I dart around a corner, pressing myself up against the closest wall beyond it, seeking refuge to catch my breath. To rest.

My breathing is labored, my throat burns. Dizziness from both over-stressing my physical limit and the wound I sustained is present; I struggle to focus.

A gash in my side, from the graze of a bullet, sends ripples of tormenting pain through my sweating body; I can feel the blood oozing out from it, soaking my shirt, turning the once green fabric crimson red.

My hair is a matted, sweaty mess. My hands shake with stress, my heart pounds with fear.

Cold beads of sweat enter my mouth as I gasp for air. I try to slow my breathing, control it, but to no avail.

“Please stop running,” A calm, beautiful female voice suddenly rings out, sending a shock of fear through me; paralyzing me where I sit, leaned up against the wall. I know that voice; I know who it belongs to. “I only want to protect you, to help you.”

The voice is emanating from the hallway I had just recently exited. She’s coming for me, hunting me, and her soldiers are undoubtedly not far behind.

I shakily grip the auto-pistol that was stuffed into my right pocket, slowly pulling it partway out. It is stained with blood; my blood.

The gash in my side will eventually lead to my bleeding to death, and it won’t matter if she catches me. I need to stop it, but I first need to escape.

“I know you are wounded, and I want to help you. If you come with me, we can save your life.” She says,  her voice closer than before. She’s coming nearer, closer to finding me.

I grip the pistol tighter, my pointer finger now on the trigger; prepared to pull it if so necessary.

I can feel the strength slowly leaving my weakening body, more blood leaving my vanes every second. Every moment that goes by, is one moment closer to death.

I have to act, use what strength I have left to escape and find help. She isn’t an option. It was because of one of her soldiers I now have this wound, the wound that is slowly killing me.

“I don’t want you to die; you are too valuable for that. Please, show yourself, let me help you.” She continues to coax calmly, her voice indicating that she is almost to me. About to reach me.

My heart beats quicker than I thought possible, I feel more fear than I have ever experienced.

I hear her footsteps mere feet away. She will find me in moments.

My probability of escaping is extremely slim, and it continues to diminish with every passing moment, my life going with it.

I hear her footsteps stop. My heart stops with them.

She is just beyond the area in which she would be able to spot me. Just inches from it.

I hold my breath, cold beads of sweat drip from my face. Both my hands now have a death-grip on the blood-stained auto-pistol, which is now completely out of my pocket.

I can stay here, motionless, and hope that she does not move any closer; or I can act, use the weapon entrusted to me and attempt escape.

I am wounded, dying, and there is no one I know of who can assist me for miles. Hope is slipping farther and farther away…

Do I have anything to lose at this point?

Hello everyone!

This is my contest entry for Ben’s challenge. I wrote it up today (9/2/12) after obtaining an idea for it this morning.

I don’t know how good it is (I’ve never entered a writing contest before), but I thought I’d give it a try!

I know it was in the challenge rules to include a page of a different project we’ve been working on, but, due to certain complications, I’m not going to be able to fulfill that part of the challenge. I apologize to Ben for this fact, and if I do not qualify, I understand.

Anyways, without another word not pertaining to my entry, my contest entry!:

The bright, LED headlights of my truck illuminate the dirt and sand ground before me, giving me the light I need to be able to drive off-road in this pitch-black night.

Though, I know this area so well that I might not even need my headlights. I’ve driven it so many times, this long trek from the nearest town to collect supplies, to the secluded place I call home.

The wide range of light from my headlights is still appreciated, I fear I would unwittingly broadside or ram one of the innumerable stone spires that give this place character, even after how long I’ve been driving this route.

I hear, can almost feel, and see the sand and dirt kicking up from the tires of my truck; creating dust clouds and throwing small stones. Erasing any sign of the car wash I had taken the truck through hours ago.

But hey, what could I expect? This is the South Dakota Badlands, after all.

The GPS console fitted into my truck suddenly beeps, notifying me that I am within a hundred yards of my home. I press a button above the console in response, instantly sending a message to the computer system of my home to activate the outside lights.

It obeys, and a split-second later, the outside lights flicker on, eliminating the cloak of darkness that had been hiding my home.

My home, though inelegant, will always be a jewel to me.

It’s basically a huge, massive garage, built to house and give me a space to build and work on my creations. It is outfitted and stocked with pretty much any and everything I could need for what I do. It doesn’t have an upper-floor, due mostly to what I house in it, but it does, however, have a number of underground levels, some of which I use for mass-storage.

And when I say ‘mass-storage’, I mean mass-storage. 

I pull my truck up next to the massive garage, put it in park, take out the key, and then exit.

I casually walk back to my trucks large bed, in which is the supplies I obtained at town many hours ago. The supplies are, in majority, items to assist in my building. Mostly consisting of special parts and a certain AEF (Advanced Energy Filter).

I open up the truck bed, take out a few bags, and then head for the average-sized door of my home. (Let’s just say I have a few non-average-sized doors.)

The door is locked, as I always make sure it is before leaving, and I stop to unlock it.

“2056-1134-7607” I say, unlocking the door by voice command.

It buzzes, and then automatically opens, giving me way into the air-conditioned interior of my home.

I walk in, the door automatically closing behind me.

“Lights.” I say plainly, and the interior is suddenly bathed in the bright LED light emanating from the overhead fixtures.

The light reveals the interior, and I once again let out a sigh of satisfaction as I gaze at the twelve battle machines (positioned along the walls to the left and right of me) that are some of my greatest creations.

They are Mechs, or more specifically, Battle Mechs.

Hello, all.

Tonight I decided to post something to the group. I found it amusing to read again, and thought perhaps you would, too. It was my attempt a few years ago at a children’s story. 🙂 This will be a very infrequent occurrence, as I really want this site to be for content posted by members of the young writers group—which I am not. (That whole “young” part…)

However… I hope you’ll enjoy the tale of Mortimer The Frog.

On a day like this, the bog is the best place to be. Everything is so quiet and still, all that you hear are the tiny bugs flying lazily from place to place before they land right in a hungry frog’s belly. Yes, the life of a frog is really quite good.

But sometimes, even the best frogs make mistakes. And sometimes those mistakes hurt! That’s what happened to Mortimer. We’ll call him Mort, for short.

Mortimer was the oldest of three little froglets. He had a younger Brother Frog and a younger Sister Frog. They all lived in the bog together, enjoying the quiet and eating as many bugs as they could catch with their nice long tongues.

But Mort felt like he wanted to do more. He liked his life with his Mom Frog and his Dad Frog, and his Brother and Sister Frogs, but sometimes he wished his Mom Frog or his Dad Frog wouldn’t always tell him what not to do. They always had something to say to him like, “Mort, don’t jump on those flowers!” or, “Mort, don’t go too far from the bog!” or, “Watch out, Mort! That is a slippery log!”

Mort got tired of always listening to his Mom Frog and his Dad Frog. He was tired of being a good example for his baby Brother and Sister Frogs. So one day, he decided to see what would happen if he didn’t listen to what his Mom Frog had said.

“Don’t go past that log over there, Mort. You need to stay on this side of the log in the bog.”

All Mort could think about after his Mom Frog said that was what might be on the other side of that log? What could it be that worried his Mom Frog so? It couldn’t be that bad, now could it?

When Mom Frog was tending to the other froglets, Mort took a chance and hopped as quietly as he could over to the log.

Flop-Plop. Flop-Plop.

It was a big log. It was covered with slippery moss. It was even hollow to explore on the end. It looked like a lot of fun to Mort! What could be so dangerous?

So Mort poked his head in the log and found some delicious looking bugs crawling around. With a few swift shots of his tongue, he found himself a nice afternoon snack! This was the life! Out on his own, doing what he wanted, eating bugs no one else knew about… what more could a young frog want?

After he had explored every nook and cranny of that hollowed out log, he hopped outside again and thought, “I wonder what is on the other side of this log? It couldn’t be the bad now, could it?”

Once again, he decided that his Mom Frog must be thinking about something else. This all seems so good and so fun! He knew she loved him, so she would want him to have fun. “She just didn’t know that the log was perfectly fine!” Mort thought, “There’s no danger here! I’ll hop around the other side and tell her all about it when I get back! She’ll be so happy for all the fun that I have had!”

So on he hopped. Past the corner of the hollowed out log. Past the confines of their quaint little bog. No one there, just Mortimer Frog.

Just then he heard a strange voice say, “Hellooo there! What a surprise to see such a nice young frog on this side of the log outside of the bog!”

When Mort turned around, he saw a big friendly snake, wearing a grin.

“My Mom Frog told me I shouldn’t go out here, but it seemed to me to be not only safe, but great fun as well! And I know my Mom Frog wants me to have fun…” Mort said it almost as though he was convincing himself that he was right.

“Oh yessss,” came the happy snake’s reply. “Mom Frogs sometimes just don’t know what’s on the other side of the log outside the bog. If they knew, they would definitely want their young frogs to be out here having fun! That’s what we do on this side of the log!”

“I can see! I have had so many delicious bugs, and explored places I never knew were there! What a great day!”

“And all because you decided for yourself, and went your own way, instead of listening to your Mom Frog, and what she had to say,” offered the sly snake.

“Why don’t you come over here and let me show you some more fun things on this side of the log?” invited the still grinning snake.

“Sure!” said Mort. He was so excited about his adventures on his own, he wasn’t even thinking at all about what his Mom Frog had warned about going past the log outside the bog.

The snake went down the hill a bit, past another log, “It’s not far now,” he said, and stopped at the edge of a big rock.

“Come over here, there’s something I want to show you.” said the snake, with his wide, scaly grin.

Mort happily hopped to the edge of the rock. He was so free! His choices were his own! His Mom Frog and Dad Frog would be so proud when he got home!

But as Mort reached the edge of that rock past the log that was outside the bog, he learned the reason his Mom Frog had said, “Don’t go past that log over there, Mort. You need to stay on this side of the log in the bog.”

Mort did not know what his Mom Frog had known. Outside the bog, on the other side of the log, are the snakes. Snakes who eat frogs.

The snake still wore his grin, as he slithered away. He had a belly full of Frog that day. That sly snake was mighty happy the day that Mortimer Frog decided to do things his way!

Generally, I don’t hold grudges against jelly doughnuts. But then again, jelly doughnuts don’t generally attack me when I reach into the case to pick one out.

I bet that sounded pretty crazy to you, so let me back up and give you some backstory.

The day of that fateful doughnut attack was a perfectly normal Thursday. It was the middle of July, so I could spend my morning however I liked without worrying about school. On this perfectly normal Thursday morning, I woke up realizing how desperately I needed a jelly doughnut. So, without further ado, I mounted my bike and headed to the nearest Dunkin Donuts.

When I arrived, all sweaty and breathing heavy from my ride, I was horrified to find that the store was closed for repairs. Water main breakage. Typical. For a minute, I was really annoyed that they were closed. I mean, I’d be totally willing to wade through a few feet of water for a doughnut. But then I thought of how sad and gross wet doughnuts would be, so I headed off for the next nearest place I could satisfy my doughnut craving.

So that’s how I ended up at Wal-Mart that Thursday morning, nearly dead of doughnut deprivation. I was salivating on my way into the store, just thinking of all the powdered sugar goodness waiting for me. There were a bunch of people gathered around the doughnut case, peering through the plastic distrustfully. I didn’t have time to wonder why all these full grown adults were glaring suspiciously at doughnuts. I pushed my way past them, and, armed with a one of those little plastic doughnut tissues, reached into the case.

That was when a powdered jelly doughnut leaped up from its tray and flew at my face.

Needless to say, this was not a normal turn of events, and it caught me by surprise. I fell onto my butt with an undignified shriek, protecting my face from the sugary villain flying straight at me. It never hit me, though, because all the adults crowded around the doughnut case pushed in front of me and began demolishing any doughnuts within reach. I thought this a bit unnecessarily violent. After all, were the glazed doughnuts to blame for the misbehaving of the jelly ones?

The jelly doughnut in question was hovering some ten feet in the air, revolving slowly. Truthfully, that was even more disturbing than the flying at my face bit. I stood and brushed myself off, deciding that perhaps a bowl of Frosted Flakes would satisfy my craving after all. And considering I was seeing flying doughnuts, maybe a trip to the doctor’s office would be in order as well.

I had barely made it two steps when the jelly doughnut turned my way and released a flurry of tiny missiles.

“Grenade!” shouted one of the doughnut-demolishing adults, and the entire group of them dove under various displays, bracing themselves for impact.

It was at that moment that I concluded I must be dreaming.

So, instead of running, I stood my ground. Powdered sugar grenades would be just the thing to wake me up from this nightmare.

I definitely did not wake up. Instead, I watched as the entire baked goods section blew up around me. One pin-head sized grenade landed at my feet, and the following explosion blasted me halfway into the produce department. As a display of oranges collapsed under me, I noted that I was most certainly experiencing real-life pain, and not the dream variety.

I had little time to consider this, however, because the jelly doughnut was headed my way again, looking decidedly sinister. I considered my options, and decided that a full sprint would be the most successful course of action. I picked myself up from the orange mess and took off down the next aisle.

I would like to take a moment for you to fully realize just how insane that scene appeared. A kid, covered in the guts of oranges, running full pelt down the grocery department, pursued by a flying jelly doughnut shooting grenades.

Insane. Completely insane.  I realized that as I dashed down the aisles, and momentarily debated asking a nearby associate to drive me to the mental hospital. But stopping would allow the doughnut to catch up, and I couldn’t risk that.

I was nearly out of the grocery section when an associate stepped in my path, pulling a large cart of hot dog packages. I couldn’t stop fast enough, and smashed into the cart, sprawling on the floor. I took advantage of my newfound, processed meat weapons, and hurled a few packages at the impending doughnut. That bought me enough time to regain my footing and venture out of the grocery department in search of a real weapon.

The next few seconds were a blur. I think it was the stress of the situation. But somehow, I ended up on the other end of the store, in the sporting goods section. I paused to watch the jelly doughnut blow up a few basketball displays, debating my next move. Stand and fight? Or run?

Considering I was panting for breath and had a cramp blossoming in my side, I decided on the former option. (I’d appreciate if you didn’t comment on my out-of-shape physique. It’s my doughnut cravings. Don’t judge me.) I headed down the nearest aisle, which happened to be the fishing one, and selected my weapon.

Now armed with a long fishing rod, I braced myself for the forthcoming battle.

As soon as the jelly doughnut rounded the corner, I leapt forward with what I estimated to be a ferocious growl and a fierce glare. The doughnut didn’t seem all that impressed, especially when the fishing pole swished past it harmlessly. It loosed a few more missiles in my direction, which resulted in me flailing wildly in panic.

Thankfully, my flailing resulted in my first bit of luck all morning. The fishing rod impaled the doughnut squarely, and all missile firing ceased instantly. I watched curiously as the doughnut began emitting thick black smoke, and I examined it more closely.

There appeared to be circuits inside the doughnut. Now, I understand there are all sorts of ingredients in Wal-Mart doughnuts that are unpronounceable, but this seemed a bit ridiculous. I certainly couldn’t remember eating a doughnut with metal innards before. This, naturally, led to the assumption that this jelly doughnut was one of a kind.

While I was pondering this new turn of events, I realized that all the doughnut-destroying adults had caught up to me and were approaching warily.

“Excuse me,” said one of the adults, brushing sprinkles from his jacket sleeve. “We need that doughnut.” He plucked the impaled doughnut from my fishing pole and stuffed it in one of his pockets.

I was a bit peeved, to say the least. After all, I was the killer of the doughnut-machine, and I wanted to celebrate my victory a little while longer. But the man gave me a stern glare, so I set down my fishing pole with a sigh.

“Thank you for your efforts,” said the man. “Your actions have deterred a national catastrophe.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, feeling a bit self-conscious with my new hero status. “All I wanted was a doughnut. Really. I didn’t mean to get caught up in all of this.”

“And you can still have your doughnut!” exclaimed the man. “Well, not here. The doughnut display is a bit…” He coughed. “In need of repair, shall we say? But please, take this as a token of our gratitude.”

He pressed something into my hand and two seconds later, I was alone.

I looked down at his gift. A fifty dollar gift card to Dunkin Donuts! My lucky day!

So I biked all the way back to Dunkin Donuts, high on my heroic actions and the gift I had been given. It was only when I had parked my bike in the parking lot that I remembered the sign on the front door.

Closed due to water main breakage.

And as I stood there, covered in orange pulp, blackened from powdered sugar grenades, sweaty from all my physical activity, with a fifty dollar gift card in my hand, I wondered:

“Why do these things always happen to me?!”

The soda can bounced once, the sound lost in the clatter of thousands of displaced goods thundering to the floor. Araxis deftly avoided the collapsing shelving, batting away a cereal box flipping by his head.

“I’ll repeat myself only once, Miru. You are merely delaying the inevitable.”

The reply came in the form of a soup can, hurled with deadly force at Araxis’ left eye.

Araxis sighed, lifting a hand. “Dissever.”

The can became a fine mist for the duration of exactly four seconds, reassembling itself well behind its intended target. It left a dent in the wall, clattering to the floor and rolling out of sight.

“Miru, this is a public place. A supermarket, for heaven’s sakes. It will not take long for the authorities to-”

An empty shopping cart, resting against a wall, suddenly crumpled, as if crushed by an invisible compactor. The pressure grew so intense, the metal began to superheat, turing a mottled black.

Sighing again, Araxis adjusted his necktie. “Dissever works on all physical objects. At the very least, you could do me the honor of remembering what I taught you. This is embarrassing.”

The mesh ball began to spin in place, picking up speed.

“Enough. This ends, now! Interra-”

The ball was humming now, letting out intermittent screeches as its whirling surface occasionally brushed the floor.

“…Ah, screw it. Dissever.”

The metal orb became a silver dust… which continued to spin, leaving long gouges in the tile below.

“Oh.”

The cloud lurched forward… and Araxis ran, although the word “ran” hardly did him justice. His feet cracked the white tile, his legs cycling faster than the human eye could hope to follow as they propelled him forward at remarkable speeds.

Behind him, Dissever‘s effects were wearing off. The metal shards regained their shape, dropping to the floor with a bone-shaking crunch. The newly reconstituted mesh ball began to roll, gaining momentum, pinballing down the aisle.

“Miru, you idiot! That’s a Live Magic! If it hits me, the explosion will kill us both! Call it off!”

There was no answer.

Muttering curses, Araxis charged past the rows of assorted fishing goods lining the walls, frantically running through what few options he had. The supermarket was quite busy, or rather, it had been. A rather complicated Moratorium had suspended the occupants in a dreamlike state, leaving them frozen where they were. That also meant that any and all actions taken would potentially affect the slumbering civilians. He couldn’t let that orb detonate.

“AI, how much do we have left?” he panted out. His burning lungs provided a painful reminder of exactly how little exercise had had been getting over the past few years.

A machine voice, emanating from the device he wore on his wrist, responded to his question.“Systema magic at %40. Recharge rate %5 per minute.”

“Blast. How did it get so low?”

“Blanket spell ‘Moratorium’, cast at 0915 hours this morning, resulted in a %55 drain.”

“Alright, alright. Let me think. Do we have any defensive spells in your mainframe?”

“Negative. You specified target-neutralizing Systema only.”

“Oh, it’s all my fault, eh? Well, you’re the military tactical genius, so tell me what to do!”

“Define.”

Araxis was beginning to turn red, and it wasn’t due to the running.

“How do I stop the freaking ball, you ridiculous machine?”

“Request is not within my present capabilities.”

“Screw you, too.”

Hopping a produce display, Araxis landed awkwardly, stumbling slightly to the left. The misstep saved his life; the deadly orb, now almost crimson with heat, decimated the display inches behind him. Corn popped like gunfire, joining the shattered wooden stand in a chaotic cloud of dust and shrapnel. The metal ball immediately spun in reverse, but it was slow to turn, fighting its own momentum.

Interlocking his fingers, Araxis hurled out another spell, “Friez, level two.”

“Insufficient power to complete level two. Downgrade?”

The orb caught, began to gain speed.

“Yes, yes, do it now, or it’ll be…”

A bolt of blue energy leapt from his fingers, spraying out like water from a hose. Wherever it touched a solid surface, the jet became a solid coating of ice. The murderous mesh ball froze over in an instant, stopping dead in mid-aisle.

“Systema at %10. Recharge rate %5 per minute.”

“Now why did I have to think of that? You were built to help me fight this kinda stuff, and you couldn’t even…”

“It was illogical to use an ice spell in such a fashion. Your power level is no longer sufficient to confront Miru head-on.”

“It was that or die, stupid!”

“The proper solution was to find and eliminate Miru directly. Upon his neutralization, the murder spell would have collapsed.”

Araxis straightened his suit coat, taking several deep breaths. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively calm. “Then why, pray tell, did you not inform me of the proper course of action as soon as you thought of it?”

“Your orders, as of 0700 hours this morning, were to ‘remain silent until information was specifically asked for’.”

“I believe my exact words were, ‘shut up when no one’s talking to you’.”

“Precisely.”

With a superhuman effort, Araxis forced himself to calm down.

“Very well. I don’t have enough magic to locate Miru. Can you do that much?”

“Indeed.”

Araxis was somewhat surprised.

“Miru is precisely five feet, six inches to your 6 o’clock position.”

Very, very slowly, Araxis turned around.

Miru brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his white overcoat. “You need to be more observant, Captain. I could have killed you several times over.”

Araxis tried not to make any sudden moves; nothing to set Miru off. The Systema Overdrive was clearly visible on Miru’s wrist, blinking as it drew in the quantum-level particles floating through the air. There was no sign of the Chaos chip, but it was only an inch in length, and could be in any of Miru’s many pockets.

“You stopped the ‘Furea’, Captain? Impressive. Live Magic is tough to counter.”

“Miru, you can’t escape. SWAT has the building surrounded. MAGE is on the way to back them up. They’re sending a team of Navy SEALs, for heaven’s sake! You may have stolen Overdrive, and that infernal spell chip, but you can’t get us all. In the end, there’s a thousand of us, and one of you. Now, if you’d like to surrender, I can guarantee that-”

“Shut up! Do you realize the power this thing has? I could level the world with this! Nothing scares me now, Araxis. Not you, not MAGE, not the whole damn world.” Miru’s hand came up, and the Overdrive screeched as it prepared to activate. “With this, I control everything!”

The floor erupted, tossing Araxis through the air. He had gone mere feet before the roof collapsed inward, burying him in rubble.

“Gravity, momentum, entropy! I own them all! I can do anything, captain! Anything I want!”

The debris became a cloud of atoms, and Araxis staggered up… only to be thrown back by a second explosion.

He landed heavily on a pastry cart, a bin of multicolored doughnuts cushioning his fall. Chocolate cream filling splattered everywhere, making the floor slick as Araxis scrambled to his feet.

“AI! What can I use?”

“Basic fire online. Basic water online. Two types sleep spell online, although Overdrive nullifies both. Ice available in seven seconds…”

“Useless, useless, useless!”

“Enemy is approaching from the left.”

Sparks danced like a million fireflies, and the tiny bakery became ash. Miru strode through, soot blackening his pristine coat.

“I have taken great care to avoid killing innocents, Araxis. The least you could do is stay still and let me kill you!”

Araxis took off again, a cacophany of magical blasts tearing apart the ground behind him.

“AI, can you talk to Overdrive’s AI? Maybe shut it down?”

“Possible. Overdrive does not give or receive transmissions, but it can have information uploaded to it via chip. Should a shutdown program be written to chip, the Overdrive should be unable to ignore it.”

“So I’d have to manually stick the chip into the Overdrive’s port, right?”

“Correct. Chances of successful completion; %0.001. Do not attempt.”

“What if you were able to touch Overdrive? Could you communicate through its shell?”

“Confirmed. I would require seven seconds of contact. Chances of successful completion; %0.00001. Do not attempt.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Confirmed.”

“Unless it’s vitally important!”

“Confirmed.”

“Good. Is telepathy online?”

“Please hold, switching chipset. Confirmed. Telepathy availible. Drain rate is %1 per minute use on small objects, %15 per minute use large objects. Systema at %16. Activate telepathy now?”

“Yeah. Let’s go with Seipium. And yes, I do know how to use it. No tutorials, please.”

Araxis ducked behind a cooler full of frozen hotdogs, trying to calm his breathing.

In the distance, Miru chuckled. “I can see you, captain. Come out and play!”

The hotdog cooler groaned as invisible fingers coiled around it, pulling it slowly away from the wall. Araxis moved with it, doing his best to maintain his cover.

“You have three seconds, captain!”

Araxis didn’t answer, lifting both hands. “Seipium,” he whispered.

“Three! Two! One! Zero!”

The cooler tore in two with a painful screech of metal ripping apart. Araxis snapped his hands forward, sending an entire aisle of canned soups hurtling through the opening. Miru was caught off-guard, but recovered before the attack could do damage. The cans burst apart, splattering across a shimmering crimson shield that rose up to protect Miru.

In Araxis’ head, AI spoke. “Systema at %0. No chance of recovery.”

“An amusing attempt, Araxis! But no physical object can-”

The Overdrive spoke, its voice clear and smooth. “Advisement. Enemy is attempting to damage my core with telepathy. Type of attack, Flat Magic ‘Seipium’.”

“Oh? Well then… Overdrive! Activate cycle two! Engage the Chaos chip.”

With a horrible groan, every object within a hundred feet of the Overdrive ceased to exist, leaving Miru floating above a smooth crater. Bisected boxes, shelves, and grocery items tumbled into the depression, only to meet the same fate; smashed apart at an atomic level by the Chaos program.

“Purge complete. All incoming signals erased.”

“You see, Araxis? You are completely powerless! I’m growing tired of this. You ruined my initial plans by showing up early. You’re an exceptional detective, I’ll give you that. However, it’s time for everything to go away. Overdrive, how long till full power?”

“Factoring the drain produced by the Chaos chip, thirty seconds to %100.”

“Enjoy your last thirty seconds on earth, Araxis. Overdrive, load Exendariaum World Bender.”

“Advisement. World Bender at top power will do sufficient damage to the earth to disrupt all known bio-systems. There is no logical reason to activate this at full power. Also; program is experimental, and may potentially injure you.”

“Disregard the safety protocol.”

“There is no logical reason to-”

“Disregard the blasted protocol!”

“Affirmative.”

Araxis stepped up to the crater’s edge.

“Ah, there you are! Pity I have no more Systema to waste on you. Trying to end the world and all, you know. What will you do? Chaos is still active. Nothing can get through to me.”

Araxis sighed, sitting on an overturned case of beer. “It doesn’t matter. My systema is gone. That was my last go.”

Miru frowned. “So sad. Are you just giving up, then? Not what I expected of you at all.”

With a sad smile, Araxis shook his head. “I never give up, Miru. Never.”

“Download complete,” said AI

“Download complete,” repeated Overdrive.

“What?” said Miru, an instant before he fell from the air, landing hard in the blast crater. He lay there a minute, uncomprehending, then rose to his feet with a roar.

“What did you do, Araxis?”

Araxis held up his arms, revealing his bare wrists.

It took Miru a second to realize what he was seeing. “What… Where’s your…”

“I threw it with the cans. Systema devices are magic-proof, Miru. It went right through your shield.”

Miru drew the Overdrive up to his face. Clinging magnetically to its side was a small, watchlike device; Araxis’ Systema collector, hidden amongst the coils of wires.

“What is this?”

“I had my AI tell the Overdrive to shut down. Contact was needed for that. You would never have let me get close, so I had to get it to you another way.”

Miru tore the collector free, crushing it beneath his heel. “That was a mad strategy, captain. What if I had opted to kill you right away?”

“Then I would have died, and the overdrive would still have been stopped. Now,” Araxis drew his sidearm, “You can come with me quietly, or I can shoot you in the leg and carry you. Which will it be?”

The first drops of rain cut through the muggy summer air, spilling over the glossy helmets and armored trucks below. Searchlights cut through the gloom; engines idled as, one by one, sirens ceased to wail. The MAGE commander barked a question into his radio, waiting sullenly for an answer as water dripped from his hood. In exactly one minute’s time, the radio came to life, transmitting a mix of words and static. The commander nodded to himself, taking a bullhorn from under his coat.

“This is MAGE commander Sorra; all units stand down. Captain Araxis has apprehended the rouge MAGE operative, as well as the stolen items. Weapons to standby, he’s coming out.”

((Scary short story entry. Written on 7/13/12. 1, 228 words.))

The feathered flight of my arrow brushes my cheek as I draw in breath. The forest around me is silent, save for the wind in the leaves. Perched on the limb of a great oak, I am just another silent inhabitant of the forest. Just as silent as any of the other predators prowling the woods.

I release my breath and my bowstring. Thunk. My arrow flies true, as I knew it would. I swing down from my bough to the forest floor. The thump of my boots releases the earthy scents underfoot – old leaves, loam, moist dirt. This is where I am home – not amongst the village huts. Among the plants and animals, in the trees. The forest is where I belong.

My kill is waiting for me at the base of a tree. There is a wooden board nailed to the trunk – a decree from the king, warning hunters away from these woods under pain of dismemberment or death. I chuckle at the irony – the fruits of my hunting lying beneath the warning. I am not worried of getting caught. I have been hunting here for four years. No one else ventures into these woods. Some speak of specters and demons that prowl the undergrowth. Superstitious fools. The only things that prowl this forest are the natural woodland creatures. And me.

I kneel to retrieve my arrow, pleased with my work. The quail is of a good size and will feed my family well. I am loading the bird into my bag when something makes me pause. A sort of cold breath on my neck, a chill down my spine. Something is watching me. I turn slowly, scanning the nearby brush and trees. There is nothing, just the birds singing far above. I turn back to the quail and stuff it fully into my canvas bag. Long hours among the trees play tricks with my mind. It’s happened before.

My footsteps are quiet, my breathing hushed as I head back toward the village. I listen closely to my surroundings. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. It usually takes a lot to spook me. Why am I so uneasy now?

Somewhere behind me, a twig snaps.

I freeze in my tracks. Blood surges through my veins with every heartbeat, loud in my ears. I turn again to scour the forest behind me. Still nothing. Nothing at all. I am overreacting, imagining things. I have been out here too long. Again I set out, my stride long and purposeful. Now is not the time to fall prey to whims of overtired imaginings.

Long minutes pass in peace. The tenseness in my shoulders relaxes, and I begin to enjoy my surroundings again. I pause at a trickling brook to refill my flask. When I straighten up again, I catch sight of something ahead. Large, dark, close to the ground. Moving slowly. Coming my way. I stay where I am. Bears are not common in these parts, but I’ve seen them before. I wait to catch a glimpse of the creature.

I am overwhelmed by the sudden smell of lilies. The sickly sweet scent hangs in the air like a veil, blurring my senses. The dark shape has stopped moving now. I realize that the forest has gone suddenly very silent. No birds. Not even a breeze.

Click. Click. Click. Sharp, almost metallic sounds. Unnatural. Unnerving. This is no bear.

I stand, retreating back into the trees. The shape tenses, gathering its limbs underneath itself. I tense, too. The urge to run is unbearable. But I don’t know what I’m facing. It could be faster than me. It most likely is.

Then the shape springs forward, and it’s coming my way. Lumbering, crashing through the underbrush.

I turn and run.

Branches scrape my face, underbrush tangles my steps. It’s as if the forest itself is trying to slow my progress. Behind me, I can hear the beast’s progress. By the sound of it, it’s flattening underbrush and small trees alike. I press myself faster, harder. I lose my breath sooner than I had anticipated. I gulp for air, each gasping breath tightening the grip of panic across my chest. I know that I’m not thinking straight, but there’s nothing I can do. Nothing but run and pray that the beast is slower than I.

Click. Click. Click.

It is gaining on me. I can sense it without looking back. It’s faster than me. It’ll run me until I’m ragged, until I can’t take another step. I need to climb. I’m safe in the trees. I launch myself upward, grasping the nearest bough. My instincts take over, and I’m moving upward, pulling myself up into the branches. Safe.

My senses explode as something takes hold of my foot. I barely have time to register the surprise when I am ripped from my hold and slammed to the ground. The beast is on top of me, claws digging between my ribs, weight pinning me to the ground, fangs dripping salvia and venom. The clicking is deafening loud, the smell of lilies gagging me.

I writhe and struggle in its grip, striking out. My fists hit hard scales, then soft flesh. The beast presses down on my chest, leaning in close, mouth open. My fingers scrabble across the ground and wrap themselves around a rock. I strike again at the hideous head looming over my own. The rock hits home in one eye. The beast’s scream is piercing as it tears away from me, spraying me with blood.

In a moment, I’ve launched myself forward like a sprinter. I’m dripping with the beast’s saliva and blood. My own blood is gushing from the wounds in my chest, but the pain is dull for now, throbbing with each step.

I burst out from the tree cover. Before me is the river’s ford, and beyond that, the village. The smell of lilies is still in my nose, but each new breath sends fresh air into my lungs. I stumble forward, splashing through the shallow ford. By the time I reach the other side, I am covered in water, too.

Suddenly, I realize that I am leading the beast straight back to the village. I pause, chancing a glance behind. The beast is nowhere to be seen. I turn fully, waiting for some sign of the beast in pursuit. Nothing. The birds are singing in the trees. The air is fresh. The sun is shining down brightly.

I look down at myself. My tunic is undamaged, my body whole. There is no blood on me. No puncture wounds gushing blood. No venom staining my clothing. My head is pounding, though. What is going on? Did that entire thing even happen? I pull out my bow and notch an arrow to the string. There is something afoot here, and I cannot return empty handed. I will slay this beast and return a hero.

When I step back into the forest, my confidence skyrockets. I’m at home in the forest. With my bow in hand, I am a hunter. I am the predator. I crouch low to the ground, creeping forward, senses alert. I don’t let myself relax this time. I have barely gone a dozen steps when a sickly sweet smell blasts into me.

A claw grips my throat from behind.

Click. Click. Click.

I never was so freaked out in my whole life.

It was 1979.. My window cast a haunted glow against my covers, wall, and a desk stuffed half-finished cartoons. Those branches—mere silhouettes against the moon—shook in the freezing wind. That wind seemed to sneak under my covers, disguised as a draft, and send shivers through my PJs. I’d pull up the covers over my head, but I still felt cold, alone…afraid.

I heard the lake’s monstrous waves crashing against the sharp rocks lining the shore. Even in the dark, I could still see the waves’ foam expand and crash like the economy or a fad back at school two months ago. I was stuck—trapped—in my own bedroom, in a summer home I never even wanted to go to in the first place.

I pulled the covers tighter. The cold seemed to sneak through my cotton covers. What does the darned cold want with me? I thought quizzically. I couldn’t find the answer.

I huddled myself into a ball, shivering. Almost, like magic, the cold had been closing in on me, poking at my claustrophobia, like some demonic entity had possessed by sheets.

For a moment, I remembered being tugged along in the car, stuck with my Dad and Mom in an almost empty mini-van. They got the van because they were expecting roughly six children, but all they got was me—Curtis Keys. I wish I could’ve stayed in that nice, comfy hotel back in Riverton, but that town always gave me the creeps. But in the situation like this, I would’ve stayed there for the summer, no matter how bad that place is.

Finally, I managed to throw the covers off my body, and walk out of my room. Entering the hallway, the storm’s noise was quieter, toning down to a dull roar. But the summer house felt it—creaking, floorboards whining over every step I took, it was like the house was swaying back and forth, back and forth, back and forth….

I managed to find the bathroom and found the switch. I flicked it. First nothing, then a low buzz, and finally, a dull, dim light. A few moths found it, and buzzed excitedly around the light. A curtain hung from a plastic bar, enclosing a bathtub. A toilet, rust gathering around its rims, sat in the corner, next to a radiator that seemed to be haven’t used in years. A sink was right next to the linen closet, lit with three more light bulbs. The whole bathroom seemed out of place, made by a real sucky architect.

I searched around in the medicine cabinet. Mom’s anti-depressant, Dad’s pain relievers, cough medicine, anti-itch cream…my small hands grasped a thermometer. I’d realized if I was getting the chills, I probably had a fever. I was prone to sickness at that age. I stuck it under my tongue, and pressed the shiny button, and the fancy LCD lit up and began to count upwards with little black numbers.

I heard a little beep. I pulled it out. 99.7 degrees. Nothing but a low fever. I wasn’t sick. Good.

I grabbed a few paper cups from under the cabinet, my tongue itched for water. I turned the cold knob, but nothing came out.

Above me, the light bulb over the sink on the right side began to flicker. It died, for a brief moment; I could see the last of the electrons fading on the copper wire. The middle one did the same, shortly followed by the last one on the left. Finally, the one on the ceiling.

I was alone, in the dark.

I set my paper cup on the counter, my hands trembling. Nausea ached my stomach. I turned the faucet handle again. Nothing.

The bathroom door slammed behind me. I jumped, and dashed to it, only to slip on water and fall on my hand. I cringed. Pain shot through my arm. I clearly had broken something. I yelped for help, but the storm’s rage drowned by cry. Thunder struck nearby with a resounding crack. Rain pattered the window, and I knew it would shatter any minute with the howling wind.

I managed to get up, cradling my arm in my shirt. I stepped backwards, and landed in the tub, my butt tugging the shower curtain with me. The curtain fell of its hinges.

A shattered pounded at my ears. The window had broken, glass flying everywhere. The wind’s cry had too a mighty roar, derbies from trees and branches flew in, slapping the mirror, toilet, and my face. A branch clung to my torso, like it was pulling me down.

The linen closet door began to rattle, a greenish light spread through the bottom of the door, spreading onto the bathroom floor.

It opened. A greenish human figure, swirling with dark fog, looked into my eyes. I screamed, and no one could hear me.

Then I woke up.

My lungs heaved in out. My heart raced. My eyes shot through the darkest corners, waiting for that strange monster to come.

Outside the window, the lake was calm. The moon’s echoed onto the still waters.

I stared at the ceiling, and convinced myself it was just a dream. It was just a dream. Nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep.

I did fall asleep, and no nightmares haunted me.

***

Breakfast.

Me and Dad were at the table. Dad, like always, was reading the newspaper. I just stared at my silverware. Mom was going to cook breakfast, orange juice and oatmeal. She had already made the juice.

Dad looked up from his newspaper. “Anythin’ wrong, son?”

“No.” I mumbled. I flicked a finger at my silverwear. I wasn’t going to tell Dad about my nightmare. Heck, I didn’t tell Dad much of anything.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“Just checkin’.”

Mom gestured Dad to the sink. “Dear, come here.”

Dad put his newspaper and walked to the sink, he peered in with curiosity. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know.” She said. “The faucet isn’t working.”

Ed was shaking. With excitement, not cold. If he behaved well in Wal-Mart, which was full of christmas shoppers, he would get a cookie!! Attempting to control his trembling hands, the three year-old stuffed them in his pockets. When he felt fully under control he got out of his car-seat and his dad set him in the cart. Then they shoved off. Riding in a cart is harder than the average adult believes. In order to avoid the bruises on your rear end that most children “enjoy”, you must roll with the punches and anticipate the bumps.
Whoa buddy! Watch out for tha–
“Car!” Ed said.
Slamming on the “brakes” Ed’s Dad quickly came to a halt, right in front of a nice ford escape with its brake-lights on.
After several more of these stop-and-go situations they reached the Wal-Mart entrance and passed the Salvation Army Santa.
After entering through the door marked exit, Ed, and Ed’s Dad found themselves in an impossible predicament. Grocery shopping on Christmas Eve.
With plenty of “Excuse me”s and “Pardon me”s they made it to a clearing. And then they shopped.

After several hours of shopping (which should’ve only taken an hour and a half at most) they went on a secret mission for a last minute gift that Ed’s Dad’s Grandfather’s pet needed. A flea collar.
Racing to the back of the store Ed’s Dad broke every speed limit in Wal-Mart (a record not soon to be broken) and they made it to the dog section in the back in 33.52 seconds. (Another record not soon to be broken.) When they were there Ed’s Dad began searching for the flea collar. As he searched Ed spotted what his dad desired. The Slightly Radio-Active Flea Collar!!! (Whose subtitle read: Possibly lethal to small dogs. Great gift for you next door neighbor’s Chihuahua) Ed stood up in the cart and tried to make a commotion. Unfortunately, Ed’s Dad didn’t notice him and stormed of the aisle beyond frustration (which probably accounts for those strange words that Ed didn’t understand). After riding the bumpers of several respectable “enjoy-the-moment” people, Ed’s Dad made to the checkout aisle. Then Ed left the cart; his dad went on muttering words Ed didn’t know, and not paying any attention to Ed. Slipping through the crowd, Ed found his way back to the dog aisle. carefully placing his feet on the second shelf he stretched and reached for the Slightly Radio-Active Flea Collar!!! Upon retrieving his prize Ed, forgetting his precarious postion, held up the collar as though it were the WWF belt. Then after a very long fall (42” to be exact) he tasted plastic? He came up spitting kibble. When he looked around things didn’t look the same. It appeared as though he had spun around slightly and lost his way. The wayless Ed thought he would walk sideways (East and West, not crab-style) through the store until he could see the cash registers, then he would walk along until he found his dad hopefully gaining enough favor with the collar for two cookies. As Ed passed the toy aisle he saw a Nerf® sword. Needless to say, Ed left the aisle packing a little more fire-power. The next aisle he reached he saw was the halloween clearance aisle. The masks and costumes were scary but he had his sword close by. 3.2544449999999999999 seconds into the aisle the lights turned off. All of the sudden Ed was surrounded by evil spirits, goblins, orcs, princesses and little Jack Sparrow wannabes. (All of them glow in the dark for parents, that is the reason that Ed can see them, but I seriously digress and now the moment is practically ruined) Just when Ed thought things couldn’t get any worse he realized that leaving the cart might cost him his cookie!!! Fighting furiously he struck out at the costumes and ran through the aisle. Then, ten feet from the end of the aisle, Ed heard an awful screeching noise. It was deafening and it caused Ed to fall to the floor and cover his ears. Then it turned into a crackle and he heard a voice.
The voice cleared its throat.
“Sorry for the slight inconvenience folks, are power-lines were knocked out by a snowplow. Merry Christmas!”

I am trapped.

I realize it more everyday. There is no escape, there is nothing else. I am trapped. Those of you reading this may assume I am some prisoner in some adventurous tale. You are almost right.

I am a prisoner to the realness of reality. I am a prisoner in a world of men who can leave nothing to mystery. Did you know that scientists have lasers that can map out every single bump and crevice of caves? In the Chovet Cave in Frace, there are many parts that cannot be explored without destroying priceless artifacts and bones. Today, we humans do not like the unknown. The unknown brings change, great or small, and change scares us. There is nothing unknown about the mapping of that cave, thanks to our hypocratic fear of the greatest thing we could have today. I say hypocratic because, well, we fear change, yet look at how different the world is compared to even twenty years ago.

I am trapped. Trapped by reality.

I realize more and more there is no escape. No hidden fold in the existence of the universe. I realize more and more the contrast between fantasy and reality. The line between the two is so real, so solid, i could almost slam right into it. You might say, “Whats so awful? You can read fantasy books, watch the movies. It almost brings it to life. Isnt that an escape?” But, if you were to say that, you would be wrong. The line I just mentioned? Movies, books, they are what makes that line more real. If you dont understand my point, picture this;

If a famous actor from a movie you loved, say, Leonardo DiCaprio, or Johnny Depp, stood behind a glass wall holding a million dollar bill, acting exactly like you thought they would, and then offered you the million dollars, of course you would accept it. But, when you stepped forward to take it, you would hit your face hard on that glass wall. A lot of people would tell you that it was soooo amazing that the famous Leo DiCaprio was right there, offering you a million dollars, and perhaps for you, that “almost” would be enough. But if you are like me, you would keep banging into that glass. Repeatedly hurting yourself in an attempt to break through it, and reach what you arent willing to accept is unreachable.

Thats me in a paragraph.

I am trapped. Trapped by the great expanse of my world.

I know i am a foolish and ungrateful child to be unsatisfied with the life i was given, but who could ever blame me for wanting that million dollars? Its right there, in front of my face, pressed up against the glass. And still, as it will always be, i cant reach it. People get mad at me sometimes for not living in reality, saying i keep my head in “fantasy land” too much, and that i confuse what is real with what is not. Those people could never understand. I know the difference better than anyone i know. I am like the Titanic, sinking into the ocean of everything modern, after hitting the iceberg of noticable impossiblities, having had it grind into my side. And i am sending out an S.O.S signal that cannot be heard, will not be heard. I am like the black leopard, pacing in his cage. Pacing and pacing, until he has seen nothing but the bars of his cage for so long, he can see ONLY those bars. A cage. It is what i say when asked what I fear most. As Lady Eowyn so perfectly put it in Lord of the Rings;

“I fear a cage. To be kept behind bars until use and old age accept them, and all chance of valor and great deeds has gone beyond recall or desire.”

I am trapped. And I can never get out.