protect your worthless carcass! Perhaps you're a lost cause, you've been here for almost ten years and as of yet haven't even learned the basic spells of Enchantment or Illusion."
