Beyond Dominia: The Fiction Mill: Time

By Spin13 (Spin13) on Monday, December 10, 2001 - 10:44 pm:

Please note that this has not been grammar checked between its paper form and the current typed version. Its more a matter of spelling and small mistakes, although feel free to comment on any larger mistakes.

The Title is "Time" and it is a revision of yet another Freshman year work.

Everywhere you looked there was blood. There was carnage, and there was death. Helmets and battered swords lay scattered across the trampled fields. The grass cried out for forgiveness; the pools of blood offered none. ONe body, torn from shoulder to shoulder, took one last breath of foul air before shuddering intot he black slip of death. ANtoher corpse lay half-covered by another's dented shield. Frayed cloth covered the face, but still youcould see the boy's death. Blood flowed through golden hair, long and fair, a red halo for this one holy soldier. You're not so holy when you lie there in a puddle of your own blood, ripping at the grass, as if by it, clenched between your whiten fists, you could keep yourself to this earth. You're not so holy when you are dead.

Sword hit sowrd, and the sound of axes slapping into flesh filled the air. A few more men felt their bones break, a few more fel to the ground. Ecah man felt Death glide overhead, and each man found Chaos beside him. With each stroke, the other side was winning; with each stroke, another brother died. A bruised soldier toiled over the bodies of to many other men clad in green. Banners of deep navy tumbled to the ground as men drew steel to save themselves from the onslaught, to defend those they had just seen die. One step was met by twenty jabbing thrusts. A blade found a victim and another friend fell. Thunder rose from wounds as a man's soul fled its battered temple, and the body slid off the sword to join the dead.

They ran towards each other, proud roars int heir throats. Each man was a hero, each man promised himself he would not die. The sun caught the waves of ikes and glinted sharply off this manufactured death. Two herds of maddended beasts stampeded across the same field. The mey as the sun showed noon. Men became liquid. They mingled, a swarming ocean of bright green and navy. Battle-horns called out above the din, echoed each other, and were ignored. Ecah man was detemined to win for his country, his lord, and his god. Had they only been fighting for life. This field would long have been sown with seed rather than twisted bone. For naught, screams rang out. Blood splattered like foam on a wave's crest.

A long column marched by a small grove of trees, the white of the bark far lighter than any man's tan. They walked briskly, proud green shirts covering shining mail. A canopy of steeled threw barred shade down upon these men as they lifted their weapons to the sky. The path, well travelled and broad, was lined with flowers, and beyond them, slight ridges in the earth. The path slowly washing into the nothingness of a green, speckled meadow. Flowers bloomed here, too, opening themselves to the sun. A young swordsman, near the rear of the column, bent to smell one such flower. He was a farmer's boy, no older than sixteen. The crucifix on this shoulder was covered by hair, long and fair.


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