Storybook

DeletedUser

Ah, shoot, I've been so busy lately I completely forgot to reply to this...I apologize. Yes, this is the place for stories. GAM is for everything but creative writing...CS is the writing portion of creativity. However, since the majority of the section is devoted to RP-style writing, we do constrain individual works to here, which I do understand can be frustrating if you're trying to write something in chunks.

<SNIP>

In short, interesting plot, but slightly lacking in execution, therefore 6/10

Lord Regal, thank you for your comment. I will fix the highlighted error. However, as I have explained to Apelatia, this story is far from complete. This was just the Prologue. :D

The Colonel
 

DeletedUser31931

So, I thought that I'd post another short story on here, again written for English. The pre-requisite was that it had to start with the line "If, on a winters night, a traveller..." which explains why the first paragraph seems ever so slightly out place. I was going for a sort of horror feel which I hope I did quite well, but I'll let you guys judge whilst I wait for it to get marked and be returned.

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The Grey Corridor

If on a winter’s night a traveller were to be unlucky enough to be trudging through the back-streets of a city they might be incredibly unlucky and spot a sign that read public lodge, and intrigued, enter to get out of the cold. At least, this is what one very specific traveller thought to himself as his feet pounded down the dull, uniform grey corridor, his breaths coming thick and fast as his body worked to its limit, as he fled for his life.

The corridor sat there, it was a grey, cold corridor of uniform shape and size, like all the other corridors in the building, and like all the other corridors in the building, it sat there in silence, ignoring the events currently taking place in its walls.

As the traveller ran a group of people emerged behind him, walking slowly but with purpose, they all looked completely normal human beings but for one trait, their eyes blazed amber, they had no other colour in their eyes, no white, no pupil, just a fiery amber and they marched to a beat, to the rhythm of a word that they chanted together as they marched. “Conform.” The feet pounded “Conform.” He rounded a corner and saw his salvation, “Conform.” A window! He could jump through and escape. “Conform.” With new found energy he began sprinting down the corridor. “Conform.” The feet thudded, gaining more speed as he prepared to jump through the window. “Conform.”

A new set of voices joined the mix, the same in all aspects. “Conform.” From the corner where the window was, another group appeared. “Conform.” The traveller stopped, panting. “Conform.” This was it then, he’d lost. “Conform.” The groups approached slowly and the man made no attempt to move. “Conform.” He knew they were too many in number for him to barge through. “Conform.” He raised his fists as they became close. “Conform.” He had decided, he would take as many of them with him as he could. “Conform.” The groups gazed at him from either side. “Conform.”

They stopped.

A man stepped forward; his eyes flickered for a moment and then turned a blazing red. “You are going to fight.” It was a statement, not a question. “Conform.” The group chanted, “You should not fight.” The man spoke bluntly. “Conform.” The traveller kept his fists curled, and stayed in his position. “All we need is your brain; we have no need of the rest of your body.” “Conform.” Came the reply from the group. The traveller’s face flickered for a second, but remained determined. “Then we have no choice.” The man stepped back and his eyes turned amber again. “Conform.” The group cried and several members produced syringes.

The traveller lashed out at the first approaching member of the group. “Conform!” Hands reached out and he punched out more, desperate. “Conform!” As he collapsed under a sea of hands the first syringe went in. “Conform!”The traveller went to scream, but all that came out of his mouth was a weak “Con…form.” He lashed out again, desperate, punching off another member of the group. “Conform!” The second syringe plunged in. “Conform!” He went to scream a second time, and again, the only word that came out, “Confo…rm.” He punched out a third time. “Conform!” The final syringe slid into his neck, injecting its amber contents.

He opened his mouth and resignedly, his body giving up as the liquid took its course; he spoke, “Conform.” Then the group smiled “Conform.” They took hold of all of him and carried him down the corridor; he was now speaking to their time. “Conform.” They marched on taking him to the birthing room, another citizen about to be born into the glorious empire.

The corridor sat there, it was a grey, cold corridor of uniform shape and size, like all the other corridors in the building, and like all the other corridors in the building, it sat there in silence, ignoring the events currently taking place in its walls. It had sat there from when this building had risen, it had seen this event many times, and it would last until the building was taken down.

And as the traveller was taken away, his brain was still his, even if his body wasn't, so he thought to himself; if on a winter’s night a traveller were to be unlucky enough to be trudging through the back-streets of a city they might be incredibly unlucky and spot a sign that read public lodge and, intrigued, enter to get out of the cold. Then, life as they knew it would end.

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So what do you think?
 

Apelatia

Well-Known Member
I like it Zem! I can definitely grasp the horror aspect that you are trying to put across. Though, something about this really bugs me... The first and last paragraphs... They just don't 'conform' to the trend that the paragraphs of the main story set... That's just me though... Over all, good work! I'll give you:

6/10
 

Deleted User - 819397

I'm going to give it a 7/10. Like Apel said the first and last paragraphs don't feel right, but since you're working off a prompt that makes sense. As far as the rest of the piece, I liked the feel. Usually I don't like repetition, but "conform" being said over and over sets the feel. I would have liked more of an explanation as far as what's going on though...what was the liquid doing? Why? Why could the one man say words other than conform? Those questions not being answered were irritating. The only other thing that bugged me were the corridor paragraphs (the second and the second to last). There are other words to say corridor (hallway, hall, passageway, etc) that could have made it feel smoother. As it is, getting corridor so many times bugged me (I'm really not a fan of repetition...look in the RPs how I have at least two or three different ways to refer to my character so I don't just say their name over and over).

Overall I liked the feel though!
 

DeletedUser31931

Part of the feel I was going for was a bit of intrigue. It's sort of scary as none of it makes any sense, you have barely any context. As for Apel's comments, I share that feeling and if I could have I would have cut the first and last paragraph, as you say Regal, I'm usually not a fan of repetition but I was sort of going for a feel of how this has happened over and over again so the repetition was to sort of drive the point home with a sledgehammer. :D
 

DeletedUser

The Irish immigrant with a hidden past

Catherine Matson an Irish immigrant with dirty blonde hair and grey eyes that burned the fire of warrior sat in an abandoned shed thinking to herself I've finally gotten away from those crazies! And she unloaded her bag of things the natives didn't distory once they'd gotten a hold of her. While, searching through her bag of belongings, she found something a locket. Catherine who's curiosity always got the best of her, opened it. The young women about the age of twenty one, looked at the picture it seemed to be her family which she hardly remembered. The immigrant let out a "Huh." Of wonder and put the locket on and went back to searching through her bag.
 

DeletedUser31931

Nice, however, due to a lack of context and end it doesn't really work that well. 5/10

In other news, I got my short story back, it was marked with 90% which is a mark below an A* grade. (I lost the A* due to a couple of mistakes in punctuation). This makes me happy. :D
 

DeletedUser

On the 6th July 1972, a strange creature came to many television screens in Britain.
He was clad in a multi-coloured jumpsuit, with a blue guitar slung over his chest and bright orange hair. Atom and UmmaGumma stared in amazement at this curious being that danced on the primitive television screen of their craft. Atom scratched his orange-and-black quiff and leaned back in his chair. His skin was a hot pink, with a red lightening bolt emblazoned on his left cheek and eye. UmmaGumma had bright red hair and lips, yet his skin was pale as milk. He wouldn't have looked that different from the man on the screen had it not been for the two extra fingers on his left hand.
"He's right, you know," said Atom. "We'd like to come and meet them, but I think we'd blow their minds."


*This might seem a bit random but it all revolves around music references, once you get it it will all become clear.*
 

DeletedUser

Double post, I know, but this is the start of a massive story I'm starting. I have a question, if a story is big/epic enough, can it have it's own thread?

Chapter I

"Gold"

When the lights go down
In the California town
People are in for the evening
I jump into my car
And I throw in my guitar
My heart beatin' time with the breathing
Driving over Kanan
Singing to my soul
'Cause people out there turn the music into gold


Rike was a small town located near a cattle ranch in a big expanse of land known as California. It wasn't particularly famous for anything, just a place to live for the local inhabitants. Kent and Flora Bower didn't seem to mind too much, though, as they passed underneath the gate. The day was hot, and dust seemed to get everywhere. Kent lifted a big hand to his straw hat and tipped it forward, blocking the yellow sun with his eyes. He was a medium-sized man, with what you could call a gentle face, his jaw lined with a black beard. His light blue shirt was stained with sweat, and the bindle on his back tugged painfully at his blisters, but he didn't seem to mind. Flora, his wife, was thin, her black slender frame wrapped in a faded red jacket. The sun did terrible things with your clothes, she thought to herself, remembering the day when she and her husband finally managed to leave the plantation and to a new life. She smiled. Out of Egypt into - into what, exactly? It wasn't her decision to come to California, but she trusted Kent's judgement. Was California a promised land? It sure as hell seemed more than the place they had previously called "home", the giant fruit plantation back in Utah.
 

DeletedUser31931

I don't know, but it's probably better off to have it's own thread in the Graphics and Art forums than here.
 

DeletedUser

A Hidden Past, an Irish smile, and a Hostage

Catherine sat in her shed, it wasn't much but a chair, table, and a mattress with sheets. She set her knife down, sighing sadly holding a a locket of her family. Why did I survive? Catherine asked inside her mind. Soon, she held her head in her hands crying silently. Soon she smelt something burning a fire had started. But by who? She looked out the window the natives had found her. She couldn't find a way out, and soon enough she gave out.
 

DeletedUser31931

So this is a soliloquy I wrote on a whim, improvising off one line a friend gave to me, which I titled Why? and it's sort of about love. It's also supposed to have larger line spacing.

Why?

I look at you, it intensifies.
The love, the feeling, the climax!
Across the room; the emotions ripple out and our love collides and then so do we, in the centre, conjoined, our two bodies intertwined.
The exchange, the feeling, the............
The emptiness
You pull back. Why?
You vanish. Why?
Then..... You're gone
Why do you go? Why?
Always. You always go
Right before the climax, you flee.
Into the night
Out of my sight
Into my subconsious
Why do you go?
Are you afraid?
We are safe here
You could not be afraid
Why else though?
Why else would you go?
Flee as you do, flee again, again, and again
You flee, faster
You go, then, later......
You slip back in. As if nothing has ever happened, And we start again
But always you go
I don't know why
I'm going mad
Mad with you
Mad without you
I think only of you
Trying to solve the one problem, the one case I could never crack, the one answer, just out of reach
Why do you flee?

Why?
 

Apelatia

Well-Known Member
Let's give it a 6.5/10.

I like it, but I feel as though after the first few lines, it's the same thing over and over again... You might disagree, but I feel as though it should either be shorter, or it should contain more of something... I'm not making any sense here am I? I'll shut up now!
 

DeletedUser31931

It's nowhere near a good piece of work, it's something I wrote on a whim, I just let the words flow through me and expressed myself, if I were to take the time to turn it into a proper story then I would sit down and actually think about it, that's merely it in a rough form. I also think a lot of it depends on how you mentally deliver it as you read it, after-all it is intended to be a soliloquy.
 

DeletedUser25233

It was a Good Day to Die, by mrnnh, part 1 of 2

It was a good day to die. The noon-day sun hammered mercilessly down on miles and miles of tan rock, which rose to Deadman’s Rock in the distance, and Gabriel, noticing it, was convinced of it. The heat-shimmer off all that naked rock, when he brought his focus back to the jackal twenty feet in front of him, gave the animal an almost mystical aura. Gabe thought of himself as a reasonably intelligent, educated man. He didn’t hold with the vast array of superstitions that were part of Old West culture, especially strong in these parts. Just because they said the jackal was the ‘taker of souls’ (whatever that meant) didn’t make it so. It was probably, like him, just very hungry. Why else would it be out here under this destroying heat? But that shimmer, almost seeming to emanate from the creature, did momentarily make Gabe start.
Without taking his eyes off the jackal, its muzzle now raised in an inaudible snarl, Gabriel felt amongst the three items dangling from the prized ‘Oktoberfest’ belt he’d won back in town (how long ago that seemed now!) His pants were ragged, dusty, saturated with dried and fresh blood around his right thigh, had no pockets… but his much coveted belt had a sheathed knife, a water-bottle, and a small and wonderfully crafted Indian tomahawk depending from it. He untied the canteen and felt its weight. About three swallows, so he allowed himself one of those, and retied it. The jackal was following his movements with its eyes, not really budging, but moving its head closer to the ground and from side to side, sniffing and cautious. Gabe felt totally beat. The sun felt like more of a soul-taker than any jackal could be. And he doubted he had the strength left in him to take the jackal down if the animal came at him. His wife and four-year-old children, twins, one boy, one girl, were gone, killed in the fire that destroyed his home. Liwanu, the old Indian who had helped him on the first part of his trek out here, and probably his best friend, had gotten most of the venom out of that snake bite, and cleaned and tightly bandaged the wound. But he’d still lost a lot of blood, and he still felt woozy from the poison. And Liwanu was also now gone, probably dead after facing off against that bear. How many times had he saved Gabe’s life? The snake, the bear… so many times, and now he, too, was gone. It was a good day to die. But not just yet. It must not be just yet. Or maybe..?

Two years earlier, he had, on a beautiful windless night, been on the porch outside his front door. Gabe kissed his wife on the lips, then bent down to kiss the squirming twins she was holding, one in each arm. With a theatrical little nod, “Ma’am,” he touched the brim of his hat. Grinning, he turned and sauntered in the direction of the ctown saloon. It was dark already, but there was a half-moon and plenty of stars to see by in the nearly cloudless sky. A magnificent tall and bushy Pinyon pine grew in the town square, the only one around for miles. It had been pruned to make a large shady space beneath for people to meet in during the heat of the day, and he reached up towards the lowest branches as he strolled by. It especially smelled good at this time of year, at this time of day. As Gabe neared the far side of the square he saw the town’s newspaper editor Pat and her husband Kane, the mason, converging on his course, and greeted them with a friendly, “Howdy.” He didn’t get on too well with the two of them these days, due to their efforts to keep the railway, planned to come through this corner of the Old West some time in the next year, away from their town. Gabe ran a dry goods store, and the added prosperity to the town, and to himself, that the railway would surely bring if it were to run by the town, would be a very good thing he thought. Unfortunately he was in a minority. Most residents seemed to be afraid of the problems the railway had often brought to other towns in The West, such as seedy gunslingers, gamblers and prostitutes. The town was pretty keen on ‘moral responsibility’ as Sheriff Darryl called it. Grandson of one of the town founders, when Goldenfields was just a cluster of huts around a magnificent lonesome tree, all embedded in acres of rolling plains of wild wheat, Darryl liked to keep a pretty tight ship, morality-wise. And though Gabe wasn’t a fanatical church-goer (not that he could avoid actually going to church, the town being what is was,) he was pretty happy with the ‘righteousness first’ direction of the town. Maybe the atmosphere in town wasn’t as mellow as he’d have liked, but it did make for a pretty peaceful and orderly existence. Still, he knew that if much more resistance to its plans was offered to the railroad company, they could easily run by the town of Reach instead. Reach was already on the main wagon trail in these parts, and their getting the railroad too would be a bit of a blow to him. But he was in a good mood, and he still liked the Graftons, even if he disagreed with their point of view on some matters, so as their paths merged, the three talked amiably enough about town affairs and their children as they walked.
Soon they heard the babble of music and talking and laughter, the clatter of cutlery and plates, and the scraping of chair-legs coming from behind the doors of the saloon, a cheerful yellow light radiating from its windows. They walked up, and Gabe and Kane stepped to the sides of the entry, each holding one of the double-doors open for Pat, and the three entered. They took a table together, and Henry the barkeeper waved over to them as he caught their eye, and sent one of the boys over to take their order. The saloon was chockablock this evening, and quite noisy. Many of the young men were standing by the bar, arguing loudly but good-naturedly about something or other. A couple of banjo-players were plucking out a jaunty duet over in one of the other corners. The sheriff, plus the pastor and their wives, and the sheriff’s elderly and rather severe mother had a table, as did many other of the prominent members of the town, and he was talking loudly to his table with big arm gestures as he spoke. Serving-boys and girls were weaving through the crowd seated at tables and the standees at the bar and by the fireplace, carrying plates of food and pitchers of beer, stacks of dirty plates and even the occasional bottle of wine. It was a special occasion. Liwanu and Waupee, bachelor native Americans who lived in the town, had successfully reached an agreement with the local tribe. The town would provide them with tools, some manufactured goods, and flour in exchange for horses and passage over local Indians’ traditional tribal lands (and to build good relations with them, the town’s neighbours.)
It seemed that Gabriel and the Graftons were the last to arrive. Most of the others had finished their meals by the time theirs arrived. Sheriff Darryl rose to his feet and called for quiet, and the hubbub died right down. Gabe went on with his meal, though as quietly as he could, while the sheriff spoke. “Well, it’s good to see all you folk here. As you know, we’ve reached a happy conclusion to our negotiations with the Esayano that will provide the town with horses, short-cuts over their land, and the opportunity to build friendships with them. We’re a peaceful and God-fearing community, and we have no quarrel with the indigenes,” here Darryl frowned at Samuel Smithson, the miller, in anticipation of a possible retort. “They are the natives here, and though we may be the way of the future for this great country, we must still respect their ways, and, yes, the fact that, from their point of view, this is their land.” At this, both the miller and Waupee frowned. And the native American looked like he was about to interject in a frowning-but-resigned sort of way, so Darryl hurried on with a sotto voce ‘Yes, yes, yes, I know, I know…’ to him. Then, raising his voice again he continued addressing the crowd. “So I’d like you all to deal fairly and in a friendly manner with our neighbours when your paths cross with theirs, and forget about any perceived slights you might have. As I’ve always said, the world is what we make of it, so let’s make it something good. And I’m sure things will continue to go from strength to strength here in Goldenfields.”
There was general applause, and cheers of ‘here here’, and ‘amen to that,’ from the crowd. The sheriff handed the floor over to Waupee and Liwanu who then explained more about what was actually involved, and how the agreement had been reached. Gabe was listening and finishing his meal as they spoke. When his plate was empty a serving-girl came up to take it, and he stopped her for a moment, enquired of his companions if they’d like another drink, and ordered another round of beers from her, slipping several coins into her hand, plus another one for herself. The girl smiled a pretty ‘thank-you,’ with an awkward half-curtsey in the confined space, and disappeared back into the crowd. As she did so, Samuel Smithson came over and planted himself in the one vacant seat at the table with a friendly ‘howdy’ to its occupants. Shortly after that Liwanu had finished addressing the crowd, and he too came over, bringing a bar-stool with him so that he too could join them.
Goldenfields was surrounded with wheat, and Sam, the miller, made a great deal more flour than the town itself could use, the excess being traded primarily to the town of Reach, where he owned a bakery. The bread was consumed by both the townspeople of Reach, (and Goldenfields of course, though here he sold the majority of his product simply as flour,) and the regular-ish wagons-folk that came by there. But he also traded with the local Esayano people, despite the fact they had killed his oldest son… His son had been eighteen, and had been going to a riverside area where his father Sam had been arranging trades with the native people for several years now, and had finally been allowed to do so on his own. On this occasion the tribesman he usually dealt with had not been there, but instead had also sent his children, a sixteen year-old boy and an extremely attractive eighteen year-old girl. Young Smithson had been instantly smitten, and over the next six months had managed to see her several more times. His crush on the girl had fallen into the hopelessly-beyond-reprieve category, and unfortunately someone reported back to Samuel the warning signs. Sam told the girl’s father about it, and together they stopped the burgeoning romance. At least, they thought they had, but it was like keeping two opposite poles of a very powerful magnet apart – just not happening. The native American girl escaped from her father’s watchful eye, and came over to Goldenfields, met up with young Aaron Smithson, and the two made off in the middle of the night. Unfortunately they were seen, and this was reported back to Sam, who instantly went out after his boy. There was a chase on horseback, the confusion added to by the arrival of the girl’s father on the scene too, also on horseback. They hurried their horses dangerously fast over the night-time prairie, then when it started getting rocky, the girl’s father, who had incredible night-vision, noticed the two young lovers dismounting and ascending a steep cutting in a high rocky escarpment in this place. The two men followed, Sam panting and cursing under his breath at the steep ascent, the grief his son was giving him, and the sharpness of the rock under his hands as he steadied his upward climb. Everyone had reached the top, and the teenagers were still moving, tired, but walking quickly along the flat top of the rocky escarpment. Sam was doubled up with exhaustion, but his counterpart, the native girl’s father, was untiring and hurried after them. Sam slowly shambled along as well. Suddenly the clouds parted, and a full moon illuminated the two adolescents, not too far distant now. The parents re-doubled their efforts, and the kids noticed, changed direction and broke into a run. The girl’s father was gaining on them. Then there were three cries of shock. Two from the young lovers as they simultaneously tripped, their legs flying out in front of them as they hurried over some unseen gravel. They fell down, and slid off the top of the broken rocky area they were on, down into the deeply gaping canyon that bordered it on the opposite side from where they’d climbed up. The third cry was from the girl’s father as he realised what had happened.
Mr Smithson tiredly increased his gait as he heard the desperate cries, and when he finally arrived on the scene, he saw the native American man standing stock still at the top of that deep gorge, tears streaming silently down his face. He instantly knew what had happened. He looked into the other man’s eyes, and there was only desolation there. He looked into the deep dark ravine. Sam’s first-born son, in the prime of his life, was gone forever.

There in the saloon, notwithstanding his earlier loss, Sam was chatting animatedly enough with the occupants of Gabe’s table, including Liwanu, despite the fact he still blamed ‘The Injuns’ for his son’s death. It was almost impossible not to like Liwanu though. He was very intelligent in the ways of both the indigenous peoples and the white peoples, had a lot of faith in the goodness of people, and was irrepressibly good-natured, his old brown eyes always smiling with either a welcome or an impish joke. At the moment he was laying a ceremonial tomahawk in front of Sam, and explaining to him and the table in more detail what he’d been saying to the crowd.
“This one is not a weapon. Never will be. It’s only function is as a gift, a symbol of peace from the Esayano.”
“Funny sort of ‘symbol of peace,’ a tomahawk,” Sam said, though not unkindly.
Gabe sighed internally, and Liwanu went on, “I see what you mean Sam. This item has been made with great care, and could be used for war. But it’s… how do I help you understand… it’s one step past that. It’s, it’s… too good to be used that way. And, amongst the Esayano, that’s the way it is done. An item of war to symbolise peace is more meaningful, do you see?”
Sam and the others at the table looked into the old man’s pleading eyes. “Yes, I see what you’re saying,” Sam replied, nodding thoughtfully. Liwanu seemed relieved, but Gabe was eying Sam pensively in turn. ‘No you don’t,’ he thought. You’re being diplomatic about it, which is kind of you, given what’s happened in your family, but the truth is more important. If you don’t understand – and I know you truthfully don’t – then you should say so. Well, well, it’s not my place to instruct you…’
“You can see the care and skill that went into the making of this,” Liwanu went on, “And yet they’re not keeping it for themselves. That’s part of it. And that they’re giving away, taking out of their own hands, and giving to you this thing, means both that they trust the people of Goldenfields, and want us to trust them. This means that both parties can live… no, not just live, but flourish. Yes, flourish, side by side.”
Just then, one of the serving girls, Sam’s remaining child Emily, just eight at the time of her brother’s tragedy, and now a just-starting-to-fill-out sixteen, stopped at the table behind her father’s seat, and gave him a little peck of a kiss on the neck. She noticed the tomahawk on the table and reached over to examine it, but was stopped by both Liwanu and her father (who nevertheless couldn’t hide a bit of annoyance at Liwanu’s presumption in touching his daughter.) Sam said, “Sorry honey, but this is a special item, and we’re all still talking about it at the moment.”
Liwanu added, his face changing from it’s usual expression of crinkled-at-the-eyes friendliness to one of seriousness, “And, no offence dear, but it is tradition that this is handled only by the men. Not by women. Sorry my dear, but that’s just the way it’s traditionally always been done.”
“Sorry Liwanu,” Emily replied contritely. She then added quietly to her father, “Sorry daddy. See you later.” She then put the plate of bread and cold-cuts she’d brought over on the table for the adults there to share, and went back to her serving-girl duties. Gabe and the others went back to their discussions of building on this positive step in the town’s life.
 
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DeletedUser25233

It was Good Day to Die, by mrnnh, part 2 of 2

Relations between the town of Goldenfields and the local Esayano people improved markedly after that. For about a year. Then they went downhill rapidly due to a number of incidents. The first of these was a hunting party. A group of young and irresponsible men from the town had set out to hunt buffalo at night, but without the Esayano’s permission to be hunting on their lands. And it just so happened that a group of Esayano were out tracking the buffalo as well that night. After the first shot, the mighty bellowing of the injured animal rung out over the grasslands, causing the herd to stampede, and both a Goldenfieldsian and an Esayano man were killed. Each party blamed the other. Another bit of drama came when Emily Smithson came down with a horrible unknown illness, and the Native American healer who tended her only seemed to make things worse. Sam was incensed about this, and the quantity and quality of flour that he was trading to the Esayano decreased markedly, which they took offence to. The Esayano, angered by the seeming arrogance of the people of Darryl’s town, stopped giving them permission to fish in the best stretch of one of the rivers not too far from the town of Goldenfields, which did not go down well with the people there. Not well at all…
All the while, Sheriff Darryl, and a couple of others in the town, including Gabriel, were desperately trying to patch things up. But when talk of the railway coming through the area moved from the proposal stage to the planning stage, that only divided people more than they already were. The majority of people in the town were actually very keen on it to start with. But Darryl had found out that the Esayano were dead set against it, and was successful in changing the mood of the people towards the proposed rail-route by the town with his careful, skilful and quiet campaigning, and his all-round popularity. He sold them not so much on how the railway would annoy the Esayano people (as he knew that there was considerable antipathy towards them at that time,) but on keeping away the immoral sort of people that were often attracted to railway towns, such as the gunslingers and bank-robbers and even prostitutes. Gabe was initially furious at all this talk. He knew that Goldenfields could easily keep a tight watch on the undesirable-types who might occasionally be swept into town with the trains, and missing out on the economic opportunities the railway would surely bring the town, would be a disaster. He told anyone who would listen how the town would become more and more of a stagnant back-woods of a place without the opportunity to link up to the developing nation as it powered into high-gear, but his audience, to his intense frustration, seemed to get smaller and smaller.
Gabe was an intelligent man, and he knew Darryl’s real motive in steering the town this way was to ‘make nice’ with the American Indians. So he went to visit them. He was intelligent, and persuasive when he wanted to be (usually,) and yet he was unsuccessful. Several of the most important people amongst the tribe seemed interested in the points he was making about the railway being an opportunity for the Esayano as well, in terms of travel and trade. He also explained his point of view that the railway would be coming through these parts sooner or later anyway, so why not make a deal now, and have it come through on their terms. But most of the tribe, and the chief in particular, were unconvinced, and the chief was very highly revered and respected. Gabe ended up returning to Goldenfields in a very bitter mood.

Over the next year, the situation in the town deteriorated further. Liwanu and Waupee were constantly having to ride off to soothe the Esayano about some breech in etiquette or other. A bunch of the town’s teenage girls had snuck down to the river to go skinny-dipping in the river by moonlight, only to be seen by an American Indian boy, who bided his time, then dragged off the last girl to leave, and raped her. He wasn’t Esayano. Mad as they were with the Goldenfieldsians, none of them would have stooped to that. But the townsfolk all blamed the local tribe. The girl’s father, convinced it had been an Esayano boy, went around to the natives current encampment, and shot a horse, and tried to shoot several more before he was caught and dealt with. This was a terrible crime to the Esayano, and he stumbled back into town the next morning with several arrows sticking into his shoulders, and carrying his own scalp in his hands.
The town was in uproar after that for several days. All travel away from the town in any direction but the trail between Goldenfields and Reach was met with menacing Indian ululations, then with warning arrows fired near the offenders. There was no communication with the Esayano at all, and the town council buried itself in it’s chambers in the town hall for several days, discussing next moves.
The edges of the town formed a rough triangle, and a bonfire was being lit at the corners of it every night, to prevent possible raids. About a week after things had gotten really bad, the town had been joined by a band of friends from Reach, and they were helping take turns on look-out by the bonfires at night, and by patrolling the edges of the town – mostly unwalled – by day. Unfortunately the Reachites weren’t as disciplined as the Goldenfieldsians. A few evenings later a raid by some of the Esayano towards the mill, just behind one of the bonfire corners, was successful. The Reach men on watch had been rather drunk, and the Indian scouts had noticed this and taken advantage of it. And in the confusion, the bonfire had spread to the thatching on the nearest roof – Gabriel’s. While other townsfolk were rushing around after the raiding party, Gabe was home after a long day on patrol, asleep in his bed with his wife. He was awoken by smoke rising up from the floor and windows, and flames dripping down into the room from the thatched roof, blazing up more and more. Gabe sprang up, and tried to wake his wife, but she was already insensible from smoke inhalation. Gabe himself was in a bad way too, retching and spitting, and trying to wipe copious quantities of tears streaming from his eyes. Then he realised his twins were in the next room! He raced over to the door, but jumped back just before he got there as one of the roof supports crashed heavily in a half-blackened smoking state, almost right on top of him. He got down on his knees. The smoke wasn’t quite so bad down here, and maybe he could crawl under the charred beam that had just nearly killed him, as it was up on an angle against the wall. He tried to crawl under it into his children’s room. Yes! He managed to get through to them. They did not wake when came over to their cots though. Desperately Gabe grabbed his two children, pulled the shutters at the un-glassed window open, and climbed out of the house. He was desperate. The kids were like rag-dolls, completely unresponsive, but his wife was still in the house. Just after he’d laid the children on the ground, and was about to climb back through the open window to rescue his wife, the entire rest of the roof collapsed into the house. Gabe raced around the building to find another way in, but the place was properly on fire now, and blazing so hotly he could not go near it. In tears and desperation, he sprinted back around the house, grabbed up his children, and raced away from the inferno. Finally other townsfolk had arrived, and were forming a bucket line from the well to the house to put it out. They managed to stop the fire spreading to other homes nearby, but were unable to save his. Gabriel’s wife and children died that night. His daughter had stirred only briefly. She’d given a little cough, then weakly said, “Daddy?” then fallen still. Neither she nor her little four-year-old brother ever said anything else ever again.

For the last two weeks now - since the real troubles began - recognising the pretty-much permanent damage to relations between his town and the Esayano it would do, and having a philosophical belief that violence was never the best way out of a problem, Sheriff Darryl had refused to call in the military for help with his town’s escalating problems with their neighbours. Now he was unable to resist the unanimous calls from the rest of the town to get military help. But he called Gabe and Liwanu to his offices as soon as the request had been sent out. Once they were seated, Darryl, itching his grey sideburns with worry, said to the pair of them, “It’s no secret that, even now, I’ve been reluctant to call the military in to Goldenfields. They can help us – maybe, but at what cost? I still believe what I said that evening in the Saloon after we’d finished our first negotiations with the Esayano. From a certain point of view, this is their land. Yes, there should be room for all of us, and the ways of white people seem to be what the ways of this country should be. We’re educated, and Christian, and looking to a brighter future for everyone, including them. Yes, there are a number of embarrassingly xenophobic white men around, but as a general rule, I think most of us want a harmonious future. But I can also see that, in many ways, the things we gain about life in this great land, are taken at the expense of the way, well, ways of life of the native peoples of this land. Adjustment is never easy, and we should be more understanding of this.”
There was a pause in Darryl’s preposition. He was obviously working up to something, so although Liwanu would have liked to interrupt with a comment about how this kind of attitude, whilst meant kindly, showed an underlying attitude of arrogance that perhaps showed the white people were not fit to impose their ways on the land after all, he said nothing. After all, here was a man who genuinely wanted to foster a living and meaningful relationship between peoples of very differing backgrounds and attitudes. It was an almost impossible task, but an important and worthwhile one. Also, fighting the ways of the white people would be like fighting the waves of the ocean perhaps. A long and unwinable fight. So he said nothing.
Darryl went on. “After much thought, and discussion with Waupee, whom, as you know, is even now over in the Esayano people’s summer encampment, negotiating on our behalf, I have decided the best way to show our intentions of peace, is to return the honour that they showed to us when they gave us their symbolic tomahawk. After much searching, and at great cost, I have acquired the legendary Tashunka’s tomahawk, and I want the two of you to present it as a peace-offering to the Esayano.” Darryl walked over to his desk, and unlocked the desk drawer. He removed a magnificently fashioned Native American tomahawk, intricately decorated, and complete with crisp white and black feathers. “Their warriors are all encamped just over Maya’s Hill to the west as you know, but the chief and elders are all back over at their summer encampment. That is where you must go.”

Gabe and Liwanu had set out quietly that evening, sneaking past Esayano lines with the help of Liwanu’s skills in reading the land and his keen ear for the movement of people and horses in the dark. When they got to the creek, it was still running fast and full, despite the recent spate of hot summer days. Gabe was prepared though. There was a place where the bank was higher on this side than the other, and he stuck an eight-foot willow sapling down into the creek, to wedge it between some rocks, then pole-vaulted over and down onto the far side. He heaved the pole back over, and Liwanu followed suit. By about three in the morning, the two got to a small copse of trees, clustering improbably onto and around an enormous six-foot high boulder in the middle of a rather rolling section of prairie. The climbed to the top, made camp, and got a few hours sleep before the sun rose again, but as they were clambering down again, Gabe jumped down onto the grass right next to a rattlesnake, which reared up, and struck, biting him through his thin cotton trousers on his inner thigh. Liwanu whacked at it with a stick, missed, and it hissed angrily at them. He supported Gabe as they fled away from it, but after a short distance Gable collapsed onto the grass. The older man cut the cord holding up Gabe’s pants, shucked them down, wiped the wound with a handful of grass, then made a small cut in the flesh there. Gabe hollered in pain, but Liwanu sucked the poison out, spat, sucked the wound and spat several more times, then wrapped it with a strip of cloth torn from his shirt.
Somehow, two days later, they made it to the huge shallow gully where Felicity’s Forest began, then down to the river. Liwanu had wanted to rest up for the night there, rather than try and cross it at night, but Gabe had insisted that there was little time to spare, so they went to the top of some rapids where it was shallowest. The two men had to use the ultra-careful method of crossing, the river was running so fast. They put an arm around each others backs, then crossed slowly, side-on to the flow. Just as they were nearing the other side though, Liwanu suddenly stumbled into a deep hole, and Gabe had to struggle to pull him up. They frantically fought their way over to the bank, but it was clear that the old Native American man was injured. He sat there on the bank nursing his foot. It wasn’t bleeding, but it must have been sprained pretty badly. Gabe gave up on more travel that night after all. He gathered some wood, made a fire, and the two men warmed themselves and dried off in front of it. They munched on some jerky that Liwanu had brought with him, then made camp.
The first few feeble rays of sunlight were just starting to penetrate the forest canopy the next morning when the two men were woken by a snuffling sound. A massive brown bear was trying to get into Liwanu’s bindle, which held the rest of their food supplies for the journey. They jumped up in fright, and the bear noticed them, and gave a warning growl, rearing up on it’s hind legs. Liwanu grabbed Gabe’s wrist as he looked like hurriedly backing away, and forced him to just stand still. So far, the bear was still just looking at them. “It’s no good. I’m going to have to deal with this,” Liwanu calmly to told Gabe out of the side of his mouth, not looking away from the bear.
“What? You’re crazy!”
“Listen, I can read this old fella, and the mission must succeed. Get out of here, and leave the bear to me.”
Gabe was still hesitating, so Liwanu turned to him, taking his eyes off the bear. It relaxed down onto all fours with a powerful thud on the earth, but was still looking menacing. It took a step towards them. “Seriously Gabe, I’ll not be walking anywhere for a day at least on this sprain, and I know how to deal with these old fellas. Just back off really slow-like. You must make it to the Esayano.”

That was two days ago, and now, up out of the forest at last, when the end of his journey seemed in sight, Gabe considered carefully. It looked like his mission would fail after all. The remaining snake venom in his system seemed to throb in his veins, especially under the hammer-blow of the sun. Grief from the loss of his family, their faces flashing in front of his eyes as he continued to stare down the jackal twenty feet away, seemed to press painfully down on his skull. Although until now Gabe had always fostered hope for a positive outcome for his town’s faltering situation, right now all of that just fled from his mind, and a black hopelessness almost seemed to overwhelm him. It was all he could do to just remain on his feet. His family, his town, his wounds, his current predicament. They seemed to whirl around in his head until he was almost nauseas. And when he looked up at Deadman’s rock, and remembered his overwhelming guilt from crossing the river, which caused Liwanu to become injured, and then just leaving him there with that bear, the crushing guilt he’d been feeling since then assailed him once more. It wasn’t just a good day to die. It was the perfect day. And Gabriel suddenly had no fear of death. He stood up straight, and walked directly at the jackal. It growled and backed up a step. Gabe continued. He did not take his knife out of it’s sheath. The jackal, its hackles raised in anger, now took a step towards him. Gabe stopped. It stopped, and looked like it might be preparing to launch itself at him, so he shouted. It wasn’t a word, it wasn’t a shout made in anger, fear, hate or any emotion. It was simply an explosive and bestial expression of rage against the universe. And the jackal turned tail and fled!

Gabe carried on. Resting momentarily in the shadow of Deadman’s rock, the slightly cooler space refreshing him a little, Gabe took another swallow of his water, then carried on over the ridge. The hot rock descended down to more grasslands in the distance below, and he could see white smoke rising from a cooking fire of some sort near tiny white triangles of the tepees of the Esayano down there. He would complete his mission, he would bring peace between Goldenfields and the Esayano without the military needing to get involved. He would not be like Sam, and just say he understood their point of view without really understanding it. That kind of thing was probably why the troubles had started in the first place. He would go back for his friend. Maybe he had survived that encounter with the bear? His name was ‘Liwanu’ after all – ‘Growl of a Bear.’ He would go back to Goldenfields. No doubt there would be challenges. He could see clearly now that the railway would end up running by Reach instead of his town, but he didn’t mind, not right now. He would build his life up again. Perhaps it was fitting. The perfect day to die, to finish, would be the perfect day to live, to start again.
 

Apelatia

Well-Known Member
I have to say, that is one of the most enjoyable reads that I've had in quite a long time. The story was well-written, and you managed to intertwine the paragraphs referring to the past in a way that kept me engaged the entire time. As well as being written splendidly, you also managed to write a story that related a few aspects of the game itself (Tashunka's Tomahawk, Waupee, Maya's Hill, etc...) with something which anyone that enjoys a good read would love.

You captivated my attention the whole way through, wrote it well and even used the prompt for the competition in an excellent way. So, I'm going to do something I wouldn't normally do, and give you a 10/10 rating. Well done!
 
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