Good grief! Ya'll are some demanding people! Fine, I'll will post more...but only because there is nothing to do in the "dungeon" that R.K. threw me in. I would do one of my kung-foo moves on her...but then my "Prince Charming" wouldn't get the wonderful chance to save me, then what fun would that be? lol Anyway, to read the first part of Jake's story..goHERE
“Where are you?”
“I’m in a dark room with one door, the whole place is steel. I feel like I’m in a modern castle dungeon.”
“Whatever you do, don’t go out that door. It probably will not open though, so don’t even try it. Go to the wall east of the door and remove the second steel plate from the left, then pull the lever.”
Groaning with pain, he grabbed the wall and pulled himself up. Slices of white fire shot up his leg making him feel like he was about to past out. What a welcome relief that would be, he thought. But the numbing cold made his survival instincts come alive. He slung his gun around his back, drug his leg to the wall, and removed the plate that was heavier than it looked, then groped in the darkness for the lever. The wall immediately swung in revealing a long hall.
“The wall is open.”
“Good, now run.”
Jake almost rolled his eyes. Shot in the leg and nearly frozen, he was lucky he could walk. He started down the hallway, but stopped short. He turned and looked back at the body lying on the ground. What if he had a family? He was dressed in the same camo-pants and black shirt as Jake. He felt something for this man. Had they known each other long? Jake felt a sense of grief at the thought of loosing a friend, though he didn’t know who he was. He stumbled back to the man and knelt down beside him. He didn’t know if he could make it if he tried to carry him out. He looked down at his arms; he looked strong enough to do it. Well, more than strong enough, either he must workout immensely for the fun of it everyday or he was a wrestler. But the thought of putting any more pressure on his leg that felt as though it was about to explode made the cold go away for a moment. He didn’t know how, but he knew this man wouldn’t have left him behind.
He bit down on his bottom lip and lifted the man onto his shoulder. His breath escaped and pain came crashing through as he stood unsteadily on his good leg.
No pain, no pain, I feel no pain. The chant ran through his head as though he had been brainwashed. He stepped into the hallway and the voice in his ear said, “I have finally located your position. What are you doing on that side of the caves?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Rogers is with you? I haven’t been able to get him on his radio.”
Jake shifted the man on his shoulder, “Yeah, I guess he is.”
“Good, now take a right at the end of the hall.”
“It’s dark, can’t see a thing.”
“Ok, I’ll see if I can turn on the security lights. I don’t identify any dangerous activity around you, but the moment I do, be ready to be back in darkness.”
Jake took a right at the end of the hall. Caves? This didn’t look like a cave. More like an underground maze of steel corridors that you would see on an Xbox game. The air wasn’t quite so cold in the hall, but he could still see his breath come out in big clouds.
“Alright, go through this door coming up on the right. You are now in the western cave, coming onto an exit.”
An exit…an end to this nightmare. His breath was coming in hard now, the harder he breathed, the more the frigid air burned his throat and lungs.
“It’s so cold,” he whispered.
“It’s going to be ok, Jake. I’ll get you out. Hold on-...Jake pick up the speed, I’m getting some movement going on somewhere behind you.”
“I’m going as fast as I can.” Jake panted.
“Dude, you are barely crawling. You have to go faster, no telling what this thing is and you don’t want to find out.”
“How much farther to the exit?”
Jake could hear the anxiety in the voice.
“About 80 seconds at the rate you’re going, but this thing is moving faster than you and according to my surveillance, this thing is big.”
No fear, no fear, I feel no fear. Jake chanted through his head. He picked up the pace, half running, half hobbling.
“I see the door,” Jake choked out.
“Good, I’m going to half to turn out those lights though. It knows you are there. Hurry!”
Sweat from the struggle leaked down his back, but froze about midway into little drops of ice. One second later, Jake was plunged in darkness. Straight ahead, I will not alter my course.Perseverance, determination, willpower, purpose …I have all of that. I can make it.
Jake heard the stomping of heavy boots in the distance.
“20 seconds, you’re almost there man. Go faster!”
Jake heft Rogers into a better position so that he could reach his gun.
“15 seconds, he is gaining! Lighten your load. You can make it!” the voice almost shouted in his ear.
Jake grabbed the butt of his gun. He would not leave Rogers behind. The sound of steps were closer. He turned and opened fire. Sparks flew as the bullets rapidly ricocheted off the steel walls. He heard a yell but didn’t know if it was the voice or his attacker.
Jake stumbled, but didn’t cry out from the pain. There is no pain. Jake tried to run faster.
“10 seconds. This thing is almost on top of you.”
He turned and shot off another round. The shots echoed of the walls, ringing in Jake's numb head. I will make it.
“5 seconds, go, Jake, go!” the voice pleaded.
I will make it.
“3!”
At the same time Jake reach and opened the door, he heard a growl and felt a hand on his arm as he stumbled outside and rolled onto hot sand. Rogers going one way, and he the other. The door slammed behind him closing in his enemy, whoever he was.
Heat poured over his body like a wave. The sun warmed his frozen face. His whole body was numb; the only thing he felt was relief…and heat. It felt so good.
“You’re safe, Jake, you’re safe. You made it.” the voice in his ear whispered, “Well done.”
Here is a scene where you can get to know my two most important characters: Albany McLeod and Elizabeth James. By the way, if you see some words spelled strangely or words you don't know that Albany says, try saying them with a thick Scottish accent. I don't spell all the words how they're spelled; I spell them like she says them.
Running down the cobblestone road, Albany dodges a couple carriages and horses. Basket in hand, she calls, "To-MAY-toes! Would aynywoon like some juicy, ripe, tom-MAY-toes?"
Elizabeth James, the daughter of the selectman of Fredricksburg, approaches with a silken drawstring bag. Just by seeing the purse, let alone her silken dress, anyone can realize her wealth. Her hair, heavily powdered, is pulled back elegantly and atop her head rests a lacy pinner cap with satin ribbon, what she calls, "my common everyday one".
"How much would two be?" she asks as she points at the basket overflowing with tomatoes.
Albany quickly and loudly responds, "That would be a ha-payney, lass."
She hands her four pennies, smiling slightly.
A little frustrated, the Scottish girl declares, "I sayd a ha-payney, lass."
Staring at Albany's deep dark eyes with her own sparkling lavender set, she whispers, "I know."
She begins to tie her long brown hair in a knot behind her back as she thinks. Finally, she agrees, "As you weesh, lass. You know, I've nayvair had thees much from woon man--- erm--- woman--- in all me born days! Here you go, mees."
Elizabeth slowly asks as she leaves with her tomatoes, "What is your name miss?"
Enthusiastically, she answers, "Albany Gordona McLeod, and don't you forgayt it!"
Shocked by the response, she politely says farewell and while Albany is not looking, drops the tomatoes on the ground in disgust.
To herself, she says, "What a queer girl: obviously my age and not even wearing a corset! I started wearing mine three years ago when I was twelve.
"And were those men's boots she was wearing? Ugh! Her dress is quite disgraceful; her scarred legs stick out of it, not a bit of embellishment, and it's covered in mud.
"Her complexion is not much better; she is as tan as this dirt. Why was her hair not even up?
"Well, I do suppose I always should be kind to the commoners. I doubt she has even had a taste of civilized life."
The gun was in his hand, but he didn’t remember shooting it. Then why did the person in front of him lay dead on the floor? He surveyed the body in front of him and searched for bullet holes and blood. Why was he holding a gun anyway? Why was he not panicking that there was a dead person in front of him?Did he cause this persons death?
Jake Mesh closed his eyes for not even two seconds before he whipped around to face the shadows. Was someone else in here? Where was here anyway? Why was here so icy cold? This coldness was the kind that seeped in through the skin and went farther than the bones. Maybe the coldness was affecting his thinking. Was that why he couldn’t remember who this person was, or what he was doing here, or if he was in danger? His brain felt so foggy, like icicles were forming in his head.
Jake looked down at the steel weapon in his hand. Instinct kicked in. He dropped down to a crouch and darted to the nearest, darkest corner, away from the lone light blub next to the only door in the room. Something felt on fire. Searing, hot pain. He looked down at his camouflage-cargo pants and saw red oozing down the side. He was shot. How could he not remember that? He untucked his black shirt from his pants and pulled it over his head. Stopping the bleeding was first on his mind. He wasn’t sure which was the fastest way to die, freezing to death or bleeding to death. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to find out.
Oh God, help me!
Where did that come from? Maybe he was a religious man. If so, he shouldn’t be afraid to die. Though it didn’t feel right to be afraid, it felt like he had been trained not to.
That didn’t stop him from jumping when a voice spoke directly in his ear.
“356 we have lost your location, please report,” a masculine voice demanded.
He darted his head from left to right. No one was there. Great, now he was hearing things. He wrapped his shirt around his leg tight enough for it to go numb and make him wish he hadn’t, that was when he knew it was tight enough. The room spun darker than it already was. Maybe he was getting delirious, maybe it was the dead body talking. But the dead didn’t talk, did it?
Looking over to the body, he looked at the man’s gray face for the first time. He felt like he should know this man who looked to be about his own age. A single shiver ran down Jake’s bare spine. This man was his friend. What was his name?
“356 we have lost your location, please report,” the same masculine voice repeated in his ear. “Jake? If you can hear me, please answer.”
Jake brought his hand to his face and felt hard plastic in his ear. Drawing it out, he stared at it for second. A slight remembrance of sticking it in his ear at some point earlier that day came back to him, recalling it to be some sort of communication device. Jake lightly cleared his throat, testing to see if his voice still worked, he answered, keeping his voice low.
“Hello?”
“Jake, where in the world are you! We lost your location and thought you were down.”
The voice sounded familiar. Where had he heard that voice?
“I don’t know where I am. Who are you?”
“Jake that’s not funny,” the voice warned.
“I’m so cold,” He was loosing more blood by the second.
“Cold? Jake its 102 degrees out-...Jake get out of there now.” the voice hardened. “If you want to live, get out.”
Oh man, it sure is getting nippy out, isn't it, Inklings?
Lewis, kindly out away thoses sardines!!! I thought we were over and done with all that.
I was digging in my cyber-desk and found this abrupt and random little goodie, I hope y'all enjoy it!
*blows on fingerless blue gloves*
An Unepic Misadventure
By Rudyard Kipling
My traveling companion and I were led through a great marble hall.
Sunlight streamed through orange glass windows, shadows played in the nooks and crannies of His Majesty’s palace. (Though, indeed, you must remember that good yeoman Olive and I, Sir Soup, knight of the stubbornly square table, had no idea as to where we were, why, and what we were supposed to do when presented to the King of this fair land. You, the intellectual, must make allowances for such poor people as to bestowed with the name of Soup!)
It had happened thus: a soft-handed, blonde-bearded man in a ruffled pink suit, carrying a hat with a streaming white feather, had dragged us off our path to meet the King. The man seemed desperate, so we went.
We came into a huge marble room and beheld several people who obviously worked in the palace and a blustery knight in shining armor who was possessing of a keen squint. They were all moaning in the direction of some short stairs. I swept back my short black cape nervously and Olive scuffed his boots. He made as much noise as the little black pouf (I think it was a dog…) that yapped at our heels. The pink man with the girlish soft hands leaned insolently against the stair railing that held back the slobbering folk who evidently believed themselves to be worshipful. I soon saw to whom (Or what, as you like it) they were being so rudely ignorant. It was a very short man in vestures as ridiculous as a jester! His great walrus beard was brought to several points. He was about as tall as my two year old son. Everyone chattered and bowed and knocked each other about, so this little fellow must be the King, who was being followed by a hideous dog of mixed parents and probably mixed grandparents.
Olive and I bowed. I noted that Olive was going bald. Narrowly missing the King’s scepter, which he waved wildly about, I arose and saw a dark man holding a lance and staring at us from the shadows.
Upon asking the pink man (out the corner of my mouth) who he was, the pinkie said nonchalantly, “Oh, he’s just a murderer. Don’t worry about-” But I had fainted and had to be carried heftily upstairs.
Here is my first story I am going to post. It is from a series of short stories I have started called Terribly Twisted Tales. Here it goes.....
Terribly Twisted Tales: Why George Washington Cut Down the Cherry Tree
I am sure you all know that George Washington cut down his father’s cherry tree, but has anyone told you why he did such a thing? They haven’t! Well, I suppose I shall need to be the one to tell you, now won’t I?
Some of you probably know that George had a brother named Lawrence. They were very close and rarely ever fought, but when they did, well, let’s just say it would be best if you were in the other room.
George had just had a fight like this (and it is for your own sake that I don’t tell you what the fight was about, for your life will be much better by not knowing) when he saw his father’s ax. At first he thought about chopping Lawrence’s head off with it, but he found that rather drastic.
He walked outside with the ax and spotted his father’s cherry tree, and when George was mad, he did not think very sensible thoughts. He thought to himself, “I will cut down the tree to make a slingshot. Then I can hit him with these acorns on the ground. He’ll only think it’s the squirrels.” (Squirrels then, just as they do now, had the occasional urge to hit people in the head with nuts)
So, not thinking of what his father’s reaction would be, chopped down the tree and used his cutting knife to turn a wedge of the wood into a slingshot and carved his name into it.
When Lawrence walked outside, George aimed carefully at him and WHAM! An acorn hit him right on his head. Lawrence had only thought it was a squirrel, just like George had wanted him to.
Later that day, Father came home and had a craving for a cherry pie (now this can’t be good). He went into the yard to pick some cherries, but all that was left of the tree was a stump.
He called George and Lawrence out and asked them, “Boys, what happened to my cherry tree?”
George said, “Father, I can not tell a lie. I cut down your cherry tree.” (That sounds very corny, now doesn’t it?) You might be saying right now, “That was so good of him not to tell a lie,” right? Wrong! He decided to tell him only that he had cut down the tree, and not why he did it.
Father was very proud of his boy and did not punish him. Then he saw the slingshot in George’s pocket. He took it out and saw that it was cherry wood. He yelled, “You cut down my tree to make a slingshot!”
He took George into the barn, gave him a spanking, and sent him to his room, and from that day on he never liked cherries. Now, aren’t you glad I told you?
Someone had to post, give us something to talk about other then sardines and Scott's imprisonment! Here is more from my adventerous book, Peril with the Pirates.
C.S. Lewis and her sardines
Same day, At Sea
Black storm clouds covered the moon and stars, blocking out their faint light. A chill wind picked up, blowing over the lonely ship as it rocked on the gentle waves. On board the ship most of the crew were being lured into a deep sleep in the rocking ship, little knowing the storm that was hanging over their heads.
A light rain started to fall, only to quickly turn into a gale. The wind picked up, the waves became choppy, lighting lit the sky and the thunder seemed loud enough to split the ship in two. No sooner had the storm broken upon them then the cry was raised of, “ALL HANDS ON DECK!”
Sailors came scrambling up the hatchway. Some where yanking on coats and others where stumbling into their boots. A wave washed over the ship, threatening to take some of the crew with it. The men clung to anything within reach and waited until the wave washed over the other side of the ship.
“Lower the main sail before it is ripped off!” The captain yelled over the wind.
The next moment Jack Patterson was climbing the rigging, struggling hard to keep his grip in the violent storm. A wave came up over the ship again, on Jack's left, and caught him off guard. Without warning he felt his hands yanked from the rigging. Jack tried to find something else he could grab onto, the water spun him around, and disoriented him so that he no longer knew which way was up or down.
Jack knew he was going to be swept over the side of the ship, and cruelly tossed into the raging sea. Just when he was certain there was no more hope he felt a pair of strong arms grab him and pull him out of the water.
Jack blinked salt water from his eye and looked up into the grinning face of the first mate. “Whaur d’ ye think ye be goin' Jacky boy?” The huge Scots man yelled above the storm, “We'll hae nae desertion on this ship, especially during a storm!”
McLeod, the Scots man, was clinging to the rigging with one arm, and holding onto Jack's waste with the other. He did not let go until Jack had regained his footing on the rigging. Jack grinned at his friend and together the two began to make their way to the main mast.
“Caught ye on the left side did it?” McLeod asked as the two climbed.
Jack nodded his head, and continued his climb. The ropes whipped about in the wind; needless to say this did not help anything. The rain drenched Jack, McLeod, and the ropes and the two nearly lost their grips more then once. However, getting to the main sail was nothing compared to getting it in. It flapped in the wind with such force it could have easily knocked Jack and McLeod to the deck, or worse, the ragging sea.
“I have it!” Jack yelled as he tugged the sail in.
Together the English boy and the Scottish man secured the mast and then began their perilous climb down. They had not made it far when another wave swept up over the ship, only this time it was McLeod who was swept off the rigging.
Jack watched in horror as his friend was swept toward the hungry sea. “MCLEOD!” Jack yelled, before another wave hit him, filling his mouth with water and sweeping him after his friend.
I skipped a part because it is going to be changed, but here is more, enjoy!
A few weeks earlier, some where in England
“Sir Edmund was the best knight the king had. He was brave, fearless, an exultant swordsman, in fact he was probably just one inch away from being perfect, except for his temper and bad table manners. Anyways, he was nearly unbeatable with the sword, though many claim this had more to do with the sword itself then with the man who wielded it.
“The sword was one of a kind, Scottish made…”
“Scottish?”
“Aye Scottish, you heard me!”
“I thought he was English.”
“He was!”
“Then why did he have a Scottish sword? Wouldn’t that be like a Confederate have a Yankee gun in the Civil War?”
“Nae, it would not be like that, now are you going to let me tell this story or not?”
“Go right ahead, I was just wondering why an English dude had a Scottish sword, and what happened to your accent.”
“Scotland makes better swords, so there! And I didn’t want to confuse you by using an accent.”
“As though using an accent could confuse me any more then I already am?”
“Will you just hush up?”
Silence, then, “Now as I was saying, many believed this wonderful Scottish sword was indeed magic. It was a long sword, very heavy; many say Sir Edmund was the only one who could pick it up…”
“If that was true the king could not have given it away because he would not have been able to pick it up…”
A smoldering gaze from the storyteller hushed the listen instantly. “Anyways, as I was saying, again! The sword was very long, on one side of it there was written, ‘For God and country,’ and on the other side, ‘For home and family,’ both writings were in Gaelic…”
“No surprise there…” This time the listener received a slap on the arm.
“Well, one day England was invaded, not by an enemy that boldly stormed the country and met the king battle, no it was invaded by a bunch of cowards who came in by night with the intent of killing the king in his bed…”
“They were probably Scots, sore at the king because he stole their sword…”
Whack! “Now hush up or I will find some duct tape! Anyways, as these men were sneaking about the castle someone saw them and raised the alarm. Sir Edmund rushed to his king’s side as the other knights searched the castle for the invaders. Sir Edmund locked the king and himself in the king’s private chambers, instructing the king to hide somewhere Sir Edmund stood guard at the door.
“How long he stood there he was not sure, but very soon it seemed there was a pounding at the door and a harsh voice yelling, ‘Open up!’”
“Oh that was smart! ‘Open up so we can kill you!’ Like any king would be that dense!”
“Now we agree on something! Anyways Sir Edmund just smiled and yelled back, ‘I will when I wake up, it is night you know and I am trying to sleep.’ This did not make the men at the door happy…”
“Duh!”
“And they pounded louder and yelled loud enough to wake all of England.”
“That would have been a good thing; someone could have come and helped.”
“Hush. Sir Edmund drew his sword; he grasped the hilt that had the image of a snake, done in gold, twisting up it, the eyes were inlaid rubies. He took a deep breath, and watched as twenty men knocked the door in and came running in. Sir Edmund smiled when he saw them, and they laughed when they saw the lone Englishman with his sword. They said…”
“We’re Scots! Now give us our sword back!”
“If you really don’t want me to finish I won’t…”
“No! I mean go ahead, I will be quiet.”
“Thank you. Anyways they looked at Sir Edmund and said, ‘Today you will die, and after you your king!’ Sir Edmund did not even bat an eye as he met them. The fight was long and you may think one sided but Sir Edmund held his own. Though he received many wounds he kept on fighting, and in the end the twenty men lay dead at his feet.
“Sir Edmund was spent however, he fell to his knees, unable to stand from lose of blood. He could hear the other knights in other parts of the castle yelling, ‘They flee! After them!’ Satisfied that his king was now safe, Sir Edmund fell over and died right there, with his sword still clasped in his hand.”
The listener was struck silent, much to the story teller’s delight. “All of England grieved Sir Edmund’s death, but none as much as the king. He had him buried in the castle’s own grounds were only royalty was buried. His sword was kept in the castle’s treasure chamber. Until the reign of King Charles.
“Charles’s son was to marry a maiden from Spain, a governor’s or something, to bring peace and trade between Spain and England. However when she finally came the prince changed his mind on marrying her. So to keep peace Charles gave her many gifts, including the sword, England’s most prized possession in an attempt to keep peace. However, right off the coast of England the princess’s ship was attacked by the pirate Red Jones the Terrible.
“Jones found the sword aboard the ship and rather then kidnap some Spanish girl and hold her for ransom he took England’s most prized possession. He intended to flee for a time and then return and offer the sword back to Charles, for a price. However, when he return to England he was met by The Phantom, a man who hunted pirates, he wore a mask and no one knew who he really was.
“The Phantom had no clue that Jones possessed the sword, and so he attacked his ship, and sunk him. As Jones’s ship was going down he ran up to the bow and shaking his fist at the Phantom yelled, ‘Ye think ye’ve won? I have Sir Edmund’s sword aboard me ship!’
“When the Phantom heard this he jumped in the ocean to try and get the sword but it was too late. As the waves swallowed the ship Jones yelled, ‘If ever anyone comes for the sword me ghost will haunt him the rest o’ his days!’
“Then the waves passed over his ship, pulling it and the crew and the sword down. And so the sword was lost, never to be seen again many believed.” The story teller lowered her voice to a sad whisper as she finished her tale.
“So what your saying is, we are supposed to go find a magical Scottish sword which some dude used to save a king’s life only to die in the end and have his sword given to some girl as a sign of peace because some prince chickened out on his wedding day and his dad didn’t want war?” Jeremy, the listener, asked.
“Aye, basically, but my version was better,” Jessie said as she rolled her eyes.
Took me ages to find it. Anyways, here we go. (This be Mariella/Nancy. Since all the oldies' names were taken I picked the author whose books really inspired me. READ THE SEA OF TROLLS.
1. What time frame do your stories take place in? I don't really know... medieval? Doesn't seem like it to me.
2. What are your characters typically like? Depressing!
3. Why do you write? If I don't write, I die?
4. When was the last time you had inspriation for a work? Randomly while working.
5. What causes your inspiration? Planning ahead.
6. What music do you usually listen to when? All music.
7. What book/movie most infuenced your writing? ...None?
8. How long have you been writing? Since I was 7.
9. Do you think better while laying down or sitting up? Both.
10. What place inspires you the most? My notebook?
Jane could not believe her eyes. How on earth…? What was her journal doing at the bottom of this trunk? Bewildered, she drew it out and flipped through the pages. It was all there, nothing was missing, and all of her hopes and dreams and wishes were right were she had written them. Skipping to the last page she had written, which was a few hours before this confusion had all started; her eyes read what she had written.
‘I wish I had an adventure, I don’t care what kind. I just want something to happen. Things around here are so dull. To describe my idea of an adventure, someone interesting would come to stay at our boarding house. Then something dramatic would happen, the interesting and strange boarder would kidnap me and take me to his secret hideout under the Boarding House. Without him in site, I would find a trunk full fine clothes…Oh! I must go; Mama needs me to go down for supper.’
Jane read on. As she got towards the end of the entry, she realized that everything that she had written had happen! How could this be? She simply did not understand. How was she going to get home?
C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien were part of a writer's club called the Inklings. I have decided to start one and so this is a place to put your writings and let others read them, to give advice and comment on them.
