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Questionable Exhibitionist
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 Posted: Thu Oct 20, 2005 5:28 pm
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Posted: Thu Oct 27, 2005 12:44 pm
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Posted: Fri Oct 28, 2005 12:10 pm
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Posted: Fri Oct 28, 2005 12:23 pm
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[Satan] Heres an idea I really loved, though I don't know if I should make it a comic and find an artist to illustrate for me or just make it a novel. This story was actually inspired by Chrono Trigger and the Time Machine by H.G. Wells. sweatdrop I'm thinking of making this story take place sometime in the distant future (2500 A.D.) where a graduate's rival who is a devout Christian has invented a time machine. Though, the time machine has not been tested so he doesn't know if it truly works or not. The graduate is an Atheist who is the son of a very prominent doctor who can cure any cancer or disease. The story starts when the graduate and his rival have a religous argument. The graduate then sets the time machine to the time that Christ was supposedly alive. He packs supplies that are essential (and slightly less essential) and travels into the distant past. When he appears there, there were luckily no witnesses. He later realizes that his currency would not be intelligent to bring considering that it is worthless. To earn money he becomes a carpenter. He later discovers after certain events that he was the messiah. In one part he sees a sick child noticing that he is dying of some unknown disease.(unknown back then at least) He studies the symptoms of the sick child and pulls out one of the medical books that he brought. He then reaches into his supplies to find a pill or needle that could help fight off this disease. He constanly tries to find a way to make it back home. In the end he discovers a ritual where you must be crucified to do. Once you are crucified, you say these words. ( I am still working on what you must say) To make this story a little more accurate, I may have to study the Bible a little more. Comments?
You want a good influece on the effects of meddling with time? Watch Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Askeban...or how-ever you spell it. I think it would be neat to have him find out that it was his action in the future to visit the past, and his actions there in the past were what inspired the religion.
That in a way he was Jesus, but he was no son of God. His actions to try to save people, with the knowledge of the future made other people misinterphret him.
It seems like an interesting idea, but if it were to go anywhere, you'll be flamed and attacked from every corner by the religious. |
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Posted: Fri Oct 28, 2005 12:33 pm
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Sanguvixen [Satan] Heres an idea I really loved, though I don't know if I should make it a comic and find an artist to illustrate for me or just make it a novel. This story was actually inspired by Chrono Trigger and the Time Machine by H.G. Wells. sweatdrop I'm thinking of making this story take place sometime in the distant future (2500 A.D.) where a graduate's rival who is a devout Christian has invented a time machine. Though, the time machine has not been tested so he doesn't know if it truly works or not. The graduate is an Atheist who is the son of a very prominent doctor who can cure any cancer or disease. The story starts when the graduate and his rival have a religous argument. The graduate then sets the time machine to the time that Christ was supposedly alive. He packs supplies that are essential (and slightly less essential) and travels into the distant past. When he appears there, there were luckily no witnesses. He later realizes that his currency would not be intelligent to bring considering that it is worthless. To earn money he becomes a carpenter. He later discovers after certain events that he was the messiah. In one part he sees a sick child noticing that he is dying of some unknown disease.(unknown back then at least) He studies the symptoms of the sick child and pulls out one of the medical books that he brought. He then reaches into his supplies to find a pill or needle that could help fight off this disease. He constanly tries to find a way to make it back home. In the end he discovers a ritual where you must be crucified to do. Once you are crucified, you say these words. ( I am still working on what you must say) To make this story a little more accurate, I may have to study the Bible a little more. Comments? You want a good influece on the effects of meddling with time? Watch Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Askeban...or how-ever you spell it. I think it would be neat to have him find out that it was his action in the future to visit the past, and his actions there in the past were what inspired the religion.
That in a way he was Jesus, but he was no son of God. His actions to try to save people, with the knowledge of the future made other people misinterphret him.
It seems like an interesting idea, but if it were to go anywhere, you'll be flamed and attacked from every corner by the religious. |
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Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2005 2:08 pm
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Posted: Sat Oct 29, 2005 2:12 pm
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Posted: Sun Oct 30, 2005 10:22 am
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Posted: Sun Jan 14, 2007 4:40 pm
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Okay, this is a short story that I wrote for my creative writing class last semester. My teacher told us to pic a picture and write a story about it. Considering that I don't write short stories, I think it came out pretty good. So I just thought I'd share it with my people. Ya'll my people, by the way. wink
Dathu Child of Art -----My name is Amy, and I am a cute little girl. I have long black hair that I brush over and over to keep it shiny. I live with my mommy and daddy in our nice big house. Today I just finished my first day of school, and I am waiting for my parents to come and pick me up. Today I started the first grade, but this isn’t my first time. I’ve been in the first grade ten times. Mommy and daddy say I have a “condition” that keeps me a little girl even though I should be bigger and go to a high kid school. Sometimes I think about how I should be big, so I just draw it and I feel better.-----I really like to draw. It helps. Yesterday I saw a dead bird, and it made me sad, so I drew it and it went away. Mommy thinks it’s funny when I draw stuff like that, and sometimes she gives me the funny face. It makes her nose wrinkle up and one of her eyebrows go up. One time she asked me if I ever think of nice things to draw, and I said I do. I think about my happy place. In my happy place my castle is big and tall and pretty and nice. I live inside it with my mommy and my daddy. I am the young little princess and everyday is a party for me and my pretty castle. She said that it sounds really nice and asked my why I never draw it. I said because I don’t want it to go away.-----A very long time ago me and my mommy and daddy went to my gran-nana’s sad party when she died. We went into a big room with a big wooden box. I couldn’t see what was inside because I was too short. Everyone was a stranger. Daddy said they were my family, but I’d never seen them before. Everyone was sad and crying and had black clothes on. They all hugged me and cried on me, and it made me sad too. It made me miss my gran-nana. All they talked about was my gran-nana being dead, and it made my tummy hurt. When I got sick on the floor, my mommy took me in a little room with other kids and told me to draw. I had never drawn before, so I didn’t know what to draw. Then I picked up the crayons and paper, and I drew the funeral. I drew all the crying people and the big wooden box. After a while I started to feel better. Now I never really think about it.-----Sometimes I get scared of getting old and dying like gran-nana, but mommy and daddy told me that because of my condition, I never have to worry about getting old. I wish they wouldn’t worry about it, my condition. They worry about it a lot. Sometimes they wake me up at night when they yell and scream at each other. I asked them why they yell about it and they say they just wish they really knew what was wrong with me. They yelled last night so loud that my tummy hurt. I hope they don’t yell when we get home.-----My neighbor lady’s car pulls up to the curb where I am standing. She is old, but not much older than my mommy. But her face has lots of lines. She drives a big old car, and it smells like dogs. She says my parents are going to be late from work. That happens a lot. I get in and she takes me home. I can’t stop thinking about mommy and daddy fighting. Once I get home, I go downstairs to my play room. It’s just a big open room full of all my toys.-----The neighbor lady stays upstairs. I can smell the stinky coffee she is making. She will probably stay upstairs until my mommy and daddy get home from work. I get my crayons and start drawing. I’m going to draw my mommy and daddy. I don’t want to think about them fighting anymore. I draw them mad, but then I draw them happy. I even draw them eating breakfast at our table. After a while, I don’t think about them anymore, so I just keep drawing while a whole bunch of time goes by.-----Someone knocks at the door. It’s already night time. I’ll have to go to bed soon. I can hear the neighbor lady talking to a man. Who is that? She makes some weird sniffling noises and then after a little while comes down the stairs. I can see she is crying and holding her hands over her mouth.-----She sits by me on the floor across from my drawing table. She asks me how I feel and if I had a good day at school. I try to answer but the look on her face is scary. She says my mommy and daddy died in a train accident on their way home from work. She cries even more. Her tears are falling on my drawings and are smudging them. She tells me about heaven and that mommy and daddy are with god now. She talks forever. She keeps asking me if I understand. She keeps asking if I’m okay. I just tell her I’m sleepy and hungry. She says she’ll make me a sandwich, and goes back up stairs. As she is leaving I hear her say “Poor thing. She’s in so much shock she can’t even cry.”-----I can’t. Why can’t I cry? It makes my tummy hurt. I can’t really even think about my mommy. I can’t remember daddy’s face. Why?-----Did I draw them away?-----Did I draw away my family? I still can’t cry. Who will live with me in my castle? Something is wrong. I feel bad. My tummy is burning. I grab my crayons and a huge piece of paper. I don’t want to be like this anymore. I draw my castle. I draw my kingdom. I draw myself. I draw my pretty little princess self all happy in the sun in her kingdom by her pretty castle where her parents live.-----Before I can finish, I throw up. I feel cold. Why am I so cold? I feel bad and hurt. I can’t think nice things and I want to hurt my self. I start crying. I have never cried before. Not even for mommy and daddy. I cry until I fall down. My head is spinning and then I sleep.+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+-----+ -----As I turn the wheel of my newly acquired Toyota Celica, I can’t help but think back about the first day of my adult life. I remember that day I woke up in the hospital. I cracked open my eyes, and through the thick build up of crust and mucus I cringed at the dim light that invaded my room from the hallway. I thanked god it was late. I don’t think I could have handled the intensity of over head fluorescent lighting. Confused about where I was I tried to get up, but my body was almost completely unresponsive. I decided to start more simply by trying to lift my left arm, and found it to be more difficult than I expected, but hey, it moved, and slowly my skin peeled from the low thread count bed sheets.-----I could hear the clacking of shoes heading to my room. The late night nurse nearly dropped her tray when she found me struggling to break the near chemical bonds that had formed between my skin and the bed. She immediately rushed to my side, and told me to relax. She said that she’d be right back with a doctor. I struggled to watch her small framed body leave. I wanted to ask her what was going on, but I was already exhausted, and my mind began to wonder. The, might I say, handsome doctor came back to do a quick check up on me. We went through the inspection motions: eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. He asked my name, my birthday, and the name of my parents. I answered correctly, but with a very hoarse voice. After a few more procedural checks, he said something technical to the nurse, and she practically sprinted out the door. He then sat in a chair next to my bed, and his pleasantly soft face suddenly became very hard and serious. Hmm, his serious face was cute too. He asked what the last thing I remembered was. I croaked that I was in my playroom drawing when...I was told that my parents died. He then asked if I remembered passing out. I nodded, and that’s when he dropped the bomb. He said that I had been in a coma for a little over thirty three months.-----!!!-----The doctor constantly told me how lucky I was to have come out of such a long coma, but that wasn’t the miracle. Oh no. The coma was just the icing on the cake. In the thirty odd months from the day of my parent’s death that I was in that deep sleep, my body went through some extreme changes. Turner syndrome, endocrine disease, and a plain old growth disorder were just some of the explanations these doctors tried to give my parents as to why I never aged, but they were all wrong, and the science never added up. No wonder my parents fought. But when I stood up out of my hospital bed for the first time, I was two feet and six inches taller. When I looked in a mirror for the first time, I couldn’t help but smile. My body had filled out. I was now the proud owner of healthy breasts and wonderfully curvy hips. My black hair had become very long, and my eyes had changed from a blue to a bluish green. I was only nineteen that day I looked in the mirror, but the sharp features of my nose and cheeks made me look a bit older, but still very pretty, if I do say so myself. I was a little skinny and very weak, but that’s to be expected.-----That little Olympic runner turned nurse had called my next of kin to tell them the good news. The next day I almost choked to death on cheap cologne and even cheaper perfume. Aunts, uncles and cousins, all the nameless faces of that long ago funeral that I had never seen before and had never seen again, were now gathered around my ungodly firm bed. Apparently, I came from a poor family on both sides, but through hard work and good investments my parents were wealthy. Not that they’d enjoyed it. Most of their time and money was spent finding an answer for my “condition.” But the last few days before I woke, doctors noticed a lot of brain activity. My relatives were notified, and although the doctors remained skeptical, they stayed desperately optimistic.-----In my parent’s will they wrote very clearly that in the case of their death, I’d be the only beneficiary. In the event of my death, I suppose in case we all died in a car crash, all our funds would go to charities. If it wasn’t for the last part, those big smiling faces would have pulled the plug on me years ago. After enduring their company for only two weeks, I could already see why I never knew them. They were ignorant and irresponsible, and selfish. I had them removed from the visitors list, and restraining orders placed against them.-----The doctors tried to explain what happened, but they didn’t know s**t. I spent over a year of my physical therapy listening to theory after theory that they couldn’t back with any consistent evidence. Each new doctor that came to my bed, all smiles and arms extended, was only looking to unravel the big mystery and make a name for himself. I was the guinea pig that would lead them to scientific glory. How pathetic. They all failed, but this didn’t discourage the hopeful young. Even after my release from the hospital young ambitious doctors still called me asking for more blood, another biopsy, or to submit to another examination. Another test, another test, another test. The damn fools were just wasting their time. I changed my number, and sued the hospital.-----From the moment I woke up I knew my life was going to be different. Instead of wasting all those months in the hospital waiting for my strength to return, I was learning from a personal tutor. Shortly after my release I earned my G.E.D. I’m starting college now, and the only kind of “tests” I want to take are on paper. I finally look my age, but only I know that’s because I choose to. I know now that I can decide who I want to be by drawing what I don’t. What power, huh: to pick and choose? I am a woman now, and the little girl is gone forever. As I look out at the campus from my car, and look at all the boys and girls that I’ll be meeting, I wonder who will go and who will stay. Will I make friends? Will I fit in? I wonder if I’ll meet a nice boy, and maybe fall in love. Will we be happy, or will he break my heart? Well…, if he does, my paper and crayons are in the back seat.
Inspired by the following image:
“Facing Up To Reality”
By
Laurie Lipton
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Posted: Sun Jan 14, 2007 9:12 pm
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That was interesting Dathu. I think that was a neat project. And sad. crying
And Flying Carrot... Your little short was really sad too. I've never seen Last Exile, but my friend loves the series. If its the series I'm thinking of... Hmmm... They never have the disc she needs though. They always have the first and sixth one, but never any inbetween those.
Anywho, I write tons of stuff. Lots of fanfiction mostly, but I'll post a little drabble I did in an attempt to write in second POV. I'd never done it before and lots of people say I have too many adjectives and stuff. Oh well.... crying
I'm also really crappy at titles. So... most of my stuff doesn't have a title. sweatdrop
The hospital room is cold considering they are trying to warm up the body that lays beneath the heating blanket. The soft beeping of the many machines tied up to the person are the only things that make the dreary white room not entirely silent. It is mid-morning and the sunlight that filters through the soft blue blinds of the ICU ward illuminate the stark clean hallways and make the entire place glow with a deathly pure light.
Still. Quiet. Cold. Nothing in this place seems to be alive. It is a giant tomb where people go to lay down one night and never get back up. Never see home again. Never hold their loved ones that wait so patiently for them to open up their eyes once more.
Another way to describe this place, this tomb, is hell. A hell that has nurses and orderlies and death and tears and painful nightmares. There is a lady down the hall that cries day and night, begging the doctor to leave her dying daughter on life support for just one more day. One more. It’s cold and every sound echos ten times louder than normal and it grates against the ears and makes the mind cringe. The smell of death is covered by the noxious scent of ammonia and starched bed linens. Hell.
If one listens closely enough, they can hear the weeping of lives past. Of people who had been wheeled in on the lumpy beds and put into a room with so many machines and tubes that they became almost unrecognizable. People who became another name on a list, another bed pan to change, another hour on a nurses shift, another unseeing face turned towards the water stained ceiling.
It is impossible to describe the way the walls seem to close in around you when the shrill bleep of a life lost races through the halls. Glancing left and right, you pray to any god that may listen its not them. Not the one you’ve been sitting next to for the past six days. Not the person you grieve for. Not the one that you love so much that their death would cause you to be the next patient here. Here in this tomb. Here in this hell.
And when the orderlies race by the window peering into that abysmal room that you occupy, you can’t help but thank heaven that it was someone else’s loved one. Someone else’s heart that stopped. And then after turning back to his face and seeing him so pale against the bed sheets and so cold and frail, that you begin to cry again. Because no matter how many days that Death passes this cold, sterile room by, you know that its just counting down till that bleep is too close for comfort.
Nights are so long that even when you do sleep it seems that you over slept when you reawaken two hours later. Jerking awake from a nightmare of screeching metal and racing speeds to stare at a nearly lifeless body laying on a bed that seems too short for it. And the tears come once more, unbidden and unwanted. Curling up in the chair that you’ve sat in for days you weep with bitter pain and remorse. It should be you in that bed. Not him. Not the beautiful angel that you used to hold tight. Not the warm body that would stand by your side through thick and thin. Not him. Not him.
And the nurses come in during the day in an unending routine, pulling back the bed sheets from the familiar form and rubbing a damp sponge over the cold, pale limbs. They empty the catheter and resupply empty IV’s. Check vital signs on the machines that are everywhere and take notes on the way his eyelids flicker and if he makes any signs when they pinch his toe.
The doctor told you after they’d wheeled him into this room and were leading you to his side that they believed he was paralyzed. From the waist down, the doctor said. The kind doctor that comes in and talks to you every other day and tries to get you to go home, get some sleep. But you can’t leave. Cause what if Death decided to stop by and pull that plug while you were wrapped up in sheets that still smelled of him? Of you. Together.
And then you cry again, weeping pitifully against your arm. The sleeve of your sweater feels so damp against your skin. It feels so cold that you jerk away from the warm hand of the doctor as she touches your shoulder and whispers things that have no meaning. No meaning. Not now, not while you’re here and he’s there. The sobs become unbearably loud and harsh and you know the lady down the hall can hear you.
Its been like that for days and days and you have nearly forgotten how long its been since you slept in a real bed. Its been quiet, except for the time when one of the machines came unplugged and that terrible, horrible, unthinkably loud bleep filled the room and your heart stopped and your chest constricted and you couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe. And the nurses all swarmed to his side and they took vitals and stats and pushed you to the back of the room where you wept and screamed and begged for them to save him. They had to drag you out because it was so utterly loud that even just you breathing next to one of the nurses was too much. But it was a false scare and they just plugged the respirator back in to the tube that was stuck down his throat.
You remember that time and you sob once, a harsh sound against the silent backdrop of the rest of the ward. A nurse comes in and hands a cup of coffee to you and its steam warms your face as you sip the bitter liquid. But your eyes never leave him. Never leave him. His cold nearly lifeless body on that crisp, white bed. There haven’t been any movements since yesterday, when the nurse commented about his eyes moving rapidly under the lids. In the middle of a dream, she had said. And when you began to cry again she tried to calm you down, saying that it is a dream about you, see? Can’t you see the way his lips turn up just a bit at the corners? Can’t you see?
But this day has been hectic for the nurse and she rushes off when the loud blaring bleep from another room fills the hallway, after giving you a few nice words and a pat on the back. Its back to staring at him. He’s so beautiful even when he’s so pale and you reach out a hand to touch that straight nose and those pouting lips and you can’t help but sigh dreamily as you remember the way they used to smile and kiss and taste. And they’re so cold. So cold. Leaning forward, you press your own lips against his in hopes that you can share some of the warmth that the coffee gave you.
And when you pull away, you look into those hazel eyes and your breath stops along with time.
And then you suddenly feel the tears spring to your eyes but this time they’re welcome and you reach up with your hand to touch the corners of those beautiful, open eyes. Those beautiful, open eyes. And the corners of your lips turn up into a smile and the slow rasp of the respirator makes you tremble with a terrible and complete giddiness. Because he’s back. And he’s looking at you. And it’s the most beautiful thing ever and you regret telling him to stop staring all those times.
Those beautiful, beautiful eyes close as if pained and his body curls up and suddenly he’s coughing. Coughing so hard and gagging and trying to get the respirator tube out. Trying to get the thing that kept him alive for all this time out. And his face is turning red and the respirator is starting to work harder, forcing air into his lungs and he’s flailing and you choke with fear, watching as he jerks and reaches for the tube down his throat. The tears that had been so happy suddenly become so afraid and painful.
You shout his name and press the button for the nurse. Screaming, screaming for them. No, no, no, you finally got him back! Racing around the opposite side of the bed, you try to hold him still, hold him carefully as he flails. You whisper that its okay, its okay, its okay. To calm down, let the machine work for him.
But he doesn’t listen and his hands push you away and you begin to wail as you listen to gagging and the bleeping of a machine begins to fill the room as it records his heart rate as being too high. You push past the glass door and into the hallway, screaming for a nurse to come. Screaming and screaming and tears are falling down your cheeks and its so cold. You can see one orderly run up and he barges into the room and you follow quickly after. Everyone else is busy at the moment, the orderly tells you as he restrains your love.
You sob and reach forward and touch his cheek and its colder than before and he’s so still. And the orderly is cursing as he flips switches and turns dials. You gasp as a small drop of blood wells up at the corner of your loves lips and it drips. Falls. Slides down the pale cheek to pool at his ear. And when you’re told to leave, and more nurses and a doctor rush into the room as if on cue, you can’t help but wail louder as the orderly grabs your arm and forcefully shows you to the hall.
And as you stand there all alone, you can hear the frantic words and rushed antics of the nurses inside the room. And it’s a few minutes later when one comes out, looking disheveled and sad and you feel your heart drop. No... no, he just opened his eyes!
Then she tells you that he’s going to be alright but they need to have him in quarantine because his flailing caused him to tear his epiglottis and you have no idea what that means but you sob and nod as she hugs you. Cause he’s going to be alright. He’s going to be alright.
And you go home because if you can’t sit at his side then why bother being there? The doctor even told you it was the right decision to make and so you go home and sit on the couch and stare at the pictures that are set up on the fireplace mantle. Memories of times far better, before that night and that terrible, terrible accident. Tears well behind your eyelids and rest along your lashes and when you blink they fall...
And soon you are crying once more but this time because he’s awake. He’s awake and he was looking at you. Looking at you with those big beautiful hazel eyes. And its all so wonderful that you curl up on the couch and begin to sob into a throw pillow.
Later, after a long hot bath, you lay in the bed you share with him, and will continue to share, and you smile as finally sleep claims your mind and the night passes quickly. The moon rose and fell so slowly before but now it falls to the horizon faster than you can ever recall before.
I have tons of stories. This was just the first one I could think of to post....
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Posted: Sun Jan 14, 2007 9:36 pm
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Posted: Mon Jan 15, 2007 1:08 pm
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Yang clutched his sword ever more tightly, letting the leather lining of the handle sink deeply into his skin. He knew this was it: either life or death. He couldn’t run away from his own destiny. One way or another, he was bound to end up inside the cave before him. Drops of sweat started forming on his forehead. The cave, even though it was a good many meters ahead of him, was generating a large surge of heat now and again, each one hitting him strongly. The dragon was stronger than he thought. Yang inhaled deeply and lunged toward the cave. His feet pounded the ground beneath him as he dashed towards the red cavern. Excitement increased in him as he neared the cave, as one after another, waves of heat hit him, adding to the rapidly increasing temperature.
Yang started slowing down as he was practically inside the cave, and then stopped entirely just before the entrance. He was just about to walk in as he stopped again. This may have been his last day alive. He looked down at his shaggy clothes, only peasants would consider his clothes normal. A brown shirt which was covered in various rips enclosed his chest, his pants had resembled shorts, feet only shielded by a thin layer of bad quality false leather. Why me, he wondered. He was no different than any other peasant in England, so why had the King chosen him for this task? He had no skills of sword handling, no experience in fighting, no idea how to slay a dragon. And yet, the king had said that he was the one for the job, he was the only one that could save England from this frightful beast.
Then another thought came into his head, his family. His mother, sick in bed, death slowly creeping to her, his father weeping beside her, not being able to harvest food. The king had offered him considerable money to slay this dragon. The money would be enough to buy his mother the medicine that she needed and the rest he would buy a fine horse with, to help his father plow the fields with and he calculated that there would still be a little for him to buy a ring for Yin, his love and ask for her hand in marriage. If he didn’t slay this dragon, he would die. If he did, he’d come back a hero. It was worth death for a chance to save his mother as well as helping the rest of his family.
Sighing, he entered the cave.
“Well, here goes nothing.” Sweat started running down his face, leaving a trail of salty water. One drop led to his mouth and he slowly ran his tongue towards it, tasting its salty bitterness. As he walked deeper and deeper into the cave, following the twists and turns it offered, the red color of the walls started to get darker, more majestic, almost tantalizing. Yang had often heard that dragons put spells on their caves, to stop their assailants dead in their tracks, no doubt this was a spell placed by the dragon, to make attackers focus on the sheer beauty of the cave rather than slaying the dragon. Yang concentrated on the ground before him, trying his best to not notice the color of the wall.
As he progressed further along the cave, the spell started to wear off. Yang noticed that the path was getting wider and wider. Suddenly, the path wasn’t a path anymore, but a chamber. But the chamber wasn’t empty. From wall to wall, the hall was filled with jewels. Yang looked at the variety of diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, rubies and other wonderful gems scattered across the floor in mounds. Father had always told him that dragons loved pretty things that sparkled and always hoarded gems from when they hunted wealthy caravans. The jewels glistened in the thin light coming form a small skylight in the cave’s roof. Yang reached out his hand for the pile nearest to him, letting his sword drop down in front of him, losing his concentration and then jerked it back.
“I must resist all urges until I kill that dragon. I’ll come back for this later,” he whispered to himself. He clutched his sword once more and drew it back to his side. He slowly walked through the chamber and passed into another one. This one was filled with gold. He looked around, once more dropping his guard, at the glorious hoard of precious metal. The light bounced off the gold and flickered all throughout the cavern. Yang reached out his hand for a pile of golden coins right next to him. His hand touched the gold and he felt the coolness run through his fingertips. Then, just as he was about to take a handful of gold, an image of his mother flickered into his head, sick and coughing in her bed. Yang’s eyes started to water and anger started building up inside of him. The anger wasn’t for the dragon but instead for the kingdom for making doctor’s bills too high for his mother to afford.
Yang clasped his sword again and let out a yelp as he started running extremely fast towards the next chamber. The heat started to increase rapidly, wave upon wave of heat joining forces. Yang followed the corridor of rock and he started to hear screeches from the chamber ahead. He ran faster, even though his legs possessed a pain he’d never experienced before. He reached the end of the corridor and he finally caught a glimpse of the dragon he was sent out to slay.
The dragon was colossal, three times the size of any fair-sized hut. The skin of this giant lizard was uncertain because the scales changed colors whenever he moved. At one point, Yang thought he was dealing with a luminescent green dragon and at the next, the dragon was as red as the cave around him. The dragon’s head displayed two yellow eyes, like gems themselves, as well as a giant mouth, which showcased a long tongue every time he opened his mouth to breathe out giant flames. Yang’s face was now covered in sweat. He clutched his sword tightly and waited for the flames to stop. The dragon took in a giant breath and Yang lunged towards his long neck. The blade neared the dragon’s scaly flesh, closer and closer it came to piercing the skin, making the dragon perish. Just as the blade was about to rip the flesh of the dragon, a voice rang out of nowhere.
“Mr. Kawtaka!” Within seconds, the dragon vanished into a puff of smoke, the cave around him turned into walls. Yang fell down and hit what seemed to be a wooden plank. His shabby clothes melted into dust to reveal a long-sleeve sweater, jeans and a pair of Addias to cover his feet. He closed his eyes to try and recount what happened. He opened them again and discovered that he was in a classroom, surrounded by similar wooden desks as the one that he was laying on. He saw that the classroom of students was staring at him and holding back laughter. He lifted his head up and saw that the class professor was standing over him and looking very angry. Yang lifted himself up into position and sat with proper posture.
“Have you gotten enough beauty sleep?” the professor asked.
“Yes I have, Mr. Asloth,” replied Yang to the teacher.
“Then perhaps I can keep you up a little longer tonight with an assignment. I expect a paper on English folktales on my desk tomorrow, Mr. Kawtaka.”
“Yes, Mr. Asloth.”
“Good,” replied the professor as he walked to the front of the class “Now to continue, Arthur was apparently sent to slay a dragon by his mentor, Merlin…”
I don't have a title for this yet and I welcome critics.
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