Welcome to the Monthly Writing Contest: January Edition

They come from all reaches of the world to compete, strut their stuff, and they even do so with the writing style and flow of Mr. Shakespeare himself, ladies and gentlemen please let me welcome you to the spectacular world of Creative Writing! (Now In competition form)

How This Works:

At the beginning of each month a theme will be given, the writer is expected to write a short piece of prose that fits said theme. All stories will be submitted on the thread and may be commented or critiqued by other writers. But Yttirum, Drop_Dead, Tycho the Wanderer, and Undead Fiend currently the only judges as of now and we remain the ultimate factor on who wins the contest.

What do you get for winning? The chance to show off your awesomeness and to have bragging rights. You could also display it colorfully in your sig. The winner also chooses next month theme.

Rules:
-It must be prose (poetry is more abstract, and thus harder to judge)
-Though there are no length requirements, remember that a short, short story may not get everything that needs to be said, said, while a long story may say too much.
-It must incorporate the theme.

This Month's Theme?

Chosen by our very on http://www.gamesas.com/user/564050-josh-gro-graz/, people, I hope your ready to clear a path of vengeance, set your mind straight, or even clear a guilty conscious because its

REDEMPTION

(No, not Red Dead you bunch of hay eatin, horse killin' and bunny murderin [censored]es)

Time.

Good luck to all our Competitors! Me and the rest of the Judges look forward to reading your work!


Hall of Fame

October: f8Icobra: http://www.gamesas.com/topic/1235108-monthly-writing-contest/page__view__findpost__p__18778378

November: kdn003:

December: Josh gro-Graz:

Unforgivable

Letting out a breath, slowing his heartbeat and keeping his arms from moving, Olson opened his right eye. As though there was a helpful hand guiding his movements, he found a Legionnaire within his rifle’s scope. The young soldier marched through the ruins of Indian Wells, unaware that he’d soon be the focal point of a great deal of strife.

With a thundering boom, the .308 bolt action rifle thumped into Olson’s shoulder. In the spirit of equal and opposite reaction, the rifle round ripped into the Legionnaire’s hip. The soldier, probably just old enough to be allowed to fight, fell to the ground as though someone had tackled him. By the time Olson had worked the bolt, and the other snipers took their marks to the ground, the wounded Legionnaire realized that he’d been wounded, and began to scream.

Of course, the first thing the surviving Legion soldiers attempted to do was retrieve their wounded comrade. That had been the plan from the beginning. As one made a dash for the screaming boy, Olson put a round through that soldier’s neck, watching with grim satisfaction as the would-be savior collapsed to the ground.

One floor down and about six windows to the left, Olson’s partner in crime took pot shots at the Legion soldiers as they sought cover. Had this been any other unit of Caesar’s rampaging horde, the two snipers would have annihilated them with simple ease. Except, these were the Legion’s elite, veterans from previous wars who’d known battle since they’d been able to walk. They didn’t bother with brutish swords and knives like their brothers in arms. This was demonstrated as a trio of the Legion set their machineguns into place behind a half destroyed building and began to spray the building Olson and his partner were using as their sniping platform.

Even if the Legionnaires had known the snipers’ location, the range was far beyond what their machineguns could manage. That knowledge in hand, Olson took his time to put another round down range, this one cutting down one of the machine-gunners. The young Legionnaire, still alive, though his fate was already sealed, had put one hand over the gaping wound in his abdomen, while his other reached toward his fellow soldiers. Even though Olson couldn’t hear the boy’s words, he could assume, the wounded soldier was begging for help.

Another of the Legion soldiers made a run for their friend. That had been the plan from the beginning: of course, use the wounded soldier as bait to lure the survivors into the open. And so, yet again, Olson killed the unharmed soldier, cutting the man down only a few feet from the wounded boy.

The reaction within the remaining Legionnaires was instant. Half turned their weapons on the surrounding buildings, vainly attempting to kill something in retaliation, while the other half tried to put something between themselves and the snipers’ bullets. Except for one, an officer, who barked orders and shouted at his soldiers. This one Centurion threatened to return discipline to the Legion ranks. Olson couldn’t allow that. With the same cold determination, he put the officer down.

Those who’d been thinking it already leapt to their feet and made an attempt to escape the bloodbath. Once they were running, no longer hiding and crouching, the Legion soldiers were easy targets, and the pair of snipers made quick work of them. It wasn’t until Olson had finished the last of the runners, returning his scope to those who still cowered behind the rubble, that he noticed the wounded Legionnaire. The boy was still clinging to life.

Though Olson was well out of earshot, he could read the boy’s lips, see the hopelessness in his eyes as he gave up pleading for aide for simple weeping. When the sniper trained his sights on the boy, however, he couldn’t get the crosshairs to stay still. It wasn’t until he heard the bolt rattling in the receiver that he realized his arms were shaking. The last of the unwounded Legion soldiers lay dead, and his partner was calling for him to put the boy out of his misery, but he couldn’t. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

With a shout, Olson returned to consciousness. As he had dozens of times before, he wretched, vomiting what little food he’d forced down, into the nearest trashcan. It was a week after that fateful raid on the Legion supply lines, and yet he still could not stop shaking. No amount of repentance or penance offered his mind any relief from the boy’s cries.

A week before, the NCR had promised aide. They’d promised to boot Caesar from Nevada and liberate Legion territory. Their president, the man known as Kimble had told the people of the Legion to rise up against Caesar’s oppression, to fight for their freedom. Olson had joined the freedom fighters and revolutionaries, offering his steady aim and unerring marksmanship. Upon returning from Indian Wells, from that nightmare, the sniper had learned that the Legion had taken the Hoover Dam, that the NCR was not coming to their rescue… that everything they’d done to fight the Legion had all been utterly futile.

The resistance movement had taken to the hills, fleeing the Legion wherever it reared its head. And for a week, they had survived. But, as he sat in an abandoned school that was their shelter for this night, Olson couldn’t think of even one reason for the crimes he’d committed. Possibly, it was conceivable to forgive a soldier for killing another soldier, but not Olson, who’d callously fired on soldiers without warning. He’d intentionally wounded the boy in Indian Wells, leaving him alive to suffer so that his comrades in arms would attempt to save him and become disheartened by his agony.

And for what? Arizona would never know freedom. Not when the Legion rolled into the Mojave and its ranks swelled. Not when the NCR had been defeated. No, every act he’d committed, every sin and depraved act of evil had been for nothing. That boy had lain on the ground, suffering and weeping, crying out for his friends, his mother, and God to save him… for nothing.

So there was nothing left for Olson. No hope of salvation from the west, or clemency to offer some form of reprieve for his soul. Only a vast expanse of emptiness and self-loathing that would last until the day he… died. The thought struck him so suddenly and from out of the blue, it took Olson a moment to wonder why he hadn’t thought of it earlier.

As he drew his sidearm from its holster, the other sniper from Indian Wells entered the room, his expression inquisitive. And when the other sniper saw the pistol, watching as it moved toward Olson’s head, he cried out. By then it was too late. The barrel firmly under his own chin, Olson squeezed the trigger.

I bring fourth the script of RDR... Yes, I did read the small black writing, and yes; it did [censored] my eyes up... Thank you.

His name no longer mattered. The man had long since passed the point of needing a name. Some in the Wasteland had started to see him as a symbol, but he no longer cared about such things. This man was less a human being and more a single act personified. The instincts of self-preservation held no further meaning, for he had but one purpose. That purpose, was to kill. And kill. And kill some more, until that object of his scorn was no more, or until his vengeful suicide was completed. Who is this man, you ask? Well, he was once known as Tim Baker, a husband and father. But you would be hard pressed to find any who remembered that name. He was now simply known as the Deathclaw hunter.

Now, I’m sure you all have the same question burning in your minds. What would make a grown, sensible man go out and hunt the most deadly beast in the wastes? First, let me assure you. This man has not been sensible for a long time. But the question is still valid, as not many a man, no matter how crazy, would knowingly seek out such a demon. In order to understand the Hunter, you need to understand the man he once was.

Tim Baker grew up within the Brotherhood of Steel. There, he was taught that the values of honor and family were second to none. He believed firmly in that, he lived his life by that dogma. Most of his life passed by, in fact; within those ranks, bound by that code. So it only made sense that when he got that girl pregnant, he would do right by her. This girl, Allison, wasn’t Brotherhood. She was a civilian in the wastes, a “local” to the BOS. But damn if Baker didn’t love her to death. So when the Elder made him decide between her and them, Baker made the honorable choice.

Allison gave birth to a son, whom they fondly named Graham. The boy was the apple of Baker’s eye, and he loved his father more than anything. They were all very close, and Baker was of the mind that he had just about the ideal existence in this Hell they lived in. And damned if he was going to let anything get in the way of that. Baker promised himself and his family that no harm would ever befall them.

And Baker lived up to that promise. His good sense kept his family away from any hazards the wastes might bring, and his training dealt with any trouble they ran into. Eventually, they managed to make a little claim out in the Wasteland, put a house together, and salvage enough tech from the surrounding ruins to make functional turrets and repaired robot sentries. They were close enough to Megaton to be near to help and supplies, but far enough away that they were left alone. The Baker family passed their days in each other’s company, Tim playing toy cars with little Graham, spinning intricate stories while Allison read in her chair, looking up and smiling every so often. It was the perfect Wasteland existence.

I wish I could tell you that they spent their days like that for the rest of their lives, little Graham eventually finding a girl from Megaton and raising his own family with his parents looking on with the knowing smiles of grandparents. But the world hasn’t been like that for a very long time. And no amount of wishing in the world is going to change the outcome of this tale.

Now, most people don’t know much about Deathclaws besides to stay the Hell away from anywhere they’re known to be. So no one knows what makes some Deathclaws venture out and wander the wastes, preying on people who had no business even seeing such a beast. I personally believe that some of these monsters just need to taste blood. It was one of these such demons that descended upon the Baker home one afternoon.

It started with a beep on the computer, indicating one of the sentries had gone offline. Then another. And another. Tim took up his rifle, assuring his family that everything was fine. He stepped outside, and through his scope, he saw the beast. And it saw him. As soon as it had attacked the first Protectron, the rest of the automatons went hostile. But they were no match for a Deathclaw. He cautioned his family to stay inside, and he locked them within. Tim did not believe he would survive this day, but he would see to it that his family did.

As soon as the reptilian creature made a move towards him, Baker opened fire with his sniper rifle. The creature was unfazed, and kept towards him. He fired again and again, the rounds embedding themselves into the creature’s flesh as it charged. The turrets started firing as soon as it came into range, but the lasers lasted seconds before the Deathclaw was upon them. Tim fired his last round and turned to run away from the house, towards Megaton. He would lead this demon away from his family, even if it meant his death. The Deathclaw was on him, and before he could even turn and fire his revolver, the beast had raked its claws all the way up Baker’s back, leaving deep lacerations bleeding profusely. He fell to the ground, confident he had breathed his last for his family’s safety.

The Deathclaw saw the caravan outside Megaton. It saw the protectron out front, and the massive city behind it. It saw Tim, lying on the ground gasping as he bled out. To this day, folks who’ve heard this story wonder what made the Deathclaw turn around, and face the Baker home. Some say it knew better than to attack such a group, and others say it sensed Tim’s family inside. But it turned, and started towards the house.

Tim saw it turn, and he screamed a more pained cry than any of us have ever heard. But the Deathclaw didn’t turn around. He crawled towards that thing, his blood leaving trails on the ground, cutting his hands against the rocks as he fought tooth and nail to get that monster. But he was blacking out. The last thing he heard were the screams of his family.

As far as the world was concerned, Tim Baker died that day with the rest of his family. Three gravestones now stand on the site of the Baker house. But the Hunter was born on that day. He was born in the Megaton clinic, ideas of honor and family twisted into one single drive: revenge. After that, no one knows for sure where he went, or what he did. But folks around Old Olney report hearing gunshots and seeing flashes around the town. A few brave souls who ventured near the town find the bodies of Deathclaws strewn in the streets, darts in the corpses and bullet wounds scattered across their upper bodies, some with heads blown clean off. People speak of a lone man traveling the roadways in between Old Olney and the Deathclaw Sanctuary, adorned in gleaming power armor and equipped with the biggest rifle you’ve ever seen, Deathclaw hands hanging from his belt. He never speaks to anyone, never strays from his path. Although he makes short work of any menace to cross his path, he resumes his vengeful pilgrimage without so much as a word.

People tell me that this is simply a tall tale, a myth of the Wasteland like the pre-war stories of heroes and quests. I believe that a man can have his whole life reshaped by a single event, and I believe vengeance is a powerful force. Enough to bring a man back from the brink of death with a whole new purpose. So whose to say that such a man doesn’t exist? A Deathclaw Hunter to fight back against the stuff of nightmares, born of tragedy and driven by vengeance. There have certainly been fewer Deathclaw sightings of late. And even if this man does exist, even if he is still living today, he no longer matters. The hunter matters, not the man. The stories will live on, the hunter, will live on, long after the man has died. People might one day find a body in the wreckage of Old Olney, power armor shredded and the bodies of Deathclaws all around him. He will have three things on his person. A rifle. A pair of reading glasses. And A toy car.

Seventeen

Seventeen was sullen as he watched the dancing flames of the campfire. He was trying to tune out his ruckus companions and forget the day’s events. But tonight was a joyous night for them and no matter how much Seventeen tried, he couldn’t tune them out. He did not share in their triumph; in fact he despised the actions he took part in. All attempts at relaxing ended when Talon tossed a large log into the fire, showering Seventeen with sparks and embers.

“What matter you? You did good Seven-teen. We all did good, Master will be happy” Talon said as he slapped Seventeen on the back and handing him a Brahmin leg.

Seventeen looked up at Talon. It was pointless to be mad at such a simpleton. “I am not hungry Talon but thanks anyways.”

Talon stood for a moment before offering the leg once more. “Did good, you eat, join the fun!’ poking Seventeen with the leg.

Seventeen stood up slowly “really its ok Talon, I am not hungry.”

“If he don’t eat, I will have” Nuka said as he grabbed the leg from Talons grip, tearing a huge chunk of roasted flesh from the leg with his teeth.

Seventeen looked towards their caravan. The Brahmin just barley in reach of the fire’s light. “I am going for a walk to clear my head” he said to the others. His words were lost on all of them, Nuka stuffing his face with as much meat as he could. Talon, poking the fire with a pool cue with the simple delight of a child; Boar and Max arm wrestling in yet another pointless show of strength, Jack guzzling down the group’s liquor.

Seventeen looked around for Hammer, the group’s leader. Hammer being the only one in the group as intelligent as him. Despite this, Hammer and Seventeen rarely spoke to each other. Seventeen never could understand how Hammer could take such delight in the killing and capturing of humans.

Hammer was becoming more and more unpredictable with every passing day. Seventeen wondered if it had something to do with that strange device the Master had given him.

Recalling the look of ecstasy on Hammer’s face after he had chased down the village leader and crushed his skull with his bare hand made Seventeen shiver. “He’s a monster” he thought. “We’re all monsters” be mouthed as memories of their village raid danced behind his eyes.

Seventeen turned his back on the caravan in the distance and started his walk. “This isn’t right, this isn’t right” he repeated to himself. “How can this be the future of humanity?”

He walked for an hour in the cool night air, always within earshot of his companions. In deep contemplation he walked in a large circle without realising it.

“Help us” came the fain plea of a woman.

Snapping out of his contemplation Seventeen looked up to find that he was only a few meters from one of their caravan carts. He wanted to turn from the cart, when he heard the woman call for yelp yet again. Her voice sparked a memory. A memory of a brunette woman, dressed in a blue one piece suit. Kissing the cheek of a middle aged man dressed in the same suit. Handsome and tall with dark brown hair and glasses, he looked so happy with her. They looked very much in love. He bent down to pick up a young girl that ran towards them. She too was in a blue suit; on her back was a big bold yellow 17. He scooped her up with and gave her a big hug.

“Help us please” the woman pleaded again.

Seventeen took a deep breath and walked towards the cart. Knowing full well what he would find. He was a part of a hunting party. Their prey, humans for the Master’s growing army. The party stumbled upon a small settlement of humans, killing many of them, not just the ones with guns.

Pulling back the cart’s flap, he saw that one of the humans managed to remove the mouth gag. She was a young brunette woman. She looked a lot like the young girl in his memory. She noticed Seventeen looking into the cart. She wasn’t alone; eleven other humans packed the small cart. One man was tied town to the floor of the cart. This made Seventeen think of Lemuel Gulliver, who that was he didn’t know. The woman was shocked at the sight of Seventeen, but she didn’t scream.

“Please help us. Please get us out of here.”

“I’ll get you out of here” He said. Without hesitation he reached in and loosened the rope binding her hands when he heard a deep voice.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Seventeen turned around to face the voice. He could see nothing but dark desert. But then he noticed a shimmer of light moving towards him, the outline of a hulking figure against the desert background. There was a flash accompanied by a sound of static.

“I asked what the hell you are doing.” Hammer was standing almost face to face with Seventeen.

“I am letting them go” said Seventeen, trying not to sound intimidated.

“You’re what?!” Hammer was enraged. He reached out pulled Seventeen away from the cart, his voice loud enough for the others by the fire to hear.

“What we’re doing is wrong Hammer, and it’s time we put an end to it.”

Hammer would have none of it. He punched Seventeen as hard as he could in the face. Knocking him against the cart, Seventeen slumped to the ground.

“Get up you little [censored]. Get UP!” Hammer then kicked Seventeen in the legs. “Get UP!”

The pain was blinding. Seventeen noticed a piece of lumber under the cart. Grabbing it he swung as hard as he could. Hitting Hammer in the knees; giving him enough time to get back up while Hammer backed up.

“The Master is wrong Hammer. We have to put a stop to this.”

Hammer took another swing at him. Seventeen caught Hammers mighty fits with one hand and swung the lumber again, making contact with Hammer’s head. By this time, the others were coming over to see what was going on.

“What’s going on?” Max asked

Seventeen looked over towards the others. Once again he heard that static sound, followed by a punch to the gut. Learning why they call him Hammer. Seventeen could not see him, but he could sure feel his presence.

“Seventeen is a traitor “Hammer yelled.

The other paused, not sure what the word meant “Just kill him you morons! He’s trying to let the humans go.”

The others looked at one another, nodding in agreement before they came after Seventeen. Boar was the first to attack Seventeen, using his machete. Seventeen managed to avoid his charge and at the same time smashed Boar’s wrist with the lumber, causing Boar to drop his weapon. Hammer’s invisible fist making contact with Seventeen’s right cheek which sent him flying back towards Nuka.
Nuka stabbed Seventeen in between his shoulder blades, causing him to fall to the ground. The group circled him.

“Pathetic worm” Hammer said as he once again made himself visible.

Seventeen grabbed Boar’s fallen machete and slowly got to his feet. He could hear the familiar sound of Talon’s flamer behind him.

“You fry now!” He said as he let loose a stream of fire.

“Poor Talon, you were never that bright” Seventeen thought to himself as stepped out of the flames path.

The flame engulfed Hammer. The others were in shock which gave Seventeen enough time to get behind Talon. Swinging the machete with all his might, he decapitated Talon. Max and Boar were trying to put Hammer out, while Nuka and Jack ran towards Seventeen. Before he could get the flamer off Talon’s back, Jack hit Seventeen in the back with his spiked club just below Nuka’s knife. Nuka tried to tackle him but got the machete in his gut for the effort.

Shrugging off the pain as best he could, Seventeen pulled the flamer off Talon’s headless body. No time to put it on his back he held the tank in his left hand and the hose in the right. Showering Jack in liquid flames.

“Get him! Hammer yelled as he once again went invisible.

Max and Boar looked at their dead companions. Surprised at how well Seventeen could fight. They didn’t look like they wanted to fight anymore.

“Go back to the Master and tell him that I am no longer going to be one of his dogs!” Seventeen commanded.

Max took a step towards Seventeen but backed off when Seventeen ignited the flamer, aiming at their feet. “You heard me. Get Lost!”

The two looked at one another before turning and running into the dark desert. “Now there was only Hammer to deal with. Where are you Monster?”

Seventeen could hear laughing coming from the direction of the campfire. “You call me a monster? You’re one to talk!”

Seventeen could hear Hammer running, but didn’t risk using the flamer in the direction of the humans. Hammer was too fast for him. A knife jammed into is kidney. Seventeen could taste blood.

“You’ll pay for betraying the Master, you bastard! Hammer said as he became visible again. He was now truly monstrous. The flesh of his face and neck was melted, exposing muscle and bone. He forced the blade deeper into Seventeen’s body. With his other hand he pointed another knife at Seventeen’s neck. “I am going to enjoy” He said before a sharp stick was jammed deep into his right eye.
The woman whose hands Seventeen had unloosened was standing in the back of the cart. In her hands were holding the end of the stick that was now stuck in Hammer’s eye socket.

“Die you bastard” She said, spitting on Hammer.

Hammer fell to his knees dead. Seventeen fell shortly after him, bleeding heavily. The woman that killed Hammer came to kneel next to Seventeen. She grasped his large hand with her small hands.
“Thanks you for saving us.”

Seventeen closed his eyes for the last time; picturing the loving couple in the blue suits, holding their little girl with the yellow 17 on her back and smiled.

Last day everyone. No entries allowed after 12:00 am Pacific Time.

Alright Contest was closed eariler. Winner will be announced in the next two days.

And the winner is...


Styles!

Congratulations!

Next month's thread will be up momentarily.

I would like to thank everyone who entered this month. kdn and PolishGamer - both of your stories were very impressive, and as always I hope everyone from this month enters a story next month as well, you are all great story tellers.

Thanks

Congrats Styles!!