From A Storyteller

[Ronmar The Only]

 

 

 

 

From A Storyteller

 

I’d like to think that my shorts are gateways into the emotions and actions that have, are, or could occur in life. There really isn’t much more to each short that what I write; there is no plot, only the emotions and actions that occur between the beginning and ending words. The participants do not have life outside of what is written; the themes that are present could be dissected and analyzed from a variety of viewpoints. There is not a way to know exactly what the people and events mean; I never thought much about that. Generally, if I think too long on a particular piece that I’ve written, other works suffer. Therefore, these shorts are just that: a short piece of literature exploring the thoughts, emotions, feelings, descriptions, and actions of some of event that has come to my mind. Enjoy.

 

 

 

 

Flash Fiction

•The Ball

•A Tear

•A Day From the Sea

•Burn

•Smoking | The Original Short

•The Last Day

•Oliver's Grocery | Part One

•Oliver's Grocery | Part Two

•With the Current

•On the Train

 

 

 

Short Stories

 

•The French Way

•Going to the Beach

 

 

 

Nonfiction Essays

 

•On the Edge of Sunset

•Tell Me a Story

 

 

 

Short Story of the Month Entries

 

•With the Current | March 09

•Manifesto | December 08

 

 

 

The Picture is the way to the Roman Forum, if you wanted to know.

Edited August 27, 2011 by Ronmar The Only

[Ronmar The Only]

The Ball

 

 

The evening was magical, the night that brought death to my love. The day had been full of preparations. I…I had worked long and hard at the factory during the morning and afternoon, sweating away my fears of the coming spectacle that would be her. She…she spent the day going over last minute adjustments of the ball; everything needed to go according to plan. We had invited the upper echelon of the nobility: kings, queens, princes, princesses, and many more. The few invites that had been delivered within the city walls belonged to old family friends and respected citizens who must be pampered. I never cared for things such as that; my life had never been as easy as some of theirs. Finding love with a princess had been pure luck.

 

The first hours of our last night seemed common place. We had dressed for the occasion: a simple, but refined black suit for me while she stunned the guests in the velvety red dress. Before seeing her at the ball I was led through a barrage of others who were each presented to me as the most important person I would ever meet. Each hand I took graciously, smiled generously. The men’s were shook heartily while the women’s were kissed gently, a kiss most kind since it was given from a man who was truly in love’s gaze. She had been led through a similar line, though, as the youngest and most beautiful of a trio of sisters, she was presented as the only person who mattered during the evening. I had caught her eye in between the hands of an older couple from Venice; briefly, I passed to her a funny look of desperation as the couple talked to the escort who had presented me. She only beamed back, her face un-phased by my action; her mind knew full well that the people she was with looked onto her and nowhere else.

 

The last dinner we shared was more than expected. My love had secured the abilities of the most talented chef of Paris and no disappointments lay within the flavors he presented to the hungry people of the ball. We sat, apart, at a large table that seated the most important representatives within the royal family’s realm. Their words took in the world at large: wars in the old and new countries, famine and disease that threaten investments, the bitter gossip of high society. Their words meant nothing to me, not one question or thought was directed to me. None of it mattered; I was lost in her eyes, gently wishing to be next to her. Her voice whispering those sweet nothings in my ear, her breath pulsating on me, the touch of her skin; those were things that passed through my mind as I gazed lost. The moments she returned my glances, I was no longer lost. Momentarily, the light shone in and I was found by the warmth that she projected. A sly smile would escape from which she would recover and make some comment to the discussion that did not find a place in the flow, but was accepted and thought on by the submissive nobles.

 

The dance of the ball finally came late into the evening. It was the first time my hands met her porcelain skin that day; the touch sent welcomed shivers through my body. Dancing with her had always been one of the best moments that we had shared. The physicality of it, the openness of it, the declaration that love was all that one could find between us. Hidden looks of scorn were scattered amongst the moving crowd, the closest took on measures of fainting happiness if our eyes might wonder from each other. The thoughts of others never had mattered. She came closer; the heat that radiated from her body joined by my own. Her eyes locked onto mine as my hand positioned fallen flocks of hair to the side; my finger lingered on her inviting lips. Moments passed until my hand dropped away; our lips met and found the same pleasure that was always there since the first, accidental meeting that had taken place so long ago. She rested her head next to mine till the end, our shared dream of that future day of being man and wife filled the rest of the slow dances of the ball.

 

Our final times were after the ball; the guests had all left while the servants cleaned the mess of the party. My hand took hers, each tenderly gripping the other during the passing breaths of our walk down the staircase to the street away from the palace. She lived in another building owned by the royal family along with a cousin that loved the both of us dearly and had accepted our love as true. The closest lamp on the road seemed almost out, casting fleeting shadows on the large carriage. The driver must have sat at the front, unseen; he knew of our love and my own desire to help the Princess up into the comfortable seating area. Once to the large vehicle, her free hand came behind my head. She guided me to her waiting lips; a passionate, last kiss was what we shared. Her cheeks became rosy as she smiled after we parted; time, slowly, passed as we only looked at each other. She finally turned and made her way up into the carriage; my hand helped her up the small stairs.

 

They pulled her from me, unknowns who waited in the shadows of the carriage. She screamed, briefly, which fueled my last strength to fight my way into the carriage. A musket shot from behind paralyzed me on the small stairs; my hands held on the entrance way with a dying man’s determination. It was the small ball fired from some weapon inside the carriage that loosen my grip and led me to the ground. The horses quickly tore the carriage away from the street and my dying body. Death had found my love through me.

 

 

Edited May 31, 2009 by Ronmar The Only

[Ronmar The Only]

A Tear

 

 

Currently being revised.

 

Edited August 16, 2008 by Ronmar The Only

[Wanted Assailant]

Excellent. Nice idea to clog up all your short stories in one topic, reminds like some.... eh I can't really explain it.

 

 

 

Read both, and I must say The Ball was the best out of the two.

It was just so... beautiful. That last line was perfect.

 

 

I gotta say though, A Tear was real twist-swinger from me. I'd really thought he mourned over the death of brother, but in reality it was just another day in war and he enjoyed it.

[Ronmar The Only]

I'm glad you liked them. The Ball is definitely the one I like out of the two...I still don't feel good about how A Tear turned out.

[FunnyMoney54]

f*ck-face, some dead

embrace churns the old-enticed

come back

always, again,

chaste again all swept in sinned

the

[Carbine23]

I liked "a tear" a lot. It was emotional and set the scene for what a battle is like. Of course the ending was the best part. It's shocking how a soldier who lost his brother, and watched thousands of others die, can love war in the end. Great Job Ronmar

[Eminence]

On... A Tear:

 

I think it started pretty poorly, riddled with flow-hindering errors that made quite a significant impact on the general progression of the narrative. Ranging from a simple bad choice in punctuation, to a completely redundant statement, it never really caught on immediately; which is a certain must with something so short. The mistakes I'm referring to are:

 

 

A tear fell down onto the floor of mud, a single tear.

 

Here, I would've replaced these two instances with 'a' and a semi-colon respectively. The reason is that you say 'the floor of mud', yet you have yet to establish any setting; what floor of mud? Therefore, 'a' floor introduces it to us, and makes a little more sense. With regards to the comma/semi-colon, a semi-colon would fragment the sentence a little more, establishing the final utterance of what fell down; a single tear. See what I did there? It's exactly how I'd say that sentence should have concluded.

 

Following on from this:

 

 

It was all that could be let out at that moment; it was all that would be let out for that moment.

 

Now, I stated that this sentence becomes redundant; which it does. To say it's all that would be let out after stating that it's all that could be let out; this is a redundancy because it's obvious that it's all that would be left out if it's already confirmed it's all that could be possibly let out! [/confusing ramble] I jest; it's not really that confusing - really, all that needs to be done is for the two fragments of the sentence to be switched round. Logically, would should come before could.

 

 

His head was catered by his hands

 

Again, the first error here is a repeat of the initial error; you're describing something that has yet to be established. You can't really refer to this character with a personal pronoun (his) without having yet introduced him using any actual noun; 'a man' would suffice if no names were to be mentioned, for example. It just doesn't really make sense. As well as this, I found 'catered' to be an odd choice of words here - again, it doesn't truly make sense. Another word-choice, or the addition of the word 'to', would be the best solution I feel: 'head was catered to by his hands'. It's still a little vague, but the reader gets the picture a little more.

 

 

His hands dropped from his face where they held fast below his gaze to be seen.

 

This is another sentence that hinders the flow of the piece, as I had to read over it a few times to try to understand what it was saying; yet I still don't fully get what you were trying to say by it. In a piece so short, every sentence counts, so you don't want to be confusing the reader at any point. It's all fine until the end; 'where they held fast below his gaze to be seen' - what's actually happened here?

 

 

The dirty wraps of mud and blood covered his worn hands; the handles of the short sword and shield always tore at the skin.

 

Here, you seem to be trying to incorporate the word 'the' at as many points as possible without it really being needed; again, a redundancy. I would've worded this sentence as follows:

 

 

Dirty wraps of mud and blood covered his worn hands; the handles of the short sword and shield always tore at his skin.

 

 

It was the slight of his dying brother that had thrown him into a mad rage of which he barely remembered.

 

Here, the first mistakes is a simple typo; 'sight'. Following on from this, the sentence is again worded poorly and becomes a hindrance to the flow; there would be two ways to rectify this:

 

 

...had thrown him into a mad rage, which he barely remembered.

 

/OR/

 

...had thrown him into a mad rage, the consequences of which he barely remembered.

 

The problem you had was including the 'of' preposition; by including it, you either need to include something else, or remove it altogether, in order to ensure that the sentence makes more sense.

 

 

Moments past by

 

'Passed' by.

 

 

while his weary eyes watched the, now, shaking hands, the sound of attention being called finally broke his gaze.

 

Firstly, regarding the fragment at the end of this sentence; I would've split it up into a separate sentence all of its own. But, the main problem with this sentence is the 'now shaking hands' segment; I'm not sure what you were trying to accomplish with the inclusion of so many redundant commas. It would make much more sense to simply say 'while his weary eyes watched the now shaking hands'; if the inclusion of the commas is a must to create a parenthetical phrase within the sentence, then it should read 'while his weary eyes watched the, now shaking, hands' - but this in itself doesn't really make too much sense, as if you remove the additional phrase it reads 'while his weary eyes watched the hands' - with an again problematic 'the'.

 

I don't really get the twist at the end, either; it's not in keeping with the actual motivations of the character. Sure, you're trying to say that it's a twist by stating he actually loves war, but it doesn't make sense: if this was the case, the rest wouldn't be told as it is. He would've need to 'find comfort' in his brother's death, he wouldn't have the tear, he wouldn't be mournful in any way. It just seems a twist for the sake of a twist, not true to the actual character that has been established.

 

Overall, it seemed an interesting short, but it was filled with too many small mistakes that just made it less interesting to read. It suffered from a real lack of flow; something that should never exist in such a short story, which should be energetic, pacey and exciting from start to finish.

 

 

-----

 

 

On... The Ball:

 

 

The evening was magical, the night that brought death to my love.

 

Here, I would've used something other than a comma to fragment this sentence. A semi-colon would be a possibility, as would a colon in itself - 'the evening: the night that brought death'.

 

 

I, I had worked long and hard at the factory during the morning and afternoon, sweating away my fears of the coming spectacle that would be her. She, she spent the day going over last minute adjustments of the ball, everything needed to go according to plan.

 

I find it pretty gimmicky to require the use of bold text in order to make a piece make sense; it's like people who use colours for certain aspects of a piece - you can't have that in a book, can you? Therefore, I feel a better way to separate these instances of repetition would've been to use an ellipsis: 'I... I had worked' and 'She... she spent' - makes more sense, as well as looking better. That's if you feel the repetition was totally necessary in the first place, of course; I, myself, would've never included it in this case and would've simply said 'I had worked' followed be 'She spent'.

 

The final highlighted part is that I would've changed this comma to a semi-colon, better fragmenting the last segment of the sentence. This is actually a recurring 'error' throughout the piece; there are numerous occasions when you have used a comma to fragment a sentence, and this results in it not really making perfect sense and clarity - often, a semi-colon would have been a better choice.

 

 

Momentarily, the light shown in and I was found by the warmth that she projected.

 

'Shone' in.

 

 

A sly smile would escape, and then she would recover

 

Here, you're writing either in the future tense, or in a generalised manner of past tense; that is to say that this happened on more than one occasion and was what normally happened, if that makes sense. 'She would recover' - it's saying that it happened often, and this is always how events transpired. Generalising the encounter like this takes away from the impact you're trying to have on the audience - you should instead describe it as a definite thing: 'A sly smile escaped, and then she recovered', for example.

 

 

Moments past

 

Again, 'passed'.

 

 

each tenderly griping the other

 

More a typo than anything; 'gripping'.

 

 

Her cheeks had became rosy as she smiled

 

Wrong tense; 'become' rosy.

 

 

She, finally, turned and made her way up into the carriage

 

Again, incorporation of commas to create a redundant parenthetical phrase; it would've made more sense to simply say 'she finally turned'.

 

Regarding the finale; I wasn't totally sure of what had happened. Are you saying that it was the character himself who shot her? If so, it's again a twist not born out of logic, but out of the need for a twist; how can the events be described as such - from inside the carriage, from behind etc. if it was actually simply him? It doesn't make sense.

 

My main problem with this was the wording in some areas; it's hard to explain, but it always seemed like skipping to the wrong tense without actually having done so, through the constant incorporation of 'had' and other words; it just didn't seem like the most effective way of writing it. Combined with the lack of semi-colons - and therefore too many commas - it again didn't flow perfectly, which is again of the utmost importance in any short piece.

[Ronmar The Only]

I've half-way edited The Ball, mostly the things that were pointed out. A Tear is just messed up, I might go back and edit it.

 

I thought it was straight forward, the ending to The Ball. She is making her way into the carriage when people inside of it grab her and pull her in, he tries to save her but is caught from a rifle shot from the back, most likely from whoever took care of the driver. The shot is slightly off, maybe from the struggle or maybe from the lighting, and he is able to still grasp the entrance way into the carriage when one of the people inside shoots him and he finally falls from the carriage and dies.

 

That is what I was hopping to get at, I've changed one word during the series of events that hopeful makes it clear.

[Eminence]

Well then, I don't understand why you've written it as such in any way. So, the protagonist dies? There's two major things wrong with that, then:

 

1. In any first-person past tense story, the protagonist cannot die. Logic alone dictates this, summed up with the following two words of potential narrative: "I died". It's impossible, isn't it? One cannot, in any way, say this.

 

2. If it's him that dies, then why is the entire purpose of the story to say how she dies? Read again: "the night that brought death to my love" - his love is this woman, and the night brings death to her / "Death had found my love through the only thing that had ever matter to her, me." - again, death finds 'his love' - 'her' - through him. Yet you say it's him that has died?

 

I'm confused, and not confused in the way you try to get your head round a clever mystery tale; in the way that you just don't understand because there doesn't seem a logical explanation. Enlighten me!

[Ronmar The Only]

Well, first I'd say some inspiration comes from American Beauty. The narrator dies in the end. Also, isn't the first season of Desperate Housewives narrated by a dead housewife? I only saw a few episodes, so I don't remember correctly.

 

Second, the line only means that death was brought to the love. I did not mean that she was the one who would die. Also, you could take it as death overtook her by his death...many people would lay testament down that they basically died when their spouse/loved one/whatever died.

 

Hopefully my words undo your confusion.

[Eminence]

That is true; there are some cases of it in film and the likes. I dunno, I just find it pretty 'wrong' in literary terms, to have something narrated from beyond the grave. Meh.

 

As for the death thing, I understand what you're saying, so I'm not actually 'confused', per se. It's just that, when read;

 

 

Death had found my love through the only thing that had ever matter to her

 

It really sounds like, and indicates that, it's the female character that dies. The inclusion of the word 'her' at the end indicates the the 'my love' is referring directly to the character - not the 'love', so that's why I didn't understand what you were trying to get at. It seems to be wrongly worded, perhaps.

[Ronmar The Only]

Yeah, I may reword it sometime. Something like, "death had found our love through the only thing that had ever matter to her, me."

[Ronmar The Only]

A Day From the Sea

 

 

The calm, blue sea was interrupted by a slow moving wave. A single, small vessel caused the ripples to the normally still waters; it was no more than a simple, trading ship. The crew roughly numbered eight on a given voyage since the captain had a habit of being picky about such decisions. One man that was a constant on the voyages was not counted on being part of the normal routines of running the boat, nor did he work on contracts with various business owners that they shipped for. The man, a foreigner named Matho, concerned himself with other matters. The members of the crew that would stay on for at least of a few voyages always questioned what the man named Matho brought to the operation. They would see him looking out towards the rolling oceans or the bright sky; sometimes he would mutter something, others he would not. Their eyes would follow him in the various ports to the small bars, and other such establishments, where Matho would talk with various people drinking away coin or he would sit alone watching the crowd. Some of the members of the crew would venture to the captain and ask questions about the man; during those times, the captain shook his head and would tell the men: “Matho does his part like any other man.” After the captain would say his words, the men always shook their heads not wishing to argue with their leader. A few more times out to sea and the men who asked the questions would leave not wishing to be near such a man.

 

Matho sat towards the front of the boat like most days out to sea. His vision pierced the blue water; the vessel was close enough to shore where the water was becoming clearer, the depths of the water easy to be seen. Small and larger fish occupied the sea in front of the boat, drifting through the area before the boat came too close and then quickly swimming off out of the sailors’ way. The man used his right hand to rub his eyes and then looked out to the shoreline. A rather large port was their destination, the port of Arkalo. The island was like the vast others that occupied the sea: green and rocky with few hills and large mountains. Either a military post or the palace rested further along the coastline at a risen part of the island depending on how the local people felt about their government. High cliffs greeted the water that surrounded the structure, though Matho looked on sure that somewhere in the hazardous cliffs there was a secret escape cavern for the notables on the island.

 

 

**********

 

 

The ship floated carefully along the water to an open spot at the docks. The crew worked on unloading the cargo that was bound for this island; the captain watched idly over them while eating a local piece of fruit. Matho went, as instructed every time, to pay the docks’ men for looking over the ship and a slight refit for the broken wood from a large sea creature they had had an encounter on the trip to the island. The head of the docks did not waste much time in seeing to the ship’s duties whenever he finally saw Matho waiting for him. The foreign looking man with his long brown hair and full beard generally scared most town folk. Matho never took any offense to the stares for the island people normally looked greatly different with their short hair, trimly kept beards, and naturally darker complexion. After delivering the payment, he left and watched the sailors of the vessel unload the last of the supplies. The captain gave his routine speech about the rules he wished to be followed during their stay and the meeting time each day for check-in. The group broke up quickly with the ending of the speech, all except Matho. He worked his way into the ship and secured his long hair behind the head with a small rope while latching his sword around the belt on his waist. The captain had told him never to have the sword during official business on the ship’s behalf; Matho’s hands were enough to stop most attacks.

 

Time did not past much while he was below deck on the ship, as with most matters Matho was quick when necessary. He leisurely walked through the nearby market place in search for a nice-looking place to wet his tongue. The various sellers tried to bait him the whole time of the walk in the market; they called out him with declarations of a reduction in price or statements that he would not be able to find better no matter which island he should be on. The words fell on the deaf ears of Matho for all that he needed was the wine from a bar and whatever food they might serve. One of the less populated paths caught his eye to which he was quickly down and a promising sign appeared, The Withering Grape. The letters were foreign from his original language, but throughout his travels he had expanded his knowledge of words to include most languages of the islands.

 

The business that waited inside from the sign was relaxed, and the type of place that Matho was looking for. Several tables lay scattered throughout the main floor with a long counter arranged on the nearest wall to the door. Various men sat at the tables playing dice games or just drinking; no prostitutes lingered anywhere in sight which suited Matho well. He made his way to the counter once he finished looking over the room. A rather large man made way towards Matho with a pitcher in hand; his head was shaved with a thick beard covering from ear to ear that was mostly black with splotches of gray.

 

“Wine?” Matho spoke clearly in the tongue that was shown on the door. A nod answered his question, “one.” The man’s hand quickly disappeared under the counter and produced a wooden glass that was quickly filled with the dark, red liquid.

 

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you in my establishment ever,” his voice was deep and hearty. He poured another in a glass that seemingly appeared out of nowhere as Matho took a drink, “who are you?”

 

“The name’s Matho,” he nodded towards the man as they both drank from their respected glasses, “I’m a freelance trader.”

 

“Matho?” the barkeep looked at his drink and then set it aside to ask more questions, “that is an interesting name, where are you from?” He leaned his large frame against the counter as he spoke.

 

“The mainland, but I’ve been in the islands plenty.” Matho greedily finished off the rest of the wine which brought a small smile to the face of the owner.

 

“That certainly seems so,” he drank from his cup again. “I’m Andreas, never left my rocky island,” he grew curious and asked, “how are the other islands?”

 

“Most are like this, I’d say. Some are bigger; some are smaller,” he gestured with his hands to show indicating sizes, “all become involved in a war ever so often.”

 

“Yes,” Andreas drank the rest of his wine, “Arkalo was in a war a few years ago.” He smiled as pride began to fill him causing his cheeks to become slightly red, “I helped defend the palace in the last charge of the enemy; we won out at the end.”

 

“That so?” his eyes lit up at the brief discussion of battle, then subsided, “the ship I’m on stays away from the warring islands; the captain does not see the benefits of smuggling.”

 

“There are some,” the large man’s words were quickly cut off by the entrance of a man with sword in hand who looked at Andreas. “Straton, are you alright?” his eyes became slightly caring as he looked at the new arrival.

 

“Friend,” the man called Straton approached the counter, “the Argyos Brothers took my boy.” His face held a serious expression; he was an older man with a series of wrinkles and scars along his face. The signs of battle did not cause him to appear ugly but strong and capable. His hair was short and beaded with worried sweat.

 

“How do you know this?” Andreas poured another glass of wine and handed it to his old friend.

 

“The bastards left a note,” he gulped down the glass before continuing. “I met with one of them in the market near my home. He showed a piece of my child’s blanket to me.” The small amount of customers that were in the bar had all turned their heads to the man’s words curious to the discussion. “I have to get him back.”

 

“Sure,” the large man looked onto his friend, “I know where they’d be. One of those brothers was here recently; he couldn’t handle his wine and talked loudly of the cavern they hid their goods in on the outer edge of the town.”

 

Straton slammed down onto the counter with his empty fist while his face beamed at the information that had been presented, “can you go now?”

 

“Yes,” Andreas turned and looked at Matho who had poured himself, and finished, another glass of the wine during the conversation, “trader, you want to make some coin?” He had noticed the sword that was sheathed when Matho had entered and saw the expression at the mention of the war just a few moments before.

 

“Just free drink, food, and somewhere to sleep while I’m here,” Matho stated as he stood up from the counter, the liquid had not affected him at all.

 

 

**********

 

 

The walk to the cavern did not take an exceeding amount of time; light still shone brightly from the high sun. During their determined stride, the two, old friends described the Argyos Brothers to Matho. The Brothers were truly a loose connection of males from within the same family; some where actually brothers while others were simply cousins or some other relation. None of the mundane details matter to Matho; he asked only of how many there should be. Straton laughed loudly at the straight-to-the-point attitude and replied six or seven. He, also, described how many knew the name Straton and feared it. In years past, his fighting skill was legendary and what helped turn the tide during the last war. Matho thought only that every island had their hero, but smiled at the man knowing that he would see this talent.

The land outside the port was rough and with rocks spread throughout. The cavern was not hard to spot once they came upon it; a lone man stood outside the small entrance into the mountain who panicked at the approaching men and quickly retreaded in. Straton smiled then screamed out at the sight; he started into a mad run towards the cave. Matho easily followed with Andreas in a slow tow behind the two.

 

The old warrior quickly entered into the cave, not waiting on his larger friend, and raised the blade in his hand to a defensive stance. He carried no shield and was forced to use the long sword to defend against anyone. Matho appeared moments later by the lone father with his own blade unsheathed and at the ready. The two carefully walked through the rocky cavern in silence. It was rather large with torches set periodically against the walls to light the interior. The fiery light danced on their faces and casted eerie shadows as they past each one. A sword suddenly struck out from the darkness; the blow was easily parried off by Matho. He easily became engaged in swordplay with one of the Brothers while a breeze crossed his back; another had jumped from the darkness towards Straton knocking away his blade. The two struggled on the ground with the younger and more energetic man appearing to have a slight advantage. The swordsman Matho faced was too eager and easily made a mistake; the Brother’s intestines fell to the rocky ground from a deep wound inflicted by a quick thrust.

 

A quake quickly overtook the cavern as Matho turned to look onto the two fighting on the ground. The younger Brother appeared to have the advantage still with a small knife aimed at Straton’s throat. The few falling rocks frightened the knife wielder which the veteran warrior quickly took advantage over. Matho staggered backwards into the cave as the Brother was hurled off of Straton and between the two. Suddenly a full cave-in fell down onto the two Brothers, crushing both. Matho eyed the rocks for a moment. Realizing that it would take several minutes to remove, he turned and headed further into the shaking mountain.

 

The cavern steadily changed as the foreign man walked along; the ground and walls became smoother while the air seemed unnaturally fresh. The shaking grew worse as Matho made his way through the, now, pathway like cave; boxes littered the floor indicating the Brother’s stay. He stopped his approach as screams came from further into the cave. A well lit room lay before with the bright light kept Matho from being able to see into the area. His chin rested on the hilt of his sword as he looked fruitless to the room whenever a high pitched scream filled his ears; Matho quickly thought of the boy. His legs rapidly led him into the room where he was greeted with a random lighten strike that tore at the rocky cavern above. Matho hastily found cover behind a solid, rock formation that reached from the top of the room to the bottom. His eyes quickly searched out for the boy who was hidden behind several boxes screaming at the lighting.

 

Matho carefully looked down into the room and saw the source. Some dark creature was chained to the wall; it seemingly had the appearance of a man, yet severely deformed. It stood on two, very large legs while its arms thrashed about with lighting extruding from the finger tips; three fingers were attached to the right hand although four were on the left. The chest convulsed heavily with hurried breaths at its movements. Two yellow colored eyes were set in a large formation on the top as if a hump on one shoulder had encased the head. Matho had never seen such a creature in all his travels and covered back behind the rock formation. A shriek overtook the cavern which must have originated from the creature; Matho only could think that it saw him.

 

His eyes quickly looked towards the frighten boy that still cowered behind the boxes and then to his hands; Matho’s thoughts raced as he gazed at his hands. With his mind made, he turned from his cover and faced the creature. Its eyes quickly focused on the man; charred remains of the rest of the Brothers lay in the floor near it. Another shriek was let out from an invisible mouth as both hands quickly came before the creature with lightening flowing from the fingertips. Matho raised his off-hand and muttered a few words; a translucent shell encased the swordsman which absorbed the lightening. With his hand still in the air and now aimed at the creature, he softly spoke more words. A similar lightening struck out from the shell and staggered the creature; its arms fell to the sides while the attacks of lightening ended. Matho did not wait and charged at the monster. His sword quickly detached both arms causing more shrieks. The very high-pitched noise faded from the cavern room immediately when he easily sliced the creatures head off. With the head removed, the creature staggered backwards into the wall and slumped into it. Matho gradually turned from the monster, covered in its blood, to the speechless boy who stared at the man that could use magic.

 

Edited May 31, 2009 by Ronmar The Only

[Ronmar The Only]

Burn

 

 

The room was hot, hotter than any day had been throughout the scorching summer. Sweat beaded on the heads of each of the citizens that had found a place in the small building. The women fanned their faces with anything that lay within their reach; their eyes locked onto the man in the center of the room sitting before the judge. The men stood around absorbing the heat; normally used to it while in the fields, today they each felt slightly on their heels from it. Voices screamed and called out throughout the room; arguments between families, friends, and enemies. None of the people knew what to do; they had never been faced with such a problem before.

 

The man before the judge had been ridiculed, threatened, and even, sometime during the time of the day, accused. Many had been paraded in front of the judge to tell their story. The stories ranged from the man performing some mysticism to seduce wives, daughters, and lovers to tales of the man running around cursing people, places, and livestock, randomly. Each had told their respective stories with a bitter sounding voice; after telling their story, they would spit at the man or toss something at him to show their spite. Not once did he try to dodge the incoming projectiles; not once did he respond in a vile tongue that they said he had. Instead, the man sat there, cuffed at the hands with his head hanging low. At the beginning of the parade, the bailiffs had struck at him trying to get a rise, but he never succumbed to the attacks.

 

The judge slammed down his gavel bringing the room to silence. The faces looked up at the judge; his hand motioned at the door. A giant of a man entered dodging down and coming through the double doors sideways to fit his large frame. Immediately the new entrant looked around the room, his eyes scanning the crowd and lingering for a moment on the shackled man. His eyes lit at the sight of the captured man, and then he turned to face the outside world where he gestured to the unseen. A slender lady slowly entered, her vision focused on the floor and her dark hair covering her face from the onlookers. A murmur quickly overtook the crowd; the women gossiped on who the new lady could be while the man gawked at the apparent, hidden beauty. The eyes of all followed her and the giant from the doorway to the stand that lay at the side of the man accused; all eyes except those of that man.

 

She stood, only looking at the judge, waiting to be spoken to. The giant who had entered before her took a spot nearby, only the man in shackles lay within his view. The judge began slowly, “My lady, you, and you alone, are the only person who is known to have been with this man.” The judge’s thick finger directed towards the shackled man, “you are the only one who has been seen on multiple instances talking with this man. Who is this man?” The words were intently listened to by the sweating people; the women had stopped fanning themselves while the men had stopped their gawking. They all awaited the answer; they all awaited the truth for once this day.

 

“I,” her voice quivered as she looked at the judge. “I,” she turned to the giant had escorted her into the room who simply nodded for her to continue along with what he had instructed her to say, his truth. “I,” the lady looked onto the man; his head finally had risen up to look at the beauty with their eyes locked on the other, “love you.”

 

A smile appeared on the man’s face at the sounding of the phrase that he had been awaiting on. The crowd was startled, conversations burst out of each; their words quick and their thoughts speeding. The giant began to walk to the lady with determination on his face, his own mind racing at the betrayal. The judge merely shook his head, unable to comprehend the day. The lady looked onto her love, her eyes tearing at the situation. Strong hands suddenly grabbed her by the arms, pulling her away.

 

The room became hotter; the man quickly struggled to stand with the sight of his love being taken away once more. The bailiffs struck at the man, he swiftly dodged the blows and countered by slamming his shoulder into the one’s stomach that faced him. The injured bailiff crumbled to the ground after the strike; the crowd gasped at the fight that had broken out. The man spun around and caught the remaining bailiff with his shackled fists, knocking the other man to the ground. The judge slammed down his gavel, trying to regain order within the room.

 

The man turned to eye his love and her captor who, forcible, tossed the lady out of the way into the wall. Anger spread over the man’s face; the giant laughed as he rolled up his sleeves. The feeling was spreading through every part of the man; he was losing control of it. Suddenly he brought his hands in front of him, directly aiming at the laughing giant. The laughing ended as the giant stopped in his tracks, looking at the man knowing of the stories. Slowly a smile cracked his worried look after several, precious seconds passed without any actions being taken. With the smile directed at him, the shackled man smiled slightly also, just enough to bring fear to any onlooker. His hands burst with flames, his palms directing the fire to the giant. Engulfed in a fiery blaze, the giant screamed helplessly to the crowd, shocking the various people to their senses to the flee building. The fury was still in the man’s eyes and it continued to control him. The man turned the flames onto the judge; the fire increased in its intensity burning him to ashes and ending his life instantly. The flames from the still dying giant and the charred remains of the judge swiftly caught onto the rest of the small building, an inferno starting. A large grin spread over the man’s face as he looked over the destruction, it still was in power for the moment.

 

The fire finally subsided from the man’s hands and his face turned to terror as his eyes found his love. She lay next to where she fell with a slight trail of blood on her head from the impact with the wall. He quickly made his way through the falling building and covered her from the falling embers. His hand caressed her face while she regained consciousness; her hand gripped his at the sight of him. They smiled to each other; they were seemingly safe in the other’s arms once more. He dipped down and gingerly kissed her lips. The man slowly reached underneath his love during the passionate embrace and lifted her up from the floor. They broke their kiss as he carried her out of the burning building free again.

 

Edited May 31, 2009 by Ronmar The Only

[Lochie_old]

Burn has been added to Short Story of the Month topic

[Ronmar The Only]

Smoking | The Original Short

 

Her lips puckered around the filter of the cigarette while she inhaled the sweet death of it. She was in the waning years of middle age, though her looks would never betray her. Her blond hair lay playfully with curls on top of the thick scarf around her neck. The silver dress gleamed under the lights of speakeasy while showing off her every curve. He gazed on her chest that gently rose from the inhale; her breasts lifted up into the air slightly, and fell slowly back into rest with the end of the motion. The establishment was filled with many patrons, most engaged in talk at their respective tables while the two seemingly existed outside the times of the others. They were living in their own moment, fleeting time in which she inhaled and exhaled while he gazed at her. She suddenly coughed; too many cigarettes had been inhaled this evening.

 

He smiled at her while his hand drifted from its busy work in front of him to the glass that was positioned at the table to his side. Chilled scotch and water, his drink, rested motionless in the glass. The barkeep knew the young man’s taste and always prepared for evenings such as this. Slowly, the drink was brought to his lips where he sipped at it slightly. A moment later after he looked down at his work and back up to her, he downed the drink. A quick gesture of the glass followed the end of the scotch which was responded by light laughter from the lady. He placed the glass back onto the side table. His hand came back to the work; his eyes gazed once more to her. A moment later, he worked the charcoal onto the thick sheet focusing on the cigarette that he had sketched early. She rested her movements once more, looking at the artist.

 

Edited May 31, 2009 by Ronmar The Only

[Ronmar The Only]

The Last Day

 

The man grabbed at his thighs. Pain had shot throughout his legs from the long hike up the mountainside, but he pushed on for the ridge overlooking the valley was near. The trip had taken a difficult toll on him, more than just the pain in his legs. His lungs violently expanded and deflated trying to take in as much oxygen from the air that was there. His hands shook from the lack of food; since the beginning of his journey he had yet to stop to satisfy his hunger. His lips and the inside of his mouth were cracked with dried blood along each tear from the little water he had been able to secure in the wilderness. He gripped the twigs of the low trees to steady his walk along the path. The end of mountain was scarcely a few, hard steps forward but he had to stop. Sweat covered his brow and had been aggravating his eyes for quite a while. The man leaned against a tree close-by and rubbed at his eyes; he had to see the valley.

 

Nothing of what lay in the valley could come to his mind’s eye; he had no idea what happened. He had only been told to run from the town, nothing else. The words had come from someone at the river bend but he had so far not been able to place the voice. Immediately after the warning, his feet acted on instinct and carried him from the town through the woodlands nearby and to the base of the mountain. No creature had met him during his escape. He had reasoned that something must have been wrong; animals seemed to have an intuition for danger. The lack of any beasts actually reinforced his desire to get away from the town but after several hours of not seeing anyone in the forest he decided to make the trek up the mountain. The man was an avid hunter and knew all of the paths in the woodlands and the mountains which led him to the ridge overlooking the valley and the city that lay in it.

 

The bleak, empty thoughts passed and he stood up from the tree. He slowly walked towards the end of the ridge and looked down towards where the town was. Every building and structure was enflamed. His eyes quickly searched out and noted the burning places that had held some significance throughout his life: the old schoolhouse, the factory where his father worked and he had worked too, and the park where he first kissed the woman he loved. It was all gone. His vision unfocused on the specifics of the town and noticed the various burning objects striking from above. The large objects were coming from the heavens, it seemed. Soon one of the balls of fire overtook his vision. The light filled his eyes till there was nothing left.

 

An old, feeble man convulsed in a wooden bed within a small room. His light whimper dissipated from the room by the cracks in the walls and left an eerie silence for the other occupants. Two generations of the man’s family watched as the last one of the old passed from the world. The younger had covered up their eyes at the startling sight of the shaking man who had loved them with such affectation. The older ones, the sons and daughters, looked with swollen eyes at the death of their father.

 

 

 

Edited May 31, 2009 by Ronmar The Only

[Lochie_old]

I haven't seen something from you in awhile, The end of the story was something I didn't really expect, I thought it was a sort of spiritual journey but instead the twist was placed and executed well.

 

It seems a tad rusty but I didn't find any major mistakes, just some sentences I had to re-read to understand. But its pretty friggin' great.

[Ronmar The Only]

Well, it has been a while since I've posted in this topic. I placed a new copy of The Ball here after I made recent revisions to it. I'm also planning on revising The Last Day and will someday have a revised copy of A Tear. Also, I updated the table of contents to reflect the changes that took place while the html coding wasn't functional.

 

I've been mulling over doing something which I'd refer to as An Exercise in Mob-Speech... which I'd personally find funny if I pulled it off correctly.

[Stefan.]

I honestly don't remember seeing this topic, but I'm glad that I've stumbled upon it. Those pieces are lively, and considering that I'm thinking myself about writing some shorts, this has only added to my motivation to write. Good job, and I look forward to reading more of your works. Favourite so far is The Ball.

[Ronmar The Only]

With the Current

 

 

Amongst the dying rays of the sun a lone, small fishing boat floats in the calm waters of the Pacific Ocean. The ship’s name, Caroline, is spread across the hull in black lettering. Clay Abbot sits on an ice box in aft dressed in what he would call casual clothes, but the price tags would not agree. He looks around at the emptiness that surrounds for miles and then focuses on the horizon. The ride out to this spot had taken a while, but Clay had enjoyed the trip.

 

“I love the ocean,” his words are calm and cool as he continues to eye the setting sun. “Something about the smell, the flying birds, the dark blue water,” Clay rubs his hands together as his eyes catch sight of seagulls. The birds fly normally in their large pack, nothing strange in their world this day.

 

Clay stands up from the box and walks to the edge of the boat and looks into the dark water, “I just love it.” He turns from the ocean to gaze at the ice box. “It’s wide open, completely free.” He lifts his arms and stares up at the cloudy sky, “It has nothing to worry about.”

 

He takes a break from speaking and contemplates his words. Clay rubs his face slowly, slight tears run down from his eyes. “The ocean doesn’t have to stress over a family,” he moves closer to the ice box and rests his hands against the top. “It doesn’t have a daughter in high school,” his fingers gradually run across the edge of the box, “trying to decide which college to go to.

 

“Me?” Clay lets out a bittersweet laugh as he grabs several of the trash bags off the floor next to him. “I have to live in the real world. I have that daughter. I’m responsible for all the troubles that come with this life.” He drums the fingers of his free hand on the latch of the ice box. “Whenever my daughter told me that she met a boy at some college… and when she cried at night about the not-so-nice things he did to her, I did the responsible thing, the right thing, the only thing that a father could.” He opens the ice box.

 

Clay gazes at the diced up and frozen body of Louis, the senior college student who thought it was alright to take advantage of Clay’s daughter. A smile cracks on Clay’s hard face, “You know boy, I think we’re beginning to get to know each other here. We’ve had some real quality bonding time.”

 

Clay stifles a laugh and picks up the right severed arm of Louis and stuffs it into one of the trash bags. Louis was a rather large boy and it takes time for Clay to place all of the body parts into the bags, plus the time it took to tie off each, but he enjoys each moment of it. His mind wanders back to those nights that his daughter cried and when his wife tried to console the tortured girl. He remembers telling her that he would take care of it all; he smiles at his success.

 

“This has been fun,” Clay drags the heavy duty bags to the edge of the boat, “hope you had fun too.” He throws each of the bags over. The weight carries them under briefly and then the current swiftly takes them on deeper into the ocean. He smiles whenever they escape his sight and he focuses back on the horizon, the sun had finally set.

 

------

 

Note: This came from a scene I wrote for my screenwriting class and if you'd like to see that, I would post it also.

Edited May 31, 2009 by Ronmar The Only

[Ronmar The Only]

Oliver's Grocery | Part One

 

 

Reggie leans against the side of the station wagon with a cigarette clamped in his mouth. The midmorning sun illuminates the street before him. He watches as the normal people shuffle off to work, the corner boys set up shop, and the fumbling drunks and addicts wake to the same old day. They all remind him of his youthful years. A time that he has trouble remembering, and yet the feeling of desperation is so easily recalled. He had made his choice several years ago not to live just a normal life, not a subservient life, and not a wasted life. The life that he had chosen to live might have been dangerous, but it was the only viable option. The danger was always offset by the freedom that he had gained. Most neither had nor would experience the freedom that he did, but there is always a price for such freedom.

 

He inhales the last of the cigarette and tosses it away. As he walks the few brief steps to the passenger door, his hand glides on the edge of the car. The warm metal revitalizes him more than any cigarette ever could. It is the feeling of life, good warm life. Reggie smiles as he opens the door and flops down onto the passenger seat.

 

Inside the car, Lucas sits behind the wheel with his hands gripping it tightly. Reggie’s entry barely moves him and only produces a nod. “Better now?” His words are even-toned as his eyes stay focused on a grocery near the corner of the street just beyond. Rowhouses and slum apartments line the street down away from the store.

 

“sh*t,” Reggie laughs and turns on the radio. “Don’t know why I can’t smoke in the car.” He reclines back and listens to the low music.

 

“It stinks, plain-and-simple.” Lucas takes his eyes away from the corner and turns off the radio while staring down Reggie. “Get a better habit.” A brief smile takes over his face then returns his gaze to the corner.

 

“Better habit?” Reggie laughs and runs his hand over his cornrows, “I gotacha man.” He reaches under the seat and pulls out a pistol. The sunlight bounces off the metallic surface as Reggie raises it up and shakes it. “This a better habit?”

 

Lucas eyes the weapon. “Haven’t decided yet. Maybe the world would be a better place if I’d let you smoke inside the car and you kill us both.”

 

“Always the lookout, huh?” He chuckles and places the gun back under the seat.

 

“Someone’s gotta be. Wait,” Lucas points, “there he is.” A slim man leans against the far corner next to the store and looks around. He holds a large paper bag tightly to his side. He looks around the street then enters into the grocery.

 

Reggie reaches for the pistol again and murmurs, “This is such a better habit.”

 

 

§

 

 

Ollie places a few slices of turkey onto the sandwich. He had always enjoyed making sandwiches, though his true passion was in preparing varieties of food. It had always been a burning desire for him to open his own restaurant, but he could never secure a loan for it. The small grocery did well enough and supported his family, though it was never that restaurant. He still drew plans for it and worked on menu ideas while perfecting the different dishes with his own family. Ollie even dreamed about it most nights. They reminded him that the restaurant was just that, a dream.

 

“Mustard today?” he says behind the bulletproof glass that had been erected by the previous owner, his mentor in some ways. The glass always reminded him that he would never allow his children to work in the store. He calls out to the beautiful lady named Vicky, a regular who picks up lunch a few times a week. Ollie never understood why she came to his place; he hoped it was because of the food.

 

“Ah,” her eyes glance over the candy isle, “I don’t think I can do that. Trying to cut back.” She smiles as she speaks but does not stop looking over the various treats.

 

Ollie laughs heartily as he finishes the sandwich. “Well, you might want to step away from those candies. But don’t worry,” he grins when she looks at him, “I’ve got plenty of good chocolate up here.” He slaps his ever-increasing belly as she approaches.

 

Vicky smiles again, “Well, I’ll take your word on the candies, but I don’t think you’re the chocolate for me.” She raises her left hand and shows off her engagement ring. The door to the grocery opens and a slim man enters.

 

“Get over here.” The slim man motions to Ollie. Ollie smiles to Vicky and walks the short distance to the register. He lifts the bulletproof glass open. “Here, keep this safe. My boy will come for it whenever he needs to.” The slim man sets a large paper bag down on the counter then looks towards Vicky and gives her a smile. She looks away and he focuses back on Ollie. “And don’t you try to get smart,” he points at Ollie and then leaves.

 

 

§

 

 

Charlie takes a deep breath and steps down from the door of the apartment. Thoughts of his girlfriend and son make him wish that he had a hangover so he would not have to think about them. He remembers those good days whenever his son had just been born, before the fever took him. From there his mind wanders to those days after the doctors said they were sorry and of how he blamed her. The thought had never entered his mind then that there was nothing she could do. The need of a reason why and someone to blame took over him and it suffocated their love.

 

He eyes the street and heads toward the local grocery. Charlie liked the place well enough and had gotten to know Oliver, though he called him Ollie like everyone else. It was a place where he found some companionship; the supposed friends at the construction sites had mostly shunned him. He knew they had their reasons. Charlie did drink a lot during that time, but they never took him in like Ollie had. With Ollie, he was able to focus on the now and how to get better. Maybe even how to right the wrongs with Leslie. It was a goal he had.

 

The walk does not take long and the grocery’s door almost slams into Charlie. He backs away and a slim man exits. Both exchange hard looks, though Charlie just brushes it off and heads in. Ollie stands, like he normally does, behind the register, a large bag in front of him. A frightened look covers his face that fades slightly with Charlie’s entrance. A woman further down the counter looks away at her watch. “Yo, Ollie, the usual, man.” She continues to look away and he cannot see her completely, but she looks beautiful from what he can see.

 

“Alright,” Ollie rubs his forehead, “It’ll be a few minutes though.”

 

Charlie shuffles pass the woman, “Sounds good,” he says on his way to the coolers. He picks up a bag chips and looks at the large selection of soda. However, he keeps glancing down at the beer. Slowly he walks to them and thinks about the day ahead.

 

 

§

 

 

Vicky looks away from the slim man, disgusted. She never liked it whenever men looked at her like a piece of meat, and she did not have a doubt that that was how he looked at her. Throughout her life she had felt like this, and it caused her to feel as if she did not have any power. If she had ever gone to therapy, they might decide that this was one of the reasons why she chose to enter the medical field. That could have been it, though she never cared much for singling out one outside reason as why she chose something. She liked to think that she had control over her life, and that it was her private thoughts and reasons that dominated her life.

 

The slim man leaves and another man enters while Vicky keeps her eyes set on her watch. The new man talks briefly with Ollie then makes his way away from the front. She waits till he is far enough away. “I didn’t like that man.”

 

“Charlie?” Ollie looks confused as he sets a large paper bag under the counter. “What’s wrong with Charlie?”

 

“Is that the man who dropped off the bag?” She steps closer and speaks softer.

 

“Oh,” he takes a deep breath and looks down, “no.”

 

“What’s with him?”

 

“It’s better that you don’t know,” Ollie begins back to where her sandwich is but stops when the doors suddenly open. Two men with pistols in the air enter while masks cover their faces.

 

[Ronmar The Only]

Oliver's Grocery | Part Two

 

 

Lucas breathes deeply and runs his hands over his face just after the slim man entered the grocery. He had helped to prepare his older cousins for moments such as this throughout his life, though he had never actually participated. His uncle had taught him many things in his childhood, but never allowed him to take part. In truth, Lucas had been relieved during his childhood and teenage years that he did not have to act like his older cousins. They entered that life when he was still so young and it had frightened him. The years had gone on though, and Lucas had learned stories about his father. The stories made him yearn to live a similar life, if only to gain some insight into whom his father was. He calmly reaches under his seat and pulls out a pistol.

 

“Right on.” Reggie grins widely at Lucas. He takes the gun from Lucas.

 

“Just keep to the plan.” The slim man exits the grocery as another man enters. The engine rumbles to life as the slim man walks away and Lucas guides it to the curb a few steps away from the grocery and in the opposite direction of where the slim man had disappeared around the corner. He leaves the engine running.

 

The two exit the station wagon almost as one and quickly pull balaclavas over their faces. They nod to each other then swiftly enter the store. Inside there is nothing to distinguish it from any other grocery in the area, with its rows of house supplies and food while bulletproof glass separates the customer from the cashier area. A stunning woman stands in front of the counter talking to the older cashier who stands opposite of her with the bulletproof glass pulled open. The man who had entered before them is nowhere in sight.

 

Lucas takes point and aims his gun at the woman. “Back up, lady!” She is startled and scared but complies. Her eyes do not follow the gun but stay on his eyes. His hands tremble briefly. Reggie follows in second and holds his pistol at the cashier. “Old man, the bag... now!”

 

The cashier lifts up his hands while his dark complexion lightens. “I don’t keep much money in--” his jumbled and frighten words are cut off by Reggie aiming at his crotch, “please, God, don’t.”

 

“Did I say something about money?” He laughs and aims back at the cashier’s chest. “The f*cking bag’s what I need.”

 

“What?” Lucas asks as the woman steps up. Her words are too soft for him to hear. “Stay back!” She stops but still searches his eyes.

 

The cashier does not notice the exchange while lost in the barrel of the gun trained on him, “Alright, just don’t do nothing.” He slowly backs away and motions downward. “It’s under the... the counter.”

 

“Well, get it, damnit!”

 

The frightened cashier slowly dips under the counter and retrieves the bag. It shakes in his hands as he sets it down on the counter. Reggie smiles under the mask but notices the woman stepping closer to Lucas.

 

 

§

 

 

The sight of the pistols of the two masked men terrifies Vicky and she freezes. One of the two approaches with his gun aimed at her. “Back up, lady!” The voice sounds familiar and she steps away from him but stares into his eyes instead of at the gun. The voice takes her back to the beginning of medical school. She had taken part in a program to help the intercity schools with sex and drug prevention. The mayor then had taken his office on the promise of cleaning up the streets, a claim that of course did not come true. It had been during those months of learning of the problems in the youth that she decided to work at the local hospitals to try and help the best that she could, but she only did this after failing to help a young boy who asked her for help. The boy had asked her specifically to help, and she had passed him along to others who she told him were more qualified.

 

“Matty?” Her words are soft and she steps forward to the gunman. She can see the fear in his eyes.

 

“What?” He raises the pistol level with her head. “Stay back!” Vicky stops but keeps looking into his eyes. She had always felt terrible about giving up on him. Things could be different; she was older and stronger than before.

 

“Matty, is that you?” She steps closer again. The other gunman screams something that she cannot hear and turns to her. His gun fires off and Vicky feels nothing. She stares at closer gunmen whose eyes now radiate more fear. Her hands lift up and feel her abdomen; the blood brings her to and she feels the pain. She looks down at the wound and shakes her head. Vicky’s eyes close briefly before she falls to the floor.

 

 

§

 

 

Yelling from the front of the store interrupts Charlie’s thoughts. He peers around the corner and notices a gun. Instincts try to push him forward to protect the woman, but his mind keeps him still. In a situation like this, he thinks, it’s better not to do something that might surprise the gunman. He retreats back to the beer coolers and takes out a large forty ounce. It might not be the best choice to interfere, but it would be stupid not to try and arm himself with some type of weapon.

 

A gunshot roars from the front and Charlie crouches behind the furthest isle of foods. He waits a moment and then someone screams and he rushes to the front. Two men smash the doors open and leave while Ollie lies on his knees trying to help the bleeding woman. “What the hell?” His instincts take over and he rushes to the door and slams it open with his foot. Two more gunshots ring out and shatter the glass portion of the door before Charlie. It explodes into him, and he covers his face while falling to the ground.

 

He screams out in pain on the floor and looks to his leg. Several pieces of the glass are lodged into his thigh, and he quickly applies pressure to the wound. “Charlie!” Ollie begins to get up from the woman.

 

“I’m fine. Just call the cops.” Ollie continues to stare. “Now!” Charlie slightly grins at the old man while Ollie shakes and hurries around the counter. Slowly, Charlie crawls to the woman, who mutters something that he cannot hear. “It’s going to be alright. The old man’s calling for help right now.” He applies pressure to her wound with one hand while holding his thigh with the other.

 

 

§

 

 

Ollie places the bag onto the counter and steps back. He had thought the bulletproof glass and the lovely patronage of drug dealers would keep robbers away.

 

“He said stay back!” The gunman before Ollie turns and fires at Vicky. She staggers for a moment then falls to the ground.

 

“No!” Ollie grabs a towel and rushes around the counter. The two gunmen take the bag and run out of the store as he reaches Vicky. Blood gushes out of her abdomen as she looks up towards the lights. She does not notice Ollie as he places the towels over the wound. “Vicky, can you hear me? Vicky!” She continues to stare at the lights beyond him. The blood is not new to Ollie. It reminds him of his childhood, of his father and the men who killed him. Only bits and pieces of that night remain but the red blood that covered his hands had always stood out in the memory.

 

He presses down the towel to her wound and Charlie rushes forward. Charlie says something that Ollie cannot understand then races to the door. “Vicky, talk to me beautiful.” Two more gunshots roar and he looks up to see Charlie fall. “Charlie!”

 

Charlie withers in pain on the floor then looks up at Ollie. “I’m fine, just call the cops,” Ollie stares at Charlie, “Now!” The scream shakes Ollie back into reality and he makes his way to the phone behind the counter. All he ever wanted was his nice and peaceful restaurant, not a grocery on gun and drug ridden streets. He dials for the cops.

 

 

§

 

 

“He said stay back!” Reggie suddenly tugs his gun hand towards the woman and accidentally pulls on the trigger. The shot rings out in the quiet store while the bullet slams into her abdomen. Shock engulfs her face as her hands automatically grip at the bullet wound. She looks down at her bloody hands, falters, and then falls.

 

Lucas gasps at the sight of the fallen woman and starts to move towards her. The pistol in Reggie’s hand shakes as the cashier screams something inaudible to either of them. The scream brings him back to reality though, “We... we gotta get outta here.” His words stumble out of his mouth as he picks up the bag. He tugs on Lucas’s arm and the two rapidly exit the grocery.

 

The empty streets greet them and Reggie pushes his friend to the passenger side of the station wagon. He throws the bag into the back of the car and sees the grocery’s door open. His instincts take over and he fires off two rounds at the door, one of which shatters the glass. Whoever was trying to exit stops and Reggie jumps into the driver’s seat. He places the car into drive and it lurches forward as he slams on the accelerator.

 

They drive for a time in silence just watching the streets. Both had removed the balaclavas at some point in the ride, but the memory of when had not stayed. Reggie finally feels the used pistol in his hand and hurriedly speaks. “We gotta get rid of my gun.”

 

Reggie’s words awake Lucas. “You shot her.” His eyes stay on his own pistol while images of the fallen woman flash in his mind.

 

“You think your cousin could help with the gun?” Reggie places the gun under his seat not wanting to feel its cold metal anymore. “I’m sure he could, no questions.”

 

“You f*cking shot her!” Lucas smashes his fist into the dash and looks at Reggie enraged.

 

Reggie briefly glances at his friend’s eyes then focuses back onto the road. “Yeah.” He lets out a hesitant laugh as he tries to smile, but it will not come.

 

“Why’d you f*cking shoot her?” Lucas’s gun drops from his hand onto the floorboard, and his hands run over his face.

 

“Luke, I didn’t mean to. It’s just,” he searches for the right words, “it just happened.”

 

“Just don’t f*cking say anything else.” A group of children throwing glass bottles catches Lucas’s eyes, “Head home. We’ll talk about my cousin later.” He turns from the children and stares down the road. “Just head home.”

Edited May 31, 2009 by Ronmar The Only

[aragond]

I thought it was straight forward, the ending to The Ball. She is making her way into the carriage when people inside of it grab her and pull her in, he tries to save her but is caught from a rifle shot from the back, most likely from whoever took care of the driver. The shot is slightly off, maybe from the struggle or maybe from the lighting, and he is able to still grasp the entrance way into the carriage when one of the people inside shoots him and he finally falls from the carriage and dies.

Dude, The Ball was fine with respect to telling the story from point of view of the recently departed, a positively common literary technique and not at all illogical.

Didn't mind The Ball, but what got me in, what I really liked, was "With the Current". Old hat, I know, but I liked that one. I thought it was unexpected and nifty.

[Face McDougal]

Something's become very apparent to me after reading a couple of your stories (which admitedly I hadn't before)... you are a really good writer and one of the forum's best. Major props, I really enjoyed With the Current as well. Your word choice is spot on 95% of the time which is refreshing to see on here. And that's really my main complaint on here even with the better writers, seems like some of the adjectives are chosen arbitrarily which is not the case with you. You've also got a nack for dialogue. I'll be following you more closely now, Ronmar.

[Ronmar The Only]

Thanks for the kind words, guys.

 

Hopefully, and I do stress hopefully considering work and my current addiction to Mount & Blade, I will have updates on the older stories here and will be working to a revision of The Harlot (which I posted over a year ago but have since taken it down) and a new short story set in a medieval/fantasy setting.

[Ronmar The Only]

A Letter From Across the Pond

 

 

My dearest Anne,

 

It isn’t easy writing these letters to you. Whenever I think of everything back home, it hurts. I think of Jessie and Old Burt running that store. I recall lettering in football and how everyone cheered that season when there really wasn’t anything to cheer for. I think about riding Belle, and how she loved to trot around the house whenever she couldn’t see me.

 

And then everything disappears amongst my dark thought of never seeing your face again. I get stuck on it and reach to make sure your picture is still on me. I take it out and read your words on the back, “Come back. Love, Anne.” Your words keep me grounded. You keep me going.

 

We’ve been here for months now. It is hard work every day, but there is beauty to this land. It is almost like home, but cooler. The sky is full of stars in the evenings, and the birds chirp during the early mornings. I wake up sometimes before roll call to sneak out and enjoy the relative quiet. I only wear my slacks so I can feel the breeze on my chest like on the farm. The grass feels so pure under my feet, and the world is so accommodating that I forget that war is coming. I forget that war is here. Then it rushes back, and I shake. I’m glad I’m alone and away from the others in those moments. I cry. This is not the world I want to live in.

 

There is this one time, this boy, Nicholas or something, pissed himself in front of the men. The sergeant was going down the line, and it was his day to be yelled out the most. He couldn’t handle it. He started to cry and then let go. He’s just a boy, young and fragile looking. I saw him from across the yard. There wasn’t anything I or the others could do. We’re all in the same boat and wouldn’t wish that on someone, save for those few who are monsters. I haven’t seen that boy since.

 

Our fathers and uncles told us of the Great War, details of trench life and how they saw their best friend or the like be killed before them. They never say anything about how you'd feel in the moment. I’ve shot the guns and felt the rumble of explosives, but how will it be different during the war? I fear that when I stare down at the enemy, when it is going to be him or it's going to be me, I won’t be able to save myself. I fear that they’ll pull the trigger first or stab me with a knife, and I’ll feel the metal enter me and rip my insides. I’ll gasp for air and stare into their eyes. What will I see? Is there a soul behind those eyes? Will he be young like that boy, or John with his heavy breaths, or Patty with his crooked glasses?

 

Will he be like me worrying about how he is going to survive each and every moment?

 

Will he be like me just wanting to be back in his lover's arms?

 

I try often to not think about you. It doesn’t work. I don’t know if I’d want it to.

 

I picture you in that blue dress with the white collar you wore at the spring festival several years ago. Dennis convinced me to dance with you. I was so timid. Then my mind wanders to later that night whenever we were watching the stars. I gained the courage to lean in and kiss you, and how my lips trembled so much that I was frightened you’d just walk away from me and leave a poor broken boy lost in his inexperience. It was your hands on my face that calmed me down and let know that it was the right thing to do. I was frozen in that moment, then you leaned back and chuckled smiling with your eyes before coming back and waking me to life.

 

I think about the times we stole away from family and friends and went to the lake. You’d sit there drawing me, each stroke of your pencil so quick and effortless that I stumped as to how you do it. And then I think about our first time, right there next to the water under the dying sun last summer. There’s not much to say but that I enjoyed ever moment there from when you rubbed my my chin before to running your fingers across my chest after we finished. How if that night was my life, it would be a grand life.

 

And then there is the moment that comes back to me. How I was working at the garage whenever word come over the radio of the attack. I sat there for several moments thinking of Dennis. I often think of him and keep his picture with yours in my pocket. He wears his white hat in the picture with his square jaw perfectly aligned. I try not to think about if he was already dead whenever I heard the news. It doesn’t matter though. My parents were in too much of a shock to keep me from enlisting, and you couldn’t find it in you to tell me not to. I don’t know if any of it would’ve made a difference.

 

All I know is that I miss you. I look forward to seeing your face everyday. Every minute. Every blink you’re what is there whenever the world goes dark. I will make it through this. I will see you again. And I’ll build that house next to the lake. I promise you that, my dearest Anne.

 

 

Benjamin Trover

June 2, 1944