Dragon

Thanks again to mouse for choosing my story from a batch of very good ones.

I've decided to pick words in honour of Remembrance day which is tomorrow. All the words in this list are taken from the poem In Flanders Fields written in 1915 by Lt Colonel John McCrae, MD of the Canadian Army.

Field
Poppies
Crosses
Larks
Sunset
Glow
Quarrel
Foe
Torch
Sleep

The word count is 230 exactly and I'll pass the torch on Wed Nov 18. I can't wait to read your stories.

giraffe

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.


What a good place to start.

Doug

Great poem and word list! Congrats on being the torchbearer giraffe!

maddyjean08

All right, I'll get started. This word list is fabulous!

Field of Poppies
As soon as she walked in the house, she saw her mother crying. Her father stormed right past her, out the door.They had had a quarrel. She had a plan for days like this, for days where she felt all too alone. Sarah was just thirteen, and it was hard to see her parents like this, to see them so upset. Sarah ran out to the barn, to her precious Tut, a chesnut-red stallion. She mounted and rode him to the field. She purposely rode him fast, so her tears streaked across her face, like she had never even been crying.

Sarah jumped off Tut and into the beautiful poppies surrounding her. The brilliant pinks, reds, yellows, and blues. She felt as if she wasn't living in reality, but in her own special world, where her parents loved each other and weren't getting the divorce. Divorce.

Sarah had Tut by the lead rope, guiding him towards the burial grounds. These grounds held the bodies of their dalmations. Every single one that had lived on their farm, crosses to mark their graves. She heard voices in the wind, the cool gentle breeze, making the poppies dance at her ankles.

The larks sang around Sarah. She stayed and danced with the poppies until sunset, which soon faded to a warm glow. "My father is my mother's foe", she thought. "I'd give anything for that to change". As she ran home to sleep, carrying a flashlight, she pretended it was a torch. For the first time in many months, she smiled. Really, actually smiled.

Doug

maddyjean: Nice story! I could go along for the ride in my mind.

Doug

oops. Sorry about that, congrats Dragon. I'll still keep the comment about the poem though giraffe. A nice addition to Dragon's wordlist.

maddyjean08

Thanks, Doug! I believe it's my best story yet!

matthew

230 not including title...



****WARNING**** There are bad words in the story...



“RELEASE”


Yes, it crosses my mind as I try to sleep. Shit, for that matter, it’s all I think about. Sleep be damned! Minor quarrel, innocent larks my ass. She is evil with a blacker soul than Satan himself. That fucking bitch is dead to me, but I want more. I dream of slitting her throat, but then I never get to see the fear in her eyes. Oh my God! Burning her at the stake, how awesome would that be? I am getting giddy just thinking about it. Standing there holding the torch watching her skin blister and melt as she screams for death to engulf her quickly.

This is perfect. Hee hee hee… I will douse the flames while the she slut still lives. What puts out flames and causes severe pain to burn victims at the same time? Never mind, I have time to work that out. There is a large field in the woods where I hunt. Just on the other side Crowerville. Yes! If I bury her in early spring; alive of course; near the western edge of the field… Oh this is too good. The glow of the sunset will set the poppies ablaze and I can watch her burn again and again. Surely this joy will sustain me and keep the demons away.

Tell me, this foe of yours, is she real this time?

maddyjean08

Oh, Matthew! I'm glad I'm not her! Evil mind...... wow! You should have been a midevil torcherer! Oh....... This is good

matthew

Ramblings of a very tired Matthew...

Dragon

maddyjean, wow, that was easily your best story yet! It was moving and made me remember when I learned my parents were getting divorced and how at the time it seemed like my world was coming to an end.

matthew, very disturbing. It gave me definite chills just reading it. I certainly hope your character's foe is indeed all in his mind, though he seems like the type that won't be able to keep things bottled up for long.

mouse

maddyjean -- I see definite growth in your story telling ability. The story flowed smoothly this time. I enjoyed reading it. Keep it up.

mouse

Matthew -- WOW !!!! Something you might hear of a psychiatrist's couch or see on "Criminal Minds" . Not my cup of tea but none the less a very well put together & interesting story.

giraffe

Maddy, a huge improvement. Dragon's right. Best yet and very good.

Matthew, good reminder that we create our own demons. Well done.

Doug, to me today is still Armistice Day. Dragon's poem illustrates the original intent of 11/11/1918. It was meant to celebrate the end of wars. It's good to be in the company of all of you.

mouse

Unfulfilled Dream

Madeline sat on the soft grass looking at the breathtaking sunset. This was her favorite time of day. Something about the golden glow and red hues in the darkening sky made her feel warm and calm. The colors reminded her of her favorite flower, the Poppy.

Today, of all days, she needed that feeling. She and her husband, Jack, had just quarreled over her going back to work. Times were tough, but she still wanted to open her own flower shop. He had promised her years ago that after the kids were grown and on their own she could pursue her dream. She had scrimped and saved for years and had the money. She also had the know how. She had made plans to grow her own flowers in the field behind the house and had even decided upon the name of the shop. “Larkspur Circle”.

Now, she was really angry. He had become her foe. She was going to do it any way. She had never been one to drop the torch. What if she had to go it alone? Well, she would just have to cross that bridge when she came to it. No sense in losing sleep over something she could not control. But, unfortunately that is exactly what would happen. How could he be so cruel?

Nylecoj

Wow! very good stories! I like them all. I hope my contribution doesn't insult the skill of any of these great writers. I don't have a title for mine but here it is.

Watching the larks as they wing through the sky, black against the sunset, he crosses the field, his footsteps slow, weary as he quarrels with the sleep that tries to take him, his eyelids battling their unseen foe, forcing himself onwards to some unknown goal, his hair blown and dirty, his clothes mud spattered and unkept, his heart heavy but strong, his spirit weak, but not yet broken, lowering his eyes so he could see where his unlit torch, that he clutched in his hand, dragged across the top of the poppies, red poppies, glowing in the fading light reminding him of blood, sticky, sweaty blood that smelled of death, the very thing he was trying to escape from, though he knew it was only a matter of time before it held him in its grim arms, though perhaps at the moment it did, they would seem sweet and comforting, like a soft blanket on a cold night, but now the thought terrified him, hurried him forward, made him forget his weariness and pain, raising his eyes once more, his mouth set in a grim line, he forced his numb feet to keep moving through the blood colored flowers; till tripping on a clump of poppies, the ground rushing towards him, he lay still, pain lancing through him as his vision faded into a warm, comforting blankness, and he died.

maddyjean08

Mouse, I like yours! It shows the strength and independance of women. Jocelyn, yours shows very clearly how death can swallow you up in a pitch balck blanket. I'm just glad he didn't suffer too much, he sounded in pain.

Nylecoj

Thank you, I guess that means I accomplished both my goals for that one

maddyjean08

All right!

Nylecoj

I like this list of words it intrigues the imagination, so I wrote another story. 230 words not including the title

A Moonlit Dance

In a field of poppies, where the river crosses from the lowlands into the great forest, where the larks sing in the bushes, where no foe dare to seek a quarrel, there after sunset, in the glow of torches, while all the rest of the world sleeps, the elves dance. And such a dance it is, their feet floating across the grass, their laughter ringing through the air adding to the music of their harps, and flutes, twirling round, and round in a flash of green, and gray, and brown, flecked with silver and gold, the torch light flickering across their smiling faces, lighting the darkness with happiness. He watches them. Unseen, unknown, a shadow, dark, feared, hidden, he watches their dance, longing to join in their mirth, afraid, yes even fear can be afraid, afraid to laugh with them, lest they flee, never to return. So he sits, and watches, silent, cold, but smiling, outcast though he may be, drawn by the magic of elven music, lightened by their dance, and gladdened by their beauty. He loves them. Loves what they have, what he can never have; loves the unity, when he is alone; loves the brilliance though he sits in the dark. The moon rises, sparkling in his joy filled eyes, and still the elves dance, laughing, singing, filling the dark night with radiance, completely oblivious of their watcher.