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[Skyrunner]

When's the next competition? :v

[Digital Hellhound]

Exactly my question. The people demand justice-slash-entertainment!

[GiglameshDespair]

No ideaa. I sent draignean the next prompt, but he never posted again.

[Draignean]

No ideaa. I sent draignean the next prompt, but he never posted again.

Blargh. I keep meaning to write new comments on your revision before I start a new contest, and then I put that off as well. Blargh.

Short-ish Fiction Contest: Draigcorp 2014 Edition

"Jesus Christ, what's it take to kill this thing?!"

Rules
Your story must be greater than 250 words.
Your story must be less than 10,000 words. (Translated into average paperback pages, that's ~40 pages.)
Your story must be submitted before Sunday at whenever-I-start-grading (and preferably earlier) to be considered.
Your story must respond to the prompt (in some way) in order to be considered for grading.
You cannot win twice in a row. You may be ranked first, but you can't get the benefits of 'winning'.
You can submit a story either in the thread or by pm. If you submit by PM, your story will remain anonymous.

You Can
Submit stories from a larger body of work, as long as they fall within the word limits.
Write in any kind of style you feel like. I really don't give a damn and I've read pretty much anything.
Write poetry. Bear in mind that I am not a brilliant judge of poetry and will be a very wishy-washy critic in that regard. Note: Poetry is exempt from wordcount.

You Cannot
Write stories of graphic sexuality. Forum rules, blah blah blah. Keep Reginald's quivering member to yourself. Sex is fine, just don't make it the centerpiece of the story.
Write nonfiction. I don't care if it's a spectacular history of central Asia that explains Kazakhstan's multi-vector politics AND somehow fits the prompt. NO. Bad brain!
Submit the exact same story twice, even if it fits two prompts. You must evidence clear and substantial revisions before you can re-enter an old piece.


How this Works

   Every week there will be a prompt submitted. You then have the rest of the week to work on your story. You can submit anytime between the start of the contest and the Sunday the week after the contest begins. The deadline for stories is the end of that sunday. (8-14 day window) If you post after that deadline then I won't consider your story for the rankings and you can use it another time.
   That sunday, or in the week following, I will declare someone a winner and rank the rest of the stories. I will provide critique along with each piece. It may not be substantial, but I guarantee you that I will read it and point out the parts of it that I think work best and the parts that need the most work. I will avoid being mean, but I will also avoid telling you something is awesome when I think it needs work.
   Then, after I declare a winner, that person declares the next prompt. Then the process repeats. If the winner doesn't post a prompt by the end of Monday, I will post one that night. The winner can also waive the right to make their own prompt, but I can't imagine anyone doing that. I may also veto the winner's prompt and write a new one of the occasion calls for it. Fanfic, since it you need knowledge to write in it, is a banned category for prompts. (Not, however, for stories.)

Prompt 2. Submissions open 3/31 - 4/9

Prompt:  Fixing a broken world.

There are no other stipulations or clarifications, so wipe the Cheeto dust from your fingers and get writing.

Spoiler: FAQ (Updated 2/21/14) (click to show/hide)

Q: I've noticed that your critiques have poor grammar, and often use homophones instead of the proper word. Doesn't this make your critique of my grammatically correct paper very silly?
A: Not really. I admit that I tend to run once through my critiques and only give them a scarce pass at editing my language, but the bulk of what I critique will be story and structure. I correct basic grammatical errors, but that's it. I have a lot of critiques to write, and I really don't care overly much as long as I get my point across. I reserve my good English for my own stories.

Q: What qualifies you to judge my magnificent story?
A: Absolutely nothing.

Q: How can I be sure you're an impartial arbitrator who views all stories and genres equally?
A: You can't, I'm not, and I don't.

Q: Is everything going to be done on time every week?
A: No. Probably not.

Q: Will this make me a better writer?
A: Probably, if only because you hammered out a story instead of watching MLP:FiM

Q: Will you be mean? I don't know if I can stand rejection.
A: Hopefully not. I am, however, ill tempered. On another note: grow a spine. As my creative writing professor told me, getting published is about letting fifty random people tell you that you're bad and should feel bad, and then resubmitting to the fifty-first person who actually reads the story. I will not be mean, but you should never let people being mean change how you feel about writing.

[Nerjin]

Here, have something I wrote in about ten minutes because I was reading the wrong thing and thinking it was the prompt.

Spoiler: The Grand Golem (click to show/hide)

Wave after wave crashed upon the gargantuan rocks before them. Each hoping it would be the one to defeat the adversary. Each hoping it would be the one to destroy the guardian. Each hoping it would be the one to finally cross the border.

Sadly each wave broke just as the last did. Each wave failed in its mission. Each wave perished with little more than a thought from the beast.

The armies of Centria had been battling the Grand Golem for years now. An almost endless supply of men, women, and even children had been thrown at the creature in the vague hope that it would eventually die. Hope… It was such a foreign concept now.

When the Grand Golem had first appeared the king had laughed. “Another beast? Simply send the hunters after it.”

Needless to say the Hunters had perished like insect in a flame. Next were the knights. Then the Paladins. Then the Mages Guild. Then the thieves. Now it was the peasants who fought the Grand Golem. Not due to any royal decree. They fought because it was their only hope of survival. The Grand Golem searched ceaselessly for more victims. All life is its goal. All life is its enemy.

There was no hope for victory among the army. They had seen countless souls destroyed by the creature. They fought more on instinct than on reason now. Most simply charged the Grand Golem out of a bizarre need at this point. They knew that running would simply result in the Grand Golem chasing them down one by one. So the army had descended into a mob, charging the Grand Golem in wave after wave.

There was no hope. The Golem fought just as powerfully as the day it had appeared. Not a single scratch adorned its surface. No weapon pierced it. No magic harmed it. No diplomat could charm it. It simply kept killing. After Centria it was theorized it would move on to Northria. Maybe Southeria. It was only a matter of time before it hit both. All life would fall before the Grand Golem. Mortal and God would fall. There was no hope.

[GiglameshDespair]

A experimental piece of writing rather than a story. Also, Draignean, you gonna review my modification of Cloudview and Hopespot?

Spoiler: A Dance of Broken Glass (click to show/hide)

The shards of the broken world floated around him on the void, a slow dance of shattered creation. For an eternity, he'd watched them in their slow orbit.

“Hey there,” a voice whispered.

He sat up, startled, limbs forming from nothing to prop him up against the deep blue of the shard he lay on.

Who's there? He thought, as he had no mouth.

“We are. More technically, you are. It's time. Time to put this world back together.”

I can't. I don't know how.

“This is your world. It'll do what you want.”

Then go away. This is peaceful.

“Then I will for now. But you can't remain like this forever.”

The voice faded, he lay back down, and forever passed.

---

The shards had broken further – they sparkled forlornly as bits of world drifted around his central shard like cold stars in the void.

“I'm back. Are you ready?”

Why are you back? Go away.

“Not this time. It's almost too late.”

Too late for what?

“Too late to begin to mend the world, of course.”

Fine, then. What do I do?

He sat, up, his body struggling to form, flickering like a bad connection.

I feel terrible.

“We are near the end, one way or another. Either you mend the world, or all will fll into darkness, never to return.

He tried to focus, and the world began to move. Shards flickered past as they began to form around him, slotting together with musical chimes.

It's working.

“Good. Keep on going.”

The pieces of world had almost completely formed into a sphere around him.

This isn't a world. This is...

“Your mind, yes. Our mind. But in our mind we experience the world in our own way. What happened to you was terrible, but we can move on. You've shown you won't let it kill us.”

What are you, anyway?

“I suppose you could say I'm your will to survive. It is time. I shall take my place.”

And the voice was gone. The sphere was complete, and all was dark within. He could feel pain leech into his limbs, a terrible weight after aeons of numbness. There was a feeling of rising through black waters, of consciousness filling his mind.

“He's coming around.”
“Pulse is stable at 70 beats per minute.”

He opened his eyes.

[Arx]

In the interests of improvement:

Spoiler: Let Starfires Fall (click to show/hide)

 The fires were carefully staggered points of light across the deep blackness of the night-time fields, a poor imitation of the myriad stars shining from the unclouded sky. A cluster of white-robed priests watched unblinkingly from the charred peak of one of the thousands of hillocks that had been raised by the endless labour of too many slaves to count-- not that anyone would want to count them, of course. The slaves were those serving penances for crimes of darkness against the lights, and to count them might reveal unsettling truths about the devotion of the people to the radiant masters the priests told them were watching from above. The four High Priests in that same priesthood now stood in a square around the large stone cube that marked the apex of the hill; the stone cube that had held one of the sacred starlights, now toppled.

The face of the man who was certainly not the highest among the High Priests, for such a thing was not possible, was locked in a scowl. His long, pallid hands swept up, the flapping of his long, loose sleeves adding dramatic flair to the action, and he began speaking-- or, perhaps, raving. He had a thin voice that was now nonetheless raised in meteoric fury to scream at his brethren, as though they had personally defiled the rough-hewn cuboid that was, to him, one of the most important things in the world,
   “The Masters will not stand for this! The culprit must be hunted down and given unto the skies, for no lesser penance will do! We-”
 He ranted on in this manner for quite some time, as some of the lesser priests-- although of course, there was officially no such thing-- tried with varying degrees of success to keep from sniggering.

 After the not-Highest Priest had finally trailed off into incoherency, one of the others around the pedestal looked up, raised his hands, these ones knotted and scarred from combat or labour, and in a deep voice spoke bitingly,
   “Well then, brother, exactly what do you plan to do? Aside from cast the culprit unto the depths of the earth and let his smoke feed the stars, or any of the other exceptionally painful punshments you insist the Masters desire?”
   “It can only have been one of those who harbour the darkness! We shall search through their ranks until we find the defiler, and then they shall burn for their sins!”
   “One of thousands, brother! How do you intend to tell which darkling's soul is blackest? Perhaps you intend to train a dog to sniff out their heresies? Set a dog to catch a dog, to paraphrase the old saying?”
   “We have control of all the dark ones. We shall set them out in ranks and search through, and when we find the one we that we seek, we will know them, for the Masters will give them to us, that we may give them back to the Masters!”
   “And you believe--”

 What the High Priest thought the not-Highest Priest believed is forever lost, for as he spoke, the sound of screams and yells rose through the warm night air to weave through the smell of the burnt grass and the taste of smoky air in a surreal blend that could speak of only one thing to the priests, who were all, despite their numerous failings, quite astute: rebellion.
 To a man they looked toward the sound of screaming, and to a man they fell on their knees; for sweeping towards them was a wave of blackness as the darklings, finally rebelling against the dictators of a thousand years, toppled starfires and overwhelmed the few zealots that guarded each hillock.

I wrote this a couple of months back. I'd really appreciate honest criticism, as English teachers tend to be so happy to have someone actually bother to write something decent that they mark... generously.

[Servant Corps]

Because somebody has to review...

Spoiler: Review of "Let Starfire Fall" (click to show/hide)

I don't think there was much of a story in there. Or at least anything interesting for me to dig deep into. We almost got somewhere when the High Priest called for a purge to find the traitor within their midst, but sadly, the rebellion interrupted the plot. I assume the rebellious slaves killed everyone, including the traitorous priest who toppled the stone cube that sparked this rebellion? And I suppose the fatalistic nature of the lesser-priests seemed to indicate that they suspect that their thousand-year regime is coming to an end?

It does seem like a good example of a worldbuilding piece though. It doesn't spend too much time boring us with facts and just hand us with the important information: the planet is governed by a theocracy that serves the "Masters" (who I assume are the leader of some larger space empire), and this theocracy has enslaved everyone who refused to follow its strict teachings. I just kinda wished there was an actual story to go with the world.

EDIT: Also the purple prose of slavery might have dragged on for a bit too long.

[GiglameshDespair]

The sentences seem to run on far too long, even with commas. I just don't really like the writing style.

I realise that isn't too helpful, and I apologise, but the way it's written just rubs me the wrong way.

[adwarf]

Here's a short story thing I wrote spur of the moment cause I couldn't sleep the other day.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

A man stood peering from his tower down at the city below where the houses burnt, and the screams of death were all consuming, staring at that nightmare he realized that what he'd always assumed was wrong. The world wasn't the one at fault, it did not cause war, it did not cause disparity, it only did that which is in its nature and asked for nothing more then what it truly needed while humanity consumed all in its greed as if it was the true god. The man was old beyond his years, he had forged a kingdom of peace from the war-torn world, and now he saw it tear itself apart beneath yet more human greed, it was laughable really how his struggles could be so easily ignored. The man laughed as the fighting began to spread further into the city heading ever closer to his tower, turning from the balcony the man walked back into his chambers that were now bear of all except one thing, an iron bound chest sitting upon a marble pedestal.

All the man sought was to save mankind from its own greed, to end the mass bloodshed, the starvation, the disparity, but no humanity clung to its greed tighter than they would cling to hope. Opening the chest he looked down upon its contents with a face filled with grim determination, the chest held a simple iron mask that bore a leering face and was topped with dozens of barbed spikes, he had tried to bring them peace and humanity burnt it so now he would try the only other option. Fear, tyranny, oppression.

If mankind would not kneel to peace he would force them to bend the knee to tyranny, he would force peace upon them with the cold bitterness of steel, and the people would come to fear him, despise him. He accepted this, all he ever did was for the sake of mankind, perhaps in the future they would thank him for what he did, but it was more likely they would curse him as they would curse him this day and every day after until the end of his reign. Throwing off the reign of peace the man donned the mask, and strode from the room and the very tower itself to the keep below where those who had shattered his kingdom had come to take their revenge. They came in the hundreds, flooding the throne room to find it empty of all but the man in the mask, they came to a grim, mad laugh tinged with sadness and there in that hall they knew fear for the man in the mask embodied it.

With sword in hand the man left his throne, and slaughtered them, hundreds died and as he swept through them as if he were Death himself that cold, bitter laugh of madness never ceased for even a moment. As the man in the mask laughed the man who sought peace died, and the tyrant was born, mankind would come to fear him, and his oppression would be absolute for they said he was Death itself come to make humanity pay for its sins though in truth even Death pitied the man who refused to die, who chose to suffer though that perhaps he could humans from themselves as he became the very thing he wished to rid humanity of. Where humanity looked at him with anger and despise, Death watched on with pity for the lost soul that would not die, could not die, until its task that it had long forgotten was complete ...

[Arx]

Because somebody has to review...

Spoiler: Review of "Let Starfire Fall" (click to show/hide)

I don't think there was much of a story in there. Or at least anything interesting for me to dig deep into. We almost got somewhere when the High Priest called for a purge to find the traitor within their midst, but sadly, the rebellion interrupted the plot. I assume the rebellious slaves killed everyone, including the traitorous priest who toppled the stone cube that sparked this rebellion? And I suppose the fatalistic nature of the lesser-priests seemed to indicate that they suspect that their thousand-year regime is coming to an end?

It does seem like a good example of a worldbuilding piece though. It doesn't spend too much time boring us with facts and just hand us with the important information: the planet is governed by a theocracy that serves the "Masters" (who I assume are the leader of some larger space empire), and this theocracy has enslaved everyone who refused to follow its strict teachings. I just kinda wished there was an actual story to go with the world.

EDIT: Also the purple prose of slavery might have dragged on for a bit too long.

Yeah, it kinda brick walled when I hit the word limit. I'm glad it works as a worldbuilding piece! That setting has been bubbling in my head for ages, and that snippet was meant to flesh it out. What plot there is exists mainly to fill one of the prompts the teacher set, which kinda got sidelined. I agree that the slavery stuff got a bit heavy.
Thanks a lot.

The sentences seem to run on far too long, even with commas. I just don't really like the writing style.

I realise that isn't too helpful, and I apologise, but the way it's written just rubs me the wrong way.

That is totally helpful. It's a problem with my style that I've been wondering about for a while; it's nice to have confirmation.

[smirk]

Never posted in here before, but I finally found some time to write! So what the hell. And I had an idea for the last prompt that wouldn't get out of my head until I wrote it down.

Spoiler: "fixing a broken world" prompt (click to show/hide)

Oixchec circled the globe slowly, giving the exterior a cursory examination. She gave it an experimental nudge. Something deep inside went gloing.

Teighainn stood to one side, fidgeting nervously. He had the look of someone who was trying very hard not to look like they didn't want to be standing in the precise place that they, in fact, were. He also appeared, to Oixchec, to be trying to work up the courage to speak.

"So... can it be fixed?" he asked, working up the courage to speak.

Oixchec gave him a slow side-long glance. It was a pretty good one, as glances went. She practiced it most mornings. She held it for a second and then expertly redirected it back at the spherical device, just because she could.

"How much did you say you paid for this thing, again?" she asked. "I think you might've been robbed."

"I got it really cheap, actually. The, uh, the guy said he was moving and wouldn't be able to care for it properly, and was just looking for someone to take it off his hands. I checked the model and - and it's a good one, I think, so I thought..." Teighainn's voice trailed off and he waved his hands in a vague sort of way, for emphasis.

"I think you might've been robbed," said Oixchec, sticking with what she knew. She shrugged, and withdrew a small tool from a pocket. "Ah well. Let's take a look at whatever's under the casing, yeah?"

A few minutes' work ended in a yell of "Oi!" and a hasty jump backwards as the casing came off and a small shower of various parts hit the floor of the garage. Oixchec, having been the central figure in said small yet exciting action sequence, gave brief consideration to casting another glance Teighainn's way. She decided against it. Wouldn't do to overuse those.

Teighainn, for his part, tried his best to to shrink into the floor without actually moving. His voice followed suit, and an attempt at a witty situational remark came out as a surprisingly high-pitched squeak. He gave it up and decided to just slump, instead.

Oixchec let out a low whistle. "Well well well. What'd I just tell ya, Teeg? Lookit this mess. The metaphysical underpinnings have fallen completely out, and all yer weight's resting on the causality drive shaft. You know how much stress that puts on the entire system?"

"Those parts just fit back in though, right Chec? I mean, they're made to be replaced, yeah? So you could... just fasten 'em back in? I think?" Teighainn's body rebelled, and began to sweat.

"You see this part here? The one with 'Fundamental Morality' stamped on it? It ain't supposed to be bent like that, Teeg. And you've got a whole set of universal truths that are snapped completely in half. Even if I could get replacement parts for a model this old - which I can't - and if I had enough extra ambiguity sitting around to re-lubricate the whole damn thing - which I don't - it'd cost you more in parts and labor than if you just went out and got a new one." Oixchec gave a shrug. "Sorry, but them's the breaks. This is the worst one I've seen that wasn't in a trash heap, honestly." She reached out to give Teighainn a consoling pat on the shoulder, second-guessed herself, and turned it into an awkward second shrug. Should probably avoid complicated manoeuvres like that. At least until she had time to practice it.

Teighainn gave her a nod, wondered if this was sufficient, and threw in four more just to be on the safe side. The last one nearly overbalanced him, and he started forward towards the globe in an attempt to appear as though he had planned it that way. "All right, I'll just get it out of the way then. Sorry to bother you with it, Chec." He bent down and picked up a bent flange labelled 'Historical Inevitability', stuffed it into a pocket, picked up two stripped gearwheels, took the flange back out of his pocket, put one of the gearwheels in, tried to pick up yet another piece with full hands, stopped, and decided to stare off into the middle distance for a bit.

Oixchec took the pieces from him, put a small broom and dustpan into his hands, and closed his fingers around them. "Here. You get the smaller bits and I'll get a bin for the bigger stuff." She threw caution to the winds and tried for a sympathetic chuckle. "Hey, could be worse, right? At least you didn't have any sentience starting up in this thing. Can you imagine how that'd turn out, with gearing this messed up? Hoo boy!" She traded the chuckle for a chortle, instead, and stopped as she noticed Teighainn's face turning red. "...Teeg. You're not forgetting to mention something to me, are you? I know ya wouldn't do that, because we're friends. And you know I'd break yer legs if you lied about something like that, Teeg."

Teighainn's face, previously a shiny, rosy picture of worry, finally gave up such energetic activities and went for 'depressed mudslide' instead. "It's just a harmless experiment. Growth of sentience in suboptimal conditions. It's nothing bad." His words wanted nothing to do with his demeanour, though, which wasn't even bothering to brace for the inevitable explosion.

"It's damn near criminal negligence! That shit is highly corrosive if grown wrong! How th'hell did you think you ended up in this situation?!" Oixchec started another glance, stopped, and dialled it up into a full-blown glare that drew all the heat out of the room and focussed it right between Teighainn's eyes. It was a glower to turn a strong man to mush, but as Teighainn had already jellified himself by that point it had surprisingly little effect. She kept it up anyway. "There's an incinerator in the next room. I'm going in there to warm it up, and you are going to drag this heap in there to get rid of it. And if you're lucky, I won't bill you fer wasting my damn time. I swear, some folks just enjoy bein' stupid..." She stalked away, muttering. That, at least, needed no practice.

Teighainn heaved a sigh for his own benefit and began sweeping up parts like he was pushing a rock up a hill. He got them all dumped in a bin, put the case back on the device and gave it a kick for good measure. After a few seconds of cursing and hopping on one foot, he decided against a second kick. It had probably already learned its lesson. He began to hunt for the absolute minimum amount of effort it would take to roll the thing into the next room while still allowing him to act as though it was all just too much for him.

Behind him on the floor, a small puddle of dirty-yellow something had leaked out of the machine and begun to run lazily across the floor. It seemed to be headed rather directly for a pile of similar spherical devices stacked in one corner - which was odd, as that direction was slightly uphill.

Life finds a way, I suppose.

The sentences seem to run on far too long, even with commas. I just don't really like the writing style.

I realise that isn't too helpful, and I apologise, but the way it's written just rubs me the wrong way.

That is totally helpful. It's a problem with my style that I've been wondering about for a while; it's nice to have confirmation.

I can sympathize. It's far to easy to write rambling sentences that sound good in my head but are incomprehensible when written down. I'm still trying to end a long, torrid love affair with the semi-colon  =P

[hops]

Here's a story for the "fixing a broken world" prompt, although I might have strayed from the prompt a bit. It's heavily based on the interactive fiction Blue Lacuna. The grammar and structure convention is semi-deliberately bad.

Spoiler: Library (click to show/hide)

The air was spicy with ashes and burnt flesh. Gareth covered his mouth with his gritty rag. He sifted through the ashes and ignored the dead body staked in the middle of the festering pile. No such luck. He only found the hard covers of a dictionary, useless without its content. It was stuffed into the rugsack anyways. The dust made their way into his eyes and throat despite the cloth. Cloud of ashes billowed as he wiped. Rectangular shapes promised more books, only to disintegrate on the slightest touch. The pile was ginormous. Books put to the torch in order to birth a new society, or so they say. Despite it being three months, Gareth learned little from Christabel about the death cults. Not much of a surprise, seeing that she is still alive.

“I couldn't find anything in the city. Perhaps it's all in here, or all torched.” he told her as he tossed the covers of the dictionary over to her. It was in some language alien to him, like the wealth of books that lay in a great pile in their cave.  Somehow, Gareth knew her language the moment he set foot here. They had decided it was no use trying to preserve them. She must read all of them before they die, in order to fix this broken world. “Thanks. I'm sure I'll learn a lot reading the back cover.” she placed down a small handbook with the image of a mother and her baby next to her as she reached for the covers. “I was only semi-sarcastic.” she said as she studied it intently. “The planets will align next Monday.”

“I know.” he said as he hung the rugsack up. He went over to their great store of canned food and took some tinned peaches. His knife carved it open and he chugged and chewed. “You're going to still go.” Christabel said. It wasn't a question. “Yes.” he had prepared the paint and the canvas. “I'm going to die.” she said.

“No you won't.”

He ate little in the following weeks, and tried to return with as much food and books as he is able. Christabel was reading a thick storybook for a couple of days before she just tossed it into the fire. “Stories are useless.” she announced before she went back to her physics. A genius at the end of civilization. All that is needed is for her to survive. “You could stay and go the other time.” she told him. “You told me that in your world the planets only align once in thousand years. I'm not immortal. I just happen to outlive a lot of worlds.”

He taught her how to use the bow she built. Set up the traps for any humans foolish enough to enter. He told her never to attempt contact with any humans until she had exhausted her library. He wanted to talk to her about the reproduction of the human race here, but the thought of him with a twelve years old girl make him want to shoot himself for even thinking of it. He gave her his gun, her father's gun, actually.

“Will I meet you again?”

“One day.”

A wayfarer never stays in one place, not even with their own kind.

[Eek-A-Mouse]

These more focus on a broken world, and not necessarily fixing it, unless by the act of pointing things out... But, yes, wrote for class, and peers are too nice. Any comments or critiques for either of these would be appreciated!

---Hi-C Wrapper

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The HI-C straw
wrapper between the dull
grass blades
reflects more than grey
light--fourth-grade
field trips or dips
into the golf course
bamboo patch
shimmer on the opposite
side of sweet hydration's
debris. It is sorry
that the memories
we cherish hide
behind panes
of scrap, that
we reach what seems real
only when we open
gates of ivory.

---On finding happiness in a larger city

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

More sensations, more lights
that stick to your iris
and sit there until
registration,

exist here. It is nice
to walk a boulevard
and wear sights
like a pearl-laced
gown tail that extends
for yards,

as each brush
against a bystander
or waft from the gutter
threads into your
fabric,

to think that you are wed
with delirium, that you know
him well. There was a booth

that took you to miraculous
places, and Auffman
took it down.

Clarification of references

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

gates of ivory in the Odyssey, Auffman in Dandelion Wine

[TD1]

A world that has been seared from existence, in almost every way. The halls that were once bustling with activity now echo with emptiness, that most dangerous of foes. It is invulnerable, and though a tossed rock my banish the silence for a while, it surges back, so softly it is almost missed, but always-it comes.

This is the place I come to. The gates have been torn from this last pinnacle of the Forumites, those most noble of creatures that had once delved, mined and warred much like their Dwarven brethren. They lie in the mud that I remember as green, those doors, and though once encrusted with gems they now lie empty, hollow. A dead fort, and this the last, dead remainder of civilization. The wind moans through labyrinthine corridors and makes the hair on my arms stand up. A dead place, aye, but also a haunted place.

To combat the sounds of the dead crying and howling, I start to hum. The tune builds in me until I can hold it no more, and the wind dies down. Hushed. Listening. Thus is what I sang;

Where are the Forumites I once knew,
The swords, the axe, the mace?
Oh where are they, the brave and true,
That I had loved to see.

The halls now ring silently
Cursing lack of life.
Oh where, oh where are they?
My heart with woe is rife.

Where once great pillars sweeping rose
Bejewelled in light and gold,
There now is naught, not even foes-
Their works have  long been turned to mould.

A shade, I walk between the rooms
Where once sang bards with merriment;
Ah, how I long to hear their haunting tunes,
But oh, they’re gone, their beauty’s spent.

No more shall I be cast adrift
For I am here inside the Fort
Of Forumites, where long I dwelt
In blazing ball, in flow’ring court.

I turn my back from this drear place,
A tear is in my eye-
They’re gone, the Forumites,
An age has passed, I watched it die.

No more is bravery an art,
No longer NAV is drunk on joy.
We were the last alive to see
A place the gods could not destroy.

“Where are my friends,” I sigh
And in the sky the sun begins to climb.
“Where did they go?” I whisper; cry,
Distraught, a second time.

Behind is Necrothreat,
Ahead the whole of life and light,
But I would throw it all to hell,
For one more glimpse, a single sight….

Of halls that gleam and glitter white,
Then red, then green, then blue!
Of faces harsh and hard,
But nonetheless honest and true.
Mayhap also I would see the land
Around turn green, fertile and ripe,
But more I’d love to see the men,
The ones who fought for what was right.
And then I’d see the people live,
And walk, and talk-just live their lives!
Oh what I’d give to see that sight
With these two weary eyes.

Head raised, looking at the dark testament of what once, I release my woe and sadness, and though that haunted wind no longer wails throughout the halls, my woe is heard. Large, shaking sobs that come once the last note leaves my lips and hangs, ethereal, in the air before it dies. There is no healing this. There is no return to glory. All is dead.

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I wrote the poem for the succession game Necrothreat, so I figured I may as well write something brief around it too.