Items from a failed forum.

This short story was created in the name of the Bird of Paradise. I had to follow the guidelines of what this mythic bird was about and its nature. Reviews are greatly appreciated. More short stories from the unnamed failed forum will be added soon. Reviews will guide me with plot direction for lengthier stories which is my sore thumb.



The Last Battle
        Burtane sat on a granite out cropping, jagged and deformed not from wear from weather, but from war. Scorch marks burned across most of the surface while a few small pockets of the white stone remained. Lying before him several bodies were hardly recognizable as charred skin bubbled from what used to be faces of soldiers he’d just a few moments ago fought beside.
Drained of any strength to stand, he sat motionless. His eyes slowly panned outward while his stomach failed to up heave itself as it would many months ago. Death stared upon him many times before, soldiers he’d regarded as friends were long gone. The soldiers lying here were men who’d replaced his friends, unwilling to allow himself to become close to any, they each died horrid deaths with out knowing him as a person.

        The battle field was silent, not a single engine could be heard. No explosions of bombs, no jet fighters passed over head or raced along the horizon. No helicopters beat the air with there enormous blades, the whine of there passing silenced by their absence.
No birds filled the air, yet the song of a strange bird could be heard in the far distance.

The stench of charred human bodies filled the air, bowel waste from their unexpected deaths permeated with the stench. A fly danced above a nearby body, hovered momentarily before landing for a feast.

        The bird song grew with intensity, Burtane began to take notice of the song. Casting his eyes further out, the base of a mountain range lay a mile away. Boulders of varying size had fallen to the base after being rocketed by continuous explosive assaults.  The valley was strewn with burning hulks of steel, one could be heard exploding with munitions still inside. Another quieted as flares settled and became awash in flames, for a moment he thought heard screams from within before the explosions.
Silence once more, peering upward along the assortment of ridgelines along the mountain side, Burtane could see smoke rising from the highest point. The sound of song had vanished. A flame reached upward like a torch, a finger of fire pointing against the blue sky.

          Burtane looked on with curiosity. He had not seen such a flame from a target before, the smoke began to recede, but the flame continued. Several moments passed while he became fixated on the torrent of fire. No incoming roar of a passing artillery round announced its arrival to the target. No bombers left their tell tale streak in the upper atmosphere. No nearby mortars fired a round, the unmistakable awhomp making a last effort from the field of battle.
His eyes widened, the flame changed form, and it now fell against the cliffs. A solid body of fire raced downward and suddenly came to flight across the valley. Burtane’s heart raced when the flame turned to pass over him.
No fear filled him, the flame vanished while a strange bird filled the sky.
Word count: 499

This short story was constructed under the use and meaning of magic.

Types of Magic 500 word story
Shanae's calling:
          Shanae stood before the flames, the torch lighting the way to the Gods of each point of Earth. Even now her heart filled with the rage of losing her family to the savage Huns of the East. The Shaman slowly walked along the winding hill where the Torch of Truth called for her revenge.

Shanae knew it had been generations since the torch was called upon, once set free it’s power had been difficult to control. She had sat with the Shamans of the Celtic tribes for a full two cycles of the moon preaching her case. Her father had told her of the Torch of Truth and its great power, only a women could wield its power as no man had ever returned the right to the winds.

Eying the elderly man, his beard laid like an unruly throw across his chest, his hair had greyed nearly white. His age was unknown, many said he rose from the sands of the beaches of the North. He was said to have been the last to grant this right, a man who defied him in the end. The Shaman called upon the Gods of the winds to force his retreat as he brought with his revenge a great war.
Her father said the man did not head the Shamans words of sacrifice and kept all his revenge to himself, thus angering the Gods by bringing a hundred years of war to the land.

Shanae stood while she lowered her head to the approaching Shaman, his ancient voice groveled as he instructed her to close her eyes.
Speaking in the ancient tongue of the lost tribe of the South, she could understand certain words being repeated by odd counts, one set up to 13.

Slowly the fire’s heat seemed to grow within her, Shanae’s soul began to consume the flames.
Shanae felt the cold hilt of the Daurken Sword touch her palm, grasping it while the flames raced between her and the weapons blade. A sword that had been safely hidden since the beginning of time, she could feel incredible energy slowly coursing throughout her spirit.

While her spirit came to life, she felt her clothes being removed. New garments replacing her ceremonial gown, and the heavy weight of armor was rested over her shoulders. Shanae quickly adjusted to the cumbersome burden as it were meant for her and the weight was soon ignored.

          “Cast your eyes open, your family awaits your quest, Shanae.” The Shaman’s voice had suddenly changed, no longer aged, but full of youth and eager with fight.

Shanae’s rage heightened upon seeing the Shaman. His face clean shaven and his eyes of blue shown like the rising star of the West.

The sword was nearly long as she was tall, gleaming against the light of the flames, flares cascaded from the sharpened edge waiting for its first kill.

Shanae pictured the Huns in their unruly garb, their unclean bodies torn apart by this blade, she was ready. 
Word count: 499

This short story is more tell, but it was designed as a history lesson from mythology. Could this become a new story?


Merlin 500 Word Essay
Ambrosius Aurelianus at one time was a valiant leader of war during the 6th century, driven mad by the horrors of war he condemned him self to seclusion in the wild forests. Had he suspected his tortured ways would lead to a story that secretly placed him in the files of history, one may wonder of his thoughts. Living off the land, his food secured by his own efforts whether by hunting or scavenging, how could he have envisioned his actions could have been classified as deformed by a more modern process of thought?

His territory may have been trespassed by locals, would he have hidden within dense brush, or perhaps a violent charge sent the invaders reeling in retreat? Had he ever ventured near a populace how would he been received? Did he sneak through the night silently taking revenge on society, scavenging from unsecured stores of food and supplies? Leaving the people to talk of a man who possessed strange powers of the night, a magical being was being born.

Perhaps he ventured during the light of day. His body reeking of odors from the woods, perhaps a recent kill still meandered below his pelt clothing tethered by a thin strap of leather. Entering into a village daring a trade, his prize for a freshly fashioned blade, all the while his way made clear by weary shoppers and villagers. Imagine his gaze upon a shiny new blade against the morning sun’s light.

Dark eyes crusted by aged grime, soil driven deep within crevices of his furrowed brow, muscled hands grasping the hilt with assured confidence. Imagine a people of the sword, witnessing one of their own gone mad. No one would dare shoo him away, his eyes telling of great horrors of experience. Slowly leaving the village behind, its people wondering of his coming visits of the night. Already stories of wizards and spirits were told around camp fires to pass the time, only one having a semblance of truth.
Concoctions of brews could turn a man’s will from a fight, a woman to cry in the night, a child to dream of beasts of terror. What had the people thought of Ambrosius Aurelianus as he sat alone in his desolate camp? Did he prepare his visits with rituals of summons to dark spirits?

Ambrosius Aurelianus would never know his fate, history remembered him from camp fires to pen, interpreted over and over until fascination became near reality through dreams. Merlin was born, torn from the wellspring that shared the forest.
Word count: 423