Featured Work
Here we will showcase four of the best work published to the site each month. You can find previous Featured Work on the Forums
_Multiverse Games (Prologue) by Remnantgirl
_“All the contestants are here, as you commanded.” Spoke a small little creature, a mix of imp and satyr most likely.
“Thank you, Palin. Take your leave.” This voice belonged to a tall man with short gray hair, a streak of black in front. Golden eyes were looking out the window to the darkening sky. The demon fled. This man was Kamai, and he wasn’t human. Sharp fangs and pointed ears showed otherwise. He was a fallen angel, his wings cut off, and he still had the scars. He wore all black, some red and gold here and there, very fancy. Having been cut off from his former position, Kamai had since found himself his own way of running things. He’d long since formed a group of insane murderers known as the Solar Five Sisters; they were all girls. Now, he was bored yet again, thus bringing a new idea into mind. Instead of destroying worlds, why not have the important figures from different worlds fight it out. Kamai turned from the window and stepped outside of the office at the top of the stadium he had created, the best seat in the house, at least for him with his sharp eyesight. The people in the audience were many, more than he expected. If he was going to have fights, why not make it public? Thousands of people from the worlds of his contestants had arrived to see these people fight. When Kamai made his appearance, they cheered. For all they knew, he was just letting people have a little entertainment. He allowed them to think that. He raised an arm to quiet them down. “I see you are all very excited for this event.” Kamai said calmly, his voice still echoing across the stadium. “I have gathered here today a rather large number of contestants, fifty-two to be precise. All of them are ready and willing to fight.” He gestured to one of his servants down below. The demon pulled a lever and several different platforms began to rise, filling in the holes in the enormous round stage. The stage itself was a stone brown color, with contrasting neon blue lines flowing across it in a mechanical like pattern. There was a large gap between the edge of the stage and where the walls of the first stands were. As the different groups of contestants rose up, their friends from home cheered. The contestants themselves seemed confused. Once Kamai spoke again, their attention turned towards him. “Welcome, my friends, to the Multiverse Games!” | A Musician's War by Drag
_ Red blood flew into the air as Jake slid into cover. Bullets flew above
his head as his comrades were killed around him. He knew that breaking
the German defenses was going to be hard but not this hard. Thoughts
raced through his mind, things like never seeing his family again,
losing the war or even being forced to surrender and getting tortured
for the rest of his life. To calm himself he listened to the beat of the
men running onto the shore. His heart thumped as he came out of the
safety area of the sandbags and shot his rifle aimlessly. He quickly
ducked back down behind the cover. His rifle was jammed. After a few
minutes of wrestling with the gun he finally fixed it.
Jake took a deep breath before climbing over the sandbags and firing his gun then rushing to a trench that the Allies had cleared out. Crouching down in the trench Jake listened to the steady rhythm of the guns. It was almost like a piano song a musician was trying to learn. You have to listen to the song before you can memorize it. Artillery pounded the battle field as Jake figured out where the pauses were in the barrage of bullets. Throwing himself out of the trench he ran to another collection of sandbags. He was sure he had it memorized as he fired his gun of at some of the Germans. Behind the cover Jake reloaded his gun without a mistake. Popping in and out of cover he lessened the amount of opposing enemies. It seemed he had become a master musician at this song of warfare. But even a master musician can make mistakes; and even one mistake could mess up the whole song. It was his chance; he could finish this piano song amazingly. He rushed out of his cover pulling one of his grenades from his belt. He had pressed the wrong key. He could feel the song crumbling apart as a bullet pierced through his body. Falling to the ground the song had come to a complete stop. There was no more steady beat, no more colorful music. Just silence. |
In the Surf by Cross
_ A long time ago, I lived in a town called Bonita Springs on the west
coast of Florida, facing the Gulf of Mexico. I was only a fifteen minute
bike ride from the white sandy beaches and lived next to a canal. The
smell of the sweet salty air clung to my clothes along with the softener
my mother used. The smell always takes me back there, when life was
simple and easy, playing in the sunshine with the kids across the
street, visiting my grandmother, who lived almost next to us; not a care
in the world. I was only ten then, short with sun bleached and almost
white hair hanging just over my ears. My hazel eyes would sparkle in the
sunshine as I stared out over the water. I was a well tan lad and very
fit, I could outrun most everything on the beach, and would occasionally
race the small flocks of sandpipers that would wander through the thin
surf, picking at mollusks and small beach dwelling critters.
It was on one of the days I’d ridden my bike to the beach, that this story takes place. It was sunny and warm, at least ninety degrees; which was unusual for the more mild winter of the western coast of Florida. My brother and a friend across the street, to be my first girlfriend in two years, came along. We rode slowly and leisurely in the heat of the afternoon, the sun beating down on the blacktop of the rough old roads. We passed many smaller dwellings, most not higher than a story; the more expensive houses were further down the streets we passed through. We chatted and laughed happily, crossing a huge bridge, fishermen leaning against ‘NO FISHING’ signs as they tried to haul up the large fish they’d snagged.
As we made it to the beach, a small breeze picked up, tossing spray from the already tall waves, into the air, sparkling like so many tiny diamonds. The wind tussled our hair as we sat out on the almost deserted beach, the powdery white sand, as thin as flour, squashing itself between our toes. After only ten or so minutes of the relaxing silence, only interrupted by the coarse calls of seagulls and the crash of the large waves, I stood and stretched.
“I’m going in!” I said, and dashed forward, as fast as my legs could carry me, and dove into an oncoming wave, crashing through and out the other side. Pumping my arms hard, I crested the next wave, the behemoth swells of water at least three or four feet high. I swam for at least five minutes before my feet touched down on soft sand under the surface of the water, the waves diminished to lap lazily at my waist as I emerged onto a long sand bar that was frequently easy to get to at the lower tide. Stretching, I turned to see my brother emerge from the surf behind me, at least a head shorter than me and two years younger. He wasn’t as thin as I was, but his hair and eyes were the same color as mine.
Far away on the beach, I could see our friend, waving from shore. I waved back, but her waving became more frantic and I realized something was wrong. Quickly, I did a three sixty, looking for whatever was worrying her, my brother picking at shells on the gulf floor. Then I spotted it, almost half a mile down the beach, a small group of people were running about frantically, I could see a few girls in bikinis crying as who I presumed to be their fathers tried to comfort them. At last, I spotted a person’s head as it crested a wave, close to as far out as I was, but much further down the beach. With a pang of fear, I realized it was a small child, not more than five years old, her life jacket barely keeping her above the rough surf.
I yelled for my brother to get to shore and dove into the water, kicking hard as I made my way toward the child. It was rough going; I was swimming against the tide, trying to sweep me back down the beach, huge waves crashed over my head, submerging me one moment, my head popping above the surface the next. After what seemed like ages, my limbs grew weary and I was about to give up when I heard a faint cry. Treading water, I kicked upward at the next wave, coming higher than any around me to look around.
Only ten yards away bobbed the child, his face contorted into a mask of fear distorting the young girl’s face. Taking a deep breath, I dove beneath the surface of the greenish blue water, the salt and turned up sand stinging my eyes as I struck out, my lungs easily holding enough air to stay under. Then, from before me, appeared the body of the child, her legs kicking hard against the water. Her struggles were weak and sluggish though, and I knew she was tired. Kicking hard, I came to the surface next to her, her crying of fear paused for a moment as she saw me bobbing there next to her before a wave landed on us both, plunging me deep underwater, the girl’s life jacket holding her closer to the surface.
Reaching out, I grabbed the back of the jacket and began pulling her toward shore, struggling to swim with one tired arm, the weight of the child being towed behind me. Fortunately, we were going with the waves and I swam, if not with ease, toward the now distant shore. After almost ten minutes of strenuous swimming, I could feel the sand with the tips of my toes, but I kept swimming, hauling the still screaming girl behind me. Finally, a large man appeared from the side and grabbed the girl, hoisting her out of the waist deep water. I stood slowly, my legs weak from the effort I’d exerted.
I stumbled up the soft beach and flopped down on my towel, my brother was there waiting for me. Sitting up slowly, I looked around, my vision blurry as my eyes stung from the salt water. The large group of people was around us, they thanked me repeatedly, patting me on the back and offering me water. After twenty or so minutes, the large family, there on vacation from Maine, left the beach, leaving me alone with my brother and our friend. Happily, I got up after resting, and we rode our bikes home, there, I collapsed into a lawn chair in the back yard, looking out over the murky water of the canal, a huge weeping willow hanging over the surface, its tendrils touching the water every so often in the breeze, sending out a dozen tiny ripples.
It was later, when my brother war retelling the story that I realized that I’d been gone for twenty minutes after I left the sandbar and my brother. I like to figure I was at least a mile out in the gulf when I caught up to the child, though I know it wasn’t near so far. Now, at the age of seventeen, I help teach children water rescue and sailing for the Sea Scouts organization.
It was on one of the days I’d ridden my bike to the beach, that this story takes place. It was sunny and warm, at least ninety degrees; which was unusual for the more mild winter of the western coast of Florida. My brother and a friend across the street, to be my first girlfriend in two years, came along. We rode slowly and leisurely in the heat of the afternoon, the sun beating down on the blacktop of the rough old roads. We passed many smaller dwellings, most not higher than a story; the more expensive houses were further down the streets we passed through. We chatted and laughed happily, crossing a huge bridge, fishermen leaning against ‘NO FISHING’ signs as they tried to haul up the large fish they’d snagged.
As we made it to the beach, a small breeze picked up, tossing spray from the already tall waves, into the air, sparkling like so many tiny diamonds. The wind tussled our hair as we sat out on the almost deserted beach, the powdery white sand, as thin as flour, squashing itself between our toes. After only ten or so minutes of the relaxing silence, only interrupted by the coarse calls of seagulls and the crash of the large waves, I stood and stretched.
“I’m going in!” I said, and dashed forward, as fast as my legs could carry me, and dove into an oncoming wave, crashing through and out the other side. Pumping my arms hard, I crested the next wave, the behemoth swells of water at least three or four feet high. I swam for at least five minutes before my feet touched down on soft sand under the surface of the water, the waves diminished to lap lazily at my waist as I emerged onto a long sand bar that was frequently easy to get to at the lower tide. Stretching, I turned to see my brother emerge from the surf behind me, at least a head shorter than me and two years younger. He wasn’t as thin as I was, but his hair and eyes were the same color as mine.
Far away on the beach, I could see our friend, waving from shore. I waved back, but her waving became more frantic and I realized something was wrong. Quickly, I did a three sixty, looking for whatever was worrying her, my brother picking at shells on the gulf floor. Then I spotted it, almost half a mile down the beach, a small group of people were running about frantically, I could see a few girls in bikinis crying as who I presumed to be their fathers tried to comfort them. At last, I spotted a person’s head as it crested a wave, close to as far out as I was, but much further down the beach. With a pang of fear, I realized it was a small child, not more than five years old, her life jacket barely keeping her above the rough surf.
I yelled for my brother to get to shore and dove into the water, kicking hard as I made my way toward the child. It was rough going; I was swimming against the tide, trying to sweep me back down the beach, huge waves crashed over my head, submerging me one moment, my head popping above the surface the next. After what seemed like ages, my limbs grew weary and I was about to give up when I heard a faint cry. Treading water, I kicked upward at the next wave, coming higher than any around me to look around.
Only ten yards away bobbed the child, his face contorted into a mask of fear distorting the young girl’s face. Taking a deep breath, I dove beneath the surface of the greenish blue water, the salt and turned up sand stinging my eyes as I struck out, my lungs easily holding enough air to stay under. Then, from before me, appeared the body of the child, her legs kicking hard against the water. Her struggles were weak and sluggish though, and I knew she was tired. Kicking hard, I came to the surface next to her, her crying of fear paused for a moment as she saw me bobbing there next to her before a wave landed on us both, plunging me deep underwater, the girl’s life jacket holding her closer to the surface.
Reaching out, I grabbed the back of the jacket and began pulling her toward shore, struggling to swim with one tired arm, the weight of the child being towed behind me. Fortunately, we were going with the waves and I swam, if not with ease, toward the now distant shore. After almost ten minutes of strenuous swimming, I could feel the sand with the tips of my toes, but I kept swimming, hauling the still screaming girl behind me. Finally, a large man appeared from the side and grabbed the girl, hoisting her out of the waist deep water. I stood slowly, my legs weak from the effort I’d exerted.
I stumbled up the soft beach and flopped down on my towel, my brother was there waiting for me. Sitting up slowly, I looked around, my vision blurry as my eyes stung from the salt water. The large group of people was around us, they thanked me repeatedly, patting me on the back and offering me water. After twenty or so minutes, the large family, there on vacation from Maine, left the beach, leaving me alone with my brother and our friend. Happily, I got up after resting, and we rode our bikes home, there, I collapsed into a lawn chair in the back yard, looking out over the murky water of the canal, a huge weeping willow hanging over the surface, its tendrils touching the water every so often in the breeze, sending out a dozen tiny ripples.
It was later, when my brother war retelling the story that I realized that I’d been gone for twenty minutes after I left the sandbar and my brother. I like to figure I was at least a mile out in the gulf when I caught up to the child, though I know it wasn’t near so far. Now, at the age of seventeen, I help teach children water rescue and sailing for the Sea Scouts organization.