In the factory.

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His eyes were red and aching, he'd grown ill, tired of his regime. There was only so much he could take before his body would push back and tell him no more. He looked at his finger tips, the dye had stained them, the dye had infact stained up to his wrists. He took a strip of new cream cloth and with both hands pushed it down into the bubbling dye. As he pulled the cloth back out, droplets of dirty red dye falling from it, he wondered if he'd ever escape...
He wondered whether he would ever get out of the factory. He'd been here since he was young, he'd lost track of the days, months, the years, but he imagined it must have been a good 8 or 9 years ago. He was one of the more clever children in the factory, most lacking the ability to read, to write, to count. Most didn't even know there was anything outside of the factory, but he knew. He'd seen it once, on one of his first days. That was when he decided he wanted to be free, and from that day he pondered upon how his freedom would be won.
When he talked to the other children, when he talked about the outside, they stayed silent, they knew nothing about it. They were brought to the factory soon after birth and so they knew little different. They never had the capacity to question their being within the factory, because that was all they had ever seen. But going back to that one child, even his hair stained red with dye, he knew. He was 7, whether he remembers his age or not, and a man in a suit came to the factory. The boy hadn't met quota, was being punished in the offices. As the cane cracked upon his already bruised knuckles two large doors we're swung open, the first direct sunlight the boy had ever been subject to lit up the office. A man, of obvious importance strolled in, a large, well built man, on either side of himself. But the boy didn't care about the man.
His eyes were locked on the outside, the greens, the blues, colours he'd never seen, natural light, animals, a narrow dirt track leading to the doors, a large brown animal with wood attached too it and a man sat on the wood. His mind was blown. There were no blacks, no metal, no clanging. Birds sang, he didn't know what birds where but he could hear it. It was the heaven that he had once heard about. All his hopes and dreams were there.
The boy looked down to his knuckles, no longer bruised, or so he thought, the dye making it impossible to tell the colour of his skin. He stared at the pile of cloth to his left, it was mammoth, 90% of his daily quota, if he pushed himself he could do it. He did it every other day. But he wondered, what if he didn't. He'd get caned again, in the room with the doors, the doors to the outside. He could see the outside again. So the boy didn't dye the cloth, he sat staring at the pile until the brutish floor supervisor came over and took hold of his wrist, dragging him into the offices. He didn't resist, a cunning smile stretching over his face.
The office was identical to how it had been all those years ago, the only change being the man in the chairs age. The boy looked to his right as he kneeled on the floor, the doors still there, a hole in one letting through a bright light. The boy could wait no more. He stood tall, and with an explosion of energy which he had never before experienced he ran towards the doors, his body pushed them open, swinging to each side. From there the boy ran, not stopping until he was deep in the trees, no sight of the factory, the supervisor. The colours swallowed the child, the wind caressed him. The noises, the smells, the feeling of everything. The boy was in heaven, his freedom finally won.

~S

G - Garotte

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When I was young, relationships with other people were simple. I had my family, my peers and my friends. My friends were simply that - all were equal in my eyes. But after primary school and moving through adolescence, I realised that there were different degrees of friendship. There were those people who I would perhaps give a brief nod to in the corridor, and others with whom I would spend the whole of my school days if possible. Concerning some, it was as if the world had turned on its head. Some who I had been close to would not receive even a prolonged glance in their direction, although sometimes something stirred within to speak to them; I don't know why, maybe for fear of them forgetting me or not wanting to bother talking to me again.

However, as I noticed this, something was confirmed of which I had had a suspicion for a while. There were not just degrees, but there were different groups. In my life, there was and still are several. These groups are often united by their uniform interests in each other and other subjects; occasionally they stray from another group because they dislike a person in said group. I like to think of myself as a 'drifter'; alas, it is not always the case. I guess that some of my previous loyalty to my friends' attentions has made me believe that. There are some people whose friendships I neglect, and I feel bad because I don't spend enough time with them.

But, on the other side, there are always people in these groups who will say things about other friends which I disagree with. Things which, I'll be honest, sometimes make me rather angry or annoyed. The problem is, however, is that if I speak against them, then they will think I have betrayed their trust which usually is not the case. This makes me feel like my opinions are restricted, and my moral obligations to my friends mean that I cannot express myself fully.

I guess as a side-note I probably should mention interests which go beyond friendship. So far, there have been few who I have had these feelings for, and even less of those who I have succeeded in making my feelings known. Like many immersed in infatuation, it can be difficult to break away from 'that person'. And yes, I cannot say that these feelings do not influence my behaviours towards others. But we're all human, which is why I write this: we all make mistakes, but there is a fine line between that which happens as a result of mishap, and that which has its wheels deliberately set in motion. But I digress.

This is why I have called this piece of writing Garotte; speaking freely is no longer allowed. And thus the noose tightens.

>-S->

Cat.

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I wake in the sun.
It warms my back, and I stretch.
Stretch.
I feel the sun in my face, in my hair. It's warm.
I jump down from the window ledge, and as my feet hit the ground I properly wake.
Before that, the doziness of sunlight.
I pad across the tiles in search of food. I'm hungry, in that lazy, not-bothered fashion. 
My nose twitches. 
The sun still plays across my back - long fingers of light moving across room - and it feel it rubbing against my shoulders, a blanket of comfort.
I find no food in this room, so I move back towards the window ledge in the kitchen.
The tiles are a stark, cool contrast against the heat of the sun.
Once again I curl up, my ears settling against my head, my whiskers twitching in pre-sleep anticipation.
My tail flicks idly and I shut my eyes, imprints of the sun performing for the backs of my eyelids. 
The sun warms my fur,
And I sleep.
~H

A Higher Power

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The firmament shook as the hearts therein lost faith. What was once united fissioned, and the Earth's conciliatory counterpart vanished without trace. The substratum of creation tore as beings extraneous fought for control. Watching from within was he who had stood through all ages. From time immemorial had he surveyed existence, relating all he saw to a higher power. And he watched now, as the greedy forces wreaked havoc in their tumultuous scrap for ownership. And it was of this matter that he spoke to the higher power, requesting relief. For he was a watcher only, and could not interfere. The higher power had brought all into existence, the greedy forces in a moment of folly, as well as those of balance in an attempt to rectify the wrong resulting from his lack of judgement. A higher power though he was, perfection was not his nature, and as such, mistakes were still within his power to perform, unwittingly or otherwise. The watcher knew this, had seen this, and had counselled against this. But he was a watcher only, and could not interfere. The higher power listened to that which the watcher brought before him, and reflected upon it.
The watcher, having performed his duty, returned to within.
The ecumenical powers, of which the watcher was one, remained vigilant, eager to be aware despite their inability to act. Through the cosmos the avaricious entities rushed, consuming those hearts that despaired. Still, for each that was consumed, another was recovered as those that were created second, of whose power was harmony, spoke to the anguished hearts.
Yet the firmament continued to shake, and that which was torn asunder could never be fully restored. The watcher understood this, had seen it before. The higher power had been told, and he acted not.
So it was that the worlds created slowly lost faith, for no matter how valorous the attempt to restore balance, disharmony would inevitably win out.
The firmament shook, and crumbled, as the hearts therein lost faith. What was once united had fissioned, and that which had fissioned ruptured. The torn substratum of creation split further, as the ravenous powers overcame the accordant. Watching from within was he who had stood through all ages. And for the first, he wept, powerless as all that he loved sank into the mire of insatiable craving.
The higher power, once so elevated, once so revered by all, turned upon himself. He was no longer elevated, no longer revered. From the highest heights had he fallen, and to the deepest depths he fell, never to return.


~J.L.

The Siege: Part Two

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The giant wall I stood upon shook violently as the men ran at our home. Just as I pushed a ladder that rested against the wall, it tumbled away into the sea of humans, sending a man who was halfway up flying. I turn and parry the sword of a green dressed man behind me, follow up by kicking him in the knee so he loses his footing and thrust my blade through his chest. He screams and lands on the ground dead. I get a sour taste in my mouth as I know I’ll hear his screams in my next sleep.

Looking right towards the ballista I see my men engaged in fierce battle. They seem an equal fight for the enemy, which is bad due to the sheer amount of men they have, we needed to get off the wall. I begin to call out to them but I get cut off by a tall archer beside me, “Missile!” he shouted too late. A huge rock the size of ten men flew through the thick air and exploded in the middle of the wall. Shards of stone flew in every direction as I dived backwards to avoid the blast. Even more men screamed when the initial explosion receded, shouting out for aid because their legs were trapped or they needed help to retrieve someone. Standing up and wincing as my torso pained me I looked forwards at the damage. Most of the top of the sturdy wall was still standing but I could already see it cracking away at the pressure point. The boulder must have tore a hole in the lower half of the wall so there is nothing to hold up the top. I raced forward and shouted “Get off the wall!” at the top of my dry voice to which several of my respectful men obeyed. But still just less than half on my entire battalion were on the other side of the damage to the wall. “Run!” I commanded as two men seemingly jogged over to me. Mere seconds after, another six sprinted across. Suddenly the tremor returned as a second rock pelted into the already crippled wall and penetrated it; launching right out the other side and slowly rolling into the courtyard amongst the debris of our home’s first line of defence. A large chunk of the wall in front of me descended into the pit of attackers who were smashing chunks of it the wall away with bettering rams. Upon the wall as it fell were seven of my men, there eyes staring at me as they fell, longing just to be by my side, and feeling cheated by death as it stole their souls in such an easy way. This left a small proportion of my troops trapped on the other side of the now gaping hole in our wall. Roughly twenty; still fighting off enemy troops who seemed to have aimed their attacks to that side.

“Let’s go rescue our men!” I ordered and my twenty strong followed me down the staircase. As I stepped into the courtyard I noticed three things: A metallic taste in the air which I presumed was the thick stench of blood. Villagers fleeing as the enemy dogs poured into the courtyard via the hole in the wall. And more importantly, a large congregation of red and green soldiers mixed together, slashing, stabbing and shouting. “We need to go through them.” I stated as I turned to face my men. Continuing through the shocking looks I received from one or two I said, “We’ll move through as one impenetrable circle. All facing outwards with our shields in front of us. Agreed?” My men exchanged glances of determination, terror and violence.

“Let’s do it” confirmed a ginger-haired soldier, no more than nineteen years of age. War is a cruel act, I thought.

“Excellent” I exclaimed and turned to face the disarray of fighting men. “On me!” I added and trotted towards the bloodshed.

I pressed against a sturdy man on my left as the scared-looking fighter on my right pressed against me. Pushing our shield arms out-front we aggressively drove through the main body of the attacking group. Green garbed men bounced off our shields as we formed one single body. I occasionally stabbed my sword underneath my shield or over it at the men who refused to budge, I wounded one in the thigh, he fell to the floor and got trampled by our leather boots. Shifting my gaze to my right at the man, I noticed his posture was inefficient; he was unable to defend from high attacks. I was about to tell him when what I thought came true and a blood-stained spear rose above his seemingly useless shield and pushed through a gap in his chain mail above his shoulder. One single scream emanated from him, it was a sanity destroying scream that made every bone in every man shudder. He dropped to the ground and I had no choice to fill in the gap in our now flawed group. Another four men fell before we made it through the pack of fighting which seemed never ending, each one having their life torn from them by a soldier who was one of thousands of puppets controlled by the twisted King Rulf.

We continued up a different, yet identical set of stairs back onto the wall to rescue our men but when we got there, my emotions flipped upside down. Bodies. Everywhere. Mostly men dressed in the red tunics of Hungate. Over half of my soldiers had been slain. Rage aggressively pushed aside reason, emotion and any consideration for my being as I push my way backwards through my appalled men. I turned. “These men did not deserve to die.” I stated. “Each soldier fought for this grand castle and its worthy inhabitants, and in my eyes, each is worth a place next to the Great Lords throne. But now it is up to us. We are going to crush these desecrators into the ground that we walk on; we will grind them into the very depths of Hell with our swords and shields. Let us go face the devil.” I concluded. Turning my back on awed stares from my men, I descended the stairs into the fiery pits of Satan’s glorious bloodshed.

 

>G