Sploorky
Member
(This may likely be the only entry, I am not sure. The reason for writing this is 50% because I had the story planned out, 50% because I feel I could improve my writing skills, and this is a good way to do it.)
A piercing whistle is heard across the barren wasteland. Sharp and distinct, it is a cheerful whistle, maybe a tune from a children's show that's been long forgotten. Despite its inviting and happy call, the hellish desert of dirt twists it into an eerie song, dripping with death.
A man skids down a mountain of gravel. He stumbles toward the end of his little slide, but manages to maintain his balance and lands upright. Giving a dramatic bow to an invisible crowd, he continues on his way, starting up his cheerful whistle again. His sword is buckled to his side, shaking a bit as he quickens his pace. Eventually he reaches a road, but does not acknowledge the change of scenery, simply vaulting up the side of the highway and begins to follow along the road, slapping his hands against the lamp posts, now deprived of electricity.
Night falls, and the monsters begin to clamor around the sides of the highway, banging their undead and rotting old fists on the walls. The sounds of the devilish creatures fill the air, as their moans and yells get so loud that you can not think straight. The man stops, decides to start whistling again, but after a minute thinks against it and breaks off from his tune.
The man is approaching cars now, a pileup of abandoned vehicles, most likely a crowd of people caught in a frenzy, thinking they could not escape in a car, and promptly fleeing on foot. As if that would have helped. The man chuckles a bit, but realizing how inappropriate that laugh is considering the situation, he quickly cuts it out. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the slight flurry of a coat beside a car. He freezes, tensing up. Keeping his right hand on the hilt of his sword, he slowly walks around the vehicle, and sees the owner of the coat, a boy...well, young man. Likely not a day over 17 at tops. The boy raises his eyes in terror, jumps away, and draws his own sword, pointing it at the man. The hand on the hilt of the man's sword is instinctive and efficient, quickly bringing his own sword to full length, and points itself toward the teen. Nothing is said, nothing is done. The wind picks up it's force, causing the boy's jacket and the man's hair to flutter and be whipped around. They glare at each other for over half a minute until they realize there are slight speckles falling around them. One hits the boy on his arm, and he lets out a little yelp, immediately going to grab the point of contact. Acid rain, the foil of every stand-off. With a nod of his head, the man gestures towards an upturned truck with the backs flapping open.
"Get in."
The boy and the man crawl into the back of the truck and close the large doors shut just as the rain begins to downpour. The boy stares, his face masked with fear and tension.
"Thank you" he murmurs.
The man raises for his eyebrow.
"For...for not killing me, I mean."
The man lays his sword on the floor of the truck.
"You gave me no reason to." he says back with a wry smile.
The boy seems at a loss for words. "What is your name?" He finally comes to the conclusion to ask.
"My name? I don't remember."
The boy looks confused. "You don't remember? How can you not remember?"
The man sighs. "The brain can only hold so much, kid. I've got a lot on my mind, I've got to let some memories go."
The boy looks even more uneasy. "Oh." he replies somewhat lamely. "Well, my name is Quentin!" He points his thumb towards himself and lets out a little smile. The man chuckles back. Quentin feels the need to talk after this, but really, who could blame him? He probably hasn't seen anybody for quite some time.
"I must have been traveling for 3 days by myself at this point. I mean, I had some guys I was with a little earlier, but they were...left behind. Well, oh what the hell. They weren't left behind, they were captured! Some goons wearing full armor made of iron, they captured the three buddies I was with. Said something about dinner for days." He shudders to himself, and his expression turns blank.
The man stares at him, a blank expression to match Quentin's. "I'm sorry."
Quentin snaps out of his memories. "It's fine, I didn't know them that well. All part of life nowadays, huh? So anyways....I'll call you Joe. Anyways Joe, what's your story?"
The man stares towards one of the walls of the truck.
"My story is too long."
"We've got time."
"You wouldn't want to hear it."
"Better than the silence."
"It may make you think differently of me."
"We've all had to do some crazy shit out here. I doubt I'll judge you."
The man lets out a great sigh.
"I was traveling with my wife and child. We hit three months out in the wasteland, maybe not doing the best, but alive, and you can't ask for more than that." Quentin scoots up, his face alight with interest. "We were hiding out in a destroyed old tower, squatting there for 3 weeks. I was awake, they were asleep. I heard voices in the night." Quentin has an intake of breath. "Bandits, a group of men. Evidently, the small bonfire we set to celebrate a more permanent area of residence caught their eye. I tried to wake up my family without making noise, but they wouldn't open their eyes. My son finally woke up and heard the voices. He was just a child, he was scared. He screamed. The bandits were on us in a minute."
The man gulped. "I had to make a decision. I had the time to flee myself, or I could try to save my family, and die in the process. I fled, left my boy and the love of my life to those savages."
Quentin stares, his eyes full of pity. "I had an epiphany soon after." The man says with an emotionless face. "Maybe three days after this, I was traveling along the desert of dirt. Suddenly, I realized something, a great click in my mind. I loved the world." Quentin's face flashes the signs of confusion. "I remembered how green the world was. I remember having picnics with my wife and son in the green hills, racing along the green meadows. Green is such a wondrous color. So, my dear Quentin, I thought to myself. 'Why isn't the world green anymore?' I realized, it was the evildoers. There are two kinds of people in the world, the noble and the evil. The noble can live, the evil can die. The more the evil die, the greener the world gets. It is as simple as that."
You could see fear on the teenage boy's face.
"So Quentin," the man says, "Are you noble, or are you evil?"
Quentin grips the handle of his sword. He takes a gulp and says: "Noble."
"Lies"
With the experience of someone who has done this countless times, the man grabs his sword before Quentin can react, and thrusts it through his chest. Quentin's breathing begins to falter as blood starts to drip from the point in his chest where he is punctured. He stood no chance, really. No matter who he was, no matter what he said, he would be evil in the man's eyes. The same as all the others the man has came across since that fateful flight two months ago. No matter how old they were, no matter how they acted, no matter what they said, they were all evil. There is only one noble person that the man knows, and it is himself.
Quentin exhales his last breath. The man stares at his dead face, and with a bizarre decision, grabs Quentin's head and brings it close to his chest, as if to comfort the boy. He hums a little.
Hours pass, the rain stops, and morning comes. The man climbs out of the back of the truck, stained in the young Quentin's blood. With an inviting intake of air, he continues along the road, starting to whistle as he thinks to himself.
My name? My name is the same as my mission. I will purify this land of evil, I will beckon Spring to us again, eventually. My name is The Purifier.
A piercing whistle is heard across the barren wasteland. Sharp and distinct, it is a cheerful whistle, maybe a tune from a children's show that's been long forgotten. Despite its inviting and happy call, the hellish desert of dirt twists it into an eerie song, dripping with death.
(Because this is mostly to improve my writing skills, feel free to give me feedback
)
A piercing whistle is heard across the barren wasteland. Sharp and distinct, it is a cheerful whistle, maybe a tune from a children's show that's been long forgotten. Despite its inviting and happy call, the hellish desert of dirt twists it into an eerie song, dripping with death.
A man skids down a mountain of gravel. He stumbles toward the end of his little slide, but manages to maintain his balance and lands upright. Giving a dramatic bow to an invisible crowd, he continues on his way, starting up his cheerful whistle again. His sword is buckled to his side, shaking a bit as he quickens his pace. Eventually he reaches a road, but does not acknowledge the change of scenery, simply vaulting up the side of the highway and begins to follow along the road, slapping his hands against the lamp posts, now deprived of electricity.
Night falls, and the monsters begin to clamor around the sides of the highway, banging their undead and rotting old fists on the walls. The sounds of the devilish creatures fill the air, as their moans and yells get so loud that you can not think straight. The man stops, decides to start whistling again, but after a minute thinks against it and breaks off from his tune.
The man is approaching cars now, a pileup of abandoned vehicles, most likely a crowd of people caught in a frenzy, thinking they could not escape in a car, and promptly fleeing on foot. As if that would have helped. The man chuckles a bit, but realizing how inappropriate that laugh is considering the situation, he quickly cuts it out. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the slight flurry of a coat beside a car. He freezes, tensing up. Keeping his right hand on the hilt of his sword, he slowly walks around the vehicle, and sees the owner of the coat, a boy...well, young man. Likely not a day over 17 at tops. The boy raises his eyes in terror, jumps away, and draws his own sword, pointing it at the man. The hand on the hilt of the man's sword is instinctive and efficient, quickly bringing his own sword to full length, and points itself toward the teen. Nothing is said, nothing is done. The wind picks up it's force, causing the boy's jacket and the man's hair to flutter and be whipped around. They glare at each other for over half a minute until they realize there are slight speckles falling around them. One hits the boy on his arm, and he lets out a little yelp, immediately going to grab the point of contact. Acid rain, the foil of every stand-off. With a nod of his head, the man gestures towards an upturned truck with the backs flapping open.
"Get in."
The boy and the man crawl into the back of the truck and close the large doors shut just as the rain begins to downpour. The boy stares, his face masked with fear and tension.
"Thank you" he murmurs.
The man raises for his eyebrow.
"For...for not killing me, I mean."
The man lays his sword on the floor of the truck.
"You gave me no reason to." he says back with a wry smile.
The boy seems at a loss for words. "What is your name?" He finally comes to the conclusion to ask.
"My name? I don't remember."
The boy looks confused. "You don't remember? How can you not remember?"
The man sighs. "The brain can only hold so much, kid. I've got a lot on my mind, I've got to let some memories go."
The boy looks even more uneasy. "Oh." he replies somewhat lamely. "Well, my name is Quentin!" He points his thumb towards himself and lets out a little smile. The man chuckles back. Quentin feels the need to talk after this, but really, who could blame him? He probably hasn't seen anybody for quite some time.
"I must have been traveling for 3 days by myself at this point. I mean, I had some guys I was with a little earlier, but they were...left behind. Well, oh what the hell. They weren't left behind, they were captured! Some goons wearing full armor made of iron, they captured the three buddies I was with. Said something about dinner for days." He shudders to himself, and his expression turns blank.
The man stares at him, a blank expression to match Quentin's. "I'm sorry."
Quentin snaps out of his memories. "It's fine, I didn't know them that well. All part of life nowadays, huh? So anyways....I'll call you Joe. Anyways Joe, what's your story?"
The man stares towards one of the walls of the truck.
"My story is too long."
"We've got time."
"You wouldn't want to hear it."
"Better than the silence."
"It may make you think differently of me."
"We've all had to do some crazy shit out here. I doubt I'll judge you."
The man lets out a great sigh.
"I was traveling with my wife and child. We hit three months out in the wasteland, maybe not doing the best, but alive, and you can't ask for more than that." Quentin scoots up, his face alight with interest. "We were hiding out in a destroyed old tower, squatting there for 3 weeks. I was awake, they were asleep. I heard voices in the night." Quentin has an intake of breath. "Bandits, a group of men. Evidently, the small bonfire we set to celebrate a more permanent area of residence caught their eye. I tried to wake up my family without making noise, but they wouldn't open their eyes. My son finally woke up and heard the voices. He was just a child, he was scared. He screamed. The bandits were on us in a minute."
The man gulped. "I had to make a decision. I had the time to flee myself, or I could try to save my family, and die in the process. I fled, left my boy and the love of my life to those savages."
Quentin stares, his eyes full of pity. "I had an epiphany soon after." The man says with an emotionless face. "Maybe three days after this, I was traveling along the desert of dirt. Suddenly, I realized something, a great click in my mind. I loved the world." Quentin's face flashes the signs of confusion. "I remembered how green the world was. I remember having picnics with my wife and son in the green hills, racing along the green meadows. Green is such a wondrous color. So, my dear Quentin, I thought to myself. 'Why isn't the world green anymore?' I realized, it was the evildoers. There are two kinds of people in the world, the noble and the evil. The noble can live, the evil can die. The more the evil die, the greener the world gets. It is as simple as that."
You could see fear on the teenage boy's face.
"So Quentin," the man says, "Are you noble, or are you evil?"
Quentin grips the handle of his sword. He takes a gulp and says: "Noble."
"Lies"
With the experience of someone who has done this countless times, the man grabs his sword before Quentin can react, and thrusts it through his chest. Quentin's breathing begins to falter as blood starts to drip from the point in his chest where he is punctured. He stood no chance, really. No matter who he was, no matter what he said, he would be evil in the man's eyes. The same as all the others the man has came across since that fateful flight two months ago. No matter how old they were, no matter how they acted, no matter what they said, they were all evil. There is only one noble person that the man knows, and it is himself.
Quentin exhales his last breath. The man stares at his dead face, and with a bizarre decision, grabs Quentin's head and brings it close to his chest, as if to comfort the boy. He hums a little.
Hours pass, the rain stops, and morning comes. The man climbs out of the back of the truck, stained in the young Quentin's blood. With an inviting intake of air, he continues along the road, starting to whistle as he thinks to himself.
My name? My name is the same as my mission. I will purify this land of evil, I will beckon Spring to us again, eventually. My name is The Purifier.
A piercing whistle is heard across the barren wasteland. Sharp and distinct, it is a cheerful whistle, maybe a tune from a children's show that's been long forgotten. Despite its inviting and happy call, the hellish desert of dirt twists it into an eerie song, dripping with death.
(Because this is mostly to improve my writing skills, feel free to give me feedback
)
