Ehat's Story Time Thread

The other short story thread is now filled with "Guests" posts and it uglies it up. I still think this is a great thread idea even if everyone claims lack of creativity. So I will keep it alive myself if I must!

This is a little experimental piece I did while in culinary school around the time I realized I didn't want to be in culinary school. I haven't read this in a long while and didn't proofread before posting so I am sure there are errors and the like. Either way. Let the battle for this thread continue!


It was burning. Glorenhiem was burning. My home, my father's home, my father's father's home. I, in my innocence, thought it to be my childrens' home but I, a mere child myself at the time, was wrong. Glorenhiem was burning, and we were to blame.
I remember my fair Glorenhiem vividly. The blue banners blowing in the wind, the town guard clanking their boots as they make their rounds. A distant call : “Glory for Glorenhiem!” as some far-off patrol groups cross paths. That was our oath, our alma matre. The chorus within all our hearts. Glory for Glorenhiem.
His name was Markier Graham and he was a godsend. No one knows where he came from. All we knew was the elegant man standing on the soap box, his feathery black hair slicked back in military perfection. He spoke of the future and the glory of our nation. Some say he was the first to inspire us to “Glory for Glorenhiem”. I cannot say. Under him our nation would change. Regrettably, a change that our fathers and grandfathers were just not ready for and sadly never would be.

* * *

“We must first unite the people” Markier declared confidently as he strolled down the dimly lit corridor, his two advisors in tow.
“Your little 'Glory' line seems to have lit a fire in their spirits,” a slender, nervous man bringing up the rear chirped in.
“Yes...but is it enough?” Markier raised a brow, not bothering to turn around for his associates to notice. They knew him well enough to see it through the back of his head.
“Unite the spirit, unite the vision, and all will march to the sound of a single drum,” added a larger, shorter man in an overly bored tone. He puffed lazily on a finely carved pipe.
“Well put...though a little maniacal sounding.” Markier paused in his tracks. “Well...let us unite their vision then. Then we can march them to the drum of ultimate peace and prosperity.” With that Markier turned, at last facing his associates and nodding his dismissal. He turned and made the rest of the way down the corridor alone.
“Do you think it will work?” The thin, nervous Kimbly asked as his hand anxiously toyed with his ear lobe.
The larger man puffed once more on his pipe before turning to take his leave. “We can hope Kimbly...but reform never came without its prices.”
“What do you mean by that?” Kimbly asked frantically tugging harder on his ear. “Odoul? What do you mean by that?” Odoul had already began the long shuffle back down the hall. Kimbly looked around nervously, then made his way after his round friend.

* * *

Oh the speeches he gave. Markier had such a command of language. He would speak and we couldn't help but listen. To be genuinely captivated by mere words. I was but a few steps into manhood, but I knew I would give my life for this man. I wasn't alone. Many would join under him to the dismay of our elders.
I remember it as if it were yesterday. “This world is lost,” Markier would say. “We can no longer stand idle as our culture slowly decays. It is only a matter of time before the carrion birds begin to gather and strip us of our families, our homes, and our very way of life.” My father was furious. My grandfather was outraged. My mother, she only cried. Despite it all I raised the blue banner proudly and enlisted in what became better known as “The Knights of Graham”.
“I understand your sacrifice,” Markier said to me one day. “Even though your family is enraged, know that I am proud of you.” Over the next few months Markier Graham would become a father to us all.

* * *

“How are we doing today Kimbly?” Markier stepped from the doorway, his lengthy black robe sweeping after him, his hand gently smoothing over his freshly trimmed facial hair.
“All is well sir!” Kimbly chirped, scurrying to Markier's side. “It would appear we have rallied a member of just about every family in Glorenhiem and more come each day.”
“Very good...” Markier stepped forward climbing onto the makeshift stage motioning for the gathering youth's to listen. “Firstly I wish to welcome you all. I understand many of you have made great sacrifices to be here. Know that I thank you and Glorenhiem thanks you. Many of you have been thrown from your homes in order to join this movement towards peace. Know that my house is yours. Know that my home is a home for Glorenhiem and shall always be open to my children.” Markier smiled warmly, his arms outstretched as if to embrace the entire gathering.
As it turned out, Markier's home was not large enough for his children. In fact, he had no real home at all. Those that had gathered to his call refused to see their kindhearted leader go without a dwelling worthy of his stature. He was given the old Baron's estate, much to the dismay of the current ruling Baron Horkleif. He was easily swayed by the well equipped Knights of Graham filling his estate courtyard. Markier was the hope of the new age. He would not be denied.

* * *

“Are you proud of yourself? My close friend Ingrik was the Baron's groundskeeper. He tells me you were at the head of the raid! That you yourself stripped the Baron of his keys and handed them to this trouble-making drifter Markier!” The old man's faced puffed red with outrage, his arms flailing in wild fury, unable to keep any form of composure. Behind him resting stiffly in a chair sat an even older man equally outraged, yet better composed through his years of experience. His hands clutched aggressively to a walking cane as if waiting for the whole room to come down.
“I have done what was needed father.” The youth stood defiantly before his family, confident in his decision. “The Baron was dragging this city to the grave. Father Markier is the future. He stands for something good and I will do what is needed of me to ensure the Glory of...”
“Glorenhiem! Glory of Glorenhiem!” The walking cane thumped on the floor thunderously as the elderly man rose his face trembling. “I hear you naive fools parading around as if you're something special! You know nothing of those words! I've marched under the blue banner, I've held off invasions and raids your Markier could only dream of! You know nothing of glory! You know nothing of this city!”
“Enough.” The old man raised his hand easing the elderly man back into his seat. “Adipose, you have shamed this house and you have shamed the blue banner you march under. You are no son of mine. Your actions have ruined this city. Go sleep in the stolen house of your precious Father Markier.” The man stepped back to stand next to the elderly man in the chair.
In a back room the sound of a lone woman weeping rang out to the youths ear. The sound of a mother who had just been given the news that her son was dead. He opened his mouth to speak but the finality in his father's and grandfather's eyes was enough. No words were found, no goodbye's were said, and the young Adipose went silently on his way.

* * *

In hindsight I wish I could say that was the last time I would see my family. The truth of it all is far worse...but I'm getting ahead of myself. Markier took me in gladly and even promoted me to Captain. I was given the armor of my station and my own room within the estate. For the most part life was good. Markier was ruling Glorenhiem, crime was practically nonexistent, and peace and prosperity truly thrived. The elder's held their tongues as the youths patrolled and maintained, but Markier was not satisfied. He took me aside one afternoon.
“We will never have peace. Not true peace anyway.” he began. “Glorenhiem is divided. Young and old, tradition versus revolution.”
He was right. United as we were we still were only half the population. Markier decided to make a speech to the elders of the city. An attempt to sway their minds. For the Glory of Glorenhiem.

* * *

The elderly, as well as the few non-converted youths, gathered restlessly. Whether in protest or to actually hear Father Markier's speech couldn't be certain. What was certain was that things could, and probably would, get ugly fast.
Markier appeared in his typical fashion. His black robe billowing behind him, the royal blue trim glistening in the afternoon's sun. Kimbly and Odoul followed diligently, keeping their distance as not to take away from the imagery. The gathering was unimpressed regardless. They shifted awkwardly, murmured to each other, and some just downright left. Markier stood boldly on the edge of the stage, arms open in a gesture of peace and kindness as he had done time and time again to more willing audiences.
“I thank you all for coming. I know my actions have been frowned at by all of you but it is my hope that we may find some common ground and walk together to a brighter future of peace and tranquility. The time is upon us to embrace revolution. To unite together as one mass...as one Glorenhiem.”
And as quickly as it began, it was called to an end. “You call overthrowing our leader and uprooting our governing ways a future of peace?”
“You have taken our sons! What next in your tyrannic march, our daughters?”
“I'll bet he will take our homes next!”
“A disgrace to the blue banner he flies.”
The thrush of people began churning in complete agitation verging on chaotic frenzy. Soon the square was nothing but unintelligible shouting. And then it happened.
“Down with Markier and his false ways! Death to the lies and corruption!” The insult hit hard, but the rock hit harder. Markier stumbled backwards toppling into the arms of his startled and now frightened advisors. Blood ran gradually down Markier's face from the fresh wound causing a chaotic ecstasy to flow through the swarming thrall of people.
The Knights of Graham swiftly filed in, cutting off the now erupting mob from reaching the Knights' wounded leader. Kimbly and Odoul pulled Markier off the stage to safety, more rocks bouncing harmlessly by. The Knights stood as a wall of drawn steel ready for the upcoming frenzy. Adipose stood uneasily in the midst of it all. Someone from the mob came at him with a makeshift club in a rapid assault. Adipose blocked and countered. First blood was drawn. The sight of it caused others to take arms against the Knights and the startled youths had no choice but to strike back.

* * *

My family said I had shamed them by joining Markier. What I did that day was the true shame. In my opinion it was the spark that burnt down my fair city. I stood in Markier's defense as we all did. I caused son to strike out at father. Markier would be fine but I had slain a father...a husband...a citizen of Glorenhiem. I had started the death toll that would bring forth the carrion birds Markier spoke of. Even so we pushed on in an attempt to quell the tides of insane riot. The square rang out: “Glory for Glorenhiem”. God forgive us our sins...

* * *
The knights regrouped at Markier's estate. They fidgeted in the courtyard, waiting diligently for their leader to appear before them to give them some sort of assurance that what had transpired was correct and just. Within the estate Adipose knelt before Markier. Markier sat patiently as the medics tended to his head wound.
“I am sorry Father...I feel I have ruined all of your hard work. Glorenhiem will never be united now.” Adipose' eyes watered slightly, a notion Markier did not miss.
“Enough child.” Markier simultaneously waved away the medics and rose to stand before Adipose. He rested a hand lightly, comfortingly on Adipose' shoulder. “All will be righted.” Markier smiled warmly. With that he turned back to his chair and to his injuries. “Now rest my child. You have done enough and need not worry yourself any longer. A burden weighs only as long as you carry it.”
Adipose left the chamber turning back only to see Markier's strange grin through the slamming doors. Markier had comforted him enough to at least sleep. He made his way to his room unaware that the nightmare was only beginning.

* * *

Markier grimaced as the final stitch was placed and bandaged. The medics bowed and took their leave, swiftly being replaced with Markier's usual shadows. Kimbly shifted uncomfortably, his hand cradling his ear as always while Odoul puffed his pipe nonchalantly.
“Gentlemen...there is only one way to resolve this tragedy. The people will never be united. Our goals for peace will never see fruitation unless we change our strategy.” Markier strolled over to a small table and began preparing three drinks. “I have an idea but I am open to suggestions before any action is taken.” Markier lifted the three glass goblets completing his menial task. “Anyone? Don't be shy gentlemen, we are all friends here.” He casually passed out the drinks, calmly sipping his own. Kimbly sipped his repeatedly while Odoul drank freely and deeply.
Several moments of silence passed. Kimbly was the first to go. He pulled nervously on his ear as the sweat dripped off his pointed nose. Odoul wiped his forehead and tried to speak as Kimbly hit the floor but no words came out. Another thud and they both lay still in crumpled heaps.
“Well then...I suppose we will go with my plan then. Thank you for your time gentlemen.” Markier finished his drink then let the glass break against the floor. He stepped over his dead colleagues and out the door. He had one final speech to give.

* * *

Markier stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. The gathered knights were quickly silenced, giving Markier there full attention. Markier smiled warmly, arms outstretched.
“My children! The time has come to act. Glorenhiem lies broken and divided. The bonds of family lie shattered. We tried to fight with words and reason and your own families lashed out, inducing chaos.” Markier's actions became frantic, his facial features wild. “We insisted on life and they pushed us further into decay! They have woken the beast and it is our duty to vanquish it. Through fire this nightmare will die and from the ashes we will rebuild the blue banner, rebuild Glorenhiem in the image of the heavens! The path is clear. If we are to be united in peace we must destroy those insisting on the verge of heresy.” The estate grounds erupted. The sheer frenzy of the speech was enough for them to neglect the true madness and sin being proposed to them. Tonight Glorenhiem would burn and son would kill father.

* * *

I awoke that night to the ultimate horror. The night sky danced oranges and reds. My Glorenhiem was burning. The estate had been emptied. Every knight had taken to the streets in Markier's mission to eradicate their own families. I was horrified. Entire neighborhoods erupted in frenzied glee and fright. Fires spread rapidly as innocents were cut down. There was nothing left of Glorenhiem and by morning all would be smoke and ash.

* * *

Adipose darted through the streets as quickly as his feet could carry him. The smoke and ash burned his eyes and throat, but even blinded he knew the way. He passed many hysteric knights – some singing, some cheering, and others so maddened by their actions they were but shells of their former selves. He rounded the corner skidding to a stop. He stood before the inflamed ruins of his home. His grandfather lie crumpled where the doorway once stood, there was no sign of his mother, and his father knelt to the ground bruised and beaten.
“Father!” Adipose cried out. His father turned to his son, one eye swollen the other tearing up. Then the sword fell. A sheen of steal, a spray of blood, and all was over.
Adipose boiled with rage. The smoke, the ash, and the tears combined was not enough to dull his aim. His sword struck the hysterical knight and those around him. They all died with their maddened grins still intact.
A hand fell comfortingly on Adipose shoulder yet firmly held him. “That is enough Adipose...”
“We have to stop this.” Adipose sobbed.
“We will. The madness is beyond control now. I have been gathering those of sound mind to help put an end to this. You know the layout of the inner estate better than anyone here. Join us and help us wake from this nightmare. We will head back to the estate and you will lead a small group inside to Markier. Meanwhile, myself and the others will sweep through the streets, gathering more support or cutting down those too far gone.”
“Alright...I'll do it.” Adipose sighed his agreement. The nightmare was coming to its climax and there would be little sleep this night.

* * *
We made it quickly to the estate. Our ranks grew equally to the blood caking our swords. So many familiar faces left hollow in the wake of death. The humanity of it all. Glorenhiem had been divided and inquisitioned through fire, and now we had no choice but to purge what was left. Myself and a handful of others went inside while the rest continued to sweep the streets. I took the stairs two at a time. My associates gradually fell behind. I was fine with that. In a way I felt responsible for it all and I felt it my painful duty to end it. If only I would have known how painful it truly would be.

* * *

Adipose turned down the last hallway, his comrades now too far behind to assist. He slowed as he neared the double doors separating him from Markier. Emotion mounted high, the door creaked open with a nudge, and the final stage was set.
“Ah...my dear Adipose.” Markier sighed facing his welcomed guest. “Did you sleep well? I am sorry but I had no choice but to start without you, my dear Captain.”
Adipose staggered his way across the large room, his entire person covered in blood. Markier seemed not to notice. Out of the corner of his eye Adipose spotted the two slumped bodies of Kimbly and Odoul. He turned away, horrified, but staggered onward. His stained sword rattled against the cold tiles of the floor, his hand trembling too disfunctionally to wield it.
“Markier...why?Why are you doing this.” Adipose toppled from the weight of the night's events. Markier caught him warmly, embracing him as a father does a saddened child.
“Hush child.” Markier cooed as he held Adipose. “Close your eyes my child. Rest. When you wake you will waken to a new day. To a new Glorenhiem sun.”
Adipose sobbed loudly. He trembled viciously but Markier held him close. The sounds of rushing footsteps echoed from the hallway into the chamber. Adipose composed himself as best he could. Now was the time. “No Markier...I will waken to the smell of burnt flesh and ash...and the sound of wings as the buzzards feast on my kin.” Adipose shifted slightly. “But for you...there will be no morning.” Markier's eyes widened.
Markier dropped Adipose to the ground as he staggered backwards up against a nearby wall. He grasped blindly yet defiantly at the slender dirk now resting between his ribcage. Markier choked as he gasped for words as well as air. He slumped slowly down the wall, his final death's glare locked on Adipose' trembling form. “G-Glor...y...”
Adipose crumbled in his emotional anguish. The monster was dead but so too was a father. His comrades rushed in to the grim scene. Many joined in Adipose' anguish – for many this day, two fathers had been lost.

* * *

Markier was right in the end. The carrion birds had come...and we had been stripped. Yet even so, who could have foreseen that we, the very children of Glorenhiem, were to be the very vultures. As the night ended and the sun rose to shine through clouded ash filled skies we found our home nonexistent. Glorenhiem was no more. No gentle breeze so accustomed to our land to fill our banners. To fill our hearts. The winds themselves spat at us. The earth itself forever stained in the smell of fire and death. The fruits of our labor...
Over the coming months the pocket of survivors scattered to the corners of the world. Everyone left the sin behind. Everyone thought that miles would separate them from the nightmares and vivid dreams. I stayed. Even now this is my Glorenhiem. This is the home of my father...my father's father. And I in my penance would make it my home. This is my glory...I have lived...and I will die...beneath the blue banner of my Glorenhiem.

I'm very tempted to jump right in and have a good read, but I am suspicious that this story will really take off and come to life if I read it high.

so until then...

I must wait until a time I'm not at work to read this, but I will tell the GF to check it out. She is getting into writing short stories herself

Excellent!

I love this story

I wish I could write dialogue as well as you do, always have.

I would really be interested in knowing where the inspiration for this piece cam from. I rather enjoyed it and I love when stories give no clue as to the time period the piece is set in.

To be perfectly honest I was sitting in a very very boring nutrition class sitting in the front row completely zoning out. And in my spaced out trance I started mentally rambling to myself in like...some weird thick accent voice and ended up with the opening narration. The phrase "It's burning..." repeated a bunch and I ended up with the mostly polished piece above.

My brain works in mysterious ways~

That was a good read. You should post more if you have any.

I have no short stories saved on my computer so...here's an excerpt from my book. This is one of my favorite scenes, and of course it's in the middle of the book so you will have no clue what's going on, but...oh well



Rufus Garret was angry.

Stomping down the alleyway, he spun a small silver dagger in his hand. The alley was empty of human life save Rufus, it's occupants being of the animal variety – a scrawny, mottled cat and what seemed to be a thousand endless rats. The cat hissed and flew out of the way of a well-aimed kick as it prowled, eying the man warily. Rufus snarled in return. The cat, sizing up his choices, wisely moved it's prowling to another part of the alleyway. All he wanted was some dinner, and he could catch enough rats to feed ten of his kind anywhere in this alleyway. No sense in sticking around here and getting in more trouble than was worth. Rufus conceded enough to let the cat fly past him, then continued stalking through the dark. Making his way to the side of the alley, he quickly located an door, artfully blended into the wall, and threw it open. Entering the room, he flung the dagger at the opposite wall where it buried itself nearly to the hilt in the crumbling plaster.

The room was small but neat – at least considering the shape it was in. A rickety stove and a tiny table and chairs stood in one corner, and a mattress was pushed up against the opposite wall, a pile of blankets on top. Some who knew him wondered why he lived the way he did, when he could easily afford a modestly large house or estate and even have kept a small staff at his disposal. These people claimed to know him, but this questioning alone showed that they did not. He preferred silence and anonymity to showiness, and though he brought in a modest income from his dealings, he was not one to squirrel it away on frivolousness. There were better things to do with money, better things it could get him and places he could go.

Grumbling, Rufus made his way over to the wall and pulled out the dagger, carefully wiping it on his handkerchief and hiding it back in it's sheath. He sat down on the bed, his movements particular where others would be careless, and laid his head back against the wall. His eyes slipped closed in a rare moment of rest, not letting his guard down but simply letting his ears take over the alert. He sat quietly for a few moments, simply thinking and resting for a few brief minutes. A quick series of knocks on the door and he was suddenly alert, the dagger flashing into his hand.

“What?”

“Rufus, let me in.” The voice was soft and feminine, and he seemed immediately at ease, the dagger back in it's place at his side. Silently making his way to the door, he pulled it open to see a a young woman standing in it's place. Dark, sleek curls framed her heart shape face, and her china blue eyes glanced curiously up at his face as she stepped past him into the room. “You look in a mood.”

“You shouldn't be here, Margaret.” The girl chuckled and raised an eyebrow, sitting in a chair next to the table and crossing her legs. She smoothed out the wrinkles in her short, faded blue skirt, cocking her head to study Rufus.

“Why not? No one knows I'm here.” Rufus sighed and sat in the other chair, leaning forward to prop his elbows onto the table. Margaret grinned mischievously, leaning forward as well. Rufus sighed and leaned back.

“You know why. I don't want you in trouble.” Margaret sighed and leaned back, twirling one of her jetty curls around her finger.

“It's fine. I told Etta I was leaving to meet a client.” She looked at him cockily once more, flashing a wry grin. “Of course, if you want, that could be true...” Rufus silenced her with a glare and she sighed once more.

“Margaret, what do you want from me?”

“That's a silly question. You know what I want from you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Just hadn't seen you in awhile. I was worried.”

“Don't worry.”

“I always worry. What have you been up to, anyways?”

“The usual.” She studied his face.

“No you haven't. This is something different, something big.” She paused. “Aren't you going to tell me?”

“No.”

“Oh, Rufus.”

“It's fine. Nothing is going to happen.”

“You don't know that.”

“Yes I do. Everything will be fine, I promise you.” She tilted her head again, sighing.

“Fine, I trust you.” She crossed her legs the opposite way, dropping the conversation. “So what are you doing today?”

“Entertaining you, apparently.” He cracked a wry grin, and she laughed.

“What were you going to do before I showed up?” He shrugged.

“I don't know. Sleep, maybe.”

“You never sleep, liar. You just aren't going to tell me, are you?” He grinned at her again, and she shook her head, glossy curls shaking.

“Well, what are you going to do today then?”

“I don't know. I have to go back soon, Etta will be waiting for me. I've got a client at four.” Rufus gave her a disapproving look. “What do you want me to do? You aren't going to support me, I have to do something with my life.”

“You're too good of a girl to be a common prostitute.” She laughed, a high, clear sound that seemed to resonate off the walls.

“Aren't we all? You think too much of me, Rufus, and yet not enough.” He shook his head.

“I'll never be able to reconcile you with that life. You could do so much more with yourself.” Margaret smiled, a haunted look in her eyes.

“Well unless I can get someone to take care of me, that's what's going to happen.”

“Margaret – ”

“And we know that's not going to happen,” she interrupted. “I love you, Rufus, and you know that. But I also know that you don't have the capacity to return that, and I wish you could just 'reconcile' yourself to that fact and not bother caring at all.”

“Listen to me, Margaret – ”

“Rufus, I've got to go, okay? I can't be late, Etta will throw a fit. I'll be back tomorrow, if you want.” He hesitated for a moment, then nodded, standing to follow her to the door. She walked out into the grungy alleyway, turning to flash him a smile before walking away. He let out a sigh, turned around, and went back into the house.

Margaret made her way back down the alleyway, sighing softly. She knew Rufus was up to something, and she knew it was something out of the ordinary. It bothered her that she didn't know what it was. Not that Rufus was normally open about his business – far from it, he tried to hide as much as possible, not wanting her to get involved. It was more the fact that she could usually figure it out, and this time she couldn't. She didn't like the thought that Rufus could be in trouble somewhere and no one would know.

She stepped out onto the busy street, the bright colors a far cry from the dreary alley she had left behind. Shaking out, her curls, she made her way into the crowd. No one looked her way, no eyes turned to study her and even to pay her a glance. She was an all-too-common breed here, and she blended in well on the streets, lost to the world.

Lost Margaret. Lost even to herself.

This is a folk tale piece I did a few weeks ago for my "Novelton" Project. The project is my main personal project I have been working on for awhile now. Think Jim Henson's storyteller only more puppets and hopefully I longer run time and you pretty much get the gist of it.

Keep in mind it is written to fit into the folk tale feel so it doesn't have the step by step descriptions and background information you get with a standard piece.

The following is but a recollection. A memory as it were. A story from my youth, from a town far away, in a place never seen by common eyes. This is a story of rain and trees and the respect they deserve, as told to me by the Great Librarian of Novelton Himself.~Unknown~

The story begins as most stories do: In the beginning, but before the conflict, and definitely not at its end. It begins in a small town near a large woods filled to the brim with larger trees. This town was Entwood.
Entwood had a history, as most towns do. A town made of wood, founded by wood, and reliant on wood. Tree's were gathered respectfully from the nearby woods to fill their needs BUT never a splinter more.

"Never!-Fell a tree during the rain!" The children were taught. "Never bend a branch out of place when the waters fall..." This was how it was, how it should be, but not as it would stay.

As most towns do, Entwood had traditions. As most towns have done, tradition faded to habit, which faded to doubts, which faded all together.

"Never~fell a tree during the rain!" shouted the town fool. "Never bend a branch out of place when the water's fall..." No one heeded. No one cared. No one remembered.

"Why shouldn't we?" they pondered. "Springdale to the north has a demand for lumber to make Entwood rich quick! Mind the trees in the rain my arse. Old wives tales it is. No bad will come from honest days work you'll see! You'll see!"
And so they worked. Labored the days away as the wooded edge grew distant. Then it rained. Cautious at first they approached on their mules. Reluctant at first they raised their axes. Greedy at last they splintered the forgotten truce.
The rain water that once fell Drip Drop Drip in a peaceful chorus now Drip Drip Drop~! in it's drums of war! But none could hear the sound. None remembered the way.

Drip. Drip. Drop. Slow at first. Then faster. Then faster still. Drip Drip Drop. DripDripDrop!

The drums of war bellowed! DRIP!DRIP!DROP! The boughs creaked! The trunks shook! March my children the winds bellowed; the rains falling in pales! Drip drip drop! Flee sons of men for your sins have been acknowledged!
And the trees uprooted by stormy winds caught themselves on branches and readjusted on their rooted feet. They howled from their notched maws and marched. The people fled to their town. Entwood cowered from the wood that had served them since its founding. But the fear, the cries... meant nothing as the woods edge grew closer and closer for the ears of trees heard sounds of different sorts. A puddle in the square splashed. Drip. Drip. Drop. Fear mounted. Drip drip drop. The rootwalkers marched to war...
A scream and a crash as the first marched it's warpath through a home unvarying. Old men called out to long forgotten gods as wives weeped over broken bodies. The trees marched on. No purpose but the march. Drip. Drip. Drop. The men, feverous to save their families, ignited torches and cast them to the risen demons.
Drip. Drip. Hiss.
Drip. Hiss. Drip.
Drip. Hiss....Drop.
The rains faded. The marching ended. The fires grew. The town burned by its own doing. Unbalanced tree toppled into tree, which toppled into home, which burned its neighbor, until the weeping turned to roaring and all was cloud and ash. Silence. No drips or drops. No weeping. No roaring flames. All silent. All broken. All except one man. One voice.
"Never~fell a tree during the rain...never bend a branch out of place when the waters fall..."
...Lest the rootwalkers march against all.

SINCE NO ONE APPARENTLY REMEMBERS THIS THREAD!

Thought I would post to bring it back on the table. I'm working on a new one in the theme of the Glorenhiem story so hopefully it turns out well.

Keep this thread alive people! I know you gots it in you! Everyone's got a story tell~

Just finished this one. It copied kinda weird. I did my best to fix it enough to make it an easier read.



What happens in the moment between life and death. What happens during that final inhale. That grasping exhale. The rushing darkness. Does a story begin when traveling bards say they do or do the truly begin the moment before they end? But this is not a time for that...Let me tell you the story of my life...

My life. A life in which your only true success is never existing. A life when quiet black brings about sorrowful red. I...was an assassin. Just a face in the crowd. I killed all sorts. Cobblers, tailors, husbands, wives, bakers, farmers. From the wealthiest merchants to the dirtiest of vagabonds. A hidden knife discriminates not. Blood runs red either way. I had seen the world and yet the world had never seen me. A sad lot but I played my part. I survived. But every professional has to retire someday...

** * **

He sat at a low tea house table as if he belonged. In appearance one would think he had always been there. As if specifically placed to maintain feng shui. His vagabond persona only enhanced by the saki remnants in his unshaven face. The server brought another neat tray of bottles and cups to replace his spent one. The Tea House owner smiled warmly at his guest as if long standing friends. Another round on the house.
"You never cease to amaze me Rising Sun." Came the whisper as the server shuffled off.

"You're late..." came the drunks collected response.

"Two day's in Hyrishi Village and already you drink for free." A man stepped around the thin paper screen dressed in the uniform of an Imperial Courier. "The Master's praise is not wasted on-"

"Have you my assignment? Or are you simply here for a drink?" The vagabond smiled skillfully.

The courier returned the smile as he slyly replaced a filled saki glass with an unmarked envelope. A throwback of his head and the saki was gone. A throwback of the vagabond's saki and the courier was gone. He glanced to the envelope, cautious at first, but eyes burning with desire hide no secrets.

** * **

I was a survivor. I cared little for those whose blood washed my hands. Those whose deaths paid my salary. Survival cared little for faces warped in bad dreams. I moved on time and time again. This was no different. Only this time. I only had to move on once more.
One day's ride from Hyrishi Village. One night spent at the Inn. One elderly man stood in my way from retirement. His home was on the outskirts of the village. Seclusion for his benefit? Or mine...

"You...are here to kill me aren't you?" The old man spoke sternly.

"This does not surprise you?" Rising Sun slid from the shadows cooly.

"I am aware of my debts young man. As you should be aware of yours."

"Sly words may fight like snakes but it will take more than that to sway me..." Rising Sun stepped closer.

"Of course assassin. Then do what need be done...for your retirement." The old man stood willingly. A crooked smile creeping onto his face.

Rising Sun froze. Who was this man? "Who are you?"

"Now now assassin...You know the code. Never look beyond the veil of the target."

"Who are you!?" Rising Sun shouted in a panic. This was his mission. His retirement. One toss of his knife and the man would be dead but somehow this aged bent form standing before him filled him with fear.

The old man sighed disappointed lowering his welcomed stance. "You forget your place Rising Sun...you forget your debts. The code must be upheld or else we are but barbarians."

"The code? I am to kill a brother assassin then? So be it. If it means my retirement then it shall be done." His gaze stiffened. He drew his blade and began to advance.

The old man laughed. "Your retirement? No silly boy. I am to kill a brother assassin, an arrogant one but a brother nonetheless, for my retirement." He tossed a photo to the Rising Sun's feet followed by the scribbled instructions bringing the assassin to a halt. "The Master said you would come. One man may retire today. and the other left for maggot fodder. I have lived a long life and may be old but I have one kill left in me.

Rising Sun lifted the photo and instructions and glanced sorrowfully at them. So it was to be then. He tossed them aside. "And you think to stop me then old man? I am Rising Sun. Name so for my great feats in the name of the Order. I am-"

"Already dead..." The old man finished.

"How do you figure old man." Rising Sun bellowed angrily. How dare this frail being consider himself victor without a conflict.

The old man waved a handkerchief at the greatest assassin ever lived. Waved confidently with the very hand that tossed his assignment to the floor. "You young assassins think yourselves gods. In my day we killed our targets without even being in the room. By your words rising sun. Sly words fight like snakes...but so do old men. The poisons should be hitting you about now..."

Rising sun choked. The room swayed, his feet like weighted stone. "Who are you?" he croaked once more.

"Ironically? They call me Setting Sun. And now you sleep while I live on in retirement." The old man grinned ear to ear.

Rising Sun paled. How could this happen? He was the greatest. He had lived the code faithfully... The code....

"You lose old man..." Rising Sun coughed. A smile sneaking onto his face. "I am Rising Sun. The greatest assassin...and I steal your kill." With his last energy he thrust his blade into his chest forcing out a deranged laugh as his knees hit the floor. "I retire to death. While you fail your mission."

"You never cease to amaze me Rising Sun." Footsteps from the corner of the room revealed the Courier. A silent witness for the show. "And as for you. The Master is displeased. You have failed your mission and therefore have broken the code. Your debts must be paid."

The last thing Rising Sun saw was the old man, smiling ear to ear, with a blood grin spread across his throat.

When does a story begin? When the traveling bard says they do or right before they end? In my death I see my story. I see the faces warped by bad dreams. Only now they all resemble me. All professionals have to retire someday.

Who gives a damn where it all starts...

I wrote this a few years ago. It's a fanfic about the Monster Hunter series, but you don't really need to know anything about it to enjoy it. I tried to keep jargon out and make it just like a dragon hunting story.

Renra stood in line with rest of the village trainees. She had been in
training for all of her life, now was the time to prove that she was
worthy to be a hunter. Kanda stood in front of them with his hands
behind his back, giving them a final speech. Renra shuffled her feet in
the grass. They were in a clearing that served as the base camp for the
"forest and hills" hunting zone.

“The rathalos is a formidable creature. It will take the four of you to
kill it. This is your final test. After this, you will be known as
full-fledged hunters of Kokoto village. I know in my soul that you will
eventually become elite hunters and regard rathalos as a joke of a
monster. Someday, you will be able to protect this village from any
creature that poses a threat.” Kanda’s eyes were beginning to water. He
had been training these children for 14 years now; since they were born.
He turned his back on the village trainees to hide his face, “You may
begin.”

Renra walked over to the blue-painted box that served as a supply
crate. Kanda had supplied them with the same equipment that the Hunting Guild
would have were it a real hunting mission; first aid kits for each member of the group, food rations, and
flash bombs for emergency. Renra took out nine of the meds and tossed
them to the rest of her squad. Kenta caught the meds and put them in his
bag, beside his sword. Larshra took his and dropped them into the
pocket beside his ammo. Detra caught the first in one hand and two in
the other. He placed them beside his hammer.

Renra retrieved the rest of her equipment and stood ready at the exit
of the clearing. Kenta, Larsha, and Detra finished and walked over.
“Let’s find that wyvern already,” Kenta said.

Larsha didn’t agree, “No, let’s scout out the area first.”
Detra pulled a square of parchment from his bag, “No need for that, I’ve
got a map.” Renra started out into the field, “Come on, I want to get
an early start. We’ve only got a few days to track down rathalos.”

Renra stepped into the light of the field, followed by the others. She
didn’t know how to feel. She was excited to be respected in the village,
and looked forward to a life of hunting, but was scared for her and her
squad’s life. She could only wonder how challenging this wyvern would
be. She and her squad had slain numerous velociprey raptors and once a kut-ku wyvern,
but how could she relate this to the "king of the sky"?

Renra took a breath of the fresh air took a few more steps forward. She
looked around at her squad. Larsha was looking at his gloved hands, his
iron armor glinting in the sunlight. Kenta was standing silently with
his hands beside him, dazing off into space. He was obviously dreaming
of the glorious life of an elite hunter. Detra was looking straight back
at her, emotions hid as usual. Renra could only wonder what the outcome
of this quest could be; glory, or death and horror? She would never
know until they found the rathalos.

A day later, Kenta found a trace of the beast. He motioned with his hand for the
squad to investigate. Renra looked down at the giant footprint in the
soil. There was a small amount of blood around it; the rathalos had
captured some prey here, its razor sharp talons tearing the skin of the
unfortunate creature.

Larsha was strolling around the area, his bowgun at ready, “Hey guys,
look over here! Aptonoth prints!” Renra looked all around the area and
started to notice more details. There were matted down spots where the
Aptonoths had nested, and other footprints where they had tried to flee
from their attacker. Apparently, one of the aptonoths had not been as lucky
as the others.

Kenta looked down at the marks in the ground where the Rathalos’s talons
had carved into the soil. He walked up from that direction, noting the smears of aptonoth blood. Kenta turned back to face the squad of
hunters-to-be, “The rathalos carried the aptonoth north, and the herd
ran south, I think we should go north to find it.” A murmur of agreement
floated around the group, Kenta was the most observant of them.

Larsha looked to the north, “I can see the forest from here, it goes uphill. Maybe rathalos made his den in a cave up there.”

Renra looked up, “Good thinking Larsha, we should head towards the forest.”

An hour later, Renra was walking through the trees, searching for some
sign of a wyvern. It seemed unlikely that a Rathalos would make a nest
as such low elevation, being the king of the sky and all, but they
couldn’t afford to miss the wyvern’s home on the way up. Renra led the
group, looking right and left occasionally for a clue. She walked with
the group for a half an hour, not seeing any sign of the rathalos. Renra
was beginning to lose hope when Larsha’s voice rang out, “oomph!” The
bowgunner had tripped.

Larsha started to get up, swearing at the root he had tripped over,
“This hunt is going nowhere! We should try somewhere else! Who thought
of looking in the forest anyways? Oh… hey! Look at this!” Larsha was
holding up a fist-sized object, in glinted red in the sunlight.

Kenta walked over and took the object, “Hey, this is a rathalos scale, I think we’re on the right track!”

Detra stretched his arms and yawned, “Very nice, I think we should set up camp and take time to think about it, deeply.”

Larsha folded his arms across his chest, “Shut up, you're just tired, and lazy.”

Kenta looked up, “As true as that is, it’s getting dark. If we’re
getting close to finding rathalos, then we don’t want to do it in the
dark while we’re all exhausted.”

Detra grinned, “See? You shouldn’t doubt me.”

Larsha turned away, “No good, backstabbing Kenta…”



Renra sat down next to her bullfango fur sleeping bag. She lay down,
trying to get comfortable. She longed to take off some of her armor, but
that would leave her in a tough spot if the rathalos stumbled upon them
during the night. Sometimes she wondered why she had chosen to become a
hunter, but memories of the training school and slaying velociprey
always revived her morale. Renra stood up again and looked at the group’s
shelter, a cloth canvas attached to four trees. It really didn’t serve
much of a defensive purpose, but it made her feel more secure.

Renra rubbed her growling stomach, when would the others be back from
hunting? If they didn’t catch anything, she felt sure she would more
likely die of hunger than of any encounter with the rathalos. Suddenly she heard a branch
snap, her reflexes had her long sword out in a second. Renra backed up
to a tree, her blade at ready. Something moved the evergreen branches
aside to reveal Kenta, Detra, Larsha, and a mosswine tied to two taves
between them.
Detra grinned, “You should have seen those piggies run! As soon as
Larsha blew this one’s brain’s out, all the bullfangos in the area
started chargin’ us!”
“Luckily me and my crag shots came to rescue,” Larsha said, patting the barrel of his gun.
Renra looked at the relatively small animal, “Why didn’t you bring back a bullfango?”
All three of the men broke into laughter, even the solemn Kenta. “There
wasn’t enough left of em’!” Detra said, wiping his eyes, "And I didn't feel like trying to pick up the scraps"
“Did I mention crag shots?” Larsha asked.

A half hour later each member of the group had a belly full of roasted
mosswine and a salad Renra had made out of local herbs and the fungi that grew on the back of the mosswine. Detra leaned back against a tree, gazing at the
stars. Larsha inspected his bowgun’s mechanisms. Renra looked around at
the party, she knew they were all wondering the outcome of the battle.
They faced possible death, but no one was about to admit that they were
scared. They were taught to be fearless, the protectors of their home.
If the people knew their hunters were scared, there would be panic
amongst them. Renra wondered how she would cope with hiding her fear
from the village; her last thoughts before drifting off to sleep.

An ear splitting roar filled the air. Renra frantically sat up and
looked around. The rest of the group was up as well. Suddenly Renra saw a
ball of flaming rock hurtling towards them, the Rathalos was upon them.
“Run!” she screamed. The hunters dove out of the shelter, which soon
became a flaming mass of cloth. Larsha had his bag, trying to put out
the flames that had taken up residence on it, “My crag shells are burnt up!” Kenta
ran into the flames and threw out all of the gear he could grasp before it succumbed to the blaze.
Another fireball exploded next to him. Only his fast reflexes and shield
saved him from begin pelted with hot shrapnel. Renra wondered how the
wyvern had found them, and then spotted the glow of their fire through
the inferno. How could they have been so stupid not to extinguish their
fire? The rathalos had almost certainly scented the cooked mosswine as
it was flying over. Renra cursed their mistake, fighting this monster at
night was not going to be easy.

Larsha didn’t hesitate and started fire his bowgun at the rathalos’s
exposed underbelly. All he could see was a monstrous silhouette against
the moon. One of the shots made contact with the rathalos’s belly and
Larsha was rewarded with a spray of blood silhoutted against the glow of the moon in the sky. The wyvern quickly landed to
protect its underside. Nothing had changed though; the rathalos could
still kill them on land as well as in the air. The beast moved swiftly
through the forest and was upon Kenta before he knew what was happening.
He raised his shield automatically and blocked the attack, though it
sent him flying into a nearby tree. He slid to the ground and grunted,
rolling out of the way of another attack. Larsha scored another hit and
broke a scale off of rathalos’s back. The beast turned on him, spewing a
fireball. Larsha dodged it and ran.

The next hour was spent running and dodging the rathalos. The beast
wouldn’t give up. Renra realized that they had wounded it, and now it
knew they were hunters. It knew what hunters were, and it knew it had to kill them if possible if it were to live on peacefully. By the time the sun came up, they were near
exhausted. The fact that they could now see the monster and attack
raised their spirits. There was still hope that they could win.

Renra watched the wyvern launch a fireball at Kenta, and took the time
to run in and drive her sword into its side. The beast screamed and
swung its tail at her, but Renra had learned to expect this, and simply
dropped onto her behind. The tail swung over her head, she quickly
scrambled up and took another slash at the beast’s side before backing
out of it reach.

The red wyvern turned toward her attempting to attack, but another blow
from Larsha’s bowgun forced it to turn its attention. Detra struck
again, the rathalos ended up turning its head into a swinging hammer.
The blow was too much, and the rathalos decided that it was time to
retreat. It crouched low, and then sprang up into the air, sending Detra
into the air. He landed heavily on his back.

Larsha acted fast and hit the retreating wyvern with a paint shot bowgun shell, just
before it opened its wings completely and soared off into the rising
sun. Detra stood up, but Renra abruptly sat down. She watched the others
do the same. They had been fighting the beast for over three hours and
could finally rest. Renra looked over at what used to be their camp.
All that remained was a bit of scorched fabric and some burnt wood.

She reluctantly got up and walked over to the pile of bags Kenta had
managed to save. Hers was the only one missing. She felt a hand on her
shoulder, “Sorry, I got as much as I could.” Renra didn’t turn around,
“It’s my fault in the first place. I’m suppose to be the leader of this
squad, I should have realized that the meat would attract the rathalos!”
“What’s one mistake? You’re doing a better job then any of us could!”
Renra shook his hand off, “I don’t need any sympathy, I need to start
being the leader I’m suppose to be. Who was the one who needed to be
saved in the middle of battle?” Renra turned to face him, “Me, that’s
who.”

Renra looked him straight in the eyes, waiting for a sympathetic
response. Kenta turned away, “I’ll get you some first aid meds.” Renra
watched him walk away. He had obeyed her and not given any more
sympathy. It was what she should be telling her group to do, but it was
difficult. She wanted to be on the same level as them, they were her
best friends, yet she had been given authority over them. It felt
strange to be in charge.

The paint shot was quite effective; it stuck onto almost anything and
would stay on for a good four hours before it ran out of paint. Renra
jogged steadily, following this paint and leading her group to their
opponent. She slowed down for a moment to navigate between a series of
upturned routes. The bright pink paint showed clearly here, splatters
marking everything within a few meters around her. Renra came to a halt
to let her party breathe. Detra took out one of his scent-free rations.
They were in the form of dried aptonoth steak, laminated with a dull,
edible, vegetable concoction. The covering kept scent from escaping from
the meat when it wasn’t being eating.

Renra looked up above her, paint had been splattered all over the
branches of the trees too. She wondered why it was so abundant here. The
wyvern had apparently stopped here, but the paint showed that it had
kept going. Had it stopped to fight another group of hunters? Or was
there another wyvern in the area? Renra saw that her group was ready and
decided to continue the run. All that mattered right now was to find
the rathalos again, and finish their job.

A half hour later, Larsha’s paint shot had finally paid off. The party
stood at the entrance of a large cave. They had broken the tree line a
few minutes ago. A few drops of luminescent paint marked the ground
before them. It had probably worn off a few minutes after the beast had
entered the cave.

“It had better still be there,” Renra thought to herself. Renra made the
silent approach sign, by putting one hand over her lips and the other
towards the entrance. Weapons drawn, the hunters walked into the cave.

Renra widened her eyes in an attempt to make her eyes adjust faster.
There was a small amount of light coming from the roof of the cave. Now
that she could see clearly, Renra started to take in her surroundings.
The floor was littered with bones, and there was a pile of something
that smelled bad a few feet away from her, more specifically under a
grimacing Detra’s foot. Then Renra noticed the rathalos, sleeping in the
middle of the floor. Its head under its wing for protection, there
wasn’t much chance of a quick end to this fight.

Renra made another signal, ordering Larsha to load his most powerful
ammo. He did so, expertly working the bowgun without making a sound. She
didn’t want to make anymore sound, but whispered her plan into the bow
gunner’s ear. He nodded, and smiled.

Renra crept forward, she was scared. She pictured the eyes of the
wyvern opening, followed by its mouth. It was going to have to happen
soon, and she preferred that it happened because she had driven a sharp
object into its body. She raised her long sword, its tip glinting in
what little light the dreary area had to offer. The blade fell straight
down, into the beast’s side. She felt it hit a rib. She had missed the
heart.

The rathalos awoke immediately, throwing up its wings and producing and
ear splitting roar. Renra and her blade were thrown back, the end of a
stalactite dented her armor, and she felt the inside of it dig into her
skin. It didn’t matter though; her plan had worked for the most
important part. The rathalos was still roaring, displaying its razor
sharp teeth in an attempt to scare off its attackers. The cavern lit up
suddenly as shot exploded out of Larsha’s bowgun. It flew into the
ceiling. Satisfied that whatever had just happened wasn’t going to harm
it, the wyvern lowered into its attack position. Renra used her hands to
crawl backwards.

Suddenly, the ceiling exploded, and chunks of rock and pointed
stalagmites rained down to the floor. The rathalos reared back, but it
was too late. The shower of rock hit everything within half a dozen feet
of the explosion, including Renra. The Rathalos was hit with a shower
of rock and sand, and finally with a huge pointed stone that crushed its
head. The wyvern collapsed onto the floor, writhing and screaming.
Renra smiled as the watched the results of her planning. She felt more
like a leader. The cascade of stone shrapnel finally stopped. Renra
watched Kenta run forward and drive his blade through its head,
finishing the job. Then everything went black.

The Mr. E of Hat wrote:This is a folk tale piece I did a few weeks ago for my "Novelton" Project. The project is my main personal project I have been working on for awhile now. Think Jim Henson's storyteller only more puppets and hopefully I longer run time and you pretty much get the gist of it.

Keep in mind it is written to fit into the folk tale feel so it doesn't have the step by step descriptions and background information you get with a standard piece.

~March of the Rootwalkers~

The following is but a recollection. A memory as it were. A story from my youth, from a town far away, in a place never seen by common eyes. This is a story of rain and trees and the respect they deserve, as told to me by the Great Librarian of Novelton Himself.~Unknown~

The story begins as most stories do: In the beginning, but before the conflict, and definitely not at its end. It begins in a small town near a large woods filled to the brim with larger trees. This town was Entwood.
Entwood had a history, as most towns do. A town made of wood, founded by wood, and reliant on wood. Tree's were gathered respectfully from the nearby woods to fill their needs BUT never a splinter more.

"Never!-Fell a tree during the rain!" The children were taught. "Never bend a branch out of place when the waters fall..." This was how it was, how it should be, but not as it would stay.

As most towns do, Entwood had traditions. As most towns have done, tradition faded to habit, which faded to doubts, which faded all together.

"Never~fell a tree during the rain!" shouted the town fool. "Never bend a branch out of place when the water's fall..." No one heeded. No one cared. No one remembered.

"Why shouldn't we?" they pondered. "Springdale to the north has a demand for lumber to make Entwood rich quick! Mind the trees in the rain my arse. Old wives tales it is. No bad will come from honest days work you'll see! You'll see!"
And so they worked. Labored the days away as the wooded edge grew distant. Then it rained. Cautious at first they approached on their mules. Reluctant at first they raised their axes. Greedy at last they splintered the forgotten truce.
The rain water that once fell Drip Drop Drip in a peaceful chorus now Drip Drip Drop~! in it's drums of war! But none could hear the sound. None remembered the way.

Drip. Drip. Drop. Slow at first. Then faster. Then faster still. Drip Drip Drop. DripDripDrop!

The drums of war bellowed! DRIP!DRIP!DROP! The boughs creaked! The trunks shook! March my children the winds bellowed; the rains falling in pales! Drip drip drop! Flee sons of men for your sins have been acknowledged!
And the trees uprooted by stormy winds caught themselves on branches and readjusted on their rooted feet. They howled from their notched maws and marched. The people fled to their town. Entwood cowered from the wood that had served them since its founding. But the fear, the cries... meant nothing as the woods edge grew closer and closer for the ears of trees heard sounds of different sorts. A puddle in the square splashed. Drip. Drip. Drop. Fear mounted. Drip drip drop. The rootwalkers marched to war...
A scream and a crash as the first marched it's warpath through a home unvarying. Old men called out to long forgotten gods as wives weeped over broken bodies. The trees marched on. No purpose but the march. Drip. Drip. Drop. The men, feverous to save their families, ignited torches and cast them to the risen demons.
Drip. Drip. Hiss.
Drip. Hiss. Drip.
Drip. Hiss....Drop.
The rains faded. The marching ended. The fires grew. The town burned by its own doing. Unbalanced tree toppled into tree, which toppled into home, which burned its neighbor, until the weeping turned to roaring and all was cloud and ash. Silence. No drips or drops. No weeping. No roaring flames. All silent. All broken. All except one man. One voice.
"Never~fell a tree during the rain...never bend a branch out of place when the waters fall..."
...Lest the rootwalkers march against all.

This one really reminded me of something from Tolkien. Especially the beginning. Bother stories are good Mr. Hat! But I have to take a break from reading this thread now. My eyes hurt.

To Be...

Transcribed by His Excellency Duke Christopher John of Rhoads for the purposes
of the Novelton Archival Act
Oversaw and Approved by Mr. Frederick Librarian, GrandMaster Archivist of Novelton
-----
2011.12 13


"A tree does not grow tall because it dreams. It grows tall because it dares to reach."
-Old Novelton Saying-

At a fork in the woods, on the path where the grass grows like carpet, there sat a man. An old man with older eyes and clothes equally weathered. His head held low as if studying the dirt with his sad gaze.

He had been there long. The spiders of his fallen tree bench covered him in webbing, sneered, but the sport grown old to them would return to their holes unsatisfied. Even the local animals who long since taken over the once busy path avoided the stagnant air around the man. He was old, and sad, and best left alone in fear of either being contagious.

It so happened one night, as fate likes to have it, that a man traveling decided to take the path less traveled. A strange man with a tall coat and an even taller hat. The stranger made his way leisurely down the path until confronting the old man.

"Are you well, sir?" The stranger hummed an air of optimism about him. "Unusual for one to use cobwebs as blankets, though I assure you I have seen stranger things."

The old man creaked to life. Shifted and turned his dried gaze to the stranger. "Well you ask?" The old man mused sorrowfully, his voice like a worn violin still trying to make it rain. "I am well enough to be alive I would say but nothing more."

The stranger paused a moment as if waiting for the old man to say more but when realizing he was finished pressed the issue further. "What clouds haunt you my friend? Tis a wonderful night. Not a cloud can be seen for miles and I should know, I have walked miles."

"A traveler? I too have walked miles only to stop here. My tale is a sad one but I shall share it if you like. Sit, if you don't mind the spiders. Tricksters they are though they will not bite."

The stranger dressed in a gentleman's standard hesitated at the makeshift bench but took a seat next to the old man.

"I left my village on my eighth birthday. Teased and taunted for my yearnings, my dreams. I set out to prove myself. To dream my dreams and succeed."

"What was your dream?" The stranger cooed curiously.

Turning as if first noticing the stranger the old man paused before continuing. "It was my dream... to Be."

"To...be?"

"Yes...to Be...To say I have Been. For the world to know that I Was. I knew deep in my heart that I Could and that someday I would Be. I came here so that I could reach. But out here the stars are so far. So I sat, so I mourned, and so I grew old...a failure."

The stranger paused a moment pondering the curious tale. "There is a city where they say people trade in stories. Even though I must admit I do not quite understand yours I shall tell you one of mine."

And so the stranger began: "On my fourth birthday my parents took me to get my hat as is custom where I am from. The very hat that sits on my head as a matter of fact. Now this was important. Once a hat was chosen it was your hat for life. The choosing of a hat defined what kind of person you would become. Now I was nervous as most children were during their "Hatting" but as soon as I entered the shop I seen what I wanted. A dusty thing above the shelves hanging from a wall hook so close to the ceiling it was a wonder how it got there in the first place. I knew it to be mine as if from a dream. My eyes pleaded with the Hatter, begged my parents, but no one was allowed to assist in my decision any way, shape or form. So I reached but could not reach..."

The old man seemed mesmerized. "You could not reach? So sad. Sad like me and yet your prize sits there atop your head." The old man pointed to the strangers hat weakly.

"Yes I could not reach. So I climbed. I climbed and climbed until the air seemed thin and to my dismay I could climb no further and my hat still to far."

The old man seemed horrified. "You climbed? How bold. How brave. How inspiring. And yet you still could not reach? You could climb no more? How tragic. Tragic like me and yet your prize sits atop your head." The old man pointed to the strangers hat with defeat.

"Yes I could not climb. So I jumped. I gathered my courage and leapt from the shelf towards my hat."

The old man shuddered. "You jumped!? But the fall? Did you not fear the fall? So young, so brave and yet such a sacrifice. I weep for your sacrifice and yet here you are with your prize on your head." The old man pointed to the hat with a shaky hand.

"Yes I feared the fall. My heart sank as my body flew. My nerves twisted as I rocketed straight. I feared the fall. I feared the crash. So I grabbed. I closed my eyes and reached and clawed and grabbed to whatever I could. And I fell."

"You fell! You poor boy at four years old! To have dreamed so large and to have fallen so hard. So young! My heart breaks for you and yet here you are with your prize on your head." The old man sobbed and could barely point to the strangers hat.

"Yes I fell. Yes I crashed. But what I did next is what matters most." The charming stranger grew gravely serious and yet a hint of the underlying compassion. He locked eyes with the teary old man. "I stood up. I stood up with my prize in my hand and placed it on my head."

The old man sat silently eyes still locked with the stranger. The spiders peeked and the animals whispered then suddenly the man jumped to his feet in exclamation!

"You reached! When you could not reach you climbed! When you could not climb you jumped! When you feared the fall you grabbed! Though you grabbed you fell..." The old man grew calmer as he spoke. "And though you fell you stood." The old man finished in a whisper.

And without a second more wasted the man looked to the heavens and reached but could not reach. He ran to the nearest tree and he climbed. He climbed till he reached its peek and his heart sank and his nerves twisted but he jumped all the same. And as he flew he feared the fall so he clenched his eyes and grabbed and clawed and clung. And he fell.

Moments swirled into an eternity.

"You can open your eyes." The strangers voice called smoothly.

The old man did so. He sat cradled in a cobweb net, the little spiders panting on the log from their rushed labor. The man looked to the stranger's wide grin then to his clutched hands. Shining from his palms was a single star plucked from the sky in his mad leap. The old man rolled from the net and stood. No longer was the air stagnant. No longer was the old man sad. His eyes seemed youthful. His heart lifted. The old man....Was.

I missed this thread! People need to post.

Also, that is my favorite story ever!