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So @Mizal said I've never wrote anything passable in my time on the site, so I would like to change that by sharing a few short stories I wrote. At least one of them has to be passable, right? And most if not all were written after I joined, so they count. Not middle school appropriate, by the way.

An Eternal Dance
The sun, just barely below the horizon, basks the gloriously tragic scene in a fleeting soft golden light, seemingly granting one final moment of recognition to the dead and dying souls on the sandy stage before the curtain of night closes the battle out, ending it. I stand looking over the carnage alone, the rest of the survivors already at camp partying and celebrating.

As the sun lets the last scraps of it’s radiance clinging to the Earth fade, I feel a twinge of melancholy looking up- whizz thunk. Looking down I see a shaft of wood sticking out of my stomach, and look for my assailant. A faint glow and smoke from the cigarette he smokes betrays his location. An archer with a long beard and handkerchief covering his head and eyes stands leaning on a strange recurve bow, smoking a cigarette.

It appears the day will claim one more before night falls. No, the night had not set a close to bloodshed, it ushered in another round. A feeling of anxiety fills my heart and I draw my sword, preparing for another battle. My instincts prove right, a portal has formed, and things twisted and terrifying begin to pour out. What the hell? I begin to try to run towards them, to push them back to whatever unholy place they spawned, but the sharp shooting pain in my side stops me momentarily. I grab the arrow and rip it out of my stomach, then continue my march forward with steely determination.

But as the distance closes, my vision begins to blur, and the colors around me change, so do the creatures bounding towards me as fast as their slithering appendages would carry them. They were no longer the creatures that I saw first however, they were changing into… women? They had shining ball gowns and each had delicately intricate masquerade masks. Not only that, but my greatsword is no longer in my palm, nor the familiar weight of my armor. I’m in a suit? In a ball room? What type of sorcery is this? Before any other confused thoughts can cross my mind, a lady is right in front of me, and a beautiful symphony begins playing.

She nears so I begin to dance with her as I feel a strange compulsion to do so. Forward left and right to the side, back right and left to the side. Then with a step back, I twirl her around, yet I don;t find her hand when she comes around, she seemingly disappears. But once again I have no time to ponder this, since another girl immediately steps up to take her place. This cycle of dancing and disappearing carries on for a while, the dances varying but around the same amount of time each. Also, the door at the end of the ballroom where an endless supply of dancers appear to pour in from gets closer each dance. Soon, the door is right next to me, and with a theatrical throw I twirl my partner out and close the door with my other hand, then bring her back in, dipping her as she simply ceases to exist. Maybe the endless onslaught of dancing ladies would end with the door closed. When the door slams shut, the ballroom clears, everyone disappearing into a puff of smoke. Just when I think it’s over, the door comes open and more ladies come in.

Swiftly I’m dragged into another dancing round, but it’s easier this time, and I make it to the door. Instead of closing this time, a thought flashes by. I walk through the door, and shut it behind me. Then the illusion falls, and a barren landscape, red and fiery, is covered in demons, and the door must have been the portal. These monsters must never get to the world, and my purpose is made clear. I stand in front of the portal. With my sword raised, I begin my eternal dance.

Bones in the Ocean
The solid thunk of a hatchet into a thick rope can barely be made out between the tortured groans and creaks of the resting shipyard and the wind which howls with a rage on par with a scorned lover. Perfect for your purposes, since you’re probably not supposed to be out here. Scratch that, you’re most definitely not supposed to be out here, you were claimed unfit to sail for at least another month. Doesn’t very well matter though does it? You have no plans of returning. As the rope snaps and pops, almost broken, your heart races faster and faster still, so you drink another swig of Nelson’s blood and swing for the last time, snapping the rope and freezing the small sailboat you’ve chosen for the last voyage of Captain Morgan. It’s fairly new, which is even better since it’s yet to receive a name. As you prepare the boat you think of a name for the vessel.

Nearly running out of time, a name pops right into your brain. The Marco Polo, and he’s a beauty, sailing off on his maiden, or you suppose a bachelor voyage. With the last knots tied and instruments checked, you grab the large oar at the back of the boat and push off, feeling the seas jealousy as it bucks and begins to storm. You feel a twinge of panic, but it quickly subsides into the cool, strong confidence of an old seawolf. Now it’s like the hundreds of other voyages you’ve been on. Captain Morgan fears not the weather, and fears not the sea, he controls and takes command of her. As you sail on your small, swift sloop, you begin to remember your crew, thinking of their joyful shanties while they worked. You can almost hear their terribly off tune singing of Captain Taylor and rum over the raging tantrum of the ocean around you.

The rope behind you says you’re moving at around 19 knots, great speed any day, especially on wild storm winds with seas intent on swallowing you. Not much further now, you can see the floating buoys that incidentally marked your ship’s grave. You had read of Lucky Jack’s exploits in which he used a buoy to fool a privateer, and decided to keep a few on the ship. A few everlasting moments pass, and it’s time now, to do what you should have years ago. The sails are dropped and the shops movement ceases, so does the storm and waves. The sea is actually, for the first time ever, perfectly still. A foot hangs over the abyss, a black glass surface spanning for longer than you could sail in a millennia.

Thoughts flood your head, thoughts and memories of your crew as the cold air washes through your ears and the void embraces you in a comforting, bone-chilling hug. Your limp form drifts through the water, until your boots thud against a wooden deck, and you’re on a boat. Not any boat, but YOUR boat. But windworn rosy faces isn’t what you see, instead rotting grotesque faces with empty eye sockets and missing noses. But it fills your heart with joy, because through the wretches' stench of death and disease, the singing voices and the broken yet sweet smiles of your rotting crew. They seem happy here, and glad you’re here too. You feel a hand on your shoulder and whip around to see your first mate and best friend, Dr. Marley. He smiles and pats your shoulder heartily. “Captain Morgan, fancy finding you here, along with our old bones in the ocean.

Let’s retire to your quarters, we have a ton of catching up to do.” His voice is a relief to hear again, and it’s surprisingly unchanged despite how his Adam’s apple is entirely exposed. The ship is exactly as you remember, not even affected by rot like the rop deck is. You nod at the crew as you pass them. They seem to recognize you, but stay silent for whatever reason. Once you reach your cabin, both of you sit down and glasses filled with rum appear right in front of you, delivered swiftly by Mr. Blakely, as always. Even your quarter master doesn’t say a word, just scurries off. Before you can ponder anymore of the silent treatment you are seemingly being subjected to, Dr. Marley speaks again, seeming a bit more crestfallen than a moment ago. “How’s the surface been lik- bah, never mind. Look, I know what you did, and while a sentimental gesture very brash and might I say dumb. The reason the crew declines to speak with you is not because they’re bound by a contract nor even angry at you for surviving when they did not. They are embarrassed at how you’ve turned out, their brave strong captain reduced to nothing more than a depressing, suicidal drunk. When they died, they died with faith that regardless, you would stand tall, and continue to battle with our countries and fight against the Heathmoore savages. But you leave your country and post simply for what? Because you feel guilty? It would be one thing if you had tried to escape, but you didn’t even try to cower away from your fate, you just happened to get rescued.” He speaks with scornful passion, but his face softens into a sad smile, and he takes a drink from his glass and you follow suit. He puts a hand on your shoulder and speaks mournfully. “We may have died in struggle and strife, but please Henry, you don’t owe us your life.” As the last words leave his mouth, you find yourself in a black watery void, and your lungs are burning. Thrashing hands and feet does nothing either, and hope is almost lost.

Well it appears you are to die anyways, surrounded by the sea and not knowing even which way is up. Your soul will float to the sky like the bubble from your senseless thrashing. Wait? Bubbles? You exhale slightly and bubble float up. You follow them quickly and before long your lungs are hungrily gasping for air. With all your strength, you swim through the choppy waves for the ship and latch on to the ropes hanging off the side. Today isn’t the day Captain Morgan dies, today he lives, and carries along the soul and spirit of his fallen crew. Just their bones in the ocean, the place all sailors end. Sailing back for brave England's white sands, a song pops in your head and you begin to sing. “Oh, I bid farewell to the port and the land, and I paddle away from brave England’s white sands.”


Story about the waffle house
I love danger, it’s in my blood and soul to adventure and find things. But, that place, the Waffle House on Grove Street, it terrifies me. But, my quest to the Waffle House will be short, I merely need to retrieve a chicken sandwich and return it to the maiden who summoned me to get one, and hopefully she tips. When I pass the threshold of the wicked place run by men of crime and evil, my skin dampens with a sticky feeling, and the smell of cigarette smoke, marijuana, waffles, and fry grease assaults my nose in a violent symphony of degeneracy and desperation. Immediately, I pull my gun out of my waistband, a massive flintlock pistol that shoots balls about four inches in diameter. A necessity in here. Now for my perilous journey to the counter, I must hope the line cooks are fresh and in a good mood so they actually give me the correct thing, they are legendary for their ability to screw up orders, and if you complain they will spit in your food. In the distance I hear laughing echo from the kitchen, along with the scraping of spatulas across flattops, a good omen. I look back at the door, hoping my noble unicorn steed will be okay if I should lose my life. But, I surprisingly get the correct food without a hitch, and walk to leave the place, but I am interrupted mid step with a spatula buried deep in my back, I forgot to thank them for the food.

Some backstory before this one, I was forced to write a gay military story to escape a punishment, don't remember what I did but it was probably calling someone gay if I had to guess.

As I shower a long, hard day’s work off my sweaty muscles in the community shower, I can’t help but to let my eyes wander around the rest of the privates going through bootcamp. I almost shudder with delight watching their strong toned muscles ripple as they clean the sweat and grime off of themselves with the slippery, hard gritty bars of soap that they keep stocked in the showers. As my eyes continue wandering, I hear a loud yell. “PRIVATE, WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT LOOKING AT OTHER PRIVATES? GET DRESSED AND MEET ME AT MY OFFICE.” Your face slightly turns red with a blush as you quickly rinse the suds off your body and get dressed, before taking the shameful walk to the DI’s office. I knock on the door three times, loudly. “GOOD MORNING SIR, PRIVATE DIDDY REQUESTING PERMISSION TO ENTER.”
“Permission granted.” I step into the office, looking at the DI, looking at me with a strange look in his eye. Then he stands up and walks right up to me, and leans in to kiss me with those soft, manly lips that I had only ever seen yelling at me. I lean back in, then I feel a heavy blow to the side of my head. “I knew it, you’re a faggot, and I hate faggots.” He kicks me in the balls and knees me in the face as I hunch over. Now blood is pouring from my face and I’m rolling on the ground in agony, and he doesn’t stop there. He keeps stomping me viciously, bones cracking and tendons popping as my body is crushed under his thick black rubber boot soles. I try to get up but it only makes it worse, and he starts stomping my head, cracking my skull open and I see bits of my own brain begin to fly out. And this, for some reason, gives me an absolute rager, and when the DI sees this, he gets even angrier, and screams a primal war cry as he pulls a sawed off shotgun from out of his asshole and blasts my entire johnson off, and begins just blasting me over and over again, leaving me a mangled digusting gorey mess. Then, the eggs begin to hatch, and the monsters begin swarming from my body. He tries to shoot them but they keep coming, swarming him and ripping the flesh from his bones as sustenance. Soon, he’s nothing but stark white bone, and the monsters begin swarming the entire base, ripping all organic matter to shreds before anyone can even blink, consuming everything in their path. Soon, the entire tri state area is in shambles as the monsters rip through the cities and the military deprately tries to stop them. The distinct smell of copper spreads miles and the carnage is extraordinary, the screams of men getting ripped limb from limb by things they can’t quite understand echoing throughout the country.

Moral of the story, don’t be gay in the military otherwise you might get impregnated with alien butthole babies and begin a mini apocalypse.

Damn man 0/4 for this one.

Not a single one was passable? I know the last two were pretty bad but I thought at least one of the first two.

I only read two lines and they were "PRIVATE DIDDY REQUESTING PERMISSION TO ENTER" and "Moral of the story, don’t be gay in the military otherwise you might get impregnated with alien butthole babies and begin a mini apocalypse", it was very brave of you to tag me.

Prolly shouldn’t have added that one… if it makes it better I refused to write that one a few times at least.

I kinda liked the second one. The rest are just a bit too surreal or way too degenerate for my tastes.

Second one was my favorite too, and kinda the one I was banking on to be passable. The first one was kinda weird but my teacher said she liked it so I added it, the third one was a writing assignment, and the last one… well it’s something I suppose.

Hmm, I have mixed feelings about the first one. I like the images you painted with your words throughout that story. I thought the language used did a really good job at that. I do feel, however, that that story would've greatly benefited from having some exposition to ground it. I have no idea what the whole thing with the dancers is about.

Hallucination, from poison on the arrow. That’s why he ‘wakes up’ fighting, and the illusion falls. It was a writing exercise where I picked a random word out and I think that fit the word I used.

"I've never wrote anything passable in my time on the site"

First of all, it should be "written" and not "wrote". Second of all, if you wanted to prove yourself, why would you even include the last two? At leat the second one was bearable. (Well, I only read the first few sentances, but they didn't make me want to punch you in the face any more than I already do.)

"And most if not all were written after I joined"

There should be commas bracketing "if not all". The lack of grammar knowledge in just the intro paragraph doesn't bode well for the actual stories. I was going to critique all four of the stories actually, but after reading the first one I decided I didn't want to torture myself any longer. I will point out a few things in your first story though, if only because I already read it and don't want it to be a complete waste of my time. 

I forget where, but you used the wrong its. It's means it is. I know you're in middle school, but you learn this in like second grade. Also, you mangled up your comma usage. You seem like the kind of person who doesn't pay attention in school and then complains about not knowing anything, so I'll be nice and give you a few examples. 

"Looking down I see a shaft of wood sticking out of my stomach, and look for my assailant."

There are two mistakes here (three if you count you being born). I would put a comma after "looking down". That's an introductory phrase. "I see a shaft of wood sticking out of my stomach" would be a full sentance on its own. (see how I used the right form of its there? It's that easy.) I guess technically, according to a quick google search, you don't need a comma there, but I'm too lazy to delete all this. However, you should definitly take out the comma after "stomach". You would only need a comma there if the clause after "and" was indepandant. "look for my assailant" doesn't have a subject; therfore, no comma is needed. Additionally, you used a form of look twice in one sentance. Have you ever heard of a thesaurus? 

"No, the night had not set a close to bloodshed, it ushered in another round. A feeling of anxiety fills my heart and I draw my sword, preparing for another battle."

You switched tenses. Also, the gramar is atrocious. You can't just put a comma inbetween two independant clauses. Either use a semicolon or add one of the FANBOYS (for and nor but or yet so). You made the same mistake in the next sentance. Adding "and" between two indepandant clauses doesn't solve anything. You need a comma. 

I will admit, this story was bearable until paragraph three, but then it stopped being enertaining in the slightest. I went from "meh, this is okay" to "this is shit" to "huh?" to "What the actual fuck is going on?". For future refernce, you can't just rip an arrow out the way it came. The head will likey break off and be stuck in your body. 

"They were no longer the creatures that I saw first however, they were changing into… women?"

Again, you put two indepentat clauses together with a comma. To make it even worse, there should a comma in front of "however". You could then change the comma after however to a semicolon, and the sentance would work. Well, grammatically at least. I still have no idea why they're truning into women. 

At this point I would like to remind you that proofreading something exists. Even if you were just really bad at catching garmmar mistakes, you would've at least caught this: "I don;t find her hand".

You know what, I changed my mind. This story wasn't even bearable in the first paraghraph. There's literaly a grammatical error in almost every single sentance. That's impressively bad. It doesn't even read smoothly. The sentances are awkward and weird. Your tenses and tone are inconsistant. The writing itself is lazy and lacks anything that would make a good story. The idea and the exicution are both equally poor. I've not even sure what the idea was. This isn't a story. It's a poorly typed up fever dream. 

Bezro, I'm just gonna say it: as a fellow member of the Fresh Fan Club, you definitely should have known a little more about grammar than this. Even some of my degenerate stories were acknowledged to be grammatically correct and whatnot (the subject matter is what turned people off).

Speaking of subject matter, this is... well honestly, people's vitriol for the Snowbunny Society makes more sense now. Terrorist may have been lunacy, but at least it was lunacy that you could actually see happening on an evening news report. 
 

That last story just sounds like a victim's statement on freak-off roleplay they witnessed.

 

Now, as for the other three:

An Eternal Dance makes little sense. He's in combat, and suddenly dancing with some woman in a ball gown? Personally if I was in a war zone, and some bitches looking like they're showing up for the ball just appear out of nowhere, I'm gonna question it. This guy just seems to have a brief moment of confusion, and then goes along with it. And then another shift change to Hell, which he just accepts? Is he on drugs?

Bones in the Ocean was... alright. Although some more explanation on how his friends died and why he feels guilty could be warranted. You basically went from beginning of a story to an end of the story without any character motivations, development, etc. so Captain Morgan's entire shift just comes off as jarring.

Story about the Waffle House... I hated this the most. At least the private diddy story was somewhat laughable in its' attempt to elicit shock value. This was literally fucking boring. Suranna's "I killed a half-black man at the Waffle House!" was better than this. Waffle House should ban you for using their name in something so atrocious.

As for the last one... aside from how retarded it is, let me ask you this: if the military commander is so anti-gay he kills them, why does he have a sawed-off in his butthole? And why is he trapping you in a kiss? That's what subordinates are for!
This story is less enjoyable than being raped in prison. 
 

Look, I know enough people have given you constructive criticism in the ThunderDome and on here for you to at least have a basic idea on how to write a decent story. So if I seem harsh, that's why. 

He in fact is on drugs, kinda. I probably should have did the revised versions though, not sure why I didn’t. The waffle house one was a writing challenge thingy I had to do in class, I pretty much just pasted some random stories on my docs and hoped for the best. I will be releasing more shortly, until I get Mizal’s approval. Also I’ll post the revised versions of those stories too.

If you want Mizal's approval, the last thing you should be doing is posting more stories. 

So to prove my writing skills, I need to not show my writing?

To prove your writing skills you would need to have some. 

Fuck off.

We are not fellow members of the fresh fan club, btw. I do not affiliate myself with her or count myself a member of the club at any capacity. Anyways, I rewrote the first one and if I’ll rewrite the others later.

An Eternal Dance revised
The sun, just barely above the horizon, basks the gloriously tragic scene in a fleeting soft golden light, granting one final moment of recognition to the dead and dying souls on the sandy stage before the curtain of night closed the battle out, ending it. I stand looking over the carnage alone, the rest of the survivors already at camp partying and celebrating. As the sun lets the last scraps of it’s radiance clinging to the earth fade, I feel a twinge of melancholy looking up a- whizz thunk. Looking down, I see a shaft of wood sticking out of my stomach, and look for my assailant. A faint glow and smoke from the cigarette between his teeth betrays his location. An archer with a long flowing beard and handkerchief covering his head and eyes stands, leaning on a strange recurve bow. It appears the day will claim one more before nightfall. No,, the night had not set a close to bloodshed, it ushered in another round. A feeling of anxiety fills my heart, and I draw my sword, preparing for another battle. My instincts prove right, a portal has formed, and things twisted and terrifying begin to pour out. What the hell? I begin to try to run towards them to try to push them back into the hellish place they came from, a valiant but dumb decision, a sharp shooting pain in my side screams at me to stop. I grab the arrow invading my body and rip it out of my stomach, then begin a march forward with steely determination. But as the distance closes, my vision begins to blur, and the colors around me begin to change, so do the creatures bounding towards me as fast as their slithering appendages would carry them. They were no longer the creatures I saw first, they were changing into… women? They had shining ball gowns and each had delicately intricate masquerade masks. Not only that, but my greatsword in no longer in my palm, nor the familiar weight of my armor. I look down and discover, I’m in a suit? A glance around shows that I’m in a ball room. What type of sorcery is this? Before any other confused thoughts can cross my mind, a lady appears in front of me. A beautiful symphony begins playing, and she nears me. So I begin to dance with her, an odd compulsion driving me to do so. Forward left, right to the side. Back right, left to the side. Then with a step back I twirl her around, yet I don’t find her hand when she comes around, only finding air. But I have no time to ponder this, since another girl immediately steps up to take her place. This cycle of dancing and disappearing spans for what feels like centuries, The dances vary, but the time they last remains consistent. A heavy wooden door stands at the end of the ballroom, endlessly supplying new dancers. With each dance, I get closer and closer to the door, and soon I am right upon it. With a theatrical throw I spin her her around and close the door with my offhand, then twirl her back in, dipping her as she simply ceases to exist. Maybe the endless onslaught of dancing ladies would end with the door closed. When the door slams shut, the ballroom clears, everyone disappearing in a puff of smoke. I take a breath thinking it’s over, but the door opens once again and the maidens pour in once again. Swiftly, I’m dragged into another round of dancing, but it’s much easier this time, and I make it to the door. Instead of closing it this time, a thought flashes through my head, an idea. I walk through the door, and shut it behind me. Then, the illusion falls, and a barren landscape, red and fiery, is revealed to me. And dotting the empty ground is demons, hundreds and hundreds of them. The door must have been the portal to your world. My purpose here is now clear. I stand in front of the door. With my sword raised, I begin my eternal dance.

The grammar was better at least. I did catch a single typo (No,,)

Have you tried not using a text wall and instead breaking the story up into paragraphs?

I did for the last one, must have forgot to do it this time. Here's the other one revised, I'm not doing the others, they hurt enough the first time.

Bones in the Ocean Revised
The solid thunk of a hatchet cutting into thick rope can barely be made out between the tortured groans and creaks of the resting shipyard and the wind which howls with a rage on par with a scorned lover. Perfect for your purposes, since you’re probably, no, definitely not supposed to be out here on account that you were claimed unfit to sail for at least another month. Doesn’t very well matter though does it? You have no plans of ever coming back. As the rope snaps and pops, nearly cut through, your heart races faster still, so you take another long swig of Nelson’s blood and swing one last time, freeing the small sailboat you’ve chosen for the last voyage of Captain Morgan.

It’s a brand new ship, which is great since that means you get to name it. While you quickly tie knots and get the ship ready to sail, you think of what exactly you want to name it. Nearly running out of time, a name flashes into your head. The Marco Polo, and he’s a beauty, nearly ready to set sail on his maiden voyage, well you suppose it would be a bachelor voyage for him. With a flourish, you tie the last knot and head out on the stormy ocean blue. By now, your earlier panic and excitement is long forgotten, replaced with the strong confidence of an old seawolf. For now, it’s exactly the same as countless other voyages you've been on.

As you sail the small, swift sloop, you begin to think of times past, of your crew. They used to sing the most off-key but joyous shanties you had ever heard as they worked, whether the weather was a raging tantrum of Poseidon or a peaceful, tranquil calm.

Not much further now, you can almost make out the slight outlines of the buoys that incidentally mark your ship’s grave. You had read of a sailor named Lucky Jack and how he had used them to fool a privateer, and thought it a good idea just in case. After a few everlasting moments, it’s time. Time to do what you should have all those years ago.

The sails are raised and the ship's movement ceases, so do the storms and waves. The sea is, for the first time ever, perfectly still. A foot hangs over the abyss, a black glass surface spanning for longer than you could sail in a millennium. Thoughts flood your head, memories of your crew as the cold air whistles through your ears and the void embraces you in a comforting, bone-chilling hug.

Your limp form drifts through the water until your boots thud against a wooden deck. But not the deck of just any boat, it’s your ship. But rosy windworn faces aren’t what you’re met with, instead grotesque rotten faces with empty eyes and various missing parts and holes. But it fills your heart with joy, because through the wretched stench of death and disease, the singing voices and broken yet sweet smiles of your crew shine through. They seem happy, and happy you’re here too. You feel a hand on your shoulder and whip around to see your first mate and best friend, Dr. Marley.

“Captain Morgan, fancy finding you here, along with our old bones in the ocean. Let’s retire to your quarters, we have a ton of catching up to do.” His voice is a relief to hear again, and it’s surprisingly unchanged despite how his Adam’s apple is entirely exposed. The ship is exactly as you remember, not even affected by rot like the top deck is. You nod at the crew as you pass them. They seem to recognize you, but stay silent. Once you reach your cabin, both of you sit down, and glasses filled with rum appear right in front of you, delivered swiftly by Mr. Blakely, as always. Even your quarter master doesn’t say a word, just scurries off. Before you can ponder any more of the silent treatment you are seemingly being subjected to, Dr. Marley speaks again, seeming a bit more crestfallen than a moment ago.

“How’s the surface been lik- bah, never mind. Look, I know what you did, and while a sentimental gesture very brash and might I say dumb. The reason the crew declines to speak with you is not because they’re bound by a contract nor even angry at you for surviving when they did not. They are embarrassed at how you’ve turned out, their brave, strong captain reduced to nothing more than a depressing, suicidal drunk. When they died, they died with faith that regardless you would stand tall, and continue to battle with our countries and fight against the Heathmoore savages. But you leave your country and post simply for what? Because you feel guilty? It would be one thing if you had tried to escape, but you didn’t even try to cower away from your fate, you just happened to get rescued.” He speaks with scornful passion, but his face softens into a sad smile, and he takes a drink from his glass and you follow suit. He puts a hand on your shoulder and speaks mournfully. “We may have died in struggle and strife, but please Henry, you don’t owe us your life.”

As the last words leave his mouth, you find yourself in a black watery void, and your lungs are burning. Thrashing hands and feet does nothing either, and hope is almost lost. Well it appears you are to die anyways, surrounded by the sea and not knowing even which way is up. Your soul will float to the sky like the bubbles from your senseless thrashing. Wait? Bubbles? You exhale slightly and bubble float up. You follow them quickly and before long your lungs are hungrily gasping for air. WIth all your strength, you swim through the choppy waves for the ship and latch on to the ropes hanging off the side. Today isn’t the day Captain Morgan dies, today he lives, and carries along the soul and spirit of his fallen crew. Just their bones stay in the ocean, a place all sailors end. Sailing back for brave England's white sands, a song pops in your head and you begin to sing. “Oh I bid farewell to the port and the land, and I paddle away from brave England’s white sands.”

I interpreted An Eternal Dance as the delusions a guy has as he dies from an arrow wound. Or perhaps the dancing ladies were actually Death itself, peacefully pulling the protagonist to his demise.

Or at least I think interpreting it that way enhances the story—with his story ending exactly where a warmonger's should: Hell.

Only complaint I have on it is the double use of cigarette when describing the archer. It feels a bit clunky to me. Otherwise, good mood, good description, etc.

The arrow being poisoned is the way it was intended to be, one of the little sketches I drew when I wrote it shows an arrow tipped in a black substance. Not that you could see that. He was supposed to be hallucinating, although I do think that just blood loss could have made him crazy enough to hallucinate, until being in literal hell snapped him back to reality. I'm also glad you picked up how he was a warmonger. I tried to show that slightly through the way he stayed back from partying and chose to be alone with the corpses and blood, and even when driven to insanity, fighting was so natural to him he could clear waves and waves of abominations.

Understandable about the poison. The reason I didn't consider it as a possibility to explain the hallucinations is because if you take an arrow to the gut, you're not long for this world, and when you die, often times the brain goes into overdrive.

Still, in my head cannon, he's not saving the world. He's sentenced to Hell. Good short story though.

He is. It’s beautiful because it’s both, everyone but him wins. He’ll be forced to fight forever for the world, after existing almost solely to cause destruction to it. In my actual canon, he never dies, he’s kept alive for some demon prince’s enjoyment. Also, this guy is obviously exceptionally strong and powerful, he can fight hordes without tiring with an arrow wound, they wanted to poison him to make sure he died rather than managing to somehow survive.