Submissions close on February 14th.
All submissions must be under 1,500 words.
No chatter in this thread, please.

Please submit your story in the following format:

Author Name:
Genre:
Style: (poetry, short story, etc.)

Title:

Submission

Author Name: Joshua Sandefur
Genre:
Style: Poetry

Title: Victory's Battle Cry

His consuming fire burns within us
As this battle for our lives rages on
Will you fight for those who need love
Or like a coward, will you be gone?

Lives that are standing in the balance
Will run the risk of utter destruction
We will not stop engaging in this conflict
Until we have obliterated this corruption

My resolve during this conflict stands firm
Because victory has already been declared
We rush the gates amidst the battle cry
Because our enemy will not be spared

The fragrance of war rises from this plain
Contention against the enemy of my soul.
My blade now dripping dearly held lies
From those whose heads now roll!

Our Captain who leads this charge
Gives the order to march full pace
We hear His voice where our feet trod
Because He speaks from the Secret Place

Let us continue with the dawn of the day.
And regain what has been taken
To see the restoration of order
And the recognition of the forsaken.

Author Name: Joshua Sandefur
Genre:
Style: Poetry

Title: The Clarion Call

Deep darkness like a plague covers the land.
Humanity in its ignorance doesn't understand.
Lifeless eyes search for purpose and meaning.
Souls tortured and in need of healing.

Perspective is shattered by falsehood and time.
Serving considered mutiny and love a crime.
A faceless enemy lurks in the cracks
Manipulating minds of the helpless into attacks

We are ambassadors armed for the fray
Helping the scattered and lost find the Way
Receiving a Kingdom which cannot be shaken.
Remembering the forgotten and adopting the forsaken.

A consuming fire within us is ever burning.
Eternity within humanity is found yearning.
Our Captain lifts His voice with a clarion call.
A commission to offer His salvation to all.

We engage our enemy with a deafening battle cry
Love in our hearts overflowing, so we are not afraid to die.
Leading captives and prisoners out of the way of harm
Into the restoration and redemption of the King's arm.

Our Help guides our hands to make attacks precise
Enemy heads fall to the ground as our blades drip their lies.
We enforce a victory that has already been made known
For our King holds the keys and sits on the throne.

Author Name: Theodora Ashcraft
Genre: Fantasy
Style: Drabble
~~
Title: Remember My Mercy

Swords clashing, ringing out in the night air. One man falls. The knight stands above his foe, his sword hovering above the man’s throat.

“Kill me, then,” the man snaps.

The knight lets the tip of his sword touch the man’s neck before re-sheathing it. “No.”

“You won.” The man’s voice is accusing. “Are you a coward?”

The knight looks down at him. “Unlike you, I have a code of honor I follow. I will not strike you down. When next you’re faced with a choice like mine, remember the mercy I showed you.”

The knight turns and walks away.

Name: Juliet Nicole Lauser
Genre: medieval
Style: short story

My Best

I lay in the mud, rain smarting the back of my neck and trickling around my ears. My teeth scraped with grit when I flexed the muscles in my jaw. I – shouldn't – be here. It was an outrage. It was an insult. It – it – hurt.

The man in me burned.

I had a moment to choose one more thing. Stand up – and face the crowd of men who now knew how wretchedly weak I really was.

Or lie there, the child I had proved myself, and be carried away to be tended.

I set my teeth and lifted my aching head, planting my fist in the pool of rain water gathering around me. My throat was dry and tight, and it knotted savagely. I – was ready to face the dishonor in their faces. I dragged myself to my knees, my heart pounding hard and tight in my chest and sending pulse after pulse of pain through my head. The rain traced lines down my face, colder than marble. I rose to my feet.

“The honorable prince.” Loos smiled deliberately, water making strands of his hair curve across his forehead. He dropped my gauntlet into the dimpling pool around his feet.

I tried to straighten myself, and keep my lips from shaking at the pain. “I'm standing,” I said.

*going to edit and format this more later*
Author Name: Jeremiah Stiles
Genre: Fantasy
Style: short story

Title: Tribotten

 He cut a mysterious profile with the flowing cloak-cowl burying his face in shadow. The two swords, one on each hip, didn't make his appearance any less unusual. Most had neither the skill to wield nor the wealth to attain two such weapons.
 He guessed this was why people were so intent on him as he passed into the small village. He kept his hood down, shielding his face from their eyes. Walking down the dusty street, he surveyed the flimsy wooden structures that cropped up on each side. The town had flourished, but it wasn’t a place he would be spending much time in. Being a mercenary, he preferred high wages. He knew there were no major wars going on in the area, but where there were wealthy people; there were people that wanted others dead. If he could agree to the cause, he would take the job—well, a few times lately he hadn’t worried so much about the cause; or he’d tried not to. He had to eat.
 The streets, not crowded to begin with, seemed a lot clearer by the time he spotted an inn. Pushing the door open, he ducked inside. Moving through the crowded dining room, he sat strategically at a table in the back corner, facing outward. Folding his hands under his chin, he began to let the jumbled words from the other patrons filter in. This was how he glimpsed a very large aspect of any small town.
 Crops were starting to ripen. Something had been getting into the turnips.
 Rebellious children.
 Dead women.
 His eyes widened slightly as he tried to focus on one of the voices, and what it said.
 “Dried blood—” he caught, just as roaring laughter erupted from another table. Then he heard the voice again, raised slightly. “Dead instantly—”
 “Tribotten,” a different voice said in uneasy tones.
 Tribotten. He felt the cold weight of the name, and the way the man said it did nothing to ease the anxiety that sprang up as he heard it.
 The conversation ended, and two men left the building. He shrugged mentally, pushing the thoughts aside as the proprietor came up to him quietly. “Can I get you anything?”
 “Food,” he said, dropping a piece of silver on the table. The man hesitated, then took the money and retreated to the kitchen. He resumed listening as he waited for his meal to arrive.

 Tribotten. Tribotten. The name stuck in his brain that night as he bedded down outside. He had heard it two other times through the course of the evening, and each time it was in the context of some recent act of violence to a woman or child. He did not like the implications of the words he’d heard.

 Rising early next morning, he hurried to the edge of the town, where there was a thick forest.
 He spent several hours searching, remembering every tree he set eyes on as a potential landmark, and ally—such were the instincts that came with his work. He knew It wouldn’t attack him unless he stood in its way or stood against it. But he still took extra care not to make a sound.
 On the way back he found deep claw marks on a tree, about six feet from the ground. Looking about, he saw another tree with a similar gash, farther on he found another. Following the mutilated trees; he came to the back of a large house. His stomach gurgled, reminding him he was hungry, but his mind was busy. What did the marks mean? He was more certain now than ever of what had made them, and he vaguely wondered why they led to that particular house—the answer seemed almost obvious, but he didn’t want to believe it. He felt the urge to leave town growing as he put the pieces together.
 He remembered hearing the enraged snarl only feet away, followed by the screams of his fellow hunters. He remembered losing his sword to the beast, and leaving his armor so he could run faster. Run faster…while his friends lay dead behind him. The feeling of weakness had been too much, and the knowledge that he had run was unbearable. He didn’t want to relive that.
 He began to stride out, back to the path he had been traveling before he ever entered the town. He was almost away when he heard a scream. Then it was cut short. He froze as if he’d been sneaking away and someone spotted him. His heart began to race, and he felt his shoulders tense. I’m running away again.
 He stood uncertainly, considering his options. Turning slowly, he felt his will
snap together.
 I’d rather die a failure than continue to live with no purpose. He ran.

 When he arrived at the spot the sound had come from-it was that same large house he had just left-Thiril quickly surveyed the scene. There was blood on the ground, with scuff marks leading behind the house—the same signs they had found last time. And he remembered the trick the thing had played on them, too. Drawing both swords, he rounded the corner of the house.
 There, five feet away, an enormous, shaggy, humanoid creature sat, with a giant forepaw resting on the chest of a bloodied villager, as if waiting for him. Thiril couldn’t tell if she was alive or not. He wouldn’t take his focus off the leering canine’s slitted yellow eyes—that was always where things began with these creatures.
 He saw the werewolf’s pupils constrict suddenly, and knew what was coming if he didn’t beat it to the punch. As the creature’s neck started to swell, he feigned an attack, slashing with his right sword, hoping to scare the wolf back before it could release its debilitating roar, like the other had. The blade thudded into the side of the house, and stuck; but the wolf had stopped gathering air when it leaped out of reach. A rippling snarl tore from the beast’s throat and pushed against Thiril’s chest. Leaving the sword, he leaped over the woman’s body, attacking with his other sword, hoping to drive the beast farther back. He was stalling—he didn’t know how to get to this creature, but if he could keep it on its toes…
 The werewolf leaped past his attack and hit his shoulder, knocking him backward. Thiril rolled to his feet immediately, but Tribotten was already on him again. He threw himself toward the house, swinging his sword at his attacker as he did so. If he could put his back to the building, the werewolf wouldn’t be able to attack so recklessly. A shriek pierced the air as he felt resistance on the tip of his sword. Tribotten scrambled on the ground, scratching deep furrows in the dirt with his claws, positioning himself to face Thiril again.
 Seeing the werewolf’s neck starting to bulge again, he threw his remaining sword, immediately turning to tug on the one that remained in the side of the house. He heard an enraged snarl as his other sword met its target, and knew without looking that the monster was hurtling towards him again.
 With one last burst of effort, he yanked the sword from the building. The motion brought the blade around forcefully, slamming into the werewolf just before it slammed into him. He felt the blade slice into its throat; then the wolf’s momentum shoved the blade back, pushing it into Thiril. He felt it through the thick leathery armor of his cloak. The werewolf’s open jaws connected with his head, delivering a sharp blow to his forehead and chin. He saw bright light as the back of his head slammed into the building behind him. Blinded, he heard the thick bubbling snarl begin to slow in tempo, then die at his feet. The sword, wedged slightly in his cloak, fell to the ground before him, and he began to lose his balance. Just as he started to fall, his vision returned.
 Two townspeople were helping the werewolf’s victim, while two more hurried forward to help him. Tribotten lay at his feet, dead.
 Thiril pitched forward, and darkness closed his eyes for the last time.

Author Name: Aldara
Genre: (I'm not really sure)
Style: a reflection. (Not really a short story.)

Title: Men Like Him

Some days it’s a struggle just to get out of bed. He would much rather sleep, some days, because waking up is hard enough and starting out right is another thing altogether. But his father always told him that if things don’t start right, they generally continue being not-right, and a day not-right is a day wasted. Men like them couldn’t afford to waste a day. So he always got out of bed anyways, whether he wanted to or not, and he started out the day right, most of the time, because he was a man and men like them did right.

Some days he wishes he could leave his armour at home. It’s just so heavy, and people laugh at him for wearing it. But his father always said that without armour, you’re liable to be wounded, and a wounded soldier isn’t much good to anyone. Men like them were soldiers. So he would strap on his belt and his breastplate and his boots, and jam his helmet on his head as he edged through the door. Then he would load his sword and shield into the passenger seat of his car, because he was a man, and men like them were soldiers.

Some days he wishes he could quit fighting. It’s a lot of work to be a fighter and a student, and nobody wants to be friends with someone like him. But his father always explained that to stop fighting is to lose the war, and losing the war means letting evil in. Men like them stood against evil. So he did what was right, and he stood up for truth, because he was a man and men like them fought evil.

Some days he wants to skip out on the War Council. He always had to give a report and much as he appreciated support he hated looking bad if something hadn’t gone well. But his father always lectured that not being accountable showed a lack of integrity, and a man without integrity is no man at all. Men like them were accountable. So he always logged in on time, and he always told the truth, because he was a man and men like them had integrity.

Some days, when he felt like this, he didn’t feel like talking to the Commander. He didn’t feel so good about the cause and he usually had to wait for an answer anyways. But his father always reminded him that his Commander was a loving God and He deserved his respect and love. Men like them followed God. So he kept praying for purpose and strength, and used them to keep going, because he was a man and men like them were godly.
Some days, yes, it was hard. It was difficult enough to be different, and even harder to be good. But The Father had called him, “Come follow Me”, and “Do just as I have done” Men like him were disciples. So he dedicated himself everyday to learning and imitating, obeying and fighting, all for Him, because he was a man, and men like Him had honour.

Author Name: Juliet Nicole Lauser
Genre: fairytale sort of
Style: Poetry

Title: Duel

Once upon a
Time
There was a monstrous fight
I might even say
I almost
I really
Might
Even say
It was almost as fierce as
St George
At bay

It started with
A bear
A little
Round bellied
Wax work bear
The kind
With a wick
For a hat
Or
Perhaps hair
The kind that are
Solemnly guaranteed
To light
The room
For forty five hours
Before
You reach
It's toes

He called
Crabby
A whiskerless
Mongoose
And Crabby didn't
Like it
(Crabby was
A rabbit
With dignity
Ears
And a tail)

The next thing
Was when Crabby said
That
Trosheen
(The wax work
Bear)
Had really
A sorry
Excuse for hair
Or even
A hat
Or even
If he went
So far
Trosheen's upper regions
The parts of him
On top
Resembled a
Mutilated
Umbrella

Trosheen had
'Ireland'
Stamped on his foot
So you might
Imagine
The rage he took

The next thing was
When Trosheen used
The snuffer
That sat
Beside him
And gave a lick
At Crabby's
Nose

Then Crabby
Picked Trosheen
Up by his toes
And dropped
Him in
The scuttle

That was when
It became
A battle

They were insulted
Beyond
Repair
And blackened
Even
Further
Crabby roared
And
Trosheen smoked
And the shelf
Was re-floored
With scratches and
Jabs

But when it got
To the end
Each former
Friend
Was avenged

One was a pool
Of melted
Wax
One was a pile
Of rags

Author name: Aubrey Hansen
Genre: nonfiction
Style: blank verse poetry

Title: Virtue

Honor is not
the absence of iniquity,
a nobility earned by the pure of heart,
or even
a code by which righteous men run their lives;
but rather
a meek surrender
to God’s will
and a confession
that He
can use
a broken vessel.

Thank you all so much for your entries. I am now going to lock these threads for judging. Winners will be announced in 2-3 weeks. Meanwhile, anyone interested in helping to compile the book can please go back to the main announcement thread to come up with a plan of attack for that project.

Thank you!

Author Name: Faith Blum
Genre: Science Fiction
Style: Short Story

Title: Darren's Choice

Submission:

Darren walked quickly down the stainless steel hallway. He was late, again. Would he ever learn to leave on time? Probably not. His boss was going to be livid this time. Not only was he late for his normal work schedule, Darren had actually promised to arrive early today.
Darren muttered insults and reminders to himself as he hurried past steel doors with foreign numbers attached to them. He finally reached a blue metal door and took a deep breath before entering the danger zone.
“You're late!” boomed the big man.
“Yes, Sir...”
“You said you would be early!”
“I know, Sir, but...”
“What is the problem boy? Can't you be on time for anything?”
“Sir, if you'd just...”
“I will not tolerate this again! If you are late one more time, I will fire you. You know what that means?”
Darren gulped. “Yes, Sir. I know what that means.”
“Good! Now get to work.”
Darren looked up at the man's face. That's all? No explanations? Nothing? Darren shrugged and stumbled through the room, out the door behind the man and into his small, dingy office. The desk was littered with garbage parts.
Darren moved quickly to his desk and picked up a conglomeration of metal parts that seemed to be put together haphazardly and started muttering to himself. “Someday this will actually work. I know it will. My invention's just got to work.”
For the next few hours, Darren puttered around his office, attaching this part, soldering that part, moving this part a few centimeters, repeat. He stood staring at the mess of parts glued, soldered and wrapped together. Something wasn't quite right.
Darren walked absently to the wall behind his desk. The metal wall was painted a brilliant white. He tapped on the wall and a light blue light shone from it. Tapping in all the right places, Darren brought up a screen containing lines and diagrams. He study it before swiping his finger across the screen to bring up the next page. This page contained diagrams of all the parts he thought he needed.
Darren glanced behind him and took a quick inventory of the parts scattered around and on his desk. Yes, he had all the right parts. He swiped his finger across the screen again, turning before the page showed up. He walked took a quick step to his desk, picked up his invention and turned around.
Studying the picture on the screen, he compared it to the mess he held in his hands. He muttered to himself as he looked up at the screen, then down at the parts. His fingers moved nervously across the surface of his attempted invention.
One last glance at the screen told him what the problem was.

* * *

Two days later, Darren jumped out of his bed, threw on his clothes and ran out the door. He hurried to the blue door and burst through it. He didn't even notice his boss staring at him with wide eyes as Darren brushed past him to get to his office.
Darren rushed into his office and immediately went to the screen behind his desk. Touching it on, he tapped his foot impatiently while the screen came on. This has to work! I just know it will! Pulling up the screen with the model, his finger's worked quickly to swipe in a few changes to the model. He took a step backward when he was finished and squinted his eyes, looking at the new model with a critical eye.
He heard a noise behind him and spun around quickly on his heel.
“Boss!” he choked. “You scared me half to death!”
Darren's boss chuckled. “No more than you did when you came bursting in here almost an hour early.”
Darren glanced at his wrist. “Oh. I suppose you have a point.”
The boss shook his head affectionately. “I guess that's why they say that all the brilliant scientists are eccentric and a wee bit crazy.”
Darren grinned. “I guess so.” Darren turned back to his work. He did not notice when his boss left as he lost himself in his work.

* * *

Another week passed by quickly. Darren worked at a feverish pace. He could sense that his invention was nearly done. Once it was...Darren shut the thought out of his mind. He couldn't go there. If he did, he knew he would never finish it.
That day, Darren moved slower than usual. He had a feeling that today would be the last day he would need to work on the invention. He refused to think what that meant. He knew he would never lack a job, he was too good of a scientist for that. But, could a scientist be a good scientist if he didn't have a conscience? Or rather, if he refused to use his conscience?
Darren shook the thoughts out of his mind as he neared the blue door...for the last time? He hoped so. He trudged into his gloomy, dingy office and got to work.
He was slow today, mostly because the finishing touches he needed to do were delicate and if not done properly could ruin the entire thing. By the time the sun had set, Darren had the invention finished. It was finished two days ahead of schedule. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow, I will come in and test it before I tell him...
His thoughts were interrupted by a booming voice. “Darren, me boy! How is the invention?”
“Almost done, Sir,” Darren replied looking him levelly in the eyes.
The big man narrowed his eyes slightly. “Excellent! I want to be here when you test it out.”
“Yes, Sir,” Darren said. Now what do I do? I can't test it without his knowledge. That's why I have this office so close to his.
That night, Darren could not sleep. He tossed and turned as his thoughts ran faster than the fastest sprinter. Faster than the fastest working computer.
Why did I agree to do this? I knew what would happen if I did it? How can I live with the fact that MY invention could...will cause the death of millions of innocent people? In the hands of the right people, it could save lives. This boss of mine is not the right sort of person.
Morning came with no answers. He couldn't sneak it out, he couldn't destroy it. He paused in mid-thought, balanced on one foot as he put his sock on. Or could I? No, I can't destroy it, but I could cause it to not work properly. I could make it so it will run, but not truly and completely work. I could sabotage it in such a way that only I know how to get it to truly work.
Darren quickly finished dressing and ran to the office. Bursting through the door, he ran into his boss.
“Is there a problem, Darren?”
Darren gulped. “No, Sir, just an idea I had last night. I need to...”
“Of course.” The boss stepped out of Darren's way. “Get to work. Remember, it needs to be finished by tomorrow and it needs to work to its fullest capability or your life will be forfeit.”
Darren swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir. I know that.” Darren scooted past the man's wide girth and hurried to his office. He had forgotten that part of the contract. Darren straightened his back. What is one man's life in light of the millions who will die if this invention gets into the wrong hands. Darren set to work.

* * *

The next morning, Darren put the finishing touches on his purposely sabotaged invention and stepped into his boss's office. Taking a deep breath, he said, “It's finished.”
Darren's boss grinned and they stepped into Darren's office to test it. Darren was thrilled when it worked well enough for his boss to call in others.
The other scientists and higher-ups gathered around as Darren put his invention through test after test after test. Finally, they brought in a prisoner to do the final test. Darren's palms were slick with sweat as he walked the audience through the steps to obliterate the man. He pulled the final lever.
When Darren opened his eyes, the man still stood across from him, whole and alive. Darren swallowed the lump forming in his throat. It was the only test his invention had failed. Despite his failure, Darren felt the load of guilt give way to relief and he took a deep, satisfying breath. The last he would ever take.

Author name: Pete Koziar
Genre: Fantasy
Style: Short story

Title: Hero's Ambush

Submission:

The mighty warrior, Kom, crouched in the bushes just off the road, and caught the faint scent on the wind of a huge cat, maybe even a Jar’belal, the lord of the tigers, the great saber tooth. He said to himself, “I do not hunt alone today.”
Then he shook his head sadly and thought, “Look at me, a mighty hero indeed, crouching like a serpent beside the road, hunting a mouse…”
He reached into his shirt and gently caressed a leather pouch slung around his neck. He thought, “Adalee, my dearest Adalee. I do this for you, my daughter.”
He heard the sound of casual footsteps gently crunching the leaves a little ways down the road. A man of average height walked into view, grasping a rough wooden staff, dressed in the ragged clothing of a poor scholar. A single arrow could have dropped the man and his task would be done, the bargain with the shaman satisfied. Kom entertained the thought for a moment, but rejected it again. He had no idea what the man had done to so upset the shaman, but Kom would not deny him the right to gaze into his killer’s eyes.
Before Kom could rise, however, the man stopped, leaned on his staff, looked directly at him, and called out, “Kom Jaror! Who has stolen your bravery? What battle do you find here? A fine, common assassin you have become.”
Kom stood slowly and said grimly, “Do you call me a coward?”
“I stand, unarmed, before a warrior. You crouch in the bushes, hiding from a peasant such as myself. Which of us is the hero now?”
Kom drew his sword slowly and said, “Running will only make this harder for you.”
“What does your heart whisper?”
“You are trying to trick me into sparing your life, so your words do not matter.”
“Do you really think killing me will save your daughter?”
“What do you know of my daughter?”
“I know the shaman is poisoning her…”
“Liar! You lie to save yourself! How can you know that?”
“…and, if you kill me, she will recover, but not fully. The shaman will have another task for you to do, and another, and another. Your daughter will live the rest of her life a sickly wraith, and you, a slave.”
Kom felt the tension in his fingers as he grasped his sword, and forced himself to relax. “A fairy story to cover your fear.”
The peasant laughed and said, “It is you who should be afraid.”
Kom snickered and took a step towards the man, who calmly gestured to the trees beside him. After a moment, a massive creature rose slowly out of the shadows, then padded heavily over to the man, and sat calmly down beside him. It was the greatest Jar’belal that Kom had ever seen, its shoulders level with the peasant’s, its fangs a good two feet long, but with its eyes a deep azure, like a hot summer sky at twilight.
Kom fought the primordial terror that screamed silently for him to turn and run. Instead, he said, tauntingly, “Why should I be afraid of your tame kitten?”
The peasant laughed again and said, “He is no more a tame kitten than I am a peasant scholar. Your shaman is as afraid of me as you are of my friend here.”
“The shaman is a man of great power, who fears no man.”
“Your shaman is a trickster, who serves shadows who care no more for his life than you do for the insect that bites your arm. I, on the other hand, serve the one true god, master of all.”
Kom laughed and said, “There are many who claim their gods are the only true ones. Why is yours any different?”
The man sighed and said, “Why don’t people just believe us.” He looked at the great cat sitting next to him and shrugged. The cat replied with an all-too-human smile and a shrug of its own. Kom felt the little hairs rise on the back of his neck.
The peasant raised his staff, and it was like a coating of sand gently blew off two precious metal statues, blazing as if lit by the desert sun. The cat creature became the embodiment of all that made his kind terrible, yet noble, the perfect cat from which all others are merely shadows dimly cast. Beside him, the man was a blazing incarnation of wisdom and truth. Kom sank slowly to his knees and said, “My lords…”
The man replied, “Get up, Kom. We are just servants of the true God. I am Far’ell, and my companion is Sarfan. Don’t waste your worship on such as us.”
Kom still remained on his knees and asked, “Would you heal my daughter?”
The man responded, “How much do you love her?”
“I love her more than anything. She is all I have. I would do anything to spare her.”
“Would you even pledge yourself to follow the true God? Would you sacrifice your own life that she would be spared?”
Kom said slowly, “I so pledge.”
“Then your life is the price for hers, right now, right here.”
“May I at least bid her farewell first?”
“No. If even someone as stupid as your shaman could discover that I am not what I seem, I have been too careless. I must leave here now. Freedom or slavery, the choice is set before you.”
Kom began to weep, deep wracking convulsive gasps of pain and sorrow, as the thought of his daughter, left all alone, consumed him. Alone, but alive, and healthy. Unable to speak, he simply nodded slowly as he watched his tears crash into the leafy earth.
Far’ell waited a few moments, then said softly, “Clasp your sword to your chest. Do not resist.
Kom clutched his sword flat against his chest. He looked Far’ell directly in the eyes, and nodded. The man turned to the great cat and motioned towards Kom, ever so gently. The cat padded slowly over to Kom and peered at him for a moment. Kom saw a hint of tenderness in its gaze, then, in a golden blur, the cat struck with its outstretched claw. Kom caught a fleeting glimpse of his own blood pouring out as he toppled forward into blackness.
He then found himself, or, rather, that-which-had-been-Kom found itself in something akin to a meadow, in which was a presence of such overpowering glory and beauty that Kom could hardly bear its presence. It said to him, “Your daughter is healed.”
Kom said, “Thank you, my lord.”
“Will you truly serve me forever?”
“Whatever you wish of me, I will do.”
Kom perceived that the presence coalesced for a moment into the shape of a man, then it exploded into an incandescent blaze and said, “You have given your life for your daughter, but I have given my life for you. I accept your sacrifice, and give you yet another gift. In me, you have life…”
Once again, Kom found himself in utter darkness, then felt the cold, cool crispness of crunchy leaves underneath him. He slowly opened his eyes, and carefully lifted himself up off the leafy ground. He was back in the clearing again.
He looked around dazedly, and saw that he was now all alone. The ground around him was soaked in blood, and he realized with a shock that it was his own. He lifted his hand carefully to his throat where the great cat had sliced it, but the skin was soft and unbroken.
He picked his sword up from the bloody ground, grabbed a handful of clean leaves from behind him, and slowly cleaned it. He noticed, embedded in the sword as the blood cleaned off, ornate red letters in a language he had never seen. The sword now felt warm, like a living thing.
Kom reached up for the leather pouch around his neck, in which he carried a lock of Adalee’s hair. Instead, his fingers found something hard and metallic on a metal chain. He drew it away from his body, and saw a gold and silver figurine of a saber-tooth tiger, with brilliant blue stones for eyes. He told himself it was a trick of the light, but it seemed like the figurine winked at him.
Kom stood silently in the dappled sunshine of the clearing. Then, he began to laugh, quietly at first, but quickly building into the thunderous tumult of a mighty warrior, until it subsided, leaving him wiping the tears from his eyes. He sheathed his sword slowly, enjoying the gentle “swoosh” against the leather scabbard.
Then he laughed again, a terrifying chuckle, as he thought about the shaman, whose afternoon wasn’t going to turn out exactly as he was expecting.

Author Name: Faith Blum
Genre: Historical Fiction/Western
Style: short story

Title: Honor Returns Home

Submission:

Brennan pushed the horses as fast as he could. God, couldn't you have let the moon shine tonight of all nights? His eyes narrowed as he watched the road between the horses ears. What was he thinking asking God something like that? He must be crazy. “Think about Dustin,” he told himself.
Dustin. My only brother and my only friend. His heart was heavy at the thought. Dustin! You gotta make it! I can't live without ya.
One of the horses snorted and Brennan saw a man standing in the middle of the road. He quickly pulled the horses to a stop, putting a hand on his rifle as they slowed.
“Howdy, Mister,” the stranger said. “I was wonderin' if I might be of service to ya.”
Brennan was immediately suspicious. What did this man know? “How do you figure you might be able to help?”
Brennan could hear the smile in the stranger's voice. “I heard the shootin' awhile back and then I heard you comin' at a good clip. I thought p'raps you needed a doc.”
“How do I know you ain't one of the men shootin' at us?”
“I was one of 'em.”
Brennan reached for his rifle, but the stranger held up his hands. “I ain't armed. I said I was one of 'em.” He emphasized the word “was”. “I left 'em awhile back when they started attackin' innocent people. I was just s'pose to take care of 'em when one of 'em got hurt. I thought all they did was find the guilty ones.”
Brennan sat in silence for a minute. The man had guts, he had to give him that. Could he be lyin'? Sure, he could be, Brennan thought bitterly. But he didn't have a choice. His brother lay dying out there.
“All right, stranger. Hop aboard. My brother's wounded bad and needs yer help.”
The stranger climbed into the wagon and was barely seated when Brennan whipped the horses into a run.
“Say, what's yer name?” Brennan asked.
“Honor,” the stranger said with an ironic smile. “I ain't been livin' up to my name so far.”
Brennan looked over at him. “I think that's about to change, Honor. What you did, leaving those men. That took courage and it took an honor to the laws of the land.”
Honor ducked his head. “Thank you.”

* * *

Dustin felt light as air. He felt as if he had been drained of every liquid in his body. Darkness surrounded him until a light suddenly appeared above his face.
He thought he heard voices fading in and out of his hearing, but he couldn't quite hear.
“...lost a lot...”
“...will he...it?”
“...miracle if he...”
“...do what...Honor...clear you conscience...”
“Thank you, Brennan...”
Dustin clung to the last word. Brennan. That name sounds familiar. Dustin felt his body being lifted up and then set down. What seemed like seconds-or was it minutes-later, his body was jostling on the straw in a wagon. Then came the blissful peace and blackness of unconsciousness.

* * *

“He's past the worst part,” Honor said. “Unless somethin' else happens, such as infection, I think he'll make it.”
Brennan clasped Honor's hand in his. “Thank you, Honor. You've no idea how happy this makes me.”
A sad smile flitted across Honor's face. “I think I do know. Just before I finished my schoolin' as a doc, I went home for a visit. While I was there, my li'l brother got sick and I couldn't save him. I think I know how ya feel.”
Brennan's grip tightened on Honor's hand. “Thank you,” he choked out. “Thank you for living up to your name.”
Honor shook his head. “I haven't really lived up to my name.”
A voice from the bed spoke. “Your name Honor?”
Honor and Brennan turned to Dustin. Honor nodded.
“Welcome home, brother.”
Brennan looked between Dustin and Honor, searching for an explanation.
Honor handed Dustin a glass of water and Dustin accepted it gratefully. It took a minute for Dustin to start explaining himself.
“Yer too young to remember, Brennan, but Honor is our long lost older brother. He ran off when he thought you'd died. I'm surprised he hasn't figgered it out yet.”
Honor stared at Dustin. “You're...? How...?”
Dustin grimaced as he tried to shift his body into a more comfortable position. It took him a minute to settle down against the pillows. “When you left, Brennan was very near death, but not quite dead yet. All I can say is that Ma and Pa are convinced that it was a miracle. They wrote to you about it, didn't you git the letter?”
Honor shook his head. “I didn't finish my schoolin'. I knew enough to be a country doc, so I just stuck with bein' a traveling doctor.”
“Ma and Pa always said that it was yer knowledge of medicine that kept him alive.” Dustin closed his eyes, the pain washing over his face.
Honor quickly started digging through his bag. He found what he was looking for. “Here, take this.”
Dustin looked at it. “It's not morphine, is it?”
Honor nodded.
Dustin shook his hand to get it away from him. “I got addicted to it durin' the war and vowed to never touch it again.”
“So this is the big brother who saved my life all them years ago?” Brennan asked, his mind finally coming to grips with the situation.
Honor's face slowly lit into a slight smile. The kind of smile a man might give if he is not used to smiling. He looked between the two men. Brennan, his baby brother. He had been only three when Honor had left over fourteen years ago. Dustin. Dear, steady Dustin had been nearly nine.
Tears came to Honor's eyes.
Brennan watched his oldest brother out of the corner of his eye. “Is something wrong, Honor?”
“No,” Honor tried to smile. “Nothin's wrong. In fact, I think my world has finally righted itself.”
Dustin smiled. “I'm glad to hear that, Honor. How would you like to live with us here?”
Honor cocked an eyebrow. “You really want an ingrate and outlaw livin' with you?”
“No, but I wouldn't mind having my brother livin' with us,” Dustin teased.
Brennan's laugh reached the rafters and filled the room. “What'd ya say, Honor? Will you live with us? Please?”
Honor looked first at Brennan, then at Dustin. “How can I resist your plea, Brennan? I'll stay here, at least for a little while.”
Brennan let out an excited whoop. “Hooray! I finally get to live with my two older brothers.” He hugged Honor. “Thanks for comin' back, Honor.”
Honor stiffened for a few seconds before returning the hug. “You're welcome, little brother.”

Author name: Cadenza
Genre: Historical Fiction
Style: Short story

Rose’s heart thudded she stared at the little boy. She ignored the other slaves as she looked at him. He sat on the wagon floor next to the old woman. His fingers dug into her worn skirt and clenched the fabric. Glistening tear streaks showed on his dusty face. His large eyes stared back into Rose’s.
Before that moment, everything at her brother’s plantation had seemed to make sense enough. Five minutes before, as she ran her fingers through the Spanish moss that hung off the trees’ branches, she had told him, “Jacob, this whole plantation – it’s so charming and beautiful! I must say - it’s strange to think that my own brother Jake is now in charge of it!”
Jacob’s eyes smiled at her over the edge of his newspaper. “I’m simply glad you’re out of Boston. It was cramping you, I think; you don’t look healthy. But a couple weeks here at Veracity will get you back to normal.”
“I know. And Mama and Papa will love it, too.”
Jacob chuckled. “I’m afraid they’ll have eyes for nothin’ but the baby. They’ll spoil him rotten!”
Rose laughed. “The first grandbaby, Jacob!” Turning, she wandered along the gravel path that wound its way next to the arbor. Something moving by the house caught her eye, and she turned. It was only another house slave, going about her duty. They were everywhere, working and cleaning and – Rose stifled a sigh. She was here to visit her brother, and that was that.
She stood in the shade of the arbor and peered through the vines at the narrow cotton field. Beyond it stood a straggling line of cottages, quivering in the heat. As she watched, a wagon pulled away from them and rounded the field in the direction of the house. She caught her breath when she saw that it was full of slaves – mostly women and children. The wagon pulled up at the gate, and the driver leapt down. He flung his riding whip onto the wagon seat and shouted to the one black man in the wagon, “Keep order here, Frankie.”
Stripping off his white gloves, he strode toward the garden. Jacob folded his newspaper and rose. “Afternoon, Mr. Huddleston. Have you got the slaves I told you?”
“I have, Moreland. Will I need to you speak to you about the price?”
“No. Negotiate it with Anders – he’s in my office.”
“Thank you, sir.” Mr. Huddleston strode away. Jacob dropped onto the bench again.
Rose turned round to the arbor again and lifted one of the vines so she could see the slaves clearly. The children crowded tightly around an old woman and an older girl at one end of the wagon, and the one man slouched on the other end. Rose’s heart jumped when she saw that one of the little boys was crying.
“Poor little fellow,” she thought. She looked at his face; it was lighter than the rest, and it looked somehow –
Rose dropped the vine and strode round the arbor to the gate. She went about ten feet from the wagon and stopped. The slaves stared at her, but she didn’t pay attention. She stared at the little slave boy. His lips quivered as he stared back at her with his big brown eyes.
And that was the moment that everything made sense – too much sense. Rose had seen those eyes before – a thousand times before. They were Jacob’s. The nose was wide unlike her brother’s, but the chin had that same stubborn slant as Jacob’s whiskery one.
Rose realized that she was pressing her hand to her mouth. She released it. She took a few steps back from the wagon then turned and ran back into garden. Jacob stood up and stared at her with wide eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Rose clenched her dress, digging her fingers into the silky fabric. Her words came out in a whisper. “Jake? What have you done?”
“What do you mean?”
Rose pointed at the wagon. “That – that… Jake, that boy, he’s your…”
Jacob’s jaw tightened. “Rose, I –“
“Jake, I can’t believe you would… What about Madeline? How could you do that?”
“Rosie, please! Relax a little. We all mess up now and then, right?”
“And now you’re selling him?” A wave of nausea pushed up Rose’s throat. “Selling your own – son?”
“I can’t –“ Jacob gripped his newspaper. “Mama and Papa cannot – I can’t take the chance of them seeing this. Besides, Mr. Huddleston wanted to purchase some slaves from me.”
Rose stared at her brother, so strong and handsome and well-dressed. “You can’t do that, Jake.” Her breath came fast. “You used to take pride in honesty! Where’s – where’s your honor?”
“What do you mean? This is for my honor, can’t you see that?”
Rose hated the harshness of his voice, but she shouted back. “You call that honor? Honor? Well, I say that’s a pretty poor kind of honor, then!”
Jacob’s eyes flamed up, and he wrenched the newspaper in his hands. He turned squarely and strode away toward the stables.
Rose took a step forward. “Don’t you walk away from me like that, Jacob Moreland!” He didn’t stop. She gathered up her skirt and ran after him. “Jake – stop!”
She caught up to him as they reached the shady coolness of the stable. She gripped his sleeve. “Jake, please. Mama and Papa won’t hate you for it – really, even if they do find out.”
His eyes stared back at her – desperate, just like his son’s. “No, Rose.”
“Does Madeline know?”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”
Rose let go of his sleeve. “Just don’t-“
“There’s nothing else to do.”
“What? Why can’t you just keep him? Just let him stay here! Don’t you care for him?”
Jacob shook his head back and forth. “Rose, you don’t understand, all right? Can’t you leave it at that and let me do what I have to do? You think I’m the only Southern gentleman who has done this, uh? I ain’t. It happens all the time, this happens all the time.”
Rose clenched her teeth. “And that gives you an excuse to sell your son for money? That is dirty, Jacob, downright dirty, and I don’t mind telling you that. You used to be a man of honor and responsibility, but I can tell that’s changed an awful lot since you came down here.”
Jacob’s mouth hung open, but she shoved on. “You obviously haven’t got a scrap of honor left. I can’t see how you can have the indecency and cold-heartedness to auction off your own little boy, and I will tell you this: If you do sell him, I’m not staying a night more under your roof, you hear me? You hear me, Jacob Moreland?”
Jacob shut his mouth abruptly. “Fine. Fine. If you are too good and too pious to stay under the roof of your dirty no-good brother, so be it.”
Rose caught her breath.
“And, if you care such an awful lot for this little boy and my responsibilities, then take him yourself. He’s your nephew, ain’t he? Buy him from me and take him to your little Boston cottage and raise him yourself if you’re so blasted concerned with honor.”
Rose’s face burned as though he had slapped her. She stood perfectly still for a long moment, eyes fixed on her brother’s hot face. Her knees trembled. She wanted to answer him, but she had nothing to say. A moment before, her mind had churned with retorts and statements and accusations, but now her mind was so hollow it echoed. Those had just been empty words.
Jacob spoke in a low voice. “There. He ain’t so important to you as you thought.” He turned on his heel to leave the stable.
The words rose to Rosie’s tongue. “No!” she thought, biting them back, stuffing them down. No, she thought, it was impossible, unpractical, implausible. But Jacob’s words struck her: “If you’re so blasted concerned with honor.”
She said the words.
Jacob stopped. “What?”
“I said I’ll buy him.” Rose’s voice was even.
Jacob lifted his chin, but he didn’t turn around.
“I’ll buy him. How much does he cost?”
Rose stared at her brother’s back. “I asked how much he cost, Jake! Tell me! Tell me, or I’ll go ask Anders this very minute.”
Still, silence. Rose could hear the children shouting, could hear the throbbing buzz of a locust. Even inside the stable, the air was hot and heavy.
Jacob said, “You don’t have to do that.”
“What do you mean? I want to. I want to buy him.”
“No,” said Jacob. He turned around. “No. He’s not for sale. I ain’t selling ‘em, Rosie.”
Rose felt tears well up, but she held her eyes open wide to keep them from spilling out. “All right then, Jacob.”
They walked back to the house together.
“What’s his name, Jake?”
“Eddie.”

Author name: Faith Blum
Genre: Historical Fiction
Style: Double Drabble
Title: Behind Locked Doors

There is nothing as tempting as a locked door. I had only been working at the house for a couple of days when I came across the only locked door in the house. I had been warned not to try to open any of the locked doors. Up until today, I hadn't found any. Now...it was so tempting.

I had the keys to all the rooms in the house. But if I wasn't allowed to unlock the locked doors, what was the purpose of giving me the keys? I pondered this as I went around dusting all the flat surfaces.

Two days later, I stopped in front of the locked room again. Nobody else was in the house. It would be so easy to just unlock the door to see what was in there. Why did they keep it locked? Nobody would know I had unlocked the door.

God would, a voice inside my head said. Yes, that was true. God would know. And I would know. I turned away from the door slowly. “God, forgive me for almost giving into temptation. I know I would have felt terrible if I had betrayed my master's trust in me.”