Okay, so several weeks back, I entered a historical fiction short story contest—about two hours before the deadline. The winner gets to attend a writing workshop and some meager cash money. I thought, oh, what the hell, what could go wrong?, and I entered.
Then I remembered thinking, SHIT. I just joined a contest two hours prior to the deadline. However, This wasn't just some community of writers I would be dissapointing, it would be an entire college writing division! So with a can of Monster in my hand, I began writing random nonsense. Connecting word to word with no end result in mind, my only goal being to destory the blank white screen with walls of text.
Eventually, I have noticed a theme in the nest—a needle in the haystack—and I have gotten the idea to base the story off Jie Xia, a tyrant of ancient China who was overthrown by rival Shang clan.
I have finished and entered this hot mess around 5 minutes prior to the deadline, and needless to say, it wasn't a winner. However, I did learn a lot writing this—and I learned a lot about how exactly I write when short on time.
Anyways, this is what I have entered. 597 words—out of the 1000 maximum I got. Planning, researching, drafting, writing, and publishing took me around 2 hours.
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Overthrown (Historical Fiction Entry)
Despite the harsh conditions brought by the blizzard around him, Jie Xia willed himself to push further, to walk the final mile through the forests and into his home. Ignoring the stinging sensation on his exposed hands and face, he slowly marched onwards, barely managing to throw himself into the cabin in time.
I can’t keep doing this, Jie thought as he started the painfully slow process of starting his fire, This is no life for an emperor. However, he knew he couldn’t leave—especially not during the middle of winter. After all, he was shunned by the rest of society on account of his past status; attempts have already been made on his life, even after he was overthrown.
In the years following his sudden plummet from power, Jia was consumed by fantasies of revenge, his bloodlust and desire to avenge the former Xia Clan defining him. He used to live a lavish life, and nobody had nearly as much to their name as his, not nearly as much slaves for whatever whim he could conceive, and best of all, status. All feared him; everybody knew better than to go against his supreme word. Until, that was, the contemptible Yang Shang showed up, and overthrew him.
However, Jia liked to think he was over such things. Sure, he would love to see every Shang and their associates bleeding on a stone, but he no longer plotted it. After all, he was beginning to get too sick to fight, and his horrifyingly plain food could not even begin to compare to his prior feasts.
Laying in front of the fire, Jia let his mind wander, desperately trying to take his mind from the unbearable cold and his slowly progressing illness. Alas, in those efforts, he has let his mind drift to a memory he had wanted to seal away forevermore; the years he was in power.
Before the Shangs, before their swine of a general Wuzu captured Jia near the boundaries of Cheng, he was the ruler of the Xia clan. Whatever he wanted, he had gotten, and if somebody failed to that extent, they were promptly beheaded. With every meal he would have a wine of pure alcohol, and he would even sit on the backs of his subordinates whilst drinking his wine. Everything was perfect.
Then, of course, the Shang Dynasty started gaining momentum. Vassals belonging to the Xia were taken over, and Yang, that detestable dog, has pitted the citizens of the Xia against their own ruler. After a while, even silencing the messengers didn’t stop the terrifying news.
By the time Jia has truly realized the gravity of his situation, it was too late. His army was defeated, and there were many men after his head. He has tried to flee, to escape to a different land, but he was captured, and now resides in this barren forest.
However, Jia didn’t care so much anymore. Right now, he was cold. Cold despite the fire in front of him, cold despite the furs on his shoulders. Perhaps the cold was from the days spent marching through the snow for scraps to eat, perhaps the cold was from the empty void in his being that luxury masked.
Or, perhaps, the cold was from the sickness that has been getting worse ever since Jia’s isolation. Sleep slowly catching him, he didn’t know if it was exhaustion, or the sickness, or the cold draining his consciousness. However, Jia was sure of one thing: Soon, he would regain power, and he would get revenge on the Shang Dynasty.
