In Ireland there was once a society of leprechauns. These leprechauns were peaceful and kind creatures. At five apples high, they had to work together to accomplish the most simple tasks. They labored in their Zion-like society, becoming creatures of prosperity and happiness.
But upon the spring equinox came a danger that threatened the whole society of leprechauns. The coming of these monsters sent the whole country into turmoil, as they knew that these monsters would not cease until every last one of them was killed. They prepared for war, drafting all the men and organizing massive armies of the red-haired people.
Upon the lush green plains the leprechaun army assembled into battalions, ready to defend their home country and freedom. Across the plains they marched, setting up camps and fortresses surrounding the largest cities. They guarded the cities for many days, knowing their foes would soon arrive. In the cities the civilians labored, making weapons of war: swords, spears, axes, flails, war hammers, bows and arrows, even catapults. With these weapons the leprechauns stood their ground, waiting for their enemies to arrive.
Three weeks after the army was assembled, the invaders arrived on the leprechaun home front. The arrival started as a shimmering on the horizon, a wavy blue line blending in with the sky. But then the distinct creatures were seen by the scouts, confirming the identity of the attackers: smurfs. Smurfs, average height at three apples high, are deadly creatures and are very devious to all who oppose them. Snarling in the sunlight, the blue brutes marched forward across the grassy Irish plains. They stopped a mile from the leprechaun front lines, setting up camp and preparing for the battle soon to come.
The next morning, Papa Smurf (leader of the smurfs) and Lucky the Leprechaun (leader of the leprechauns) met between the two armies to discuss the terms of warfare.
“Surrender and we will spare your race, or fight and you will all die.” Papa Smurf snarled, his eyes burning with hatred.
“Aye, we be not surrendering to your kind.” Lucky casually responded, his pipe bobbing up and down in the corner of his mouth as he spoke. A big smile appeared on his face as he came to a realization. “But I’ve an idear abut how we kin fight. I says me and ye have a fight to the deeth, and the winner’s army is declared veectorious. Unless, that is, ye’s scard ye’re ganna lose.”
Papa grimaced, knowing he had only one choice. “Fine, we meet at high noon today, we fight to the death on a bridge. No rules, winner takes all.”
“Agreed, let’s seal the deal.” Lucky dropped his pipe and spat into his hand, then reached out and shook his opponent’s equally unsanitary hand. The two parties quickly returned to their forces, eager to discuss their plans for the fight.
A square bridge soon appeared over a river between the forces as the sun arced through the sky to its position at high noon. The cobblestone bridge was suspended over a large river, with bars along the river edges to keep the fighters from falling in. On each side of the river stood the opposing countries, with banners and flags decorating numerous tents and pavilions.
A crowd of smurfs parted with an uproar as Papa Smurf marched onto the bridge, his chest puffed out and muscles flexed. At ten apples high, Papa Smurf towered over even the biggest smurf, and his bulging muscles made him look even larger. He turned around and faced the smurfs, thrusting his fists into the air as the uproar grew louder.
Behind Papa Smurf, Lucky emerged from the crowd of leprechauns holding a tobacco pipe, dressed in a formal green hat, sparkly green shirt and shorts, and green moccasins.
“HAHA, look at the little leprechaun in his little outfit! HAHAHA!” Papa Smurf shouted, pointing at Lucky and laughing boisterously.
Lucky giggled to himself menacingly, then tossed his pipe and hat into the crowd. The crowd quieted as lucky arched his back, flexing his muscles robustly. He started growling, and Papa Smurf stumbled back in fright as Lucky let out an ear-splitting roar, tearing off his shirt and slamming his fists on the cobblestone. Lucky stood up straight and leaned backwards, stretching in the sun before Papa.
He was visibly larger than before, which greatly surprised the smurfs. What the smurfs didn’t know was that Lucky was very lucky as he had the ability to grow larger when he wanted to. But this didn’t stop Papa Smurf, who charged at Lucky without warning. Lucky hopped sideways, dodging the blue blur by a hair. Lucky turned around and lunged at Papa, grabbing him by the arm and flinging him at the opposite side of the bridge, his head cracking on a wooden bar.
Out of nowhere Papa pulled out a short sword (actually all the swords were short) and with blood dripping down the side of his face charged at Lucky. Lucky quickly dodged the smurf and grabbed a spear from a nearby leprechaun, hurling it at Papa Smurf with all his strength. The spear careened through the air and just barely brushed Papa Smurf’s chest, but Papa froze and let out a disgusting moan as he turned toward Lucky. Lucky paused, noticing Papa’s torn shirt and bloody chest. Papa stumbled forward and fell on the ground just as his blue entrails spewed out of his wound and splattered onto the cobblestone.
But the death of Papa Smurf didn’t end the battle, and soon there was uproar among the smurfs as the leprechauns cheered for victory. The smurfs charged the leprechauns, crossing the bridge and killing many before they knew what was happening. Trumpets were blown, signaling the start of the battle, and the bloodshed began. Caught by surprise, the leprechauns were unable to be organized and went ballistic; chopping at every smurf they saw in their anger. The bridge became the midpoint for the battle, and the forces were smashed together from behind. Lucky led the battle, killing many smurfs in his wake. The battle continued into the afternoon until the smurfs were defeated, their bodies covering the bridge and the land surrounding it.
Lucky and the few remaining leprechauns dumped the smurfs corpses into the river, watching the bodies float down the currents. Lucky looked around the river at the many bodies of his fellow leprechauns, and couldn’t help but weep for the loss of his brethren.
Lucky wept bitterly beside the river, mourning for not having lost his life with his friends. “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” Lucky quietly whispered these words and gazed at the river, observing the mysterious blue haze that enveloped the murky depths.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Pitch Black
The following story is the second draft of my "masterpiece," an assignment from my Creative Writing class.
Clyde McCracken pulls the thin covers over his face, shivering in the gloomy darkness of the room. The bedroom is needlessly clean, as the McCrackens seldom get any visitors. In the room rests a decaying writing desk with crumpled papers and an empty inkwell on it, and a cracked dresser opposite holding a few broken drawers.
Unable to sleep, Clyde sits up and peers through the window at the sullen landscape. The trees sway in the cold November night, the distant mountains masked behind the low grumbling clouds. It seems like ages since he’d seen the sun, ages since there was grass and sky.
Clyde, eight years old, sits on the edge of his bed, wondering when the sickly winter will end. Stumbling through the dark to his writing desk, he lights a lamp and sets it on his dresser. Weird shadows dance on the walls, the bedroom now illuminated in the dull light of the glowing lamp. He puts some overalls over his pajamas, then slips his grubby boots on, slowly lacing them in the muddy light.
Picking up the lamp, the boy sneaks down the short hallway, stopping at his mother’s doorway to listen for her muffled breathing. After a moment, he realizes the only sound is the distant jingling of the porch chimes in the wind. Confused, he enters the room and raises his lamp to the darkness. He approaches the bed, squinting in the light.
“Ma?” Clyde gently inquires, gradually leaning toward the slumped covers. He lifts the cloth, revealing his mother silently dreaming and her breath nearly visible in the wintriness of the room. With his worries eased, the boy tiptoes out and into the living room.
A strange, musty odor swirls in the air, making him uncomfortable in the loneliness of the room. He crosses the room to the doorway, rubbing his eyes tiredly before stepping outside and setting the lamp on the wooden porch. Outside isn’t much cooler than the inside, but there is a slight breeze that makes the boy shudder for a moment before taking a deep breath. As he sheds his overalls and urinates off the porch, he examines the smothering darkness around him. The forlorn moon hides behind a layer of clouds, giving the snowy tundra a ghostly white color. The small log house he lives in is surrounded by a thick forest of trees and bushes.
Putting on his overalls back on, he hears a faint noise in the distance. “Nobody ever comes around here, especially at night. Who could it be?” These thoughts run through the boy’s mind as he strains his ears in the darkness. The strange noise grows, and the boy goes back into the house in anticipation.
He stands next to the door, staring through the window and trees into the darkness looking for the traveler. He runs to his mother’s bedroom, the lamp squeaking and swaying as he shakes her awake, “Ma, Ma! Somethin’s comin’ up the road.” He stumbles over the words to alert her to the situation.
“What, hun? What’s wrong?” His mother rolls over, her face pale in the thin light. The horse could now distinctly be heard galloping toward the house.
“I think it’s the bad man, I think he came to hurt us again.” Clyde’s voice shakes as he stares at his mother.
His mother jolts up in her bed, now fully alert and ready to act, “Get the shotgun Clyde, I’ll try to calm him down.” But it’s too late.
A thud echoes through the house, and a burly man holding a bottle of liquor stumbles onto the porch of the McCrackens.
“CLYDE!” He yells, his recent intoxication slurring his speech. He barges into the house, breaking one of the door hinges and throws the bottle at a wall. “I see you, don’t think you can hide!” He bellows, squinting toward the illuminated room. He marches towards the room, the house now smelling like alcohol and tobacco. He pokes his head through the doorway, glaring at the two figures.
“Clyde, ready to come home with papa?”
“He’s never gonna go home with you, you worthless drunk. He’s my son, and you’ll never have him!” Clyde’s mother shouts, now standing in front of the boy.
“Oh, is that right?” The man responds, wiping his mouth with his dirty hand. He backhands her, her body whirling onto the floor with a loud thump.
“RUN, CLYDE, RUN!” She screams, staring in horror at the man in front of her. He whirls around as Clyde sprints out of the room, rounding the corner and dashing into the living room. Mother stands up, now holding a lamp with her hands, and shatters it over the back of the intruder’s head, the blood and gas mixing together on the floor. The intruder stumbles forward into the wall, but recoils and stares the woman in the eyes before punching her in the face. The punch rocks the woman back, her head crunching against the wooden bedpost as her motionless body rolls onto the floor.
Stepping out into the hallway, he braces himself against the wall and feels his bloodied head. He looks up just in time to see the silhouette of Clyde as he fires a shotgun at him. The shot hits him through the right shoulder, tearing apart the skin and bone beneath his jacket as he sails through the air and into a wall. A large blood pattern is painted on the wall, and the man groans in pain as he struggles to rise. Clyde reels backward from the gunshot recoil, tripping past the broken door and onto the porch. The sound of the gunshot rings throughout Clyde’s ears, and he clasps his ears to the deafening sound.
Dazed from the blast, Clyde stands and is shocked to see the intruder leaning against the wall once again, this time feeling his shoulder. The shot seemed to just anger the man, as he seemed to have already recovered from the shot. The stranger charges towards the boy, and Clyde dashes off the porch just as the door is torn off its hinges. He pursues Clyde, who is running toward the dark tree line across from the porch. The boy sprints through a thicket and dives behind a large tree stump, winded by the shallow, bitter air. His pursuer stops in his tracks, examining his surroundings in search of the child. Weary of the man near him, Clyde breathes into his shirt to mask his breathing condensation and sits perfectly still on the soft, wet ground. The stranger cups his shoulder wound with his right hand, which now is pumping blood out from adrenaline. Hearing a cough, he stumbles toward a stump with his left arm stretched out to grab the Clyde. Clyde darts away from the wounded man, running up the road towards safety. But his pursuer falls onto the stump, laying there hunched over in his last moments of his pitiful life. Trying to say something, all that is heard of the boy’s father is an incoherent gurgle as he coughs up dark blood, the sound echoing off the trees. Struggling to breathe, the only warmth he felt was his blood running down his neck and onto the forest floor.
Clyde continues his run up the road, and ducks out of the way of a crazed horse galloping up the street. The boy gasps in horror as he spots a blinding white fire casting sickly shadows on the surrounding tree line. What he didn’t realize was that the broken lamp on the floor had been slowly burning, and the fire had finally reached its peak. With no thought but that of his helpless mother, he sprints as fast as he can toward the house, his eyes fixed on the inferno that was once his home.
He runs down the dirt road, mud splattering his legs as he nears the engulfed house. He trips over a rock, whirling sideways as his momentum carried him towards the unknown. His legs hit the side of something hard, and he screams in shock as he falls into the hidden well. The boy couldn’t comprehend what was happening, and he had no last thoughts but that of his mother as he tumbled down into the well. The well engulfs him, the nearly frozen water squeezing all the air out of his lungs and he instantly falls unconscious.
The next morning, the sky drops a sullen gray blanket over the inhospitable tundra that was once the home of the McCrackens. All that is left of the family is a few smoldering pieces of what was once their home, and the pitch blackness of the ashes therein.
Clyde McCracken pulls the thin covers over his face, shivering in the gloomy darkness of the room. The bedroom is needlessly clean, as the McCrackens seldom get any visitors. In the room rests a decaying writing desk with crumpled papers and an empty inkwell on it, and a cracked dresser opposite holding a few broken drawers.
Unable to sleep, Clyde sits up and peers through the window at the sullen landscape. The trees sway in the cold November night, the distant mountains masked behind the low grumbling clouds. It seems like ages since he’d seen the sun, ages since there was grass and sky.
Clyde, eight years old, sits on the edge of his bed, wondering when the sickly winter will end. Stumbling through the dark to his writing desk, he lights a lamp and sets it on his dresser. Weird shadows dance on the walls, the bedroom now illuminated in the dull light of the glowing lamp. He puts some overalls over his pajamas, then slips his grubby boots on, slowly lacing them in the muddy light.
Picking up the lamp, the boy sneaks down the short hallway, stopping at his mother’s doorway to listen for her muffled breathing. After a moment, he realizes the only sound is the distant jingling of the porch chimes in the wind. Confused, he enters the room and raises his lamp to the darkness. He approaches the bed, squinting in the light.
“Ma?” Clyde gently inquires, gradually leaning toward the slumped covers. He lifts the cloth, revealing his mother silently dreaming and her breath nearly visible in the wintriness of the room. With his worries eased, the boy tiptoes out and into the living room.
A strange, musty odor swirls in the air, making him uncomfortable in the loneliness of the room. He crosses the room to the doorway, rubbing his eyes tiredly before stepping outside and setting the lamp on the wooden porch. Outside isn’t much cooler than the inside, but there is a slight breeze that makes the boy shudder for a moment before taking a deep breath. As he sheds his overalls and urinates off the porch, he examines the smothering darkness around him. The forlorn moon hides behind a layer of clouds, giving the snowy tundra a ghostly white color. The small log house he lives in is surrounded by a thick forest of trees and bushes.
Putting on his overalls back on, he hears a faint noise in the distance. “Nobody ever comes around here, especially at night. Who could it be?” These thoughts run through the boy’s mind as he strains his ears in the darkness. The strange noise grows, and the boy goes back into the house in anticipation.
He stands next to the door, staring through the window and trees into the darkness looking for the traveler. He runs to his mother’s bedroom, the lamp squeaking and swaying as he shakes her awake, “Ma, Ma! Somethin’s comin’ up the road.” He stumbles over the words to alert her to the situation.
“What, hun? What’s wrong?” His mother rolls over, her face pale in the thin light. The horse could now distinctly be heard galloping toward the house.
“I think it’s the bad man, I think he came to hurt us again.” Clyde’s voice shakes as he stares at his mother.
His mother jolts up in her bed, now fully alert and ready to act, “Get the shotgun Clyde, I’ll try to calm him down.” But it’s too late.
A thud echoes through the house, and a burly man holding a bottle of liquor stumbles onto the porch of the McCrackens.
“CLYDE!” He yells, his recent intoxication slurring his speech. He barges into the house, breaking one of the door hinges and throws the bottle at a wall. “I see you, don’t think you can hide!” He bellows, squinting toward the illuminated room. He marches towards the room, the house now smelling like alcohol and tobacco. He pokes his head through the doorway, glaring at the two figures.
“Clyde, ready to come home with papa?”
“He’s never gonna go home with you, you worthless drunk. He’s my son, and you’ll never have him!” Clyde’s mother shouts, now standing in front of the boy.
“Oh, is that right?” The man responds, wiping his mouth with his dirty hand. He backhands her, her body whirling onto the floor with a loud thump.
“RUN, CLYDE, RUN!” She screams, staring in horror at the man in front of her. He whirls around as Clyde sprints out of the room, rounding the corner and dashing into the living room. Mother stands up, now holding a lamp with her hands, and shatters it over the back of the intruder’s head, the blood and gas mixing together on the floor. The intruder stumbles forward into the wall, but recoils and stares the woman in the eyes before punching her in the face. The punch rocks the woman back, her head crunching against the wooden bedpost as her motionless body rolls onto the floor.
Stepping out into the hallway, he braces himself against the wall and feels his bloodied head. He looks up just in time to see the silhouette of Clyde as he fires a shotgun at him. The shot hits him through the right shoulder, tearing apart the skin and bone beneath his jacket as he sails through the air and into a wall. A large blood pattern is painted on the wall, and the man groans in pain as he struggles to rise. Clyde reels backward from the gunshot recoil, tripping past the broken door and onto the porch. The sound of the gunshot rings throughout Clyde’s ears, and he clasps his ears to the deafening sound.
Dazed from the blast, Clyde stands and is shocked to see the intruder leaning against the wall once again, this time feeling his shoulder. The shot seemed to just anger the man, as he seemed to have already recovered from the shot. The stranger charges towards the boy, and Clyde dashes off the porch just as the door is torn off its hinges. He pursues Clyde, who is running toward the dark tree line across from the porch. The boy sprints through a thicket and dives behind a large tree stump, winded by the shallow, bitter air. His pursuer stops in his tracks, examining his surroundings in search of the child. Weary of the man near him, Clyde breathes into his shirt to mask his breathing condensation and sits perfectly still on the soft, wet ground. The stranger cups his shoulder wound with his right hand, which now is pumping blood out from adrenaline. Hearing a cough, he stumbles toward a stump with his left arm stretched out to grab the Clyde. Clyde darts away from the wounded man, running up the road towards safety. But his pursuer falls onto the stump, laying there hunched over in his last moments of his pitiful life. Trying to say something, all that is heard of the boy’s father is an incoherent gurgle as he coughs up dark blood, the sound echoing off the trees. Struggling to breathe, the only warmth he felt was his blood running down his neck and onto the forest floor.
Clyde continues his run up the road, and ducks out of the way of a crazed horse galloping up the street. The boy gasps in horror as he spots a blinding white fire casting sickly shadows on the surrounding tree line. What he didn’t realize was that the broken lamp on the floor had been slowly burning, and the fire had finally reached its peak. With no thought but that of his helpless mother, he sprints as fast as he can toward the house, his eyes fixed on the inferno that was once his home.
He runs down the dirt road, mud splattering his legs as he nears the engulfed house. He trips over a rock, whirling sideways as his momentum carried him towards the unknown. His legs hit the side of something hard, and he screams in shock as he falls into the hidden well. The boy couldn’t comprehend what was happening, and he had no last thoughts but that of his mother as he tumbled down into the well. The well engulfs him, the nearly frozen water squeezing all the air out of his lungs and he instantly falls unconscious.
The next morning, the sky drops a sullen gray blanket over the inhospitable tundra that was once the home of the McCrackens. All that is left of the family is a few smoldering pieces of what was once their home, and the pitch blackness of the ashes therein.
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