Garo
Boy Wonder
Welcome to the (totally not unlucky) thirteenth round of the Zelda Dungeon Writing Community Competition, where ZD members get to show off their writing chops! Last round, we had a repeat winner - for the second week in a row, Cfrock won over the hearts and minds of voters, this time with a piece based on the theme "Time"! This round's theme is "Anger" - check out the entries, as always, in the spoiler tag below.
Vote in the poll above for the winner of this round.
In honor of the one year anniversary of Skyward Sword, which will pass during the duration of this round, the theme this time will be:
Once again, you have three weeks to write and submit your entry to me by PM. The deadline is Friday, November 22nd, at 9:00 PM EST.
Get writing!
A Link In Time
Breaking a Heart of Stone
The cold air bit their faces as the group assembled for roll call. The procedure was far from new however this time around events would transpire differently. The feeling was mutual gazing across the cockier than usual faces of the inmates.
His name was McBurton. He walked with a confident trot, head towards the sky, muscular fingers incessantly fumbling in his red lumber coat pocket. The combine hadn’t gotten to him yet. All week the institution’s faculty endeavored to inject him with the regular depressant ration in an attempt to defuse riots. But for once the tables were reversed.
Bam! In their deep contemplation, the inmates had forgotten who was in charge here. The old nurse lumbered through the group casting a chilling gaze at each man, sending a shiver down his spine. Her blood red lipstick was the only distinctly feminine part of her frame. She stopped for a moment to unwrinkle her apron, white as snow. Everything about her gait was choreographed to perfection.
“McBuron,” she stated placidly. “I heard you’ve been giving my men a hard time this past week. We’re here for your benefit. At the end of the rehabilitation process you’ll return to society and resume a normal life.”
McBurton folded his arms, the smile never leaving his face.
“It’s McBurton, mam, a name I hope you’ll never forget. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time. Nope. It’s not in my nature. So who here wants to play cards?” he guffawed turning to his fellow inmates.
No one answered as a barely audible sound filled the winter air. However minor it rung in everyone’s ears for several minutes on end. The top button had burst from the nurse’s shirt. She tried to brush it off as though it was nothing but the damage had already been done. The dam swayed back and forth.
“Gentlemen, for all intents and purposes this roll call is terminated. We’ll resume discussion during the evening’s group meeting.” The old nurse paused to gain composure, disappearing with the click of her high heels.
***
Cards. McBurton was a man of cards. He called himself a professional gambler and he certainly had a lot to show for it. After an afternoon of round ladder tournament the final game was well underway. The defending champion was a man by the name of Howard.
Howard was a fellow of twenty twice. He most certainly had been a handsome man in his younger days but fatigue had worn him past the point of no return. Purple markings under his eyebrows, he struggled to maintain concentration, fumbling with his cards.
“All-in,” McBurton declared from across the table. Howard’s face flushed as he observed the flush placed before him. McBurton had done him in. Sighing he collapsed back into his chair.
McBurton arose, approaching Howard.
“So you’re the top dog around here, eh?” Howard responded with a timid nod. “How about teaming up to tackle the wretched nurse? I’ve been here long enough to understand what’s occurring. She’s chewing you out. I mean, look at yourself! Were you this weak and emaciated upon entering this crack house?”
McBurton never heard a response. The door burst open with the old nurse and her frail assistant following close behind.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Where did we leave off last week’s proceedings? I believe we were discussing Howard’s gambling problems. Howard, what led you astray to this hollow existence?”
“I, I, I…” Howard stammered.
“Look here now, Nurse, is this truly the best method to diagnose your patients? You should bolster their mental condition, not shoot them down. Sometimes all a guy needs is compassion” McBurton interrupted.
“McBurton, you will speak when it is your turn,” the nurse replied, her distant stare in stark contrast with her tone. The dam would not be able to sustain any more damage.
McBurton hesitantly lowered his body to the sofa, the furniture squeaking under his weight.
“Alright. Who haven’t we heard from in a while,” the nurse inquired glossing over her list. “Bradley, how have you been managing your speech disability?”
“I…uh...um…I…uh…um…I…,” the poor fellow could not finish his words.
“This is ridiculous!” McBurton exclaimed. “What are you-a condor picking on fallen prey? Your job is to help these people, not raze their sense of self-worth to the ground!”
The flood waters burst forth from the collapsing dam. Everyone’s eyes turned to the nurse who was considerably redder than usual. The blood trickled down from her upper lip. She was trying to hold it in yet she had met her match. Her fingers played with the pen in her hands stabbing the ink through an entire notebook.
She arose abruptly, slamming the door behind her, assistant stumbling behind.
“Embers will burn when you put a match by them,” Howard remarked, the gloom in his face dissipated.
He arose from his chair, patting McBurton on the back. The others followed his example. They had been birds locked in a cage. The birds had been offered fresh air and they desired more. A hymn of hope caressed the winter air.
Cfrock
Anger 18
Trevor Wilson’s fist sang with pain after it hit the other boy’s face. He gave no indication that the punch had hurt him though; his rage had taken hold of him completely. He looked at the boy now lying on the floor in front of him, blood streaming from his nose, and then turned to face Sarah.
“That was for you. That was what you deserve. I hope I never see you again.” The words were spoken through gritted teeth. Trevor spat on the floor and left.
Trevor walked out in the cool evening air and let his feet lead the way. He didn’t care where he was going, just so long as it was away from the party. The sun hadn’t set yet; there was a hot pink glow low on the horizon. It was his own 18th birthday party and he had stormed out at 7:38pm. Not quite the night he had hoped for…
If only Sarah hadn’t shown up. Trevor had told that she was not welcome after they had broken up only a week before. It had been a horrible argument. “You slept with some other guy! It's over, Sarah!” Those were the last words Trevor had spoken to her before tonight.
The fury at discovering Sarah’s betrayal flashed within him. Any feelings of compassion for her had turned in a single instant to white-hot hatred. He tried to picture her face, with her soft blue eyes, straight blonde hair and her left ear just poking through it in that cute way that it does. He couldn’t see any of that in his mind now; all he could see was a twisted grin and some faceless body putting its hands all over her.
What would be happening at the party right now? Trevor pictured the scene. Sarah probably tried to help her new boyfriend off the floor, calling Trevor something like ‘psycho’ while she was at it. The boyfriend would no doubt be saying it was just “a lucky punch”. Trevor’s parents would have started arguing. It would have begun as a discussion of who should go after Trevor but would have turned into another fight and accusations. The whole image just made Trevor even angrier.
Trevor had wandered into town and sat at the bus stop opposite Joe’s Fish & Chips. The smell of fried fish filled the air and made Trevor aware of his surroundings. He looked around. The shops were all either closed or closing, save for Joe’s. Only the street light at the end of the road was lit, the others had burned out long ago.
It was then that a car turned the corner and came down the road. There were two people inside and a muffled but excited tune could be heard coming from within. Trevor watched it pull up outside Joe’s. The two people spoke briefly and then the passenger got out and went into the chip shop. As he opened the door, the muffled music became much clearer.
It was unlike anything Trevor had ever heard before. It had so much speed, so much skill and precision and yet felt abrasive. The drumming was relentless but kept a perfect rhythm. Then Trevor heard a voice sing, but it sang in a way he never imagined before.
Fill the cracks in, with judicial granite,
Because I don’t say it, dun mean I ain’ thinkin’ it!
The voice spat the words out as though they were poison. It didn’t care if it was beautiful or if it was even in tune; it only cared that you heard what it said and listened well.
The door closed before Trevor could hear anymore. He no longer felt the rage that had been eating him only seconds before. He had to hear more and so he stood up and approached the car. The driver was bobbing his head in time with the sound and Trevor had to knock on the window fairly hard before he was heard.
“Yeah mate?” The driver turned paused the song so he could be heard.
“Hi. Sorry but, what is that music?”
“This?” He pointed at the CD player. “This is classic Megadeth. Why, you like it? You can get in if you fancy hearing more.”
Normally Trevor would have declined such an offer but he felt compelled by the music. “I’m Trevor, by the way.”
“Roy.” The driver shook Trevor’s hand in greeting and then turned to the CD player. “This track is one that gets everyone into Megadeth. Hanger 18.”
As soon as Roy pressed play the car was filled with a powerful sound, a combination of pounding drums, angry guitars and rough bass. It was a cacophony of blissful noise that was both messy and wondrously clear all at once. Trevor rested his head back and closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him. He knew now why his anger was fading. The music understood what he felt. That burning rage was being sung back to him in the form of hypnotic guitar riffs and pulsing bass lines.
This music excited Trevor like nothing else. He always believed anger to be a destructive emotion, something which exploded out of you in uncontrollable bursts. He had seen it happen earlier when he hit Sarah’s boyfriend. But here was something totally different. It was undeniably the same emotion but this wasn’t a punch to a face, this was like a stroke on a canvas. This was art, true art, created by channelling that most fiery of passions into something more than a fist.
Trevor sat with Roy and his friend until they had heard the entire album. When he finally returned home that night, Trevor felt very differently about what had happened at his party. He was still angry, but he understood now that his anger could be focussed into something good and so he picked up a pen and a pad of paper and he began writing a song of his own.
Ganondork
Florence was a beautiful city. Its architecture boasted the beauty and inspiration of an Italian city during its Renaissance peak. In the distance were tall buildings that seemed to be reaching for the stars. Dome-shaped churches were strewn throughout the city’s walls. Alongside the walls – the city’s first defense – were soldiers, armed with wooden bows. Underneath their lightweight clothes laid armor – armor that was light, yet powerful.
Church bells rang throughout the city, chiming the turning of the hour. One, two, three times; it was three in the afternoon. A bustling hour, the merchants in the square saw a large amount of business at their stands. Loud customers yelled their orders, fighting to get the vendor’s attention over the person next to them. The merchants worked efficiently and with a smile.
Two brothers sat on top of a building – their house. Their feet dangled over the edge of the roof. The elder of the two had short brown hair. A small presence of a mustache was on top of his pale pink lips which were curled upwards into a smile. His brown eyes twinkled with enthusiasm as he conversed with his younger brother.
The junior of the two had longer hair put into a small ponytail, but had the same dark brown hair as his brother. His brown eyes portrayed an air of mischief that was always accompanied by youth. Underneath his attire were muscles that had recently been strained. A small scar was across his mouth, but it didn’t prevent the laugh that escaped his lips.
“Now Ezio,” the eldest said, his smile slowly fading.
“Si, Federico?” Ezio inquired, his smile too fading, replaced a fierce look of determination, studying his brother’s face. He furrowed his brow and looked onward towards Federico.
“Don’t look so serious, fratello mio,” Federico said, flashing a smile. “I did not invite you to the top of the Villa to tell you that Uncle Mario is dying. What were you expecting?”
Ezio lightened up, a slight smile forming at the corners of his lips. “I did not know what to expect, brother.”
Federico put his hand on Ezio’s shoulder, gripping it affectionately. “Indeed, nothing is wrong, but I do feel that we should have a serious discussion,” he looked onward, towards the city, and a look came across him that Ezio had never seen – puzzlement.
“I don’t know how to explain this,” Federico admitted. “Have you ever felt that we’ve had a bit of a sibling rivalry?”
Ezio thought about it for a moment. “Yes.”
Federico looked at him, astonished at first. He then looked back at the city, putting his legs back on the roof. With his knees in the air, he put his head on them.
“I must admit something,” he said solemnly.
Ezio turned to his brother, concern in his eyes. His smile was replaced by a frown, his eyebrows raised high. “Yes, brother, what is it?”
Federico didn’t meet Ezio’s gaze. He turned his entire body away for a moment. When he turned around again, tears were streaming down his face. “Sometimes, when father praises you, I feel this hatred. This loathing that it wasn’t me that he praised. It’s hard to breathe whenever I feel this hatred that burns my insides.”
When he looked at Ezio, he didn’t see a look of contempt, but one of understanding. This gave Federico the courage to continue. “And, after many hours of contemplating, I realized that it wasn’t you who I hated. It wasn’t father, either. I’ve come to hate myself. I feel this anger every time I see you do things I can never do. When you get into those fights and come out unscathed. I always know I could have never done that.
“And it’s not from a lack of trying, brother. I’ve slipped away for hours at a time, practicing, but I’m never going to do what you can do. I’ve seen you scale some of these buildings. It appalls me because I know that I taught you how to do all of this, and yet you’ve already surpassed me.”
Ezio put his hands on Federico’s shoulders, smiling. “We all have talents, brother. You are a man of powerful words, and the one who taught me all of my tricks with the ladies,” he paused for a moment, winking, before continuing, “The things you have done for me are remarkable. You have taught me things I could never have without you. You shouldn’t be angry with yourself, but rather proud for all that you have done.
“You are my brother, Federico. That’s what matters – not who father praises most. He doesn’t see the things that you do. We all know you don’t want to aspire to be a banker – you want more in life. Don’t worry about father; live your own life.”
Federico looked away for a moment, his entire body trembling. When he began to sniffle, Ezio realized that he was crying. He patted his brother’s back sympathetically. “You’ve done me good, brother,” Federico said in between sobs.
Ezio smiled, and stood up. He grabbed his brother by the forearm and heaved him up. Federico stood up quickly, assisted by his brother’s grip. “Get some rest, brother. Think about what I’ve said,” Ezio said sympathetically, worry – and compassion – in his eyes.
Federico nodded, climbing down from the roof. “You are the best brother anyone could ask for.”
Ezio’s smile widened as he jumped off the villa. He felt a rush of air resist his body’s momentum as he flew through the air. He landed a few meters away in a large haystack, earning Federico’s looks of horror.
“You’ve taught me well, brother,” Ezio remarked playfully.
mamono101
It's there, deep within my very core, and this makes me recoil with fear. I know not why it is there nor from whence it came. In my vast collection of memories, I recall that we have never been apart. Most of the time, I am able to keep it caged. Locked away, it sneers at me as I struggle to keep it subdued. I remind myself that I am in control. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I pretend that I am in control. The calm façade I project does not reflect my inner turmoil but as long as the beast lies dormant, I too can achieve tranquillity.
In the distance, I can hear a voice. "...but their kind ruins the very fabric of morality within our society," the voice says and I can feel the monster stir.
"Don't get me wrong," continues the voice in a matter-of-fact tone, "I don't care what they do in the privacy of their own homes, but I don't need my child seeing them kissing in public."
The beasts eyes have opened for it has been woken from it's restless slumber. It's been days since I last fed it. It yearns for sustenance and begins to stalk it's prey as another voice begins to 'moralise', "And now, they want marriage as well? Don't they know that marriage is a sacred union between a man and a woman?" With every word, the muscles in my stomach and my arms begin to tense. The voices become louder and as I move closer to the source, I see them. Two men. Average in every conceivable way. They are sitting on an unvarnished park bench.
As I silently approach them from behind, the beast lets off a low warning growl and I say, "You're wrong, gentlemen." They turn with a start and look at me, eyes wide at my brazenness. The beast's growls increase in frequency as I continue, "Does it not make sense that two people, who are in love with each other, should have the option to show their love to the world, if they so desire?"
They look at me with glazed eyes, "That kind of love is unnatural. Just the thought of two men together makes me want to gag."
As the beast bares it's fangs, I begin to smile, "There is nothing unnatural about love. It's people like you that cause other people nothing but misery. Your bigotry is what 'ruins the very fabric of morality within our society' as you so delicately put it earlier."
My heart begins to pound as the beast pounces, "It is you and your kind who are unwelcome here. It is the general public who do not need their children being exposed to your narrow-minded intolerance of something you don't want to understand. Just because their love is not what you consider to be normal does not give you the right to deny it's validity. As long as both parties are of age and harming no one, who are you to judge someone based solely upon their sexual orientation?"
I am out of breath, panting from the exertion. The men take this opportunity to respond, "They brought it upon themselves when they chose to be gay."
The beast heads straight for the throat as I curl my hand into a fist and connect it with the back of his head. He falls to the floor. As I leap over the bench to straddle him, the beast begins to rip at his flesh as I tenderise it repeatedly with my fists. Each time I make a connection, his blood anoints my hands and as it begins to congeal the beast and I revel in our gratification of power. The man struggles but ultimately, he submits. His body goes limp though my fists keep moving. He is the drum-kit I was denied as a child and, in my mind, I savagely beat him to the rhythm of Lady Gaga's Born This Way, to make up for lost practice time.
Suddenly, the beast calms and I stop. I do not know why. No longer do I feel the need to strike out. I look for the other man, but he has fled. The beast howls with satisfaction as it's lust, for now, has been satiated.
Wiggy
It had been 16 years since Nathan had seen his father. It was difficult to track him down after all that time. He found that his father never did amount to much; a handyman here and there. His anger always preventing him from settling down, Nathan had it too, it was a Moran family heirloom.
He was told by his father’s last meaningful relationship, Nathan’s aunt, that he was at a care home now. He was told his anger, his resentment and more than a little whiskey had destroyed his brain. He was told there was no point, he never was a real father and he has less capacity for it now. She gave him the name anyway; Vita Fonte Nursing Academy. Nathan was persistent on the matter.
It was a grand building, decked in a fine façade and marble grotesques. A relic of a forgotten era, it all seemed strangely appropriate for his father. The reception was surprisingly dingy; it had the air of a building not originally built for its current purpose. “Excuse me, sir.” Nathan’s voice interrupted the tapping of busy feet in the corridors. “I’m looking for a Mr Arthur Moran.”
“Are you friend or family?” Replied the receptionist.
Nathan considered the question; he wasn’t sure he felt like either.
“I’m his son.”
The receptionist’s eyes widened, he hurriedly turned his eyes down to his paperwork. “Oh, I… err… I haven’t seen you here before. I’m sorry but I will have to see some sort of identification.” At first the receptionist’s voice faltered, but that last sentence carried with it some authority.
Nathan obliged and he was told to wait whilst a nurse was summoned. The thick smell of sanitising chemicals burnt his nose, his eyes started to water because of it.
Nathan was uneasy, he didn’t belong here. What was he going to say to his father? What was he going to do? He felt he had more right than any to throttle the *******, he felt… he felt intimidated. He had never stood up to his father, he had never told him he was wrong, he was terrible, his wrath unbearable. He absorbed his inherited punishment and ran as soon as he could; leaving others to pay the debt he felt was his own.
He started rubbing a medal, it was his fathers. He remembered, when he was young and innocent, his father cleaned it daily. Locked in a case and forbidden from Nathan, he stole it on the night he left, to spite him. More than a few times he found its metal cutting into the flesh of his hand as he lost any notion of calm.
“Mr Moran?” A nurse had peeked around a doorway.
He panicked; he had still not decided what was to happen. Quietly he cursed the nurse, the rush of blood to his forehead made him dizzy, the suppression of his annoyance felt suffocating.
“Yeah, yes. I’m him, I’m Moran.” He rubbed his forehead with his index finger and thumb, hoping he could somehow massage it all away. The tension was getting to him; he almost didn’t trust himself anymore.
The nurse led him down a corridor, there were rooms branching off from both sides. Nathan could see inside of them; he could see the ancient, the sick and the permanently befuddled. The oppression of death permeated its way through the building.
Perhaps because of his youth, Nathan could not see why anyone would wish to exist here for the remainder of their days.
They came up to a room, no different to the others with the exception that it was locked, twice. “I must warn you Mr Moran. Your father is… difficult to work with and with so few visitors we have no idea of gauging how much his memory has deteriorated.”
“It might be for the best. I doubt his memories of me are too joyful.” Nathan responded, with a cynical, single laugh tailing his statement.
The nurse unlocked the door and Nathan stepped inside. His father appeared to be sleeping, on his side and facing towards his window, his bedding was strewn upon the floor. A strip of morning sunlight flashed bold through the gap in the curtains and over his slumbering father. His father was clad in beige pants and a salmon jumper. Nathan could not remember his father ever owning such clothes; they were tattered and looked borrowed.
Nathan stood motionless, breath held. He dared not make any perceptible sound. His father used to get so angry when he was woken. Arthur Moran stirred; Nathan considered running for the door, but his fear adhered him to the spot where he felt most vulnerable.
Arthur rolled onto his back, his eyes squinting at the stranger before him: “Who are you?” He demanded. His voice was abrasive as ever. “Was it you? I bet it was, you *******. You took him away!” Nathan was confused, was he talking about him? Did he believe he was kidnapped?
“I was away, when I was away, he was gone!”
Nathan had no idea what he was talking about, he suspected his disappearance, but he seemed too confused to remember it correctly.
“That little bast… that little *******.” Arthur wheezed his words, “He stole my… my medal. I… just want it… want him back.”
Nathan choked a little, his father had started doing something he had never witnessed before, he was crying. He tensed his face as he started producing his own.
Arthur looked up from his misery, at his only son: “Give him back to me, bring him here. Bring me my son!” Spit and tears flew across the bed. The last words Nathan ever heard from his father was his repeated screaming: “Give him to me!”
The nurse outside tried to console Nathan: “I’m so sorry, it must be so difficult to see your father like this.” Nathan walked away from her, his words echoing in the corridor: “It wasn’t my father I saw, it was me.”
Breaking a Heart of Stone
The cold air bit their faces as the group assembled for roll call. The procedure was far from new however this time around events would transpire differently. The feeling was mutual gazing across the cockier than usual faces of the inmates.
His name was McBurton. He walked with a confident trot, head towards the sky, muscular fingers incessantly fumbling in his red lumber coat pocket. The combine hadn’t gotten to him yet. All week the institution’s faculty endeavored to inject him with the regular depressant ration in an attempt to defuse riots. But for once the tables were reversed.
Bam! In their deep contemplation, the inmates had forgotten who was in charge here. The old nurse lumbered through the group casting a chilling gaze at each man, sending a shiver down his spine. Her blood red lipstick was the only distinctly feminine part of her frame. She stopped for a moment to unwrinkle her apron, white as snow. Everything about her gait was choreographed to perfection.
“McBuron,” she stated placidly. “I heard you’ve been giving my men a hard time this past week. We’re here for your benefit. At the end of the rehabilitation process you’ll return to society and resume a normal life.”
McBurton folded his arms, the smile never leaving his face.
“It’s McBurton, mam, a name I hope you’ll never forget. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time. Nope. It’s not in my nature. So who here wants to play cards?” he guffawed turning to his fellow inmates.
No one answered as a barely audible sound filled the winter air. However minor it rung in everyone’s ears for several minutes on end. The top button had burst from the nurse’s shirt. She tried to brush it off as though it was nothing but the damage had already been done. The dam swayed back and forth.
“Gentlemen, for all intents and purposes this roll call is terminated. We’ll resume discussion during the evening’s group meeting.” The old nurse paused to gain composure, disappearing with the click of her high heels.
***
Cards. McBurton was a man of cards. He called himself a professional gambler and he certainly had a lot to show for it. After an afternoon of round ladder tournament the final game was well underway. The defending champion was a man by the name of Howard.
Howard was a fellow of twenty twice. He most certainly had been a handsome man in his younger days but fatigue had worn him past the point of no return. Purple markings under his eyebrows, he struggled to maintain concentration, fumbling with his cards.
“All-in,” McBurton declared from across the table. Howard’s face flushed as he observed the flush placed before him. McBurton had done him in. Sighing he collapsed back into his chair.
McBurton arose, approaching Howard.
“So you’re the top dog around here, eh?” Howard responded with a timid nod. “How about teaming up to tackle the wretched nurse? I’ve been here long enough to understand what’s occurring. She’s chewing you out. I mean, look at yourself! Were you this weak and emaciated upon entering this crack house?”
McBurton never heard a response. The door burst open with the old nurse and her frail assistant following close behind.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Where did we leave off last week’s proceedings? I believe we were discussing Howard’s gambling problems. Howard, what led you astray to this hollow existence?”
“I, I, I…” Howard stammered.
“Look here now, Nurse, is this truly the best method to diagnose your patients? You should bolster their mental condition, not shoot them down. Sometimes all a guy needs is compassion” McBurton interrupted.
“McBurton, you will speak when it is your turn,” the nurse replied, her distant stare in stark contrast with her tone. The dam would not be able to sustain any more damage.
McBurton hesitantly lowered his body to the sofa, the furniture squeaking under his weight.
“Alright. Who haven’t we heard from in a while,” the nurse inquired glossing over her list. “Bradley, how have you been managing your speech disability?”
“I…uh...um…I…uh…um…I…,” the poor fellow could not finish his words.
“This is ridiculous!” McBurton exclaimed. “What are you-a condor picking on fallen prey? Your job is to help these people, not raze their sense of self-worth to the ground!”
The flood waters burst forth from the collapsing dam. Everyone’s eyes turned to the nurse who was considerably redder than usual. The blood trickled down from her upper lip. She was trying to hold it in yet she had met her match. Her fingers played with the pen in her hands stabbing the ink through an entire notebook.
She arose abruptly, slamming the door behind her, assistant stumbling behind.
“Embers will burn when you put a match by them,” Howard remarked, the gloom in his face dissipated.
He arose from his chair, patting McBurton on the back. The others followed his example. They had been birds locked in a cage. The birds had been offered fresh air and they desired more. A hymn of hope caressed the winter air.
Cfrock
Anger 18
Trevor Wilson’s fist sang with pain after it hit the other boy’s face. He gave no indication that the punch had hurt him though; his rage had taken hold of him completely. He looked at the boy now lying on the floor in front of him, blood streaming from his nose, and then turned to face Sarah.
“That was for you. That was what you deserve. I hope I never see you again.” The words were spoken through gritted teeth. Trevor spat on the floor and left.
Trevor walked out in the cool evening air and let his feet lead the way. He didn’t care where he was going, just so long as it was away from the party. The sun hadn’t set yet; there was a hot pink glow low on the horizon. It was his own 18th birthday party and he had stormed out at 7:38pm. Not quite the night he had hoped for…
If only Sarah hadn’t shown up. Trevor had told that she was not welcome after they had broken up only a week before. It had been a horrible argument. “You slept with some other guy! It's over, Sarah!” Those were the last words Trevor had spoken to her before tonight.
The fury at discovering Sarah’s betrayal flashed within him. Any feelings of compassion for her had turned in a single instant to white-hot hatred. He tried to picture her face, with her soft blue eyes, straight blonde hair and her left ear just poking through it in that cute way that it does. He couldn’t see any of that in his mind now; all he could see was a twisted grin and some faceless body putting its hands all over her.
What would be happening at the party right now? Trevor pictured the scene. Sarah probably tried to help her new boyfriend off the floor, calling Trevor something like ‘psycho’ while she was at it. The boyfriend would no doubt be saying it was just “a lucky punch”. Trevor’s parents would have started arguing. It would have begun as a discussion of who should go after Trevor but would have turned into another fight and accusations. The whole image just made Trevor even angrier.
Trevor had wandered into town and sat at the bus stop opposite Joe’s Fish & Chips. The smell of fried fish filled the air and made Trevor aware of his surroundings. He looked around. The shops were all either closed or closing, save for Joe’s. Only the street light at the end of the road was lit, the others had burned out long ago.
It was then that a car turned the corner and came down the road. There were two people inside and a muffled but excited tune could be heard coming from within. Trevor watched it pull up outside Joe’s. The two people spoke briefly and then the passenger got out and went into the chip shop. As he opened the door, the muffled music became much clearer.
It was unlike anything Trevor had ever heard before. It had so much speed, so much skill and precision and yet felt abrasive. The drumming was relentless but kept a perfect rhythm. Then Trevor heard a voice sing, but it sang in a way he never imagined before.
Fill the cracks in, with judicial granite,
Because I don’t say it, dun mean I ain’ thinkin’ it!
The voice spat the words out as though they were poison. It didn’t care if it was beautiful or if it was even in tune; it only cared that you heard what it said and listened well.
The door closed before Trevor could hear anymore. He no longer felt the rage that had been eating him only seconds before. He had to hear more and so he stood up and approached the car. The driver was bobbing his head in time with the sound and Trevor had to knock on the window fairly hard before he was heard.
“Yeah mate?” The driver turned paused the song so he could be heard.
“Hi. Sorry but, what is that music?”
“This?” He pointed at the CD player. “This is classic Megadeth. Why, you like it? You can get in if you fancy hearing more.”
Normally Trevor would have declined such an offer but he felt compelled by the music. “I’m Trevor, by the way.”
“Roy.” The driver shook Trevor’s hand in greeting and then turned to the CD player. “This track is one that gets everyone into Megadeth. Hanger 18.”
As soon as Roy pressed play the car was filled with a powerful sound, a combination of pounding drums, angry guitars and rough bass. It was a cacophony of blissful noise that was both messy and wondrously clear all at once. Trevor rested his head back and closed his eyes, letting the music wash over him. He knew now why his anger was fading. The music understood what he felt. That burning rage was being sung back to him in the form of hypnotic guitar riffs and pulsing bass lines.
This music excited Trevor like nothing else. He always believed anger to be a destructive emotion, something which exploded out of you in uncontrollable bursts. He had seen it happen earlier when he hit Sarah’s boyfriend. But here was something totally different. It was undeniably the same emotion but this wasn’t a punch to a face, this was like a stroke on a canvas. This was art, true art, created by channelling that most fiery of passions into something more than a fist.
Trevor sat with Roy and his friend until they had heard the entire album. When he finally returned home that night, Trevor felt very differently about what had happened at his party. He was still angry, but he understood now that his anger could be focussed into something good and so he picked up a pen and a pad of paper and he began writing a song of his own.
Ganondork
Florence was a beautiful city. Its architecture boasted the beauty and inspiration of an Italian city during its Renaissance peak. In the distance were tall buildings that seemed to be reaching for the stars. Dome-shaped churches were strewn throughout the city’s walls. Alongside the walls – the city’s first defense – were soldiers, armed with wooden bows. Underneath their lightweight clothes laid armor – armor that was light, yet powerful.
Church bells rang throughout the city, chiming the turning of the hour. One, two, three times; it was three in the afternoon. A bustling hour, the merchants in the square saw a large amount of business at their stands. Loud customers yelled their orders, fighting to get the vendor’s attention over the person next to them. The merchants worked efficiently and with a smile.
Two brothers sat on top of a building – their house. Their feet dangled over the edge of the roof. The elder of the two had short brown hair. A small presence of a mustache was on top of his pale pink lips which were curled upwards into a smile. His brown eyes twinkled with enthusiasm as he conversed with his younger brother.
The junior of the two had longer hair put into a small ponytail, but had the same dark brown hair as his brother. His brown eyes portrayed an air of mischief that was always accompanied by youth. Underneath his attire were muscles that had recently been strained. A small scar was across his mouth, but it didn’t prevent the laugh that escaped his lips.
“Now Ezio,” the eldest said, his smile slowly fading.
“Si, Federico?” Ezio inquired, his smile too fading, replaced a fierce look of determination, studying his brother’s face. He furrowed his brow and looked onward towards Federico.
“Don’t look so serious, fratello mio,” Federico said, flashing a smile. “I did not invite you to the top of the Villa to tell you that Uncle Mario is dying. What were you expecting?”
Ezio lightened up, a slight smile forming at the corners of his lips. “I did not know what to expect, brother.”
Federico put his hand on Ezio’s shoulder, gripping it affectionately. “Indeed, nothing is wrong, but I do feel that we should have a serious discussion,” he looked onward, towards the city, and a look came across him that Ezio had never seen – puzzlement.
“I don’t know how to explain this,” Federico admitted. “Have you ever felt that we’ve had a bit of a sibling rivalry?”
Ezio thought about it for a moment. “Yes.”
Federico looked at him, astonished at first. He then looked back at the city, putting his legs back on the roof. With his knees in the air, he put his head on them.
“I must admit something,” he said solemnly.
Ezio turned to his brother, concern in his eyes. His smile was replaced by a frown, his eyebrows raised high. “Yes, brother, what is it?”
Federico didn’t meet Ezio’s gaze. He turned his entire body away for a moment. When he turned around again, tears were streaming down his face. “Sometimes, when father praises you, I feel this hatred. This loathing that it wasn’t me that he praised. It’s hard to breathe whenever I feel this hatred that burns my insides.”
When he looked at Ezio, he didn’t see a look of contempt, but one of understanding. This gave Federico the courage to continue. “And, after many hours of contemplating, I realized that it wasn’t you who I hated. It wasn’t father, either. I’ve come to hate myself. I feel this anger every time I see you do things I can never do. When you get into those fights and come out unscathed. I always know I could have never done that.
“And it’s not from a lack of trying, brother. I’ve slipped away for hours at a time, practicing, but I’m never going to do what you can do. I’ve seen you scale some of these buildings. It appalls me because I know that I taught you how to do all of this, and yet you’ve already surpassed me.”
Ezio put his hands on Federico’s shoulders, smiling. “We all have talents, brother. You are a man of powerful words, and the one who taught me all of my tricks with the ladies,” he paused for a moment, winking, before continuing, “The things you have done for me are remarkable. You have taught me things I could never have without you. You shouldn’t be angry with yourself, but rather proud for all that you have done.
“You are my brother, Federico. That’s what matters – not who father praises most. He doesn’t see the things that you do. We all know you don’t want to aspire to be a banker – you want more in life. Don’t worry about father; live your own life.”
Federico looked away for a moment, his entire body trembling. When he began to sniffle, Ezio realized that he was crying. He patted his brother’s back sympathetically. “You’ve done me good, brother,” Federico said in between sobs.
Ezio smiled, and stood up. He grabbed his brother by the forearm and heaved him up. Federico stood up quickly, assisted by his brother’s grip. “Get some rest, brother. Think about what I’ve said,” Ezio said sympathetically, worry – and compassion – in his eyes.
Federico nodded, climbing down from the roof. “You are the best brother anyone could ask for.”
Ezio’s smile widened as he jumped off the villa. He felt a rush of air resist his body’s momentum as he flew through the air. He landed a few meters away in a large haystack, earning Federico’s looks of horror.
“You’ve taught me well, brother,” Ezio remarked playfully.
mamono101
It's there, deep within my very core, and this makes me recoil with fear. I know not why it is there nor from whence it came. In my vast collection of memories, I recall that we have never been apart. Most of the time, I am able to keep it caged. Locked away, it sneers at me as I struggle to keep it subdued. I remind myself that I am in control. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I pretend that I am in control. The calm façade I project does not reflect my inner turmoil but as long as the beast lies dormant, I too can achieve tranquillity.
In the distance, I can hear a voice. "...but their kind ruins the very fabric of morality within our society," the voice says and I can feel the monster stir.
"Don't get me wrong," continues the voice in a matter-of-fact tone, "I don't care what they do in the privacy of their own homes, but I don't need my child seeing them kissing in public."
The beasts eyes have opened for it has been woken from it's restless slumber. It's been days since I last fed it. It yearns for sustenance and begins to stalk it's prey as another voice begins to 'moralise', "And now, they want marriage as well? Don't they know that marriage is a sacred union between a man and a woman?" With every word, the muscles in my stomach and my arms begin to tense. The voices become louder and as I move closer to the source, I see them. Two men. Average in every conceivable way. They are sitting on an unvarnished park bench.
As I silently approach them from behind, the beast lets off a low warning growl and I say, "You're wrong, gentlemen." They turn with a start and look at me, eyes wide at my brazenness. The beast's growls increase in frequency as I continue, "Does it not make sense that two people, who are in love with each other, should have the option to show their love to the world, if they so desire?"
They look at me with glazed eyes, "That kind of love is unnatural. Just the thought of two men together makes me want to gag."
As the beast bares it's fangs, I begin to smile, "There is nothing unnatural about love. It's people like you that cause other people nothing but misery. Your bigotry is what 'ruins the very fabric of morality within our society' as you so delicately put it earlier."
My heart begins to pound as the beast pounces, "It is you and your kind who are unwelcome here. It is the general public who do not need their children being exposed to your narrow-minded intolerance of something you don't want to understand. Just because their love is not what you consider to be normal does not give you the right to deny it's validity. As long as both parties are of age and harming no one, who are you to judge someone based solely upon their sexual orientation?"
I am out of breath, panting from the exertion. The men take this opportunity to respond, "They brought it upon themselves when they chose to be gay."
The beast heads straight for the throat as I curl my hand into a fist and connect it with the back of his head. He falls to the floor. As I leap over the bench to straddle him, the beast begins to rip at his flesh as I tenderise it repeatedly with my fists. Each time I make a connection, his blood anoints my hands and as it begins to congeal the beast and I revel in our gratification of power. The man struggles but ultimately, he submits. His body goes limp though my fists keep moving. He is the drum-kit I was denied as a child and, in my mind, I savagely beat him to the rhythm of Lady Gaga's Born This Way, to make up for lost practice time.
Suddenly, the beast calms and I stop. I do not know why. No longer do I feel the need to strike out. I look for the other man, but he has fled. The beast howls with satisfaction as it's lust, for now, has been satiated.
Wiggy
It had been 16 years since Nathan had seen his father. It was difficult to track him down after all that time. He found that his father never did amount to much; a handyman here and there. His anger always preventing him from settling down, Nathan had it too, it was a Moran family heirloom.
He was told by his father’s last meaningful relationship, Nathan’s aunt, that he was at a care home now. He was told his anger, his resentment and more than a little whiskey had destroyed his brain. He was told there was no point, he never was a real father and he has less capacity for it now. She gave him the name anyway; Vita Fonte Nursing Academy. Nathan was persistent on the matter.
It was a grand building, decked in a fine façade and marble grotesques. A relic of a forgotten era, it all seemed strangely appropriate for his father. The reception was surprisingly dingy; it had the air of a building not originally built for its current purpose. “Excuse me, sir.” Nathan’s voice interrupted the tapping of busy feet in the corridors. “I’m looking for a Mr Arthur Moran.”
“Are you friend or family?” Replied the receptionist.
Nathan considered the question; he wasn’t sure he felt like either.
“I’m his son.”
The receptionist’s eyes widened, he hurriedly turned his eyes down to his paperwork. “Oh, I… err… I haven’t seen you here before. I’m sorry but I will have to see some sort of identification.” At first the receptionist’s voice faltered, but that last sentence carried with it some authority.
Nathan obliged and he was told to wait whilst a nurse was summoned. The thick smell of sanitising chemicals burnt his nose, his eyes started to water because of it.
Nathan was uneasy, he didn’t belong here. What was he going to say to his father? What was he going to do? He felt he had more right than any to throttle the *******, he felt… he felt intimidated. He had never stood up to his father, he had never told him he was wrong, he was terrible, his wrath unbearable. He absorbed his inherited punishment and ran as soon as he could; leaving others to pay the debt he felt was his own.
He started rubbing a medal, it was his fathers. He remembered, when he was young and innocent, his father cleaned it daily. Locked in a case and forbidden from Nathan, he stole it on the night he left, to spite him. More than a few times he found its metal cutting into the flesh of his hand as he lost any notion of calm.
“Mr Moran?” A nurse had peeked around a doorway.
He panicked; he had still not decided what was to happen. Quietly he cursed the nurse, the rush of blood to his forehead made him dizzy, the suppression of his annoyance felt suffocating.
“Yeah, yes. I’m him, I’m Moran.” He rubbed his forehead with his index finger and thumb, hoping he could somehow massage it all away. The tension was getting to him; he almost didn’t trust himself anymore.
The nurse led him down a corridor, there were rooms branching off from both sides. Nathan could see inside of them; he could see the ancient, the sick and the permanently befuddled. The oppression of death permeated its way through the building.
Perhaps because of his youth, Nathan could not see why anyone would wish to exist here for the remainder of their days.
They came up to a room, no different to the others with the exception that it was locked, twice. “I must warn you Mr Moran. Your father is… difficult to work with and with so few visitors we have no idea of gauging how much his memory has deteriorated.”
“It might be for the best. I doubt his memories of me are too joyful.” Nathan responded, with a cynical, single laugh tailing his statement.
The nurse unlocked the door and Nathan stepped inside. His father appeared to be sleeping, on his side and facing towards his window, his bedding was strewn upon the floor. A strip of morning sunlight flashed bold through the gap in the curtains and over his slumbering father. His father was clad in beige pants and a salmon jumper. Nathan could not remember his father ever owning such clothes; they were tattered and looked borrowed.
Nathan stood motionless, breath held. He dared not make any perceptible sound. His father used to get so angry when he was woken. Arthur Moran stirred; Nathan considered running for the door, but his fear adhered him to the spot where he felt most vulnerable.
Arthur rolled onto his back, his eyes squinting at the stranger before him: “Who are you?” He demanded. His voice was abrasive as ever. “Was it you? I bet it was, you *******. You took him away!” Nathan was confused, was he talking about him? Did he believe he was kidnapped?
“I was away, when I was away, he was gone!”
Nathan had no idea what he was talking about, he suspected his disappearance, but he seemed too confused to remember it correctly.
“That little bast… that little *******.” Arthur wheezed his words, “He stole my… my medal. I… just want it… want him back.”
Nathan choked a little, his father had started doing something he had never witnessed before, he was crying. He tensed his face as he started producing his own.
Arthur looked up from his misery, at his only son: “Give him back to me, bring him here. Bring me my son!” Spit and tears flew across the bed. The last words Nathan ever heard from his father was his repeated screaming: “Give him to me!”
The nurse outside tried to console Nathan: “I’m so sorry, it must be so difficult to see your father like this.” Nathan walked away from her, his words echoing in the corridor: “It wasn’t my father I saw, it was me.”
Vote in the poll above for the winner of this round.
In honor of the one year anniversary of Skyward Sword, which will pass during the duration of this round, the theme this time will be:
Flight
Max. 1000 words
Max. 1000 words
Once again, you have three weeks to write and submit your entry to me by PM. The deadline is Friday, November 22nd, at 9:00 PM EST.
Get writing!
