Writing Event - A Story in 150 Words!

[Norremitore]

As inspired in chat by @Honey Blossom and her absolutely strict 150 word count demand for all her roleplaying (kidding! ) I present to Blue Moon Roleplaying a thread for some short stories! The goal is fun, of course, but also challenging oneself to write as evocative a story as one can while limiting how many words you use. I hope everyone enjoys!

 

[Norremitore]

Ishgard - an alabaster city that floated above the Sea of Clouds, its myriad spires piercing the heavens above. For a millennia the Dravanic Hordes had come, assailing its sacred walls in an unending cycle of bloodshed and vengeance. While the common soldiery stood sentinel at the towering Gates of Judgment that guarded the bridge to the city, it was the noble dragoons who defended the skies.

Perched atop one of the spear-like towers of the Pillars, one such warrior of the Holy See watched the horizon as the stygian tide descended upon the city like an ominous shadow. Her resolve was as adamantine, for faith was ever her armor and her shield. Spear clutched in hand, she prayed a silent prayer to Halone, the Fury, to guide her blade. Her breath frosting in the chill air, she then pushed powerfully off, soaring heavensward to confront the foe yet again.

 

[Praxis]

Morning; concrete grey sky and the sounds of workmen, off to their trade.

She sits, corpse-like in her stillness, waiting for a sound, or a voice, from over her shoulder. It's been a long night, her body aches for sleep, but it's her mind that keeps her; holds her in this moment before moments. She affords herself a sigh, just as the squeal of a floorboard tattles out a step from down the hall.

She doesn't move. She waits.

The inside of her cheek is chewed raw. A bad habit, like so many others, she's failed to kick when the chips are down. Bad habits, like persistent aches, tend to steer their captors a certain way. They tend to dominate the conversation when before the spineless, or the hopeless.

She doesn't feel much like either, here and now. No. The wound over her heart prevents this. It demands purpose.​

 

[Chai]

Participation Grade

The teaching assistant turns her camera on right at 8am, punctual as usual. She says good morning to a sea of faceless black boxes on a screen, but only a few students take the time to reply through their groggy morning haze.

The class is called Culture and Communication, but right now the class culture consists of not communicating.

But today is different. She requests answers from people who have never spoken up before. Five excruciating seconds of silence turns into ten, and then fifteen. She's going to be waiting all day.

"You all know I control your participation grades, right?" She laughs at her 'joke' with that awkward, defeated smile, and suddenly multiple microphones go unmuted. A cacophony of oh, sorry and no, you go first! makes rounds in the meeting, bringing unheard voices into existence. And the TA starts jotting notes down, bringing students into existence.

 

[Staine]

The cacophony drowns out the commands, gunfire, explosions and the sounds of screams fill his every waking moment. Sleep has become a luxury, breathing has become a luxury as the acrid stench of gunpowder and burnt flesh gathers in the trenches, invades the senses. Yesterday, he had brothers, today he has new ones and no time to mourn.

Eat.
Fight.
Eat.
Fight.

He used to have a life, he used to have desires and hopes but now all he has are the orders of men who have never stood beside him, who demand his sacrifice in a war his people never wanted. He's tired. He's broken.

A shot rang out, and he was gone.

 

[Saint Saccharine]

Muscles stretch and anger coils into something new, something raw and hot, something blinding, something with an end that's far more dangerous than its humble beginnings. Alarms blare, singing their songs of warning, songs of foreboding finality, a melancholic farewell to those who hear it, as there's simply no time to reach whatever safety may be; if it truly even exists.

Warnings come too late, fear turns to panic, buzzing, humming lights turn to darkness, and control dissolves into nothing. A ripple through the crowd, a hushed murmur becomes a bellowed roar, hands turn to fists, and direction loses meaning.

The silence that follows is far too loud. The sun that shines is a harsh, angered thing; a sizzling, dry heat that breathes stench into the air. Days pass in blurred stillness.

Days turn to weeks. Weeks turn to months. And months turn to years.

And yet, the silence remains.

 

[Anarchia]

This was the end.

Back pressed against the last door, a pool of her blood soaked her boots, even now she refused to sit, to slump down, to die peacefully.

The others lingered, stepping over corpses of their friends and enemies alike, lingering, awaiting their fate. Some exchanged glances; days ago, they were strangers, but now they were family that would die together.

A shooting star slammed into what was left of the Istari' superstructure; none of them ducked for cover. Zerka's skyline was been levelled, it's surface scorched to glass. Vu'khar would not allow them to escape a second time. Particle lances punctured holes in the smog that cast the city in shadow, leaving exposed wounds through which the twinkling stars could be seen. Her eyes stared upwards, lingering on a distant star with the thought it might be home.

Another blast, a flash of light, and then. Nothing.

 

[echo]

The candlelight trembled, painting her skin in molten gold.
He stood close enough that the heat of him coiled around her, yet not close enough to touch.

Her breath caught as his gaze lingered—slow, deliberate, as though he was unwrapping her without a single finger laid upon her.

"You shouldn't look at me like that," she whispered.

"I'm not looking," he murmured, "I'm tasting... from a distance."

His voice slid over her like cashmere against the skin, enticing her pulse to quicken. The air between them thickened, every second drawing her deeper into his gravity.

One step closer—just one—and her resolve would melt away entirely.

She smiled faintly, her lips parting as though to speak, but instead, she let the silence cradle them both... letting him feel exactly how much she wanted to close that final inch...