Twilight Hollow

Here is a place for me to showcase the works of other young writers.

Please feel free to give feedback after reading the stories.  The best thing you can offer a writer is an opinion, especially if you yourself are a writer or avid reader.

Have you written a story you'd like to share?   See below!

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So you want to get on this page?
Go to the Contact Me page and get in touch.  Try to include; an email I can contact you on, why you'd like to get your work posted here and maybe a little info about yourself and your writing style. Then I can correspond with you and we can set up a spot for your work right here.

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So far we have the following writers featured on this page.  Check out what's here and leave comments.  Also if you're interested you can check out any associated websites.

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~ Hayley *newest*
~ Ade
~ Elise
~ Merry
~ Patrick
~ Tim

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Meet Hayley

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           Lost:

 

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Give Hayley some feedback below!

Meet Ade

Age: 14
Lives: South-East US of A
Interests: Writing, Dancing, Writing, Drawing, Writing, Sewing, Writing, Daydreaming - did I mention writing?
Hobbies: Currently writing four books -- wait! Five. - meaning one trilogy and a book and its sequel.   Muwhahaha - and then goes to four dance classes, and does a little competion dance.
Goals: To get my books published. =D
Website: (to be added)

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Piece of Behind the Mask

For those that may be confused, Phantom and Shadow are girls, whereas Athelian and Eldrid are guys. (lol). Just making sure you understand that.

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Then, somewhere in the road, they took a wrong turn – and got hopelessly lost.

    As Eldrid and Shadow talked quietly about fighting techniques, and which were the best, Phantom unrolled an old map. Peering closely at it, she began to trace possible routes with her fingers. Athelian watched her too.

    As he watched, she began to trace a route that he knew, for a fact, would lead to a dead end. “We can’t go that way.” He said quietly.

    “Lindore, it’s fine.”

    “No it’s not. We’re going to run into a cliff wall.”

    “How would you know?”

    “I’ve seen maps of this place!”

    “Riiight – the little prince that didn’t even know what Zoriens were has seen maps of their territory’s borders? A likely excuse.”

    Athelian got very mad suddenly. “You think you’re so strong, don’t you? You think that you’re the only one that knows anything, and you won’t give others a chance!”

    He had hit a nerve. Phantom stabbed her knife violently into a tree. Eldrid and Shadow fell silent, watching her, as she raised her head and looked at Athelian, red hair falling across one eye, like a firebrand.

    “Uh oh…” Shadow whispered. “Let’s go, Eldrid – quick!” They quietly hurried out of the clearing, leaving Athelian and Phantom alone. Phantom stood up, sword dangling lightly from one hand.

    “What did you say?” Her voice was low, dangerous, and Athelian knew immediately that he was in some very hot water. But he wasn’t about to back down, either.

    “You think you’re the only one who knows anything, and you think that no one else is worth listening to.” He, too, drew his sword.

    “A duel, then?” Phantom proposed spontaneously, as if that would take away his insult. “Of course, only to disarment – I would just hate for Nicadia to lose its only heir.” Her words dripped venom, and Athelian agreed to the duel with a nod of his head. They both bowed – and then it began in full force.

    Quickly, Phantom lunged at him, knocking the sword out of his right hand, but Athelian caught it in the left. He slashed quickly at her sword, but she had pulled back her hand already. Of course – she could read minds! She knew exactly what he was going to do!

    Sure enough, Phantom was always a step ahead of him. As they circled, parrying, blocking, swiping at one another, she always knew what was going to happen before he had even processed his thought. As he thought this, a hint of a triumphant grin flickered in her eyes – and Athelian resolved not to lose.

    They circled, parrying, dodging, occasionally lunging at one another, Athelian managed a lucky, unplanned blow, knocking Phantom’s sword out of her hand.

    “I win.” He said, letting a note of satisfaction creep into his voice.

    Big mistake.

    Phantom snarled, and, producing a knife from her sleeve, launched herself at him. The force was enough to send him hard to the ground and to significantly jar his hold on his sword, sending it flying. She landed on top of him and, incensed, attempted to slit his throat. Athelian grabbed her hands, pushing back with all his might. They lay like this for a while, both fueled either by hate or a will to survive, until he unthinkingly drove his knee into her stomach and flipped her off of him, grabbing his sword. Phantom, winded, still managed to grab her sword and stand in time to parry his attack. This was no longer to disarment. This was to the death.

    She was no longer interested in playing by the rules, either. Pulling a knife out of her collar with her free hand and snicking it open, she kicked his legs hard and flicked his weapon out of his hand. Athelian stumbled, and she brought the hilt of her sword crashing down over his head. He crumpled to the ground, but some odd reflex of his forced him to grab her legs and pull them out from under her. As she went crashing backwards, kicking him in the mouth and giving him a bloody lip, he grabbed her weapons and held them to her slender neck.

    Athelian, at this point, wanted nothing less than to just kill her, but something held him back. As Phantom opened her eyes, he found a confusing amount of emotion in there – grudging respect, only a little anger now, a tiny bit of fear, and – some nameless emotion that Athelian did not want to place. Her eyes almost forced him to ask that one question he dreaded most of all…

    “Are you all right?” He asked finally, throwing the weapons off to the side.

    “Could you please help me sit up?” She panted.

    “Oh, right. Sorry.” He knelt, and putting one arm on her back and a hand on her left arm, he pulled her up – a little too hard. Phantom just managed to put her hand out in time to prevent herself from crashing into Athelian; their noses were inches away.

    “Um…” Athelian began, embarrassed, but then - Phantom turned her head, looked directly into his eyes – and time seemed to stand still.

    Suddenly, something clicked into place.

    “Are you alright?” Athelian said, softly, not wanting to spoil this moment. It was as if he had been missing something his whole life, and been unaware. Phantom’s eyes spoke to him, as if to reassure him that she felt this same way. His hand found hers subconsciously, and some part of his heart suddenly …the feeling was indescribable, not unlike a plummeting sensation…but this was sweeter, more beautiful…

    “I’m fine.” She whispered, eyes not leaving his. “I’m fine.”

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    When Eldrid and Shadow came back, Athelian and Phantom were sitting quietly, discussing what the best route was. Eldrid stopped, and, crossing his arms across his chest, looked at the pair.

    “Well, what happened?” He asked finally. “Shadow and I were kind of expecting to come back and find one of you two lying on the ground, all diced up.”

    Phantom shrugged. “We came to an agreement of sorts – one that didn’t involve dicing anyone.” She went back to the map, but Shadow and Eldrid exchanged glances – there was more to this truce than met the eye.

Let Ade know what you thought about this piece below.

Meet Elise

Age: 14
Location: Australia
Hobbies: Drawing, Acting, Painting, Writing, Song writing, Dancing, Singing, Performing, Friends, Photography, and… I THINK that’s all!
Goals: At the moment to go to the Australian Acting Academy for two years, and then graduate to extension classes and one-day to the school of Excellency, then I want to become a real-life-honest-to-goodness film actress!! Other then that at the moment get my books published.

Character pictures relating to the following story can be found in Elise's album in the Images section.

This is the Prologue for the first book of a trilogy, The Seventh Stone; Truth from Lies…. ENJOY!

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It was a beautiful, warm night on the island of Falbernagh, the greatest island of seven. Six smaller islands surrounded Falbernagh: Dakota, Nastae, Pillaou, Nierma, Adrena and Morgaln. The seven islands had been there - and people said always would - for thousands of years. None of them sunk into the ocean, none of them got harder in soil. There were many different religions among the people, but all seemed to come back to the one strongest of all. The tale of the White Dragon; as every citizen knew, as every child was raised to believe, the Lands of Heriand their world, was run by dragons. Dragons of every colour and size roamed the fields, pulled carts, flew through the air and even some made pets for the families and children. All dragons had a small amount of power and magic, which helped the land to be strong and hard working. Though the beasts where mere creatures; unintelligent beings with only nature and their instinct to guide them… Without the dragons, Heriand would perish in fire and water until every living creature, bird or plant was vanished. And as legend told, the White Dragon had been the first of all the dragons. Father of every beast now alive, and the source of all dragons’ powers, the White Dragon had been kind, gentle, and just. Some people said that the White Dragon had an intelligent brain of its own, and thought for itself. But no one would ever know if this was true, because some men caught the dragon, bound it to the ground and clipped its wings, never to fly again. They made it parade for the city of Falberdeigm, and made it come with them on special occasions to the smaller islands around Falbernagh. They tortured it and ruined its pearly white scales until it was nothing but all they had feared; an angry and terrifying beast, with not a thought for itself or anyone else, all it knew was the hard voice of men and the sting of hot red iron.

And so the men brought upon themselves everything they had feared in the first place. Now the white dragon was a mere puppet for the pleasure of the people to look at, and admire, though they would never know its true self, and never really find out just how magnificent it had been.

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A woman’s scream echoed through the night as she woke with a start to realise her baby’s bed was on fire. Arizma didn’t turn to see witch house it was, it did not matter; soon people would be waking all over the city to realise that their houses where burning down around them. He hardly smelt the burning of wood, bricks and gold as he walked down the streets; hardly heard the crackling of fire all around him, and the sound of mothers and children crying out, the sound of mourning fathers over family’s bodies. He hardly felt the heat of the fire warm on the back of his neck, and soaking through his leather jacket into his skin. All he was aware of was the thing in his hand; it had saved him, made him powerful. He could feel the power surging through him at this very moment, even now so early in his reign, what would it be like in years, if now he felt this powerful?

 If he were an ordinary man he would have felt happiness; wanted to laugh, cry out, even jump for the glory of it perhaps. But he was not an ordinary man, and he did not act or feel like one, he had never been much for following rules or doing things everyone else did, following the trend; He had always gone his own way, unlike his weak brother who was now dead, by his, Arizma’s hand.

The stronger ruled at last. It had always been coming, he was destined to rule, and he deserved it unlike his poor weak brother.

Arizma realized he had reached the edge of the city; he turned to look on the once gold and shining buildings and stalls. He had been brought up as a boy here, back then children laughed in the streets, woman shopped in the stalls, men drove dragons and sold food and goods; but not now, not anymore. The streets of Falberdeigm would never have a laughing mother catch her baby as it walked its first step. Arizma smiled to himself under his dark hat. Now the city was burning and red with light. The screams where getting louder, but now people where trying to escape. He turned and kept walking up a steep hill, lost in thought. Soon he would take action, but not yet, he wanted them to think they where getting away, to think they had made it. And then, only then he would strike upon them and they would fall to the ground and beg for mercy, but he would not grant it. They had ignored him, shunted him away, and stood in awe of his brother, but no longer, they knew now that their wonderful leader and king was nothing more then a boy who meddled in things to powerful for him. And where had it got him? No where but the grave, and now all his awe-struck fans who thought he was such a god knew, that he was no more then a boy. He would show them now who their real god was.

Arizma stopped walking, turned and looked down to the city. People where spilling out from very direction, crying children ran behind their parents, or ran through the many legs calling their sisters and brothers names, begging someone to tell them where their parents went. Arizma looked down at them without the slightest trace of pity. Why should he pity those who were in the wrong, they deserved everything they got.

It was time to act; the first knot of runaways where climbing over the hill and trying to escape to a smaller island. Arizma raised his hand and pointed it at the people just leaving the city. A huge bolt of blue fire came reigning from the sky, hitting the people and silencing them forever. The families climbing over the hill had not heard. Arizma shot at them; blue fire extinguished them and made a small crater in the earth. The people half way up the hill cried and fell back, holding tightly to each other, looking around franticly for the source of the fire and protecting their children. Little good it would do them, Arizma thought to himself, amused at their struggles to survive and attempts to run; maybe now, perhaps now they knew how he had felt. But no matter, every person there had to suffer, it was not enough, he wouldn’t let them get away with their crimes lightly.

The dark man on the hill waited impatiently as the small cluster of people huddled on the side of the mountain, not daring to move, not wanting to stay. He needed to let a few people survive, just to spread out to the smaller islands, Dakota, Nastae, Pillaou, Nierma, Adrena and Morgaln. Arizma looked up and watched with interest as an old woman carrying what looked like a baby wrapped up in clothes ran over the hill. The cluster of people on the hill didn’t seam to be going to move. He sighed with annoyance and sent a fireball hurling towards them. He didn’t bother to watch as the people yelled and tried to run. His attention was turned to another group of people making their way up a different hill. He smiled, this group would make it back, fortunate for them, but everyone else must die. He watched as the small huddle of figures clambered up the hill and disappeared over the edge. It was time, everyone else must die, and they would have the privilege of dying in a different way to the others. Arizma lifted his hand and drew an invisible line around the city. Then he lifted both hands in a dome shape. A grey shimmering wall appeared around the city, it was like water, but solid, and if anyone would dare to touch it…

Arizma turned his head to the edge of the city; a man was approaching the force field cautiously, with his wife behind him; and their baby in on arm, and the other holding tightly to her husband. Arizma recognised the man as a friend of his brother’s. Coutioa was his name. He had always been fairly nice to Arizma, but still like everyone else, had held him below his great brother.

Coutioa was close to the barrier now and stretched out his hand. As his fingers met the grey substance, his body grew ridged and he fell to the ground, his wife’s scream never left her lips as the shock flowed from his body to hers, and she crumbled to the ground beside him.

Now Arizma’s work was done, he had nothing left here. The people who had escaped would spread to the smaller islands and their blood would flow through the peasants and villagers and hopefully make them stronger for when he returned and needed servants.

And as for the people trapped in the city, allot of them would die by touching the trap, and soon everyone in the city would know what it did, they would either starve, or be killed by his force field, and once every creature and plant inside the city where dead, the force field would evaporate, and when he returned the people would remember him as a god and welcome him into their arms.

Arizma turned his back on the panic filled city, and made his way to the top of the hill, smiling to himself.

As he reached the top and looked down on the people struggling down to the boats, a woman with a baby in her arms looked up at him, tears in her eyes. He realised with a jolt that it was his old nurse… Mardaea. Then this was Arizma’s nephew, the heir to the throne in her arms? Typical, he would kill the king, his brother, only to let the heir escape. No matter, no one would remember in the morning. He had put a spell on them to think he was their god and would be returning in 5000 years, they would remember him as the person who saved them and would once again come, instead of waking with terror and fear in their hearts for what had happened, they would wake with a fake memory of their god who was sacrificed and burnt in the city, sadness at the thought that he would suffer for 5000 years until his return, and hope that one day he would come and love, care for and rule them. Arizma stared down to Mardaea, his gaze hard and sharp. She turned with hunched shoulders and clambered into a small boat. He smiled coldly and walked into the darkness, it would be a long, long time until he ever saw this place again, but he would see it, and when that time came he would be the ruler, and he would do as he saw fit, and no brother would ever stop him again.

 

Let Elise know what you think of her story so far!

Meet Merry

Age: 13
Goals: I just want to make a difference, I guess. That, and finish revising the first five chapters of this story (Henge of Time) before the deadline March 14th. So if you find anything displeasing with it, please tell me. ;) Thanks.
Email: totallyrebel@yahoo.com
Website: www.freewebs.com/writtenwordsaremagic

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PROLOGUE—Truths Behind Untruths

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A painting—this was how the legend of Stonehenge started. Every summer solstice since, an artist was hired to complete their duties. One year an artist worked with skeins of yarn. Under his skilled hands—with succor from a loom—a tapestry of Stonehenge came to being, string by string. Another year, a poet was welcomed inside the premises to write an ode to the ancient structure. Last year, an artist of great efficiency wrote an ode and immortalized his words by way of etching it on a stone tablet. Every work pertained to the circle of stones in some way. Their pictures or verses of prose all reflected on what they saw in Stonehenge. Each of them saw differently, but they always came to pile laud upon the henge no matter what their eyes saw. If it was grim, then they did their best to make it shine in innocence. Thus, the story of Stonehenge was passed down from one pair of adept hands to another. Oddly enough though was how every year sported a different artist…
This year Jean, a self-learned artist, breached the unwritten rules all other employees before him had followed—however aversely. Jean saw a dingy Stonehenge, a horrid Stonehenge poisoned by the wiles of men. He painted exactly this.
Well, not as conspicuous so that any casual spectator would see the pessimism of the artist. Jean kept his views limited to himself. His practiced hands skimmed across the canvas, filling in azure skies where there were none and drawing in lively green grass instead of the shriveled stalks they were in real life. Jocund fools juggled multicolored balls and placate oxen draped in ivy paraded down an aisle to the center of Stonehenge. In the premises of Stonehenge, there was none of this. The somber stones stood as silent witnesses unable to do anything about the carnage happening at their base. A deep trench dug around the circumference held testimony of what befell their victims. Ashes stirred at the bottom of the trench, and the bones of many innocents jutted out from its enclosure. A ring of fire only enhanced the grimness. Their fingers danced jovially in the cruel settings. Every once in awhile, the flames would shoot up bright orange sparks. Their zeal announced how much they reveled in the torture the priest inflicted upon the prisoners.
Jean, of course, painted around this. He depicted the entire scene as a friendly animal sacrificing ritual instead of human immolation! A happy scene it was—as happy as Jean could manage. But no. There an unfurled banner waved with a hissing snake as its insignia. A hawk perched on the lintel of a trilithon held a snake clenched in its powerful talons. It was in these ways that Jean disproved the righteousness of Stonehenge. The priest’s eyes would most definitely pass over these oddities. He was a cruel man to be sure, but he wasn’t a learned man. This played to Jean’s advantage. If this painting were sent beyond the premises of Stonehenge, into the heart of England, then there would be hope. Any other practiced eye would discern the evil by the way the hawk perched, crushing evil.
No other before him had thought of anything so concealing. Jean’s painting just might be different. At the time though, Jean did not think about making history. He did not think his painting would call for a different reaction from England. He couldn’t see to the future. He just knew of what he was doing at the present tense—and he was painting. He was painting the truth behind an outright lie.
Gravid drops of rain began to fall heavily from the heavens. Jean simply pulled the tarp lower over his canvas and himself. His pace began to increase. His hands flew across the canvas. Soon, the grey silhouettes he’d sketched began to accumulate various shades of pigment. Jean smiled a wistful smile to himself as he signed his name with much ado at the bottom right hand corner. If another only investigated the case farther they might be able to unveil the mystery enshrouding Stonehenge.
He paused there, his brush held a few hesitant inches from his painting. A single drop of red paint rolled down the tip of his brush and splattered onto the ground. His eyes started to tear up. Last painting and his best painting. There was Stonehenge—the grey stones well-sculpted, the surroundings expertly captured. A fiery sun suspended at its zenith brought burnished life to its subjects below. That would be all that was needed. The rest, time would take care of.
Jean wiped his tears into nonexistence with the hem of his sleeve and placed the brush down on the easel. He made sure everything was in order before enfolding his masterpiece in the tarp. He took heavy steps towards the priest. The art of painting was now a past remainder of his old life. Things were about to change…
“Ah Jean!” the priest exclaimed with false warmth. He stretched his arms out—not for a hug but for the painting.
Jean hesitantly relinquished his treasured bundle into the priest’s hold.
He watched the priest lift a corner of the tarp and take a quick peek at its contents. “Good, good,” he praised without real emotion in his words. He shifted the bundle in the cradle of his arms, and immediately, a lad of about thirteen rushed hurriedly to the priest’s side to relieve his master of the cumbersome burden.
“Run it along to the general now,” the priest told the boy in an offhand manner.
“Yessir,” the boy muttered. He kept his head bent. Like any other soldier, he was cowed of the priest. He darted away as quickly as he could from the priest.
“Please let me live,” Jean begged as soon as the boy’s slight figure disappeared from view.
The priest inspected his fingers. For a moment, Jean had the faintest hope of the priest reconsidering his sentence, but that firm “no” obviated any tiny seed of happiness taking root in his heart.
“But—”
The priest held up a staying hand. “What have your eyes seen?” he asked.
The question silenced him. There was no way he could get around this one. Jean hung his head and hunkered down.
“Yes,” the priest purred, “they have seen too much, haven’t they?”
“But I won’t tell; word of honor.”
“Can you really promise me that?” The priest bullied him towards the edge of the ditch.
“No, you can’t promise me that,” the priest said after seeing the flicker of feelings battle in Jean’s eyes. “I can read it in your eyes. No, you won’t keep quiet even if your life is lost in the process, aye?”
Jean closed his eyes painfully, sucking in the rain, sucking in the familiar smell of Stonehenge. He had nothing to keep him attached to the world aside from Stonehenge and…painting. Worlds, once deemed impossible, were conjured into reality by his ever faithful brush. Jean quavered with the unfairness of it all. Did the priest not see how hard it was for him to part company with the hobby that brought him the most joy? This question hardly needed any elucidating. The priest was cold-hearted. Some people even said he was as good as heartless. Jean never witnessed this with his own pair of eyes until now, when his life was at stake.
“No,” Jean finally said hoarsely, “I can't live with what my eyes have seen. I will betray you.” He gulped as he said the last words. "But someday someone stronger will expose all your secrets to the world, and I will stand by and bear witness as your perfect world shatters." He shook in fear. The strength he needed to complete his train of thought deserted him.
The priest—to Jean's relief—paid no heed to the last sentence.
“And what do we do to traitors?” the priest taunted. He raised a gnarled finger and shoved Jean in the chest. There was a point in which Jean did as best as he could to regain his equilibrium, but fate turned its back on him. He fell with a loud crash into the mesh of bones. All his art, his life, and his future shattered with him. Everyone in Stonehenge knew that once the ditch was reached, there was no climbing back up again. Quick death would be a nice penalty compared to starving to death.
The priest knew this for a fact. The ditch was the worst punishment anyone could think of. He stood at the edge, smirking into the darkness.
Triumph lined his gravelly voice as he spoke. "I will always be victor, Jean. You will not hold death above me. I will live. You have already died. It is a good thing I stopped you before you began chasing vanities."
The priest spun on his heels. He would not spend time doting on a dead man. Soldiers were awaiting his orders. The summer solstice was on. The sacrifices to the Gods would commence! Meanwhile, a low groan emerged from the depths of the trench. If any being paid close attention, they would have heard it but since they didn’t, Jean’s existence on Earth went by undetected.


So what did you think of this piece?  Merry wants to know!

Meet Patrick

Patrick Bush is 16 (almost 17) years old and currently lives in Germany. He enjoys writing and is currently “working” on several novels and stories, his longest one being Element: Dawn of War, which for some reason he can never believe that it is well written, despite what he’s told by others. Patrick also reads 4-5 books a month, depending on the length; plays video games of every kind (not necessarily well); he also likes talking and writing about himself in the third person (as well as writing things in parentheses). Patrick plays Magic: the Gathering, which has inspired some of his writing, along with shows and movies like Avatar: The Last Airbender, Heroes, and Pirates of the Caribbean.

Contacts:

Fish_master91@hotmail.com (Email)

Avatar_of_Kharia@yahoo.com (IM and Email)


Here is a piece he wrote for school.

A New Day (or One Minute after Midnight)

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    It would be the last glimpse of natural sunlight that Mr. Charles S. Groves would see in his life. He looked out behind him through the windows of the facility one last time before the elevator doors closed, and the platform began to lower. He sighed and closed his eyes in prayer for the night that lay ahead of him.

    For the next half hour after he reached the control floor he would be put through the security system; his possessions would be taken and x-rayed twice, during which time he would be forced to sign in with at least two different people. This was a great irony due to the fact that Charles was himself a security guard for this very facility. But such were the precautions that had to be taken to ensure the protection of Silo 238b. This was a routine that Mr. Groves (known as Charlie to many of his friends) had been through at least two-thousand times; needless to say he had worked here for quite some time. Although his colleagues wouldn’t know it, Charlie had never been one to appreciate nuclear weapons such as the ones housed in this very complex. However, he kept this to himself and stayed at his post diligently, just as he had for the last six years.

    After passing the trials of security, Mr. Groves then walked to the locker room, as such buildings had for their employees. He then spent the next 15 minutes preparing for the night shift. His was a particularly important duty, or so he had been told. He was perhaps the last line of defence between any intruder and one of the three control panels needed for launching the missile. This is not to say that it was at all possible to penetrate the heavy security surrounding the silo. One would have a very difficult time making their way to the facility at all, much less getting through both the human and automated security systems. In fact, perhaps the only way that the place could be damaged was with another missile. As Charles strapped on his bullet-proof vest and his issued weapon: a standard 9 mm pistol, he spoke with two of his friends who were just finishing their shift. They discussed the possibility of going out to a pub in town over the weekend and buying a couple of beers. The six years of the strict routine of their job had dulled any conversation involving their work.

    Charles, after donning his protective gear, made his way to the control room where he met with his day-shift counterpart, Tim. After exchanging a few words of conversation, mainly about Tim’s family and children (a subject which Mr. Groves knew little about, as he had never married), Tim left to make his way home. So it was there in the small room where Charlie would sit and wait for the dawn to find it’s way to him. As a small courtesy, the military permitted the civilian security guards a small television screen beside the security video link of the hallway outside of the secure room. Contrary to his peers, Mr. Groves did not watch anything on the TV other than news channels, so that he could keep some form of contact with the outside world which seemed far away from the underground labyrinth in which he found himself, even if it was only a one-way communication.

    Mr. Groves was also a very reliable man when it came to his job, unlike most might think, he did not sleep through the nights that he had to spend in the control chamber. Some nights, like this one, he would read a book to keep himself entertained, but he always kept an eye on the security camera. Though he of all people knew the unlikelihood of any intruders making their way to this inner sanctum of sorts, he had stayed vigilant all these years and had no intention of stopping now. Although his single visitor this night had no intention of harming him, Charles would see him coming well before he reached the door.

    He had an idea of what was going to occur before his visitor had the chance to explain. The news of conflict with a foreign nation reached him through the television, faster than any person could have run down here. While it seemed to him like just another conflict that plagued the world in these days of hatred toward others, Charlie began to fear for what was approaching when breaking news told of a formal declaration of war from the antagonising country. Military forces had already been mobilised presumably by all countries involved. And that’s when the sirens began.

    Charles Groves stood up immediately. The sirens were indicative of an imminent nuclear launch. On the television screen a shaky-voiced anchorman reported that several dozen nuclear missiles had been launched by an enemy supporting country. Mr. Groves had made a decision many years ago, that he would soon have to go through with. The man he had been expecting for the last few seconds appeared on the camera running towards the control room. The man’s approach confirmed his fears. Charles said a prayer, asking for forgiveness.

    As the man that Charles had never wished to meet entered the room, he gave Charlie a brief warning. “You need to get to the safe house immediately! Our base is being targetted by a missle, and will be hit shortly. I’m going to be there right after we launch.” As the man placed the firing key into the slot, Charles placed a bullet through his head. After the man had fallen to the ground, Mr. Groves placed his gun in its holster and sat back down from his act of perfidy. Both screens had gone to a black-and-white blur; he turned both of them off. “I am sorry. Better the two of us die than however many thousands die from that weapon.” While his justification went unheard, a deadly spear of metal and plastic hurlted down from the sky toward the silo Charles S. Groves had worked in for nearly six-and-one-half years. The only sound in that room that Mr. Groves heard before the explosion was the final beeping of his watch. The dawning of an artifical sun would herald the coming of midnight.

How about giving him some feedback on it now guys?  What did you all think of it?

Meet Tim

Some of Tim's Poems.

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Gun shots fired, the sirens sound,

One dies, the body hits the ground.

This poor lady, she had a life,

Was a mother of three and a good wife.

Taken too soon, by a mad man,

She was going places, she had a plan.

Her kids, far too young to understand,

Why their mother's body has gone into the land.

A single father ready to break,

Only keeps it together for his children's sake.

Left with debt, to pay off on his own,

Only one option left, he sold his home.

He tried his best to be a good dad,

But lost it, along with everything he had.

So much changed for this poor guy,

For all he did when his children slept, was cry.

He missed the company she gave,

So much, he just sat talking by her grave.

Everyone could see he was going down hill,

As there was a pain that no one could fill.

One night, the pain was too much to bear,

He was missing her so much, he wished he was there.

Armed with a letter, and a knife,

This guy said goodbye, and took his life.

Finally this father felt the pain no more,

But he left his children, the oldest was four.

His poor heart crushed, when so young,

But him and the others, their lives have just begun.

Those poor children were thrown about,

Because they had no one, so they were fostered out.

They know the truth now, of what happened,

Of how their real parents life, came to an end.

Gun shots fired, the sirens sound,

One dies, the body hits the ground.

For it only takes one bullet to cause this much pain,

To ruin more lives, drive others insane.

~~~~~

The clock ticks, time goes by,

Thinking of all the pain, why?

So many thoughts of the regrets,

How lives were ruined, by keeping secrets.

Watching people being reduced to tears,

As the others, tell them their worst fears.

Losing a child, at a young age,

Rips your life, writes a new page.

It's a chapter filled with pain and sorrow,

Days get harder and fearing tomorrow.

Wishing to go back, just one day,

But it's impossible, there's just no way.

Crying of the pain that's still lingering,

Wishing you could just say that last thing.

Those three words are never said enough,

And when they aren't, life is tough.

Because one day, it could be to late,

To show, that you love your mate.

Life is a gift, it can be taken,

No one is invincible, don't be mistaken.

Say sorry, forgive and forget,

Let go of the bad things, have no regret.

Come out of the shadows, live your life,

Don't take those pills, drop the knife.

When someone is lost, don't lose yourself,

Be strong, look after your health.

It's hard moving on without your friend,

There will always be a pain, until the end.

But never let this pain get you down,

Because self pity will make you drown.

Appreciate the life which you live,

Enjoy family and friends who you are with.

Never let the fears get the better of you,

Because once present, there is nothing you can do.

Love those who are always there,

Because those are the one's who actually care.

The clock ticks, time goes by,

Thinking of all the pain, why?

So much pain when someone dies,

Watch a heart break, as his mother cries.

~~~~~

You were everything, my smile,

You were everything, made things worthwhile.

I got stronger, my heart of gold,

I loved you, how many times must you be told?

The grass was greener when you were near,

I felt nothing, all was gone, no fear.

My best memories were with you,

I could only hope you feel the same way too.

They say love is blind, but it was just me,

User and abuser, things I failed to see.

For what has been done, I don't hate,

But don't expect me to be your friend I can't relate.

I always saw you as my best friend,

One who'd be there with me, to the very end.

I was wrong, and now you're gone,

Now I have scars, one's you've torn.

If I could go back through time, I would,

Go back 2 years, if I could.

I look at photo's, at the happy days,

Look at the details, there the truth lays.

You were never happy deep down,

In every one of your smiles, was a frown.

You lied through appearance, not speech,

I need to know one thing, please, I beseech.

Have you cared about anyone?

Or have you ended something, just as it begun?

I know the answer is clear,

But I want it from you, I need to hear.

You took everything, my smile,

You took everything, how you made it worthwhile.

You made me weaker, no longer gold,

I once loved you, just like you were told.

~~~~~

Pissed me off, I'm on a short fuse,

Already hurting, I have nothing to lose.

I know sometimes I let things get out of hand,

But that's just me, so please understand.

I see things; they remind me of you,

I regret my choices, what should I do?

Taken things for granted, another mistake,

I wish it was a nightmare, and soon I will wake.

You've helped things progress this way,

I want to tell you, but don't know what to say.

I know things aren't your entire fault,

But I was young, and you're the adult.

I am a new person, one you created,

One I didn't like, I completely hated.

But things have changed, it's apart of me,

Without this, so many things I wouldn't see.

I know I have pushed you far away,

I want to say sorry, before I call it a day.

I'm sure that things can be worked out,

Things won't be the same, I highly doubt.

~~~~~

Glass after glass, you drink more,

Glass after glass, you're not who you were before.

Another promise, just another lie,

You've done this to me, now is goodbye.

Sorry is never enough, you can't be,

You'll do it again, and hurt me.

I have always tried to forgive,

But all those memories, I just relive.

You've hurt me so much in the past,

Never again, this is your last.

Growing stronger, it's just my bluff,

No matter what, it's never enough.

I am always the first to give in,

Believe your lies, forgive your sin.

But now it's different, I can see,

That it'll happen again, you'll hurt me.

You can't see my broken heart,

It's shattered, wanting a new start.

I have always wanted to show you my pain,

How you hurt me, driven me insane.

But you'll just forget, turn a blind eye,

Pretend it doesn't matter, look for the sky.

You'll just make another promise, another lie,

Look what you have done, goodbye.

~~~~~

Gaining speed, too fast for you,

Gaining speed, there's nothing you can do.

Smashing through gears, having much fun,

Sorry this had to happen, your life had just begun.

Seeing your lifeless body hurt my eyes,

Putting on a brave face, it was my disguise.

I can't pretend everything's cool,

If only you'd been more careful, not the fool.

You had chosen your fate when you opened the door,

And furthered the mistake when foot, went to floor.

I wanted to warn you, what danger you were in,

But I wanted to live, and you wanted to win.

You didn't have the license or experience,

You crumbled to peer pressure, it's intense.

I miss you everyday since and more,

I long for the days, everyone before.

I don't know what you were thinking,

You acted irrational, you were drinking.

We should never have gone out that night,

If we listened to our parents, we'd be alright.

All you can be is a memory now,

How can things be the same, how?

I just want to let you know, I don't blame anyone,

Not even you, for the things that were done.

I am sorry you are gone now, but we'll meet again.

I can be grateful for something, you felt no pain.

I wish we could still talk, life had been kinda,

I look at photos everyday, it's a harsh reminder.

You have always been a great friend,

From the very beginning, to the very end.

I miss you so much, I am not going to lie,

I love you, goodbye!

~~~~~

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