Hello and welcome to the voting stage of the 16th round of the Writing Competition! This round was a parameter round in which participants had to include five of the ten parameters provided. I received three entries this time around. You can find them in the spoiler tag below. Feel free to read the entries and vote on your favorite. Good luck to all those who entered!
Entry #1:
"Remember pomemon? Remember Vulpix? Remember Kanto?"
"Oh yeah I member!"
"Remember bugs life? Remember Ant-Z? Remember bee movie?"
"I member! I member!"
The Member berries hop into a book store.
"Remember Mark Twain? Remember Shakespeare? Remember Dr. Seuss?"
"Oooooooo I member!"
"Remember George R. R. Martin? Remember Game of Thrones? Remember winter is coming?"
"Yeah I member!"
"Remember feeling safe? Remember Reagan? Remember no ISIS?"
"Yeah Yeah. I member!"
Entry #2:
White light sifted down through the clouds casting a pallid glow on the ground. The browning grass crunched underfoot. The trees were barren. Clear signs that winter was coming. A figure stepped out from inside a house and set off, going about his business for that day. He wore a dark coat, long and reminiscent of a detective’s cloak. He sported dark hair that although it was bound in the back, had a smooth length of it sticking out in the front. His skin contrasted with his hair in a pale white color. His boots left no impression in the frozen dirt. He walked down an alleyway and knocked on a door. It opened slightly and a voice came from inside,
“Password?”
The man replied with an Eastern-sounding accent,
“Dragons.”
The door opened and he entered removing his coat. Underneath he wore traditional Japanese warrior’s robes of white and orange. They had armored pads over the shoulders. He carried a bow and a quiver of arrows. He walked with purpose and confidence. The people inside were dressed in black and were all Japanese. At the end of a long corridor, he was greeted by an older man with grey hair and tunic. The young warrior bowed before him and the older man gestured for him to rise.
“What news do you bring to me, Hanzo?” The man said with authority, “What news do you have of your brother?” Hanzo rose.
“Genji will not listen to reason. He goes about saying he is for the Shimada clan, but we all know how deceitful he can be. Father, let me set him straight so he can help me rule the clan after you are gone.”
His father furrowed his brow in thought and then replied with cold, almost inhuman words that Hanzo would never forget.
“Try to bring your brother back into the Shimada clan, but if you cannot, kill him.” Hanzo was shocked by these words, but he had to obey.
“As you wish, Father.”
Hanzo trudged out like an angry storm, pushing past anyone who was in his way. He wished to straighten out his brother, not kill him. But he must obey his father.
* * *
Genji silently opened the old wooden door. His presence was made known by the jingling of a copper bell. An old woman looked up from behind a desk.
“Hello! All books on the lower shelves are 30% off!”
Genji nodded and browsed the book cases. He was tall and strong. His robes were similar to those of his brother, but with less armor. He had light green hair that he was spiked like needles. Instead of a bow, Genji carried a long katana and a shorter sword for combat in confined spaces. He finally found the book he was looking for: “The Legend of Two Dragons.” His mother used to read it to him as a child. It told of two dragons who were brothers. One day, they got into a fight and the elder brother killed his younger brother. However, his brother was not completely dead, and years later he came back and he forgave his brother. The two set out to rebuild what they had destroyed. Genji thought of this story when he felt alone because it reminded him of his mother. He started to walk out with it, hoping the owner would not notice.
“That will be 35 Yen” scolded the old lady, “You know better Genji.”
Genji stopped, red faced, and turned toward her giving a nervous, embarrassed chuckle. “Um, you’re right of course. I apologize.”
Head down in the embarrassment of getting caught, Genji paid the money and started toward his apartment. On his way home, he notices a group of thugs wearing hats that look like skulls over their dyed blue hair. Genji pays them no mind; he is a Shimada and has been trained in the Dragon arts. He could quickly take on a few amateur thugs. Around the corner, he encountered an obstacle that was not so easy to overcome. His brother Hanzo, who was likely sent by his father to bring him home, stops just within earshot. As Hanzo stood before him with his arms crossed, he spoke,
“Genji, you cannot have it both ways. Join the Shimada clan and Father will still receive you.”
Genji had heard this before. He knew what would happen next. If Genji did not agree, Hanzo would attempt to take him by force. Unfortunately, Genji did not know what lethal ends to which his brother was ordered to go.
“Make your choice, Brother,” Hanzo says, fearing that Genji would not listen to reason. “This is your last warning Genji.”
Genji thought about his options, but he knew already that he could not go back to the Shimada clan. He had promised himself that he would use his training to protect people, not hurt them. With that goal in mind, he had recently joined Overwatch, which was the elite crime fighting team which included some of the greatest scientists, sharpshooters, and warriors in the world. They were all fighting for good and he felt peace for the first time. He lowered his head and spoke.
“I will not go back to the Shimada clan,” he said severely.
Hanzo’s heart fell, and as that happened, his warrior instincts kicked in.
“Forgive me brother, I do not do this of my own will,” Hanzo said. Nocking an arrow and pulling back, he then recited the summoning of the Spirit Dragons. “Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau!”
He let the arrow fly, but it was soon shattered by the dragons he had released. The twin blue dragons spiraled towards Genji. In a split second, Genji attempted to dodge out of the way but it was too late. The dragons connected with the young warrior and threw him back with the force of 100 men. He hit a wall, it cracked under the force of the impact, and slumped to the ground, marred and torn. Hanzo sighed and a lone tear rolled down his cheek.
“Forgive me…”
Hanzo stood in the street, the quiet seemed to be judging him for what he had done. The first snowflakes danced down from the sky and quietly landed in his hair. He turned and walked away, leaving the body of his brother wilted on the dirt road.
* * *
“It is done,” Hanzo said to his father. “My brother is dead.”
His father looked at him and smiled. “You have done well my son; now you have earned my place as leader of the Shimada clan.” He gave a signal and a servant presents the Shimada warrior’s tunic, robes only worn by the most elite warriors in the clan. Hanzo was pleased that he had won his father’s favor, but he would always regret the lengths he had gone to to earn it.
THE END
Entry #3:
His was not your world. Darkness fell only once in a generation in the place he lived, sunlight dominated his experiences. The life he lived was made up of unlimited possibilities culminating in an experience which was both preceded by and followed by another. Each instance was an opportunity to engage in something new and thrilling, brilliant and fascinating. Within this life-long progression, each new moment brought with it the exciting prospect of something never before imagined, an infinity of the unknown. The aspect of a life lived in this way left no room for remorse, guilt, or apathy. He lived life in the present and found it to be a blessing.
His kind had no names. To affix an arbitrary title to one individual or another was anathema as each was as to another. To his ilk, experience was shared, not for a single specimen to claim for one's self but to include each of his kind in each of his exploits. This paradigm had the added benefit of making belongings superfluous. Things were not kept, owned, or exchanged; they simply were. Claims to objects, thoughts, and experiences were not made, as tomorrow, they would be gone. What one did possess was merely a passing reference to one's self to indicate point of view, and he used the pronoun, "he" for himself.
The light crept across the sky as his life progressed, nearing its zenith on the eve of his coming of age. Those who had gone on before him had imparted their knowledge to him, telling that this radiance would roll across the firmament to the edge of the earth and eventually, they had been told by their fore bearers, would drive itself directly into the mountain where it would incinerate the very ceiling of the earth before dying out, giving way to a generation born into sheer darkness. In the dying hours of those born into the dark, a new burning brightness would drive up through the plains cast light upon the world.
The sprawl of existence was dotted sporadically by great expanses of water which were said to house the unborn souls of those who would inhabit the earth at a future time. Pools of water rippled across the known world, stretching in some places beyond the limits of the universe; Quagmire, these spirit worlds were called. Deep within these pools were said to writhe the spirits of the yet-to-be, patiently awaiting their opportunity to experience. He knew that once, his soul had too inhabited the queer depths of the Quagmire but what had been a divine womb was now cut off from him, both in memory and in flesh, for he could no longer tread in these places. But it was not upon him to question such things in any case.
What did fascinate him were the tales of the Old Ones. Mighty beings of eldritch power, gods among the living. Buried under the world beyond the reach of light or shadow, hidden from time, they were said to slumber throughout the eons, gathering to themselves power and might. Eternal was their breadth of longevity, unknowable were the leagues of their wisdom, unattainable the depths of their ferocity. Passed down for a thousand upon a thousand generations, the myth of the Old Ones held true as the only collective memory of his kind that had prevailed throughout the ages. And it was said that their time would arise once again. Legend told that it would be they who thrummed an ancient song as epochs passed, as generations overtook generations. It would be they who would lift to the heavens on gossamer wings, outstripping the mightiest efforts of his people, soaring through celestial realms of chaos to the brilliant light. Tales they were, alone prevailing through the ages, the omnipotent, omniscient, everlasting ancients.
His imaginings of these deity had been fulfilled in his late hour. Youth had taken its leave of him and as the jaws of age had clamped firmly about him, he longed for experiences of a different nature. Another had shared with him of the awakening of the Old Ones. The legends warned of a great time of frigid darkness, an era when even the times of light would be dim and its warmth would refuse to touch his kind. Plants would shrivel and the ground would cease to bear sustenance. Even the expanses of the Quagmire would solidify, trapping a million, million souls within its confines. It had been three hundred generations since the last ice age and another was predicted to begin within his lifetime. You may question why those consumed with the present would pass on a story for a thousand upon a thousand lifetimes. The answer should surely become clear when you realize that the gods of his tribe have returned.
Upon the arrival of the epoch of Bitter Chill, there was prophesied the emergence of the Old Ones. Sweet and low came the hum, gentle and quiet. Then it came roaring like a tyrant, fierce and majestic, shaking him to his deepest being, demanding obeisance. It echoed throughout the realm, shaking the very pillars of the earth, it elicited terror and rent sanity. The impossible cacophony shattered even the Quagmire, unleashing untold hordes of the yet-to-be upon creation. It penetrated to his core and loosed a torrent of horror and dismay deep within the recesses of his psyche. Then shadows fell across the plains.
Even the dim light was cast from his sight when the Old Ones emerged and took to the sky. They thundered through the heavens by the ten thousand, casting unearthly shadow across the land. His kind flew in terror as the apocalypse which was foretold descended upon them, consuming all in their path, wreaking devastation. They rained down from the celestial realms in spades and blackened the world as they fed. He witnessed the insatiability of their ravenous craving. He witnessed their towering stature and their monstrous strength. Five eyes atop an swiveling head surveyed their domain and four jaws shred every living thing in their proximity. Arms sporting evil-looking spines reaped their rightful bounty and impregnable armor covered every inch of their bodies. He cowered in fear before the fiendish and malevolent behemoths, the Old Ones. In just one day, the earth was raped of light and life, spoiled for eternity. The Old Ones had returned.
As he lay petrified before the onslaught, one mighty being took notice of him. His frail form quivering in reverence and awe, he could do naught but stammer in broken syllables, his mind devolved in utter fear. His stuttering query bled from his throat like ichor dripping through an hourglass, “Is the world undone?” He fell aback for the final time as the bellowing reply came deep from within the god-beast before him, his legs failing to lift him trapped him in this final place of rest. The guttural response came more gently than he could fathom yet more powerful than he could comprehend. “Child,” The Old One spoke, “this is but a single day.”
And at the end of that day, as the ancients took their leave, he looked far back to morning. The morning when he was youthful and erupting with vitality and promise, experiencing each instance to the fullest, his wings glistening with dew and all of his legs full of power. Every moment bursting with potential and hope and each moment a new adventure. He saw midday, when his life waxed and the afternoon sun was swallowed up by rain clouds as they ushered in the winter. And with the winter came too the Old Ones. The Old Ones who saw not the significance of his span of life, one day though it was. The Old Ones who lay waste to the world in his twilight and gleaned for themselves the harvest which grew throughout the generations, thrumming their eternal song over the earth. And against his newest and final fear, he asks you as his light fades, “Is the life of the mayfly less worthy than the life of the cicada?”
"Remember pomemon? Remember Vulpix? Remember Kanto?"
"Oh yeah I member!"
"Remember bugs life? Remember Ant-Z? Remember bee movie?"
"I member! I member!"
The Member berries hop into a book store.
"Remember Mark Twain? Remember Shakespeare? Remember Dr. Seuss?"
"Oooooooo I member!"
"Remember George R. R. Martin? Remember Game of Thrones? Remember winter is coming?"
"Yeah I member!"
"Remember feeling safe? Remember Reagan? Remember no ISIS?"
"Yeah Yeah. I member!"
Entry #2:
White light sifted down through the clouds casting a pallid glow on the ground. The browning grass crunched underfoot. The trees were barren. Clear signs that winter was coming. A figure stepped out from inside a house and set off, going about his business for that day. He wore a dark coat, long and reminiscent of a detective’s cloak. He sported dark hair that although it was bound in the back, had a smooth length of it sticking out in the front. His skin contrasted with his hair in a pale white color. His boots left no impression in the frozen dirt. He walked down an alleyway and knocked on a door. It opened slightly and a voice came from inside,
“Password?”
The man replied with an Eastern-sounding accent,
“Dragons.”
The door opened and he entered removing his coat. Underneath he wore traditional Japanese warrior’s robes of white and orange. They had armored pads over the shoulders. He carried a bow and a quiver of arrows. He walked with purpose and confidence. The people inside were dressed in black and were all Japanese. At the end of a long corridor, he was greeted by an older man with grey hair and tunic. The young warrior bowed before him and the older man gestured for him to rise.
“What news do you bring to me, Hanzo?” The man said with authority, “What news do you have of your brother?” Hanzo rose.
“Genji will not listen to reason. He goes about saying he is for the Shimada clan, but we all know how deceitful he can be. Father, let me set him straight so he can help me rule the clan after you are gone.”
His father furrowed his brow in thought and then replied with cold, almost inhuman words that Hanzo would never forget.
“Try to bring your brother back into the Shimada clan, but if you cannot, kill him.” Hanzo was shocked by these words, but he had to obey.
“As you wish, Father.”
Hanzo trudged out like an angry storm, pushing past anyone who was in his way. He wished to straighten out his brother, not kill him. But he must obey his father.
* * *
Genji silently opened the old wooden door. His presence was made known by the jingling of a copper bell. An old woman looked up from behind a desk.
“Hello! All books on the lower shelves are 30% off!”
Genji nodded and browsed the book cases. He was tall and strong. His robes were similar to those of his brother, but with less armor. He had light green hair that he was spiked like needles. Instead of a bow, Genji carried a long katana and a shorter sword for combat in confined spaces. He finally found the book he was looking for: “The Legend of Two Dragons.” His mother used to read it to him as a child. It told of two dragons who were brothers. One day, they got into a fight and the elder brother killed his younger brother. However, his brother was not completely dead, and years later he came back and he forgave his brother. The two set out to rebuild what they had destroyed. Genji thought of this story when he felt alone because it reminded him of his mother. He started to walk out with it, hoping the owner would not notice.
“That will be 35 Yen” scolded the old lady, “You know better Genji.”
Genji stopped, red faced, and turned toward her giving a nervous, embarrassed chuckle. “Um, you’re right of course. I apologize.”
Head down in the embarrassment of getting caught, Genji paid the money and started toward his apartment. On his way home, he notices a group of thugs wearing hats that look like skulls over their dyed blue hair. Genji pays them no mind; he is a Shimada and has been trained in the Dragon arts. He could quickly take on a few amateur thugs. Around the corner, he encountered an obstacle that was not so easy to overcome. His brother Hanzo, who was likely sent by his father to bring him home, stops just within earshot. As Hanzo stood before him with his arms crossed, he spoke,
“Genji, you cannot have it both ways. Join the Shimada clan and Father will still receive you.”
Genji had heard this before. He knew what would happen next. If Genji did not agree, Hanzo would attempt to take him by force. Unfortunately, Genji did not know what lethal ends to which his brother was ordered to go.
“Make your choice, Brother,” Hanzo says, fearing that Genji would not listen to reason. “This is your last warning Genji.”
Genji thought about his options, but he knew already that he could not go back to the Shimada clan. He had promised himself that he would use his training to protect people, not hurt them. With that goal in mind, he had recently joined Overwatch, which was the elite crime fighting team which included some of the greatest scientists, sharpshooters, and warriors in the world. They were all fighting for good and he felt peace for the first time. He lowered his head and spoke.
“I will not go back to the Shimada clan,” he said severely.
Hanzo’s heart fell, and as that happened, his warrior instincts kicked in.
“Forgive me brother, I do not do this of my own will,” Hanzo said. Nocking an arrow and pulling back, he then recited the summoning of the Spirit Dragons. “Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau!”
He let the arrow fly, but it was soon shattered by the dragons he had released. The twin blue dragons spiraled towards Genji. In a split second, Genji attempted to dodge out of the way but it was too late. The dragons connected with the young warrior and threw him back with the force of 100 men. He hit a wall, it cracked under the force of the impact, and slumped to the ground, marred and torn. Hanzo sighed and a lone tear rolled down his cheek.
“Forgive me…”
Hanzo stood in the street, the quiet seemed to be judging him for what he had done. The first snowflakes danced down from the sky and quietly landed in his hair. He turned and walked away, leaving the body of his brother wilted on the dirt road.
* * *
“It is done,” Hanzo said to his father. “My brother is dead.”
His father looked at him and smiled. “You have done well my son; now you have earned my place as leader of the Shimada clan.” He gave a signal and a servant presents the Shimada warrior’s tunic, robes only worn by the most elite warriors in the clan. Hanzo was pleased that he had won his father’s favor, but he would always regret the lengths he had gone to to earn it.
THE END
Entry #3:
His was not your world. Darkness fell only once in a generation in the place he lived, sunlight dominated his experiences. The life he lived was made up of unlimited possibilities culminating in an experience which was both preceded by and followed by another. Each instance was an opportunity to engage in something new and thrilling, brilliant and fascinating. Within this life-long progression, each new moment brought with it the exciting prospect of something never before imagined, an infinity of the unknown. The aspect of a life lived in this way left no room for remorse, guilt, or apathy. He lived life in the present and found it to be a blessing.
His kind had no names. To affix an arbitrary title to one individual or another was anathema as each was as to another. To his ilk, experience was shared, not for a single specimen to claim for one's self but to include each of his kind in each of his exploits. This paradigm had the added benefit of making belongings superfluous. Things were not kept, owned, or exchanged; they simply were. Claims to objects, thoughts, and experiences were not made, as tomorrow, they would be gone. What one did possess was merely a passing reference to one's self to indicate point of view, and he used the pronoun, "he" for himself.
The light crept across the sky as his life progressed, nearing its zenith on the eve of his coming of age. Those who had gone on before him had imparted their knowledge to him, telling that this radiance would roll across the firmament to the edge of the earth and eventually, they had been told by their fore bearers, would drive itself directly into the mountain where it would incinerate the very ceiling of the earth before dying out, giving way to a generation born into sheer darkness. In the dying hours of those born into the dark, a new burning brightness would drive up through the plains cast light upon the world.
The sprawl of existence was dotted sporadically by great expanses of water which were said to house the unborn souls of those who would inhabit the earth at a future time. Pools of water rippled across the known world, stretching in some places beyond the limits of the universe; Quagmire, these spirit worlds were called. Deep within these pools were said to writhe the spirits of the yet-to-be, patiently awaiting their opportunity to experience. He knew that once, his soul had too inhabited the queer depths of the Quagmire but what had been a divine womb was now cut off from him, both in memory and in flesh, for he could no longer tread in these places. But it was not upon him to question such things in any case.
What did fascinate him were the tales of the Old Ones. Mighty beings of eldritch power, gods among the living. Buried under the world beyond the reach of light or shadow, hidden from time, they were said to slumber throughout the eons, gathering to themselves power and might. Eternal was their breadth of longevity, unknowable were the leagues of their wisdom, unattainable the depths of their ferocity. Passed down for a thousand upon a thousand generations, the myth of the Old Ones held true as the only collective memory of his kind that had prevailed throughout the ages. And it was said that their time would arise once again. Legend told that it would be they who thrummed an ancient song as epochs passed, as generations overtook generations. It would be they who would lift to the heavens on gossamer wings, outstripping the mightiest efforts of his people, soaring through celestial realms of chaos to the brilliant light. Tales they were, alone prevailing through the ages, the omnipotent, omniscient, everlasting ancients.
His imaginings of these deity had been fulfilled in his late hour. Youth had taken its leave of him and as the jaws of age had clamped firmly about him, he longed for experiences of a different nature. Another had shared with him of the awakening of the Old Ones. The legends warned of a great time of frigid darkness, an era when even the times of light would be dim and its warmth would refuse to touch his kind. Plants would shrivel and the ground would cease to bear sustenance. Even the expanses of the Quagmire would solidify, trapping a million, million souls within its confines. It had been three hundred generations since the last ice age and another was predicted to begin within his lifetime. You may question why those consumed with the present would pass on a story for a thousand upon a thousand lifetimes. The answer should surely become clear when you realize that the gods of his tribe have returned.
Upon the arrival of the epoch of Bitter Chill, there was prophesied the emergence of the Old Ones. Sweet and low came the hum, gentle and quiet. Then it came roaring like a tyrant, fierce and majestic, shaking him to his deepest being, demanding obeisance. It echoed throughout the realm, shaking the very pillars of the earth, it elicited terror and rent sanity. The impossible cacophony shattered even the Quagmire, unleashing untold hordes of the yet-to-be upon creation. It penetrated to his core and loosed a torrent of horror and dismay deep within the recesses of his psyche. Then shadows fell across the plains.
Even the dim light was cast from his sight when the Old Ones emerged and took to the sky. They thundered through the heavens by the ten thousand, casting unearthly shadow across the land. His kind flew in terror as the apocalypse which was foretold descended upon them, consuming all in their path, wreaking devastation. They rained down from the celestial realms in spades and blackened the world as they fed. He witnessed the insatiability of their ravenous craving. He witnessed their towering stature and their monstrous strength. Five eyes atop an swiveling head surveyed their domain and four jaws shred every living thing in their proximity. Arms sporting evil-looking spines reaped their rightful bounty and impregnable armor covered every inch of their bodies. He cowered in fear before the fiendish and malevolent behemoths, the Old Ones. In just one day, the earth was raped of light and life, spoiled for eternity. The Old Ones had returned.
As he lay petrified before the onslaught, one mighty being took notice of him. His frail form quivering in reverence and awe, he could do naught but stammer in broken syllables, his mind devolved in utter fear. His stuttering query bled from his throat like ichor dripping through an hourglass, “Is the world undone?” He fell aback for the final time as the bellowing reply came deep from within the god-beast before him, his legs failing to lift him trapped him in this final place of rest. The guttural response came more gently than he could fathom yet more powerful than he could comprehend. “Child,” The Old One spoke, “this is but a single day.”
And at the end of that day, as the ancients took their leave, he looked far back to morning. The morning when he was youthful and erupting with vitality and promise, experiencing each instance to the fullest, his wings glistening with dew and all of his legs full of power. Every moment bursting with potential and hope and each moment a new adventure. He saw midday, when his life waxed and the afternoon sun was swallowed up by rain clouds as they ushered in the winter. And with the winter came too the Old Ones. The Old Ones who saw not the significance of his span of life, one day though it was. The Old Ones who lay waste to the world in his twilight and gleaned for themselves the harvest which grew throughout the generations, thrumming their eternal song over the earth. And against his newest and final fear, he asks you as his light fades, “Is the life of the mayfly less worthy than the life of the cicada?”
