A Collection of Mezrin's Mini-Stories

[Jordy]

(( This is a collection of my half-baked stories. ))

Guilt[/u]

I laid there, trembling. My arm was twisted twice into a 720 degree twist. Blood covered the arm as my bodily fluids poured from the four-inch gash in my forearm. I couldn't get up; my leg was torn and shredded, and it was on the other side of the clearing. The heat; the flickering fire around me, the flames licking at me. I crawled lightly, towards the other side of the clearing, toward the small opening where there were no flames yet. I crawled. A faint scream was heard. I look over to my right, and a small child, no older, no younger than eight, shrieked, terrified, in a frenzied panic. She kicked and flailed away at the large, menacing figure, wrapped in a long, black shroud, the robe seeming to be shadow itself, as he finished trying her to the eight foot post.

Tears streamed down her face. I propped myself up slightly, trying to look more closely at them, yet wishing I could simply look the other way, let the pain overtake, welcome the call of death. But I could not. Horror filled me as I watched them prepare her doom. More figures started to surround her. They were clothed in dark robes, with hoods that seemed to make their face even darker than their dark regalia. The border was trimmed with gold and silver arcane runes. A heavy boot clanged behind me, and I felt it gently rest itself on my back.

The cold steel on my bare back was shocking at first, then welcomed from the heat. The caring was stolen from the man wearing the boot; he lifted it and slammed it into my back, sending me fully prone once more, hurting my aching spine further. The book left my skin only to come down once more, the cycle repeating itself. A quiet, but terrible cackle came from above me. The man kicking me cackled a little more, then kicked me in the head, but soft enough to keep me awake. He spat on me, kicked my ribs, breaking them, and stepped over my broken body to join his comrades.

They began to chant as the man in steel took his place in front of the girl and outside the circle, while the large man stood directly in front of her, wielding a curved, silver ceremonial knife. He raised it, his eyes half-closed and rolled into the back of his head. The knife rose higher and higher, above and behind his head. He turned slightly, angling himself towards her right arm. The steel man came around and grabbed her arm, pulling it straight and stiff.

I watched as the fire began to lick at me again, as that dagger sliced down into that little girl's arm. I watched the warm blood gush, I watched it as it flowed towards me. I saw the arm, barely hanging on to her body, connected by tenants in the elbow, the bone hanging out. It was a gruesome display. But this was the price of my failure.

I didn't even know this little girl. I had merely volunteered to go find her. I didn't know her, but I watched, and it felt as if it were my own sister. I felt awful. As despair washed over me, the man with the knife put the sharp instrument down and cupped his hands, catching blood. He brought his hands to his cracked, white lips, and drank the blood of that innocent child. Bile rose in my throat.

He picked his dagger back up, and they continued to do the same thing to all of her extremities. Soon, she was barely moving, whimpering, nearly unconscious, possibly dead. I don't know if she ever felt the dagger penetrate her skull.

And so, as all the men began to drink her blood from the grassy clearing, the man in steel walked up to me. He kicked me in the head, stretching my neck. He raised his other boot. This had a spike in it. He raised it, higher and higher. The pain and the gruesome display wasn't bothering me at all. It was the knowledge that the reason for that little girl's death, the reason that her family would never see her, the reason that she would never grow up to be a woman and enjoy life... was me. I never felt the spiked boot sever my head from the rest of my body.

(( This was a dark story I had thought of, I hope it was a good read. ))

[Jordy]

(( Commentary is welcome! ))

[Pround Canadian]

It certainly was a good read. Gave me shivers. It is certainly dark too. Made me wonder who were those dark men, the girl, and the narrarator. Certainly hope to see more soon!

[AEShenhav (Ali)]

It was a good read, nice and gruesome. The use of descriptive language was good, I could practically taste the blood at the antagonist drinks. I also liked how limited the back story was, the reader doesn't really need to know what happened, only what's happening. You might want to emphasize a little more on that, maybe add a couple vague ominous background sentences.

I would suggest that you might want to put more of what the failed hero feels towards the beginning. I felt it could do with some emotional pain coexisting with the physical.

Other than that, only a couple grammatical errors. /applaud

[coorash]

It was pretty good! Uhm, my main criticism is that you tended to use the same word a lot in the same little area of text, as Ali said, some grammatical errors. But, apart from that, it's great and I hope to read more

[Jordy]

Willy the Wonderfreak

The chilly Autumn air licked his face. His blue eyes looked down onto the street, watching trolls walk by. One held a suitcase; this one drank coffee. He was on his cellphone, that one was skipping. Willy was one of the few humans in the neighborhood. It was a mostly troll community, with a few orcs and the odd human. One troll walked by the tall building, putting down a large wooden crate to stretch his long arms. He yawned, and then he spotted Willy, looking down at him from the roof of his four-story apartment complex.

"'Allo guy, 'ow you be doing on this great impala day, poosu?"

"G'eat, suh. Be ca'eful ca'yin' that the' box, suh!"

The green-skinned tuskmonger smiled, waving to Willy. He bent to pick up the box, and he called back to the boy, "You too, poosu!"

Willy watched the troll carry the box down the street, down, down, down, until he was around a corner and past where his less-than-perfect vision would allow him to see. He let himself fall onto the cement floor of the room, watching the blue sky and the green sun. It was a gorgeous day. For an hour, he lie there, watching clouds pass by, listening to the happy calls of trolls and orcs on the streets talking to each other.

His peaceful meditation broke by a scream. He jumped up, falling face-first on the floor, of course, and scrambling to his feet to look over the edge again, looking for the distressed call. After a few seconds, he found it. A female orc was pointing at a smaller human child, female as well. She was being held by a troll with a gun in his hand, the barrel to the girl's temple. She was crying, terrified. The orc was crying for someone to help, and the troll was yelling at the orc in some other language.

Willy turned and bolted to the hatch, tripping once, and grabbing the handle and thrusting upwards, tearing the old rusty door off the square hole. He ran down the stairs two at a time, and slid down the railings until he reached ground level. His legged pumped him to the front door, and he came shooting outside shoulder first. He could see the people, gathered in a crowd now, the orc and troll still yelling. He ran to his left, hoping to get around the corner.

He sprinted, adrenaline pumping through his veins, overcoming the fatigue. He made a sharp turn to the right, across the street, and kept running forward until he came to an alley. He turned in, making turns towards the assailant where he could. He slowed his pace, hearing the yelling much more clearly. He came to a corner, and he leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. When he quieted down, he stealthily looked around the corner. The troll's back was to him. His free hand was in his pocket, the other one still holding the gun to the girl's head.

Willy slowly came around the corner, tip-toeing to the troll's back. He looked around quickly for a weapon, something to knock him out with. He spotted a good-sized rock. He slowly came towards it, but didn't see another rock in front of him. He tripped, and let out a "Woah!"

The troll heard it clearly. His finger pulled the trigger, turning while his other hand drew out a smaller, different model gun. He aimed it at the boy and pulled the trigger. Fire gushed from the barrel. Fire engulfed his face, and he shrieked. The troll's eyes went back into his head as a volley of bullets from six different guns ripped through his torso and tore off his arm. He fell limp, no more force on the triggers. The boy was rolling in agony. People rushed forward, taking jackets and the like off, beating his face out with it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ * * * * * * * * * * * *

Willy woke up in the hospital, all but his eyes bandaged. A doctor walked in, this one a wolf-man. "I'ma sorry, Willy-a. Your sistera is dead. The bulleta entered her central reflex systema, killing her instantlya. She felt no pain." Willy blinked, and closed his eyes. It was his sister that was hostage. No wonder adrenaline kicked in so quickly. Silently, he wept. Tears rolled down his face. The doctor respectfully left him alone.

Grief turned to rage. Willy sat up, jumping out of bed. He took the blanket and wrapped it like a cape. He jumped out the window into a bush, and ran. He went home. He went to the roof. His face bandaged, making him permanently mute, he looked out at the streets. He made a solemn vow. Never again would such a thing happen. They would be safe as long as Willy the Wonderfreak lived.

(( Hasty ending, yes, but I liked the rest of it. ))