Garo
Boy Wonder
Welcome to the latest round of the Zelda Dungeon Writing Community Competition! We've got good news and bad news to start off the round.
The bad news is that, unfortunately, we don't have a winner to crown today. Last round we had only one entrant, so A Link In Time won by default at the start of this round. A second congratulations to him nonetheless!
The good news is that such a situation has been avoided this round, as we have a stellar SIX entries for you today! Writers wrote on the theme "Return", and as always you can check out their pieces in the spoiler tag below.
The theme for the next round is:
Deadline for this round is March 1st at 9:00 PM EST. Send your pieces to me via PM!
The bad news is that, unfortunately, we don't have a winner to crown today. Last round we had only one entrant, so A Link In Time won by default at the start of this round. A second congratulations to him nonetheless!
The good news is that such a situation has been avoided this round, as we have a stellar SIX entries for you today! Writers wrote on the theme "Return", and as always you can check out their pieces in the spoiler tag below.
A Link In Time
“Coming Home”
The valley stretched before me vast
The land from which I was an outcast
But few care for my plight
So I sit down for respite
And look up to the sky
Hoping my time isn’t nigh
Someday I will return
Into the land of blazing suns
Where the gluttonous indulge
And the heart of darkness is hallowed
Yesterday I cried
Today I nearly died
But my journey has just begun
Although I carry a ton
I know I can persevere
Through my worst fear
Someday I will stand on the pyre
And rise like a phoenix
Shining the torch
Through the maw of darkness
My head is spinning out of control
My return they will not condole
But standing here
So very near
By the gates of my city
I will not pity
The inferno opens up
A burning tempest erupts
But I won’t back down
No, I’ll stand my ground
The gates open covered in snow
This is the realm I know
The trek was long
But this is where I belong
The open veranda, its dome
I’ve finally returned home
Keeseman
No Escape from Reality
The alarms began without warning.
All throughout the HMS Vanguard rang the urgencies of the warning sirens, perverting the long-preserved peace. No man or woman was left unfazed at the sight of these unfamiliar, quite alien alarm lights, these foreign beacons; no one aboard the submarine had ever expected to truly see them. Every crew member- whether Cadet or Commander- had exactly the same thought, at exactly the same split second. We are at war.
Commander Joseph Smith stormed to the bridge quite grumpily, having been disturbed from a hard-earned night’s sleep. Despite being a naval veteran, he never expected the alarms to be raised in his lifetime. “Is this some kind of drill?” the Commander demanded as he threw open the doors.
“No, sir,” Lieutenant Vince Howard responded quite nervously. “We just received word from Command. The Russians have launched multiple aircraft carrying dangerous cargos, which include various ‘weapons of mass destruction’. These aircraft will be flying over British airspace in…” Howard quickly checks a large timer on the wall, reading: “T-minus 2 minutes 48 seconds. We are ordered to ‘launch our ballistic missiles and destroy the specified aircraft, in the case that the aircraft enter British airspace,’” the Lieutenant read from a printout of orders.
“We have already targeted the aircraft,” said Lieutenant Commander John MacKenzie, “and await your command to fire.”
Joseph knew that, if the HMS Vanguard launched their missiles at the Russian planes, it would begin a long, perilous war. He had never expected the Russians to make such a bold move. But he could not refuse orders. A crew member produced the Commander and the Lieutenant Commander’s keys, and the two prepared to turn.
“T-minus one minute until the Russian aircraft enter British airspace,” Lt Howard said.
“On my mark, turn your key, MacKenzie,” Joseph bellowed.
“T-minus 30 seconds.”
This is it, the Commander thought. It all begins now.
“15 seconds.”
Time began to move in slow motion. With each second lost, Joseph felt another dimension away from reality.
“10 seconds.”
The Commander’s thoughts turned to his family, to his friends, to his home in London. Would they be safe? Would anybody be safe?
5.
Joseph’s fingers twitched nervously on the key.
There’s no going back now.
4.
And as the alarms wailed around him, Joseph only wished for peace.
3.
“Hey, Joe, turn that off!”
“What?”
2.
“I said turn your bloody alarm off!”
“What? I don’t…”
1.
“Dammit, Joe!”
And a pillow hit Commander Joseph in the face.
* * *
Joe awoke with a start, the alarms still ringing in his ears.
That was because his alarm was ringing. Joe reached for his iPhone, and switched off the disturbing noise.
It was 6:32 AM. Joe rubbed his eyes and looked around his familiar college dormitory, noticing his computer, the television, the various posters, and the obvious lack of the bridge of a ballistic missile submarine.
Joe groggily pushed himself out of bed, and tossed the projectile that had awakened him back onto the bunk above him. A lazy hand reached up and dragged the pillow towards the equally lazy head that beckoned for its feathery perch. John MacKenzie, his roommate of three years, moaned softly and snuggled comfortably back into his slumber, cherishing every millisecond of sleep before he had to get ready for his own classes.
Joe stumbled towards the bathroom, and clumsily rotated the steel-cold knobs of the shower, blasting the warm wakening water on. He approached the mirror and gazed at himself, indifferent to what he saw staring back at him.
Joe was, well, your average Joe; there was nothing very extraordinary about him in reality. Scruffy brown hair, dull, squinting brown eyes, and a glazed, lifeless expression was all that was reflected back at him. Joe fumbled for his shaving cream, and applied the pungent foam to his face.
As Joe shaved, he pondered his day’s schedule. Calculus at 7:30. Joe knew that it would be the same boring lecture in the same boring lecture hall with the same boring Professor. So bored by the thought of it, he let his razor unconsciously slip through his hands, producing a small gash upon his upper lip.
It bled. It stung. But Joe ignored it. It didn’t make a difference to him at all. Not much did anymore.
* * *
Joe finished preparing himself for his humdrum day. He sat through a wearisome, monotonous lecture. And then another. And another.
As he returned to his dorm an eternity later, his eyes bagged from years of insomnia, he was stopped by John, who strode vociferously through the dormitory halls with his fellow gang of loudmouths. “Hey Joe!” his roommate called, with the same friendly smile he always donned, at least when he was fully awake. “We’re heading over to Vince’s place to play some Call o’ Duty. You want to join us?”
Joe shook his head glumly. “No, I’ve got too much… studying to do. Maybe next time.”
John gazed caringly into his friend’s eyes, sensing the pain Joe was going through. He placed a firm hand on Joe’s shoulder, saying “Well, you take care then. See you later.”
Back in his room, Joe sat on his bed, looking out on the river Thames, or the campus yard, or just empty space. His notebooks sat uselessly on his desk, untouched.
As he gazed nowhere in particular, he saw a lone comet streak through the sky. Remembering those stories from childhood, he silently wished that he didn’t have to go through the aches and pains that he barely survived daily. He wished to be done with it all.
Joe simply longed to sleep, to dream, and to not be awoken to another pointless day.
He reached for the bottle of sleeping pills that his restlessness demanded, and popped a number of the lethargy inducing capsules into his mouth. Joe slid under his covers, and returned to the wonderful, phantasmagorical utopia of dreams that he loved so, not knowing that his wish would be granted.
MadameMajora
Red
November 15th, 1944.
The old general sighed as he tapped away on the keys on the typewriter, penning yet another letter. It was a miserable night, and the rain on the muddy field reflected his mood. He looked down at the paper on the worn desk. Too many names. Too many lost. So young, some of them had been. Nothing more than boys, killed in cold blood. And now their bodies were strewn across the plains, stained red by the blood from both sides. He squinted, reaching for his spectacles and perching them on his nose. He was getting too old for this. This war, it seemed, had aged him faster than anything he'd ever known. 4 years ago, life had been different. There had been colour, joy, laughter. The colours had faded to one. Red. He saw it everywhere. Spread across city streets. On the armband of the Nazi soldiers. Rapidly blossoming across the uniforms of his own men before they slumped to the ground, silenced forever. The joy had been replaced by an ever constant fear, and the laughter replaced by the screams of dying men. In the end, they all mingled together, all the blood and the fear and the cries, American or German or British, it didn't matter anymore. They were all men, and they were all losing. The red spilling out of a young German boy's chest was no different than the red spewing from the severed limb of an American. The general knew, if he made it out of this hell, it would haunt him for the rest of his life. As he continued typing out the letters, the tears came before he could stop it. He slammed his fist down on the table. He hated this damned war. He was so old, and so tired of it all. But the letters had to be done. Name, after name, after name...
Dear Ms. Jackson:
It is with deep regret that I write this telegram to inform you that your fiance, one Private Thomas Aberforth has been confirmed missing in action.
The troop in which Private Aberforth was a part of was caught in an aerial attack this past Wednesday. He is not among the survivors, but his body has not been found and there are chances of him being a prisoner of war. He is presumed dead until further information should arise.
I know this must be causing you great distress, but unfortunately, until more information is received there is nothing more to tell you. If any more information regarding Private Aberforth's whereabouts surfaces, they will be communicated to you immediately.
I sincerely regret that this message must bring so much sorrow to you and my deepest sympathies are with you in this difficult time.
Edward J. Arp, Major General.
He sighed again. Oh yes, he hated this war. He removed the paper from the typewriter, placing it on the ever-growing stack of letters to be mailed across the ocean. Tomorrow would be a grim day.
November 20th, 1944. Ms. Linda Jackson heard a knock on her door. It startled her. She crept towards the door, both dreading it and hopeful- perhaps she'd received a letter from Tom. She opened it a crack. Saw the man in uniform standing there with a grim expression and a letter.
And she knew. There was only one thing it could mean.
"No..." she whispered. "No!" Suddenly, the entire world had gone black, nothing made sense, everything was wrong. She was on the floor, sobs were racking her body, and all she could say was "no", over and over and over, rocking back and forth...
She hadn't wanted him to go. She'd begged, she'd pleaded with him not to go, please, please would he stay with her? It was too dangerous, anyone could plainly see that. But men were leaving by the dozens, and who was he to not join? Of course he would. That was just the sort of man he was. In all the time she'd known him Tom had never backed down from a fight. Now the fight was for his home country, and if he had it his way he'd be leading his troop over the battlefield, those awful guns rocketing and the red, white, and blue banners held aloft for all the world to see. Dashing, yes. Brave, yes. Patriotic, absolutely. But wise? Of course not. If only she could have foreseen, if only she could have been more convincing...
2 years previously.
"Tom, please!" The words were mangled coming out, cut short by her tears. "You can't, you can't! There's enough heading over, haven't you seen them? Soon there aren't going to be any men left! They'll all be gone!"
He took hold of her arm. "Linda, please, you know I have to do this, if you knew what was happening over there-"
"I know perfectly well what's happening over there!" she screamed, wrenching her arm out of his grasp as another sob shook her. "People are running out there with guns, and bombs, and poison, and men are murdering each other and each day more and more aren't coming home!" She glared into the green eyes she loved so dearly. "And you," she hissed, "are not going to be one of them."
For a moment, she thought she had convinced him. But they day had come, when he was dressed in full uniform, bags loaded, with the train ready to leave.
"Don't you worry, Lind," he had said. "Somebody's gotta teach ol' Hitler a lesson, eh?" He said it with his old swagger, and that devilish little grin that had first drawn her to him when they had first met all those years ago. It seemed now like such a short time.
"It doesn't have to be you," she whispered. "Please, come home."
"Hold on." He fished around in his pocket for something, pulling it out and kneeling at the same time before offering her a ring. She gasped, her hands over her mouth. "Tom?"
"Linda Jackson, will you marry me?" He winked, beaming at her. More tears brimmed in her eyes, but she forced them back as a smile split her face, despite her fears.
"Yes," she said, the smile growing ever wider. "Yes!"
He stood up, brushing off his knees, and slipped the ring onto her finger. "This is my promise to you, Linda."
Just then, the train's whistle had sounded, and he had pressed his lips to hers with an "I love you" before he was onboard and had joined the other men, hanging out the windows and waving before the train whipped them out of sight and she stood alone on the platform.
She hadn't heard much since then for two years. She never took the ring off. She was going to keep his promise while she waited. And she did wait. Every time she heard a knock at the door, she jumped. But it was never any news. When she wandered downtown, paper boys shouted out news of the war, more battles, more men killed. yet no closer to winning. Letters arrived for people every day. But there was never one for her. The fear was always there, deep in her chest, and every day she would wake up and hope that he would be outside her door, dressed in his uniform, grinning to announce his triumphant return from the battlefields in his usual storytelling way. He would sweep her up in his arms with a wink and say "Oh, you didn't worry about me, did you? Those Germans had nothing on Private Tom Aberforth, let me tell you!" She would laugh, and he'd begin telling her all about it.
Except, he never did.
And now, she knew. It was like there was a hole in her chest that could never be filled, some sort of empty void. After the letter had dropped from her shaking fingers onto the floor and the ring with it, she had collapsed.
For many days, she simply felt hollow. But it didn't take long for the shock to wear off, and that was when the pain came. She would have preferred if he were dead. At least that way, she wouldn't permit herself hope. Because that was the most painful thing of all. The hope. That tiny, flickering chance that he was still alive was still there. She feared she would never know for sure. All her life, that hope would be there, like a tiny whispering voice, existing solely to cause her pain. And so she had to abandon it.
November 24th, 1945. Ms. Linda Jackson heard a knock on her door. It startled her. She crept towards it, wondering who could be coming to see her today. She opened it a crack, and met a pair of devilishly handsome green eyes and a grin to match.
"Tom?"
mamono101
I've been sober six months but my nose...it still twitches. My heart begins to pound. I crave it but I need to remain strong. I can't...I shouldn't...
Surely just a small sniff couldn't hurt?
I walk up to the table. It's covered in snow. Not the white fluffy stuff you make snow angels out of but the kind that makes you feel really good.
I try to resist.
Every time I feel as if I'm finally moving on with my life, my memories of her return. That's when it happens. Everywhere I look in this house I can see her face. Memories of her radiant smile attack my senses and the way it lit up her entire face creating those really cute dimples she was so proud of causes a lump to form in my throat. The way her green eyes would look at me as we lay in each others arms caressing each other in our afterglow. The way her voice used to go just that single octave higher when she was angry at me. The way her nose would turn up when she frowned at me. The way she walked out on our commitment simply because she disapproved of me using.
I drop to my knees, bend over the table and sniff, decorating the inside of my nostrils with Gutter Glitter.
I feel nothing. I've done so much of this in the past that my tolerance for this stuff is really high. I sniff again. And again. And again. Finally, I get the rush I was after. I push her memory back into the recesses of my mind and bathe in my new found euphoria.
Ten minutes pass and my buzz already begins to fade. I hear my pain returning to me. I inhale more of the blow.
A wave of nausea hits followed by a second. Another sniff. The world is spinning. I'm dizzy, dehydrated. My head hurts. I lie down and as I do my stomach empties its contents. I begin to convulse shaking back and forth as I continue to dry-heave.
Then darkness. Nothing but darkness. No longer can my memory of her return to haunt me.
penguinboy82
We all have that thing, right? The thing on the bottom of our right hand wrist, the timer? My parents never told me what that was when I was growing up, just that I would understand when I was older. I’m much older now, and my timer is almost down to zero. When I was 17, my parents explained to me exactly what it is. When the timer hits zero, it’s said that you meet your soulmate, the person you’re going to spend the rest of your life with. Now, at age 23, mine is at exactly 17 minutes.
As I sat there, in the crowded café, with my friends, I fully realized that I was going to meet someone who would change the entire course of my life, and I would meet them in just minutes. I looked around, trying to spot someone who looked just as nervous as I did. I began to seriously stress, what if I ended up not liking my soulmate? No, that couldn’t happen. We’re meant to meet for a reason, and we’ll be in love forever. That’s why our timer picks the person for us, so we can’t be wrong.
I look again at my wrist, and notice the timer is down to only 13 minutes, 12 seconds. I get up to go use the restroom, fix my polo shirt, and check my hair.
10 minutes.
I grow increasingly nervous with every passing minute, but I go back out to my friends. I sit with them for a short while, before going up and ordering coffee.
3 minutes.
I glance around again, and no one seems to be as anxious as I am, but I try to reassure myself. It’s meant to be, and that’s that. By the time my coffee is delivered, I only have a single minute left on my timer. I stand still for a moment, before walking back to my friends slowly, so as not to spill my drink.
19 seconds.
I can feel my heart rate going up. I can’t accurately describe the feeling, but it felt like anticipation, fear, worry, and expectations all welling up inside of me at once.
I look down. A mere three seconds left. I watch as the timer ticks its way down. Two seconds, one second…
The timer hits zero. Nothing happens. I begin to worry, and look at my friends. All of them have fallen silent, for they know that I was supposed to meet my soulmate today. I look around me, and I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Some people are sitting in groups talking quietly; some are sitting alone, or on the phone, or tapping away at a laptop.
Has it failed? Had the system which was designed so perfectly, not been able to find me a match? The realization came to me slowly, the realization that I didn’t have anyone to spend my life with. The realization that I had to tell everyone about this. The return to my table was the hardest thing I have ever had to do.
I stood, planted in my spot for almost 10 minutes, and then began walking. The café seemed to go on forever and the walk back to my table for a lifetime. A million thoughts rushed through my head. What will I tell them? What will they think of me? What will I do, living without a soulmate for my whole life?
When I finally arrived at my table, my friends were all silent for a moment, and then began to try to comfort me. Their words didn’t help, nothing would help. I didn’t have anyone to waste away my days with, someone who would love me and keep me for their own, and they would be mine.
I didn’t say a word for a long time, and simply stood up and left. I returned to my car and began to drive home. People were supposed to live with their parents until they got a soulmate, at which time they would be moved into their own home. What would become of me now? Would I always live with my parents? I would be such a burden to them, as most people have much fun in their years without children. The drive home seemed to go on even longer than when I was in the café, and I wondered what I would tell my parents when I got there. As I pulled up my driveway, the thoughts were still jumbled in my head, and I still wasn’t sure just what I would say.
My parents were there at the door, ready to greet me and my new lifelong partner. When I walked in alone, their expressions went from delighted, to confused, to very sad. I was always very serious growing up, so they knew when I walked in alone, it meant something had gone terribly wrong.
We stood there in silence for a moment before my father said, “Son, you’ve returned! But where is the lady?” I stood there, unable to describe in words what I was feeling, so I simply said, “Something went wrong, there is no lady.”
“Surely there must be someone,” said my mother. The top on the jar of my emotions finally came off in a fit of rage. “THERE IS NO LADY, MOTHER.” I shouted, instantly regretting it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you upset. It’s just that coming back without someone by my side has made me very upset, and it all came out on you.
“I’m going to City Hall later to put in an appeal for a home, though, so I don’t have to live with you forever. I don’t want to be a burden.” “You just got home,” father exclaimed, “we’re not going to make you move out right away!”
“Father, it’s something I have to do.” I said, returning again to my car to start a new life, by myself.
Zelda_Ali_Baba
Return
She had heard the story a thousand times
About her existence
About how he had died
It was such a hopeless story
But so true
She had been born with a great purpose
Yet a terrible one
The Sacrifice
The Payment
Born into the world one second
Then slaughtered out of it the next
That was the plan
That’s what was written
She was the princess
She was the hope
How else would they pay for their choices?
The king, though, would not allow it
‘NO,’ he had said
‘Prophecy or not
She will not die…’
Instead, he vowed he would go
He would be the Sacrifice
The Payment
He would be the hope
And so it was done
She had never met him
She had never seen his sparkling dark eyes
Or his soft, brown hair
That’s what they said he had looked like
But she had never seen
She felt, though
She felt love
Its strength was boundless
It was unconditional
Even the most powerful foe
Could not break this bond
For he had died for her
Because he loved her
And there was something else
It was there with the love
It was not hope
It was…brighter
A fact...she knew this for sure
As she walked to the small window
And stared at the drifting clouds
She could only smile
A love like that does not die easily
It may leave for awhile
It may sleep for a day
But it never fades away entirely
“I know you are coming back…
Come quickly, sir
Make haste, Father
I await your arrival, my King
I will always look forward;
Forever look onward
To your return…”
“Coming Home”
The valley stretched before me vast
The land from which I was an outcast
But few care for my plight
So I sit down for respite
And look up to the sky
Hoping my time isn’t nigh
Someday I will return
Into the land of blazing suns
Where the gluttonous indulge
And the heart of darkness is hallowed
Yesterday I cried
Today I nearly died
But my journey has just begun
Although I carry a ton
I know I can persevere
Through my worst fear
Someday I will stand on the pyre
And rise like a phoenix
Shining the torch
Through the maw of darkness
My head is spinning out of control
My return they will not condole
But standing here
So very near
By the gates of my city
I will not pity
The inferno opens up
A burning tempest erupts
But I won’t back down
No, I’ll stand my ground
The gates open covered in snow
This is the realm I know
The trek was long
But this is where I belong
The open veranda, its dome
I’ve finally returned home
Keeseman
No Escape from Reality
The alarms began without warning.
All throughout the HMS Vanguard rang the urgencies of the warning sirens, perverting the long-preserved peace. No man or woman was left unfazed at the sight of these unfamiliar, quite alien alarm lights, these foreign beacons; no one aboard the submarine had ever expected to truly see them. Every crew member- whether Cadet or Commander- had exactly the same thought, at exactly the same split second. We are at war.
Commander Joseph Smith stormed to the bridge quite grumpily, having been disturbed from a hard-earned night’s sleep. Despite being a naval veteran, he never expected the alarms to be raised in his lifetime. “Is this some kind of drill?” the Commander demanded as he threw open the doors.
“No, sir,” Lieutenant Vince Howard responded quite nervously. “We just received word from Command. The Russians have launched multiple aircraft carrying dangerous cargos, which include various ‘weapons of mass destruction’. These aircraft will be flying over British airspace in…” Howard quickly checks a large timer on the wall, reading: “T-minus 2 minutes 48 seconds. We are ordered to ‘launch our ballistic missiles and destroy the specified aircraft, in the case that the aircraft enter British airspace,’” the Lieutenant read from a printout of orders.
“We have already targeted the aircraft,” said Lieutenant Commander John MacKenzie, “and await your command to fire.”
Joseph knew that, if the HMS Vanguard launched their missiles at the Russian planes, it would begin a long, perilous war. He had never expected the Russians to make such a bold move. But he could not refuse orders. A crew member produced the Commander and the Lieutenant Commander’s keys, and the two prepared to turn.
“T-minus one minute until the Russian aircraft enter British airspace,” Lt Howard said.
“On my mark, turn your key, MacKenzie,” Joseph bellowed.
“T-minus 30 seconds.”
This is it, the Commander thought. It all begins now.
“15 seconds.”
Time began to move in slow motion. With each second lost, Joseph felt another dimension away from reality.
“10 seconds.”
The Commander’s thoughts turned to his family, to his friends, to his home in London. Would they be safe? Would anybody be safe?
5.
Joseph’s fingers twitched nervously on the key.
There’s no going back now.
4.
And as the alarms wailed around him, Joseph only wished for peace.
3.
“Hey, Joe, turn that off!”
“What?”
2.
“I said turn your bloody alarm off!”
“What? I don’t…”
1.
“Dammit, Joe!”
And a pillow hit Commander Joseph in the face.
* * *
Joe awoke with a start, the alarms still ringing in his ears.
That was because his alarm was ringing. Joe reached for his iPhone, and switched off the disturbing noise.
It was 6:32 AM. Joe rubbed his eyes and looked around his familiar college dormitory, noticing his computer, the television, the various posters, and the obvious lack of the bridge of a ballistic missile submarine.
Joe groggily pushed himself out of bed, and tossed the projectile that had awakened him back onto the bunk above him. A lazy hand reached up and dragged the pillow towards the equally lazy head that beckoned for its feathery perch. John MacKenzie, his roommate of three years, moaned softly and snuggled comfortably back into his slumber, cherishing every millisecond of sleep before he had to get ready for his own classes.
Joe stumbled towards the bathroom, and clumsily rotated the steel-cold knobs of the shower, blasting the warm wakening water on. He approached the mirror and gazed at himself, indifferent to what he saw staring back at him.
Joe was, well, your average Joe; there was nothing very extraordinary about him in reality. Scruffy brown hair, dull, squinting brown eyes, and a glazed, lifeless expression was all that was reflected back at him. Joe fumbled for his shaving cream, and applied the pungent foam to his face.
As Joe shaved, he pondered his day’s schedule. Calculus at 7:30. Joe knew that it would be the same boring lecture in the same boring lecture hall with the same boring Professor. So bored by the thought of it, he let his razor unconsciously slip through his hands, producing a small gash upon his upper lip.
It bled. It stung. But Joe ignored it. It didn’t make a difference to him at all. Not much did anymore.
* * *
Joe finished preparing himself for his humdrum day. He sat through a wearisome, monotonous lecture. And then another. And another.
As he returned to his dorm an eternity later, his eyes bagged from years of insomnia, he was stopped by John, who strode vociferously through the dormitory halls with his fellow gang of loudmouths. “Hey Joe!” his roommate called, with the same friendly smile he always donned, at least when he was fully awake. “We’re heading over to Vince’s place to play some Call o’ Duty. You want to join us?”
Joe shook his head glumly. “No, I’ve got too much… studying to do. Maybe next time.”
John gazed caringly into his friend’s eyes, sensing the pain Joe was going through. He placed a firm hand on Joe’s shoulder, saying “Well, you take care then. See you later.”
Back in his room, Joe sat on his bed, looking out on the river Thames, or the campus yard, or just empty space. His notebooks sat uselessly on his desk, untouched.
As he gazed nowhere in particular, he saw a lone comet streak through the sky. Remembering those stories from childhood, he silently wished that he didn’t have to go through the aches and pains that he barely survived daily. He wished to be done with it all.
Joe simply longed to sleep, to dream, and to not be awoken to another pointless day.
He reached for the bottle of sleeping pills that his restlessness demanded, and popped a number of the lethargy inducing capsules into his mouth. Joe slid under his covers, and returned to the wonderful, phantasmagorical utopia of dreams that he loved so, not knowing that his wish would be granted.
MadameMajora
Red
November 15th, 1944.
The old general sighed as he tapped away on the keys on the typewriter, penning yet another letter. It was a miserable night, and the rain on the muddy field reflected his mood. He looked down at the paper on the worn desk. Too many names. Too many lost. So young, some of them had been. Nothing more than boys, killed in cold blood. And now their bodies were strewn across the plains, stained red by the blood from both sides. He squinted, reaching for his spectacles and perching them on his nose. He was getting too old for this. This war, it seemed, had aged him faster than anything he'd ever known. 4 years ago, life had been different. There had been colour, joy, laughter. The colours had faded to one. Red. He saw it everywhere. Spread across city streets. On the armband of the Nazi soldiers. Rapidly blossoming across the uniforms of his own men before they slumped to the ground, silenced forever. The joy had been replaced by an ever constant fear, and the laughter replaced by the screams of dying men. In the end, they all mingled together, all the blood and the fear and the cries, American or German or British, it didn't matter anymore. They were all men, and they were all losing. The red spilling out of a young German boy's chest was no different than the red spewing from the severed limb of an American. The general knew, if he made it out of this hell, it would haunt him for the rest of his life. As he continued typing out the letters, the tears came before he could stop it. He slammed his fist down on the table. He hated this damned war. He was so old, and so tired of it all. But the letters had to be done. Name, after name, after name...
Dear Ms. Jackson:
It is with deep regret that I write this telegram to inform you that your fiance, one Private Thomas Aberforth has been confirmed missing in action.
The troop in which Private Aberforth was a part of was caught in an aerial attack this past Wednesday. He is not among the survivors, but his body has not been found and there are chances of him being a prisoner of war. He is presumed dead until further information should arise.
I know this must be causing you great distress, but unfortunately, until more information is received there is nothing more to tell you. If any more information regarding Private Aberforth's whereabouts surfaces, they will be communicated to you immediately.
I sincerely regret that this message must bring so much sorrow to you and my deepest sympathies are with you in this difficult time.
Edward J. Arp, Major General.
He sighed again. Oh yes, he hated this war. He removed the paper from the typewriter, placing it on the ever-growing stack of letters to be mailed across the ocean. Tomorrow would be a grim day.
November 20th, 1944. Ms. Linda Jackson heard a knock on her door. It startled her. She crept towards the door, both dreading it and hopeful- perhaps she'd received a letter from Tom. She opened it a crack. Saw the man in uniform standing there with a grim expression and a letter.
And she knew. There was only one thing it could mean.
"No..." she whispered. "No!" Suddenly, the entire world had gone black, nothing made sense, everything was wrong. She was on the floor, sobs were racking her body, and all she could say was "no", over and over and over, rocking back and forth...
She hadn't wanted him to go. She'd begged, she'd pleaded with him not to go, please, please would he stay with her? It was too dangerous, anyone could plainly see that. But men were leaving by the dozens, and who was he to not join? Of course he would. That was just the sort of man he was. In all the time she'd known him Tom had never backed down from a fight. Now the fight was for his home country, and if he had it his way he'd be leading his troop over the battlefield, those awful guns rocketing and the red, white, and blue banners held aloft for all the world to see. Dashing, yes. Brave, yes. Patriotic, absolutely. But wise? Of course not. If only she could have foreseen, if only she could have been more convincing...
2 years previously.
"Tom, please!" The words were mangled coming out, cut short by her tears. "You can't, you can't! There's enough heading over, haven't you seen them? Soon there aren't going to be any men left! They'll all be gone!"
He took hold of her arm. "Linda, please, you know I have to do this, if you knew what was happening over there-"
"I know perfectly well what's happening over there!" she screamed, wrenching her arm out of his grasp as another sob shook her. "People are running out there with guns, and bombs, and poison, and men are murdering each other and each day more and more aren't coming home!" She glared into the green eyes she loved so dearly. "And you," she hissed, "are not going to be one of them."
For a moment, she thought she had convinced him. But they day had come, when he was dressed in full uniform, bags loaded, with the train ready to leave.
"Don't you worry, Lind," he had said. "Somebody's gotta teach ol' Hitler a lesson, eh?" He said it with his old swagger, and that devilish little grin that had first drawn her to him when they had first met all those years ago. It seemed now like such a short time.
"It doesn't have to be you," she whispered. "Please, come home."
"Hold on." He fished around in his pocket for something, pulling it out and kneeling at the same time before offering her a ring. She gasped, her hands over her mouth. "Tom?"
"Linda Jackson, will you marry me?" He winked, beaming at her. More tears brimmed in her eyes, but she forced them back as a smile split her face, despite her fears.
"Yes," she said, the smile growing ever wider. "Yes!"
He stood up, brushing off his knees, and slipped the ring onto her finger. "This is my promise to you, Linda."
Just then, the train's whistle had sounded, and he had pressed his lips to hers with an "I love you" before he was onboard and had joined the other men, hanging out the windows and waving before the train whipped them out of sight and she stood alone on the platform.
She hadn't heard much since then for two years. She never took the ring off. She was going to keep his promise while she waited. And she did wait. Every time she heard a knock at the door, she jumped. But it was never any news. When she wandered downtown, paper boys shouted out news of the war, more battles, more men killed. yet no closer to winning. Letters arrived for people every day. But there was never one for her. The fear was always there, deep in her chest, and every day she would wake up and hope that he would be outside her door, dressed in his uniform, grinning to announce his triumphant return from the battlefields in his usual storytelling way. He would sweep her up in his arms with a wink and say "Oh, you didn't worry about me, did you? Those Germans had nothing on Private Tom Aberforth, let me tell you!" She would laugh, and he'd begin telling her all about it.
Except, he never did.
And now, she knew. It was like there was a hole in her chest that could never be filled, some sort of empty void. After the letter had dropped from her shaking fingers onto the floor and the ring with it, she had collapsed.
For many days, she simply felt hollow. But it didn't take long for the shock to wear off, and that was when the pain came. She would have preferred if he were dead. At least that way, she wouldn't permit herself hope. Because that was the most painful thing of all. The hope. That tiny, flickering chance that he was still alive was still there. She feared she would never know for sure. All her life, that hope would be there, like a tiny whispering voice, existing solely to cause her pain. And so she had to abandon it.
November 24th, 1945. Ms. Linda Jackson heard a knock on her door. It startled her. She crept towards it, wondering who could be coming to see her today. She opened it a crack, and met a pair of devilishly handsome green eyes and a grin to match.
"Tom?"
mamono101
I've been sober six months but my nose...it still twitches. My heart begins to pound. I crave it but I need to remain strong. I can't...I shouldn't...
Surely just a small sniff couldn't hurt?
I walk up to the table. It's covered in snow. Not the white fluffy stuff you make snow angels out of but the kind that makes you feel really good.
I try to resist.
Every time I feel as if I'm finally moving on with my life, my memories of her return. That's when it happens. Everywhere I look in this house I can see her face. Memories of her radiant smile attack my senses and the way it lit up her entire face creating those really cute dimples she was so proud of causes a lump to form in my throat. The way her green eyes would look at me as we lay in each others arms caressing each other in our afterglow. The way her voice used to go just that single octave higher when she was angry at me. The way her nose would turn up when she frowned at me. The way she walked out on our commitment simply because she disapproved of me using.
I drop to my knees, bend over the table and sniff, decorating the inside of my nostrils with Gutter Glitter.
I feel nothing. I've done so much of this in the past that my tolerance for this stuff is really high. I sniff again. And again. And again. Finally, I get the rush I was after. I push her memory back into the recesses of my mind and bathe in my new found euphoria.
Ten minutes pass and my buzz already begins to fade. I hear my pain returning to me. I inhale more of the blow.
A wave of nausea hits followed by a second. Another sniff. The world is spinning. I'm dizzy, dehydrated. My head hurts. I lie down and as I do my stomach empties its contents. I begin to convulse shaking back and forth as I continue to dry-heave.
Then darkness. Nothing but darkness. No longer can my memory of her return to haunt me.
penguinboy82
We all have that thing, right? The thing on the bottom of our right hand wrist, the timer? My parents never told me what that was when I was growing up, just that I would understand when I was older. I’m much older now, and my timer is almost down to zero. When I was 17, my parents explained to me exactly what it is. When the timer hits zero, it’s said that you meet your soulmate, the person you’re going to spend the rest of your life with. Now, at age 23, mine is at exactly 17 minutes.
As I sat there, in the crowded café, with my friends, I fully realized that I was going to meet someone who would change the entire course of my life, and I would meet them in just minutes. I looked around, trying to spot someone who looked just as nervous as I did. I began to seriously stress, what if I ended up not liking my soulmate? No, that couldn’t happen. We’re meant to meet for a reason, and we’ll be in love forever. That’s why our timer picks the person for us, so we can’t be wrong.
I look again at my wrist, and notice the timer is down to only 13 minutes, 12 seconds. I get up to go use the restroom, fix my polo shirt, and check my hair.
10 minutes.
I grow increasingly nervous with every passing minute, but I go back out to my friends. I sit with them for a short while, before going up and ordering coffee.
3 minutes.
I glance around again, and no one seems to be as anxious as I am, but I try to reassure myself. It’s meant to be, and that’s that. By the time my coffee is delivered, I only have a single minute left on my timer. I stand still for a moment, before walking back to my friends slowly, so as not to spill my drink.
19 seconds.
I can feel my heart rate going up. I can’t accurately describe the feeling, but it felt like anticipation, fear, worry, and expectations all welling up inside of me at once.
I look down. A mere three seconds left. I watch as the timer ticks its way down. Two seconds, one second…
The timer hits zero. Nothing happens. I begin to worry, and look at my friends. All of them have fallen silent, for they know that I was supposed to meet my soulmate today. I look around me, and I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Some people are sitting in groups talking quietly; some are sitting alone, or on the phone, or tapping away at a laptop.
Has it failed? Had the system which was designed so perfectly, not been able to find me a match? The realization came to me slowly, the realization that I didn’t have anyone to spend my life with. The realization that I had to tell everyone about this. The return to my table was the hardest thing I have ever had to do.
I stood, planted in my spot for almost 10 minutes, and then began walking. The café seemed to go on forever and the walk back to my table for a lifetime. A million thoughts rushed through my head. What will I tell them? What will they think of me? What will I do, living without a soulmate for my whole life?
When I finally arrived at my table, my friends were all silent for a moment, and then began to try to comfort me. Their words didn’t help, nothing would help. I didn’t have anyone to waste away my days with, someone who would love me and keep me for their own, and they would be mine.
I didn’t say a word for a long time, and simply stood up and left. I returned to my car and began to drive home. People were supposed to live with their parents until they got a soulmate, at which time they would be moved into their own home. What would become of me now? Would I always live with my parents? I would be such a burden to them, as most people have much fun in their years without children. The drive home seemed to go on even longer than when I was in the café, and I wondered what I would tell my parents when I got there. As I pulled up my driveway, the thoughts were still jumbled in my head, and I still wasn’t sure just what I would say.
My parents were there at the door, ready to greet me and my new lifelong partner. When I walked in alone, their expressions went from delighted, to confused, to very sad. I was always very serious growing up, so they knew when I walked in alone, it meant something had gone terribly wrong.
We stood there in silence for a moment before my father said, “Son, you’ve returned! But where is the lady?” I stood there, unable to describe in words what I was feeling, so I simply said, “Something went wrong, there is no lady.”
“Surely there must be someone,” said my mother. The top on the jar of my emotions finally came off in a fit of rage. “THERE IS NO LADY, MOTHER.” I shouted, instantly regretting it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you upset. It’s just that coming back without someone by my side has made me very upset, and it all came out on you.
“I’m going to City Hall later to put in an appeal for a home, though, so I don’t have to live with you forever. I don’t want to be a burden.” “You just got home,” father exclaimed, “we’re not going to make you move out right away!”
“Father, it’s something I have to do.” I said, returning again to my car to start a new life, by myself.
Zelda_Ali_Baba
Return
She had heard the story a thousand times
About her existence
About how he had died
It was such a hopeless story
But so true
She had been born with a great purpose
Yet a terrible one
The Sacrifice
The Payment
Born into the world one second
Then slaughtered out of it the next
That was the plan
That’s what was written
She was the princess
She was the hope
How else would they pay for their choices?
The king, though, would not allow it
‘NO,’ he had said
‘Prophecy or not
She will not die…’
Instead, he vowed he would go
He would be the Sacrifice
The Payment
He would be the hope
And so it was done
She had never met him
She had never seen his sparkling dark eyes
Or his soft, brown hair
That’s what they said he had looked like
But she had never seen
She felt, though
She felt love
Its strength was boundless
It was unconditional
Even the most powerful foe
Could not break this bond
For he had died for her
Because he loved her
And there was something else
It was there with the love
It was not hope
It was…brighter
A fact...she knew this for sure
As she walked to the small window
And stared at the drifting clouds
She could only smile
A love like that does not die easily
It may leave for awhile
It may sleep for a day
But it never fades away entirely
“I know you are coming back…
Come quickly, sir
Make haste, Father
I await your arrival, my King
I will always look forward;
Forever look onward
To your return…”
The theme for the next round is:
Spring
Max. 1000 words
Max. 1000 words
Deadline for this round is March 1st at 9:00 PM EST. Send your pieces to me via PM!
I think I focused too much on the language part of my piece, and not enough on the plot. Not my best bit of writing, but I digress.
Also, it would be more beneficial to the reader if you explained why everyone had 
