by joe_rogers_11155 on Sun Jun 14, 2009 3:23 am
Here's a short story I wrote for fun one day. I hope you have PLENTY of time.
"Zabnith was born many years ago; he was a very old man. He was born into poverty in Russia long before the war, long before Necrotorians had become the dominant technological power. He knew little of magic when he began studies to become a mechanical engineer in the 1990's. (Bear with me) He practiced as a machinist for many years, becoming a master welder and a formidable professional engineer. He studied much more than mechanics throughout his career: biological engineering, genetic studies, and advanced medical practices. Interestingly to him and his friends, he also took interest in more arcane methods of healing, such as natural remedies and even the mythical magical properties of the gypsies in the Himalayas.
He began to experiment with the natural methods, trying to understand their usefulness in a modern society. He worked for years, trying to recreate the miracle-like stories of healing and regeneration told by countless lone travellers. Again and again, his funding was cut and his labs shut down. He was told to head in another direction, to get his mind out of the clouds, to think realistically instead of foolishly. But he could not ignore the respect that had rown inside him for the gypsies of the south. And because of that respect, he also grew a fierce contempt for modern technology. Time passed, and the beaurocracy wore down upon him. With little progress and less funding, he finally abandoned his hopes of understnading the gypsy magic.
Later in life, he married. He was eager to get rest from the years of arduous and seemingly wasteful years of magical study, and live the few remaining years of his life with her. But it was not meant to be. His wife quickly fell victim to a tumorous growth in her brain stem. Zabnith understood it, thanks to his vast medical knowledge. It was rare as it was fatal...inoperable at the high risk of death. But one day he left for a short while to run errands, and returned to a yard full of police and worried onlookers. He feared the worst and realized they would try to operate on his wife's tumor. Their technology had blinded them with arrogance, and they were sure to think they could save her...after a quick biopsy.
Sure enough, by the time he had arrived at the hospital, his wife lay dead on an operating table, the tumor pulsing out of her surgical insisions, and her neck sliced incorrectly by a nervous rookie surgeon. Zabnith was shattered by this, the inevitable. He fled the hospital in a rage to escape killing that foolish young man. He drove around in a daze, his aged heart pounding in his aged ribcage, barely containing his emotions. He arrived at his house and promptly blacked out on the porch.
Later that night, infuriated, drunken, and on the brink, Zabnith broke into the hospital morgue and stole his wife's body away. He admitted he was delusional but he could think of nothing else...he headed south, right for the heart of Gypsy country. They surely would appear to help him in some way. Perhaps to communicate with her spiritually. Perhaps to heal his mental wounds. Perhaps to bring her back to life.
He drove for hours in a cold dark rain. The smells in his car told him he was regretting his decision, but a part of him believed in the magic. He reached a tall wooden gate finally, strewn with string and color. But instead of help, Zabnith found madness. The gypsies were not able to help him - alas, they rejected him steadfastly at the gate, saying that he seeked the devil's work. Zabnith did not understand. All the stories flashed before his eyes, as though he was the one who had died - stories of travellers critically injured, seemingly dead, raising from their crippled slumps to full health...all at the wave of a mysterious hand. These stories, he had studied for years!
He told them this as he stood in the muddy road, barely clutching the corpse of his wife. They turned him away. They said that what he seeked was better left unfound. He cried out and left them, running with her body in his arms. He entered the forest as the rain pounded upon him, drawing closer to him. It was too dark under that canopy, and he fell.
When he woke, the dawn was approaching. He could feel the presense of another person near him. A man in a dark cloak was tending a fire laid over moist ground. The body of Zabnith's wife was laid out beside him, almost arranged neatly.
Zabnith watched in wide-eyed silence as the cloaked man muttered into the embers...reached his hand into the flames and seemed to tug one lashing petal out...it danced across his fingers, hypnotizing Zabnith. The cloaked man swiftly moved, smacking Zabnith's arm with the flame. Pain shot through him. He felt blood running and smelled flesh burning. When the cloaked man pulled his hand away, Zabnith saw a purple flesh wound on his frail arm, which closed and faded to nothing before his eyes. The man's hand was still bright and hot, just like his eyes...and his voice.
'I can give you what you want, Zabnith, but you must help me as well. You have worked long and hard in towers of poured concrete, and studied many of my works. But have you really learned?'
Zabnith stared. The man's voice was intoxicating, deep and fatherly. 'Tell me what I must do for you, demon,' Zabnith spoke with almost no energy in him.
'Then you do know the truth...so you must know the answer to your own question...' The demon extended his hand to Zabnith. Zabnith trembled and stared at the hand, glowing, made of embers and dark magic.
Zabnith took the demon's hand and was no more."
Ta-da. So yea, hey writers, post your most epic stories ever!!
"Day breaks, but decay soon follows." - Ava WinonaCurrently developing in radio silence... 99 BoltsHere's another project of mine... Assault on OverwatchAre you new to Source SDK? VDC