Hello. It's me, Pitka ("Ninja" to my friends), your morality guide. Together, we will embark on a journey filled with lessons on life and ethical behavior, while having fun along the way, of course!
I've written a series of short fables for your benefit. Come, take my hand as we navigate through life's innermost difficulties.
Entry for Bucky's Year's End Contest
She offers everything a man could want. Sterling City, an unsteady lover, but a lover nonetheless, filled with gunfire, liberal women, and elevator dings!
One day her embrace is warm, and the next, it's the cold shoulder and couch for you, baby. Best to get out while the going's good.
Contest entry for IWT 13: The Resurrection
The Providence of Kria consists of two major nations: The Kingdom of Brelia and the tribal territory of Rath. The ten-year peace between Brelia and Rath is quickly unraveling. In attempt to prevent another war, heir to the throne of Brelia, Prince Urijah, is sent on a diplomatic mission to appeal to the Rathans. In your older brother's absence, the burden of defending the kingdom falls to you. Your choices will determine the fate of the kingdom.
Runner-up for Corgi's Unofficial Contest: The Lords of the Land.
9/1/19 Update: Corrected a few punctuation errors
Taking place during the Golden Age of Piracy, assume command of The Sanguine as you plunder and search for treasure in the profitable Caribbean. In this swashbuckling fantasy, you embark on a dangerous quest to an ancient Aztec civilization. Peril lies behind every tree, stone, and indigenous spear.
The story adds fantasy elements to events occurring in the 1700s. There are many real life characters and places in the story. Many are factually accurate, and many are not. I highly encourage you to research the people, places, and deities after reading.
Entry for Gower's Battle in the Ruins of a Dead Civilization contest.
1852 - The Territory of New Mexico
The hunt has taken me to to the outer edges of civilization. Out here, lawlessness abides. There are no godly folk. Only heathen. The inner demon in me can relate to the call of anarchy. No rules, being bound by nothing; it sounds like freedom. In the end, that "freedom" is simply the self-indulgent, care-free living that is a poison upon humanity. If killing a man will save society from the infection of lawlessness, then I will gladly do what is necessary.
You eye the journal at your lap. The freshly written ink expands and bleeds to the perfect width of the quill. Satisfied that it won't smear, you shut the book and toss it aside. The meager fire at your feet does little to warm your body, but its original use was already completed. The frail, thin-boned squirrel did little to satisfy your hunger. Still, it would keep you alive until the next meal. You pull the leather waterskin from your pack to gauge how much longer it would last. With a gentle shake, you estimate it'll last a couple more days with strict rationing.
The road is lonely. In a former life, you dreamed about wandering the world without any responsibility or burdens. The reality of the road's harsh living conditions were nothing like the trigger-happy romanticized versions of the lawless west. Here there are no home-cooked meals, no warm body to lie next to yours. It's only you and the necessary task. Someone had to die.
You gaze up at the night sky. It seemed foreign at first. Without city lights to disorient the constellations, it looked like an entirely new sky. If you traveled at a good pace, you'd reach Canyon Diablo by midday. You pull the bone-carved pipe from your pack and light a match against the sole of your foot. You lie down on your bedroll, breathe in the relaxing tobacco, and drift off to sleep...
The Wild West is a dangerous place. Be sure to make good use of that "back" button. I've hidden three achievements throughout the story. Yes, your total score will show if you've discovered them or not. The highest score possible is an 8/8.
Achievements: 1 point each
Epilogue: 5 points
Entry for mizal's Lone Hero contest
8/28/19 Update: Fixed the symbols appearing in the description
There is no escaping our nature. It simply exists. The voice within me, the one that causes me to commit terrible deeds, burns a low ember. Still, it remains, always present, always looking for fuel to burn. It wants to escape. I feel its lust. It wants to devour. This day is no different. I must battle the darkness within.
In various sections, you will be given the option to view a simultaneous event happening in the story. While not directly affecting you, the reader's path, they may create a more cinematic feel to the story.
Originally written as the last page for Sixteen Words,
I hope you enjoy my full adaptation of Contemplation.
Embracing the Writing Process
So you want to be a writer, huh? It ain't easy, kid.
Break! (The Contest)
on 7/16/2020 12:22:19 AM
Ha. Was that intentional?
on 7/14/2020 9:53:48 AM
I'm counting all the noobs sitting comfortably under the safety of your wing as one.
on 7/13/2020 9:55:02 AM
Thanks. The exerpt begins mid-page, so that's why it's lacking context. There are minor spoilers right before the first paragraph begins, so I wanted to save the reveal for the two people who actually look in the WW.
on 7/13/2020 12:30:17 AM
Tentative deadline: End of October
Howling wind carries men’s screams overboard, losing them at sea, threatening to give their origin a similar treatment. The tide of slaves crashes into sailors, desperate to muster up a defense. Eventually, though, each is overwhelmed by sheer number. The short sword you’ve armed yourself with makes quick work of their defense, finding gaping holes in their meager parries. The act brings a slight smile to your lips; it’s been awhile, but it’s good to see your skills haven’t deteriorated too much since the shackles were clasped around your wrists. Your old mentor would have a field day if--
Your head instinctively ducks at the sudden movement in your vision. An axe plants itself in the side of the ship, not inches from where you just stood. A sailor, dressed in loose trousers and simple shirt, unarmored, frantically tries to pry it loose, but it’s firmly in place. As you bring the short sword up to finish your opponent, a wave rocks into the boat, knocking everyone to the deck. Lightning sends a surge of brightness into the air. Upon subsiding, the sudden flash keeps lingering images, ghostly figures, in your eyes for several blinks.
“She’s going down! Hang on!” a voice carries over the wind, barely understandable. The storm encouragement enough, you grab onto a rope tied to the side of the ship and brace yourself. Contrasting the sudden lightning, the world slowly, gradually turns darker. As one, the deck’s combatants halt their skirmish, turning to face the looming darkness. A wave peers down at the ship, building, rising higher and higher. Ominous it grows, flexing its size over the comparatively small vessel. Then, in a burst of motion, it crashes.
A lone wooden coffin sits on a pedestal, surrounded by bright colored flowers. Candles burn at four points around the coffin, shaped in an imaginary square. You’re lightless, floating above the pedestal as if a spirit. Simple stone blocks line the floor, and a small staircase leads up to the coffin.
The coffin calls to you. The lid is cracked slightly, daring you to peek inside. Taken by an impulse not known to you, you float closer. As you approach, the candle’s flames intensify as if oil was poured on top. The flowers, formally an array of shining yellow, red, and white, peel back at your approaching presence. They sink inside themselves, decaying and wilting on the spot. The air around you becomes heavy, filled with the moldy smell of spoiled meat.
Death follows you, child.
Your inner forearm suddenly ignites in flame. You scream, still floating in the air. The flame subsides, and left behind is the blackened image of a crow mid-flight. A woman appears at the pedestal’s steps, dressed in simple religious robes. Her face is unblemished and youthful, but her eyes speak another story; they’re black, piercing and born of experience. The woman’s long blonde hair falls perfectly past her shoulders, to a small degree like the way hair floats underwater, the loose strands never appearing to fall in front of her gaze.
Scratching softly appears from the coffin, like two rough stones rubbed against one another. The coffin, surrounded and filled with death, rumbles low, its vibrations filling the room. The woman watches silently, interested to see what you do. The scratching becomes louder, building to deafening levels. Following suit, the coffin’s vibration intensifies, shaking the wooden structure uncontrollably, the lid on top threatening, begging to be tossed from its cracked position. In a thunderous echo, the coffin falls from its position on the pedestal, tumbling down the stone steps stopping at the woman’s feet. Rolling from within--
You awaken to find a man staring at you from above as one looking over a ledge. It’s the same hazel-eyed man who released you. A burning feeling draws your attention to your arm: the image of the crow is tattooed on your forearm, aged as if it’s been there for many years, yet your arm was void of ink mere hours ago. You start to say something, but immediately water rushes from within your throat in a coughing fit. After releasing the excess sea water, you speak.
“Made it through the storm, I see.”
on 7/3/2020 1:22:34 PM
Photo taken pre-Space Force.
Noob Contest Roll Call
on 6/28/2020 12:17:51 PM
For some reason, I was thinking that Covid game was part of the contest. Anyway, I like the decision to publish early. I'd rather have my story read before the judge is soured by being forced to read filth. Either that, or I'm part of the filth and we're all burning together. If you can manage to finish everything within a shorter timeframe, I think it's worth it as it separates yourself from the herd.
Newbie Contest Q&A and Chat
on 6/5/2020 12:43:22 AM
I personally prefer a longer page opposed to multiple single page links. If it's noticeably long, out of place long, then I'd look to break it up or revisit all the information presented and ask if all of it is really necessary. The unnecessary stuff can be packed up and shipped to an optional link or cut altogether.
Escape The Dark Castle - Group 3
on 6/5/2020 12:31:50 AM
Bishop Bacco is suprised by the sudden change in Cassandra's character. For one, she's referring to herself by her name and using coherent words that everyone can understand.
BB had a friend once, a childhood friend who was kicked in the head by a horse. The nasty mare left a U-shape imprint on the poor fellow. It began at his upper lip and ran down the side of his cheeks like a permanent frown. He spoke like the patients in the Faith's Ward, you know, the ones with droopy faces that can't pronounce their "R's."
All that's to say Wamen used to remind Bacco of his friend with the U-shape on his face. Now she's simply Cassandra. A pleasant woman, homely if you will. Suddenly, BB's aware of her hips. They're huge! Luckily, the hallways in the castle are wide. BB watches Cassandra charge the reaper, hips swaying side to side like a bowl of water during an earthquake. BB gulps in thirst, thirst for battle.
Bishop Bacco's vision transitions to red, a result of his curse, and he spits on his knuckles to intimidate his opponent. His fists, still dripping body fluid from the encounter with the cannibals, now house a large string of thick saliva slowly descending to the floor as if a spider suspending downward. Somewhere a church bell rings. It's fisting time.
Escape The Dark Castle - Group 3
on 6/3/2020 12:22:10 AM
Satisfied with his fisting, and feeling the Miller's proud spirit at the act, Bishop Bacco searches the room uttering a few prayers to protect him against further misfortune. Wamen is still alive, so on the plus side, it can't get much worse.
He munches on a rotten apple, remembering it was Eve who first sinned. The thought brings clarity to BB's mind. After all, he can't expect much from a woman. They aren't really known for making wise choices. A moldy bite tells him what he already knows: if he's going to escape, he's gotta ditch the bitch and rely on his bearded battle buddy.
Fury dispelled and wisdom taking the rein, BB decides to take the lead again. The fury, the vision transitioning to red, it's something he knows he can't control. Might as well take the front and leave the back for the Abbot (something the Miller taught them one cold night in the castle).
With the Miller's tanned skin saddle no longer making an appearance, BB is no longer nervous to turn his back on the group. By the ease in which the Tailor turns her back on the party, it's safe to say she's ridden her fair share of black stallions.
Escape The Dark Castle - Group 3
on 6/1/2020 11:37:24 PM
"You do look hungry! How about I fill you up with a fist or two? Bishop Bacco shouts, overtaken by sudden violence, brandishing his meaty fingers together into meaty balls of fisted destruction. "And when I'm done with you, you'll be bed-ridden for days!"
Through pure rage, BB notices the look the Abbot and Tailor give him. Damn. Never one to talk shit, he's a man of faith after all, BB made the cardinal sin when it comes to trash talking: sounding more gay than fierce.
Damn, the gay's spreading. No one says fierce unless they're fiercing
shoving Brother Lance's homemade sausages in their mouth during the mid-summer festival, while flying a bright kite and softly giggling at a fat lady's choice of attire, keeping a safe distance away from single nobility girls in order to prevent further confusion, eyes turned skyward in gleeful hopes to view a blue jay, masterfully hiding their true feelings towards Lance's spicy meat and replacing images of Uncle Vikter standing cribside holding a wooden spoon and a jar of honey with flower fields and wrestling gladiators.
Where was the Bishop? Oh yeah, he's ready to smash some cannibal ass.