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[Bood_War]

Hmmmmm, 20 texts...

Anyways

Folowed for so long.

Flee into the night.

I am so alone.

[Fuzz]

Hmmmmm, 20 texts...

More like 60! Although I probably won't be that cruel.

[Xion]

Ah, maybe I should set a limit to the number of entries for each person? It'd be hell to have to read tons of entries for voting and socially awkward to have tons of entries by one person outnumber a smaller quantity from others.

[Melly]

I suggest soemthing like a 3 text cap.

[Bood_War]

I was planning on doing 2-3 poems, a story, and a random ASCII picture...

[Xion]

uhhh...Yeah I think I'll cap it at 3.
Sorry, Bood, you'll have to narrow down your...broadness.

Up to 3 entries are allowed from each entrant, as long as the submissions are not connected to one another.

Any entry may be withdrawn by the submitter at any time should they so decide. Withdrawn entries will not count towards the 3 entry maximum.

[Morre]

I'm in! That is, if I can find the time...

Why the 1000 word limit? I don't think it's necessary.

[Blademasterbobo]

It's necessary damnit.

[Blademasterbobo]

He ran after the shadows, but they constantly evaded him – always dancing away from his grasp, sometimes just out of reach, sometimes so far away he could barely see them. This damn chain held him back from them! If only he could be freed from its tight hold around his chest. Each movement was made progressively more difficult by the heavy weight that constantly pulled him backwards. This battle between catching up with the shades and pulling his load caused him to lose hope sometimes, but never for very long. The shadows rarely waited for very long, which gave him little time for despondency.    He stopped to catch his breath. After spending a little while regaining his energy, he noticed that the shadows were becoming increasingly restless. With a heavy sigh, he shrugged his shoulders and began to push forward once more. The chain cut into his chest, and the weight continuously sapped his strength, but he ignored his discomfort and focused solely on his quarry. Most of the day passed him by in this manner: a small stop for breath, a  determined shrug of the shoulders, and then the chase would continue until he was once again halted by fatigue.    As the sun began to set, they came upon a large stream. The now elongated shades quickly crossed the waters. Keeping his gaze firmly set on his prey, he hefted the weight up onto his shoulders and began to cross. As he entered the stream, the water pulled at his legs, threatening to topple him over. While the stream wasn't especially deep, he knew that if the water forced him to drop the weight, the combination of the strong currents and slippery metal would cause him to lose the small amount of ground he had gained on the shadows, or, even worse, force him to look away from them.    The shades were waiting just ahead of him, taunting him with their endless motion and seemingly boundless energy. Even in stillness they exuded a restless aura that sometimes deceived him into hoping they would soon tire. He knew they would not wait for him for very long.    Suddenly, his concentration was broken by a loud splash. Something slammed into his back, causing him to drop the weight as he flailed about, trying to keep from toppling over. He almost turned his head to look at what hit him, but quickly caught himself and shifted his energy into getting the weight back up out of the water before the shadows left him behind. He pulled at the chain, slowly lifting the weight back up out of the water. Another splashing sound came from the stream, this time from his right. With a final pull on the chain, he lifted the weight out of the water and steeled himself for the next blow. The object smashed into his side this time, but he managed to keep from dropping the weight again.    He struggled forward, coming up to the edge of the stream. A smaller splash came from behind. He felt a sharp pain as something stabbed into in the small of his back, almost causing him to yell out in pain. Shifting the weight to one arm, he reached towards his back and began to move forward again. Yanking what felt like a barbed, slimy hook from his back, he finally trudged out of the stream. He tossed the object behind him without bothering to look at it, dropped the weight onto the sand, and after stopping to breathe for a moment, once more began to chase after the now distant shadows.    For a long time it seemed as if the shadows might leave him behind, but they never quite escaped his sight. He would sometimes have to stop his pursuit in order to pull the weight out of some entangling roots or a soft patch of sand, but he never paused for more than a second. Any amount of time wasted would cause the shadows to leave him behind. The chains were beginning to cut into his skin, small wells of blood forming around each link as they bit into his flesh. Sometimes he would carry the weight, but it took nearly all of his energy to carry it for any longer than a few minutes at a time. Finally, the distance between him and the shades began to lessen.    Shortly after he began to catch up, the sun began to set. The shadows took on an increasingly evanescent quality as the darkness advanced, until they finally disappeared from his vision completely. He sat down, using the weight as a small stool. After a few moments of waiting, a rustling sound came from behind. He closed his eyes for the first time that day, and when he reopened them, a small amount of bread and water sat next to him. After eating, he found a clear patch of ground and slept.    A shrill scream awoke him to the advancing dawn. There she was, frantically beckoning for him to come towards her. He merely looked on, not bothering to waste any energy in an attempt to save her; rescue was something he had long ago found to be an impossible task. He stood up, stretching and preparing for the new day ahead of him. She cried out once more as the shadows grew up around her, eventually blocking her form from his vision. He waited, seemingly apathetic to her plight. Finally, the shadows engulfed her completely.    He began to move forward, breaking into a slightly faster pace as the shadows began to separate, causing the chains to dig into old scabs and callouses. The shades started to gain a more frantic movement, finally separating and shifting away from him. Time had brought forth a new day, but time was misleading: as he pushed forward, he could sometimes swear that this was the same moment he had always lived in – running forward, with the shadows just out of reach. Thisistoaltertablewidthsomethingsomething

[Xion]

It's necessary damnit.

Word.


This is all great stuff so far guys. I'm going to try and work on mine tomorrow.

[Melly]

You guys shouldn't worry. As long as your entries have AROUND 1000 words it's cool. Nobody will be counting nazis and disqualify you cause you couldn't use less than 1001.

[Morre]

Well, we used plenty more. Close to 2000, in fact. But I decided to cheat a bit and post it anyway. It's less than 1000 words per author

This is also posted in the collabotale thread for reference. Included in that post are a colored image version of the text and some random nonsense that's not really part of the story (and as such was left out here).

Here we go:

--- By PaleFox, Jrsquee, Dragonene and Xion. ---                                The Fox Hunts                                There is a town in West Virginia where they still hold the fox hunts every year. Brutal things, my father always said, but it's historic and it gives you something to do in post-apocalyptic USA other than write memoirs or rebuild society. So, anyway, as I was saying, there's this fox hunt every year... The fox hunts.  I remember the fox hunts when I was a child.  I could hear them, in the night.  They're not foxes, it's impossible to call them foxes anymore.  I don't know what they are - Everything's changed.  I hear stories, tales about the past.  They're like legends:  the food, the heroes, the battles.  Nations, warring.  Bellicose.  There's no reason to fight: why bother?  Nothing worth fighting over.  What's the use of oil when there's nothing to power?  We still have the fox hunts. Well, I could've managed a while longer in that world. Today, our future seems just a little less bright, a touch of darkness finding its way into our souls. They have found it. They've found a cause. It'll be the ruin of us all. War is coming to my village. The great Machines dug up and risen to fight once more. And I'll be right in the middle of it. I thought I'd left all that behind long ago. Shepard, Charles and the others are all on their way here. I'm not looking forward to seeing them again. Five in the morning and the glowing green horizon has hardly begun to shine, but the entire fort is up and about. Some of the children are polishing the cannons to a dull shine - the best they'll ever manage - and others are all preparing for Shepard and the gang. Just as the sun begins to filter through the eternal neon clouds, they're spotted. One of the young watchers bangs furiously on the alarm bell and all the people gather around the fort's entrance. A hush comes over the crowd as the rusted steel gate goes up. God, Ma used to tell us stories about the Revolution, back when there was still hope. The banners flying over head and the people standing together and the promise of a future - not a bright one, but at least there might BE one... then they trampled hope underfoot like a Machine would a man. Johann was executed, Voltaire was found hidin in India under an assumed name, Da's buried up in the cemetary. But that is just... history. Worst, worst of all, little Sean was killed in a fox hunt -- that's still what they call them, you know. But it's a lie. Foxes?  They used to be foxes. They're sneaky, sly, cunning creatures.  The tricksters of the animal kingdom. Crafty, beautiful, solitary.  Sean.  He was a fox, a sly one.  Hiding.  He didn't say much, he was quiet.  No one really knew what he was thinking.  He was... he was strange, different from the rest.  They didn't understand the way he thought.  When someone comes along who doesn't fit the mold -- what then?  People are afraid of the unknown. He had seen them:  he told me. The iron arms, raising.  Glass eyes glowing green-yellow as metal-on-metal screams rise above the noise of the engine.  Hot white steam, burning hot, hotter than the sand (the air!) envelopes the Machine - its breath expunged with an unfeeling steel cry. I knew it to be true. Nobody who'd seen a Machine would ever walk as straight again. But Sean... he never quite recovered. I think he came too close. I don't know what they wanted from him. Nor do I care much. All I know is that they sent the hunters after him, and he never came back. I'd do anything to hold him again - my little brother. I know I never will. I'm startled by a loud, crunching noise as the gate finally reaches its topmost position. I scan the caravan. I know none of the faces in the first van. And then there they are. The old squad. I see a glimmer of excitement in Charlie's eyes, and I fight to repress a shudder. And I walk up to them, with an uncertain smile on my face. "Sarge! There you are!" Charles leaps from the second van and, much to my discomfort, stretches his titanic arms to embrace me, lifting me clear off the ground as he does. He's the same as ever. 6' 7", 312 lbs, composed of solid muscle and frothing with excitement. The smile on his face makes me grimace. Shepard is more reserved with his salutations, letting a quiet nod suffice. He's the only one that ever knew how much I hated what we did back then. He knows his presence does not excite me. As he climbs out of the driver's seat I can tell that the years have not been kind to him. His eyes, bright as they may be, cannot hide the tiredness that comes from ages of a fruitless search, and his face is creased and dark from the raging storms that frequent the desolation outside our fort. Shepard approaches me and extends a hand in greeting. "I hear you've come into possession of...of a Machine...Sarge." He spits the last word. "And just how did you come by such intel, Shepard?" I say, spitefully. "Did your traitor friends in the M.A.R.C. tell you, while you were hunting my brother to his death?" Shepard doesn't say a word, but he doesn't seem surprised I know. He just silently pulls a gun and puts it to my head; the rest of the troops do the same -     except Charles, who is lying dead on the hard-packed ground. His head seems to have taken a savage blow.     "What's the point, Shepard?  Why bother?  You've got your fox hunts, isn't that enough?" "The fox hunts are a game, played by children.  There's no meaning, no emotion: they've become... we've all become too passive." There is something in his tone. His all too familiar voice is cracking with emotion, and when he tells me we're too passive, I know what he's trying to say. I'm out of practice, but as I pull my gun and spin around, I surprise myself. Pulling the trigger is easy. Too easy. The man lying dead behind me used to be our captain. We never liked him much. I can only stare down at him as Shepard and the others move back toward the vans, dragging Charlie by his vest. "We have to move, Sarge! NOW!", Shepard is screaming at me. I slowly turn around, and then begin jogging up to the caravan. As we pull out, machine gun fire is smattering around us. I glance back and see children manning the turrets. As we drive into the desert, Shepard starts talking. "The Captain arranged the fox hunts, Sergeant. Me 'n' Charles, we found out a while back. We've been trying to find you ever since. The truth, Sarge. That's what we're after." I hear coughing from the back of the car. It's Charles. Not dead after all. I glance at Shepard. He shrugs, "Had to convince the Cap'n we were on his side." "Christ, Shepard," I gasp. The van slowly rocks while I ponder the situation. It's been so long since I've had to lead - to truly lead. I peer into the back and find Charles and five unfamiliar faces all staring at me, looking for some kind of guidance. I take a deep breath. "Okay," I bark, "here's what we're going to do: There's no way this shoddy caravan can stand a chance against an organization like the M.A.R.C. so-" "Sarge, do you think I'm a damn fool?" Shepard laughs. "We've got about a few hundred more waiting for us back at base." "Base?" Shepard nods. "That's where we're heading now." "Fine then, but it still won't be enough. The M.A.R.C. has Mechs. They may not be as refined as the Great old Machines, but they'll sure as hell tear us to bits without much of a chance." "Right." "So what we need is..." "That Machine of yours." "Exactly." Shepard smiles. "This is gonna be one hell of a ride."     "There's no time to go to meet the others, then, we have to move on this NOW. Head for Richmond - at least, where it used to be. And fast, Shepard. I still don't trust you."     The caravan shudders along the broken landscape of my childhood, but most of the landmarks I recall are long gone. Has it really been that long since I was here? Since the day Sean came up to me with his tales - we thought they were just stories - of an iron giant underground; the giant we are heading towards right this minute. And it strikes me: in a way, that event set this all in motion.     Hours pass, and at last the vans come to a stop, and I make them let me out first. Just to make sure nothing goes wrong. Veins of some metal glow ominously, like the last glow of a lantern, about to go out and strand us all in darkness. The lights glow brighter as we reach the core, the pedestal at the center of the cave. There, upon the pedestal rests one of the Machines. An original. The beast is a large, egg-shaped contraption of iron and steel, arms and legs shackled in place. I shudder. This is what Sean was killed over. This...hulking piece of scrap! It's green-yellow eyes glow - I can almost feel its gaze as it sputters syllables of clanging metal.         "Come on, boy's! We've got to get those shackles off that thing if we're gonna ride outta here!" Shepard and his crew produce a variety of cutting and melting instruments and set to work on the thick iron rings holding the Machine. At times it lurches and thrashes, as if struggling, but the cutting goes quickly enough. A few minutes of work, and it is done. We all prepare to climb in the thing's hull but no sooner does the final chain fall to the ground than a siren screeches through the darkness and fifty armed M.A.R.C. units burst into the room wielding assault rifles. There's no hesitation, not a single moment of doubt. They open fire straight away. Shepard is among the first to fall. I sit down and whisper to him as life leaves him. "You're a good man, Shepard. A good man." The ghost of a smile touches his face. Charles yanks me up and pulls me towards the machine. All around us, men are lying dead and dying on the ground. The senseless slaughter numbs me, but Charles helps me reach the machine. A stabbing pain in my left leg announces the entry of a bullet, but as I crawl into the machine, I know I'm safe. It rises slowly, deliberately. Gunfire is ricochetting off its hull. The giant floodlights on the front of the machine sweeps over the M.A.R.C. soldiers. They fall faster than would reeds in a waterfall. We leave the cave. Charles's face is haunted by something like remorse. I don't think I'm looking much better. Charles indicates the direction of the base and we set off. We go to gather our army.

Thisistoaltertablewidthsomethingsomething

[Bood_War]

Damnit, a word limit?
There goes my epic 9-page post apocalyptic story.

[Corpus]

It may be constructive to focus on quality over quantity, Bood_War.

[Bood_War]

But it IS quality, htere is absolutely no filler. It all helps to develop the story...