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TOPIC | 10 Words
@lessthan3
ignore the double ping
Perhaps it had started with the girl.
She was young, sweet, and full of life. She had a vitality that was cherished this far into the dark years, and despite her grubby skin and hair shorn head, she was something that every member of the kingdoms cherished. She was hope brought to life, the blossomed flower of their courage.
Perhaps it had started even before her, with the war.
Enemies are made from the simplest of things, and this time it came from two brothers. One wanted freedom, a chance for their people to thrive on their own, and the other craved order, and for their people to find safety in it. The brother who craved liberty above all else felt despair at the idea of his brothers want for chains and regulations. The brother who sought direction felt dread over the chaos his sibling demanded. And so they met in battle, again and again, and so the kingdoms warred with them.
Perhaps it had started even further back, with the death of an emperor.
The empire had been blessed, fruitful. They could achieve no other greatness, for they had already reached the peak. So the emperor divided his lands, one half to his eldest son and the other half for his youngest, and he hoped they could build something beautiful anew. The brothers wished for the empire, but they did so separately. They wanted the lands unbroken, and they loathed each other for the half they wished to steal.
Or perhaps none of this was the start, and this was instead the buildup. Perhaps, instead, it began after the war, when both sides were weary and resolve floundered. When both sides realized there would be no victory, no moment of triumph.
Possibly, it started with the curse.
Like a toxin, it was said to have spread. Silent in all ways and unknown to the neighboring kingdoms because it did not reveal itself right away. Only after a year had passed did they realize their women lay barren, and the youngest child was now a toddler. The years after that did they grieve, because no child was born to either lands since the war was forced to its stalemate.
And so the girl became their shining star, for she was their youngest. The final child of the shattered empire, and the one who could save their lands. She had to, they whispered in fervent voices. She had to. They tried to believe it.
The kings were silent in their separate castles, but even they too listened for word on the girl. They tried to win her favor in silent ways, so that her destiny would also carry them to victory as well, but she did not seem swayed.
It is true she loved both kingdoms, and to both she traveled. She was a neutral figure, and neither side dared attack her, and so she showed them all her kindness equally. In turn, they showered her with their affections. She was their shining figure, she was their hope. They loved her. She was more a queen to them then the coward kings.
And despite this love, despite this affection, the girl could not lift the curse. The kings were stubborn in their greed, and they would not see truth in what their tyranny caused. Hope had no strength against their stubborn demands.
This, at least, is where it ends.
Perhaps it had started with the girl.
She was young, sweet, and full of life. She had a vitality that was cherished this far into the dark years, and despite her grubby skin and hair shorn head, she was something that every member of the kingdoms cherished. She was hope brought to life, the blossomed flower of their courage.
Perhaps it had started even before her, with the war.
Enemies are made from the simplest of things, and this time it came from two brothers. One wanted freedom, a chance for their people to thrive on their own, and the other craved order, and for their people to find safety in it. The brother who craved liberty above all else felt despair at the idea of his brothers want for chains and regulations. The brother who sought direction felt dread over the chaos his sibling demanded. And so they met in battle, again and again, and so the kingdoms warred with them.
Perhaps it had started even further back, with the death of an emperor.
The empire had been blessed, fruitful. They could achieve no other greatness, for they had already reached the peak. So the emperor divided his lands, one half to his eldest son and the other half for his youngest, and he hoped they could build something beautiful anew. The brothers wished for the empire, but they did so separately. They wanted the lands unbroken, and they loathed each other for the half they wished to steal.
Or perhaps none of this was the start, and this was instead the buildup. Perhaps, instead, it began after the war, when both sides were weary and resolve floundered. When both sides realized there would be no victory, no moment of triumph.
Possibly, it started with the curse.
Like a toxin, it was said to have spread. Silent in all ways and unknown to the neighboring kingdoms because it did not reveal itself right away. Only after a year had passed did they realize their women lay barren, and the youngest child was now a toddler. The years after that did they grieve, because no child was born to either lands since the war was forced to its stalemate.
And so the girl became their shining star, for she was their youngest. The final child of the shattered empire, and the one who could save their lands. She had to, they whispered in fervent voices. She had to. They tried to believe it.
The kings were silent in their separate castles, but even they too listened for word on the girl. They tried to win her favor in silent ways, so that her destiny would also carry them to victory as well, but she did not seem swayed.
It is true she loved both kingdoms, and to both she traveled. She was a neutral figure, and neither side dared attack her, and so she showed them all her kindness equally. In turn, they showered her with their affections. She was their shining figure, she was their hope. They loved her. She was more a queen to them then the coward kings.
And despite this love, despite this affection, the girl could not lift the curse. The kings were stubborn in their greed, and they would not see truth in what their tyranny caused. Hope had no strength against their stubborn demands.
This, at least, is where it ends.
@lessthan3
ignore the double ping
Perhaps it had started with the girl.
She was young, sweet, and full of life. She had a vitality that was cherished this far into the dark years, and despite her grubby skin and hair shorn head, she was something that every member of the kingdoms cherished. She was hope brought to life, the blossomed flower of their courage.
Perhaps it had started even before her, with the war.
Enemies are made from the simplest of things, and this time it came from two brothers. One wanted freedom, a chance for their people to thrive on their own, and the other craved order, and for their people to find safety in it. The brother who craved liberty above all else felt despair at the idea of his brothers want for chains and regulations. The brother who sought direction felt dread over the chaos his sibling demanded. And so they met in battle, again and again, and so the kingdoms warred with them.
Perhaps it had started even further back, with the death of an emperor.
The empire had been blessed, fruitful. They could achieve no other greatness, for they had already reached the peak. So the emperor divided his lands, one half to his eldest son and the other half for his youngest, and he hoped they could build something beautiful anew. The brothers wished for the empire, but they did so separately. They wanted the lands unbroken, and they loathed each other for the half they wished to steal.
Or perhaps none of this was the start, and this was instead the buildup. Perhaps, instead, it began after the war, when both sides were weary and resolve floundered. When both sides realized there would be no victory, no moment of triumph.
Possibly, it started with the curse.
Like a toxin, it was said to have spread. Silent in all ways and unknown to the neighboring kingdoms because it did not reveal itself right away. Only after a year had passed did they realize their women lay barren, and the youngest child was now a toddler. The years after that did they grieve, because no child was born to either lands since the war was forced to its stalemate.
And so the girl became their shining star, for she was their youngest. The final child of the shattered empire, and the one who could save their lands. She had to, they whispered in fervent voices. She had to. They tried to believe it.
The kings were silent in their separate castles, but even they too listened for word on the girl. They tried to win her favor in silent ways, so that her destiny would also carry them to victory as well, but she did not seem swayed.
It is true she loved both kingdoms, and to both she traveled. She was a neutral figure, and neither side dared attack her, and so she showed them all her kindness equally. In turn, they showered her with their affections. She was their shining figure, she was their hope. They loved her. She was more a queen to them then the coward kings.
And despite this love, despite this affection, the girl could not lift the curse. The kings were stubborn in their greed, and they would not see truth in what their tyranny caused. Hope had no strength against their stubborn demands.
This, at least, is where it ends.
Perhaps it had started with the girl.
She was young, sweet, and full of life. She had a vitality that was cherished this far into the dark years, and despite her grubby skin and hair shorn head, she was something that every member of the kingdoms cherished. She was hope brought to life, the blossomed flower of their courage.
Perhaps it had started even before her, with the war.
Enemies are made from the simplest of things, and this time it came from two brothers. One wanted freedom, a chance for their people to thrive on their own, and the other craved order, and for their people to find safety in it. The brother who craved liberty above all else felt despair at the idea of his brothers want for chains and regulations. The brother who sought direction felt dread over the chaos his sibling demanded. And so they met in battle, again and again, and so the kingdoms warred with them.
Perhaps it had started even further back, with the death of an emperor.
The empire had been blessed, fruitful. They could achieve no other greatness, for they had already reached the peak. So the emperor divided his lands, one half to his eldest son and the other half for his youngest, and he hoped they could build something beautiful anew. The brothers wished for the empire, but they did so separately. They wanted the lands unbroken, and they loathed each other for the half they wished to steal.
Or perhaps none of this was the start, and this was instead the buildup. Perhaps, instead, it began after the war, when both sides were weary and resolve floundered. When both sides realized there would be no victory, no moment of triumph.
Possibly, it started with the curse.
Like a toxin, it was said to have spread. Silent in all ways and unknown to the neighboring kingdoms because it did not reveal itself right away. Only after a year had passed did they realize their women lay barren, and the youngest child was now a toddler. The years after that did they grieve, because no child was born to either lands since the war was forced to its stalemate.
And so the girl became their shining star, for she was their youngest. The final child of the shattered empire, and the one who could save their lands. She had to, they whispered in fervent voices. She had to. They tried to believe it.
The kings were silent in their separate castles, but even they too listened for word on the girl. They tried to win her favor in silent ways, so that her destiny would also carry them to victory as well, but she did not seem swayed.
It is true she loved both kingdoms, and to both she traveled. She was a neutral figure, and neither side dared attack her, and so she showed them all her kindness equally. In turn, they showered her with their affections. She was their shining figure, she was their hope. They loved her. She was more a queen to them then the coward kings.
And despite this love, despite this affection, the girl could not lift the curse. The kings were stubborn in their greed, and they would not see truth in what their tyranny caused. Hope had no strength against their stubborn demands.
This, at least, is where it ends.
@SamIamLuvDov @humanityxpeople @Annalynn @SolusPrime379 @Lightshadow101 @demonslayr62 @Chrisondra @Mypilot @lessthan3 @PixieKnight3264 @coyearth @SocialBookWorm @Kiradog234 @Skyeset @AloneTogether @frostt @misericordieuse @favvn @Restless @Auraelia @Reiyn @After @Moonwater @Mochaccino @SariStar @Dragonartist24
Deadline has been extended to next Sunday, the 2nd, at rollover (23:59).
Deadline has been extended to next Sunday, the 2nd, at rollover (23:59).
@SamIamLuvDov @humanityxpeople @Annalynn @SolusPrime379 @Lightshadow101 @demonslayr62 @Chrisondra @Mypilot @lessthan3 @PixieKnight3264 @coyearth @SocialBookWorm @Kiradog234 @Skyeset @AloneTogether @frostt @misericordieuse @favvn @Restless @Auraelia @Reiyn @After @Moonwater @Mochaccino @SariStar @Dragonartist24
Deadline has been extended to next Sunday, the 2nd, at rollover (23:59).
Deadline has been extended to next Sunday, the 2nd, at rollover (23:59).
  
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The League of Heroes stood tall before the crowd of onlookers. There was only fourteen of them to stand strong against the Villain Society whose numbers were almost double theirs – twenty-six villains of differing powers. It wasn’t good odds, but they were the heroes, and there were innocent lives to be protected. It was their duty to do so, even at the cost of their own. The crowd cheered for the League, shouting encouragement. The tension in the air was so thick that you could rest a spoon on it. And then, as suddenly as it had tightened, the tension snapped with the voice of one loud-mouthed villain, code name ‘Thirteen’.
“Do you think you have a big enough audience for your butt-whooping? We can wait while you invite a few more, if you like. Though if I were you, I’m not sure I’d want witnesses to what will be a spectacular loss for the heroes. Unless you think they won’t lose faith in you.”
“It is you who will lose today. Your Society has rained terror on these good people long enough. We will not let you have your way any longer.” The Dragon said, his pale features set in a deep scowl.
The Dragon was the leader of the League, and he was everything that Thirteen was not. He was strong and calm, a leader with the powers of Ice and a cold fury that built slowly but what had massive destructive power, if he so chose to use it to its fullest potential. He had the unfortunate flaw of being easily baited by the loud-mouthed ones, however.
Thirteen, in turn, was a young girl – still in her teens and far from leader of the Society. She was not one of the Four and so held little standing as a voice, other than having the loudest one among them, but she was powerful despite her youth and her flames were a good match for the Dragon’s ice. One day, she may even pose a threat to him.
The Dragon smiled. Today would not be that day.
“All this ruckus over one little trainline. Why is it so important to you, that we cannot have a place of our own?” Thirteen asked.
“It is not the train, it is the people on board it – the people who rely on safe transportation to travel between their work and home.”
“There are other routes, they-”
“Enough.”
Thirteen’s words were cut off by the creature – man was too much of a stretch for it – that stood to her right. Her expression turned sullen but she didn’t dare disobey the Bogey Man. He was one of the Four, and his words held greater depth than hers. She was only an underling, after all.
The dragon readied himself and looked to either side of him, to see his friends. The Beast-Master nodded back at him, while the Cartoonist was busy scribbling in the air with his pens, tracing flowers and stars in unbroken lines. There was going to be a battle, but he would give the audience a show while they fought. The Cartoonist was good at that. Today they battled over the rights of a train – a train currently unoccupied, but one necessary for the lives of many people to run smoothly and free of danger. It was an important battle, and with this many onlookers’ rallying behind the League, they could not possibly lose.
An expectant hush fell over the crowd, and the final battle began.
---
Gizmo stood amongst the bystanders, his mechanisms floating in the air above, creating a forcefield for the survivors among the debris of the battle. He could only look on in horror of what had become of the street.
Whole buildings had been toppled in the chaos, and the trainline, never mind the train itself, had plunged into the crowd. The dragon lay unconscious nearby, thoroughly defeated. The other heroes of the league were scattered around, nursing wounds and helping the bystanders who had gotten caught in the fight. They were all dejected, solemn, filled with despair. Somehow, they had lost. Somehow the Villain Society had defeated them. If the Society couldn’t have the train, then no one could. That was what they had declared, and that was what had come to pass, though it was so much more than that.
Thirteen stood atop the broken train, blood trailing down her face to soak into the amber locks of hair that tangled about her neck. Her victorious laughter rang out high and clear, a touch of hysteria to it, as if she couldn’t quite believe the Society had gone so far, either.
Despite all odds, the League had failed, and Thirteen had been right. The city would not recover from this loss. It was as if a toxin had spread over the street, melting through the people’s resolve and casting them into shadows.
“Do you think you have a big enough audience for your butt-whooping? We can wait while you invite a few more, if you like. Though if I were you, I’m not sure I’d want witnesses to what will be a spectacular loss for the heroes. Unless you think they won’t lose faith in you.”
“It is you who will lose today. Your Society has rained terror on these good people long enough. We will not let you have your way any longer.” The Dragon said, his pale features set in a deep scowl.
The Dragon was the leader of the League, and he was everything that Thirteen was not. He was strong and calm, a leader with the powers of Ice and a cold fury that built slowly but what had massive destructive power, if he so chose to use it to its fullest potential. He had the unfortunate flaw of being easily baited by the loud-mouthed ones, however.
Thirteen, in turn, was a young girl – still in her teens and far from leader of the Society. She was not one of the Four and so held little standing as a voice, other than having the loudest one among them, but she was powerful despite her youth and her flames were a good match for the Dragon’s ice. One day, she may even pose a threat to him.
The Dragon smiled. Today would not be that day.
“All this ruckus over one little trainline. Why is it so important to you, that we cannot have a place of our own?” Thirteen asked.
“It is not the train, it is the people on board it – the people who rely on safe transportation to travel between their work and home.”
“There are other routes, they-”
“Enough.”
Thirteen’s words were cut off by the creature – man was too much of a stretch for it – that stood to her right. Her expression turned sullen but she didn’t dare disobey the Bogey Man. He was one of the Four, and his words held greater depth than hers. She was only an underling, after all.
The dragon readied himself and looked to either side of him, to see his friends. The Beast-Master nodded back at him, while the Cartoonist was busy scribbling in the air with his pens, tracing flowers and stars in unbroken lines. There was going to be a battle, but he would give the audience a show while they fought. The Cartoonist was good at that. Today they battled over the rights of a train – a train currently unoccupied, but one necessary for the lives of many people to run smoothly and free of danger. It was an important battle, and with this many onlookers’ rallying behind the League, they could not possibly lose.
An expectant hush fell over the crowd, and the final battle began.
---
Gizmo stood amongst the bystanders, his mechanisms floating in the air above, creating a forcefield for the survivors among the debris of the battle. He could only look on in horror of what had become of the street.
Whole buildings had been toppled in the chaos, and the trainline, never mind the train itself, had plunged into the crowd. The dragon lay unconscious nearby, thoroughly defeated. The other heroes of the league were scattered around, nursing wounds and helping the bystanders who had gotten caught in the fight. They were all dejected, solemn, filled with despair. Somehow, they had lost. Somehow the Villain Society had defeated them. If the Society couldn’t have the train, then no one could. That was what they had declared, and that was what had come to pass, though it was so much more than that.
Thirteen stood atop the broken train, blood trailing down her face to soak into the amber locks of hair that tangled about her neck. Her victorious laughter rang out high and clear, a touch of hysteria to it, as if she couldn’t quite believe the Society had gone so far, either.
Despite all odds, the League had failed, and Thirteen had been right. The city would not recover from this loss. It was as if a toxin had spread over the street, melting through the people’s resolve and casting them into shadows.
The League of Heroes stood tall before the crowd of onlookers. There was only fourteen of them to stand strong against the Villain Society whose numbers were almost double theirs – twenty-six villains of differing powers. It wasn’t good odds, but they were the heroes, and there were innocent lives to be protected. It was their duty to do so, even at the cost of their own. The crowd cheered for the League, shouting encouragement. The tension in the air was so thick that you could rest a spoon on it. And then, as suddenly as it had tightened, the tension snapped with the voice of one loud-mouthed villain, code name ‘Thirteen’.
“Do you think you have a big enough audience for your butt-whooping? We can wait while you invite a few more, if you like. Though if I were you, I’m not sure I’d want witnesses to what will be a spectacular loss for the heroes. Unless you think they won’t lose faith in you.”
“It is you who will lose today. Your Society has rained terror on these good people long enough. We will not let you have your way any longer.” The Dragon said, his pale features set in a deep scowl.
The Dragon was the leader of the League, and he was everything that Thirteen was not. He was strong and calm, a leader with the powers of Ice and a cold fury that built slowly but what had massive destructive power, if he so chose to use it to its fullest potential. He had the unfortunate flaw of being easily baited by the loud-mouthed ones, however.
Thirteen, in turn, was a young girl – still in her teens and far from leader of the Society. She was not one of the Four and so held little standing as a voice, other than having the loudest one among them, but she was powerful despite her youth and her flames were a good match for the Dragon’s ice. One day, she may even pose a threat to him.
The Dragon smiled. Today would not be that day.
“All this ruckus over one little trainline. Why is it so important to you, that we cannot have a place of our own?” Thirteen asked.
“It is not the train, it is the people on board it – the people who rely on safe transportation to travel between their work and home.”
“There are other routes, they-”
“Enough.”
Thirteen’s words were cut off by the creature – man was too much of a stretch for it – that stood to her right. Her expression turned sullen but she didn’t dare disobey the Bogey Man. He was one of the Four, and his words held greater depth than hers. She was only an underling, after all.
The dragon readied himself and looked to either side of him, to see his friends. The Beast-Master nodded back at him, while the Cartoonist was busy scribbling in the air with his pens, tracing flowers and stars in unbroken lines. There was going to be a battle, but he would give the audience a show while they fought. The Cartoonist was good at that. Today they battled over the rights of a train – a train currently unoccupied, but one necessary for the lives of many people to run smoothly and free of danger. It was an important battle, and with this many onlookers’ rallying behind the League, they could not possibly lose.
An expectant hush fell over the crowd, and the final battle began.
---
Gizmo stood amongst the bystanders, his mechanisms floating in the air above, creating a forcefield for the survivors among the debris of the battle. He could only look on in horror of what had become of the street.
Whole buildings had been toppled in the chaos, and the trainline, never mind the train itself, had plunged into the crowd. The dragon lay unconscious nearby, thoroughly defeated. The other heroes of the league were scattered around, nursing wounds and helping the bystanders who had gotten caught in the fight. They were all dejected, solemn, filled with despair. Somehow, they had lost. Somehow the Villain Society had defeated them. If the Society couldn’t have the train, then no one could. That was what they had declared, and that was what had come to pass, though it was so much more than that.
Thirteen stood atop the broken train, blood trailing down her face to soak into the amber locks of hair that tangled about her neck. Her victorious laughter rang out high and clear, a touch of hysteria to it, as if she couldn’t quite believe the Society had gone so far, either.
Despite all odds, the League had failed, and Thirteen had been right. The city would not recover from this loss. It was as if a toxin had spread over the street, melting through the people’s resolve and casting them into shadows.
“Do you think you have a big enough audience for your butt-whooping? We can wait while you invite a few more, if you like. Though if I were you, I’m not sure I’d want witnesses to what will be a spectacular loss for the heroes. Unless you think they won’t lose faith in you.”
“It is you who will lose today. Your Society has rained terror on these good people long enough. We will not let you have your way any longer.” The Dragon said, his pale features set in a deep scowl.
The Dragon was the leader of the League, and he was everything that Thirteen was not. He was strong and calm, a leader with the powers of Ice and a cold fury that built slowly but what had massive destructive power, if he so chose to use it to its fullest potential. He had the unfortunate flaw of being easily baited by the loud-mouthed ones, however.
Thirteen, in turn, was a young girl – still in her teens and far from leader of the Society. She was not one of the Four and so held little standing as a voice, other than having the loudest one among them, but she was powerful despite her youth and her flames were a good match for the Dragon’s ice. One day, she may even pose a threat to him.
The Dragon smiled. Today would not be that day.
“All this ruckus over one little trainline. Why is it so important to you, that we cannot have a place of our own?” Thirteen asked.
“It is not the train, it is the people on board it – the people who rely on safe transportation to travel between their work and home.”
“There are other routes, they-”
“Enough.”
Thirteen’s words were cut off by the creature – man was too much of a stretch for it – that stood to her right. Her expression turned sullen but she didn’t dare disobey the Bogey Man. He was one of the Four, and his words held greater depth than hers. She was only an underling, after all.
The dragon readied himself and looked to either side of him, to see his friends. The Beast-Master nodded back at him, while the Cartoonist was busy scribbling in the air with his pens, tracing flowers and stars in unbroken lines. There was going to be a battle, but he would give the audience a show while they fought. The Cartoonist was good at that. Today they battled over the rights of a train – a train currently unoccupied, but one necessary for the lives of many people to run smoothly and free of danger. It was an important battle, and with this many onlookers’ rallying behind the League, they could not possibly lose.
An expectant hush fell over the crowd, and the final battle began.
---
Gizmo stood amongst the bystanders, his mechanisms floating in the air above, creating a forcefield for the survivors among the debris of the battle. He could only look on in horror of what had become of the street.
Whole buildings had been toppled in the chaos, and the trainline, never mind the train itself, had plunged into the crowd. The dragon lay unconscious nearby, thoroughly defeated. The other heroes of the league were scattered around, nursing wounds and helping the bystanders who had gotten caught in the fight. They were all dejected, solemn, filled with despair. Somehow, they had lost. Somehow the Villain Society had defeated them. If the Society couldn’t have the train, then no one could. That was what they had declared, and that was what had come to pass, though it was so much more than that.
Thirteen stood atop the broken train, blood trailing down her face to soak into the amber locks of hair that tangled about her neck. Her victorious laughter rang out high and clear, a touch of hysteria to it, as if she couldn’t quite believe the Society had gone so far, either.
Despite all odds, the League had failed, and Thirteen had been right. The city would not recover from this loss. It was as if a toxin had spread over the street, melting through the people’s resolve and casting them into shadows.
@lessthan3 this is not what i was originally going to write for this but oh well i wanted to make sure i put something out
The blood trickled from Rose’s hands. It dripped onto the stony floor and trickled down the crevices between each rock. Her whole body shook and the scream she made echoed in the room and in her head.
Everyone thought she was unbroken by the events that happened around her. She could take anything. Do anything. Overcome the despair that drowned them.
The battle had taken its toll on her. A week ago, she was strong. Yesterday, her resolve had started to crumble. Her life had flashed before her eyes over a dozen times.
A piece of her heart broke every time she watched an ally fall. Their medic was long gone, and the options were always save or be killed. And each time, she grew more and more driven to slaughter the king’s army. To win the rebellion.
Stop the king from releasing the toxin that killed his people so he could repossess their belongings. In this day and age, there were so many diseases and plagues going around that no one would suspect something so sinister.
No one would expect the plot. But one alchemist, Owen, had spread some rumors, anonymously, and so many acted so blind to it. So many were sheep.
But not Rose. Not her friends. Not the people who suspected and worked so hard to bring the king down.
They were all dead.
The world was
The only people left were the king and Rose, and she was currently kneeling before him. Waiting for him to say something. Anything.
Admit he was wrong. This was the final stand. Her final hope. After this, she was fresh out of hope.
“I will punish you myself, as you have left me choice,” he said.
His purple robes, bloodstained with a flower pattern, swished as he approached her. The king pulled her up by the neck, choking Rose. “There will be no victory for you.” His voice was angry.
She kicked and fought and he let go of her She struggled to breathe right, her throat was so closed and she wished he would kill her.
Take her out of her misery.
He pulled a flask out of his robes and forced it in her hands with no time to protest it. “Drink.”
The glint in his eyes told her to obey or else, so she opened the lid and drank the whole liquid. The taste burned her mouth.
She fell, dizzy and with a throbbing pain her head.
“If you survive that, I’ll let you go,” he said.
Once the stars came out to signify night, she was gone.
And the king had achieved the true victory. He could paint history however he liked, no one knew what went on in that little kingdom. He could rebuild it however he wanted to, with men who followed his every order. Men who felt fear. Men who knew respect.
For now, he would go and loot the houses. Clean up the bodies. Destroy his blood-stained robes. He had a past to go erase.
The blood trickled from Rose’s hands. It dripped onto the stony floor and trickled down the crevices between each rock. Her whole body shook and the scream she made echoed in the room and in her head.
Everyone thought she was unbroken by the events that happened around her. She could take anything. Do anything. Overcome the despair that drowned them.
The battle had taken its toll on her. A week ago, she was strong. Yesterday, her resolve had started to crumble. Her life had flashed before her eyes over a dozen times.
A piece of her heart broke every time she watched an ally fall. Their medic was long gone, and the options were always save or be killed. And each time, she grew more and more driven to slaughter the king’s army. To win the rebellion.
Stop the king from releasing the toxin that killed his people so he could repossess their belongings. In this day and age, there were so many diseases and plagues going around that no one would suspect something so sinister.
No one would expect the plot. But one alchemist, Owen, had spread some rumors, anonymously, and so many acted so blind to it. So many were sheep.
But not Rose. Not her friends. Not the people who suspected and worked so hard to bring the king down.
They were all dead.
The world was
The only people left were the king and Rose, and she was currently kneeling before him. Waiting for him to say something. Anything.
Admit he was wrong. This was the final stand. Her final hope. After this, she was fresh out of hope.
“I will punish you myself, as you have left me choice,” he said.
His purple robes, bloodstained with a flower pattern, swished as he approached her. The king pulled her up by the neck, choking Rose. “There will be no victory for you.” His voice was angry.
She kicked and fought and he let go of her She struggled to breathe right, her throat was so closed and she wished he would kill her.
Take her out of her misery.
He pulled a flask out of his robes and forced it in her hands with no time to protest it. “Drink.”
The glint in his eyes told her to obey or else, so she opened the lid and drank the whole liquid. The taste burned her mouth.
She fell, dizzy and with a throbbing pain her head.
“If you survive that, I’ll let you go,” he said.
Once the stars came out to signify night, she was gone.
And the king had achieved the true victory. He could paint history however he liked, no one knew what went on in that little kingdom. He could rebuild it however he wanted to, with men who followed his every order. Men who felt fear. Men who knew respect.
For now, he would go and loot the houses. Clean up the bodies. Destroy his blood-stained robes. He had a past to go erase.
@lessthan3 this is not what i was originally going to write for this but oh well i wanted to make sure i put something out
The blood trickled from Rose’s hands. It dripped onto the stony floor and trickled down the crevices between each rock. Her whole body shook and the scream she made echoed in the room and in her head.
Everyone thought she was unbroken by the events that happened around her. She could take anything. Do anything. Overcome the despair that drowned them.
The battle had taken its toll on her. A week ago, she was strong. Yesterday, her resolve had started to crumble. Her life had flashed before her eyes over a dozen times.
A piece of her heart broke every time she watched an ally fall. Their medic was long gone, and the options were always save or be killed. And each time, she grew more and more driven to slaughter the king’s army. To win the rebellion.
Stop the king from releasing the toxin that killed his people so he could repossess their belongings. In this day and age, there were so many diseases and plagues going around that no one would suspect something so sinister.
No one would expect the plot. But one alchemist, Owen, had spread some rumors, anonymously, and so many acted so blind to it. So many were sheep.
But not Rose. Not her friends. Not the people who suspected and worked so hard to bring the king down.
They were all dead.
The world was
The only people left were the king and Rose, and she was currently kneeling before him. Waiting for him to say something. Anything.
Admit he was wrong. This was the final stand. Her final hope. After this, she was fresh out of hope.
“I will punish you myself, as you have left me choice,” he said.
His purple robes, bloodstained with a flower pattern, swished as he approached her. The king pulled her up by the neck, choking Rose. “There will be no victory for you.” His voice was angry.
She kicked and fought and he let go of her She struggled to breathe right, her throat was so closed and she wished he would kill her.
Take her out of her misery.
He pulled a flask out of his robes and forced it in her hands with no time to protest it. “Drink.”
The glint in his eyes told her to obey or else, so she opened the lid and drank the whole liquid. The taste burned her mouth.
She fell, dizzy and with a throbbing pain her head.
“If you survive that, I’ll let you go,” he said.
Once the stars came out to signify night, she was gone.
And the king had achieved the true victory. He could paint history however he liked, no one knew what went on in that little kingdom. He could rebuild it however he wanted to, with men who followed his every order. Men who felt fear. Men who knew respect.
For now, he would go and loot the houses. Clean up the bodies. Destroy his blood-stained robes. He had a past to go erase.
The blood trickled from Rose’s hands. It dripped onto the stony floor and trickled down the crevices between each rock. Her whole body shook and the scream she made echoed in the room and in her head.
Everyone thought she was unbroken by the events that happened around her. She could take anything. Do anything. Overcome the despair that drowned them.
The battle had taken its toll on her. A week ago, she was strong. Yesterday, her resolve had started to crumble. Her life had flashed before her eyes over a dozen times.
A piece of her heart broke every time she watched an ally fall. Their medic was long gone, and the options were always save or be killed. And each time, she grew more and more driven to slaughter the king’s army. To win the rebellion.
Stop the king from releasing the toxin that killed his people so he could repossess their belongings. In this day and age, there were so many diseases and plagues going around that no one would suspect something so sinister.
No one would expect the plot. But one alchemist, Owen, had spread some rumors, anonymously, and so many acted so blind to it. So many were sheep.
But not Rose. Not her friends. Not the people who suspected and worked so hard to bring the king down.
They were all dead.
The world was
The only people left were the king and Rose, and she was currently kneeling before him. Waiting for him to say something. Anything.
Admit he was wrong. This was the final stand. Her final hope. After this, she was fresh out of hope.
“I will punish you myself, as you have left me choice,” he said.
His purple robes, bloodstained with a flower pattern, swished as he approached her. The king pulled her up by the neck, choking Rose. “There will be no victory for you.” His voice was angry.
She kicked and fought and he let go of her She struggled to breathe right, her throat was so closed and she wished he would kill her.
Take her out of her misery.
He pulled a flask out of his robes and forced it in her hands with no time to protest it. “Drink.”
The glint in his eyes told her to obey or else, so she opened the lid and drank the whole liquid. The taste burned her mouth.
She fell, dizzy and with a throbbing pain her head.
“If you survive that, I’ll let you go,” he said.
Once the stars came out to signify night, she was gone.
And the king had achieved the true victory. He could paint history however he liked, no one knew what went on in that little kingdom. He could rebuild it however he wanted to, with men who followed his every order. Men who felt fear. Men who knew respect.
For now, he would go and loot the houses. Clean up the bodies. Destroy his blood-stained robes. He had a past to go erase.
@Mypilot Wow. Beautiful and sad. Haunting. I have no words.
@Egwu Also wow. How severe. I love it.
@humanityxpeople Ooh unexpected. Despite some typos, I really liked it.
Winner is @Mypilot , runner-up is @Egwu .
Sorry for the short responses, I am v tired.
@Egwu Also wow. How severe. I love it.
@humanityxpeople Ooh unexpected. Despite some typos, I really liked it.
Winner is @Mypilot , runner-up is @Egwu .
Sorry for the short responses, I am v tired.
@Mypilot Wow. Beautiful and sad. Haunting. I have no words.
@Egwu Also wow. How severe. I love it.
@humanityxpeople Ooh unexpected. Despite some typos, I really liked it.
Winner is @Mypilot , runner-up is @Egwu .
Sorry for the short responses, I am v tired.
@Egwu Also wow. How severe. I love it.
@humanityxpeople Ooh unexpected. Despite some typos, I really liked it.
Winner is @Mypilot , runner-up is @Egwu .
Sorry for the short responses, I am v tired.
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Prompt: They were told they were broken because they could not fly.
Words: Aid, circle, crest, escape, ink, miasma, pensive, sensation, symphony, wind
Deadline: The 9th, 23:59/rollover
Words: Aid, circle, crest, escape, ink, miasma, pensive, sensation, symphony, wind
Deadline: The 9th, 23:59/rollover
@SamIamLuvDov @humanityxpeople @Annalynn @SolusPrime379 @Lightshadow101 @demonslayr62 @Chrisondra @Mypilot @lessthan3 @PixieKnight3264 @coyearth @SocialBookWorm @Kiradog234 @Skyeset @AloneTogether @frostt @misericordieuse @favvn @Restless @Auraelia @Reiyn @After @Mochaccino @SariStar @Dragonartist24 @Willowfrost10
Prompt: They were told they were broken because they could not fly.
Words: Aid, circle, crest, escape, ink, miasma, pensive, sensation, symphony, wind
Deadline: The 9th, 23:59/rollover
Words: Aid, circle, crest, escape, ink, miasma, pensive, sensation, symphony, wind
Deadline: The 9th, 23:59/rollover
@SamIamLuvDov @humanityxpeople @Annalynn @SolusPrime379 @Lightshadow101 @demonslayr62 @Chrisondra @Mypilot @lessthan3 @PixieKnight3264 @coyearth @SocialBookWorm @Kiradog234 @Skyeset @AloneTogether @frostt @misericordieuse @favvn @Restless @Auraelia @Reiyn @After @Mochaccino @SariStar @Dragonartist24 @Willowfrost10
@Mypilot
TW for suicide
They were told they were broken because they could not fly. No matter that they had other ways of doing things, getting to places, they could not fly and the others could and so they were broken.
Adva was the first to leave. She told them before she left that she couldn’t stand it anymore, being put down, controlled for something that was not her fault, something that was part of her, something that didn’t make her broken despite all the lies they were told.
The others agreed of course that they couldn’t stand it any longer but they stayed because they didn’t know if it would be better somewhere else, because they didn’t know where to go or how, or maybe because despite themselves they believed the lies that they were broken.
Itamar was the next to leave-he didn’t leave they way Adva had left, quietly determined to make a better life for herself, knowing she had to leave but sorry to abandon them; he didn’t leave the way Liron left after him either, shouting at their liars, loud and blustery and defiant, like they always were, scared to pieces inside but knowing they had to escape.
He left with ***** and alcohol and careful, precise cuts and for once the others came to their aid but they couldn’t save him.
After he left, and Liron left they were seven. Seven of them, hiding from the others as best as they could, chased in circles by their impossible demands of flying until they could no longer hide even from themselves that they really were broken.
“Why don’t you fly?” A young one asked Gideon once, knocking over the ink they were using to make intricate designs of mid-sky walkways. It shouldn’t have felt so fateful that he had but it did.
“I can’t,” Gideon answered, staring pensively at their ruined work, not bothering to dab the ink until he felt the sensation of it dripping onto their leg. After all, if it had been ruined it must have been a sign that it was not meant to be-that only the ones who could fly should be able to use the sky, that the broken ones, like them, should stay down on the ground.
“Why not?” asked the young one, and he wanted to answer that they were broken, that they could never be fixed, but the young one was still so young and they hadn’t lost all hope and maybe the others minds really could be changed and maybe they would discover they weren’t broken after all, just different, and that’s what they wanted to tell the little one, that they were just different but Nohar beat them to punch and told him,
“We’re broken,” and in that moment Gideon knew fully that they were broken because unbroken people didn’t say that they were broken and they found some ***** and a razor and followed after Itamar to wherever he had gone.
After Gideon left Nohar took charge of their little group. She was bitter and sharp and didn’t believe in anything but sometimes that was better than believing in something because you had no hope to lose.
And she told them that they were never going to be fixed and were never going to fly and were never going to be unbroken, but that was alright because they all knew that and besides once somebody is broken enough you can’t break them any further. And they were all broken enough.
So when the others left, telling them that they were too weak, too broken, too unable to fly for this vacation they left too. They went to the sea and it smelled, a perfect miasma of rotting fish and old beer bottles and leather left too long in the open, but there was rain and wind and no one here to tell them they were broken except themselves, and they were so broken they couldn’t listen to themselves, so it was alright.
And as they stood there, surrounded by the smell and broken pails and overturned boats, the rain grew harder and the wind grew stronger and soon the crests of waves were higher than their heads but none of them wanted to leave so they continued to stand there, faces turned to the rain and the wind, soaking their freedom in until their youngest one, Kaleb, jumped into the waves, and the sound of his laughter mixed with the sounds of the rain and the wind and the crashing of the waves and they began to laugh too, and it was better than any symphony they had not been allowed to hear because of their brokenness.
TW for suicide
They were told they were broken because they could not fly. No matter that they had other ways of doing things, getting to places, they could not fly and the others could and so they were broken.
Adva was the first to leave. She told them before she left that she couldn’t stand it anymore, being put down, controlled for something that was not her fault, something that was part of her, something that didn’t make her broken despite all the lies they were told.
The others agreed of course that they couldn’t stand it any longer but they stayed because they didn’t know if it would be better somewhere else, because they didn’t know where to go or how, or maybe because despite themselves they believed the lies that they were broken.
Itamar was the next to leave-he didn’t leave they way Adva had left, quietly determined to make a better life for herself, knowing she had to leave but sorry to abandon them; he didn’t leave the way Liron left after him either, shouting at their liars, loud and blustery and defiant, like they always were, scared to pieces inside but knowing they had to escape.
He left with ***** and alcohol and careful, precise cuts and for once the others came to their aid but they couldn’t save him.
After he left, and Liron left they were seven. Seven of them, hiding from the others as best as they could, chased in circles by their impossible demands of flying until they could no longer hide even from themselves that they really were broken.
“Why don’t you fly?” A young one asked Gideon once, knocking over the ink they were using to make intricate designs of mid-sky walkways. It shouldn’t have felt so fateful that he had but it did.
“I can’t,” Gideon answered, staring pensively at their ruined work, not bothering to dab the ink until he felt the sensation of it dripping onto their leg. After all, if it had been ruined it must have been a sign that it was not meant to be-that only the ones who could fly should be able to use the sky, that the broken ones, like them, should stay down on the ground.
“Why not?” asked the young one, and he wanted to answer that they were broken, that they could never be fixed, but the young one was still so young and they hadn’t lost all hope and maybe the others minds really could be changed and maybe they would discover they weren’t broken after all, just different, and that’s what they wanted to tell the little one, that they were just different but Nohar beat them to punch and told him,
“We’re broken,” and in that moment Gideon knew fully that they were broken because unbroken people didn’t say that they were broken and they found some ***** and a razor and followed after Itamar to wherever he had gone.
After Gideon left Nohar took charge of their little group. She was bitter and sharp and didn’t believe in anything but sometimes that was better than believing in something because you had no hope to lose.
And she told them that they were never going to be fixed and were never going to fly and were never going to be unbroken, but that was alright because they all knew that and besides once somebody is broken enough you can’t break them any further. And they were all broken enough.
So when the others left, telling them that they were too weak, too broken, too unable to fly for this vacation they left too. They went to the sea and it smelled, a perfect miasma of rotting fish and old beer bottles and leather left too long in the open, but there was rain and wind and no one here to tell them they were broken except themselves, and they were so broken they couldn’t listen to themselves, so it was alright.
And as they stood there, surrounded by the smell and broken pails and overturned boats, the rain grew harder and the wind grew stronger and soon the crests of waves were higher than their heads but none of them wanted to leave so they continued to stand there, faces turned to the rain and the wind, soaking their freedom in until their youngest one, Kaleb, jumped into the waves, and the sound of his laughter mixed with the sounds of the rain and the wind and the crashing of the waves and they began to laugh too, and it was better than any symphony they had not been allowed to hear because of their brokenness.
@Mypilot
TW for suicide
They were told they were broken because they could not fly. No matter that they had other ways of doing things, getting to places, they could not fly and the others could and so they were broken.
Adva was the first to leave. She told them before she left that she couldn’t stand it anymore, being put down, controlled for something that was not her fault, something that was part of her, something that didn’t make her broken despite all the lies they were told.
The others agreed of course that they couldn’t stand it any longer but they stayed because they didn’t know if it would be better somewhere else, because they didn’t know where to go or how, or maybe because despite themselves they believed the lies that they were broken.
Itamar was the next to leave-he didn’t leave they way Adva had left, quietly determined to make a better life for herself, knowing she had to leave but sorry to abandon them; he didn’t leave the way Liron left after him either, shouting at their liars, loud and blustery and defiant, like they always were, scared to pieces inside but knowing they had to escape.
He left with ***** and alcohol and careful, precise cuts and for once the others came to their aid but they couldn’t save him.
After he left, and Liron left they were seven. Seven of them, hiding from the others as best as they could, chased in circles by their impossible demands of flying until they could no longer hide even from themselves that they really were broken.
“Why don’t you fly?” A young one asked Gideon once, knocking over the ink they were using to make intricate designs of mid-sky walkways. It shouldn’t have felt so fateful that he had but it did.
“I can’t,” Gideon answered, staring pensively at their ruined work, not bothering to dab the ink until he felt the sensation of it dripping onto their leg. After all, if it had been ruined it must have been a sign that it was not meant to be-that only the ones who could fly should be able to use the sky, that the broken ones, like them, should stay down on the ground.
“Why not?” asked the young one, and he wanted to answer that they were broken, that they could never be fixed, but the young one was still so young and they hadn’t lost all hope and maybe the others minds really could be changed and maybe they would discover they weren’t broken after all, just different, and that’s what they wanted to tell the little one, that they were just different but Nohar beat them to punch and told him,
“We’re broken,” and in that moment Gideon knew fully that they were broken because unbroken people didn’t say that they were broken and they found some ***** and a razor and followed after Itamar to wherever he had gone.
After Gideon left Nohar took charge of their little group. She was bitter and sharp and didn’t believe in anything but sometimes that was better than believing in something because you had no hope to lose.
And she told them that they were never going to be fixed and were never going to fly and were never going to be unbroken, but that was alright because they all knew that and besides once somebody is broken enough you can’t break them any further. And they were all broken enough.
So when the others left, telling them that they were too weak, too broken, too unable to fly for this vacation they left too. They went to the sea and it smelled, a perfect miasma of rotting fish and old beer bottles and leather left too long in the open, but there was rain and wind and no one here to tell them they were broken except themselves, and they were so broken they couldn’t listen to themselves, so it was alright.
And as they stood there, surrounded by the smell and broken pails and overturned boats, the rain grew harder and the wind grew stronger and soon the crests of waves were higher than their heads but none of them wanted to leave so they continued to stand there, faces turned to the rain and the wind, soaking their freedom in until their youngest one, Kaleb, jumped into the waves, and the sound of his laughter mixed with the sounds of the rain and the wind and the crashing of the waves and they began to laugh too, and it was better than any symphony they had not been allowed to hear because of their brokenness.
TW for suicide
They were told they were broken because they could not fly. No matter that they had other ways of doing things, getting to places, they could not fly and the others could and so they were broken.
Adva was the first to leave. She told them before she left that she couldn’t stand it anymore, being put down, controlled for something that was not her fault, something that was part of her, something that didn’t make her broken despite all the lies they were told.
The others agreed of course that they couldn’t stand it any longer but they stayed because they didn’t know if it would be better somewhere else, because they didn’t know where to go or how, or maybe because despite themselves they believed the lies that they were broken.
Itamar was the next to leave-he didn’t leave they way Adva had left, quietly determined to make a better life for herself, knowing she had to leave but sorry to abandon them; he didn’t leave the way Liron left after him either, shouting at their liars, loud and blustery and defiant, like they always were, scared to pieces inside but knowing they had to escape.
He left with ***** and alcohol and careful, precise cuts and for once the others came to their aid but they couldn’t save him.
After he left, and Liron left they were seven. Seven of them, hiding from the others as best as they could, chased in circles by their impossible demands of flying until they could no longer hide even from themselves that they really were broken.
“Why don’t you fly?” A young one asked Gideon once, knocking over the ink they were using to make intricate designs of mid-sky walkways. It shouldn’t have felt so fateful that he had but it did.
“I can’t,” Gideon answered, staring pensively at their ruined work, not bothering to dab the ink until he felt the sensation of it dripping onto their leg. After all, if it had been ruined it must have been a sign that it was not meant to be-that only the ones who could fly should be able to use the sky, that the broken ones, like them, should stay down on the ground.
“Why not?” asked the young one, and he wanted to answer that they were broken, that they could never be fixed, but the young one was still so young and they hadn’t lost all hope and maybe the others minds really could be changed and maybe they would discover they weren’t broken after all, just different, and that’s what they wanted to tell the little one, that they were just different but Nohar beat them to punch and told him,
“We’re broken,” and in that moment Gideon knew fully that they were broken because unbroken people didn’t say that they were broken and they found some ***** and a razor and followed after Itamar to wherever he had gone.
After Gideon left Nohar took charge of their little group. She was bitter and sharp and didn’t believe in anything but sometimes that was better than believing in something because you had no hope to lose.
And she told them that they were never going to be fixed and were never going to fly and were never going to be unbroken, but that was alright because they all knew that and besides once somebody is broken enough you can’t break them any further. And they were all broken enough.
So when the others left, telling them that they were too weak, too broken, too unable to fly for this vacation they left too. They went to the sea and it smelled, a perfect miasma of rotting fish and old beer bottles and leather left too long in the open, but there was rain and wind and no one here to tell them they were broken except themselves, and they were so broken they couldn’t listen to themselves, so it was alright.
And as they stood there, surrounded by the smell and broken pails and overturned boats, the rain grew harder and the wind grew stronger and soon the crests of waves were higher than their heads but none of them wanted to leave so they continued to stand there, faces turned to the rain and the wind, soaking their freedom in until their youngest one, Kaleb, jumped into the waves, and the sound of his laughter mixed with the sounds of the rain and the wind and the crashing of the waves and they began to laugh too, and it was better than any symphony they had not been allowed to hear because of their brokenness.
mood music
Atana peered out from behind the door, watching as the angels spread their wings and threw themselves into the sky. It was a powerful sight, and she closed her eyes and imagined for just a minute that she was one of them. She could almost feel the wind beneath her, supporting her weight like water in a pond, buoying her to new heights.
She opened her eyes again and watched as the symphony disappeared into the distance. They had an important mission – there was a war being waged down on earth and the humans had called for aid. The angels had gone to answer their prayers.
Atana waited until she was sure they had gone and then ran out to stand in the courtyard, her white robe catching at her legs, doing its best to trip her. She stood in the circle of their dust and reached upwards, wanting to join them. If only it were that easy.
“What are you doing out here?”
She turned to find her teacher behind her, his features pensive and yet still managing to be stern.
“I wanted to watch them fly.” Atana stared at her mentor’s wings as she said it, seeing how they folded in perfect lines behind his shoulders. “Metarius, do you think I’ll ever be able to fly with them?”
She held her breath, waiting for his response, her heartbeat cresting in her chest.
“Why do you do this to yourself?”
Atana’s face fell. “I just want to fly with them.”
“You need to face the facts. You’re never going to be one of them. You’re never going to be able to fly. You need to accept that and move on. There’s plenty of other things you can do to pull your weight.”
The tears that had built in Atana’s heart began to escape her eyes and roll down her cheeks. “I’m not broken.” She said. “I’m not.”
“Atana-”
She didn’t want to listen anymore. She couldn’t. She turned from him and ran. She ran with no destination in her mind, just the sensation that clutched at her chest, the need to escape, to get away, to be anywhere but there.
She ran until she could run no more, until her legs could not hold her and she tripped, falling hard to the ground. She knelt there for a moment and then crawled her way over to the pond to stare at her own reflection.
“I’m not broken.” She whispered, but now that she was alone she could feel the ache in her heart that contradicted her words.
Staring at her reflection, she spread her wings, wincing as she felt the tendons stretch and protest. She bit her lip to keep from crying out at the pain of the movements, and finally, when her wings were stretched out as much as she could get them, she stared at them through her reflection, through the miasma of her emotions, an inky turmoil of thought.
She knew the truth, even if she didn’t want to accept it. These twisted things on her back could never be called wings. She would never be able to fly with the others. She was broken, and she would always be that way. She would never be able to fly.
Did she even deserve to call herself an angel?
Atana peered out from behind the door, watching as the angels spread their wings and threw themselves into the sky. It was a powerful sight, and she closed her eyes and imagined for just a minute that she was one of them. She could almost feel the wind beneath her, supporting her weight like water in a pond, buoying her to new heights.
She opened her eyes again and watched as the symphony disappeared into the distance. They had an important mission – there was a war being waged down on earth and the humans had called for aid. The angels had gone to answer their prayers.
Atana waited until she was sure they had gone and then ran out to stand in the courtyard, her white robe catching at her legs, doing its best to trip her. She stood in the circle of their dust and reached upwards, wanting to join them. If only it were that easy.
“What are you doing out here?”
She turned to find her teacher behind her, his features pensive and yet still managing to be stern.
“I wanted to watch them fly.” Atana stared at her mentor’s wings as she said it, seeing how they folded in perfect lines behind his shoulders. “Metarius, do you think I’ll ever be able to fly with them?”
She held her breath, waiting for his response, her heartbeat cresting in her chest.
“Why do you do this to yourself?”
Atana’s face fell. “I just want to fly with them.”
“You need to face the facts. You’re never going to be one of them. You’re never going to be able to fly. You need to accept that and move on. There’s plenty of other things you can do to pull your weight.”
The tears that had built in Atana’s heart began to escape her eyes and roll down her cheeks. “I’m not broken.” She said. “I’m not.”
“Atana-”
She didn’t want to listen anymore. She couldn’t. She turned from him and ran. She ran with no destination in her mind, just the sensation that clutched at her chest, the need to escape, to get away, to be anywhere but there.
She ran until she could run no more, until her legs could not hold her and she tripped, falling hard to the ground. She knelt there for a moment and then crawled her way over to the pond to stare at her own reflection.
“I’m not broken.” She whispered, but now that she was alone she could feel the ache in her heart that contradicted her words.
Staring at her reflection, she spread her wings, wincing as she felt the tendons stretch and protest. She bit her lip to keep from crying out at the pain of the movements, and finally, when her wings were stretched out as much as she could get them, she stared at them through her reflection, through the miasma of her emotions, an inky turmoil of thought.
She knew the truth, even if she didn’t want to accept it. These twisted things on her back could never be called wings. She would never be able to fly with the others. She was broken, and she would always be that way. She would never be able to fly.
Did she even deserve to call herself an angel?
mood music
Atana peered out from behind the door, watching as the angels spread their wings and threw themselves into the sky. It was a powerful sight, and she closed her eyes and imagined for just a minute that she was one of them. She could almost feel the wind beneath her, supporting her weight like water in a pond, buoying her to new heights.
She opened her eyes again and watched as the symphony disappeared into the distance. They had an important mission – there was a war being waged down on earth and the humans had called for aid. The angels had gone to answer their prayers.
Atana waited until she was sure they had gone and then ran out to stand in the courtyard, her white robe catching at her legs, doing its best to trip her. She stood in the circle of their dust and reached upwards, wanting to join them. If only it were that easy.
“What are you doing out here?”
She turned to find her teacher behind her, his features pensive and yet still managing to be stern.
“I wanted to watch them fly.” Atana stared at her mentor’s wings as she said it, seeing how they folded in perfect lines behind his shoulders. “Metarius, do you think I’ll ever be able to fly with them?”
She held her breath, waiting for his response, her heartbeat cresting in her chest.
“Why do you do this to yourself?”
Atana’s face fell. “I just want to fly with them.”
“You need to face the facts. You’re never going to be one of them. You’re never going to be able to fly. You need to accept that and move on. There’s plenty of other things you can do to pull your weight.”
The tears that had built in Atana’s heart began to escape her eyes and roll down her cheeks. “I’m not broken.” She said. “I’m not.”
“Atana-”
She didn’t want to listen anymore. She couldn’t. She turned from him and ran. She ran with no destination in her mind, just the sensation that clutched at her chest, the need to escape, to get away, to be anywhere but there.
She ran until she could run no more, until her legs could not hold her and she tripped, falling hard to the ground. She knelt there for a moment and then crawled her way over to the pond to stare at her own reflection.
“I’m not broken.” She whispered, but now that she was alone she could feel the ache in her heart that contradicted her words.
Staring at her reflection, she spread her wings, wincing as she felt the tendons stretch and protest. She bit her lip to keep from crying out at the pain of the movements, and finally, when her wings were stretched out as much as she could get them, she stared at them through her reflection, through the miasma of her emotions, an inky turmoil of thought.
She knew the truth, even if she didn’t want to accept it. These twisted things on her back could never be called wings. She would never be able to fly with the others. She was broken, and she would always be that way. She would never be able to fly.
Did she even deserve to call herself an angel?
Atana peered out from behind the door, watching as the angels spread their wings and threw themselves into the sky. It was a powerful sight, and she closed her eyes and imagined for just a minute that she was one of them. She could almost feel the wind beneath her, supporting her weight like water in a pond, buoying her to new heights.
She opened her eyes again and watched as the symphony disappeared into the distance. They had an important mission – there was a war being waged down on earth and the humans had called for aid. The angels had gone to answer their prayers.
Atana waited until she was sure they had gone and then ran out to stand in the courtyard, her white robe catching at her legs, doing its best to trip her. She stood in the circle of their dust and reached upwards, wanting to join them. If only it were that easy.
“What are you doing out here?”
She turned to find her teacher behind her, his features pensive and yet still managing to be stern.
“I wanted to watch them fly.” Atana stared at her mentor’s wings as she said it, seeing how they folded in perfect lines behind his shoulders. “Metarius, do you think I’ll ever be able to fly with them?”
She held her breath, waiting for his response, her heartbeat cresting in her chest.
“Why do you do this to yourself?”
Atana’s face fell. “I just want to fly with them.”
“You need to face the facts. You’re never going to be one of them. You’re never going to be able to fly. You need to accept that and move on. There’s plenty of other things you can do to pull your weight.”
The tears that had built in Atana’s heart began to escape her eyes and roll down her cheeks. “I’m not broken.” She said. “I’m not.”
“Atana-”
She didn’t want to listen anymore. She couldn’t. She turned from him and ran. She ran with no destination in her mind, just the sensation that clutched at her chest, the need to escape, to get away, to be anywhere but there.
She ran until she could run no more, until her legs could not hold her and she tripped, falling hard to the ground. She knelt there for a moment and then crawled her way over to the pond to stare at her own reflection.
“I’m not broken.” She whispered, but now that she was alone she could feel the ache in her heart that contradicted her words.
Staring at her reflection, she spread her wings, wincing as she felt the tendons stretch and protest. She bit her lip to keep from crying out at the pain of the movements, and finally, when her wings were stretched out as much as she could get them, she stared at them through her reflection, through the miasma of her emotions, an inky turmoil of thought.
She knew the truth, even if she didn’t want to accept it. These twisted things on her back could never be called wings. She would never be able to fly with the others. She was broken, and she would always be that way. She would never be able to fly.
Did she even deserve to call herself an angel?