And this is the smile that's worth everything.Originally Posted by Storyslinger
Roland would have understood.
Thank you, I've got to head out so, I may talk to you later, if not have a great day and enjoy the story once it gets up here
I thought it was a great story, Mr. Slinger. You really brought me into the scene. That's what I love, when a writer can transport you into the world of the story.
I'm glad Kent got his. Loud mouthed son of a bitch. reminds me a little of billy bob thornton's character in Tombstone. All it took was a few smacks in the face by Wyatt Earp to change his tune.
"are you going to skin that smokewagon?"
*smack*
The kindness of close friends is like a warm blanket
yes! love it.
Kurt Russels Wyatt Erp is the only movie person I have ever actually wanted to be.
The kindness of close friends is like a warm blanket
I want to be Doc Holliday! we should go shoot people together.
Storyslinger, we request more stories! before me and matt fill this thread with Tombstone talk.
I typed that last one and thought..."I am so off topic here"
Meet you at the OK Mike, I'll get my brother to come along. He always has good shit.
The kindness of close friends is like a warm blanket
flipping A.i'm your huckleberry.
To the above
I love it, I don't mind all this either, it is good inspiration
This was one of those rare stories that i knew the ending, but had to build my way there Hope you enjoy.
Come my friends, let me take you a little deeper into the land of imagination. Take my hand, I know the way.
The Coming of Age
Right of Passage
In the year 2163, the world was struck with its third and final world war. The aftermath of that war darkened the world like a plague. The few remaining people that survived were left to fend for themselves. This was done in the only way they knew how, the old ways. Guns and other weapons were replaced by the sword and bow, and the world became a magical place.
We come to a small village at sunrise. Houses lay still, absent of light. The village is silent. A young man stands atop a hill, overlooking the town. Soon, he thinks, soon I will be able to call myself a member of the village’s men. As he stands looking down on the town, another thought comes to mind. What did the dream mean?
The Coming of Age was an honored event in the village of Nin. It was tradition. When a young man came to an age where he believed he could become a man, the Trials were held. If one failed the Trials, they were sent out of Nin, shamed and alone. If the Trials were passed, they entered manhood.
Nin was like many other small dwellings, in the fact that they were based around war. Men were sent out for miles, just to destroy other tribes. With so much fighting and death, a warrior must be well trained and fearless. If one was to pass the Trials; you were thought to be fit to be fit to carry a sword of old, and fight. This is the story of one man’s quest for this right.
Salam awoke on the morning of his Trials and strolled to the door. He had been troubled by thin sleep and a sinister dream throughout the night. He left, and made his way out to the hill where his thoughts seemed to flow. As he stared out onto the city, the dream slipped back into his thoughts.
He had been standing over a mutilated corpse. Identification was impossible, such was the damage, but he knew that he had done this. This man had died at his hands in the final test of the Trials. The thought of killing someone did not bring Salam grief, though. Instead, it filled him with anger, anger for the man he had killed. At the end, a sickening grin had spread across his face.
Salam knew that this dream could mean nothing. He also knew that some warriors, the truly great ones, were sent visions before their Coming of Age. Salam hoped that his dream would prove to be the later; that by the time the sun set, he would be a man. He trudges down the hill, the rising sun at his back, to the Trials and his destiny.
The first test of the Trials would prove to be effortless for Salam. He had been blessed with the skill of weapon forging, which happened to be the first test. To be a great warrior, one must be able to supply weapons in a time of need, or so he had been told by one of his teachers. He arrived at the forging ground and began the test. To start, he lit the forge, setting the inferno ablaze. Then, he gathered the needed materials. With equipment in hand, he took out the sacred ore and went to work.
He worked for many hours under the burning sun and the heat of the forge. The end result of his labors was a beautifully crafted blade, four feet in length, with a leather wrapped handle. Embedded into the hilt were tiny rubies. It was a well balanced weapon, and by far the best work he had ever done. He sheathed the sword in a leather scabbard he had made the day before. He fastened the scabbard to his back and ambled to the second test.
The second test proved to be more difficult. In the second test, he had to form himself battle armor. A good warrior doesn’t need armor, his old teacher had said, but it does give one an advantage in battle. A training student would only be entitled to use hardened leather in his armor, but now that he was in the Trials, he was permitted to use Ninian steel. He fitted small links of steel into a shirt, and then did the same for leggings. He finished by using hardened leather to construct gauntlets. He studded the knuckles with spikes of bone. He fixed the armor underneath his clothing, and the end result brought upon a fearful change in him. He was well on his way to becoming a warrior.
He slowly sauntered to the archery range. Marksmanship was not a requirement in the Trials, but Salam understood that he would want a well constructed bow and well weighted arrows. The final test would prove to be difficult, and he would need any advantage he could get.
He practiced at the range until mid-afternoon, selecting the correct wood and a suitable bow string. He assembled the bow and shot off a few arrows. All the arrows struck dead center. He nodded his head and smiled, this was a good sign. He would surely pass the last test.
Pausing at the market, he inquired as to who he would be facing in the final test. In the final test, a physical battle was held. The student must then best the selected person in combat to enter manhood. He desired to know if anyone had any information on it.
No one seemed to know who he would be facing, and Salam knew very little of the final test and its challengers. He wondered at how there could be so little information. He did note, however, that the whole town seemed to have a strange feel to it. They knew, but they weren’t telling him. Why? What is so bad that I can’t know?
At last he arrived at the pavilion where the clash would take place. The surrounding structures and roadways appeared to be deserted. The only person around was a hooded elder, who tentatively opened the door to the final test, and his destiny.
The chamber inside was lit by faint torches. He set foot in the room and awaited his fate.
The door slammed shut behind him, and all the light went out. He lifted his arm and closed his hand around the haft of his sword. As he drew his weapon, the room filled with a radiant blue light. He used his free hand to shield his eyes, and hoisted his sword.
The light began to fade away and Salam found himself standing face to face with a young man. He knew who this young man was, knew him well. The young man that stood facing him was himself. To be precise, it was him as he had been the day before. Suddenly, it all made sense; the Trials and the dream. The manhood test was about becoming a warrior, yes; that he knew; but, it was also about slaying your childhood. That had been the corpse in his dream. He stood facing his childhood, and for the first time in his life, Salam was filled with dread and indecision. How can I kill myself? Would I not die as I am now? What is happening?
He knew what must be done, whether he favored it or not. If he must murder his childhood to become a man, then his childhood would fall. He made quick work of the young man (himself).
What we see in these last moments is a warrior standing over mangled remains. Identification is impossible, such is the damage, but we know that the individual died at the hands of this warrior. A sickening grin lies upon his face. He entered this site as a boy. He will leave as a renowned warrior, and as a man.
"The few remaining people that survived were left to fend for themselves. This was done in the only way they knew how, the old ways."
Beautiful!
"I aim to misbehave."
-- Malcolm Reynolds
"I am a leaf on the wind. Watch how I soar."
-- Hoban Washburne
"What does that make us?"
"Big damn heroes, sir."
"Ain't we just."
-- Malcolm Reynolds and Zoe Washburne
Really good stuff. Got more?
The answer is within
It will be coming soon
Dreams
This next story takes place during WWII.
I purposly take no perspective so that it can apply for any side, in any war.
Sit, the night draws on, but the fire still burns. Lets travel through the land of dreams.
Dreams
The fighting will never end. This is my understanding of the truth. As I sit in these trenches day in and day out, I see no finale. Most of my friends are now dead or missing. The few that remain are wounded, or lay sick and in pain. Many men have fallen under the roar of my gun in two short years. How many more must die before I am through? The answer escapes me. Only God, I guess, knows the true number. Fro now, I’ll just sit low and wait.
There is a whining whistle, followed by a crash. I am thrown awake by a blast to my left. My eyes refuse to accept the horror that has been laid before them. Most of my battalion lay still on the ground. Only a fool would mistake this for sleep. Though they are silent and still, I can see the trails of blood, the missing arms and legs. The air is filled with smoke and the sickening smell of chard flesh. The ground is stained with blood, but mixed with the dirt and gunpowder; it appears the color of rust. A few still live, but believe me when I say that I cannot begin to explain the screams of agony, or the tears, or even the sorrowful prayers for death. Yet, over all the commotion, a new scream fills the air. My heart skips a beat, and then stalls. This new scream is not of pain, but filled with rage and hate. I yell for this still able to fight to join me at the lip of the trench. I try to enforce the idea that we mustn’t give up this position.
As I grab my gun and gear; and make my way to the overlooking lip; I try to calculate the number of bodies it would take to generate a war cry of that magnitude. I peer over the ledge, and my mind goes blank. I would’ve judged by the volume of that cry, a force of thirty men. Surly no more than fifty? What I see crossing the distance of the field towards the trench, is a band of easily seventy strong and armed. My only hope is that there is still enough fire-power to hold the trench.
Another blast occurs on my left, but there is no time to see who has fallen. I shoulder my gun and begin to fire. Guns thunder, but over the noise of the screams and explosions, their thunder is inaudible. One round takes a man in the throat and sends him to the ground. Three on his right and seven on his left join him in the dust. They have now closed the distance to a mere thirty meters. My gun continues to throw fire. The barrel has become a blinding beacon in the early hours before dawn. With the distance at only ten meters between them and the trench, my gun jams. There’s no time to try and fix it, so I drop it and brace myself for the wave of men.
As the first jumps into the trench, I draw my knife. He charges, his rifle raised, and the air is filled with gun fire. My mind goes into a blur, and all that I can think of is that I’m dead. As my mind clears, I see him drop to the dirt. I glance past his fallen body and catch one of my battalion members’ tip me a wink. Then he turns and continues to fire into the oncoming horde.
Another makes his way over the trench. He is unarmed, except for the knife at his side. My first thought is that his gun too, has jammed. But, as I take a closer look, I see the true reason. His right arm is gone below the elbow. All that remains is a bloody stump. His mouth spreads into a grin that is full of blood and dirt. He draws the knife from his side and raises it high. As he charges, he screams in foreign tongue. I am given the idea that this doesn’t mean he is happy to see me. Knife still held high, he makes his attack. I dodge his first strike easily, but as I do, I trip over a body and my knife flies from my hand. He falls on top of me and brings the knife down in a deadly arc. I move my arm to block his blow, but am unable to avoid it entirely. My arm is cut in a jagged slash from wrist to elbow. Blood splashes in my face and the smell of copper fills my nose. It is impossible to tell the source of the blood. He brings the knife down again, but his time, I manage to grab his wrist and turn the knife back on him. His one arm is no match for my two. It slowly draws ever closer to his throat. He struggles more violently near the end, but to no avail. The knife buries itself to the hilt. His screams of rage turn to strangled, choking sounds. As his movements begin to still, I watch as the last bits of life leave his eyes. He will never return home. His time in this story has ended, ended at the hands of a stranger. The fight has now begun to still. We have held the trench…this time.
Now the dreams will begin. In the waking moments of the night I will hear the screams, explosions, and the sound of gunfire. Sights of smoke and bodies in the dirt will meet my eyes. Of all the things that these dreams may contain, I only truly fear one. The face of that man will forever haunt me, no matter how long forever may prove to be. The fighting will never end. God, please help my soul.
A Tale for the Heart
This is a story is one of the most emotional stories I've ever written.
Lay your head back and listen. With the embers glowing brightly in the night, let your emotions run wild and experiance sorrow.
Sorrow
When the Great Depression hit, life came to a stop. Towns, usually full of life and sound, grew dim and silent. Normally happy people became grim creatures only out for themselves. No help was given to those in need. The country was transformed into a bitter and lonely place. Yet, like with all bad times, there was still hope. This is one such town.
As we come upon this town, dark windows greet our gazing eyes. It’s in the early hours before dawn that we arrive, and not a soul stirs. The elegance that these houses once projected is long lost. They stand as shells of their former greatness; fore there is little time to maintain structures such as these. They underline the fact that tough times are here in deed. Moving up and down the empty roadways, we come to a small green house. Like the town, it has seen better days. The paint has faded to staleness, and the building itself more resembles a shack than a house. It is here that our story begins; at this sorry looking shack on the end of an empty street, identified only by the address 1919.
A dark figure moves swiftly in and out of the rooms. Though his movements appear to be careless, not a sound is heard. The reason is simple enough; he knows this house like the back of his hand, perhaps even better. He gathers up his hat and coat, and moves into the diner. Placing his gear on the floor, he slumps into a chair, covers his face and begins to sob.
Life has been very difficult for Mark. First the Depression hits and he loses his job, then his youngest son becoming fatally ill. And what is it that I do?, he thinks. I leave him home with only his older brother to care for him?
There is a creak from the floor in the diner’s adjoining room. Quickly wiping away the tears, Mark tries to get himself under control. A boy in his early teens enters through the dark doorway. He is tall and thin. The height seems natural, but the boy is far to thin. He hasn’t been eating again, Mark thinks.
“What are you doing up so early? Sun rise isn’t for another three hours.” Mark whispers. After a deep look into his son’s face, he has answer enough. “He’s talking in his sleep again, isn’t he? I thought you said he was better?” he pauses, “God, I wish I could get him the medicine he needs.”
Nick, whose face has drawn tight around his mouth and eyes, whose skin is now cracked and a pale yellow, pleads, “I just wanted to see you before you left, dad. You leave before the sun ever touches the sky, and return in the late hours of the night. We miss you dad. I don’t know how much longer Miguel can hold on. The only reason that he keeps trying is so that he can see you every night. If he saw you more, it might be good for him.” Tears run freely from the corners of his eyes, running down his cheeks in tiny rivers. It seems there are too many tears these days.
Mark rises from his chair and embraces his son. Nick’s tears are warm and wet against his shirt. He can feel his tiny heart racing in his chest.
“I know its tough Nick, but you need to be strong. You must be strong for me, but even stronger for Miguel. I know I’m away a lot, but I need to save up enough money for Miguel’s medicine. I’ll have enough soon, but until then, you need to help your brother keep on fighting!”
He places his hands on Nick’s shoulders and looks at the trails the tears have left on his cheeks. His hand moves into his back pocket, where he removes a handkerchief. He uses it to wipe away the tears, and then looks him sternly in the face.
“You need to start eating. I know that you think that you’re helping him by giving him your food, but you won’t be helping anyone if you get sick. Promise me, Nick.”
“I will dad.”
He gives Nick another hug, and then walks into the small room that Nick entered from. The room is small; more of a closest; but it is still the warmest room in the house. Walking towards the bed that’s set in the middle of the room, a tear runs down his cheek. Under a mess of blankets, there is a small shuddering boy. Nick was right, he thinks, he is getting worse.
Bending down, he places a kiss on Miguel’s head. His lips come away hot, proving that he is running a fever again.
“Good bye Miguel. I love you. I’ll be home tonight. Just hold on.”
He turns and begins to leave. Just as he reaches the door, a small voice sounds in the darkness.
“Love…you…too……..dad. I’ll….always…hold…on.” Miguel says in a weak, but helpful, voice.
A tiny smile lights his face, then he drifts back to sleep. Mark feels his eyes begin to well up with tears, and then he too, smiles. Nick joins him alongside the bed and reaches for his father’s hand. Mark gives his hand a brief squeeze, and feels his heart expand as he looks into his face. Nick, too, wears a smile.
We will leave them here, with the hope that Miguel has brought them. We leave with the idea that everything can turn out alright in the end. Let us leave on this happy note, where hope outweighs the sorrow.
Feel free to comment. I like hearing what you all think.
Very touching, Story.
Thanks
Great story dude
I'm gonna read it right after work, Brian.
Roland would have understood.
Depending on the time that I get, and if I come up with a deeper storyline, I may redo the whole thing and make it into a novel.Great story dude
*shurgs*
We'll see. I should have another story coming soon.
Your storey is great. I hope you continue and finish it. I would love to read the whole story.
Thank you, If it is redo, you all will be the first to read it.Your storey is great. I hope you continue and finish it. I would love to read the whole story.
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