Quick Fiction Request: Write me a 400 word minimum 800 word maximum Fantasy Story. Try to tell an entire story?

In darkness you feel no regrets" read the wall while the match was still burning. The words and crude pictures all seem to be written in white chalk. Near the other wall lay bones, maybe animal maybe human.

I thought to myself they had been smashed to bits in the dead of night. Hair and muscle were still attached to some. As the match head fell to the floor, chills crawled up my spine.

What does all of this mean? I don't know about regrets but I certainly feel fear in darkness. I make my way towards what I feel is the exit to this darkness.

While I had light I felt like I was in a cave, but now the ground is too smooth and hard. I try to feel with my hands what kind of room I am in and as I'm searching my hand comes across moisture. I recoiled in disgust, not knowing what cool substances that I had just placed my hand in.

Hoping it was water, I light my last match. The match ignites and quickly is extinguished by some misfortune that I am not sure why I was given. Maybe karma is real.

During the short burst of light I saw my hand was covered in red, and now I am even more confused. I shout out loud, and though I am alone I feel a fool for trying to communicate with darkness. I had heard the term cold blood but I didn't think this could be literal, so I move my hand back to where the moisture was and there is none.

I decided not to waste my time playing Jr. detective with the bones and cold blood and start to center my attention on saving my own life. It could be my bones on the floor next, every second in here I feel my chance of survival diminishes. I walk with my hands brushing up against the wall, but I continue to run into rocks and un even parts in the wall.

I stumble over a stick and pick it up to guide my path in the dark. I walk for what I feel like has been days, I begin to think I am going in circles. Out of frustration I put the stick out in front of me and run at full speed.My head hits what feels like rocks and a stream starts running down my face.

No time to stop, what am I gonna do? So I continue running, and begin screaming.To my surprise I hear voices respond to the screaming. I follow the voices and I see a glimmer of light.

When I get to where the voices and the glimmer are coming from there is a ladder. I don't know why they put a ladder in this god forsaken cave but maybe it was just in case someone was to get themselves into a predicament like mine. I climb the ladder and the outside light is blinding, When my eyes begin to adjust I see the glimmer of badges and silouttes of men pointing guns at me.

I'm am shocked by their reaction to me, and also shocked that I seem to be in a large city. When I regain focus to my eyes, I see blood on both hands. One has white chalk on the finger tips and the other is holding a femur bone.

When I look at the flipside of the manhole cover I emerged from, it reads "Smashed to bits, In the dead of the night" Now I sit in a little box on top of all the other boxes. The other boxed men ask me why I did what I did. They ask why I put bodies in a subway and wrote all over them.

Why did I come out when the police asked me too, why didn't I just hide? Why did I put my hand in water and not finish cleaning the blood off my hands? And why in the hell would I emerge with a human bone in my hand?

I used to say "I don't know what your talking about" but I cant hear them anymore. The jingling man comes and opens my cage once a day and tells me to wash off. I turn the water as hot as it can go and let it burn me, the sensation makes me feel alive and cold water still turns my stomach.

I used to have a family, not anymore, Maybe they never existed. When you go crazy you don't see it coming, maybe I never existed in the first place. All I know is a well lit cage is better than open darkness, and in light you feel the full force of regret.

***Three words away from the maximum!

800 words isn't much room for a story. But here you go. €˜The earth is so cold.

€™ That was the first thought to come to birth in the silence that was my consciousness. Slowly, other senses come to life. €˜It’s also rough, yet wet.

€™ As my limbs begin to recall their functions I begin remembering bits and pieces of a life that may or may not have been my own. The number of pegs needed in a 16 spoke cartwheel, my favorite shade of violet amongst the river-run wild flowers found back home. I think that’s my home, is that really my name?Cheese.

Mmmm, cheese, why do I long for cheese so much right now? Thinking of food reminds my stomach that it hasn’t been filled or even appeased in the last 2 days. Then it all came back to me in a rush.

The eternal serenity of my thoughts was crushed by an avalanche of emotions, fears, pain. As if the tiny seed of that vague concept known as time over set the scales of reality, or sanity, maybe. Curling up in a ball was all I could bring my exhausted body to do.

I try to scream but my parched throat gags as I take in a deep breath of dirt. Water… I thirst more than anything else now, though being able to breathe through all this coughing would be a close second. I’m a soldier.

One of _________’s finest. I am trained, I AM TRAINED. I get up.No, I don’t.

My limbs are still foreign to me. My toes will cringe but my feet are otherwise non-existent. I try to grab a piece of wood near by, a shaft or rod of some type.

But I can barely tell it’s in my hands. It’s like trying to grasp an egg with a pair of iron-welded gauntlets on, you just never know when you have a proper hold of it.Am I squeezing tight enough? Did I crush it in my hand?

Am I even squeezing? Then the sounds came as my ears remembered their function. Screams of agony, it seems others didn’t have the mouth full of dirt experience I had.

I hear strange gurgling sounds, wheezing. Trees swaying in the wind, pines rubbing against each other like old lovers, just enjoying being next to each other. The occasional flap of a tattered banner.

And lulls of silence. Not the good, peaceful kind. The tense kind of silence, the expectant, fear-filled silence you only know of during war.

If I ever get home, I never want to hear silence again.So much of this war has been silent, waiting, anticipating the next attack. Who can eat when you might be caught with a spoon in your hand instead of a sword? Or worse, with breeches around your ankles after you expel the crap they probably recycle and feed back to you.

Who can close their eyes when you never know when you’ll open them again? Rest is only for peace, I don’t remember what it felt like to be rested. What it felt like to feel no pain.

Someone is coming! Friend or foe!? I am so scared, it could be anyone.

Calm footsteps approach. Why are they so calm, so evenly taken? No rushing over to a fallen ally, no cry for aid or assistance.

I realize now that I hear less screaming, less of everything, just the approaching foot steps. Someone stops before me. I try to rise, if this is my last minute, then I take it with dignity.

I hear words of a language foreign to me. Strange, yet melodic. They seem concerned.

I’ve lived this long, maybe this could be good. But I know, I’ve heard the mocking shouts from my comrades, the taunts, the butchering of the melodic language of our enemies. I have been found.

Unarmed, exhausted. I’d surrender if I didn’t feel so close to death already. One of them leans closer?

€œ Officer? € s command of my language shocks me so much that I answer honestly, quickly, if rather hoarsely. €œI am a soldier.

€ He doesn’t seem impressed, he speaks to his comrade. I don’t care anymore, I close my eyes. Raise my chin, and with my final breath say with as much dignity as I can, “I am one of ___________’s finest.

I am trained. € I take my last, deep breath, and await the fatal blow. Soft cheese and warm bread fill my last thoughts.

Yes warm bread would be nice.

800 words is so short lol. Next time you should make it....1000-5000! Lol Bodies lined the ground, so many that they were piled atop one another, no trace of earth below seen.

They lay in a sea of red that pooled at his feet. Feet that were far to small for a man of his prime. No, these were the bare, small feet of a child.

Scraped and bruised as if from running far too long. "We have to keep going, Thal. " Came a frantic whisper at his side and he looked up to find a woman with pale blonde hair whose hand was grasping his tightly.

She looked frail, bruises ran under her eyes like she hadn't slept in days and her cheeks were sunken in from malnutrition. She looked starving. Which was why the large roundness of her belly made no sense.As if she were hearing his thoughts her shaking hand came up and wrapped around her stomach, almost seeming protective.

"We have to keep running. " She whispered again, this time with more determination in her gaze and the strength of her grip. The next thing Thal knew he was being pulled along, slipping every few seconds on the wet gravel at his feet.

Death was everywhere. He could smell it in the air, taste it on his tongue; and the sight of it angered him. Angered him to the point of wanting to beat at the bodies, even though they were dead.

Had they done something to ignite his anger? Had they even deserved to die? So many.

How could so many deserve this? Then the woman was bent over, her sudden drop pulling him to his knees. He looked over at her and watched as she gripped her stomach tightly, her teeth clenched as if she were trying to hold in a scream.

For a long moment she was still, silent...then within the blink of an eye she was on her feet again, pulling him along as well. Suddenly there was a roar of rage somewhere behind them in the distance, and Thal felt the jolt of shock and fear that ran through his body, and knew by the woman’s hard grasp on his hand that she was scared as well."He'll never find us again. " She whispered, almost like a plea of mercy in the night.

Thal tightened his hand around hers and prayed that she was right. Thal jerked awake; sweat rolling down his body like water. The dream again.

He glanced at the alarm clock on his night stand and swore sharply when he saw the time. Pissed that he had over slept and wasn’t going to be able to take a shower he instead jumped up and grabbed his button up, dress pants and shoes and pulled them on as quickly as he could. Outside he pushed his way through the crowded streets as best as he could and had just reached his destination when he collided with a body.

Thal let out a muffled ‘oof’ and gripped the man’s forearms before releasing him. €œI’m sorry I didn’t…” He drew off, a frown creasing his brow as he stared down at the man who’s eyes were practically filling his entire face as he stared up at him. Thal watched as the man’s pupils shot down to the size of pin points.

€œAre you alright? € Thal could have swore that he could see the man practically vibrate; like a jolt of electricity had shot through his system. The next thing he knew the man was plowing his fist into another man’s face as he walked by.

Thal jerked back in shock, staring in horror as the man pounced like an animal atop him and they collided to the ground. He grabbed his head in his hands and slammed the man’s skull rapidity against the concrete. The sight of blood made his gut clench and he rushed away as the crowd gathered and hurriedly entered his building and made his way up to the elevator.

Just as it’s doors were sliding shut a hand haltered it’s process before a dark haired man entered the small confine with him. €œSee that scene outside? Crazy.

€ He muttered and Thal nodded in silence, the memory of the blood making him feel dizzy. €œI guess it’s only a natural reaction, though. € Thal frowned, turning to him.

€œWhat do you mean? € The man turned his steel gray gaze to him. €œ It’s only natural.

€ “I still don’t understand. € s gray gaze was intense. €œYou touch the embodiment of wrath and you feel wrath.

€ Thal stared at him a moment before shaking his head. €œSorry, I-” “You’re Wrath Incarnate, Thal. I’m sure you’ve heard of the seven sins.

€ The man waved a hand at him carelessly. €œDon’t worry about you’re touch, you’ll be able to control it soon. € The elevator came to a stop and Thal watched the dark haired man step from it's small space as a tremor began low in his gut........

He wandered about for a while. Stopped. Looked around, and settled on a sturdy log.

The stream beneath his feet sparkled and sung a water lullaby. Although drowsy from the mid-summer’s sun, he dare not sleep. Across the stream, the village was preparing for the great feast.

Delicacies were baking in the brick ovens and the best of the brew was chilling in the springhouse. Gowns of sheen and caps of luster hung out to air. Dragon flies flitted above the small puddles around the well.It was the day of transformation.

The village chieftain rattled around his darkened cottage. It had been too many years and his mind had become dull. The eyes of a boy stared at him from the shadows.

Would the duty be too difficult for one not accustomed to metal and flint? In another cottage, the village hag chanted from the sacred text. The day needed to be cloaked in the disguise of honor and valor.

For many years strife had not lived in the land. The ancient weapons sat rusting in the armory. The camp followers could not ply their trade.

The storehouse were too full. The riches of the neighboring lands were too far away. The textile weavers wove fabric too gaudy.

Gold was spent too freely on the arts and charity. The youth were too complacent. The men were too pliable.

The horses were too fat. At moon rise, the new moon glowed with earthshine. €œI am the clan of the blue faces.

I will destroy your cottage” “I am the clan of the green hands. I will tighten your chains. € I am the clan of the yellow feet.

I will take your manhood and make it my own. € Around the clearing they taunted him, spiraling closer with each pass. The heavy drum beat masked the sounds of the celebration.

S beloved stood under a bower of myrtle leaves - waiting, The hag struggled with a large sack. A cup of warm, bittersweet, thick mead was given him to drink. €œI am the clan with the blue faces.

I claim the veil of willow flowers. € “I am the clan of the green hands. I will bind you tighter with strips of perfumed cloth.

€ “I am the clan of the yellow feet. I claim the maidenhead and make her my slave. € Blood glowed black in the earthshine.

The eyes flamed. Hands reached for the sack. They felt her tresses and reached beyond.

Deep inside were the instruments of his new trade. When he touched the tools, the clansmen retreated into the piney wood. Into the clearing strode the chieftain.

Handing the reigns of a pale horse to him, he shouted “Ride. €.

I'm a dirty cheater, I wrote this for something else, but I like it, so I'll use it here too. Entitled: Only A Dream She still couldn't shake the previous night's dream. It had been the grim sort of thing that crawls in the ice of windows, and creeps in the shadows at the corners of your eyes.

There was blood everywhere. So much of it as if the world had been turned a brilliant crimson and glowed like the rubies of humanities' greed. Standing before the crumbled form of what used to be human she turned away from the mirror, grabbed an apple and left to work."They paved paradise and put up a parkin' lot • With a pink hotel, a boutique, and a swingin' hot spot.." the radio hummed as her engine sweltered under global warming.

She changed the station catching a snippet of a news report that had popped her lyrical bubble. "...Family of eight slaughtered in their home.No known suspects..." The voice trailed like the haze of an unshakable dream. She slammed on the breaks, pulled off the main road, and stopped and stared at the form in the mirror there in front of her meant for watching her back.

Was it but a dream? She sat there on the cracking side road staring until she had convinced herself that it wasn't. All the murders, all the families, all the nobodies and some bodies, this serial killer had taken; they were all hers, her dreams that she barely remembered up until this last night's dream.

She remembered all of this dream, all eight of them. She pulled calmly back onto the highway and drove to the police station. Inside she was address by an officer who called her a "pretty little lady".

She told him that she had done it. She had killed every last one of them, and that she was not sorry. He no longer found her pretty.

Her lawyer had a brilliant defense, even though this pretty lady had never wanted defending to begin with. Big case, big publicity, free defense. Olivia was her name.

She said that Miss Anna Forrester, or previously called here "pretty lady" was abused as a child and was a product of our own creation. Olivia rallied the troops and as the trial drug on months into years the people stood just outside it fighting to free Anna for the injustice that had been done to her, for the dreams life had ruined for her. None of it mattered.

December 17th, 2008 Anna Forrester was to be executed for the murder of over fifty-six people. The straps were cold on her wrists, comforting like the cool side of a pillow. Through the glass she saw eyes staring back at her, guilt in every one.

A priest approached and she waved him away, saying her god was in her heart. She waited calmly, and finally was asked if she had any last words. "You, you people, you made me a martyr for all the wrong you've done to the children, to the world, to life itself.

I told you I killed them, and you fought to free me anyway. Why? A life begets a life, but you saw your lives in me, your dreams.

There's a killer in all of you, just as there's a killer in me. And though humanity may be rotten, it will never entirely be bad as long as one good person still lives. I will always be a good person.

I'm not sorry." The lights flickered a faint spell of relief as her words fell silent and her heart whispered its last disdain. February 28th 2009 Aaron Richardson was caught and convicted after the Pretty Lady murders continued.

Twenty eight more human beings died. You should have known it was only a dream, and you're not sorry.

Pour Le Loyer -- The throng of people gathered on the Rue de Quincampoix in Paris was so extensive that there was barely space for them on the narrow way. Lords and Ladies of wealth loitered about waiting for the famous banker John Law to emerge from his house with news of who would be permitted to purchase stock in The Mississippi Company that he had founded. The members of the crowd traded stock in the Banque Générale and conducted other business while they waited.

€œHow long do you think this will last Marcelle? € mused the cobbler, “The crowd has gotten so large that people can barely get to my shop. The loss of business has more then been covered by the rooms that I have been able to rent out above my shop though.

They are currently renting to a few wealthy speculators at almost 4 times the normal rate. € Marcelle rubbed his stubble covered chin as he mused. Marcelle was a bent man with a humped back, the lack of mobility prevented him from getting decent employment so for the last 9 years he had mostly haunted the Rue de Quincampoix begging for extra coin.

However, when the crowds came it offered him the chance at a more effective job. €œI think I know how long it will last. € He finally answered the cobbler, “one moment though, I have to work here.

€ Marcelle stepped out and greeted two nearby gentlemen, one of which having a quill and a wad of papers in his hand. He turned so that the sign sewn to his sackcloth clothes faced them, it read 'pour le loyer' then he spoke to them, “Good afternoon m’lord, I see you are trying to conduct some business here today, perhaps I can offer my services. € Marcelle was well prepared to facilitate business in the street.

He had spare paper tucked in his belt and an ink pot with a quill strapped to his head. He had converted himself into a convenient mobile writing desk. He turned his hump tword the gentleman who proceeded to use it to sign off on the papers and money changed hands between them.

The stock transaction completed both men bestowed Marcelle with a silver coin for his services. Marcelle walked back over to where the cobbler was waiting in his stall, “I reckon Louis, that I would like it to go on forever because I’ve never made so much coin just begging like I normally do. But if it can at least go on long enough for me to afford a pair of them fine shoes that you make then that would be long enough for me.

€ Both men shared a chuckle, “But, as far as I can understand it, all these lords and ladies are here to trade words on paper for other words on paper. Mostly the only coin I see them pull out is to buy refreshments from the vendors or to rent the services of my hump here. € Marcelle motioned with his hand to his deformity as he said this.

The men shared another chuckle. €œI don’t know how long it will take, but they have to come to their senses sometime. I’d never trust some words written on some papers to be worth gold or silver.

€ Louis considered this,“I suppose you are right Marcelle, we should enjoy it while it lasts eh? € By the time that the cobbler had finished his last sentence, Marcelle was already hobbling away to rent out his hump to the next gentlemen of business. More papers traded hands and Marcelle gained 2 more coins.

He hobbled back over to the cobbler once this business was concluded. €œAlmost enough! € he beamed, “warm comfy shoes for me just a few coins away now.

€ Louis thought for a moment, “Let me see what you have there Marcelle, ah close enough. € Louis smiled as he handed over some of his best shoes. Marcelle traded shoes for coins and all was well.

I cant really gove you an answer,but what I can give you is a way to a solution, that is you have to find the anglde that you relate to or peaks your interest. A good paper is one that people get drawn into because it reaches them ln some way.As for me WW11 to me, I think of the holocaust and the effect it had on the survivors, their families and those who stood by and did nothing until it was too late.