Tag: Writing

Ball and Chain

Of course, he didn’t feel guilty. Why should he?
They locked him up in a prison cell with all these undoubtedly questionable people, and threw him in the same pot with a bunch of cultists. These people that Damien had been locked up beside were disgusting. Murders, thieves and captured war “heroes”, to be compared to, who he assumed, were the very people that were responsible for almost being killed by both the guard and the demon. He was not happy with the cultists, and he wasn’t taking crap from anyone. He was leaving the guards to perish alongside those stupid cultists. Apparently, they hadn’t foreseen that summoning a demon the size of the fort meant that they would be the side dish along with its main course.

It’d been hours since Damien had been mindlessly following the others, and there was honestly no other place to go. He thought that if they were all walking in unison for a reason, it had to be because they had a place to go to. So, he continued to follow, his leather shoes getting sodden and ruined with the wet mud along the track, dragging his feet behind him as he walked.

Out of the blue, a cultist appeared beside him, treading, so lightly it was almost as if he were floating above the badly flooded dirt track. The silence was almost threatening, the cultists wore dark purple robes with their hoods up, covering their faces to such a degree that the dark void where their faces should have been was unearthly. But Damien stared right back. He peered into the abyss beneath the hood and frowned.
In response to Damien’s facial expression, the cultist flips back their hood and smirks at Damien, the cultist was a tanned female, probably one of the refugees that came from the desert lands that Damien’s party went to war against. One half of her face was covered in her native tribal tattoos, whilst the other had cultist symbols burned into her face.

“You know, with an arm like yours, the cultists could really use you. We are at war with the Golden Knights, who aim to crush our freedom. You’ve already experienced it, right? The immediate branding of our fates because of our affliction!”

Damien frowned, should he trust the very people who made his life a misery? The descendants of those who were responsible for the curse he had on his arm?

The woman laughs, “Hey, you will join, right? The only way to ever be accepted in the society with that arm of yours is to create the society. No one will accept us unless we change the way things are for us. That’s what we’re doing! I mean, you’re not going to try to do that again, right? They don’t accept people like us.”

The inspirational talk from this woman really got to Damien, he was shunned everywhere when he revealed his arm. He wants it to stop. So maybe this whole cult is in his favour. Ever since he was a child, children ran, fearing him when he tried to play aside them. Their parents grabbed their children and ran, he has always felt isolated and has always wished to be accepted.

Damien nods, with some reluctance, and agrees to follow her and the other cultists to their temple. Heading for a better future ahead with his life when he can make his own future, possibly.

Letting Out Your Inner Beast

Realms of Tanerila is a Choose Your Own Adventure story written 5 years ago by myself for my HNC Games Development course. I started well… then I wrote the rest in a couple of hours at 4am because the deadline was too long, and I forgot about it.
2

The Fall of Flannigan Fort

Damien awakes once again, startled. Anxious and in a panic, but this time, it was not about being late. This time, he was sitting in a rotten and mouldy cell, on a broken and foul chair, arms clamped into cuffs which were embedded into the table in front of him. Before him were two royal guards, one was guarding the exit to the cell, whilst the other was in the chair across from Damien.

The guard sneered at Damien when he saw him awaken. Standing up, the guard drew his sword, holding it a few millimetres away from Damien’s neck, giving him enough of a jolt to wake him up fully. The guard smirked at Damien’s reaction, holding the sword high above himself in the hair then driving it down with tremendous force into the table, lodging the sword in the table.

The royal guard’s bushy moustache brushed off his bottom lip when he spoke, and he spat when he yelled. He interrogated Damien about the how’s and the why’s of his being on the ship. “Who are you?”, “Why were you on t’at ship?”, “How’d you get upon that ship if you’re so poor, as you say?” 

All the questions he asked about Damien answered were never enough for the guard. Each answer given, no matter how detailed, made the guard grit his teeth so loudly that it echoed through the barren walls of the dungeon. Any idle chatter between the cellmates was hushed as they listened in for the new showdown that was to happen, like a new story being heard through a radio.

It wasn’t until the last question, the royal guard threatened him with, that Damien found himself concerned about his fate. “Your arm is t’e curse of a demon! You’re with the cultists, aren’t you?”

Looking at his right arm, that he so often either kept wrapped up or under his sleeve, it was exposed for all to see. It bulged a dark red, far more muscular than the left. Where his veins would be, thick black lines replaced them, seeming to ooze a demonic blood like liquid around his arm.

This was his arm. He had learned that whoever looked at it would look down on him and cast him out, so that’s why he covered up. He wasn’t sure exactly why he was like this, but he knew not to get angry, or the arm would influence his actions and turn him toxic, then rabid, then bloodthirsty. This, he had found through personal experience. His parents never spoke of it, and when he would ask them they’d turn their head in an attempt to feign ignorance, but their faces filled with shame.

There was a legend that when he was a child, there was this lost city high up in the mountains of the island. The residents prayed to The Creator, the very being that created the realm in which they live. And like any other story of meddling humans, one day The Creator turned upon humanity.
However, before he could do so, the monks of the Magestry combined their powers to destroy him. This only caused fragments of The Creator to burst and cover the entire realm upon his death, and whomever the fragments touched grew dark and demonic. He believed this to be true, as there was no other explanation handy, and his parents had not told him otherwise.

All Damien really knew is that his arm was not his, but even moreso he was not a cultist. He refused once again to the royal guard’s demands. The royal guard’s moustache twitched. He lay his hand on the hilt of the sword and pulled it fiercely, dislodging it from the table, and turned to Damien.

“We ought to have killed every one of you cultist scum on the boat… The commander won’t miss just one of you, especially if they’re a lying piece of sh- “

Suddenly, the roof collapsed in the hallway of the dungeon, almost sealing the guards and Damien inside. Both the guards rushed over to the cell door and swung it wide open and rushed out.

The rumbling continued, then crashing, followed by swords being unsheathed and screams of dozens of men from the cells. Damien was writhing around in the chair, trying to free himself from the table. Everything had been nailed to the ground. The sound of giant footsteps could be heard moving closer and closer towards the cell door, and Damien was trapped.

“Psst, hey. Over here!” Came a loud whisper from behind Damien. Damien stiffly turned his head the best he could as the voice came from his blind side. A lowly thief shifted up to Damien’s side and picked the lock on Damien’s cuffs, beckoning him to follow. Following the thief and the rest of the prisoners towards the exit, where they all now stand, face to face with an enormous demon intent on consuming everyone in the fort.

While everyone was escaping, Damien stood at the fort entrance and watched as the demon destroyed the courtyard and killed all the guards that dared to fight them. The same symbol of the cultists was burned into the flesh on the demon’s back, it tore into buildings with ease as it threw men into the distance. Damien noticed the guard captain’s sword and shield lying half scorched on the ground. He looked back to see the line of all the inmates escaping, but he felt guilty about letting the guards die, didn’t he?

“Nah, they unrightfully arrested me, with brute force. I’m not only injured, but have been imprisoned for interrogations with threatening methods. Their methods are out of hand, and they deserve their fate.”
>> NEXT

“Yes, I would. What happened over the course of the past hours doesn’t define all of them. From what it appears, the person who arrested me is already dead, and the rest of the guards weren’t even involved in my arrest. Plus, it’s my duty as a former soldier to lend an experienced arm.”
>>NEXT

Realms of Tanerila is a Choose Your Own Adventure story written 5 years ago by myself for my HNC Games Development course. I started well… then I wrote the rest in a couple of hours at 4am because the deadline was too long, and I forgot about it.
2

Realms of Tanerila

Introduction

Damien rushed out the door of his house half dressed, he was late. Pulling on his cotton shirt and fastening his labour britches, he spun round and slammed the door behind him. Picking up his makeshift suitcase with his various blacksmithing tools poking out at either side as he turned, a myriad of sleeves and trouser legs threatening to burst out, almost leaking out of the unfastened openings in.
Today was the day that he was to leave this island, the day that, finally, he would leave everything behind. He would leave behind his job, his apprentice, his only friend and his house, and most likely quite a lot of his clothes too.

Anywhere was better than here. 

Damien hurried down the pathway towards the town with his shoes half on, not to mention also still being distracted by even the slightest abnormality along the way, despite his rush.

He had spent too long here since his parents died, he should’ve moved ages ago. Too many good memories that resonated around the place, those of which just turned sad and grey as he remembered the loss of his parents.

Bustling down the track into the town, Damien panicked about being late and missing a ship could mean that he would never get to see what it was like on the mainland. Surely, it would be better than the miserable years he spent on the island alone. It just had to be. He had become a blacksmithing apprentice after his Dad lost his job due to losing his leg to cellulitis after being bitten by a wild bear. He worked as an apprentice making swords and armour for the massing army which governed the island until he was old enough to join the army at 14. During his time in the royal defence at the border of where the two kingdoms meet, he received news that both parents had died in a fatal accident upon returning from a market trip.

Speeding to the docks, he sees the ship’s steward waiting outside the boat for him. He was maybe the only true friend that Damien had, and he was leaving him behind too. After coming back from the war, Damien automatically became the town’s blacksmith, as his tutor had passed away during the years that he was on the front. With the demand for steel low after the war had been fought, Damien ultimately had no work but crafting spare shovels and repairing things, perhaps the odd bit of jewellery. As expected, he fell onto hard times and his friend was always there to dig him out of his debts, more times than once.

He gave his friend his last goodbye’s and promised him that he would come back and pay off his debt once he had found his true calling on the mainland. He boarded the ship and waved goodbye rather woefully as he sat upon a nearby rusted barrel overlooking the bow of the ship.

After some time, the ship creaked its way out into the middle of the sea, the island was a fair distance by now but not enough so that it was impossible to swim to. Damien was in a world of his own, imagining what was waiting for him when they docked on the mainland. Fresh fruit, market stalls…. They had them here, of course, but they weren’t in abundance, and of course, not really being back for long and being so poor and underpaid, he couldn’t really afford to leave his shop and go travelling.

Hours passed, and he found himself waking from a dream-filled daydream by an unusual sight. A bright purple glow came from the far side of the deck, it being nighttime, the glow was even more eerie as it loomed on the deck and grew and swayed with the rocking of the ship. Damien peered through the darkness, making out a distinct 4 silhouettes, symbols on their hands pulsating in rhythm to their chanting.

Before any dark incantation could happen, a group of the royal guard burst out from the captain’s cabin and made straight for the silhouettes, brandishing their swords with violent intent. Before Damien could react, one of the royal guards noticed him and charged over only to deal a vigorous blow to the front of Damien’s head using the butt of the sword, rendering him unconscious.

The Fall of Flannigan Fort

Realms of Tanerila is a Choose Your Own Adventure story written 5 years ago by myself for my HNC Games Development course. I started well… then I wrote the rest in a couple of hours at 4am because the deadline was too long, and I forgot about it.
1

Stories I Wrote As A Child – Shoe Shop?

Write, listen.
Right, list and…

Okay, the question mark in the title has a purpose. I called it Shoe Shop, but it seems my pre-teen brain turned on ADHD mode and went on a rambling tangent in this story. At the time, the school was not giving us lined paper, so I would naturally write in an ark, but then try to correct myself. Creating this weird situation where the end of a sentence would be where the previous sentence started.
It’s the only way I can explain it, because I cannot be arsed taking a photo of this right now. If someone asks, I’ll show them.

Currently, trying to decipher this as I type this.

“When me and my Mum went to the shop, I dont know what shop it is but I got used to the shop.
Sometimes I got bored I just got out my book but I had no pens.
I was sad.
Then the shoes had one flower on each one. I tried them on. They were perfect.
Then we put the shoes in a box and then we went into the car. Then we went home.”

No fucking clue.

I believe this is earlier than the previous one. I have cleaned up the writing a little for ease of reading.
This bullshit got me a little certificate, which I proceeded to doodle on for the remainder of the day.
No teacher feedback this time, I may have got star writer, but the standards were probably pretty low if that shit got me a gold star and a pat on the head.

It was also still a point where the teacher had me writing the… I’m not sure what definitive name to call it. The “Who, What, Where, Why & When”, by literally writing all those words in a list, then beside them, writing the “answer”.

This one was not fictional writing, I actually somewhat remember this, or can imagine it well enough in my head from fragmented memories. Pretty sure the store was a Clarks.
I hated shopping in general, but hated it ever so much more when it was my mum trying to get me to wear things she wanted me to wear. As I stated, I’d much rather be drawing.

The shoes in question were those pre-croc looking girls-shoes for school. With tiny little holes on the top, where those flower pins had been stuck through, looking like Lelly Kelly knock offs. Pretty sure those flowers were pink, of course they’d be pink.

Now that I think about it, the only thing I liked about being in the shoe shop was: The boy’s shoes, running up and down the huge lane between the isles, getting the staff to measure my feet, and the smell of the shoe shop. Actually looking at shoes I’m supposed to be looking at? Ick.

Yea, this one isn’t as good today. But yeeee. Happy Thursday.

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Stories I Wrote As A Child – The Magic Carpet

I’ve recently just opened my files after shoving all the documents into my filer and moving to my flat. I’ve since discovered some of my old stories. Namely, the ones that got me the “Star Writer” certificate in class.

Here’s the first one:

“One day I asked my Dad if I could go out on my Magic Carpet.
My Dad said, “Of course you can.” and I said, “Yes?!”

Away I went, to far, far away. I saw a castle and I went to Paris.
I saw the Eiffel Tower and I saw the art gallery, but one thing I missed was the river Seine.

I really enjoyed my journey.”

5th of August 2005.

The teacher’s comments were as follows:
“What a super story, [NAME]!
You have remembered capital letters and full stops.
What a clever girl you are, to use speech marks correctly!
Next time, you could tell me what your carpet looked like.”

I honestly don’t remember if I was prompted to write about France, or the popular tourist attractions in them. I honestly don’t remember the name of the river either, so it’s more than likely that I’d only just read about it.

Genuinely, love the story. Paints a picture of a reality that would never have happened, and I probably knew it. Considering that when I was writing this at 7 years old, my “Yes” was followed by a question mark. I somehow knew how to convey that confusion and excitement of my Dad actually saying yes to doing something, even something he’d consider dangerous.
Indicative of the part that as soon as I got on that carpet I went “Far, far away.” Shrek 2 came out in 2004, but I don’t think it was influenced by that.

Maybe I’ll use these as writing prompts later.

Anyway, that’s it. I have a few more, let’s give each one a separate post and do them every Thursday because #tbt. Whatever *ROFL*

Happy Thursday.

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