Saturday, February 9, 2013

Title not given


Walking in the middle of nowhere is all I can do out here. Nothing exciting ever happens in Arabia. Especially if you’re normal like me. On top of that, no one respects women! I don’t even know why I live here with my father! Anyway, I somewhat do like walking around in the sand bare feet, wearing my blue skirt and my half tee-shirt that my aunt in Canada, Alberta shipped me. It gives me a sense of freedom from the law and my black Abaya. My feet sink deeper into the sand when I stand tall and proud with the warmth of the wind pushing me lightly. My hair and my clothes blowing like waves on an ocean. Everything is quiet and peaceful, just the way I always wanted it to be. Suddenly my hand starts rising in front of me like someone is lifting it. Than it turns into a tight fist. Unexpectedly a large wave of sand comes toward me. I try to run away but my feet are glued to the ground, sinking me into the sand! The first thing I do is panic and struggle. This couldn't be quick sand. And it’s in the middle of nowhere! II taunt myself. I’m down to my waist and the sand wave is right above me, SLAM! I’m in blackness.

No name given


Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Sergeant Duke Miles


The leaves crush under the boots of Sergeant Duke Miles: a newly ranked sergeant.
His platoon was fanned out behind him. They where after a group named the Chevaliers; as they were so called by the French. They were allies with the Americans he had heard. There were many stories of them by the French. Stories of amazing strength, that some felt like a myth, but now they had turned rouge.
“Take five.” Miles said to his men they stopped and took a seat on the forest foliage. Miles went a further ahead; past some brush. His face was tired and old for a young man of twenty one. He had a muscular body and broad shoulders yet even these slumped.
 Reaching in to his pocket he pulled out a piece of paper: a letter. He couldn't open it. Images in he mind became silhouettes. Cries of men he had known as brother. He was helpless.
His head was in his hands his body shook from the pain.
A whinny came from the woods. Mile’s hand shot to his rifle. He had already lifted his head and stood from his wooden seat. The wood which he scanned showed no sign of movement. His rifle came relaxed in his hands.
“Nothing…” Pain burst through his whole body. Caught air to hit the ground hard.
"What the..." his head rose from the ground to have terror rush in as a cry hit the air. A golden horse was above him; hooves pawing the air. It's power Miles had never seen. The horse dropped. In seconds Miles rolled away just inches from the hooves which cracked the ground.
On his belly. Ahead he saw his rifle. It had fell just a few feet away.
The stallion reared again.Miles reach out for the stock.the horse dropped.
His hand clutched the rifle jerking around he aimed. Five Feet....
Guérir! Diego!” a single voice cut the air.
The horse’s powerful body went silent . Its front hooves caught the ground inches from Mile’s head.
Still catching his breath Miles stumbled up not moving his eyes from the animal.
“Bon garcon…” came the same voice. Soft and delicate like a spring wind.  Miles was reminded of his rescuer. He turned to see a young woman, Crimson blood down her arm and leg, leaning against a sword not strong enough to stand. Miles stared at her mystified. “May?”
Strength drained from the woman and she toppled. Miles was there to catch her.
She fell in to his arms. He was staring into the soft face he had loved since he first saw her. It was her!
Miles turned hearing his men coming for him. He got up carrying May in his arms. Tom Rogers, a buddy and solder of Miles, was the first.
 “Are you okay, Sarg…”  Tom stopped, confusion written on his face as he saw the woman in the arms of his sergeant.
Miles did not notice him, “We need to get this woman some medical attention now!”


J.A.

      

Monday, January 7, 2013

Would you read this?


Who is Truly Rich 


A for - hire assassin, at the age of sixteen has never receive or felt love, even from her own mother, has been caught by the state. Unable to fill out the lifelong sentence she has one more chance to renew her life. 
Mr. Roger the richest man in New York makes her his ward.

So a girl from the streets, who lives with a wish to die, becomes an heir to be met by riches and a treasure that comes from the most unexpected places. A butler, chauffeur, and a young boy.   
  

  

Monday, December 10, 2012

The Chevaliers


1939, night covered an unknown town in Germany. There seemed no one awake yet upon a rooftop was a silhouette of a dark dressed figure. He stood from the city like pillar. The leader of the Chevaliers: guardians over France.  
The faint rumble of many vehicles became louder as a German convoy rolls toward the village. His eyes have never left it.
The convoy carried men and boys captured for the treacherous Third Reich military.
The Chevaliers mission was to free them.
His hand rose from his side in a signal.  
Statue like figures, in the same clothing, came from the homes across him. Eight in all; his siblings where ready.
Roof ash shuffled under foot behind him: Another. His gaze was off the convoy.
“Mathieu, are we ready?” a soft voice floated to his ears.    
“Always Richesse,” Mathieu answered his hand dropping as his sister’s warm hand came to his shoulder.
“Watch Joie, will you?” she said.
‘I always do.” He turned to face her. Looking past her and putting on a grin he nodded to his brother who had just come upon them, “I even watch Marc here.”
Deep laughter hit the air, “Even with your numerous talents, Big brother…” Marc said, “I can still beat you with the old Excalibur,” A sliver sword was unsheathed. Showing Marc’s renamed sword of King Author.
“Brothers, we have a convoy to take care of,” Richesse said coming in between them.
“I could do this with my hands and legs tied,” Marc replied appearing beside his brother on the wall in a leap.    
“Humph,” Mathieu grinned shaking his head at his brother impulsiveness.
The convoy was below them.
Dust was shaken where the two brothers feet where as they sprung form the roof’s edge.
A smile crossed Richesse lips as she went to where they had stood, “Go get them, fellows.”
The cranking gears sounded as the convoy slowed to have two dark figures appear in the front of them.
Mathieu and Marc.
Rising, the automatic at Mathieu’s side came to rest its barrel toward the first vehicle.
“We’ve have come to relieve you of your men,” Mathieu said in perfect German. The first voice to come was soon followed with laughter for standing from the lead halftrack (an armored vehicle) was a young captain. He wore a black uniform: SS.
But? Mathieu hesitated. The captain’s uniform’s markings were red not white like in the standard uniform.
“Who will make me,” replied the captain.
Taking the riling, Mathieu watched as the captain jumped from the halftrack in one leap and landed softly. Other men followed in that sequence until six where behind him, each one wearing the same uniform as the captain.
Mathieu stepped back as his finger went to the cold metal of the trigger. The unknown was danger. He turned to his brother.
Abort!  
“Mar…”
“We will!”
Mathieu‘s lip broke as his teeth clutched down upon it. Marc had stepped forward; holding out his sword in challenge.
A man stepped from the crowd and metal sparkled in the moon light as he also unsheathed a sword.
“Marc, back down!” Mathieu ordered his brother in French knowing his brother too well.
“The Chevaliers are frightened of a little challenge?” the captain spoke in French straight at Marc. Before Mathieu could stop his brother he had already gotten out of his reach. Metal clashed in to the air.
“Attack!” was cried from both parties.
Up on the rooftop Richesse watched; a stone lodged in her throat.
No…
Joie! Her eyes went up from the street to the building across from her to catch her sister’s gaze.
Her heart went cold.
Figures appeared circling the whole area.
It was a trap!
Richesse opened her mouth to give warning when a cold hand held her lips and pain shot through arm. Instantly her muscles locked as she became paralyzed. Everything became hazy and Richesse dropped into the dark.    

J.A. 

Monday, December 3, 2012

The Four Visitors


"I sit and await my master’s visitors atop the wheeled vehicle that will take them to his dwelling. The star of this world shines brightly from high above. The air is heavy and warm as it drifts across the empty flatlands surrounding the spaceport. It is past the scheduled rendezvous and another shuttle has just landed; those I wait for should arrive soon.
 Finally the guarded doors into the main structure open and a lone figure slides out into the light. The figure wears dark, dirty, tattered robes and a cowl that thoroughly hides his facial features except for his glowing orange eyes. As he approaches, I note that he stands nine feet tall and has broad shoulders. He reaches me and I find his voice and tone give the same impression as his physique - it is soft and mysterious, quiet as the whisper of the wind. And strangely enough I cannot read this man. Even as his hood brushes the pads of my feet as he climbs beneath me into the vehicle, I can sense no physical presence, dark or otherwise - I cannot even smell him. It is as if he is the very wraith he appears to be.
 I arch an eyebrow and return my attention to the doors ahead. Approaching with a steady, powerful gate is a three foot Bowroaky in plain garb and wearing a small sword across his back. As he approaches I notice the deep, ugly scars that cover nearly every inch of his exposed skin. His compact, neckless physique forces him to stop about seven feet away so he can direct his gaze at me by only moving his deep blue eyes. His voice is deep and curt - there is an aura of power and seriousness emanating from him. Everything about him suggests that gentleness and even compassion are not things he deals in regularly.
 There is a shout from ahead and I return my attention to the doors leading into the spaceport. Running towards me is a young Neleyon man about five feet tall in a flowing, silken tunic and heavy travel pants. Energy radiates from his handsome face like fire from a star. His shock of brilliant white hair and smiling, neon blue eyes do nothing to dissuade from his youthful fervor. He treats me with perfect respect as we begin to speak - his youth and inexperience showing through as he stutters slightly before getting his facts straight. I grin as the young man climbs into the vehicle beneath me. If this boy is the only bright spot among these visitors at least that will be something.
 I glance up into the sky and find that, surprisingly, it has been two hours since I started waiting. Where is the fourth? Two shuttles had landed in that time - the fourth should have been on one of those. It is then that I notice one of the guards begin to open a door into the port. Out of the shadows gracefully glides a nine foot Deon woman. The sound of her footsteps is soft and light as she approaches me. The hem of her elegant dark green dress brushes gently against the stone under foot. I detect the sweet scent of flowers when she stops before me and I see for the first time that her perfect brown skin has a slight green hue to it. Her tender smile is sincere as she bows her head to me and we begin to speak. Her voice is gentle, kind, and respectful. A definite aura of calm and compassion surround her, but somehow there is also a deep distinguishing mysteriousness in her bright emerald eyes.
 Leaping down from the top of the vehicle, I bow low to the regal lady as she steps into the sleek vehicle. I close the door behind her and climb up into the front cabin. Starting the motor, I begin to answer questions from my passengers as I start the vehicle off towards my master’s homestead. As I pick out each of their voices and glance in the mirror at my master’s incredibly diverse guests, I can’t help but wonder why they are here. . .


~ J D White