Writey Write Write
Creative Writing Club had a contest :D Was to write 1000-2000 words based on a quote we chose from a list. My chosen quote was, I dream of giving birth to a child who will ask, "Mommy, what was war?", by Eve Marriam :D
Title: Miles to Go (<--- asspull)
Genre: Short story, fantasy
Rating: PG? PG-13, for mentions of utterly miserable conditions?
Summary: Over the endless racket of animal noises, wagons, and sick, hungry people, she can hear the children hacking up road-dust and talking amongst themselves. Ithi remembers the young children of her town playing games and whispering through tricky little smiles, but she can’t imagine what these would have to say. They are cold. They are hungry and thirsty, and miss their families. The oldest of them is only twelve. What do children talk about when they’re lonely and unhappy?
“Milo won’t stop crying.”
Ithi snaps back to herself, and looks down to the small, dirty child keeping pace with her. Toma, she dimly recalls his name is. Given to the campaign by a poor farming couple on the outskirts of the last village they passed through. He wears only a man’s tunic that falls to bare, knobby knees.
“Give him to Ein.” Ithi tells him. There isn’t much else that can be done for the infant; they’ve come to rely on the young boy’s calming touch for crying youngsters.
Donner walks silently at Ithi’s back, mumbling into his beard and watching out for troublemakers.
“Ein says he’s hungry.”
“We have no food to give him.”
Toma doesn’t argue. He kicks a stone away from his foot, which is purpling from exposure, and rejoins the group of equally dirty, dozen or so children.
Ithi surveys them morosely, a fraction of her attention focused on Donner’s solid presence. Over the endless racket of animal noises, wagons, and sick, hungry people, she can hear the children hacking up road-dust and talking amongst themselves. Ithi remembers the young children of her town playing games and whispering through tricky little smiles, but she can’t imagine what these would have to say. They are cold. They are hungry and thirsty, and miss their families. The oldest of them is only twelve. What do children talk about when they’re lonely and unhappy?
Their destination, the home of the kind-hearted Master of Mor, has become almost a fairy tale. Ithi has been traveling towards it for weeks, but has never seen a hint of it. Had not so much as heard of the fife of Mor until well into the Third Crop War, spoken of in hopeful whispers as the shadows of marching Recruiters darkened their faces. When Donner and his rag-tag party of children had passed through town, remaining long enough for two of his brood to sicken and die, Ithi hadn’t allowed herself time to think. Donner had announced to everyone in the square that he wished for an adult companion to accompany his band, which was following the endless horde out of Tarmin’gh, and she had packed her gypsy mother’s satchel as he waited at her door.
The Recruiters had taken her brother and fourteen year-old nephew a week before. Her brother’s wife had followed them, and had not returned.
Ithi hadn’t imagined then, that the road could be any worse than her poor, hollowed out home, but it was. The way out of Tarmin’gh was a long line of desperate, filthy humanity. Many people bore the painful, weeping sores that told of the red sickness, and avoiding them was nearly impossible. There wasn’t water enough to go around, as the road passed through flat grass country, and sometimes people fell, and didn’t get up. There was fighting and killing, and no one strong enough, no one who had energy enough and cared enough to police it. Dust from the road filled one’s eyes and mouth during the long spans of time when there was no rain, and the odor of excrement was always present in the air.
The man who commanded Mor was said to shelter refugees, to ensure that there was land to farm and seeds to grow, that there was water for the people who came to him. His fife, Donner said, existed away from the road, in the no-man’s land between Dursa and ragged lines of mountain that formed the start of the Northern Steppes. Far from the Merdian farmlands where most of the conflict was, and well outside the range of the Tarmin’ghi Recruiters.
Donner said that there would only be a few more days of road, then they would be able to take the children through the lush, southern forests where ‘a man would have to be blind and stupid to starve’, and from there, the end of their journey was a week of easy travel. Then peace. Then quiet. But Donner said a lot of things.
As Ithi watches, deep in thought, Ein stumbles and falls with the baby Milo still in his arms. There is a collective gasp from the children, who scramble to haul the older boy to his feet again. Smudged little faces turn back, pink mouths visible as breath is gathered to call her-but Ithi has already hastened her stride, ignoring aching feet with the ease of long practice, and she takes the infant from Ein.
“Help him clean his face,” She instructs them automatically, having glimpsed the bright splash of red across the boy’s mouth. She allows the children to gain ground and for Donner to reach her, moving slowly, dreading, as she unwraps the twisted blanket from the infant’s face.
The child’s nose is smashed. Ithi feels his small body is twisted at an implausible angle within the blanket, and the lack of living warmth in it. His face is a molted blue and gray.
She jumps when Donner’s horse voice sounds above her shoulder. “He’s been dead for a while.”
But Ithi swears he was alive only minutes ago.
A/N: I ship Donner and Ithi like crazzzy. There's about a fifteen year age gap, and Donner's got a beard like a dwarf, whereas Ithi is petite and too thin, but ksjdlaskfjlsdk CUTE ♥
Title: Miles to Go (<--- asspull)
Genre: Short story, fantasy
Rating: PG? PG-13, for mentions of utterly miserable conditions?
Summary: Over the endless racket of animal noises, wagons, and sick, hungry people, she can hear the children hacking up road-dust and talking amongst themselves. Ithi remembers the young children of her town playing games and whispering through tricky little smiles, but she can’t imagine what these would have to say. They are cold. They are hungry and thirsty, and miss their families. The oldest of them is only twelve. What do children talk about when they’re lonely and unhappy?
“Milo won’t stop crying.”
Ithi snaps back to herself, and looks down to the small, dirty child keeping pace with her. Toma, she dimly recalls his name is. Given to the campaign by a poor farming couple on the outskirts of the last village they passed through. He wears only a man’s tunic that falls to bare, knobby knees.
“Give him to Ein.” Ithi tells him. There isn’t much else that can be done for the infant; they’ve come to rely on the young boy’s calming touch for crying youngsters.
Donner walks silently at Ithi’s back, mumbling into his beard and watching out for troublemakers.
“Ein says he’s hungry.”
“We have no food to give him.”
Toma doesn’t argue. He kicks a stone away from his foot, which is purpling from exposure, and rejoins the group of equally dirty, dozen or so children.
Ithi surveys them morosely, a fraction of her attention focused on Donner’s solid presence. Over the endless racket of animal noises, wagons, and sick, hungry people, she can hear the children hacking up road-dust and talking amongst themselves. Ithi remembers the young children of her town playing games and whispering through tricky little smiles, but she can’t imagine what these would have to say. They are cold. They are hungry and thirsty, and miss their families. The oldest of them is only twelve. What do children talk about when they’re lonely and unhappy?
Their destination, the home of the kind-hearted Master of Mor, has become almost a fairy tale. Ithi has been traveling towards it for weeks, but has never seen a hint of it. Had not so much as heard of the fife of Mor until well into the Third Crop War, spoken of in hopeful whispers as the shadows of marching Recruiters darkened their faces. When Donner and his rag-tag party of children had passed through town, remaining long enough for two of his brood to sicken and die, Ithi hadn’t allowed herself time to think. Donner had announced to everyone in the square that he wished for an adult companion to accompany his band, which was following the endless horde out of Tarmin’gh, and she had packed her gypsy mother’s satchel as he waited at her door.
The Recruiters had taken her brother and fourteen year-old nephew a week before. Her brother’s wife had followed them, and had not returned.
Ithi hadn’t imagined then, that the road could be any worse than her poor, hollowed out home, but it was. The way out of Tarmin’gh was a long line of desperate, filthy humanity. Many people bore the painful, weeping sores that told of the red sickness, and avoiding them was nearly impossible. There wasn’t water enough to go around, as the road passed through flat grass country, and sometimes people fell, and didn’t get up. There was fighting and killing, and no one strong enough, no one who had energy enough and cared enough to police it. Dust from the road filled one’s eyes and mouth during the long spans of time when there was no rain, and the odor of excrement was always present in the air.
The man who commanded Mor was said to shelter refugees, to ensure that there was land to farm and seeds to grow, that there was water for the people who came to him. His fife, Donner said, existed away from the road, in the no-man’s land between Dursa and ragged lines of mountain that formed the start of the Northern Steppes. Far from the Merdian farmlands where most of the conflict was, and well outside the range of the Tarmin’ghi Recruiters.
Donner said that there would only be a few more days of road, then they would be able to take the children through the lush, southern forests where ‘a man would have to be blind and stupid to starve’, and from there, the end of their journey was a week of easy travel. Then peace. Then quiet. But Donner said a lot of things.
As Ithi watches, deep in thought, Ein stumbles and falls with the baby Milo still in his arms. There is a collective gasp from the children, who scramble to haul the older boy to his feet again. Smudged little faces turn back, pink mouths visible as breath is gathered to call her-but Ithi has already hastened her stride, ignoring aching feet with the ease of long practice, and she takes the infant from Ein.
“Help him clean his face,” She instructs them automatically, having glimpsed the bright splash of red across the boy’s mouth. She allows the children to gain ground and for Donner to reach her, moving slowly, dreading, as she unwraps the twisted blanket from the infant’s face.
The child’s nose is smashed. Ithi feels his small body is twisted at an implausible angle within the blanket, and the lack of living warmth in it. His face is a molted blue and gray.
She jumps when Donner’s horse voice sounds above her shoulder. “He’s been dead for a while.”
But Ithi swears he was alive only minutes ago.
A/N: I ship Donner and Ithi like crazzzy. There's about a fifteen year age gap, and Donner's got a beard like a dwarf, whereas Ithi is petite and too thin, but ksjdlaskfjlsdk CUTE ♥