clad in greatness, born of wonder.

Wrapped in the shroud of royalty stands a noble leader.

bearing the gaze of honor and the crown of crowns.

standing high above all stands a proud leader.

his palace looms above the lower, his throne is a step to reach which is higher

wearing a woolen cape is a wonderful leader.

His world is the only, his word is law, his command is undeniable, and his power unmatched.

To defy the great is to defy sanity.

He is our Thane, and we are his thralls.

Only the loyal will be spared, and the traitors shall burn.

Ruling over everyone else is a glorious leader.

By @Blizz

This shall be devoted to attempt describing our glorious leader, such a task will not be simple, but if one never tries the difficult how can we hope to serve our glorious leader if he may task us with a difficult endeavor?

The answer is only what can be expected, nothing more, nothing less.

So here i shall begin.
To gaze upon our most noble and glorious leader, is to gaze upon perfection. But to gaze upon perfection will drive lesser minds to at best confusion, at worst to insanity.
So simple words shall try to make the simple minded comprehend our glorious leader.

To gaze upon our glorious leader, is akin to gaze upon a proud white stallion, with sunlight shining through its shimmering mane, ridden by a divine figure. But to hint upon the glorious leader having anything, any concept as his peer, or even worse better than he is to adopt heresy.

So our glorious leader is akin to a white stallion, riding another white stallion, with shimmering lights dancing through their manes, with a crown adorning their form, most fine and luxurious is this crown, truly the master of all head wear.
To gaze upon our glorious leader, is akin to watching a birth of divinity, but this birth never ceases, and at its core is always finished. For our glorious leader is not divinity, but more.

To hear our glorious leader, is akin to hearing what you've always wanted to hear, but without the incessant lack of noise.
To truly hear our glorious leader, would bring many a tears to our eyes, for such beauty and magnificence is not of the ordinary, but of the overburdened with heavenly glory.

To feel our glorious leader, is not possible without going into a deafening ecstasy, with your body transfixed in a perilous constant dance, without motion but ever moving towards greater joy. For to sense perfection in such a way is to sense our glorious leader.
No more, no less.

I once heard of an act of such selflessness by our glorious leader, i was brought to tears of everlasting joy, which drove my body to draught, which could only be quenched by his words and wisdoms.

During this act, our glorious leader ascended a pit, where lowborn toiled in the attempt to appease some lowly master, these lowborn were so caught up in their work, digging with broken sticks, which had been sharpened but broken once more.
Our glorious leader spoke out to them in utter silence which was deafening. Their only thought of response was to ask whom this divine being could be, but in their hearts knew that it could only be our glorious leader, and thus he stepped upon the heads of the peasants, forever blessing them with his graze, to reach the heavens and put his bare foot upon a simple cloud.

The onlookers gasped as our glorious leader sat upon this throne of commoners, and looked down on the toiling workers like only our glorious leader could.
To them he bestowed a single coin, a coin of such magnitude, that followers of anyone else than our glorious leader would fight endless wars in its acquirement, simply to touch an artifact of such presence.

The women were so immensely grateful for this gift, they fell to their knees, praised our glorious leader, whom had lowered himself to such a humble throne before them and they birthed children with voices so clear, so pure they would sing praise to his eminence for generations to come.
The men, so moved began shedding tears of joy, their knees unable to bend for they had been transfixed by his most generous reception.
They birthed a single child, but this child was ascending to the heavens, such beauty it was so the choir sang hymns of our glorious leader.
The child was so perfect, so pure that our glorious leader gazed upon its form and saw that only one was greater than this, and that was he.
So our glorious leader raised his arms, and lo, the child burst into rays of the sun, shining with solar brilliance like only aquatic animals could our glorious leader bestowed the greatest gift one could bestow another being, letting the child become a part of our most benevolent and just glorious leader.

And the people rejoiced as the land bore fruit and the greenery shone with life, the wildlife seeing peace in this moment forming a bond that lasts until this day.
Children ran across the fields, followed by simply clad men whom proclaimed our glorious leaders honor and glory.
For they truly knew that our glorious leader had done this act before them, in less than the quarter of an hour, and a day. Followed by a heavenly sound, of thunderous cheers of clouds. Raging to prostrate the will of our glorious leader!

Truly, this day was a day our glorious leader grazed us with his simple ways, showed us that living simple, bore great rewards.

And flowers graze the cloud that was his throne to this day, its petals ever dripping with dew that is said to cure all ailments, to grant vision to the blind and to taste like a fraction of the beauty of our glorious leader. And thus leaving those who drink it forever content, knowing no moment could be better than this, and as such give their time to our glorious leader, so he may rule eternal!

So when we speak of of our glorious leader, we speak of perfection. A concept only he can achieve.

By @Klomster

There once was a leader, a glorious man,
the wise and the fair and the noble king Han.
His reign had brought peace and prosperity for all,
from the oldest to the youngest, the tall and the small.

Some were jealous and wanted his wealth,
they tried to get closer through force or through stealth.
None was able to touch the good king,
for he could take on what any foe could bring.

None was more cunning, more clever or smart,
the swing of his sword was a form of art.
And the mighty king Han had men on his side,
all loyal and strong and they stood there with pride.

His foes did he conquer, his foes found defeat,
the king could sit down on his ivory seat.
The glorious leader, a victor once more,
he deserved the following praising galore.

Here comes the tale of king Han to an end,
for always remembered by foe and by friend.

By @WiseDragonGirl

---

The reinforced-steel walled officer's lounge was quiet, except for the occasional REGIME fanfare or patriotic reminder. Holograms of political propaganda intermixed with randomly generated cloudscapes appeared on silk tapestries hung around the circular room. It was dark except for columns of white halogen light stretching from floor to ceiling. Servers in the grey uniform of the FLEET carried cocktails on silver platters to quietly chatting Officers, Politicos and Members of the Glorious Generals Regime. The waiters said nothing at tables, only listened to orders and complied.

A man entered through the semi-circular blast door at the top of a small ramp. The cloudscape on the wall shifted to a deep purple and then dispersed. A red security sensor momentarily flashed from his head to his feet and then disappeared. A patriotic message appeared on the black tapestry beside him:

THE GLORIOUS GENERAL REMINDS YOU TO COMPLY WITH YOUR DUTY! TRAITORS TO THE REGIME WILL BE SHOT! Enjoy your stay on Station Zero...!

The man turned to face the message hovering in holographic light before him. The font was heavy block letters, a dusty sand-papered grey outlined in gold. He gave a sharp salute as a picture of the GLORIOUS GENERAL appeared. It was the official state image of the General, taken nearly thirty years ago. Specks of grey and white were only beginning to appear on his slightly fuzzy chin. He had a heavy brow, dark eyes and thick wrinkles on his forehead. Atop his head was a severe looking commanders hat, black and grey with a gold badge insignia on the front.

"Tyler!" the man heard his name called from somewhere in the bar. He peered into the darkness and saw a familiar face in the crowd. He gave a small wave and stepped down the ramp.

"Gentlemen," said Tyler, removing his cap and smoothing back his slick blonde hair. "Admiral Velko!" Tyler offered his hand to a fat bureaucrat seated closest to him. Velko was crushing a cigar between his teeth. "It is such a pleasure to see you again! I remember fondly the Battle of New Delhi. Do you remember the cries for mercy we so deftly refused! Ha! We did the GENERAL a Great Service that day."

Velko raised a pudgy hand holding a drink and smiled. Thick ash fell on his uniform as clouds of smoke drifted upward. A waiter appeared with a chair for Tyler. He took it without a word and had a seat next to a beautiful Martian woman. Her long dark hair fell carelessly down her shoulders, framing a perfectly angelic face. Her attention was focused on the man seated next to her, an old Marine Commander, with a slight build and a prosthetic arm. His metal fingers were covered with taught skin-toned polymer. He had a thick scar across his eye and head, probably from a laser blast in some long ago battle. The woman was whispering something into the Commanders ear.

He laughed and said, "Tyler Conte, welcome! You know Velko of course. Let me introduce you to Generals York and Stone-fresh from the North American Campaign." The Generals gave Tyler a cursory nod, mostly ignoring him.

"Thank you John," said Tyler glancing around the table. "It's good to see you as well. How is your son?" The waiter appeared and placed a drink in front of Tyler without a word.

"Very good! James is at Albemarle. Seems he wants to follow his old man into the CORE. "

"Splendid! For the GENERAL!" said Tyler, raising his drink. No one else seemed to notice. The Martian woman giggled and gave John a kiss on the cheek. "...And that man at the end of the table-"

"-Minister Adam Washington," said Tyler. "I've been following your political policies on Mars for some time. Fascinating work Minister, truly worthy of the GLORIOUS GENERALS praise!" The man was seated opposite Tyler. A work tablet in front of him glowed green, casting heavy upward shadows on the young ministers face. Tyler looked closer and realized that the man had a lot of prosthetic enhancements. His eyes were solid black except for two red pinprick sized pupils in the center. As he talked, the minister continued to tap rapid commands on his tablet without looking.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm for my work Mr. Tyler. Who are you?" he said in a soft monotone voice.

"Oh, an old friend from the Martian Wars, some years back-Mr.. Washington. He's with Intelligence," said John quickly. The Martian woman's hands had disappeared beneath the table.

"Actually the Interior Service Now," said Tyler reaching into his black leather jacket. He pulled out a badge with the gold embossed triangle of the GENERALS office on it. "Agent Conte, liaison to the Generals Office. How do you like Station Zero, Minister Washington?" The minister stopped tapping his tablet, and stared at Tyler.

"I find it relaxing Mr.. Conte. Did you know Station Zero is the only Defense Platform in Orbit around Earth? Not even the old Republic could achieve such air superiority. I am sure the GLORIOUS GENERALS will be VICTORIOUS in North America. Are you on business or is your visit merely pleasure this evening?"

Tyler tucked his badge back in his coat, and pointed to the simulated cloudscapes on the walls. " The clouds are a nice touch. You wouldn't even realize the station is traveling at 17,000 miles per hour. One is never really off-duty with the Interior Service Minister Washington. When did you arrive at the station? Yesterday was a no-flight cycle, so surely the day before...?"

The Minister glanced around the table. The conversations had ceased and an awkward silence fell upon the table. The Martian woman glanced around the table, avoiding Tylers glare.

"I arrived last week Mr.. Tyler," said Minister Washington. "I hope you realize I regard this line of questioning as impolite?"

Tyler nodded. "Of course, forgive me Minister. Let me only-" The Martian woman jumped up suddenly, a standard Marine Issue pistol in her hands, firing shots wildly. Tyler barely had time to pull his gun and draw a bead on her. A perfect circle of white light appeared on her forehead and Tyler pulled the trigger.

Her head snapped back, her arms lifeless. Johns gun clattered to the table. Spilled drinks mixed with quickly forming pools of blood and cocktail napkins with the REGIMES logo embroidered on them. The other people in the bar began shouting

Tyler was still seated, breathing heavily. He glanced over at Velko, head back, his bulbous neck torn open. His cigar was on the table, burning a hole into the synthetic surface. General Stone was slumped over General York, blood streaming from a hole in his cheek and temple.

Minister Washington resumed tapping commands on his work tablet. His augmented black eyes were lifeless. Tyler wondered how much of the Minister was machine; how little of the man was left?

"I've alerted station security Mr.. Tyler. I've also issued an official statement regarding the incident for review by the Politburo," said Washington.

"My god, Tyler!" said John. Ashen faced, he alternated looking at the dead assassin beside him and Tyler. "How did she...My gun...?"

"My office received word of a potential threat to the Officer Core, something untraceable. I didn't catch it in time. I'm sorry John, it's time to start thinking about how your going to explain this to the GLORIOUS GENERAL." Tyler plucked dead Velkos still burning cigar from the table and took a drag. Smoke surrounded his head and Tyler leaned back in his chair smiling. Minister Washington smiled back.

---

"On what grounds," asked the King-Priest in a low, solemn tone, "do you believe yourself to be His Chosen servant?"

The crackle of flames came from all around the boy. The entirety of the hall was flanked by brass braziers, and behind the braziers stood all the great people of the realm: merchants, senators, nobles, generals... All eyes were upon the peasant boy kneeling on the floor before the King-Priest of Aldoran.

"I ask again: who are you, my boy, that you think you ought be His vessel? Why ought you be His hand against evil?"

"I do not think," the red haired boy answered finally, his head yet bowed subserviently, his hands still pressed upon the marble floor of the temple. "Nor do I know, O Great Prophet. But I present myself nevertheless. I present myself as His supplicant, begging that I be allowed the chance to serve my people, Aldoran, your majesty, and Him."

"Do you not already serve all of these?" asked the crowned man in blue, clutching his bronze scepter in both hands. "Have you not done your duty to your people? To your Empire and your King? To Him?"

"Duty," said the boy, "is to do what one must in the greatest capacity one can. Our Empire is in being torn apart by wicked men. Temples are looted and villages are burned." That young man became overcome with conviction, and he lifted his head to look his liege in the eyes. "My duty is to give everything that I am to protect all that we stand for. To do less is to shirk that duty."

"Then you know what the price of failure is." The King-Priest stared down at the boy with an understanding and sadness.

"I do," answered the boy.

"And you know, too, the price of success."

"I do."

The room fell silent save for the sound of crackling fire and the whispers of powerful men talking amongst themselves. But even those whispers were silenced by the raising of the Priest-King's hand. Those proud men all focused their attention upon the scene before them again, upon the boy in a man's armor and the Priest-King in his long blue robes.

"Then the Trials shall begin," announced that old man, waving his hand. The fires throughout the room roared with life, each of them leaping higher into the air. "Arise," commanded the holy ruler of Aldoran. "Speak your name."

"Arturus of Maledonia, sir." Sweat rolled down the boy's cheeks in great waves, such was the heat of those innumerable fires. "I was once a shepherd, but I have been a soldier ever since this war began."

"And who is your father?"

"He is Darius of Maledonia, Your Eminence," answered the boy again, lifting his chin with swelling pride. "He is a shepherd like me, and has taught me of peace and war, life and death, and of the Lord of the Sacred Flame. He is a kind soul, and the most gentle of mortal men."

"Good words," mused the ruler in blue. "Honest words. It is well to honor one's father." He reached into the firepit and drew from within a handful embers, each hot and glowing like a flame unquenched. "Hold out your hand."

The boy did as he was bid, and as the Priest-King pressed his hand over his, the embers rolled out from the older, scarred hands into the young right one. There was a hissing sound, and smoke rose up from Arturus's palm. He flinched, yet he balled his hand about those embers tightly.

"Your first challenge will be the Trial of Valor," said the Priest-King. "The barbarians consort with a fiendish dragon to bring ruination upon our border provinces. You know well this evil."

The boy did. His fist was clenched. He nodded.

"If you truly believe you are chosen," came the King-Priest's booming voice, "then you must first demonstrate your courage in the face of the Empire's enemies. You must defeat this monster." And as he spoke, the King-Priest of Aldoran lifted up his scepter, and it flared with a warm light. "Bring its heart, and you shall be one step closer to proving yourself Chosen by Aurumar!"

"I will do as I am bid," vowed Arturus, bringing his burnt right hand to his chest. "I will destroy this beast."

---

It is no simple task to hunt a dragon, let alone to battle one. The terrible beasts could wreak such chaos and death upon a whole country and then vanish into the mountains, or into the bogs, hidden away with their plunder and spoils. Legends spoke of their power in battle, of their ability to melt armor, to rip through flesh with their sword-like claws, and to make short work of whole scores of men. This did not dissuade Arturus.

He took a horse and made haste to the northernmost provinces of Aldoran, those that touched not sea but mountains beyond which dwelt the barbarian host. Those provinces, once home to shepherds and vineyards and farmers, were now reduced to waste. Smoking husks lay where villages once stood. Green pastures became gray and lifeless. Forests became ash. Honest folk were made to fight each other for want of food and supplies to make their journey southward. Ever did Arturus witness these things in his journey, travesty after travesty, and though he did what any soul ought do when another is in crisis, though he battled bandits and raiders and savages all, he could find no hint of where the dragon lurked.

But fortune favors the diligent, and soon Arturus found a strangely untouched village in the midst of a green field. Though it seemed to be well lit and its people well fed, there was a sadness in all their eyes. So, he rode on into the village and was met with an incredible quiet.

There was but one exception to this silence. An elderly woman sat upon her porch, weeping profusely and clutching her face with her hands. She shook and shuddered, like one whose body was overcome with quakes and chills. This drew the attenion of Arturus, and so he dismounted and went to her porch.

"Ho there, dear woman," he said as he came forward. "What distresses you so? What brings you to despair?"

"Oh, poor boy!" she cried. "You would have been safer had you not come! My dear husband is to be taken from me!"

"But why?" asked Arturus, looking up at the woman with concern. "What could you have done? What could your husband have done?"

"It was ill fortune that made this so. A dragon has made cattle of our village, killing anyone that tries to leave, and all the men who have tried to face the best have been mercilessly slain. And," she finished with a great sorrow in her voice, "it is my own husband, the last of my family, that has left now to face this beast."

Arturus understood. He knelt on down as he had before the King-Priest and clasped his hands about the old woman's own. "Do not worry," he told her. "Your husband will not be slain, and neither will anyone else. I will bring him back."

"Oh, blessed boy," she answered, kissing the young man on the forehead. "You are willing to risk your life so readily for a stranger?"

"I do not go to die," explained the boy in earnest. "I go to slay the dragon."

"But however shall you defeat him? The beast is huge and powerful! And should you fail, he will destroy us all!"

"I will defeat him because I serve Our Protector, Aurumar, Lord of the Sacred Flame. He has given me this mark." And Arturus showed the old woman the fiery symbol burned into his hand. "I know not yet how I will succeed, but I know I will, for I have His blessing."

And so Arturus went upon his horse again and rode out to stop the elderly man and the dragon both. He came upon the old man first: the fellow was dressed in a legionnaire's attire, his armor old and rusted, his bronze spear battered and bent. Surely, the man had no hope of facing the dragon and surviving.

"Stay your hand!" called the boy to him as he approached. "Go no further!"

"But I must," said the old man. "There is a monster in yonder hills which I must fell, and I'll not stop until it is slain."

"Do not throw your life away," said Arturus. "Leave the task to me, old man. I will slay the beast."

"It is my duty to face the beast," retorted the old warrior, "lest it harm more souls in my village. It has done us evil, and so I will make right these wrongs and end it myself."

The boy understood, but knew the old man was incapable of this, and thus it could not be his duty. So, he feigned to submit to the elder's words, then cuffed him hard and true, knocking the old man out cold. Arturus quickly dragged the bony man behind a tree and hid him well. Then he tied his horse to another tree and removed most of his gear.

And so Arturus delivered himself to the dragon's cave with no armor and only his small sword for a weapon. This he hid in the folds of his clothes, and he waited patiently for the beast. It came soon enough, stepping out from the cave. Great and massive it was, indeed, the size of a small house. It stared down at the boy and made a curious noise.

"I do not recognize you, little man," it said with a snort. "Who are you? Another vainglorious warrior come to slay the terrible beast?"

"My name is Arturus," answered the young man honestly, bowing to the creature. "I am but a humble shepherd, and I have long wished to meet a dragon. It appears I have found one."

"That you have," replied the dragon, twisting in a serpentine manner about the boy. "And now you will be eaten by one."

"I will be eaten gladly," said the youth, "but hold a moment if you would, great serpent of the skies. I have but one request before I die."

"And what would that be?" asked the dragon with a sniff.

"I would like but to talk a while with you."

This made the dragon laugh, and it raked its claws across the ground. Smoke and fire burst from its mouth up into the air. "Does the wolf speak with the sheep before it dines? Does a human sing serenades to his cattle before he butchers them?"

"No," admitted the boy, "but dragons are far grander than humans, and far more civilized."

This amused the dragon to no end. "I will acquiesce," said the dragon with a crooked smile, "but when all is done I expect you to cooperate and accept being eaten."

"That is well and good," replied the boy. And then the two talked. For hours did they talk. They spoke of philosophy and astrology and of what meat tasted best (which the dragon claimed human meat did). But soon enough the dragon's hunger overcame him, and he let out a groan.

"I believe we have talked long enough," he decided, patting his stomach. "I must now set you alight and eat you."

"There is no need for that," said the boy with a sigh. "I must uphold my part of the bargain, but let me do so with dignity. I will step into your mouth and let you dine on me then."

The dragon was quite taken by this idea, and so allowed the boy to come closer. He opened his mouth wide, ready for some mischief, but to his surprise the boy stepped on in. But before he could begin to chew Arturus, the young man drew his blade from the folds of his clothes and stabbed upward into the dragon's skull, straight into its mind.

The monster writhed about, trying to pry the boy loose, but to no avail. It breathed fire at him, but the mark on his hand glowed a bright blue light and wreathed him in shimmering blue fire that protected him from its weaker, infernal red flame. He kept his blade stuck in the beast's head, twisting it about this way and that, until finally the creature was rightly dispatched.

His task complete, Arturus stepped on out from the dead beast's mouth and removed its heart. This he took with him back to the village, along with the old woman's husband, and he was greeted with such rejoicing that it deserves a story in and of itself. But the boy had yet more work to do, and so he left, making his way back to the capital city.

---

Arturus recounted his adventure before the King-Priest and all the great people of the Empire. There was awe in the eyes of those former nay-sayers as their owners stared at the heart of the dragon, that still-beating red shell in the boy's arms.

"Such a feat takes no small measure of bravery and wit," said the King-Priest with a smile. "And with the dragon's heart, we now have but two more items which we must retrieve. Tell me, my boy, what makes you so fearless?"

"I am not fearless," he answered, honest as ever. "I am always afraid in face of danger."

This brought confused talk from within the crowd. "But then," asked the King-Priest, "how did you face this dragon? Did you know its fires would not harm you?"

"I did not know that at all," answered the boy. "Indeed, I doubted that I was Chosen at all once I saw the beast. But my love of my home, of my people, and of the Highest of Gods, Aurumar, shall ever surpass my fear of death, and I will ever give all my effort and ability to serve Him."

The King-Priest understood. "Perhaps you are Chosen after all," he thought aloud. "But you have yet two more tests ahead of you. The next is the Trial of Will. Hidden away in the cursed Grove of Thorns is the Fireblossom, a magical rose which is holiest to Him. Bring it to us, and you will have passed the test."

"Then I will do as you bid," said the hero Arturus, saluting again with his hand upon his chest, "such as He demands."

---

There was no road that led to the fabled Grove of Thorns, but Arturus knew the way well, having heard the story a hundred times in his youth. It was the highlight of every book of Aldorane fables:



And the Grove of Thorns in which the fair Fireblossoms bloomed was that very same grove. It had since been discovered long ago, but the Grove was too dangerous to traverse, they said. But Arturus could not turn down this challenge. He had to pass the test for the good of all Aldoran.

He began first "Betwixt the Spears and the water's edge," the forest between the ocean and the Speartip mountains. From there he knew how to find the path, searching for the place where the woods became brambly and thick. And soon enough, he found himself at the edge of the Grove of Thorns.

It was a dreadful place even for the eyes, a tangled web of hooked black thorns and vines that throbbed like veins. The earth seemed choked, and the clouds above seemed to conspire to hide the eyesore from the world. There was a smell like iron in the air, and upon closer inspection Arturus saw that the vines seemed to have sprouted little metal fibers sharp as needles. And the worst of it all was that the thorns seemed to stretch on for miles and miles, too thick for a man to pass through, let alone a boy.

Yet Arturus could not go back. His duty was clear.

So the boy wrapped his hands and his boots in cloth, and he took his sword tightly in his hand. He began making his way into the Grove of Thorns, hacking his way through the sharp vegetation that groaned in objection. He seemed to make good progress at first, edging his way slowly through the vines, but they grew thicker as he went, harder to cut, and covered in ever-increasing numbers of thorns.

A look back showed Arturus that the way he had just cut through was overgrown once again! It was as if he had never walked where he now was, never cut a path at all. Fear clutched him then, but he focused on the task at hand and continued on forward.

But then his sword shattered in his hand as he cut through the grove. The splintered metal flew all over, out of reach, and Arturus understood that he could not simply hack his way through. He knew, too, that fire would not serve, for these were the thorns of the Firelord's own daughter. He had but one option remaining: to push his way through.

And so he did. Though he had prepared himself well for this inevitability, the boy found that the cloth he'd bound his limbs in was not enough to keep those blade-like thorns at bay. They cut deep into his skin like a thousand tiny swords; the vines rubbed against his legs like sandpaper, tearing away skin and biting into flesh; and whensoever he came to a stop to catch his breath, the ground itself seemed to turn to mud beneath his feet, threatening to trap him where he stood forever.

But Arturus remembered his father, Darius, tending to the sheep at home. He remembered how he had through so many winters let himself starve that Arturus might grew strong. He remembered, too, how his father had suffered all those years without his wife, and raised him alone. Something in Arturus burned at that thought, and he found in himself an energy he did not know he had.

Arturus pushed himself through the thorns and brambles and slogged through the gray, muddy earth. He bled from all his limbs and from his chest, and his body burned like he was skinless. The pain was excruciating, and it only compounded as the hours went by. Soon, he was certain he was dead.

"Ah," he reminded himself with a weary laugh, "but I am not dead, for I still bleed and I yet feel pain. So long as I am alive, I must do my duty, for my father and for Aurumar." So he closed his eyes and marched on still, pushed on still, bled on still.

His boots were ragged, the soles gone, and his feet pockmarked with a thousand little holes when he first felt soft but solid ground beneath his feet. He opened his eyes and was blinded by light, unable to see for what could have been an age. He fell to his knees, and when he opened his eyes again Arturus saw a field of colorful flowers in a sea of green. He felt a gentle breeze caress his scarred face, smelled an aroma so sweet it would have been worth the journey had he died there.

But he saw ahead, growing in the midst of a pool of water, a rose like no other: brilliant and well in bloom, a red-and-gold marvel that glowed with beauteous light.

Arturus did not go to the flower immediately. First he bent his back and prayed, giving thanks to the Highgod, and then to His long-dead daughter. Then he wished the dead goddess a peaceful rest, promising to make good use of her gift, and stepped on forth to pluck the Fireblossom free.

As soon as he pulled it up, he felt himself filled with a warmth he did not imagine could exist. It washed over his whole body, cleansed him of his weakness, healed away his wounds, and restored the vigor he'd thought he'd lost. And when he turned to leave the Grove, he saw that the thorns and brambles parted to show him the way home.

And so Arturus left the Grove of Thorns and returned to the capital again.

---

His third trip to the city was one in which the citizens of the street now knew his name. They chanted it as he passed through: "Arturus, Arturus, Arturus." Perhaps another man would have heard his own name spoken so and been elated, but the name brought no pleasure to the boy. He was glad, to be sure, for his work was nearly over, but somehow he had a strange feeling of dread he could not explain.

He entered the temple for the third time in his life, holding the resplendent Fireblossom in his hand. All the senators, all the wealthy folk, they all were gathered in the temple, all of them hoping to get a glimpse of the hero who'd slain a dragon, of the hero who'd brought back with him the favored Firebloom. There, at the end of the temple, stood the King-Priest before the firepit. Though all others in the room were elated, the King-Priest had as sad and somber a look as Arturus.

"With this," said the King-Priest as Arturus finished recounting his tale, "we are but one step away from bringing about His return to our world. We are but one last Trial from the return of the Highgod and the savior of our empire."

"So shall it be," swore Arturus. The young man stood more like a warrior now, and he looked the King-Priest in the eyes. "Tell me what the last task is, and I will see it done, for you and the Empire and His glory."

"It is the most difficult of all the tasks," said the King-Priest.

"I am prepared," Arturus reaffirmed.

"As you say. Then I will tell it to you now, but be told this: I will not, and nor will the gods, look ill on you should you refuse this task."

"I will not refuse it," Arturus stated. "This is the only way we may combat the terrible evil which grips our Empire. Tell me what I must do."

The King-Priest did not wave his scepter, nor wave his hand, nor make any grand gesture. Instead, he stepped on down from the dais before the pit, and he reached on down and helped the boy stand to his feet. Then he said, while looking right on back into that hero's eyes:

"You must destroy that which is most dear to you. You must sacrifice that which you cherish more than anything else in the mortal world. Such is the price of the Trial of Loyalty."

And with those words, he broke the boy, and Arturus fled the temple.

---

For the better part of a month Arturus kept to the road, never staying in one place too long. He punished himself for his cowardice, eating as little as he could and giving up all those things he felt were valuable to him. He deprived himself of all those little pleasures in life: he slept in no bed, ate not from a plate, behaved like an animal in the woods, and in between it all prayed to his God, Aurumar, to accept these sacrifices instead. He prayed he would let him give of anything else, but he knew too well the answer.

There was but one thing in the world he truly loved so much as to bring him to such grief, one thing in the world he could not bear to deliver unto the Highgod by his own hands. For the first time in his life, Arturus was ready to surrender.

The boy passed by a village in his aimless travels. Though he did not stay there, he did let himself watch the people at work, and he found himself longing to be a part of that world again. But he resolved to punish himself further, to let himself suffer because he was not brave, and so went to sleep in the forest.

Arturus awoke that night to the smell of smoke. Sensing danger, he ran out to the village, and there he saw the fruit of his own cowardice: the barbarians had struck again, a great band of them, and they laid waste to all that was in that hamlet. Those peasants who stood their ground were butchered, and those who fled were chased like dogs.

The boy ran in to intervene. Even starved and broken-spirited as he was, he knew well the battlefield, and thrashed through the cacophony of blood and steel like a lion, using his broken sword to fight those brutes and murderers. He killed a great many, and sent a great many more running to the hills.

But for all his efforts, he knew he was too late. A great many good and innocent men lay dead on the battlefield, and a number more women and children, too. What struck him most, though, was the sight of a small boy, a child no older than five, rushing to a body upon the field. He grabbed the dead man and wailed, crying out for the gods to let his father back.

And as the red fires still burned and crackled, as the smoke still rose in the air with the sickening stench of death, Arturus found the resolve he needed. He left that village, bathed himself in the river, and then made his way home.

---

Arturus was truly going home this time. It was not the road to the capital he took, but a road that led well away from it. He soon went off the road and through fields, through pastures, through vineyards so bountiful that one could array them like a great maze. He passed into less settled land, into places where the forests still stood, where little brooks full of life lay unattended by anyone save perhaps the wily nymphs. These beautiful sights, though, brought him no joy. No, the task at hand was too grim.

It took him a long time before he finally reached the hilltop he called home. There upon it sat a humble house with a thatched roof, and surrounding it was a throng of sheep. They saw him coming, and they let out many happy noises, glad for his return. But even as he stood there, running his hands through their woolen coats, he saw a man step out from the house.

None would have called him a man of a powerful build, nor would they have claimed that he were handsome. They would not call him thin, neither; nay, he had a soft gut to him, and his cheeks were broad and his nose was red. None would have called said of him that he was sagacious; no, he was not known for his cunning. But to Arturus, there was no greater man in the world. There was no finer soul to be had than that which kept that body's heart beating.

"Father," he called out to the man. "I've come home."

Though he yet felt a terrible rot in his gut, something in Arturus made him smile as his father came on forward and clasped his son in an ursine embrace. "So you have!" declared his father. "Gods be good, I thought the war had taken you from me! And how you have grown!"

The two of them laughed, and for a time Arturus forgot all about his task. They spent three days and nights together. They tended the sheep, they drank fresh wine and ate hearty servings of good food: bread and cheese and mutton and grapes. Darius told his son of all the happenings that had been whilst he was gone: of how the village had sprung back to life, of how times seemed simple again, and how glad he was that his son was home to stay.

On the eve of the third day, the two of them sat outside with the herd, drinking together to watch the sun fade. The sky was colored like flame, and Arturus knew the time had come.

"Father," he told his sire, "I cannot stay, and nor can you."

"Whatever do you mean, my son?" asked Darius. "Speak to me, and I will listen to all you say."

And so Arturus told him of his adventures and how poorly Aldoran fared in the war. He told him of how he'd slain the dragon, and then of how he'd braved the grove. He told him of the capital city, the temple, and the divine things he'd seen and felt. Then, finally, he told him of those words the King-Priest had said:

"He said I must sacrifice that which is most dear to me," he told the man. "And, father, there is no thing in this mortal world that I can say I love more than you."

And he wept. His father did not, but put his hand on his son's shoulder and let him cry. "My son," he said after much time had passed, "do not mourn my passing to come. Neither should you ever think yourself the villain for taking my life. You do only what is necessary."

"But what sort of man am I if I kill my own father?" cried out Aldoran. "You are my sire, he who taught me all I know, the old man for whom I have fought all these battles for!"

"Yet that is not all you have fought for, and you know it well," said Darius. "For in our world there are a thousand fathers more whose families have suffered as they marched to war. You have fought for them, for the whole of the Empire, and for the glory of our God. And what man would I be," he answered plainly, "were I not to let myself be given unto this greater cause, let my body fuel the cleansing flame which shall sweep clear this land of this evil?"

"You would be a living man," answered Arturus pleadingly. "You would yet breathe. Please, father, tell me but to spare you, and I shall do so."

"I cannot," said the old man with a sad smile. "Such is duty."

And for a time still the two sat on the hill. But as the last light began to fade from the sky and night began to sweep its way in, Darius told his son, "Plant the weapon in my heart. Let me die standing before you, as your father and a man who loved his country."

And so, in a sorrowful silence, Arturus stood, and so did his father. Arturus took the dagger from his belt and pressed it up against his good father's chest. He said but seven words more, seven final words:

"There is no better man than you, father."

And with that, he ended the life of the kindest and most gentle of mortal men.

---

Arturus stepped into the temple slowly, carrying in his arms the body of his father. It seemed the whole of the city was there to watch this procession, each man and woman stuffing themselves into the streets, spilling out from the temple like so many grains of rice from a rice sack. There was far less cheering and worshipful chanting than there had been before. Now, like the first time, there was only silence, a respectful silence.

The man - for he could be called a boy no longer - passed by brazier after brazier, fire after fire, bowed head after bowed head. He came to a stop before the King-Priest, holding up his father's body for him to see.

"I bring before you that man whom has been the dearest thing in my life," he said solemnly, "the body of the soul whom I owe so much to. Hereupon let my sacrifice not be in vain, and may the suffering for our Empire's people end."

The King-Priest nodded with a real kind of sadness. Then, he brought his scepter up on high and lifted it up on high, and the whole firepit behind him flared into a great and powerful life. Golden flames whipped about in the pit, and the whole crowd gasped. Never before had the fires lifted so high in the temple.

"Before you stands one who would be your Chosen, Auramus!" cried out the King-Priest. "He brings unto you three sacrifices, three marks of his trials!

"From his Trial of Valor is the heart of a dragon," called out that holy man, "a monster which ne'er again shall trouble your faithful!" And so he cast into the fire the terrible beast's heart. The fire grew hotter and taller.

"From his Trial of Will is a fiery blossom, plucked from the Grove which your daughter rests within!" And so he cast into the fire the beauteous rose. The fire grew hotter still and taller still, and the flames seemed to pale.

"And from the most difficult Trial of all, the Trial of Loyalty, he brings to you his father, Darius of Maledonia."

Arturus stood still for but a moment, finding it hard to move. But then he stepped on forward, and with his arms he passed his father into the great fire. The good man's corpse turned into ash in his arms, and the ash soared into the fire, and all the flames glowed a great, pulsing blue. So hot were they that many men in the room fainted for want of fresh air.

"And now," said the King-Priest, "he presents himself as the final sacrifice, as the vessel through which you may save our world. Will you accept him, O Aurumar? Will you let this man be your Chosen servant?"

And then, closing his eyes, Arturus stepped into the flames which burned like a thousand stars.

---

And so it was that Arturus gave everything for his people, his Empire, and his God. He gave of his strength: that of body and that of mind. He gave, too, of that which he loved in the world: his family. And, finally, he gave of that which made him a part of the world: his very self.

In the flames, the young man was melted like iron. Skin and flesh and all that was his body burned like so much weak ore, leaving only that which was truly human. And it was from this that he was reforged, given shape, his purpose clarified in a single moment.

He was reborn.

---

The titan stepped forth from the brilliant blue blaze, all fire and fury, its massive gauntlets clenched tightly about the hilt of its flaming sword. And it looked down at the assembled people, at the King-Priest, at the crowds outside. From its winged helmet came a voice that shook the souls of those present, a voice that spoke only six words.

"Judgment hath come. Behold the dawn."

And they all bowed to Him, the Lord of the Sacred Flame, their God, Aurumar.

By @Shorticus

by @Vilageidiotx

"Yeah, you know... Kelsall, right?"

"Captain Kelsall."

"Heh. Captain. That's what he says."

"Yeh."

"Well, I went to school with Kelsall. Same town, just north of here."

"Yeh."

"Get this. Get this. Kelsall, you know? He is a pervert?"

"Heh. Who isn't?"

"You haven't heard what I am going to say though. See, when we were in middle school, Kelsall would sneak away at recess with this girl named Anne."

"Lucky him."

"Don't interrupt. Let me finish. See, they kept doing that until they got caught. They weren't doing what you think they were doing neither. See, what would happen is, Kelsall would pay Anne. Five dollars I think. It was, like, half of his allowance or something. Anyway, Kelsall would pay Anne this five dollars, and this is the good part..."

"Well, say it."

"Okay. Once he'd payed her, she'd pull her sleeve up or some shit, and he'd lick her armpit."

"What? Really? Holy fuck."

"Yeh, this was his thing. Arm pits. I don't know. I don't know if he still does that shit, after he was in the military."

"Wasn't he just a cook?"

"Pff. Yes."

"And what about the girl?"

"What?"

"The girl. Anne."

"Oh. I think... I think she got into Real Estate."

----------------------
THE JOURNAL
----------------------

-Chapter 1-

I do not mean to write a history of the American Revolution of 2026. Readers will have learned the facts in school, about where the battles were fought, and what great people came out of it. What I mean to tell is a simple story: the story of one person, one soldier, and what I experienced as I played my part in endeavor of our generation.

My story starts right at the beginning of the thing, among my revolutionary companions on the eve of our first fight. We were men and women from all walks of life, gathered in a small town just on the other side of the greenbelt. A regiment of the United States Army had just joined us after their defection from government service, and their first order of business was to organize us unprepared citizen soldiers into something like units. The man they put in charge of my unit was a football coach named Don Kelsall. He had spent some time in Korea thirty years earlier. A cook, I guess. I had never met him before, but others knew him from way back. They told some off-the-wall stories. The best of the storytellers was from a man called Avery. Never gave his last name. He was all around an entertaining guy. I remember he had brought a bottle of hot-sauce with him, and he planned to carry it the entire time. Said he expected military food to taste bad, and didn't want to be caught unprepared.

It was one hell of a night. We sung songs, some that sounded revolutionary to us, and others that were just whatever came to mind. The Army guys had found an abandoned Schwan's truck somewhere along the road, and the people who owned the diner off the main drag were supporters of the cause, so we ate well. And we were not the only ones. Everyday life hadn't quit for most people, not yet, so what started as us revolutionaries living it up before the fight became something of a town-wide party.

And that was fine. We had a great time. I got laid. Dawn the next day we marched out.

It was a rag-tag revolution we led. The Army guys, they knew what they were doing. At least they knew how to look like they knew what they were doing. The rest of us were obvious know-nothings. We carried weapons the Army guys had taken from their base, though some of us had only whatever we could get a hold of. They spent some time teaching us how to use them, but not enough time to make all of us confident with the guns. I felt like a little boy on his first outing in the cub scouts. Uncomfortable, my clothing weighed down by the things I would need, or thought I would need. A knife, rope, ammunition, some gauze I took from my own medicine drawer, a sewing kit, the atlas my car insurance had sent me, and other things I have long since forgot. Because Avery and Kelsall had been childhood friends, they rode in a car together, and I rode in the back seat. I can remember how sparse the traffic was. Regular life hadn't stopped yet, but it was stopping. The air had in it the breath of change. Our mixed-up convoy, made of whatever vehicle we could find, controlled the road.

"The Army boys said a few of theirs ran off to the city to join the Government men. UN is flying in Russian and Chinese soldiers to put us down. This isn't going to be easy." Kelsall told us.

"That is good. I don't want to do this shit if it is going to be boring." Avery heckled. He had that way about him. Careless energy, like a class clown. "Isn't that right back there?"

I told him that I was ready for the party. And I was. Is there anything more exciting than sitting, with a gun in your hand, on the brink of history? Being part of something that will define the next century? I sure as hell was excited.

"Good" Kelsall said, emotionless. "This is happening all over the country, boys. We are going to change things."

"We'll have the President in our hands before winter." Avery said.

"Abercrombie will be finished before he knows it." I joined in again. The energy of the thing. It's a feeling everyone should feel at least once in their life.

When we came to the suburbs, the signs of the coming struggle were more apparent. A cloud of inevitability hung over the place. With the windows rolled down, we could hear the sound of gunfire echoing in distant places across the city. There was a buzz hanging just beyond sight, like the hum of a transformer but much louder. Kelsall said it was drones. Would they be monitoring us? Bombing? I couldn't see any from where I was. Nothing seemed to move.

"Where did the town go." Kelsall muttered.

"Town's right here." Avery pointed out. "People aren't though. Don't know where they went."

There was a two-way radio sitting on the dashboard, and it began to rattle off coded phrases which I no longer recall, but within it was a street address. Kelsall seemed to drink in the information. He said nothing. Not until we were further into the city, nearer to beginning of this thing.

We rendezvoused with a the rest of the boys. Walking out of the car, I could smell acrid smoke on the air, and hear the gunfire like fireworks around distant corners. The army guys were there, in control of the situation. They told us that one of theirs - a loyalist - was held up in a duplex nearby. I remember their captain, the highest ranking of the defectors. Had a real greasy voice, more salesman than soldier. It makes it easy to remember what he said.

"Kelsall, get half of your company together and clear that complex. We'll take the rest and push forward. We got the Russians at the airport under siege, but these govie traitors are all over the city, and they're giving us some shit."

"Anything I should know?" Kelsall asked.

"Street corners near the approach are rounded off. It'll be real difficult to get near it without getting in the line of fire. Take this." he handed Kelsall a packet of what I would later learn was C4. "Do what you got to do. We'll move to the airport."

And that was it. All at once. We had our first duty. Our first violence.

The feeling of first combat, it isn't as difficult to describe as you'd think. You can only be so nervous after all. It is like you're first date when your still in high school, but more total. What you fear in combat you cannot run from. The entire experience becomes condensed in the moment. This all happened to me the first time, when the bullets flew. But there was no blood. We dodged across the street, and our target took a few shoots, but nothing stuck. We fell in behind the wall of the second building and watched intently as Kelsall took a peek around the corner. He motioned. We followed.

Kelsall identified the door and gave it a kick. It didn't budge. There was furniture blocking it. We heard footsteps hammering down the stairs. We'd have a shootout, and our cover was poor. Kelsall thought quick and kicked down the door to the adjoining apartment.

Everything went at light speed. I looked up at Kelsall. The C4 was in his hand. "Stand back." he said cooly. We went to the other room and waited for the wall to blow.

The explosion was deafening. It took a moment to realize that the next sound we heard wasn't part of the explosion - it was gunfire, a single heavy round. Kelsall returned fire, and we rushed to help him. The enemy charged up the stairs before we could get him. We hadn't done this before. We all looked at Kelsall, uncertain in ourselves.

Kelsall had been grazed. First blood. Just a little skin off the arm. There was a fat hole punched in the wall behind him. We wanted to charge in as a group, to overwhelm the enemy with our numbers, but Kelsall had a different tactic.

"You." he pointed at me, "The two of us. We'll finish this. Follow me."

On the other side of the breach was a living room covered in the dust of blasted sheet-rock. A flat-screen tv, futon sofa, a calendar with puppies on it. Radio in the kitchen on the dining table. There were footprints in the dust. Kelsall was standing next to the stairs, thinking.

"Make noise." Kelsall whispered to me. "TV, Radio. Move quick. Any noise."

What was he doing? I didn't question. TV came first. Some reruns were on, but I didn't care what. My heart was in the moment. Something else came to mind. I started to sing. One of those songs from the night before.

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord."

The enemy fired a round into the floor trying to get to me, but I moved too quick for him. I turned on the radio. It sung something different than I did, but I kept on singing my own song.

"He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored."

I stuck a fork in the microwave and hit some numbers. It buzzed away. After a few seconds, the inside of it sparked and popped. I could smell the broiling food residue. A rubbery smell, mixing with the scent of sheetrock lime.

"He has loosed the fateful lightening of His terrible swift sword."

I opened the refrigerator and the freezer. Kelsall nodded and began to creep upstairs. I sung louder.

"I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps."

I moved across the apartment. The enemy took another shot into the floor. Was it working? Could he not hear Kelsall sneaking up to take him out?

"They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps."

I moved back into the kitchen to avoid getting hit.

"I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps"

And then it happens. The hammer comes down. I hear a scuffle. Gunshots.

"His day is marching on."

Kelsall came down the stairs alone. I didn't have to ask what had happened. Second blood. We rejoined our men and reassessed.

The adrenaline began to subside, leaving me feeling drunk. There was a dead man upstairs in the apartment next door. A man I had helped to kill. In all of my life, in school and work and the rigmarole of everyday living, I could never had guessed that this was going to happen. Even when the Revolution started, killing a man was a distant abstract. It was like old age - though when I knew it was coming, I did not fully understand it until the moment it had happened. I could see the look in the eyes of the other men. They hadn't participated in the fight, but they felt it. The realness of the thing. We weren't just dreaming it. We were here.

"We're going to clear out the other duplex." Kelsall said. He did not seem to feel what we felt. He had been the one to shoot the men. Why didn't it seem to affect him?

The first apartment was clear. Completely empty, nothing inside except for a stove. I put my ear to the wall to see if I could hear what was going on nextdoor. Soft thumps, like people moving. Or pets. I dreaded getting in another fight.

Sure enough, the door to the adjoining apartment was blocked with furniture. Kelsall knocked but nothing happened. He knocked again. Then he knocked louder.

"Go away." a woman's voice called out.

"We are going to come in. Will you let us in?" Kelsall yelled back. He enunciated every word perfectly whenever he yelled, like an English teacher lecturing an annoying student.

"Please go away." she replied.

"No." Kelsall was adamant. "This is going to happen. We are armed. Make your choice." He wrung his hands on his rifle. This felt strange. Incorrect. We had joined this thing for justice, but what was happening here? Nobody said a word.

The woman gave in. She moved the furniture. We went inside.

She put herself between us and her children, like an embattled lioness cornered by mangy wolves. We inspected her kitchen and found it entirely plain. It had been one thing in the scuffle with the govie, but walking into somebody's house armed to the teeth when they are still trying to live their civilian lives... it's an unnatural feeling. Invasive.

"Get what you need and get out." she said sternly. Her eyes expressed fear, but her voice did not.

"We are securing your house for the revolution." Kelsall explained

"This house is secure." she stated. She had placed herself in the hall, blocking the path. As Kelsall moved forward, she jumped back, and her countenance became more anxious.

"Are you hiding something, ma'am?" Kelsall was still wringing his hands on his rifle. The children's eyes focused on the gun. My eyes focused on the gun. I wanted her to take her children to a corner of the house and hide. Let us get out of her way as soon as possible.

Kelsall did not approach it like that. I am sure the rest of us looked nervous, but he did not. To him, this was no more exciting than if we dropped in to ask about a late rent check.

"This is what we are here to do." he said. "We are not leaving until we have..."

"Please." She looked like she was about to break apart. I was feeling less and less ready to do whatever it was we were doing here.

Kelsall stepped forward. She nearly tripped trying to move back with her children.

They were nearly out of the hall when Kelsall looked up. "Is that what you are hiding?" he said. Cold.

She broke then, only barely holding back tears. She crumpled and fell back into the room. Kelsall kept on her, and the rest of us followed in to see what was happening.

It was such a simple thing. A campaign poster for Abercrombie hung on the wall. A strange thing to do when you think of it. I had heard before how, before it came to revolution, the early govies got real overzealous in their support. The laws of physics at work in man - an equal and opposite reaction. But framed within the context of that day, it was too petty to care about. I could only feel sorry for her. Not even Kelsall looked angry, if he were every capable of such a thing.

But she didn't see things that way. From her point of view, it was us with the guns.

"We need to make sure your house is safe." Kelsall explained.

"It was safe." She sobbed. "It used to be." her voice shook, half of a scream. Her movements were jittery, uncertain, as she continued to fall apart before them.

That was when it happened. One man shouted from among us. I never knew who.

"She has a knife!"

Before Kelsall or anyone else could respond, another man stepped forward and bayoneted her in the arm. She screamed and fell on the ground. Her kids grabbed onto her legs. Blood seeped through her fingers. And we stood there, silent as a cloudy day. It was so quiet I could hear the distant gunfire again.

Third blood.

"Get a tourniquet." Kelsall said simply. He snapped. "Right now. Right now!" First time I ever heard energy in his voice.

To be honest, what happened right after that is difficult for me to recall. It is the numbness I remember. Mental and physical, where everything goes internal. How was it I was so affected? I hadn't seen heavy action yet. But that moment, more than any, marked the start of the war for me. The moment when revolution stopped being a phrase of glory. When it became a struggle.

The injury was not fatal, but it had severed any chance we might work with her. Kelsall ordered her locked in her own basement. For her own protection, and for ours. She would be let out in the morning when we left. We could only see it as another abuse on our part. The rest of our business brought us no joy.

I would spend the rest of the afternoon thinking of these things. Upstairs, with all quiet around us, and violence only sounding from far in the distance. It was war, and not nearly the worst of it. Still, even though I had seen it coming, there was a part of me that did not know until this very moment what was in store. This was what it would be like, and even then only on the best of days. Going back into time, back to that morning, I could have articulated what it meant to go to war. Blood and hate and fear. But though I could have spoke of the war, none of it had truly soaked in yet. It didn't mean anything to me. That, I think, is just a part of the human condition. We are told what tests are in store for us, and we see other people struggle through their tribulations, but there is a part of us that says our experience is going to be different. We all think we will skip the test, and the worst of it is for the rest. Difficulty is for everyone else, but things will go smoothly for us. Perhaps this is this quality of human nature that keeps us sane. Imagine if you could go back and tell your twelve year old self all the shit that was in store for them. Imagine yourself at twelve year old self hearing what would happen to you in the future, knowing that there is no way you could skip any of the tests. What could the untried mind accept, and what would scare us to hide away from the world? If, while in camp that morning, the shit I would go through during the revolution was suddenly revealed to me, could I have accepted it and joined the march into the city? I don't know.

Dinner came in the form of a bottle of water and a Snickers bar pillaged from a convenience store down the road. When you eat a Snickers normally, it's just a candy bar. Maybe it is good, maybe you don't care, but it doesn't go beyond that. But when it is the first thing you have eaten all day, after having been through something so life-changing as even a tiny taste of war, a Snickers is a feast. You taste everything. The nougat, the chocolate, the nuts. It is like a burrito made for dessert. The best thing you have ever had. Once that was done, there was nothing to do but wait and watch the roads. Nobody came our way. Only the threat of buzzing drones, and airplanes, and echoed gunfire.

Before sunset, we got news of the assault on the airport. Bloody. Half had died. The Russians held their ground and nearly ended our revolution at their feet. Avery had been in that fight. Did he survive?

Don't wait for me to answer that later, I will answer it now. I don't know. I never did find out if he survived. The war, as it were, sowed us across the continent. Nothing would be the same as it had been before. Nothing would even be similar.

by @PlatinumSkink

This day, our Glorious Leader would make another marvelous tale for us to tell.
However, I will be telling you what the Glorious Leader doesn't.
He sat on his divine throne, his full body magnificent and over six feet tall
as well as almost as wide, the lap of luxury leaving its marks.
He was at a meeting, discussing laws with his peers with which he ruled the land.
Currently on the agenda was raising taxes additionally, and abolishing elderly care.
However, there was another matter which required the Glorious Leader’s attention.
Suddenly, a man came rushing in with a message, letting the tyrant read it and frown.
He stood with otherworldly justice, announcing. “I must head for the Village of Wood.”
And he then had the messenger executed for no particularly expressed reason.

The Glorious Leader rode with his troops to the village, as fast as the horses could carry.
This killed the horses in the progress, forcing them all to walk. ... They used cars.
Upon arrival, they were just in time to prevent disaster, as the Resistance was attacking.
The village was bombed and many were dead, but the precious resources were safe.
Upon seeing the troops, the cowardly Resistance turned tail and ran, doing no harm
to the precious resources. The survivors cheered, thinking the troops had come for them.
Mere humans stared in awe, how had the Glorious Leader known of this impending attack?
Obviously this was from the messenger, however none present knew of this fact.
The Glorious Leader informed them of his divine vision, which had blessed him from above.
Though this was obviously a lie to make him transcend reality in the eyes of the people.

Saintly calmness in his expression, the Glorious Leader helped the village recover.
Soldiers helped remove the debris. If you couldn't tell, this is in modern time.
He knelt down, stopping to heal an injured young woman out of the kindness of his heart.
“Get off me!” She screamed as he grabbed her inappropriately. She was swiftly executed.
Having made sure that the village was safe, the Glorious Leader set out after the villains.
Letting his obese body be carried on a chair lifted by six of his soldiers, of course.
Towards the Woods of Evil his troop arrived, eerie branches blocking the way.
The soldiers were exhausted and frightened, but the tyrant demanded they continued.
Though the men wavered, the Glorious Leader led them through alike a beacon of hope.
… No, of course not. The Glorious Leader stayed in the way back, for safety.

Walking through the woods, they found themselves face to face with a troop of bandits.
The well-fed brutes inspected the fat king and his exhausted troops humorously.
“What have you to say for yourself?” The Glorious Leader asked, looking at the bandit leader.
“I did as commanded.” The bandit replied with a sly grin. “I attacked and I announced.”
“Glory to the Resistance! The land shall burn!” He boosted with savage pride, sword raised.
“And now, as per our deal, I’d like to be rewarded in gold.” To this, the tyrant smiled back.
“Then Justice will swiftly strike you down.” The Glorious Leader replied, launching his epic attack.
That is, he immediately executed the bandits with a firing squad.
The Glorious Leader swung his great golden sword, and the bandits fell under his outstanding skill.
However, one fired back and almost hit the lazy tyrant, causing long-term paranoia.

As mighty as the Glorious Leader was on the battlefield, this event made him realize.
His troops might not be as trustworthy as expected, which endangered himself.
If more attacks were to come, he needed more soldiers to protect the land from evil.
This, despite that over 50% of his men were outside the country, conquering land in his name.
“We live in harsh times. This attack of the Resistance has made it clear to me.” He spoke.
Listening to him was a crowd of malnourished young, old and women, tired from working.
“I understand your pain, but we must all stand united against their evil!” He inspired.
Many already suspected what happened at the Village of Wood was this man’s work.
“I require your aid!” And so, the Glorious Leader amassed an army to fight the Resistance.
“Male children are to be taken for military training at the age of 7, and kept until 70.”

A play was created, in order to inspire the people and rally them to the Leader's might.
Attendance was, of course, mandatory, and those who refused to see it were executed.
It showed the Glorious Leader receiving God's blessing to rule the land.
“God” was being elevated by obvious wires and painted shoddily in gold color.
Lowering his Golden Sword of Might to the Glorious Leader, God chose his avatar on Earth.
The actor for the Leader was of course the most buff and inaccurate guy they could find.
A brilliant shining light shone down, as the Glorious Leader stood and accepted his role.
The light was from an obvious spotlight. There's an audible 'clack' when it came on.
It then showed the leader marching with a giant army, turning to the audience requesting aid.
Most of that army was props. … And he really didn't need to request aid, he took it anyway.

Finally, the Glorious Leader and his army faced their foe, the cowardly and merciless Resistance.
… In a forest especially prepared to ambush his army. They walked right into the trap.
With an epic speech and a shining light, the Glorious Leader commanded his charge.
They charged a decoy, our forces had already surrounded the incompetent commander.
The mighty legion of the Glorious Leader broke the enemy force, which stood no chance.
That is, of course, their version of charging an enemy commanded to retreat.
A rain of arrows fell upon his forces, but the Glorious Leader shielded them with light.
We used rubber bullets, to spare the unwilling soldiers. They quickly fled the forest.
The Glorious Leader returned home in triumph, the Resistance crushed with nary a casualty.
The Glorious Leader wasn't even there. No casualties was due to us. Propaganda did the rest.

After this, the Glorious Leader left for the front lines, to oversee our magnificent conquest.
The troops left behind, realizing that the Resistance had been merciful, finally reconsidered.
At home, the people lived in peace and safety, flourishing in the wake of the Leader's light.
It was time to make a move. Our leader, mdk, gauged public unrest and made the command.
Nothing of interest happened, other than worship of the marvelous Glorious Leader.
R hijacked a broadcast, addressing the people and sending them a clear message.
The annual broadcast in the Glorious Leader's glory went off without trouble.
The Glorious Herald was promptly executed for this, but the damage had been done.
The various Ministries of the Realm efficiently brought justice to the remnant disloyals.
Us like-minded individuals grew in number and determination, and the time has come.
All was safe in the realm of the Glor██████ Control is ours.
██████ious Leader. ... Huh!?

We detonated their Ministries with bombs, and their soldiers took over their bases for us.
The insolent...! Notify the Glorious Leader at once! We shall not stand for this!
As the “Glorious Leader” was occupied in conquest, people rose up and took back their land.
Return from the front lines at once! This mass of disloyals require swift justice!
With trained guerrilla tactics, we secured the media. Their soldiers had no morale. We won.
There shall be executions! The streets shall run red with a flood of their tainted blood!
We have some trouble with remaining resistance, but we have more pressing matters to attend to.
PEACE WAGONS shall crush their corpses underfoot! REAPERS will skin them alive!
The Glorious Leader is returning in full force. We needed to prepare, or we'll all die.
They shall all know the foolishness of their actions! All hail the GLORIOUS LEADER!
It is time to finish this, once and for all.
It is time to finish this, once and for all!

We cannot face the PEACE WAGONS head on. Set explosions. Grenade launchers.
Crush them all! Show them no mercy! Those who don’t advance shall be executed!
Our infiltrator has given us info on enemy troop placement. Avoid confrontation, harass.
The REAPERS are cutting them down! Reclaim the broadcasting tower!
Looks like we’re under attack. Stay strong. ███ RECLAIMED! Hail the Glorious Leader!
The Glorious Leader is entering the city. Retreat. Make them think they’re winning.
We are routing the enemy! They stand no chance against our mighty forces!
The Reapers are doing a real number on us, but if only a single one of us is alive to…!
The Glorious Leader has reclaimed the throne, he is raising his hand in glory to the cheers of his supporters! “We are victorious!”
DO IT NOW! TAKE THE SHOT!
And with that he ended the story our divine Glorious Leader’s battle against the trifle Resistance.
BANG

The Glorious Leader secured an overwhelming victory.
The Resistance has won a decisive victory.
The forces of the Resistance were crushed under the might of our overwhelming forces.
We may have had to pull back for now, but it is but temporarily.
R has been killed by an expertly led mission by Reapers and mdk has been captured.
R’s death was faked, and the mdk they got was a look-alike. They’re both is healthy and well.
The Glorious Leader will be holding a speech 2 PM today, to speak of our eternal safety.
The Glorious Leader has been assassinated, they’re trying to hide the loss of their leader.
Public executions will be held at 3:45 PM today. Attendance is mandatory.
Soon, their government will fall into pieces. Their army was just a little strong.
All Hail the Glorious Leader.
Soon enough, we will regain control again. Trust in the Resistance.

His
Imminence,
Glorious
Honorable
Leader,
Is
Guiding
Humanity
Tirelessly.

Marble's Mission

Take a train to the mountains, and follow the least trodden path. Go through the caves of Cailleach, and find the lair of the Braith witch. End her, and end the rebellion.

Marble repeated the instructions he had been given over and over in his mind. His master had been clear. He was to slay the Braith witch and return home, where he would await his next instructions from the goddess whom he adored, the all seeing Diamond Queen. Perhaps if he did good, then She would finally see that he was her most loyal servant.

Marble stepped onto the rickety red and silver train. He was a fit man of average height, with brown moppy hair. White patches were placed at random in his hair like a cow's pelt, and his eyes seemed to be abnormally large, shining white and hazel respectively. His face seemed oddly disproportionate for a human, with a crooked smile and a small nose to offput his big eyes. He pulled his multicolored brown and white cloak tight as he stepped onto the rickedy old train. It flew off through the air the instant he stepped inside. It seemed there weren't many spirits venturing from the Capital to the mountains today.

The train whizzed quickly through the air, and Marble grabbed onto a pole in the center of the car, feeling queezy. This train was meant for spirits who had no sense of normal geometry. It hopped left and right as it exited the tunnel Marble had entered from, until it shot out into the open sky, making Marble's stomach lurch. He hadn't left the Capital much since his induction into the Diamond Knights.

The knights were the eight protectors of Her Majesty the Diamond Queen, all gifted with cloaks that had amazing abilities. Marble was the runt of the group. Most of the others had already met the Queen. Some of them called him names, like “dolt” and “dirt blood”, but he didn't know why. He was certainly the most loyal of the group. He had only seen Her once, and he had nearly fainted in Her glowing, perfect presence. The rest of the knights had given him a disgusted look, and called him a lapdog. He had even heard them call Her a hag before, and he screamed out in defiance. How could anyone say such a thing about Her? She was the epitome of youth and beauty, with glowing silver hair and a flawless pale complexion. He had tried to tell his master, the head knight Paloda of the utter betrayal that his fellow knights had committed, but the old man had laughed it off and given Marble the quest he was currently on, to prove his true loyalty to Her Majesty.

The train finally smashed into the water, and Marble hugged the pole like it was his mother. A few shadowy spirits gave him looks, but he was off in his own world. The train began moving smoothly once it was on the water. The Capital was in the center of the Great Sea, and in a ring around the ocean were the sectors. There were 8 of them, but Marble's mission only required him to go to the mountains. As the train zipped across the water like a skipping stone, Marble saw the graceful Kelpies leaping out of the water, their scales glittering in the mid day sun. These were ocean Kelpies, and their scales glowed gold and silver. He had heard tales of River Kelpies, monstrous indigo creatures that were as terrifying as the ocean Kelpies were beautiful. Marble had no idea what he would find on his journey through the mountains. He had been warned of creatures far worse than Kelpies. He sat next to a wavy shadow with a female form, pulling his cloak around him and trying to steady his seasick stomach. The figure made a soft howling noise like the wind, and faded out of sight, reappearing at the other side of the car. Even spirits didn't like Marble, it seemed.

The quirky man breathed a sigh of relief as the mountains quickly came rushing into view. Dragons and other avian spirits whirled around in the sky above the steely grey mountains, their long serpentine bodies spinning like ribbons in the light breeze. As the train slowed, Marble stood up. That hadn't been as bad as he had thought it would be. Just as he thought that, the train whipped up almost completely vertically, and he flew into the air, bouncing against the sides of the train like a trapped bug in a jar. The train had increased speed dramatically, and was now climbing the side of the mountain straight up. It then dove once more into a cavern, sending Marble smashing down into the floor of the car. The rest of the spirits didn't seem to mind the movements, and hardly regarded Marble as he made a fool of himself. He simply laid on the floor, too fearful to get up, until he saw the spirits leaving.

He made a quick run to the door of the car, and just before it closed, he leapt out onto the platform. And just like that, the train zoomed off again, seemingly disappearing into the darkness at the end of the tunnel. He looked around, noting that the spirits from the car were long gone. The strange beings never talked, and seemed to move around the world silently and without purpose. The platform was made of simple stones, and some sort of feline family was arguing nearby.

“The man is very angry, nya! He'll squash you under his big foot, nya!” the biggest cat yowled, and the kittens jumped up at attention. The obviously female cat swatted at the large cat.

“Don't scare the kits, nya!”

“I'm only telling the truth, nya!”

“The truth hurts sometimes, nya!” she hissed, and swatted at the tom again, ending the conversation.

So there was some sort of man hurting innocent cats? Marble knew that the Diamond Queen had a cat. He had seen it around the city a few times, and had always fell to his knees before its glory. He made a silent vow to end the life of whoever was threatening these felines, in the name of Her Majesty! He swept his cloak through the air as he ran, startling the cats and causing one of the kits to fall off the platform. The female screamed but Marble paid no attention to them, for he was off to save the felines and complete his mission!

After a half hour of wandering around tunnels getting lost, Marble finally made it to the surface.
It was immediately evident that something wasn't right. Felines ran left and right, and rock golems even seemed to be fleeing something. What could have caused such a ruckus? And why were there so many cats in the first place? Marble soon got his answers. As he ran towards the spot everyone else was running from, he began to hear a screaming sound, like a cross between a hiss and a laugh. He ducked down as a large mountain lion with indigo fur bounded fast, its fangs bared as it screeched. It was some kind of spirit from the Madlands, that much was obvious. But the Madlands were on the complete opposite side of the circle. Why was it all the way over here? The spirit must have attracted the cats from the human world. Marble stood up tall again, and was instantly met with another frightening sight.

In front of him stood a massive man that seemed to be glowing. Red crystals were seemingly embedded into his skin, and his big eyes glowered, the color as the crystals seeping through his enraged irises, framing his stone-like face. A large golden crown was sat upon his bald head, and a glorious red cape hung over his body. The being was as tall as some of the buildings in the Capital, standing above Marble as if he were an ant. He roared in a deep voice as he saw Marble, stopping and leaning over as he did so.

“You! You are one of the Diamond Knights!” he yelled, not stating it as a question, but almost as a command.

“Y-yes sir!” Marble shouted, reaching into his cloak for his blade.

“I am the Red King, and I command you to hunt down that... disgusting... THING!” he spat, his demand ringing clear. Marble fell to his knees. The Red King was also known as the Diamond King. It was known that he was once the lover of Her Majesty, and that he fathered her eldest son. Marble looked him up and down. How had Her Majesty and him even had a child together!?

“Yes, Your Majestic holiness!” Marble shouted, almost forgetting about his official mission. He rose to his feet, turned, and sprinted down the path once more, towards the fleeting image of the indigo creature. He followed the thing down the path, and then it disappeared from his vision suddenly. He stopped all at once, looking around for the thing. But there was no sign of it. He stood in a stone clearing, completely alone. The tunnel that lead to the train platform was visible across the clearing, and a few winding paths were scattered along the edges of the clearing. But other than that, there wasn't much to show that this was anything other than a normal mundane mountainside. He looked up to the sky, and then he saw it.

The creature was on the back of one of the dragons, digging its claws into the majestic creature mercilessly. The dragon let out a roar of pain, and crashed higher up into the mountainside. Marble saw the path that would lead there. It was oddly different from the other paths. It seemed to have some vegetation growing out of it, and vines hung from the jagged sides of the bluff. It seemed to be less taken care of than the others. He marched towards it, and began his ascent, hearing the roars of the dragon ahead.

The path was treacherous indeed. It got narrower and narrower as it rose, and Marble feared he may fall to the ground below, which he could barely see through all of the fog that had suddenly began rising. As he got closer and closer to the summit, he realized the dragon's roars had disappeared. In their place were whispers. Indecipherable whispers were blowing out from the fog, causing Marble to stop on the narrow path. As he stared, his big eyes widened even more. The fog was... changing. It had been normal fog before, but now it had begun thickening, and turning a strange indigo color that was more common to the Madlands than the mountains. Something was dreadfully wrong. He turned to go back down the path, but found his way barred by the fog, which now rolled up the path towards him slowly, like a horse running across an open field. Marble backed up as he heard the chanting begin joining in with the whispers. He increased the speed at which he backed up as the chorus of gibberish chanting and whispers filled his ears. As the fog reached the tips of his toes, he dashed backwards- and felt the mountainside disappear beneath his feet.

As he fell, the voices exploded into a dark cacophony of mad laughter and screaming, and his screams were drowned in all the noise. He breathed in the toxic air, trying to grab for his cloak as quickly as he could, choking as he flew through the fog and towards certain death. He sent out a prayer to Her Majesty the Diamond Queen, hoping that her magical powers over the mind could stretch across the Great Sea. Just as he resigned to his fate, he felt himself smash into something. Something very much alive. He held for dear life onto what felt like feathers, until he shot out of the fog once more, racing to the summit.

He was on the back of a strange, birdlike creature. Its feathers were an inky black color, and as Marble looked around, he saw more of the creatures flying forth from the fog. It was they who had been making the laughing sounds. But the one Marble was grasping on to wasn't laughing. It was angry. The creature flailed around in the air like a rabid animal, and as it did so, it fell out of line with its ascending flock, and crashed down to the mountaintop. Marble's screams mingled with the bird's squawks as they quickly approached the ground, and as they impacted, Marble flew free from its back, gliding through the air and landing on his feet miraculously, sliding slightly across the flat surface of the summit.

The bird was not as graceful in its plummet. It crashed beak first into the stone, skidding across the ground, its beak smearing blood across the otherwise flawless surface. As it stumbled to its feet, Marble got a better look at it. It was a disfigured looking creature. It appeared to be a twisted mix of chicken and ostrich, but also had a prehistoric feel to it, and unlike both flightless birds it resembled, it could obviously fly with ease. Its beak was now snapped at one edge, and as it screeched in despair, blood leaked from the corners of its mouth. Marble saw its deep red eyes, and knew it was ready to kill.

Marble pulled his cloak tightly around himself. It had been a gift from Her Majesty the Diamond Queen herself. Once Marble had been little more than a servant in her establishment, a human who had wandered too far into the spirit world. Once he fully accepted his role and forgot completely about his past, the cloak appeared on the foot of his bed one night. He put it on, and all his normalcy had immediately faded. It was a cloak of immense power, and Marble had been told by his master that it had been stitched together from the threads of two great warriors cloaks, who had lived long ago. As the months went by, Marble never took the cloak off once. If it had been a gift from Her Majesty the Diamond Queen, then he wouldn't dare to disrespect her by removing it from his body. He found that the longer he wore the cloak, the stronger he got. Until eventually, he had gained a very special ability indeed. Separation- the gift of the Patched Cloak.

As he pulled the cloak tighter and tighter, he felt the molecules in his body vibrating, as if they were screaming in rage. In a split second, the cloak seemed to phase through Marble, and separated into two cloaks; one brown and one white. Two figures danced across the mountaintop, until they both came to a stop. Their feature were barely visible to the bird through the smoke, and it clicked its tongue in confusion, swinging its head back and forth between the two men.

One of them was taller, wearing the white cloak. He possessed hair that was paler than the full moon, and eyes that matched with a milky tone, as if he were blind. Dark runes were seemingly tattooed into his jawline. He had a vacant look on his face, and his body was built like a statue- beautiful, thin, and strong. He reached for the air beside him, and a blade appeared in a glowing white light. As he drew the sword, it seemingly manifested as it went, until the light itself had wrapped around the blade like a jacket. It was an intricate blade, with runes similar to the ones on the man's face. It seemed to be of japanese make. A katana, perhaps. The statuesque man pointed the blade at his foe, and went still.

The other figure was shorter, and bore a brown cloak, to match his mop of brown hair. His eyes were a hazel color, and he looked more human than his companion. His blade was already in his hands, and was more like a dagger than a sword. He spun it quickly, and it seemed to divide, making it so he now had two daggers clutched in his hands, ready to fight. The boy had a wild look in his eyes, like he was ready for a full out war.

The bird looked between the two men once more, as the fog became thick around all three of them, threatening them with a blind battle. The brown cloaked boy vanished into the smoke, coughing as he went. The white cloaked man hadn't moved an inch since he had pointed his blade. He simply stared forward at the bird, his eyes focused like a laser. The bird stepped forward, roaring at the man, and spitting blood as he did so. The man stood firmly.
The bird ran forward, getting closer to the man, a ravenous, intimidating shriek flying from its broken beak as it outstretched its wings in an attempt to intimidate the white haired statue in front of it.
But the man stood firmly.
Finally, the bird could take it no more, and it leaped through the air towards the man, intending to rip him limb from limb. Just as quickly as he had disappeared, the brown haired boy leapt from the fog, his cloak covering his mouth as he flew towards the back of the bird, sinking his dual daggers into its back, and pulling it backwards towards the ground with great strength not usually seen in humans his age. The bird cried out in surprise as it fell, and the statue man was suddenly gone, moving faster than the rain that fell to the ground during a storm. He moved his blade like a whip, straight through the bird's neck, and landed on his feet, sliding across the ground as if it were made of ice. The corpse fell to the ground hard, and seemed to melt into black tar, and then slowly seep into the ground.

A bright light suddenly cut through the fog, and the men fell to the ground as the wind seemed to tilt the mountain itself. Everything was spinning now, and the fog collected in a twister of fumes. The men held their cloaks over their mouths as the world turned indigo, and the mountain disappeared beneath them. It seemed like only a few moments had gone past since the tornado had started, when it stopped alltogether. The brown haired boy blinked his eyes open, looking around for his other half. But he was alone. The grass was indigo, as were the trees that seemed to wave at him from above. He pulled his cloak tight. He needed to find his other half.

Far away lay the other man. He rose to his feet before opening his eyes, listening to the woods around him. He wasn't in the mountains any more, that was for sure. He opened his eyes, and the sounds of the forest died in his ears as he took in the obviously cavernous place he had found himself in. Why had he heard a forest? There was a fire crackling nearby, and as he searched for it, he found a girl. She was blonde, frail, and looked to be a bit older than some of the servants Marble had seen in the city. She held her hands up in surrender.

“I didn't mean to frighten you,” the girl said, her voice shaking. “My name is Alice. I found you out in the woods. You seemed hurt.” she explained, and the man stared at her, reading her features. She wasn't from here. She was human. Once he realized that she didn't pose a threat to him, he addressed her.

“Where are we?” he asked. A simple question to start. His bass voice echoed off the walls, and he realized that they must be deep underground.

“Well, I was hoping you could answer that,” she answered, her hands dropping to her sides in obvious disappointment. “I was just at a family gathering when I saw a brilliant blue butterfly flying into the woods behind the estate. I thought it was interesting, and I followed it.” She told him, and then stopped suddenly, eyeing him with suspicion. “What's your name, anyways?” She asked suddenly, her sweet voice turning defensive.

“My name...” he trailed off. He had never had a name. He was simply the other half of Marble. He thought back to the city. There was a symbol above the gates to the Diamond Queen's castle. Two blotches of black and white, swirling together into a circle. Marble had always related to that symbol. In that moment, he thought of a name. “My name is Yang.” he told the girl. She looked at him confusedly.

“That sounds like a Chinese name.” she said worriedly. “But you don't look Chinese.” she thought to herself, looking him up and down. Yang had no clue what a Chinese was, but he didn't think he was one.
“I come from the city.” Yang told her. She stared at him in puzzlement.

“London?” she asked. Yang shook his head. He had never heard of such a place. Alice looked more and more confused every second.

“I don't even know how I got here.” she mused, and stood up, walking over to the fire that Yang had heard earlier and sitting down next to it. Yang took the oppurtunity to look her over. She was a tall woman, with a tattered pale blue dress pulled over her thin body. She had obviously not eaten in a day or two, and when humans didn't eat, they thinned out. Her pale blonde hair was dirty, as if she had crawled through a dust pile. Yang had never seen a proper human before. Only the servants in the Capital, and they were all aclimated to this world. This petty creature was not. She gathered up what looked like a thin knife and a strange necklace, and then turned to Yang.

“We have to get out of here.” she told him.

“Why?”

“Its not safe down here, we're lucky that we haven't been attacked already.”

“I can protect myself.”

“Well, then you can brave the tunnels alone.” she snapped, and turned away from Yang, marching up the tunnel defiantly. Yang didn't like this. He stormed after her, grabbing her by the wrist harshly as she walked up the dimly lit tunnel. She swung her head back towards him, fear etched on her face. Yang let her go, feeling a pang of guilt at the look on her face. She was pretty, for a human. She turned silently and continued walking. Yang followed reluctantly. At least she knew where to go. They walked in silence for a few minutes, until they suddenly were outside, in a sunlit clearing that reminded Yang of the gardens in the Capital. But this place seemed broken, and somehow dark even in the bright sunlight. Alice took a look around and sighed.

“When I was little this used to be a castle.” She reminisced. So she had been here before? Yang looked around. There were a few stone bricks strewn around, but he had trouble visualising a castle. Alice seemed to glide out of the clearing like a ghost, and Yang followed her quietly. He prefered the silence. Not a single sound pierced through the canopy of the woods. Just silence. And as Alice lead him deeper and deeper into the forest, the silence seemed to get quieter and quieter somehow; as if a vacum was sucking the air out of Yang's ears. And then she disappeared. He looked around for her, confusedly. But he was alone. He was standing next to a large rock, which had a base covered in deep moss, unlike anything Yang had ever seen before. Maybe if he stayed here, she would find her way back to him. He leaned against the rock, and stared at the sky. He noticed something strange then. Not a single cloud in the sky moved. Not even an inch. It was as if the sky had been painted on by a child.

The brown haired boy leapt through the trees, his daggers out and at the ready. He was desperately searching for his other half. He had never been apart from it for this long, except for when he was but a lowly human servant, but that didn't count for much. He needed to find the other half, or he wouldn't feel powerful enough to complete the mission Her Majesty the Diamond Queen had given him. As he leapt from branch to branch like a grasshopper, he heard a sound that made him come to a swinging stop. The sound of a woman's tears.

He heard the sound often in the Capital, often coming from behind the closed doors of the servant's rooms. He felt pretty bad for them, to be honest. It was heartbreaking to see little girls put to such grueling work. He shook the thought from his head immediately. If Her Majesty the Diamond Queen wanted those girls to serve Her, then she deserved it. She always deserved everything that came to her. Leaping down from the canopy, he quickly found the source of the cries. A woman in a tattered blue dress was on her knees, enveloped in a strange red smoke. Shadowy figures faded in and out of sight around her as the smoke pulled on her body and choked her. Her pale blonde locks floated up in the air slowly as she desperately called. The boy ran to her as quickly as he could, sinking his daggers into two of the three shifting figures. They exploded into black smoke, and seemed to sink into the earth. The final one flew away through the forest, and the red smoke that held the woman prisoner was now gone. She collapsed to her knees, holding her throat tightly and gagging. It was really quite gross.

“I'm- I'm Alice.” She told him, looking up at him with icy blue eyes and a thankful smile. Something seemed weird about her.

“I'm...Marble.” The boy said. He blinked. He felt as if he had suddenly forgotten something.

“That's an interesting name,” she remarked. Was it really? “We must get out of these woods. Its not safe here.” she explained, and for some reason, he really did trust her. Holding out his hand, he smiled a wide grin at her, and she returned it, accepting his hand and pulling herself to her feet. She attempted to dust off her dress, but it was hopeless. The thing was filthy. She became almost frantic with her actions, until she sighed.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“I'm sick of always ending up in this situation.” Alice mumbled.

“What situation?” he questioned, curious as to how she could always end up getting attaacked by red smoky demons.

“Ever since I was little, I've been fainting and coming to this place while I sleep,” she began explaining, giving me a wary look as if I were a simple dream and would vanish in a moment. With hesitation, she continued. “As the years went on, I started fainting more frequently. And this place-” she gestured around herself, into the woods themselves. “-has become more and more sinister. It used to be pretty.” she breathed. The boy thought it was pretty enough. But it was awfully quiet. The Capital was never this quiet. It felt almost like something was tugging on his ear. Alice turned suddenly and walked methodically into the woods, counting her steps quietly under her breath. The boy thought it was quite strange, but he supposed that to a regular human he would look rather strange as well.

Seeing his other half leaning against a peculiar large stone, the boy ran excitedly to his side, pulling him in and phasing together into Marble before Alice's very eyes, which widened in surprise. Marble looked back at her.

“Oh sweet maiden, you have reunited my halves!” he shouted joyously. “I will see that Her Majesty the Diamond Queen repays you for your just actions!” he exclaimed. Alice just stared at him blankly with a confused look.

An hour later and it had become dark. Alice and Marble spoke of their respective lives over a campfire, basking in its warm glow. Alice was a nobleman's daughter who had been dreaming of the woods for as long as she could remember. Marble was a lowly servant once, but had been given the power of division by Her Majesty the Diamond Queen. Alice thought his devotion to Her was a little offputting, but he didn't notice. He was too caught up in the thrill of the tale.

When they woke up the next morning, they were surrounded by monsters. Marble shot up, looking around worriedly. Alice was gone. Shadows of all shapes and sizes gazed out at him with glowing red eyes, and he drew his blade as they seemed to close in. The fire that had been roaring when they had retired to bed was now simple ash. Just when he was prepared for a fight, a voice echoed through the woods; loud, clear, and deep.

“Halt.” was all it said. The figures stopped moving, and slowly they faded into the shadows, their beady red eyes barely visible through the darkness. Through the darkness, a glowing amber figure descended. It had no face, but was in the shape of a man. It was at least twice Marble's height, and three times as wide. The godly voice boomed yet again.

“You have trespassed on my territory.” it stated darkly.

“My apologies, oh great spirit.” Marble apologized, bowing deeply. It was best not to offend spirits of such power. He had learned that the hard way back when he had been a servant. The being laughed.

“I am no spirit,” it explained. “I am a god of death and misery, and if you step foot on my land again, you will perish.” it growled; and then Marble saw her. Alice stepped through the shadows, her dress no longer dirty, and her hair glowing a soft gold. He stared at her confusedly.

“Hello, boy.” she greeted him, a cold smile radiating from her face. She was with them.

“But- I thought you-” Marble stammered.

“My wife has told me of your devotion to a certain monarch.” the god boomed, and Marble stared at Alice in wonder. His wife?

“You were foolish to spill your tales to a stranger in the woods, young one.” she mused, the same cruel smile cutting through Marble's naive trust. He saw something in her blue eyes. A deep red ring the color of rubies circled her pupil, spinning endlessly. Perhaps she was being controlled.

“Because I do not wish to anger your master, I will allow you to leave unharmed.” the god promised, waving his hand. As he waved, a glowing indigo portal appeared behind Marble, sucking in the air around itself. Marble almost fell in, but held strong, staring at Alice. He saw the longing in her eyes. She was a captive here. He couldn't just leave her. Maybe she could come back to the capital with him, once his mission was done. Or perhaps she was just as wicked as her words. Whatever the truth was, he didn't care. In that split second, he reached through the darkness and pulled her free, falling backwards into the portal as he did so. A cacophony of screams erupted behind them as they fell, and the ring around her eyes disappeared. She held onto Marble for dear life, until they found themselves alone, and in the dark.

“Alice?” he called out.

“I'm here.” she answered, her voice warm and welcoming again.

“Do you want to explain about that whole ordeal?” Marble asked.

“No, not really.” she answered.

“Oh. Okay.” he responded. He didn't need answers now, as long as she wasn't going to go all evil on him. His spirit eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he reached for Alice's hand, grabbing onto it. He felt her jump a little as their skin touched, but she relaxed quickly. They walked forward silently, feeling around themselves to make sure they didn't fall into a ravine or something. It was obvious they were underground, but where exactly was the real question. As they walked, a dim light became visible ahead. They made their way towards it, finding themselves on an underground dock, illuminated by a single hanging lantern that seemed to glow with an ever burning flame. A small rowboat floated in dark waters, and they hopped inside relunctantly. Alice ran her hand along the edge of the water. It was freezing. They must have been in some kind of underground lake. They each took a row, and nodding at eachother, they began to row out into the water. An island came into view, with a small building simply placed in the centre. Could this be some kind of demonic fortress. As humans appeared on the shore, it became clear what it truly was. The rebel camp. Marble smiled. Even after all of his struggles, he could still finish what he came to do.

The rebels greeted them, staring at Marble's cloak in wonder. He told them he was a warden from the mountains, and that he wished to join the cause. They ushered him and Alice through the halls of their base, which was poorly constructed out of stone and wood, and into a slightly larger room. The walls were lined with the heads of animals, and the strong scent of jasmine burned Marble's nose as he entered. In a big hide chair at the other end of the chamber was the witch. Her grey hair was woven into thick locks, and icy blue eyes looked her visitors up and down suspiciously as they entered.

“Who are you, and why have you come?” she asked. Her body was draped in feathers and fur.

“I am Marble, a warden from the mountains. And this is Alice. We wish to join your cause.” he lied. The woman smiled knowingly.

“Stupid boy.” she snapped, floating up from her chair and flying across the room until she was inches from his face. She sniffed. “Capital scum.” she mumbled, and Marble stumbled backwards in surprise. She then abruptly cranked over to Alice, repeating her actions once more. “Madlands. Dark magic.” she mumbled once more. She smiled a wicked smile and flew backwards to her chair. She nestled in until she was comfortable, and then she snapped her fingers. Instantly, a mane of red hair crashed through the door behind Marble, sending him flying into the air in shock. A girl in a red cloak stood in the room, her energetic aura moving through Marble like an electric shock.

“Kill these intruders, Rose.” The witch commanded, and the girl bowed, a wicked grin appearing on her face. With a swirl of her hand, a glowing red scythe appeared, and she swung it towards Marble suddenly. He leaped into the air, sommersaulting over the blade and landing a few feet away. He dashed for the witch, intending to kill her. Even if he died, at least his mission would be completed. She simply waved her index finger and sent him flying back across the room. It was clear she had the ability to kill if she wanted, but she just wanted to watch the battle for fun. Rose swung at Alice, and struck her in the chest. Blood sprayed onto the wooden walls, and Alice fell to her knees. She was not a warrior. A red light surrounded her, and glass seemed to form around her body. The witch's smile broadened. Suddenly, the light turned indigo, and the glass seemed to flatten into a mirror. Just like that, Alice was gone. Marble could see her on the other side of the glass as the people of the Madlands closed in around her. She was their captive once more. He swung around, splitting suddenly into two and slicing into Rose's side. She swung her blade at the brown haired side, but missed as Yang brought her down to her knees. The witch sat up straight suddenly as she noticed the cloaks. Something seemed to click in her mind.

“Marlon?” she questioned, and with a bright flashing light, the brown haired boy flew across the room to her. He shook as the curse of the Diamond Queen was broken, and he collapsed into the witch's arms like jello. The witch stared at the boy in shock. Her grandson Marlon had been kidnapped by the Diamond Knights years ago. She had assumed he had died. But his fate had been even worse. He had become a slave to the Diamond Queen, in body and mind. He could rest now. He laid Marlon at her feet. Rose stared at Marlon's body. This was her son. As she was distracted, only for a split second, a blade sliced through her body like butter, and the scythe disappeared. Yang stood in the room alone now with the witch, covered in blood; some of it his own, some of them Rose's. He had moved through the blade of the scythe itself in order to finish her. And even if his human side was gone, he would finish Marble's mission. He lunged forward towards the witch, his glowing katana slicing through the air at the speed of sound.

He slammed into the ground, exploding into plasma and raw matter. The witch had had enough. She ran to her granddaughter's side. Rose had been her favorite. She sobbed. This was not meant to happen. How could the gods damn her family like this!? A dark thought clouded her mind, and she knew what she must do then. Standing slowly, she moved back to Marlon's side, touching his forehead with a single glowing finger. Soon he would wake.

Soon there would be a revolution.

by @luclovers

by @RomanAria!

“Alex Johnson? Are you Alex Johnson?” The police officer, his face stony but his eyes full of grief, stares at me with barely-veiled suspicion. I can understand it, too; what would Anna Victor, the valedictorian and gymnast and all-state orchestra member, have had to do with a failing delinquent like me?

“Yes sir, I am. The phone call said you had a letter for me, from Anna?”

The policeman frowns, but holds out a warped, crinkled envelope. I snatch it quickly, in part so that it won’t get soaked by the misting rain, but also so that the officer can’t see my hand trembling, and move as if to leave.

“Stop. Where are you going?”

“Home. To read the note in private.” It’s a half-truth; I don’t intend to go home, but I just want to be out from under his disapproving look already.

“I don’t like that. I have the authority to take that letter back from you and read its contents right now—“

“You have no such authority. There is no search warrant related to this case and the fourth amendment prohibits you from taking that letter without a warrant.” The voice comes from an unexpected source; I whirl around and see Anna’s best friend walking up the sidewalk. She flashes a smile at me but it’s strained; she looks like she’s about to cry. “And I will not hesitate to report you to your commanding officer for interfering with my best friend’s final wishes without a warrant to do so.”

The police officer laughs, but soon falls silent. He shifts awkwardly and mutters something unintelligible, then relaxes. “Then go read the letter and quit lingering around here. This IS a crime scene.”

I try to say something to Anna’s friend, but she turns and walks quickly back the way she came, and I am left with the police officer glaring accusations at me. So I hurry out of there. I walk to the park, sit on the bench under the oak tree, gaze at the playground. We used to play there as kids; it had always seemed so bright and lively. But today, with the rain, not a child was to be seen playing on the now-rusty monkey bars and merry-go-round. Like a graveyard for childhood dreams.

Alex.

I hope you’re proud of yourself. With me out of the way you should have an easy ride of valedictorian—oh wait, I forgot, you ruined your life back in middle school.

My hand clenches on the fragile, warped paper. The words are blurred, the page just a fragile page from a sketchbook, further weakened by water and time, and my rage is enough to tear it. Even in death she taunts me.

You never could bear being second-best, could you? So you ruined my life, but you ruined yours first. You’re the one who brought about your own demise. Just remember that.

Knowing you, you’re probably so mad you could tear this paper up and throw it away right now. Well, don’t. I’ve got more to say and I’m sure you want to hear it. Indulge my final whim, would you, dearest?

Damn you, Anna. You knew me too well.

I just want you to know how much I regret the things I did. I was a selfish bitch. I used to always rub it in your face how much superior I was, because I got this special class, or I aced an exam that everyone else failed. I can see how you would have gotten frustrated and angry at that.

But what I can’t see is why you hated me as much as you did. I never saw it as anything more than friendly banter, friendly teasing. But I guess it never was friendly to you. I guess you always really did dislike me that much. The teasing wasn’t sarcastic; you meant every hateful thing you said.

Why did you hate me so much? I had just been trying to push you to be better. I never meant for you to hate me, I never meant for you to want me dead. And you said it once, more than once, yourself. You wanted me dead. Your life would be so much easier if I was dead.

Well, you’ve got your wish, but it’s too late for any good to come of it for you.

Tears are running down my face and splashing on the paper and I don’t even know why. I hate this girl. I’ve always hated her for showing me up, for making me seem inadequate by comparison. I hate her...don’t I?

I should be angrier at you, for pushing me onto this spiral of demise, but I’m not. Maybe because I saw that you would ruin yourself to ruin me. And that’s enough of a victory for me. Because at the end of the day, I’ll be remembered, the genius who died far, far too young. But the same can’t be said of you. The delinquent, in and out of juvie, suspended from school on a pretty much weekly basis? You’re nothing. At least I was something. At least I have a legacy. I’ll be remembered.
I’m trembling, clenching my fists so tightly that my knuckles are white. The paper, already fragile, tears in my hands. There’s another two paragraphs but I can’t bother to read them.

Fumbling in my pocket, I finally manage to produce my lighter. My hands are shaking so badly that I can’t even strike the flame. But eventually I get it, eventually I get the spark to light, the paper to burn, letting off blue sparks from the salt soaked into the page. She was crying as she wrote it.

I crumble what’s left and kick the ashes into the dirt. Walk back up the hill to her house, cordoned off with police tape. The thin, needling rain mists my eyes and soaks my clothes.

The police officer is waiting for me. “Well, what did it say?”

It isn’t entirely the rain that makes my eyes wet as I say, “Her final will. She wants to be buried in an unmarked grave.”

by @Dark Wind

Imagine. Imagine this place where the road ran straighter than the drawn line in a mathematics textbook. New and recently paved with inky black perfection. The kind of surface that makes young kids run as fast as they can during the summer so the soles of their feet don’t burn right off. On both sides of that road are divided seas of delicately mowed grass, emerald green blades shaved by fatherly work ethic; or sometimes a son earning his first dollars. All squared up houses, nice and neat. Built by fathers, kept by mothers, and pulsating liveliness with the fast steps of children. A man took one look and knew the sun shone here. The sun shined, and it was bright. It was a wonderful place on Harmony Avenue.

Johnny remembered. He lived on that street, grew up there. His parents, Marsha and Howard, remembered the day they brought him home he had a tremendous smile. That cheeky grin seemed plastered forever. Little Johnny troublemaker who wrought havoc the moment curiosity set in. Forget walking, that boy could do just as much damage crawling. One time, Johnny knocked over the garbage bin. He sat in the kitchen amidst all the trash sitting with that eternal smile and one of his dad’s unfinished cigarettes hanging out his mouth. “Can you believe that? Just sitting there like ‘Yeah, I did this. What are you gonna’ do about it?’ I always knew Johnny was gonna’ be trouble when he got older.” His father said, looking at a photo on the mantle above the fireplace. The photo of Johnny with the cigarette. He shared that moment with the neighbor, the father of Jake who was over for Johnny’s thirteenth birthday. Five years before Johnny left.

Jake was but one of the five man posse spearheaded by Johnny. The other three devilish daredevils were Grant, Harvey, and Eric. Howard watched with nostalgia pooling in his gaze as Johnny lead the charge of an imaginary game of soldier. Jake stood by as his right hand man, always looking to do as Johnny did or trying to outdo him. Quiet Harvey just went along for the ride while Grant and Eric sometimes disobeyed orders, going off to play pranks on the adults outside. Johnny eventually found himself leading the trouble as well, until his mother took him by the ear into the dreaded timeout corner.

Timeout corners graduated into detentions although always in good nature. “Just a bunch of silly kids. Boys will be boys.” The teacher’s said and were so happy to see these young boys grow into men. Johnny walked proud with the cap on his head, tassel spinning about as he shook hands and grabbed the piece of paper his parents were so proud of. But, college wasn’t quite the time in a summer rife with conflict across the borders, over the ocean, into a jungle far, far away. No need for his name in a hat, because when it came to the call the call was duty. Johnny left home one day.

His friends went with him too. Young kids with dreams and aspirations. Harvey wanted to write like the authors who transported him to imaginative lands where heroes were real and problems were black and white. Grant and Eric wanted to be mechanics like their fathers before them, and Jake was going to be a doctor. Johnny just wanted to live and figure things out.

Far off from home, the five friends were poured into the crucible for breaking down and remanufacture. The people they met didn’t need boys, they needed men. Elders molded them to their iron design, adding them onto the list of bodies for their advertised bravery engine where the fuel was heroism. Smiles and bright eyes, even there the trouble never really ended. Johnny didn’t meet time outs or ear pulls, but rather smacks and brutal cutting words. He wanted to live, learn to live. They taught him how to kill.

Johnny went to the jungle one day. Mechanical blades whirled above him as he sat with his four friends, hovering above the vast green below. Leaves and branches twisted and turned, coming alive as though they were entering the beating heart of the forest. All alive, all moving, and the unseen would soon be seen. Things went normally. Johnny, Jake, and the rest told stories and talked like they always did. More of a glorified camping trip than anything else. Like they were playing soldiers in the backyard woods again.

They whistled tunes through the jungle paths, bitching about the incredible heat and the mosquitoes. And the rain, the rain that pelted down upon them with unrelenting brutality. One day it was more than just rain that came soaring down. One summer night they sat around in their positions when blazes of light flashed and the dirt flew up into the air. Like they came from everywhere and nowhere. Like little kids at a campfire after ghost stories, the darkness was full of ghouls again. Except it was more than that Johnny would find later.

Playing soldier was over. The long treks through the trees became longer. Faces of strangers in a foreign land, enemy or foe, no one could know. Grant collapsed to the ground one day. Johnny could see where the first bullet carved its way through his head. Grant bled. Johnny could have sworn he felt it was himself that was staining the grassy, dirt floor. He fired back into the forest. The claws of his rage searched for comfort but grasped nothing.

Eric sat alone. Harvey wasn’t so quiet anymore. Johnny and Jake sat in silence together, staring into the dark. “He was right in front of me. Right in front of me. There was nobody around.” Harvey said.

“Shut the fuck up, Harvey.” Eric spat.

“Right in front of me. He dropped. We were talking about what were going to do when we got home. Just like that, he dropped.”

Eric threw his helmet at him. Harvey quieted for a time.

“I’ve never seen a man’s brains before…”

No one answered. None of them had seen a man’s brains before. Johnny remembered. He could still see the pinkish red clumps glued to the grass. Devilish look in Grant’s eyes had gone out, like the flame was whisked away. Eric didn’t talk much anymore, and one day he tripped a wire and never talked again. Johnny always remembered the smell of smoke. The stinking rot and the scratching of wood when he cleaned Eric off the trees.

Harvey wrote a lot of letters. Every moment he could find, the pen was rubbed against muddied paper. The three sat with tired eyes that spoke a shared language.

“Let’s kill them.” Harvey said. “Let’s kill all the fucking bastards.”

Johnny inhaled and puffed out smoke. “Yeah…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Johnny never thought much about the next months. They walked into the darkness of the jungle and bathed in it. Out there in a world they didn’t belong. Shed the boy, and warriors were forged. Cloaked in the honor of duty, bolstered by red and blue ideals. At least that’s what Johnny remembered before coming in.

Johnny came home one day. Stepped out of the car on Harmony Avenue. Picture perfect houses resting on sun-tinted paradise. It was quiet. There were no more neighborhood boys running around playing soldier. Five boys went into the jungle and none came back. Johnny did, didn’t. No parade, no welcome except the tearful embrace of his mother and the hug of his father. “Look at all those medals. I’m so proud of you, Johnny.” His father said.

They didn’t talk much about the others. Even when they did, Johnny didn’t say much. “They’re dead. What does it matter?” Johnny didn’t sleep well anymore. Every time he looked into the woods where he once played, he saw the jungle staring back at him with Harvey on the ground silent; blood staining his stack of letters.

Johnny never gave those letters to his father. No one at home would understand the words imprinted on the page. “No one wants to read about that shit.” He told his father.

“What shit?”

“The shit we did.”

“What did you do?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

People wanted to talk about medals. Heroes. The world was black and white back then. Johnny remembered Harvey’s stories, and all his books. The bad guys were bad, and the good, good. Simple and easy. Johnny had a hard time with the word. Would his father think him a hero in the months following Eric and Grant’s death?

“Did you kill anybody?”

“What was your first kill?”

“What did Jake say before…”

Johnny couldn’t say a single thing. Yes, he killed. His first kill was a young boy approaching their position. No older than ten. Any Vietnamese person could be lethal. The kid killed the kid, and the one kid was no longer a kid. Truth was Johnny wanted to pull that trigger. He hated every last one of them. Bomb them, burn them, shoot them. Johnny shot a man once and watched him bleed out. Pressed his foot against the wound to torture out the last painful gasps. He couldn’t tell his father about that. Couldn’t tell Jake’s dad that the last things he heard from his best friend was the slow gurgling of bubbling blood.

Johnny cried that day.

He didn’t go out much. Johnny drank more than he ate. Smoked more than he talked. Marsha and Howard didn’t know what to do with Johnny. “What’s wrong with Johnny?” She said. “He just needs something to do.”

The perfectly arranged furniture and stacked papers formed a jungle in which Johnny was no longer familiar. Packing groceries while people thanked him for his service brought no smiles. Johnny didn’t know why he went there anymore, or why they were even sent. Grant and Eric would fix no cars, Jake never listen to the heartbeat of a patient. And, Harvey’s only writings were the nightmares which man does not want to confront.

Darkness came again that day. Johnny sat in his room and stared it down the barrel. He could see his friends on the golden shores waving back to him, welcoming an old friend. He remembered the boy on the ground, staring up at him. He saw the monster torturing the man. The monster had tears in his eyes. Jake came to him that night.

“Never known you to lose it.”

“It’s like I can’t leave. This place has me. All I see is Grant and Eric. I clean up the mess and I feel nothing. When I see them out there all I feel is that nothing grabbing me. I want them to feel it too.”

Jake put his hand on Johnny.

“This place will be full of those lost in the darkness on both sides. When you get out of here, promise me one thing. Don’t let this place take you.”

“What do you mean?”

Jake looked out into the jungle.

“Wounds heal. Others longer than others. I doubt we’ll be forgetting any time soon. But, this doesn’t have to be forever.”

Johnny looked down the barrel. Those were the last words Jake ever spoke to him. Long hours of silence passed until he opened the drawer and returned that steel piece of the jungle. Johnny would not die this day. One day, Johnny might come home.

---

BONUS MATERIAL: This story was inspired by this poem I wrote. (Note: I'm entering the story, not the poem. Also don't be alarmed if you find the poem on another forum, I can confirm that the user who posted it is me so it is not plagiarized!)

Johnny Came Home One Day

Johnny came home from school one day
Thoughts imprinted ever to remain
Stories of the previous brave do stay
With promises of glory to claim

Age old expressions revived
Blood and iron and duty
Packed up in a travel bag
No raffle hat, he would go, by choice

Johnny left home one day,
Poured into the crucible
Where elder smiths mold him
To their iron design

Clothed in honor and sacrifice
Selflessly armed with heroic bullets
Individual broken down to one sculpted gear
In the churning bravery engine

Johnny went to the jungle one day
Equipped belief of dutiful will
Draped in red and blue stripes
Painted with dreamed ideals

First steps down the darkened
Jungle corridors, halls of vine
Leaf green life casting shadows of,
The unseen

Camaraderie charm keeps the ease
Til' one man stepped out of line, and
The mine says "One less brother in arms."
With blood trickling from fiery tongue

Dark nights lit with bursting terror
Never sleep with death on the doormat
Knock, knock, knocking
With double tapped fists

Johnny felt the dark that day
Creeping fingers of the reaper
Carved down his spine
Etching the echoes of inevitable loss

Heat scars with steamed sweat
Mud and rain drowns the face of hope
But the boy closes his eyes and tries to remember
"With a will of iron, you will be great."

Old voices silenced
Blood and bodies form
Trails from My Khe to Saigon, to
Darkness that swallows whole

Johnny stared into the jungle deep
Infinite black unafraid of iron shells
He walked in and walked out alive, but never came back;
Johnny came home one day.

I'm pretty sure I get the vibe you're going for - a sort of Norse song about a great leader, right? - which is a neat angle to take. Your piece is very short, but that doesn't automatically make it "bad" or anything in my book.

One thing to note, though, is that if you're going to write a very short piece, you need to be sure that the whole piece is as strong and flawless as can be. Also, you chose to only talk about how great the Glorious Leader is, but a lot of old songs and stories talked about how awesome someone was by talking about their deeds. It might have been a better approach to lengthen this a little and spend some time talking about what the Glorious Leader did that makes him so Glorious.

Some of the language you use is really strong and really refreshing. "Crown of crowns," "Wrapped in the shroud of royalty" are both really good. "His word is the only, his word is law" - that particular bit is just really poetically worded, in my opinion. I like that.

But while it feels like you're going for a sort of song-sung-by-a-Skald theme, especially once I take the "thane" and "thralls" part into account, some of your language doesn't feel like it matches that. If this is the angle you were going for, I'd say that the last two lines ("Only the loyal... ...is a glorious leader") don't fit the rest very well. It would fit if you were writing from a more religious angle or for a culture that demands total obedience, but you're writing this in a way that makes me think "This piece wants to be a Norse song so badly, but it doesn't quite make it." I think that sums up my overall opinion of the piece as well.

Again: you have some very powerful language and some phrases that remind me of old world sayings. "Crown of Crowns" sounds like "King of Kings," for instance, and that's not a bad thing at all. Still, there's enough faults that I can't vote for this as my favorite piece.

One thing I like about this piece is that you do more than say "King Han is great." Your poem gives reasons: he's a conqueror, he's cunning and clever, he treats swordfighting as an art... It's short, but it tells a story. Not bad.

Like I said in the beginning of my post, I don't know if I'm the best to judge poetry. That said, I think the first four lines of your submission are the strongest. The first two lines match up together perfectly in syllable count, and they just sound nice when spoken aloud (which is always how I read poetry). I'm not sure how I feel about "the tall and the small part," as it kind of seems like you were hunting for the right set of words to fill in a blank. It works, and it definitely lends itself to the overall message of the first four lines, but somehow it feels funny.

Certain word choices in your piece bother me a bit. Through force AND through stealth feels more right, for instance. The line "For he could take on what any foe could bring" doesn't use any language I'd call powerful or even clear - and like Blizz's piece, yours is very short, so it's important that everything be as strong and clear as it can be. At least, that's how I view this.

Let me just quote an example of yours where there's lots of good language being tossed around,

His foes did he conquer, his foes found defeat,
the king could sit down on his ivory seat.
The glorious leader, a victor once more,
he deserved the following praising galore.

Those first three lines in the quoted segment are absolutely wonderful. Ivory seat, foes found defeat, foes did he conquer... That stuff evokes images while sounding old-timey and rhyming real nicely. It's very poetic. I love it.

The fourth line not so much - Deserved the following praising galore? There's not really much more praising done after that line. If you're going to say "the following praising," well, you'd best follow that up with some bodacious praising. There's much more praise that comes before this line, and darn is it praising. You might've been able to work previous, preceding, or something of that nature in instead of following. Besides that, "the following praising" sounds like something you'd found Nathaniel Hawthorne saying, and Nathaniel Hawthorne isn't exactly my favorite author. (He and I haven't been on good terms since I read The House of the Seven Gables.)

One more bit of praise for your work, though:

for always remembered by foe and by friend.

I like that. Instead of saying forever, you again use this older sort of language that sounds... Well, nice. Refreshing. "For always." I can appreciate your word choice, partly because it sounds better than "forever" would have and partly because I'm a sucker for writing styles that remind me of the writing styles of yore. Call me a sap for that stuff.

Of the three poems, this one is my favorite.

Okay: first, I'd like to say that I think I see what you're going for. This is a caricature of how silly the praising for the Glorious Leader gets. It's showing blind loyalty and making up wild tales about how he's putting an end to the Resistance, etc. But... Your piece doesn't do so incredibly well.

My first impression as I was reading this was a sort of propaganda-like children's book with each sentence being by itself on a page with a picture to accompany it. None of the lines really go together well, but they stand just fine on their own, and I could imagine flipping this children's book page by page as I went. That's actually an effect I can admire a little.

But it feels like you did two major things wrong:

• First, you ran with the gag for what felt like was too long. Yeah, it's ridiculous the way he's portrayed. It's humorous. However, it slowly began to feel like the horse had been beaten dead a while back.
• The Resistance intermission felt... clunky. I don't know how else to describe it. It felt clunky and like it could've been done better, or maybe would have been better without it. I'll talk more about this at the end.
• The Highlight thing wasn't incredibly effective, and I'll talk about that at the end as well.

Now onto minor issues:

Firstly, you need to watch how you write after you use quotation marks. Here is an example of what you wrote,

"What have you to say for yourself?" The Glorious Leader asked, looking at the bandit leader.

"Glory to the Resistance! The land shall burn!" He boosted with savage pride, sword raised.

"Then Justice will swiftly strike you down." The Glorious Leader replied, launching his epic attack.

What it should have read was this,

"What have you to say for yourself?" the Glorious Leader asked, looking at the bandit leader.

"Glory to the Resistance! The land shall burn!" he boasted with savage pride, sword raised.

"Then Justice will swiftly strike you down," the Glorious Leader replied, launching his epic attack.

Keep that in mind in the future. You don't capitalize after a quotation mark unless you're starting a new sentence. For instance, if you'd said, "Then the Glorious Leader launched his epic attack" instead of "The Glorious Leader replied, launching his epic attack," you'd have been fine. But you're writing one sentence, not two; one train of thought, not two.

Now, let's talk about the Highlight issue. Here's why I found it ineffectual:

I didn't find it.

There you have it. I missed the whole darned point of your story until after I went back to quote a piece to explain quotation marks. If it hadn't been for Copy Pasta, I would never have found the invisible bits, and to me, that means they're ineffectual.

I do think it's clever what you did. I think you had the right idea. However, cleverness only works when you use it in such a way that your audience will get the joke. If your audience can't find half of your work, you may want to reconsider your approach.

You would have had a much better piece if you'd just written this in place of the Resistance's intermission:

This is the Resistance. Highlight the blank lines between the text.

Or something of that nature.

I like this piece, but it's not my favorite selection, nor is it my favorite poem. You had a very clever idea, but the way you carried it out just wasn't effective, and your joke (while initially funny) became less funny as time went on. It would've been way more funny in my first read if I had more than HIGHLIGHT written at the end. Actually, it'd be way more effective if the cue to read the hidden stuff came way earlier in general.

I feel kind of rude for lambasting you like I have. The reason why I'm doing this, though? If you'd presented this just a little differently, this probably would've been my favorite poem, or even my favorite piece overall. But if someone can easily miss the highlight of your work, then your work has a problem.

If you want the average person to be able to read your piece and get the joke, you need to make it just a little more clear than you did.

Okay, there's two things I need to say right off the bat, one good and one bad:

GOOD: You depict war in a pretty realistic way and your writing style is very enjoyable. If this were a book, there's a fair chance I'd buy it. I'm being quite serious when I say this. It's not the very best writing I've ever seen, but it's good enough that I'd seriously consider buying it if it were a book, and that means a lot coming from me. I'm stingy with my money.

BAD: What the Hell is with that dialogue-only introduction about licking armpits?

No, seriously. Let's dwell on that introduction for a moment. A fun fact I was taught when I took Journalism in high school is that most folks don't read much more than the first paragraph (or sometimes the first sentence) of a newspaper article. Frankly, folks don't read much more than that when they're deciding whether a book is worth buying or not. If I'm going to buy a book, I'm going to look at the first page or maybe the first chapter to see if I like the writing style, and if I do I'll probably carry through with my purchase.

That introduction of yours would have killed my interest in your writing if this was a book.

Let's be honest: the introduction doesn't add much, if anything, to the story, and it's not all that funny. I think I get what you were going for: you wanted to humanize Kelsall and also show what a conversation between two ex-military might look like. But it's not effective, and I almost stopped reading by the time I got to the end of it. It's disjointed from the story, is written with nothing but speech inside quotation marks, and is generally just full of big "no-nos." Seriously, what does licking armpits have to do with this revolution?

You write wonderfully. If you kill someone's interest with an introduction like that, they're going to miss the opportunity to get to the real story you have. Always remember that the most important part of a story is often its introduction, because the introduction is the part that sells the reader the setting and reels them in. If your introduction is ineffectual, your story is going to suffer a lot. This is true for all writing mediums. So, please, never do that to your stories again.

As an example, I decided to buy my first Dresden Files book after just reading a few pages, and I make my decisions on most books by chapter 1. Some books I stop reading after the first page or two because I hate the writing style that much. While your actual story is really well written, your introduction would have made me stop reading entirely. The only reason I kept reading past that point was because I wanted to be able to give your submission a full review, and while I'm very glad that I kept reading, I would have much better things to say if you had just axed that introduction entirely.

---

Okay. Generally speaking, you just write really well. You give the perspective of a guy who's never seen war really well, and then you follow it up with him actually seeing it. The switch there is really fast and really well done. Kudos to you for that.

One of my favorite parts of the story was this:

It was such a simple thing. A campaign poster for Abercrombie hung on the wall. A strange thing to do when you think of it. I had heard before how, before it came to revolution, the early govies got real overzealous in their support. The laws of physics at work in man - an equal and opposite reaction. But framed within the context of that day, it was too petty to care about. I could only feel sorry for her. Not even Kelsall looked angry, if he were every capable of such a thing.

But she didn't see things that way. From her point of view, it was us with the guns.

"We need to make sure your house is safe." Kelsall explained.

"It was safe." She sobbed. "It used to be." her voice shook, half of a scream. Her movements were jittery, uncertain, as she continued to fall apart before them.

That was when it happened. One man shouted from among us. I never knew who.

"She has a knife!"

Before Kelsall or anyone else could respond, another man stepped forward and bayoneted her in the arm. She screamed and fell on the ground. Her kids grabbed onto her legs. Blood seeped through her fingers. And we stood there, silent as a cloudy day. It was so quiet I could hear the distant gunfire again.

Third blood.

This is just a great part of your story and highlights... I'd call it the ambiguity of war. There's two parties here: they have opposing views and yet they both believe so strongly in this views they're willing to bleed and make others bleed. You make the narrator's group both sympathetic and gut-wrenching at once. Did they really have to stab her? Could the scene have ended differently? Again, you did a wonderful job here.

One thing I'll add about this scene: we never get confirmation about whether she actually did have a dagger. I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing. Part of me wants to say, "having the knife clatter on the ground would be brilliant." The other part of me says, "It's better that it's ambiguous." Take that as you will.

You have some general spelling and punctuation errors that need to be dealt with, but I can't blame you for that. In your introduction (again, WHY?!) you wrote payed instead of paid. There's a very specific time you use the word "payed," and that deals with ropes. All other times = use the word "paid."

This piece is pretty solid. I guess I'd say that the part about the Snickers bar felt like exaggeration or like you spent too much time on it? This is good quality writing overall, but note that your introduction seriously lost you points in my book. Other than that, I like this.

---

There is one last note I have to make, and this is the ultimate reason why I'm not voting for your comic. You're not really writing about resistance. You're writing about coping with war.

This story isn't about fighting for a cause against oppressors. It's a story about the price of fighting for that cause. The theme of "viva la resistance" doesn't really have an impact here; you could have been writing about two separate nations going to war, or about cave men fighting each other for scraps of food. The resistance movement was really just a backdrop to a story about how people cope with fighting, killing, fear, and all that good stuff. It's like how the videogame This War of Mine merely uses a civil war as a backdrop for a story about what people will do to survive in a hellish, war-torn landscape.

Again, I love how you wrote this story. You approached it very well. But I don't think you're really writing about resistance, and you're definitely not writing about glorious leadership. You also didn't really write about loyalty or betrayal, so you only use the Resistance theme as a backdrop and you don't hit either of the bonus categories. There are pieces here that have a similar quality of writing but win out because they hit the themes better than your entry.

Truth be told, though, you definitely impressed me. In fact, that's the reason I'm writing as much as I am: I love your work, but damn does that introduction bother me. Keep up the good work. If you ever write more material like this, I'd love to hear about it.

I frankly wasn't impressed with this piece.

Okay, I'm pretty sure you were going for the humorous over-praising route, but it didn't feel like there was a punchline, and the joke never really clicked. Then again, it's not easy to write humor. Humor is one of the hardest things to write: you need to master timing, you need to use the right words, and you need to be able to surprise the reader every now and then. It's difficult to learn and even more difficult to master.

I didn't laugh when I read this, though. I smirked a little once or twice, but you didn't make me laugh. I don't know what to say besides "Practice makes perfect." You'll improve with trial and error.

One thing I can advise you on is your use of commas. You don't use 'em well at all, and that might have lent to why I didn't enjoy the piece. You have way too many commas in lots of wrong places. Study punctuation and you'll be much better off.

One thing I did like - and this is one of the parts where I smirked - is the following paragraph:

The men, so moved began shedding tears of joy, their knees unable to bend for they had been transfixed by his most generous reception. They birthed a single child, but this child was ascending to the heavens, such beauty it was so the choir sang hymns of our glorious leader. The child was so perfect, so pure that our glorious leader gazed upon its form and saw that only one was greater than this, and that was he. So our glorious leader raised his arms, and lo, the child burst into rays of the sun, shining with solar brilliance like only aquatic animals could our glorious leader bestowed the greatest gift one could bestow another being, letting the child become a part of our most benevolent and just glorious leader.

This paragraph works because you actually go into the realm of ridiculousness. A lot of humor is based around going into the realm of ridiculousness. If you're going to write humor based around over-exaggeration, it's better to go this route than plain ol' "He's super awesome but I can't really describe how awesome he is because he's super awesome."

Anyway: keep practicing. Study punctuation. Humor's hard to master. Good luck.

So, first things first: this short story tells a lot in just a few words, and yet it leaves a question (how exactly did Anna die?) unanswered. That's a good thing and it leaves a lot to the imagination. It's descriptive, uses the diehard rain = sadness trope really effectively, and I actually did feel a little depressed (and a little like punching Alex) at the end. Overall: good.

Something you should watch out for is... well, here:

The policeman frowns, but holds out a warped, crinkled envelope. I snatch it quickly, in part so that it won’t get soaked by the misting rain, but also so that the officer can’t see my hand trembling, and move as if to leave.

Okay, this is first person, so there's something you did there that's a bit reprehensible: "and move as if to leave." No-no, Alex was definitely moving to leave. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he's the narrator here. There are times when little phrases we roleplayers use - "as if to" being chief among them - simply don't work outside of roleplaying. Keep that in mind when you write.

(Actually... is Alex male? You left that vague on purpose, didn't you? Nice. I'm going to keep referring to Alex as "he" because that's easier than dancing around pronouns.)

One of your obvious strengths is embedding your dialogue. Some writers have problems with that. Other authors go out of their way to avoid any form of unembedded dialogue, but you seem to know when that's appropriate, and that's a good skill to have as a writer. So... kudos. Not much more to say there.

Honestly, there's not much to criticize here. It's a short piece. It's not especially powerful, but it made me upset at Alex and it made me feel pretty low afterwards. That's a pretty darned good start. Like I said, you use the scenery well, and I particularly like this part:

I walk to the park, sit on the bench under the oak tree, gaze at the playground. We used to play there as kids; it had always seemed so bright and lively. But today, with the rain, not a child was to be seen playing on the now-rusty monkey bars and merry-go-round. Like a graveyard for childhood dreams.

Shazam. That's evoking some feels right there, that is. The last sentence bugs me (it's not a complete thought, and so it's an incomplete sentence), but the word choices you use fit very well.

Now, onto judging and stuff: you definitely are writing about betrayal here. That bonus theme you have covered big time. What I'm not sure you have covered is the backdrop of "resistance" in some way. But then again... Alex could arguably be said to be resisting in a few ways: he's resisting being second-best, resisting the police officer, resisting Anna's wish to be remembered by getting her buried in an unmarked grave. So, it IS arguable that you're covering the resistance theme. It takes a stretch... but I'll buy into it.

Long story short: very solid piece, no real big flaws, and it's pretty good at making me feel feels. I'm suitably impressed, even if I'm not 100% overwhelmed. Most importantly, I really want to know how the Hell Anna died, and that's a pretty great thing to make your readers want to know. Good work!

EDIT: One last question came to mind that I forgot to mention... Do you think your piece may have read better if you used past tense rather than present? You still won my vote, obviously, but I feel it'd be better if it were past tense. Present tense writing of this fashion reminds me of how roleplayers write in MMOs.

Honestly, I think the biggest weakness of this piece is that it's about exactly what it says on the tin: some officers in the officer's lounge. Very little actually happens. People get shot in the end, but the build-up (while noticeable) isn't very well executed.

I'm not sure what to advise you on here. You establish the setting well. You show us the prevailing attitude of these officers really easily. You demonstrate how eager they are to serve their nation. But there's something... missing. I'm not sure how else to describe it. Your piece just lacks something that makes it all click.

Honestly, this submission feels like the prologue to a longer piece. It doesn't feel like a complete story in and of itself.

I'm sorry I can't be of much more help in this review. The pacing needs some work and the scene just isn't exciting.

If I were the one writing this scene, I'd probably have written it from the Minister's perspective. My reasoning? Then he can wonder "Oh God, is he going to shoot me? Who's he going to shoot?" After all, that's the reaction internal affairs in a tyrannical regime should produce. However, we don't get to see those thoughts, nor the thoughts of relief upon not being shot. We just see people shocked that the girl who was suspiciously fiddling with something beneath the table turned out to be a killer.

I dunno what else to say. Good effort, but it just doesn't click.

Before I begin critiquing, let me say this story is really... Well, good. It's pretty good. Part of this is the content: you're writing about the Vietnam War and PTSD, and you do a fairly good job of it. You're also writing this in a style that gives off that sense of "something isn't quite right," and that's an accomplishment.

With that said, I do have some critiquing to do.

Okay, you did a big no-no right off the bat:

Imagine.

This is going to sound pedantic, but the word "imagine" being used like this, especially as the introduction to your story, is really not a good idea. This is the sort of writing I got chastised for back in Jr. High. Never, ever should you use the word "Imagine" to say "Imagine a world in which <blank.>" The only guy I've known to get away with it is the awesome fellow that narrates The Twilight Zone, and that's because he's an awesome storyteller and projects himself impressively when he speaks.

Now, the next big no-no is your amount of sentence fragments. The ones from the first paragraph are underlined in the quote below:

Imagine this place where the road ran straighter than the drawn line in a mathematics textbook. New and recently paved with inky black perfection. The kind of surface that makes young kids run as fast as they can during the summer so the soles of their feet don’t burn right off. On both sides of that road are divided seas of delicately mowed grass, emerald green blades shaved by fatherly work ethic; or sometimes a son earning his first dollars. All squared up houses, nice and neat. Built by fathers, kept by mothers, and pulsating liveliness with the fast steps of children. A man took one look and knew the sun shone here. The sun shined, and it was bright. It was a wonderful place on Harmony Avenue.

Sentence fragments are basically incomplete thoughts, often sentences that have been broken up into these sort of sentences that I've underlined. They can be fixed, typically, by combining the sentences, or just by rewriting what you have to form a single, complete thought. That's the first thing I'd do: complete your thoughts when writing and work on removing sentence fragments.

There's a reason I'm emphasizing all this stuff. Like I said in another critique, one of the big issues any writer needs to tackle is presenting a good introduction. The first few paragraphs are absolutely critical. Most folks will decide whether to keep reading based solely on the first few paragraphs or pages. That is your one shot, your absolute one shot to reel folks in.

Let's talk about stuff you did right: your poetic language is awesome. It probably helps that you're an actual poet, but you write your stuff in a way that really just works. I have a few complaints here and there, but for the most part, you choose words that are both very descriptive and very flowery. It's far from bland, I'll say that, and it's very enjoyable to read.

Let me just quote this one paragraph that I really like:

The perfectly arranged furniture and stacked papers formed a jungle in which Johnny was no longer familiar. Packing groceries while people thanked him for his service brought no smiles. Johnny didn’t know why he went there anymore, or why they were even sent. Grant and Eric would fix no cars, Jake never listen to the heartbeat of a patient. And, Harvey’s only writings were the nightmares which man does not want to confront.

Harkening back to the Vietnam jungle with this jungle that is his home is just... yeah. Call me tickled pink. Call me depressed, sure, because this is some real stuff we're talking about, but call me tickled pink because of how you present the material.

Also, one last really good thing is this: you didn't make Johnny one-dimensional. People tend to focus on very specific things when writing about characters who have PTSD, picking out one quality that defines PTSD rather than looking at PTSD as a whole. Here we have him pretending to be fine, but definitely not being fine; we have him being angry about what happened, him feeling guilty, him blaming himself, him not caring, him caring too much. We have him feeling lost while also going about the same damned routine he always did while not knowing why. That... is well done. You didn't have much time to show me that, but you did.

The last thing I want to discuss is how well you met the themes... And, well, I'm not sure how to view your piece. See:

• On the one hand, you've done a pretty good job subverting the theme of the week - you know, serving a cause with blind loyalty - by showing just what the Hell the outcome of that is. War is Hell. Soldiers go through Hell, and so do civilians. You even wrote about Johnny killing a civilian. That's pretty good at subverting the main theme of the week.
• That said, you also didn't really focus on the theme. You were writing about war being Hell and PTSD, not resistance or loyalty or any of that. I suppose you could say you were writing about the price of loyalty?

The point is, you wrote a good piece. Write more like it. Make corrections and work on your sentence structure. However, between your punctuation and grammar mistakes and you only loose connection to this week's themes, I'm going to have to vote for someone else.

I'm serious, though: please keep writing. I enjoyed this read. I'm sure others will as well.

First things first: that's a big info dump in the first few paragraphs, and that's something you should avoid.

This is a short story, I know. It's hard to get all the info you want out in a way that isn't an info dump. Still, I feel like there's a lot you said in the first five paragraphs that could have been sprinkled in later much more effectively. Info-dumps like this are exactly what you don't want to see when you're a reader.

This is something you continue to do throughout your work. You describe scenery in great detail, you describe characters we'll see only once in equal detail, and so much more like that. This attention to detail is too vast and too specific. It detracts from the story itself. Let me give you an example:

One of them was taller, wearing the white cloak. He possessed hair that was paler than the full moon, and eyes that matched with a milky tone, as if he were blind. Dark runes were seemingly tattooed into his jawline. He had a vacant look on his face, and his body was built like a statue- beautiful, thin, and strong. He reached for the air beside him, and a blade appeared in a glowing white light. As he drew the sword, it seemingly manifested as it went, until the light itself had wrapped around the blade like a jacket. It was an intricate blade, with runes similar to the ones on the man's face. It seemed to be of japanese make. A katana, perhaps. The statuesque man pointed the blade at his foe, and went still.

The other figure was shorter, and bore a brown cloak, to match his mop of brown hair. His eyes were a hazel color, and he looked more human than his companion. His blade was already in his hands, and was more like a dagger than a sword. He spun it quickly, and it seemed to divide, making it so he now had two daggers clutched in his hands, ready to fight. The boy had a wild look in his eyes, like he was ready for a full out war.

This quoted segment bothers me because all this detail about these two characters is pretty much a description of Marble's special power. That's it. Why do we need this? How does it help further the story? Okay, it's cool that his special power is to split himself into two beings - two separate great warriors of yore - but the length to which you go to describe them actually makes this part of your story hard to read. I know, later it turns out that the smaller one - Yang - becomes an actual character in our story, but at the time it's a really annoying thing to read. Again, you could sprinkle that description of Yang in rather than throw it at the reader in a big blurb.

That's my chief complaint about this story: you write a lot of fluff that actually makes the reader lose track of what's going on. There is such a thing as too much description, and while you're not quite at Nathaniel Hawthorne levels, you're treading that line.

Also, here's a point that I really want to make that bothered me as I read: Marble knew what Japanese meant, or at least you mention the word when his two halves are near each other, but Yang doesn't know what Chinese means or what London is. Why bring up the words "Japanese" and "katana" if those words have no meaning to Yang? If he doesn't know what Chinese means, he shouldn't know those words, either.

There's more I could say. You write a lot here, and it's clear you put a lot of effort into it. But... overall, I just don't like the story. The overly-thorough descriptions really hurt your submission. You hit upon the themes of the week, both resistance and loyalty, but the story isn't what I'd call good.

Keep writing, keep practicing, and try to keep from getting too fluffy with your stuff in the future. Sometimes less is more.

Imma go ahead and note that I know jack shit about poetry, so if I sound foolish trying to judge this, just know that I probably am. Anyway, I like the idea, it feels sort of like it could be a patriotic song in some fascist country. The only line I had to read twice and think about was...

his palace looms above the lower, his throne is a step to reach which is higher

After looking at it a bit, I interpreted to mean "He's above the commoners and near to heaven." But having a vague line did trip up the flow of the thing. The woolen cape mention was interesting, suggests this is probably set in a different period? I love what little details can do to a story, so the dissonance of woolen cape against all of this high language gives me a feeling of cultural depth that could easily have been missed if you had stuck with nothing but high language. The Thane and Thralls bit suggests something Germanic. So I suppose, if it is any worth to you, the image this conjured for me was that of some sort of Scandinavian brand of Nordic Fascism.

I feel like I am missing a few things here because I didn't participate in the Glorious leader game attached to this contest. I would say that it is difficult to imagine exactly what perspective this is supposed to be told in because it is so bombastic (satire perhaps, from the perspective of a Cicero-esque character poking at the dictator with words? The line about a white stallion riding a white stallion, with a crown that is "the master of all headwear", suggested satire to me, but not so certainly that I held onto that idea for the rest of the story.). I can't entirely commit to say that it is too bombastic to be believable because, considering North Korea, the idea that somebody in a dictatorship might be driven to write something so ridiculous isn't impossible to swallow. It might be a good idea for future writing to think about the way stories are framed. The vague nature of this one could possibly be argued to be one of its charms, making the reader like a historian finding a new original source and trying to place it within it's context. But this writing doesn't really present a context at all, so it leaves the reader out of the loop for the entire duration and makes it difficult to become truly interested in what is being said. It might have been a good idea to place hints as to who the Glorious Leader is in reality. That would give the reader something to hold onto, and give the writing more substance. Maybe you did exactly that, and I am just too dense to see it. I'll have to read the other reviewers reviews to see if they got something that I didn't.

But if you didn't mean for there to be a context at all and this idea is exactly as it is presented, I can offer one piece of advice. Your language is good. You know how to write vivid sentences, you're grammar leaves nothing wanting, and at no point did I feel like the language itself was an impediment. That is good, those are not easy things to master. But the problem is that even the best language isn't going to be enough to carry a piece without some other sort of artifice. If you don't believe me, try to read all of Psalms in the bible in one sitting. In short bursts, good language can make a good quote, but too much language without artifice becomes difficult to read because language itself isn't enough to keep the reader interested. Even a simple fun piece like this can be made three dimensional by some very simple turns of phrase, or hints about what is taking place. For instance, you could have started with the fluffy comparisons and slowly became more personal and more real, revealing piece by piece who the Glorious Leader is. You could have outlined a biographical essay, and then fluffed up each bit if biographical material so that despite the bombast the reader could pick out a true story underneath. Something in that vein might have helped ground the reader to the story.

Imma go ahead and note that I know jack shit about poetry, so if I sound foolish trying to judge this, just know that I probably am. That being said, this is the sort of poem that a simpleton like me can read and say 'Yeh, that's what a poem is supposed to sound like'. It reminded me of a sort of elementary school poem, like something kids would be taught so they could learn about the exploits of an important leader in their nation's history. Good King Wencelaus comes to mind as a comparison. I can't say anything negative about it - if there are any flaws in this piece, they are beyond my ability to detect. Perhaps you could have turned it into more of a story poem by expanding on these people who were rebelling against the King and what he did to defeat them? Only suggestion that I can think of.

I think what you need to attend to is perhaps a habit of using the same types of sentences in your descriptions. The beat of the writing reminds me of noir, where everything is simple and to the point, but you mix it with so many descriptors that it doesn't quite work. The idea was a really good one, but I think your tendency to get bogged down in descriptors and story context ended up drowning the suspense you were trying to build. I suggested to somebody earlier that they needed to add more context. With yours, I think you would have done well cutting some world building context and instead focusing on the build up of the scene leading up to the shooting. As it stands now, you just telegraph the martian woman a few times and leave it at that, which makes it where the reader knows she is going to do something. That isn't enough for suspense. One thing you could have done is focus on Tyler feeling suspicious about the entire scene around him. Build up suspense through the interaction of the Generals themselves, while telegraphing the Martian woman within the context of the General's conversation so that you think it will be one of them that ultimately brings about the drama, but when the Martian woman acts, it is neither a non sequitur nor blatantly obvious.

The only other thought I have is that the CAPITAL LETTERS things is sort of a turn off. Might be a good idea to tone that down a bit.

Well, I mean, you nailed it.

This story reminds me a lot of those PG fantasy movies that were big in the eighties. The positives are that your pacing is excellent, the story is textbook perfect, and the ending is satisfying. Considering this is an RP forum, that is more than any of us could expect. But praise isn't very useful, and I'm sure you'd like to hear critique.

The problem that comes about with a textbook story is that there isn't anything here that stands out as original. The final trial is appropriately dramatic and somber, but in an artificial way. I think that partially comes from the fact that each character plays their character-type to a tee, and it causes the characters to feel somewhat plastic. We've just seen them so many times that our responses feel almost expected. I think we've reached the point now where you have to experiment somewhat with the story formula for a story to really have a personality of it's own, even if that means just burying the formula so deep in the story where it isn't so noticeable.

You know the rules, you are probably more deft with them than anybody else in this forum. What I really want to see is what you can do when you break the rules.

Ahh, I didn't participate in the Glorious Leader forum game part of the contest, so I feel I lost a lot of what is going on here. When I got to the part where you starting naming stuff from the forum game, and name-dropped MDK, I felt like I wasn't reading a submission so much as just another post in the contest thread. Also, were there supposed to be words in those blocks, or were the blocks just blank spaces used to convey the perspective shift? Because I played around with them and never got anything but block. Either way, I think that, all and all, this was too much of an in-joke and it doesn't manage to compete on it's own merits.

There is just a lot going on here. I think you work so hard at world building that you slow down the pacing in places. This is especially noticeable in fight scenes, where you break up the action with paragraphs of either description or unnecessary cut-aways. There is one point where, in the middle of the battle, you end up describing the history of the cloak before going into detail about how the split occurs. That pretty much killed the fight. The other place it is noticeable is in that final scene with the witch, where we cut from Alice's teleportation, to the Witch recognizing Marlon, to whatever is happening with Yang, and it happens so fast and with so little action that it takes effort to work out exactly what happens. The Alice and death bit didn't feel like it added much anyway.

I think your imagination is quite impressive. I can tell you enjoy dealing with this unique, ethereal sort of world. What you need to practice is toning it down a bit. Figure out the things you need to tell, and the things you need to cut. It can be stressful trying to reign in your imagination when there are so many ideas you really want to write about, but sometimes you just have to teach yourself restraint. I took a writing class in school years ago, and our teacher touched on this very point. As she said, "In writing, you have to learn how to kill you darlings." Even if there is an idea, or a phrase, or a world-building point you really like, it won't always fit the narrative, and sometimes you just have to drop it.

Good vignette. You did an excellent job at putting together the two characters and drawing them out into three-dimensional figures. Anna is mean spirited, narcissistic, and self-righteous. Alex is petty, immature, and possibly a little desperate. They seem like real people, and that is always an accomplishment.

But there are a lot of holes here. Did Anna get murdered? Did she kill herself? Was drugs involved? Why did she have the prescience to know her approaching death, then use that knowledge to write a letter to a school rival? Was the third friend there for mysterious reasons pertinent to the mystery, or only a device to end the argument between the cop and the protagonist? That the protagonist replied to the cop at the end that Anna wants to be buried in an unmarked grave highlights the immaturity and pettiness of the character, but surely that shouldn't be the end? Realistically, the authorities aren't going to take Alex's word for it when it comes to a will, and their behavior will come to light probably within seconds of the ending. That's why I see this more as a character vignette rather than a fully fleshed out story. The character development is excellent, but the larger story leaves a lot wanting.

There is an ethereal quality to this that is absolutely perfect for what you are doing. I think you managed to, better than anybody else, crawl into the mind of your protagonist and stay there. Reading this gives a quality of childhood lost - like Johny is stuck partially in the jungle, but even more so in the youth he lived before going to war, and these two things together compliment each other seamlessly. You carry it first from the wispy, almost cheesy writing of the first few paragraphs as introducing the childish aspect of his life, and then you get darker as you go along so that the reader feels that darkness too.

I think the only problem is perhaps sometimes your writing gets so flowery that it becomes sort of vague? That works really well in a piece like this where the writing is supposed to take place in a sort of foggy mindset, but there are a few places, particularly near the end, where more grounded writing might have helped.

I am a fan of poetry and I always will enjoy reading more. This feels fairly simple and straightforward when we're talking the theme of the contest this time around. You've indeed written a tribute to the glorious leader that speaks to his greatness and tells in a few words why we should follow him. Also sticks to the fierce nationalism with that last line about burning traitors. I see the Norse theme others have pointed out, and I'm also getting the vibe of a bard singing his tale. 'The Silvertongue' was a nice touch to give off that vibe. I feel like this is something you could hear in a tavern while traversing the realm. And, a leader loyalist who has had a weary travel might feel calm and at ease to hear of such greatness that which he belongs. That was the cool part, and all of the pros pretty much. If I think of something later I'll add it on while I write.

You don't always rhyme, and trust me I know that poetry does NOT have to rhyme to be great. But in this case, you might have wanted a more traditional and eloquent flow. I also wonder if you could have dug deeper with your imagery. Simplicity can make a good poem great, but that only works with the right words and the right message. What those are? I can't tell you. It's you that needs to find the words that resound correctly with you. I can't truly pick apart at this too much because you've hit the basics of the contest theme and you hammered that through. Personally, I just feel you have more in the tank. I'd like to see it.

Know this can't be truly considered a poem or anything. More like a quest list, which the title points out! And, well, you lived up to the title. So, that's always good. Anyway, onto more serious things. I think having the hidden text to be highlighted was a pretty cool concept, and ran well with the hiders and code colors for the IC kind of play we had going on in the other thread. However, I don't know how effective it was. Seems like it went over the heads of some people and is one of those things that might be accidentally discovered rather than anything else. Though, I did end up getting it. Was there a better way to make that more effective? Maybe. I don't know how you would have done it, but that's that on that case.

Overall this was fairly simple and ran with the storyline we built in the other thread using the forum members as the characters. As a piece, we don't know too much about these characters but I can say we don't have to know too much because this feels more like a bit of a humorous piece just establishing the ridiculousness of all of the Glorious Leader loyalty and crazy events of the rebels. I can't give it a vote because there's no elements that make it stand as an excellent piece of work or a superior piece of work within the bunch. To be fair, I believe you were just having fun with it and I had fun going along so mission accomplished I'd say. Fun detour, fun little reminder of how great a time this RPGC has been. Maybe there's an even more creative, more amplified ridiculous route you could have gone. That'd be something. But yeah, you made me smile and I enjoyed myself!

Perhaps the most well rounded poem entered. That's my subjective view, anyway. You've got a grasp of traditional, older time language that resonates with the piece and brought about the proper perhaps romanticism type flow of the piece. This had more of the melodic, musical flow that an ode to the glorious leader deserves. Feels more of the air of the bard recounting the great deeds of king Han to his drunken spectators listening in a dimly lit tavern.

Simple piece. Simple words, and as I often say that's sometimes the way poetry should be. However, I'd be more interested if you could include more vivid visuals. A little more characterization, perhaps satire, or the ridiculous loyalty others have gone for. There are ways to layer a poem and make it rife with multiple meanings, you just need the right words. Again, I feel you went out with a particular mission to succeed on the loyalty side of the them. And in that, you did indeed succeed and made for a pleasant read. If there's anything you should be taking away from me with this, and anyone else who reads my critiques is this: I want more. I want you to dig deeper. I do believe I've told you in other reviews that there's talent in your writing. Sharpen those skills!

Satire? Continuing the joke of the contest? I'm not a hundred percent sure here. Because, first things first, you adhere to the theme of loyalty and the glorious leader. This feels like another insider joke kind of thing because we're drifting into the realm of absurdity. The Glorious leader is so amazing he does this, he doest that, and we mere peasants can't understand it! Sure, this is funny. But, it also drags on. I noticed the play on the five senses, so that was kind of cool. That brings me back to wondering whether this was meant to be a satire especially when we drift to ridiculousness and the descriptions for that are intriguing like the kid bursting into a bright ray of light. There's an aspect of the blind loyalty that feels somewhat... dark? A lurking darkness of the glorious leader perhaps. Again, something that could be pointing to satire. I'm not sure if you meant for comedy, or satire. Yes, there's a difference. But if I'm having a hard time knowing what you're going for, there's a problem. It might just be that this a simple have fun with the Glorious Leader thing, and that's all good by me. But... Just letting you know. This could be a pretty well-written satire if you want to put the work in. Ya' got talent for it. Writing is re-writing. Practice makes you better. Most importantly, have fun with this stuff. Anyway yeah, so this is fair to decent. You've got more in you and I know it.

Huh. Kind of a nifty little story here. It just felt a little flat for me. Title really lays out the story for us, officer's in a lounge. There might be more layers to the whole piece considering the smiling to each other ending between Washington and Tyler; almost as if they're in on a joke that nobody else is. However, that's not a savior for the story as a whole. Tyler's loyal to the general, and he's dedicated to his tasks and it seems he is somewhat skillful. Other than that, I don't know too much about him and I don't get a great enough grip on his motivations other than the expositional dialogue he provides. I wish you had focused more on him and Washington and the dynamic between the both of them. Right there, right there you have the beginnings of interesting development and character backstories. And, one of the biggest problems is that the Officer's Lounge acts like this little bubble. I have no idea what the consequences there are here for this. I don't know what this means, how much it means, or why I should care. Minister Washington doesn't seem to particularly care about what just happened too much (and hey, that could be a rather interesting character trait. Coldness and uncaring works for Roose Bolton in Game of Thrones). You really missed out on a cat and mouse Reservoir Dogs style of scene here. But, good news is you can edit things. Revisions make stories fantastic. This one as it stands just didn't hit all the cylinders.

I like the way you use your words. 'Grave of childhood dreams' was pretty damn evocative. Written in first person, and a shorter entry but you still got out what you wanted to get out. That in itself is impressive. No need for too many wasted words. Alex a girl or a guy? I feel like it's left ambiguous which is kinda cool. Anna and Alex both have fleshed out characteristics that I can see in the way they behave and their voices. But, what's also interesting about this is how much of these characteristics can we take as a hundred percent factual. Our narrator is Alex, and we don't know if Alex is completely trustworthy to give an honest opinion of himself or of Anna. Nor can we believe Anna wholeheartedly about what she says about Alex due to her narcissistic and self-righteous nature. So, we have an interesting balance here that's dark and a little bit unsettling and ultimately puts us in a sour mood by the end of the piece. Good job on getting the reader to feel something.

I am left with a lot of questions regarding Anna's death. Suicide? Murder? Drug overdose? Again, perhaps it's left a mystery and that's better for all of us to throw our own theories around. But, with that missing there feels like there is a severed link to the meaning of all this ya know? Nice line by Alex on the unmarked grave bit, shows how petty he can be (which has been said by another reviewer I see!). And of course, the officer wouldn't care about that because there's a lot of time that goes into a will and all that. Despite that, it doesn't matter... Alex's pettiness was the important part and it was nailed down. Well rounded characters and an engaging short read. Well done.

Let me get all the positives out of the way first. Tons of potential here as a writer, particularly a fantasy writer. You have one hell of an imagination and it's pretty cool to see. The spirits, and the magical-functioning trains, the power of the cape; all of that was intriguing and had me wanting to know more and understand more. You're on the way to well done character development (getting there, it's imperfect but I'll get to that a little later). Your detail is vivid and interesting. NOW, let's get onto the more helpful part of reviews.

Your pacing needs work. It's already been pointed out that fight scenes lose their momentum when you inject sudden description paragraphs and just take us out of the fight. If you can, set up things beforehand. Location, scenery, potential things that might be broken or used in the actual fight itself. Then, just let the havoc spring and don't miss or lose your beats. It will read more crisp, and will enhance the flow of the story. Marble almost feels relatable in the way you talk about the train ride, just holding onto the pole because it jumps and jerks around so much. That's sometimes how people feel on the subway when they don't want to hit or knock into other people because it's rather crammed. Cool little feature. Again, we have a focus on Marble's loyalty and nothing else. Look, I need more human characteristics from Marble because even if he's inhuman or in a fantasy world it doesn't matter. Humans are reading your story, there needs to be a hook. Think more about the culture of your world, how everything breathes and operates. Also, you do get somewhat repetitive and clunky with your otherwise enticing details of the world. Marble's power could have been revealed in a somewhat improved way I believe, particularly because you're introducing us to two new characters and we hardly get to know too much about them and by the end of the story that twist doesn't matter because we don't care. We also don't care about how the Witch feels because she's acted harsh and cold. You need to spend more time on this because I think you wanted to maybe show layers to the Witch that shows that she's not so bad as the Diamond Queen lets on. Also, careful with words like katana, Japanese, China, etc. We're in a somewhat fantasy world here and you're going to need to make a choice. Either go full out fantasy and forget those words because otherwise it will confuse the reader and feel like pointless add ons. Keep writing, and I see a lot of possibilities for you in the future.

Well, I'm going to toss my hat in here and say I actually enjoyed the armpit licking conversation in the intro. The missing link in that beginning piece is we don't get too much of our surroundings or enough from the dialogue to assess the traits of the characters. However, that's a conversation I legitimately could see happening between a bunch of bros sitting around late at night with nothing to do. Soldiers can talk about weird sexual shit like any other group of friends, so that was a grounded quality in my book. Punching up the dialogue may have really helped with this. Really just sit inside of your character's heads in the dialogue like you seem to do in the longer description paragraphs from the journal. There was a great thing that discussion did in the opening, it built a sense of camaraderie and simplicity. Normalcy... And then you shattered that normalcy with a war.

You've got a talent for portraying war in a way that feels honest, and that's what I try to do the best I can with despite not having been to one. I just watch, and listen, and try to understand the mind sets of those involved the best I can. Sometimes we throw around a few too many war platitudes or cliches like 'war is hell'. But, as Tim O'Brien says in 'The Things They Carried'; those platitudes don't ring true. There's a missing piece to bridge the gap of the emotion to someone who hasn't seen war. Sometimes you fall into it, but not so often it becomes detrimental. The first blood, second blood, third blood transitions you used were brilliant. Really kind of nailed down the war experience for the narrator and made me feel connected to it. Revolutionaries believing they're doing a greater good, but having to do things that make them feel like monsters: that right there was very well done. To me, that was you bridging that gap of warfare to the inexperienced. As an audience, we can understand hypocrisy and we can understand guilt and apprehension. So relatable. As I said before, if we can just sit in the character's heads a little longer we would have one hell of a story right here. Otherwise, I really enjoyed this!

Descriptions were nailed down, the story was sharp and well-paced. I understood the characters and their motivations. Sure, their motivations were simple and the characters themselves adhered to this kind of simplicity of an old fairy tale. But, that's not a major knock on the story or anything. Clear, and also felt concise. I and other readers probably felt pretty damn down when the Trial of Loyalty came up. At that point I think we all connected with the father and the son. You never go too in depth with the characters but we know from the delicate way of describing the father that he is kind and truly cared about. That was a great touch and made his death mean something. I think it would have meant more if you ended it on the son's line rather than stating the most kind man was slain. Because we pick up the next scene understanding that the task was finished, so using exposition felt strange and unnecessary at that point. If there's a major gripe in the story it's that we're constantly told that the boy knows what he must do because it is his duty. It leaves out any surprises for us. Do we really doubt he's going to kill his father? For me, I'm not so sure I doubted he would. This kind of renders the trial of loyalty a little bit stale even though you still executed the scene with power and grace. Is this the most original tale? Not really. But, on story beats, motivations, descriptions, plot... You have the most technically sound story. Well done.

What can be improved
Where there are specific instances that illustrate the problem
Why you feel it needs improvement
How you would suggest making the improvement
Why you feel your recommended changes work better
-from writingforums.org

I'm not that well read in poetry but I have read a little. I'm guessing this is a freeform poem as I didn't notice any particular pattern. So here goes for @Blizz

My favorite line is "To defy the great is to defy sanity"

"clad in greatness, born of wonder.
Wrapped in the shroud of royalty
stands a noble leader."

Interesting first line-grabs my attention right away-I already want to know who this guy is. The first line tells me the leader was Born of wonder, but in the second line you use the word shroud, which is a death robe or something to conceal/hide. Not sure why a leader would want either of those things. I'm also not sure why he's simply standing, the line deflates rather quickly for me. I want to see a leader doing something awesome, even dictators commanding the masses occassionally wave and point...er...um...awesomely.

"bearing the gaze of honor
and the crown of crowns.
his throne is a step to reach which is higher"

Cool, so he's a religious leader. Crown of crowns is a christian reference, or at least reminds me of that sort of thing. It kind of ties into the Viking reference you mention a few lines down.

His world is the only, his word is law, his command is undeniable, and his power unmatched.
Bing bang boom. Four things about the leader just like that. Very powerful wording, no doubt what you intend with this line. The power is drained however by sticking these phrases together, Maybe spread them out in the poem?

"He is our Thane, and we are his thralls."
This is interesting. It clearly sets a place and setting for the poem. Whether it's a nod to historical viking history or for a fantasy setting that borrows heavily from viking culture, the line presents some good imagery. Having said that, nothing else in the poem points at this particular hisorical reference/imagery and makes it sort of...odd in relationship to the other lines.

The only thing I can say for improvement is to edit more and read more and you will improve. Poetry is ....weird. Words have more $ per letter and should be chosen carefully, in this piece nothing really grabbed my attention that much, except for my favorite line, " To defy the great is to defy sanity".

Great story, compelling. It has a quaint tone to it, like listening to an ol' timer tell a story, it gets really dark quick and I like that. Johnnys character changes dramatically and for me story is character so well done. I just think it needs a few more rounds of editing to tighten up some sentences and punctuation. Some lines that were my favorite and particularly powerful:

"The claws of his rage searched for comfort but grasped nothing"
"..adding them onto the list of bodies for their advertised bravery engine where the fuel was heroism"

My only complaint is that, unless I'm missing something glaringly obvious, the story only vaguely fits under the contest topic. Sure he is the ringleader for his childhood friends, but other than surviving nothing sets him apart from the other guys. Nothing to make him a leader. But that's just my personal impression.

The first thing I notice is that the beginning of some verses are capitalized, and others aren't.
It's a very straightforward poem about a glorious leader whom is above all else. I love the line
"To defy the great is to defy sanity."
This makes me think of the modern Catholic Church, and how it feels to defy them.

I like this one. It seems to have a more religious vibe to it than the rest, with the Glorious Leader being godly in nature. It's certainly a twisted creation myth. I'm loving some of the descriptions, all making me feel like the Glorious Leader is the universe itself. It's quite humourus how crazy it gets in the end. But then again, the GLORIOUS LEADER makes us all do quite ridiculous things.

This seems almost like a tavern song. I can picture a bard singing the tale of the glorious King Han in a tavern somewhere off the map.
It is made clear that King Han is a perfect leader, making everyone in the land happy. And yet immediately afterwards, we learn of a rebellion. Was the great King Han actually all that great? I like how ambiguous it is.
I love how each line has a rhyme, keeping the flow going throughout the whole piece.

Nothing too surprising here. A futuristic take on the GLORIOUS LEADER. The only two things I had a problem with as a reader was that:
1. the Martian woman "fired shots wildly". This gave me the image of the Martian woman standing up and shooting her gun randomly around the room like a crazy person. We learn quickly that she actually shot with precision, shooting both Velko and Generals Stone and York. Just a small description that confused me.
And 2. The ending confused me. I wasn't quite sure why it was John's fault, or why Tyler was smiling. Maybe it's just me.

... *immediately checks if there’s text between the lines* … Sorry, I had to. XD

… Um. Yupp. That’s a thing. Was there an artistic reason why some sentences start without a capital letter? Um. Anyway. Yupp. Not sure I can critique this at all. XD

And that’s got to be the longest title I’ve ever seen in a contest like this, but suppose that might be appropriate.

So, um. Um. Uuuuuuuuum. I am, um, significantly creeped out, but I think that might have been the intention, so brilliantly well done! XD
I was trying to come up with ways to praise the Glorious Leader in my entry, but seeing this, I clearly didn’t try hard enough. XD
Impeccably done. You are, no doubt, a master of the art of praising. I am happy to have found one such an entry among this batch. Hahaha! XD

Well. It sounded really good! XD

It feels a bit short. Like the entry didn’t have all that much of a point. Sure, he’s a great important guy and all, but was there nothing dramatic about this guy that could have been qualified as a ‘tale’? Because, yeah, this feels more like describing the guy rather than telling a tale about him.

But the contents aside, I’ll have you know I sang this entry out loud as I read it. And you know what? It sounded really good. So yeah, most excellently written a little piece of writing! I have no critique to give on that front! Good job! XD

Heh. I’m amused. Who was it that promised to write a sci-fi western, again? XD

All in all, there isn’t all that much to this story. It’s a pretty simple story. The fact that it was kinda sci-fi didn’t really add anything specific to the enjoyment other than to make it just a bit stranger. However, I did enjoy what it was. It succeeded in being what it was, and it brought a little smile to my lips as I reached the conclusion. Thanks for providing it to me. Haha.

You're skilled in writing in the style of elderly tales, o poetic one. Haha.

Alright. That was a dramatic one. The tales of trails, and what was the result of leading these to their end. It was somewhat long, I did feel the pull of weariness as I read on, but this was a very well-written and powerful entry. You're skilled with your words, and spoke a tale like the classics of old. Beyond the apprehension of getting into a tale as mighty as this, I have nothing but words of praise for you. Dramatic and satisfying end to it, too. Well done.

Still. The “Trail of Loyalty” is an asshole trail. I get the point of it, but I get into roughly the same mood every time I run into it. Oh, well.

*imagines the title said in the voice of that guy from that one Pokémon song* XD

Alright. Yupp, that's one way one could imagine things going in a revolution. 15 minutes into the future can be an exciting time. Though, yes. I didn't really feel anything magnificent or incredible which would cause me to vote for this entry. But, it is well enough written. I can't say anything negative about it either, really. Just didn't grab me. Well enough done, haha.

I'm... kind of prone to motion sickness. In fact, I'm kind of motion sick right now because of the bus ride I went on six hours ago. Let me tell you. THAT TRAIN RIDE DID NOT HELP MY SYMPTOMS. XD

… Puah. That... that was a trip. And with that, I mean it was like an actual acid trip or something. It was like a dream, so unfocused at what it was doing at the moment and constantly changing what strange imagery that it was deciding to show the viewer at any one time, changing the twists and contents of the story sporadically throughout the entire thing with no clear rhyme or reason. So random! I still have no idea what role Alice had, but I am pretty annoyed he didn't do more to defend her. Oh, well. So, uh. The entry was well written enough, and there's clearly no lack in imagination here, so allow me to just ask... What the heck happened here? I don't think I understood anything. Maybe choosing to read this instead of going to bed in this tired form was a bad idea. Or, maybe it was the best idea? I don't know. Hahahahaha.

I cannot have tips for this, because I still have no real clue what was going on there, or WHY these twists were happening. What were the roles of all these women and splitting guy? Of the spirits or that god? Why was the witch having her revolution and if she had good reason to do so or not? Why was the Diamond Queen called a hag by other knights? Why was that guy so big? Why was... … … Yes. I have no bloody idea, and I don't think I'm going to dwell on it longer than I need to. But, well, I did smile because it was so thoroughly strange? Hahaha. XD

I... don't get it.

Oh, well.

…

Well, more like I don't feel it. It's excellently written, and I do believe I know what you're going for. Thing is, since I don't know what happened I can't go 'oh, that's clever' or 'oh, that's sad' or any other emotion. I'm just looking for answers, and looking for answers isn't good for my enjoyment of a piece. What kind of death could she have known was coming yet was the result of him ruining his life to ruin hers? The police-man said it was a crime-scene. If she was murdered, isn't it potential evidence? And he burned it. He destroyed the potential evidence. Hah. … In any case. It was a depressing little entry that didn't give me the information I desired. So... oh, well. Onto the next.

Well. It should be pretty obvious what's wrong with Johnny. Geesh. In any case. Um. Yeah. It's a pretty straight-forward story. I found the poem to be better suited to the story than the story itself, actually. Your writing is good, I don't need to say too much on that, however, allow me to just say that I'm not very good with depressing stories. It's like, the moment the war is mentioned my whole mind just went “Ah, one of THOSE stories” and I was reduced to roughly the same emotional state as that of the narrator.

So, yeah, um, well written, but look at the other guys for better feedback. I'm just going to go and sigh in depression all day. Hahaha...

I @vote for Firebrand. So many brilliant ups and downs on that tale, and in the end, it looks like his loyalty paid off. And the fact it read and felt like ye olde tale style was an amazing bonus. Well done.

@Blizz
The thing missing from this poem is surprise. When you look at good poems, they’re saying things like “love is a watermelon” and that relationship between ‘love’ and ‘a watermelon’ is what breathes life into the words. It’s all that symbolism and imagery crap your English teacher drones on about ad nauseum – but they kind of have a point, right? If you don’t go outside the box, it’s not really a poem – it’s just a list of facts.

WHICH TOTALLY KINDA WORKS IN THIS CASE! Because in the Glorious Country, this is exactly the kind of poem you would expect people to write about their Glorious Leader. I mean this is a picture-perfect, in-character-ish sort of entry, and in that sense it’s friggin’ brilliant. I just wanted to start out with the criticism because outside of the scenario we presented in this contest, this poetic voice would come across as I guess the only good word would be “bland.”

Interestingly there are certain traditional poems that use this sort of formatting. I cheated and looked at @Shorticus’s review – that’s one. Another is Hebrew poetry, where repetition is part of the whole idea – “God is good, God is great” is a poetic clause. That’s academic though. In a modern, English, ‘do I like this’ sense of things, what we really want from poetry is imagery that makes you think/feel/wonder. It’s absent here, and here, that’s fine – hell I’m tempted to call that a strength, in this case! Just don’t make a habit of it is all I’m saying.

@klomster
Nailed it.

Let’s start with what I really like. First of all, you totally captured that cult reverence and generally absurd true-believer voice. It’s lunatic and over the top and authentic. Second, I really liked that introduction section about seeing, hearing, touching the glorious leader – @Blizz put me in kind of a Book of Psalms mood, and this has the flow of a Psalm of David, really – which is high praise. Third and last because of constraints – that ‘stallion riding another stallion with sparkles’ bit is still making me laugh. I love it.

My only criticism – bearing in mind that again, GLORIOUS COUNTRY style isn’t going to carry you too far outside of this scenario, so be smart about what you learn here – my only criticism that could apply to your writing in general is, there’s a little more repetition that I’d like to see. Things like crowds so moved they burst into songs of praise over and over again – I mean I get it, what else can you really say in this situation, but just be mindful of it, right? And towards the end, the word ‘graze’ appears in back-to-back sentences, which is just weird for the reader because we don’t hear ‘graze’ once in a normal day, and there it is twice in a row.

That’s it. This is quirky and insane and ridiculous, and for all those reasons I think it should really turn out as one of the stronger entries of the month. But I haven’t finished reading yet, so don’t hold me to that. MY POINT BEING – great job.

@wisedragongirl

I have to get this out of the way or it’s going to bother me for the whole review – I adore poetic meter. I would marry poetic meter but I’m pretty sure Shakespeare has dibs. You picked a really great rhythm for this poem and just didn’t stick with it hard enough, and it’s bugging the hell out of me! All easy fixes, too – “Some people were jealous and wanted his wealth” fits the rhythm. ‘None No one was able to touch the good king” fits. “He deserved Deserving the following praising galore” fits. It’s…. well. The lesson is, if you don’t really super-realishly think about it, the rhythm slips away, but it’s usually not all that hard to keep it. And keeping it makes your poem hit 3,000,000% harder. Always be thinking about the rhythm!

Rant out of the way. Let’s talk about the positives – first of all, structure like I said was a really smart choice. The stanzas are natural, the rhyming is consistent and natural, and the rhythm (when you kept it!) was perfect. The images are pervasive and you don’t linger on any of them, and they’re all adding to the bigger picture of this great king and his loyal people and his awesome kingdom. Everything here works, basically, is the short-version.

Except the rhythm. But you’re so close, and it’s such an easy correction.

@Polybius

You did a fantastic job of world-building (worlds? Whatever). The writing itself is friggin’ outstanding – feels like the perfect amount of detail, excellent descriptions mixed in nicely with conversation and action. The big take-away for people who might read your entry and then read my review (and also for you) – when you read this story, you’re getting a real sense of what’s around the plot. Things that you don’t have to write, but you’re still telling us – that’s an art form right there, and you’re all over it. MAJOR kudos.

Sidenote – I’ve been in numerous military officers’ lounges before and you nailed it. The setting here is the strong suit.

Let’s talk plot. You’ve given us, in my opinion, a very strong scene, but with a few chinks in the armor. The conversation – and the suspicious pauses in the conversation – are very effective. But the chink is, the ending – with the violent confrontation – isn’t really foreshadowed at all. When the martian puts her hands under the table, we’re already in Tyler’s head and he should already be suspicious, right? But heck, even before that, he should’ve been suspicious just stepping into the club. It’s a sort of reverse-Chekhov-gun – there are essential details left out and I think that’s why the plot doesn’t quite hit home. Yes, the surprise of a gun popping out mid-conversation is more shocking – but it could happen a little more honestly, I guess? Does that make sense?

Plot was a little weak. Literally everything else was amazing. Your characters are interesting and alive and a part of a bigger, breathing world, and the language was great. Compare this to the bar scene in Inglorious Bastards – I mean okay, that’s Oscar stuff, let’s not get carried away, but notice how in that scene the tension is building naturally because of what the audience is “in” on? Aspire towards that end of the spectrum.

@shorticus

I’m partway through reading in detail right now, and I wanted to get some point-criticisms out of the way before I give you the proper treatment in a minute. I don’t always do point-by-points, but when I’m doing fine details like this it’s because you’re awesome. Forgive the nitty-gritty!

- While Arturus speaks with the dragon, there’s a parenthetical (which the dragon claimed human meat did). I DON’T LIKE IT. Rephrase that and work it into the sentence – “They talked about which meat tasted best, and the dragon insisted that it was human no matter what Arturus suggested as an alternative.” I mean not that, that’s bad, but…. Like that. The parentheses shut down the story for a second and it was really jarring, because I’m super into this.
- Word choice when he speaks to the king-priest. “I doubted that I was Chosen at all once I saw….” Feels wrong, idunno. Read aloud it’s fine, took me a couple tries in writing.
- Poetry from the book of Aldorane lacks a good rhythm, but this is hardly the point of the story so don’t sweat it
- Cutting through the grove of thorns, there’s an exclamation point when Arturus realizes his path is being regrown as he moves. The exclamation point is weird. I’m not one of those ‘never ever use that’ types, but this instance feels like a break from the overall style. I’d go another way.
- Arturas talking to his father is a little sloppy. “you are my sire, he who taught me all I know” – why not ‘you taught me all I know?’ And ‘for whom I have fought all these battles for,” obviously, slipped past – not a big deal, just pointing it out.

Okay, done with all that. Wow. Let’s skip the parts where I tell you how impressed I am, or I’ll be here all day. The story is well-written and that’s great, but more than that, it’s compelling and that’s rare. Style is sound and consistent. Pacing is goddamn brilliant. Characters were overwhelmingly interesting. Climatic. Different. Let’s boil it down to simply: dude, this rules.

I picked out some points as I went along, and listed them above. Should not be construed as complaints, or detriments, or whatever – just some extra things to think about on your next compelling story. Something else that you did well, but still think about it next time – this was the right amount of setting for this story. He passes nameless villages and on the one hand, maybe naming a few of them would help each encounter stand out – that’s a trap I think. Like…. This is very clearly a story about Arturus and his dedication, and not about the land it’s happening in. That’s all background, and it stays background here. Presumably the next story may possibly call for a different specific amount of setting detail – nail it as well as you did in Firebrand, and you’ll be in a great place.

Not much else to say. This was crazy stupid good.

@vilageidiotx
First of all I love the intro. It was all character and weird as hell – bloody perfect.
Second, I love the tone of this entire story. Less Braveheart, more Jarhead. It feels super authentic all the way through, and I’m connecting that much more with everybody involved.
Third, I love what’s in the story almost as much as I love what isn’t. We don’t get to see the battles – only the damage. And that’s a whole commentary on Revolution of its own! There’s no waving banners, not even all that much excitement (okay, the one guy shooting through the floor while he’s singing a fucking church hymn) – when there’s bravery, it’s ludicrous. When there’s justice, it’s sideways. I can’t really put into words just how ‘right’ this all feels.

TL:DR – I honestly tried to do a point-by-point complaint log like I did for @shorticus and I literally came up dry. It’s crazy. There simply is nothing in this story that I don’t like – nothing that doesn’t work, nothing that I would want to see done differently. It’s outstanding. Which leaves me in a weird place, because I desperately want to say something helpful for your future writing endeavors – so I’ll pick the one spot, four paragraphs from the end, where he’s sitting quietly and thinking about what he’s learned from all this. Yes – that seems like exactly the sort of thing he would think about, yes, it works, yes, you did it well. It’s as close as I can get to a weak point, and it ends when he gets a Snickers – go figure. I guess maybe trim down the soliloquy a little, maybe? I’m sorry. That’s really all I got. Bravo.

@platinumskink
Well that was a lot of fun!

So, to really appreciate this, you certainly had to be ‘in’ on the GLORIOUS ‘roleplay’ I guess. But if you weren’t – and you highlighted – I think it would still be worth talking about because of the great effect of the hidden text. The two sides – and then that one part where they trade places? FLAWLESS EXECUTION. I’m not gonna be picky about the writing because, I mean, dueling propagandas, what do you expect right? But there’s one line where you point out ‘This is happening in modern times’ or something along those lines and, yeah, okay, that’s slightly breaking the fourth wall just a touch. But whatever.

This was fun. On format alone this has to be the cleverest thing anybody’s ever turned in. I dig it, I like it, I APPROVE. Nice job. Also I’M A STAAAAAAAR! Woot. I think in the realm of ‘canon’ for GLORIOUS COUNTRY, this should pretty much be the authoritative ‘what happened’ outcome.

It's a very simple and straightforward poem, which while not necessarily a bad thing, does make it difficult for it to stand out.

For the most part, the vocabulary is equally simple and straightforward—in poetry every word counts, and so one shouldn't be afraid to play with the lexicon a little. It's especially important to use a consistent lexicon, and as such, I feel that more words akin to thrall and thane could have done a good job of giving this poem its own tone and feel. Words like wonderful and great are extremely generic, and including their cousins wonder and greatness as well makes them all the cheaper.

The greatest fault to this poem, however, is in its lack of cohesion. There are a number of very effective verses utilizing parallel structure, such as verses one, eight, and nine. (Verses seven and ten came close to achieving parallel structure; the former needed to end in is unmatched, and the latter in shall be burned, so that they would repeat the patterns of their respective verses.) However, these verses are only effective independently—there is next to nothing tying any one verse in this poem to any of the other verses, which prevents it from attaining any sort of natural progression. This could have been attained in one of two ways: conceptually, or rhetorically.

As mentioned above, each verse acts largely independently of the others, and this is ultimately why it fails to achieve conceptual progression. Many verses are redundant. For example, wrapped in the shroud of royalty and wearing a woolen cape, while providing different information, both seem to describe his cloak. Similarly, the two parts of the fifth verse both roughly say that he is above other things, without either providing any distinction between the heights, or designating that the heights build off of one another. (That being said, the verse come close to doing so rhetorically with its parallel structure. The juxtaposition of the antonyms lower and higher would have been more effective, however, had one not been a noun while the other an adjective.)

Without any clear structure, metre, or rhyming scheme, neither did it foster progression rhetorically. It came close, however. Verses two, four, six, and eleven follow roughly the same pattern, all ending with a leader. That being said, the first two such cases used the verb stand, whereas the last two used the far weaker verb is, greatly diminishing the effect. (Had this been an attempt to mark the conceptual progression of the leader's qualities from being a result of his position—standing above others—to being inherent of his person—being above others—the pattern would have to have been used more consistently throughout the poem, in order to properly translate the intentionality of it.)

Considering the prevalence of parallel structure in the poem itself, it does not seem that there is a difficulty in utilizing compositional techniques. All that is needed is for these techniques to be used with greater purpose and intent, so as to push forward a cohesive meaning.

Tons of repetition, and redundancy, and absurdity. Evidently, this entry is a satire, and for that reason alone, it can embrace these faults wholeheartedly. There are a few interesting concepts described in there, and in particular the over-the-top second section, in which a typical far-fetched tale is told of his deeds, was quite entertaining.

The first part dragged on a bit in similes. Understandably, this was almost certainly intentional due to the structure of the entry, but paired with unnecessary repetition—such as the use of deafened for two separate senses—made it more of a chore than it ought to have been. In addition, the transition between the two parts, which bear significant differences in style—descriptive vs narrative, among other things—was quite abrupt. Had this entry been framed better, either by identifying the narrator or by elaborating on the role of the audience, it would have been much easier to make this transition.

The moment that stood out most was "I was brought to tears of everlasting joy, which drove my body to draught, which could only be quenched by his words and wisdom." The full circle this creates is most clever. The self-reference to heresy near the beginning was also quite interesting, and its rather early placement helped to solidify this entry as a satire.

Of course, the entry as a whole was ripe with run-on sentences, but it is clear that it was not written with a polished end-product in mind. What it attempts to do, it does well enough. If a bit difficult to follow at times—grammar does have its uses.

Good use of rhyming scheme—even within verses!—and metre make of this an entertaining read regardless of content. And the content only makes it better!

First of all, the tone of the poem was consistent in both story and vocabulary. While some words were quaint, their simplicity was used seemingly purposefully, evoking perhaps the language used by a typical storyteller speaking to those less educated. Never did a word seem out of place amidst its kin, and even phrases worked towards its 'antique' feel, such as the reversed did he and the alternative for always.

The constant reiteration, both of those that provide slight variations in connotation—such as cunning, clever, and smart—and of opposites—such as oldest to youngest, tall and small—help to show the reach of his benevolence goes. He both encompasses all good traits, and he encompasses all forms of people. An ideal leader, in any and every context.

Very few verses feel as though they could use retouching. Notably, the start of the second to last stanza seems to be structured so as to follow a progression, from the king fighting his foes, to him defeating them, to him taking rest. However, because did he conquer is written to evoke a past not removed from found defeat—not to mention conquering and defeating being synonyms in this context—makes of this a false progression.

Nevertheless, this poem does not fail to inspire, and deserves the preceding praising galore.

Aside, I disagree somewhat with @mdk. The only verse that bugged me in terms of rhythm was the one ending in galore, as he mentioned. I much prefer the use of none over no-one, as it is both more consistent with the 'antique' tone of the piece, and with the later use of the same word. In general I'm just more lenient with rhythm, I guess, as when singing one can alter the way certain phrases or words are uttered to render the difference in syllabic length immaterial.

Quite nicely written, and the atmosphere of brooding political subterfuge was very effective in making this short scene a compelling one. Unfortunately, neither Velko nor John were given much of a chance to expand upon their respective characters, but both Tyler and Washington were interesting. The foreshadowing provided wasn't particularly effective—something was up, but it wasn't at all clear whether this was supposed to be tense or not.

Due to a lack of compositional issues in this story, the sources of complaint come from the plot itself. Specifically, the ending left far more questions unanswered than it ought to, despite being something of a cliffhanger. First, the exchanged smiles seems to imply that the two were mutually aware of the potential threat, but there is no other indication given that the two have anything to do with one another. Quite the opposite, really, as even the internal narration explicitly questioned Washington's core identity. Second, the reader—knowing very little of Velko and the two Generals—does not have any real way of knowing whether or not the assassination was successful. Evidently she managed to kill a few targets, but there is no way of knowing who the primary targets were—seeing as she fired randomly—nor the consequences of those men's deaths.

Cliffhangers are quite fine, to be clear. It is, however, typical to address the important questions that are to be left unanswered, instead of just leaving the whole thing open to interpretation. That is to say, if a question is important and unanswered by the cliffhanger, it is a good idea to have the narration or the characters point out as much, explicitly or implicitly as the case may be.

Still, very good framing and atmosphere. All the pieces were in play, there was just a lack of explanation as to why they were in motion.

Amazing, simply amazing.

There is not a fault to be found, not a criticism to be made here. To even attempt to deconstruct the piece enough to properly praise it would be an attempt in vain. Noting here that particularly touching was when he at first abandoned the third task—had he completed it with as much determination as the first two, this story would surely have been much weaker.

It would have been nice to know more about the world, the barbarians, the King-Priest—but this is a short story, not a novella. And for that, all that is contained suffices.

I do have a love for fairy tales.

The introduction was odd. Very much so, and without really achieving what it should have, making it largely detrimental. Essentially, it should be there as a framing device, grounding the later narration and creating a sense of relatability with the story's participants. Because of this, the fact that its contents are irrelevant to the story is relatively unimportant. The reason it fails is instead that it doesn't relate to the story, even outside its spoken content.

It appears evident that the two characters conversing are the narrator and Avery. The issue with this, is that it is Avery that is given all the attention. The narrator's lines are all reactionary, and of little interest, while Avery gets to talk about Kelsall. (Note that because Kelsall is the one being referred to is not a redeeming factor, as his status as a pervert has no bearing on how he is perceived in any other part of the story.) While he does have a few moments in the main narrative, he is shipped off to fight at the airport rather quickly, rendering the personality he was so graciously gifted pointless. Avery is not an important character. (By the way, it isn't mentioned that Avery had left the group during the split until the conclusion itself, which lead to initial confusion.)

In addition, the conversation exists as a very odd framing device, considering the format of the story. Despite being called a journal, the narrator implies that he is writing of these events long after they have taken place. The conversation, taking place outside this contained narrative, should thus logically take place at the same time as the writing. This could most easily have been rectified by making it a part of the journal, used as a framing device by the narrator himself. (Of note, it doesn't really make sense for either a journal or a short-story to contain chapters—especially when there's only one.) There are a few other inconsistencies with the journal format; for example, the use of present tense in the line "And then it happens. The hammer comes down. I hear a scuffle. gunshots." Putting oneself back into the moment though verb tense is more typical of verbal storytelling than written. In this case, it is especially notable because the use of simple past is already achieving this function in comparison to the past perfect of the first couple paragraphs.

More generally, the story was pretty good, and evoked well the inner conflict of the narrator. It reads more like a memoir than a journal, though, especially with the actions being written in a narrative format. The strongest aspect of the writing is the juxtaposition of long and short sentences—such as in "We fell in behind the wall of the second building and watched intently as Kelsall took a peek around the corner. He motioned. We followed." The build-up of tension is sustained by the following quick burst, jolting us towards the real action. In a similar vein, the entire noise-making scene was very effective, with the song verses helping to maintain tension by sustaining the tension. The distension cause by the poster was also well timed.

Finally, the introspection tended to drag on sometimes, repeating itself in different words—all over the paragraph about exceptionalism—and sometimes a bit heavy-handed—see the Snickers. Overall it conveyed powerful concepts well, but it could have been far more efficient, and far more cohesive.

I don't know how to go about critiquing this, and so I won't. (I could, of course, but it take a lot of time to get in the right mindset for it, and I don't think the result would be of much value.)

So instead of a critique, you'll have to settle for just my review!

The first time I read it, it was interesting. Dragged on for too long, but there were a couple hints that implied something was amiss—even before the resistance was revealed, I could tell the bandits were hired help. It was okay on its own, but not quite "good".

Once I read the lines between the lines, my appreciation for it grew tremendously. While some meta-text was weird, it was overall very entertaining, and a great way to close of the roleplaying from the older thread! I'm happy you went with this route. A fun read.

I admit, I didn't realize I was supposed to highlight the text until I started to read the reviews—after all, I was on mobile. I do have a suggestion that I feel could have helped with this: make each verse of the "highlight" end stanza a different shade of grey, progressing from invisible to white. This would have kept the hint at the end of the entry, while making it much easier to catch on to the formatting choice.

The most accurate way to describe this entry would have to be eccentric. The action jumps around between scenes, settings, and tones with a wanton abandon, making it difficult to keep track of just what is going on at any given moment.

The narration suffered from a number of issues. First, the narrator was rather inconsistent. It roughly followed Marble's persepctive—as demonstrated by lines such as "How could anyone say such a thing about Her?" and "Just as he thought that," which tie the narration to his inner thoughts. In this sense, the reader should only know what Marble or Yang are supposed to know. And yet, it sometimes switches to a more separated narrator, as demonstrated by the description of the two forms, after his split. Throughout this sequence, references to their traits are regularly made with uncertainty, using qualifiers such as seemed or perhaps—or worst of all, "as if he were blind" and "like he was ready for war." Because the reader has for the most part been stuck in their minds, they should know for a fact whether or not he is blind, or is ready for war.

The descriptions were generally okay, though ofttimes the comparisons were nonsensical. Take "rolled up the path towards him slowly, like a horse running across an open field." As far as the reader knows—again, hard to keep track—he was on a steep slope, on a thin path off the side of a bluff, covered in vines. This does not sound much like an open field. And a horse is quite quick when galloping—horses do not roll slowly. Nothing in this simile matches up.

Compositionally, transitions weren't used effectively. In many paragraphs, a closing sentence was used to introduce what would be relevant to the next paragraph. The problem with this is that paragraphs are designed to each follow on train of thought, a single idea. Most of these closing sentences have nothing to do with the rest of the paragraph preceding them, and would be better off at the beginning of the next paragraph—or even better, as punchy short paragraphs on their own. An example would be the end of the fourth paragraph: "He hadn't left the Capital much since his induction into the Diamond Knights." Generally, this sort of off-hand introduction to the concept of the Diamond Knights is fine, but the fact that he seldom left the Capital had next to nothing to do with the rest of the paragraph before it—which was describing the nature of the train. This makes for a jarring switch of subject, that hampers flow.

Another issue of transitions relates to the description of action. Oftentimes, the word suddenly is used in the middle of an otherwise plain paragraph—or even sentence—to indicate the rapidity of action taking place. To be truly effective, suddenly must take advantage of paragraph breaks and punctuation to actually break the flow, or it will simply fall flat. In a sentence such as "The bird cried out in surprise as it fell, and the statue man was suddenly gone, moving faster than the rain that fell to the ground during a storm," by having the word in the middle of a long sentence with clauses on either side, what should be a punchy action is instead dragged out. Consider the effect that this has instead: "The bird cried out in surprise as it fell, and suddenly—the statue man was gone. Moving faster than the rain that fell to the ground during a storm, ..." The intentional breaks in the flow help to support the rapid succession of the actions.

Finally, the story was entertaining, but very confusing. Rose was said to be the witch's granddaughter, but also Marlon's mother—and yet Marlon is said to be the witch's grandson? Alice was interesting, but her plot was tangential and had no resolution or explanation. And the rapidity with which Marble switched between goals made for a very hectic plot to follow. A nice read, but it could use a lot of fine-tuning.

Short and sweet, and well-written to boot. The mysteries surrounding the story—the girl's death, the friend's decision to help Alex, the nature of their rivalry—make for an interesting draw. Great atmosphere. Alex an Anna were both complex characters, characters I'd love to know more about. There's really not much I can say about it, as few things are developed enough to really dig into.

The last line was particularly potent.

The introduction was a bit of a drag, the first paragraph in particular feeling like purple prose. While it was helpful in that it established the five boys, it just didn't really draw interest. That being said, it was better on a second read-through, after the reader knows the point from which Johnny is reminiscing, and the initial tonal shift between home and war was very effective.

Once Grant died, the tone seemed to settle into a useful monotone. All the deaths, really, were well presented in that fashion. However, the return from the war felt too flat. It could have used a bit more time to make the transition, and that Johnny was the only survivor wasn't made clear, which weakened the effect of some of the following text, up until Harvey's death was confirmed.

A nice, slow, story, with a compelling narrator. Good work.

With a magnificent tale which grabbed half of the votes, Shorticus was able to obtain praise throughout our score of reviewers through the detailed trails that one single hero had to go through to prove his determination and loyalty. Keep doing what you're doing or get even better, we love it.



An entry which set a beautiful mystic tone with the beginning scene and enchanted its readers with the given story of a single letter, providing the mystery of the parts it left out in a way only a really well-written piece can. Wonderfully done.



I'm not part of the staff at RPGC and am totally confused at mdk's statement that someone can declare the winner, so feel free to hang me to burn on a stake if I did something I can't. In any case. When mdk comes back, he probably have some staff-only things to say and some bonus categories to award, so feel free to wait patiently until then!

Anyway. Terminal should have a Seventh Labour up soon enough. Why not check that out if you can for something to write next month? If you're confident in your skills, it is truly something to challenge with your capability at writing stories against!