Story writing debate
Looking forward to it. I'll list three possible genres and let my opponent choose whichever one he is most interested in, as any of the three would be acceptable to me:
1. High Fantasy
3. Historical Fiction
Ch. 1 Reckonings of death
It all started 5 years ago, when things started to change and I learned that strings were being pulled by something else. It was New Year"s Day, 2084, in New Zeros, Antarctica. Yeah I said Antarctica. I was called Drake back then before it happened. As I said it was New Year"s Day and the city squared was flooded with people. We were waiting to hear the status on the sentence of my dad and uncle. "The sentence for Drakom and Zekor Rexter is"" the sentencing officer announced. We had more than enough evidence to prove them innocent. My dad and his brother had wise guy grins because they knew it too. ""Death, the sentence is death." The sentencing officer finished. There was an uproar of anger from square and my heart broke. They executed them right then and there, shooting them both twice in the back of the head. "Death," I thought to myself, "Why the heck were they sentence to death?" Then something even weirder happened. My dad"s body started floating and his eyes started glowing. "Members of the human race, you will pay for crimes against the balance of the universe. Some of you will be spared, others will die." He said. He spoke like Aang did when he was in the avatar state, like he had thousands of voices speaking with him. "Crimes, what crimes?" I thought.
I was absolutely puzzled by this and so was my family. We already knew that my father"s father was an Alpha, A humanoid dragon creature from the planet Xeno Prime. We had questions like "What the heck happened, are the Alphas fed up with the human race, and what comes next?" It seemed like the government knew what was coming to because they turned the CIA into an alien police force, with much objection to Director Telljohann. Secretary of Defense, Jeremy Greenwald, volunteered to change the title to Secretary of interstellar defense. Mackenzie Frank, the first lady, divorced the president because of these extreme countermeasures. It was hectic there had to be something going on.
Lavinia could remember a time when she was happy, if she tried hard enough. It was a distant imprint, a faint, forgotten watermark on the back of her skull. Yet sorting through the melancholy of the last four years she would sometimes stumble upon fragments of what had been a colorful and joyous life. Only flashes remained now, of a house in the foothills, of hills like mounds of gold dust in the setting sun, the heavy heads of wheat shivering in the cool autumn air. The same hills wrought in silver by an early frost just before the harvest. Lazy, droning summer days, crisp cerulean skies and the bubbles of fluorescent green which heralded the arrival of spring’s first leaves all lay scattered about, their once vibrant hues faded by the passage of time. But there were some which were sharp, perfectly preserved and excruciatingly painful to look upon: a woman and a man reclined by the fire, a little boy laughing in the snow. And herself, smiling into the mirror, honey-brown hair curled into an elaborate chiffon and interwoven with wildflowers from the surrounding fields. These were memories of people who no longer existed, and every instance of remembrance served as a sobering reminder of the fact. This even applied to herself. It especially applied to herself.
Lavinia Taylor had died on that day, as surely as her mother, father, and brother had. The uprising which had raged had come to an end, and peace had begun to settle upon the Empire. This ostensible tranquility, however, came in the form of purges, of a consolidation of power, and of the elimination of undesirable agents from the new order, and for those who had supported the old order it was anything but peaceful. And so one day, while walking home from the market, a young girl of twenty years found herself captivated by the peculiarity by a sky painted deep red. For a few blessed moments she was struck with the surreal beauty of it, until it registered that the inky black lacerations which crisscrossed the field of red were plumes of smoke.
The rest of that night was remembered only in flashes: the ash which had been her home, the dust which had been at once her birthright and legacy, and the corpses which had been her family. The last took the longest to penetrate the strange schism which surfaced in her mind. On one side lay her old life. A sunny life in which lived the people, places, and experiences that some part of her knew were gone forever. On the other existed her life after they were gone: the nights spent sleeping in stables, begging for scraps, the gnawing of hunger and he slow atrophy of her pride and dignity, even as she clung to them as tightly as possible. And while she lived in such horror, it seemed as if there must be a door between the two worlds, some way to step back into a life where she had purpose, where she had values to strive for and reasons to live. It seemed to her that the terror and loneliness in which she existed must be some sort of nightmare, and that if she could only find the will to do so she could sweep aside the troublesome veil which barred her way and step through. This illusion protected her for months; it kept her rising to her feet each morning to move through an increasingly gray routine. But eventually it shattered.
And on the day that Lavinia lost hope, she was reborn.
As the days after progressed things started to die down. There weren"t as many attacks, and my family and the CIA thought the worst was over. About a couple weeks they said that we could go outside. No one but me wanted to. Now the CIA new that I could feel the presence of Xeno Prime and its technology. That day, that horrible day when I stepped out the door, I felt it and collapsed. I felt the power of the alphas trying to home in on me. I told them that. The CIA and my family thought it was nothing, but about 15 minutes later, we got a call from the president. He was on his plane. The call went like this: "Mayday! Mayday! We are going down! I repeat we are going down! The radar shows multiple enemy units attacking all over the world! The White House has been swarmed by dragon like creatures. CRASH! Who is the one who killed our people? Did you kill them? No I don"t what you are talking about. Tell me who killed our people. I don"t know who did it. Tell me! I don"t" sqshhh. Whoever is on the other end of the line, we will find you and we will kill you. Kshhhhhhhh."
I am rather sick at the moment and will post a doubly long story next turn. Sorry for the delay.
It was a gray day. Limbs lacquered in black and limned in white stood, frozen, in an eerie silence. Lavinia walked through the freshly fallen snow, the rhythmic shuffling of her steps the only sound for miles. The forest was seized by a pervasive sense of immutable death, of silence and a strange peace, in which time slumbered and withdrew its withering presence. She could easily imagine it being this way forever: untouched, unmoving, encased in cold beauty and indifferent to the ragged traveler whose steps painted a slate-blue line in freshly fallen powder.
The stillness was shattered when, ever so often, a bit of ice would slip loose from some distant branch and come crashing to earth, birthing a symphony of haunting chimes which shivered in the air for minutes afterwards, breaking her out of her trance. She would suddenly realize that there existed a world beyond the small circle of white in which she strode, the stark latticework above, and the gray fog which walled her in.
It was midday when the clouds and fog began to fade away, their hazy edges burning with ever brighter white fire as they receded. The sky above was a blue so pale that it seemed artificial, and the sun burnt in it like a cold diamond, its sharp, brittle light dancing from every surface of the ice-glazed forest. The silence, too, receded. It was filled with the near constant music of falling ice, the once disembodied sound now accompanied by what looked like distant showers of stars. Lavinia would often stop and stare at the spot where one had fallen, an unreadable look on her face. She had always been struck by such things before, and they lifted her spirits even in the darkest of times. But the natural happiness which normally welled up within her met some nameless opposing force and, finding no way of passing the obstacle, fell back before registering on her features.
Lavinia had been walking since morning, having left a small village on the other side of the wide aspen forest. Her clothes were old and threadbare, though she wore enough of them to serve the same function as full winter garb. Her body seemed an amorphous bundle of tattered rags, until a breeze would blow and she would pull them tighter about her, revealing the waifish form beneath. What had once been chestnut curls were matted and disheveled, framing a face both beautiful and haunted. Its large, honey-colored eyes were a bit too sunken, the lily-white skin stretched a bit too tight, and the small rosebud mouth was cracked and pale. Every delicate feature, every sign of softness and beauty, seemed deprived of vigor and youth. It was the face of a broken doll, a once-beloved plaything tossed aside and forgotten.
Lavinia had lingered a long time in villages and towns where she was not welcome, where she was at best scorned and abused, at worst ignored. When at last she began to regain some semblance of vigor, she set off into the West. At first it was simply a direction in which to walk, a goal with which she could preoccupy herself. But eventually she began to entertain fancies of a new life in another land, of the ability to forget and move on. There was always the possibility of capture while crossing the border. But the possibility of finding something more for which to live superseded everything, and stood like a white-hot arrow guiding her ever farther westward, towards the River Tarsha, which cut a black line between the Balderian Empire and the neighboring kingdom of Evincia. It was here that the other refugees had been fleeing to. She saw them sometimes, in the distance: the little shadows bent as if bearing the weight of memory, shuffling along in the same direction. Somehow the sight made her feel even more alone, and she tried not to think of them. In the distance the wind began to moan, and she could hear the soft tinkle of falling ice accelerate, building into a series of unceremonious crashes as a wall of white appeared in the distance and slowly advanced towards her. She lowered her head and forged ahead.
"Ok everyone activate all of the projects, de-cryo the saved specimens, ready the weapons! Go! Go! Go!" the CIA officer yelled. "What the h3ll are you talking about?" I shouted at him. "Son ,your in area 51," he answered. Weapons and species of all kinds started to be gathered in the front courtyard and one of the officers told us to grab a weapon to defend ourselves with. I picked the large blue sword. I hit a button and it energized. We were all prepared and lined up on the courtyard. The air started to fill with thr sounds of wings flapping and dragons roaring. One alpha appeared over the horizon, then another, and another. Soon, the sky in front of us was filled with them. They came closer at an alarming speed. One of them reached my blade, and everything went black
Jonathan Dietrich was a decent man. He lived in a sturdy, modest home, with a small family of three. He was charming, though a bit rough around the edges. The days of his life seemed to click together like well-machined parts, each one polished and shaped into a perfect vision of monotony. Wake up. Make bed. Get dressed. Groom self. Eat breakfast. Stand Guard. Eat. Stand Guard. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.
This was his third year in the army, and his second deployed to the Evincian border. He stood rigidly on the ramparts, crossbow in hand, eyes on the horizon. Fixed on the black and white tessellated ribbon which was the half-frozen River Tarsha, and on the ghostly peaks beyond, partly obscured by thick white snowfall. Beside him, on the immense, gray stone wall of a tower, were etched several tallies in powdery white. He spat on the ground, and it froze.
At first he did not see the figure that emerged from the woods, huddled over, limping slightly, stumbling and floundering hurriedly across the snowy field as if through lime. Upon first taking notice of it he thought that perhaps it was some animal: wounded prey fleeing from some predator. But it was alone. A refugee. He readied his crossbow, winding back the bolt. The action was accompanied by a series of rhythmic clicks which calmed him. He took a deep breath, aimed, and released. The sound of the bolt firing was sharp, the recoil small but impactful; its trajectory was only slightly off. He didn’t hear the impact, but he saw the weary lump of rags collapse, a single thin white leg stretched out onto the pristine snow, and a red blossom slowly unfurling from it as if from some strange pale stem.
Lavinia hadn’t felt the bolt enter her calf; it had gone numb hours ago. She had only felt a support crumble, and the dim sensation of falling. Now, lying in the snow, she felt sharp burn of cold on her cheek. She could still see the river, just within reach. The will to crawl, to drag her belly over a field of broken glass if need be, was there. But the machinery of her body had failed, and the frantic orders given by her mind elicited naught but insipid twitches. Drowsiness began to creep into her brain, dissolving what scant hope had animated her. But a part of her was still frantically driving her forward, but not towards anything. It was a deep, visceral fear, and as it seized her painful visions surfaced. A tear, all she could muster, froze on her eyelashes as she slowly pushed herself to her knees and began to crawl. The fear had passed now, and she felt nothing at all. She only saw her brother laughing the meadow, and her mother rocking a baby to sleep on the front porch. She saw her father, in his broad brimmed hat, surveying the fields at high noon. She tried to smile, but couldn’t. Then there was a dull thud, the crunch of bone, and the thin crimson tendril trailing behind her flung a second red bloom across the snowy field.
Jonathan lowered the crossbow. It was a good shot. They would clean up the body tomorrow. Reaching down beside him, he picked up a cracked piece of chalk and scratched another tally into the gray wall. He spat on the ground. Jonathan Dietrich was a decent man.
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