I would like the join the newspaper team because I like writing stories, essays, and anything of the sort.
2. Desired section:
Stories and Poems, particularly Runescape Stories.
3. My experience:
At Zybez I helped work on a book project, and two years ago I helped out with a Stories and Poem's Newsletter there. I've been writing stories and poems, Runescape related as well as non-Runescape related, since I first became interested in the Spring of 2005. I'm currently in an advanced English class and have been in one for three years (not the same one
).4. My example:
Here's some examples of my work:
The Doubtful Martyr
Masada Al-Rejik reached into his pocket, clutching the wire that poked through a hole on the inside of his pants pocket. Seconds ago he had received a phone call from his trusted friend, Adal, who told him that the time was perfect. Masada took a deep breath, and began walking toward the busy street corner. With every step he took, he could feel the heavy weight of the explosives strapped to his body, which were hidden beneath his business suit that they gave him. They claimed that he had been chosen from above, by God, to do this. He was suppose to walk to the street corner-a bustling intersection in Tel Aviv, Israel-and tug on the wire in his pocket. Then he would destroy everything and kill everyone within twenty to thirty feet of him.
They told him it was right, they told him it needed to be done, to end the sixty years of Israeli oppression, but he still had doubts. He did not fear for his life, but he had began to feel that his mission wouldn't solve anything. It would make a large impact, yes, possibly killing fifty, sixty, maybe even seventy people. But would it really end the violence and chaos that Palestine had fallen into? If anything, it would only be used as an excuse for Israel to further oppress his people, the Palestinians. A bead of sweat dropped down Masada's forehead, then fell from his eyebrow to his cheek. He suddenly felt warm, very warm, though it was no a particularly hot day. Was this right? To kill himself and others? He would become a martyr, yes, but what would be the point? He would be happy in heaven, but would there be peace on Earth?
He suddenly came to a halt. He was where the told him he should be. He looked around: there was a coffee shop right behind him, many cars and bikes on the street, and people crowding the sidewalks in every which way, none of them knowing the terror that he could unleash. He could not decide what to do, so he just stood there, like a man at a bus stop waiting for a ride to his job. Masada watched as the street lights turned yellow, red, then green again, and he observed the cars bustling by as he did so. His right hand began sweating from his anxiety, so he temporarily withdrew it from his pocket.
He started walking back to sit down on a bench, to think through everything, when he realized something. He saw a young woman, maybe twenty five or thirty, sitting down, holding a young child in her arms. She was pleasantly chatting with an old man who sat nearby. What right did he have to kill these people? Even if it would change things, he knew it was wrong. It was wrong to murder these people, no matter how just the cause was. He couldn't do this. Masada pulled out the phone that they had given him, and he dialed the number of his friend, Adal.
"Adal? I can't do this...Yes, I've thought it through...Adal, it's...It's not right. I can't do it." Masada hung up. He sighed with relief. He would not be responsible for this destruction, this death. With a slight smile of thanksgiving on his face, he began walking back to the station, from which he could take a bus ride back to his home on the West Bank.
The Choice
Ian stood there, perplexed by the overwhelming problem at hand. Sarah simply remained in the driver's seat of the car, unaware of the cattle truck coming at her. First, there was a long a dreary ice storm, causing a thick layer of sleet to build up on all unsalted roads and freeways. Ian and Sarah, Ian's girlfriend, were taking a drive together after a romantic dinner. Ian had just bought a new 1995 Ford Mustang earlier that day, and Sarah had wanted to test it out for herself, so she was driving. They were on the interstate when she hit a patch of ice that the salt trucks must have missed. The car had managed to slide almost ninety degrees exactly. It wasn't crowded, but if another vehicle came, she would be blocking both lanes for it to get by. Ian jumped out of the car as soon as it stopped sliding, immediately recognizing the danger they were in.
"Sarah, come on! Get out!" Ian had urged her.
Sarah ignored him, and switched to four wheel drive. "It's okay, I can get it going again."
Then the glint of a oncoming cattle druck caught Ian's eyes. He saw it approaching fast, probably over seventy miles per hour.
"Sarah, there's a truck! Get out!" He had warned her. Despite the grip of the four rubber tires on the ice, the car didn't budge.
"It'll stop before it comes too close, now we have to get this thing going." was Sarah's response.
The truck driver had managed to hit the breaks, but before his vehicle could completely lose momentum it hit the patch of ice and began to slide, and he struggled to keep the large truck from skidding.
"Sarah!" Ian shouted and began to cry, like he did in all nervous situations. He wanted to run in and try and save the arrogant love of his life, but fear crept in the back of his mind, telling him that they would both die if he tried. But he had to at least try...
"SARAH!" Ian said. His girlfriend remained ignorant of him. He took a deep breath, and then took his choice; he remained still and motionless, frozen in fear for Sarah.
Ian awoke, beads of sweat pouring down his brow. He quickly wiped it before it reached his eyes. He then adjusted his ring. It didn't move, as it never did after he had been sweating.
"Hey, Sarah," Ian said to his wife. He sat up in the bed and starred out of his master bedroom window at his 1995 Ford Mustang.
"Yeah?" Sarah asked him.
"Remember when that truck almost hit you?"
"Yeah, I do," Sarah said. "You were freaking out and you ran out of the car, but then I got it working again?"
"Yeah, I just had a dream about it."
I have a couple more stories, along with a few twenty-some page stories in the Runescape Stories section. If you want to see more, just ask, I can provide links and/or post it here.
With Everything To Lose
"So," one of Rome's many magistrates, Judge Cyrianus, remarked, "you, Syrus Veritanus, son of a freed slave, thought that you could get away with stealing from and beating Halus Satronin, a Patrician and former Senator?"
Syrus mouth opened to make a response, but he could not. A few soldiers around the room laughed at him; he was sure that he looked dumbfounded to them. All honor he had earned in his lifetime was now gone. He was a thief and was guilty of the crimes he was accused of.
"Quiet!" the judge ordered, glancing the roman legionaries--all of whom immediately snapped to attention and shut their mouths. "Syrus, what have you to say for yourself?"
"Nothing, sir," Syrus replied, his face glancing at the stone floor beneath his shackled feet. "I am guilty of those crimes."
There was a moment of silence. The judge stared at him, wide-eyed. Soon, a smile crept across his face. Then, he broke out into a laugh. "So now you're confessing you're guilt! Not even trying to defend yourself! Ha!" he paused, but the grin on his face remained. "Syrus, do you realize that I have the power to order you to your death this very instant, and it would be carried out in an instant by these legionaries?"
"I do, sir," was Syrus' reply.
"Well then, it appears as if you've realized your mistake. I have never once heard a confession from a thief before. For that, I will not execute you. It is recorded here-" he held up a piece of parchament "-that you were once a member of the Garrison of Rome. Is this true?"
"Yes, sir, it is." He said, his heart pounding inside his chest.
The judge smiled. "Indeed, that is more of a reason why I shall not kill you. I have something else in mind."
For a moment, Syrus thought the judge was actually giving him a pardon for the crime he commited, which was traditionally awarded with death. Instead of dying, he thought that he would be forced to serve in the Roman military once more. He was far from correct.
"As we all know, Emperor Hadrians's birthday is tomorrow. He is hosting wild chariot races, free food for all, and at noon, gladiator matches."
As soon as Judge Cyrianus had finished speaking, Syrus' heart dropped. He knew then what was in store for him.
"You will go up against five gladiators at the matches."
"I refuse," Syrus replied. If he was to die in a gladiator match, it would be a shameful death--a disgrace, even more so than being executed.
"If you do not comply," the magistrate added, with a grin on his face, "then I will give you're wife, Jessina, to the gladiators to be used as they please."
A wave of anger swept through Syrus' veins. Had his hands and feet had not been shackled, he would have jumped and strangled the judge, but he kept his temper under control.
"Do you still refuse?"
"No, sir," Syrus said grudgingly.
"Good, now these two legionaries will escort you to your cell, where you will kept until tomorrow. Don't worry, you're wife will be kept here, as well, for the time being."
Two soldiers grabbed his arms and, each tighly grabbing his biceps, half-dragged Syrus towards his prison chamber.
The next day Syrus awoke in my small, closed in prison cell to the clank of an opening door. Standing at the entrance of the cell was the magistrate, Judge Cyrianus, accompanied by two guards.
"Time to go, Syrus," he said. "Unchain him. He won't run away."
The guards quickly followed the orders, and Syrus, with two guards beside him, followed the judge through an underground passageway that connected the prison with the Colliseum. It was dark--the torches barely gave off any light. The light on the end of the tunnel nearly blinded me as I approached it, but my eyes soon adjusted to the brightness.
"Alright, give him a gladius and buckler." Cyrianus smirked as the guards handed him the sword and small, round sheild. "The celebration will start in a few minutes. After his excellency Emperor Hadrian makes a short speech, it will start. You're going to be first." The judge instructed, with an evil, sadistic smile on his face. "Good luck."
The waiting was horrible--Syrus was more nervous than he ever felt. Not only his life was at stake, but the well-being and dignity of his wife, as well. He clutched the sword tightly as he listened to the emperor's speech.
"...and again I promise you, the Celt's rebellion in Brittania will be put down, and I will construct a wall, to keep these invaders out, and the servants of almighty Rome in! But today, it is a day of celebration, so we may celebrate and enjoy, not only my birthday, but all the glory of Rome!" The applause was thunderous, and Syrus thought for a second that he would go deaf. It died down a few moments later, and the Emperor again spoke, "Let the games begin!"
"Get out there!" a roman guard pushed Syrus out the small door, and he awkwardly walked to the center. The announcer on a seat next to the emperor's shouted, "This man was convicted of theft from Halos Satronin! His punishment is to face five gladiators trained at the imperial schools!" There was a moment where the crowd of fifty thousand booed and hissed at Syrus, or else placed their bets on who would win, most likely that Syrus would die very soon. After standing in the sandy floor of the giant arena for a few minutes, another door opened, and a ferocious-looking gladiator ran out towards Syrus. He had a mace with a single spike--a weapon that the Romans had taken from the Germans in the Northern regions of the Empire--in his right hand, and a small buckler, one much like Syrus', in the other. He had a gladiator's helmet, which was made of bronze and had a spike on the end, along with a visor which would block the sun, allowing him to fight to his best ability and entertain the masses gathered in the Colliseum.
As he apprached Syrus, he swung the mace with much ferocity at Syrus, but he easily used both his sword and shield to block the blow. Then the gladiator did something that Syrus never expected--he pumeled him in the side with his shield. With the wind knocked out of him, Syrus gasped for air. He then wondered about giving up, and he almost fell into despair. But those thoughts soon left him when he thought of Jessina, and how he needed to protect her. The gladiator was about to deal another blow with the mace, and the slave warrior lifted up his weapon high, ready to smite Syrus. But he dodged it and the blow fell a split second too late, striking the sand instead of Syrus.
While the gladiator was lifting his mace, Syrus dropped his own shield and weapon and pounced upon him from the side, knocking him over and causing him to drop his buckler mace, as well. Recalling his training as a soldier in hand-to-hand combat, Syrus began savagely striking the gladiator's sternum with his fists in hopes of cracking the sternum and sufficating him. It didn't work, and the gladiator, who was slightly larger than Syrus, gabbed his face, causing him to cry out with anguish. Then he began choking Syrus. In desperation, he tore off th gladiator's helmet, revealing a scarred face of a man with long hair tied in the gladiator's knot. Feeling as if he would drop dead any second, Syrus grabbed the helmet and impaled the unprotected gladiator in the throat with the spike on it. Blood began filling the man's thorat, and, releasing his grasp on Syrus' own neck, he slowly began to choke to death. As soon as the gladiator breathed his last, another door opened, releasing yet another of the slave-warriors who thrilled the crowds in the giant arena.
With his buckler too far away to reach in time, Syrus grabbed his sword and the spiked mace from the gladiator he had just killed. The new warrior he was to fight was armed with a net and trident. Trying to form a plan in his head, the two began circling one another. The man had dark skin--he was undoubtly a slave from Africa. He also was incredibly tall, probably half a foot taller than Syrus, at least. After a few moments, the gladiator threw his net upon Syrus. Panicking, he retalliated by using the spiked mace to catch one of the many holes in the net, but that failed to stop the net, which entangled itself over the left half of Syus' body. Dazed, he began to panic, while the trident-bearing gladiator gained the advantage. He lunged at Syrus several times, never missing by more than a few inches.
Finally, after using his gladius to cut himself free, Syrus began taking the offence. The gladiator lunged, and Syrus, his mind refocused, dodged the trident, and, knowing how little time he would have, used his razor-sharp gladius to cut the head of the tree-tipped weapon off. The gladiator threw what was left of the trident at Syrus, who easily parried it. Looking around in desperation, the dark-skinned man tried to find something to defend himself with, he spotted a buckler lying on the ground, but couldn't reach it in time. Soon, Syrus' gladius was in his stomach, and the gladiator fell over, dead. Hastily picking up the buckler he had loser in the first match, Syrus anticipated the release of his third opponent. A few moments of peace granted Syrus the luxury of resting from his exhaustion. He suddenly realized that he was sweating madly. With a wild thirst, he sucked up some of the perspiration, knowing that he would certainly die if he became dehydrated. However, the break couldn't last forever. Soon, the door once again opened, this time revealing a helmeted warrior bearing a large scimitar and javelin. Syrus got up, awaiting his third foe whom he would need to kill.
This gladiator was small, a few inches shorter than Syrus at least. He thrusted his javelin around, forcing Syrus to dodge the blows, tiring him own. Knowing he would have to react soon, Syrus began using his buckler to block the javelin. Syrus was suprised in the contrast between the man's two weapons: the javelin was small while the scimitar was large, and would stretch at least three feet if it hadn't been curved. The gladiator finally got to using his large scimitar, which he carried in his left hand. While Syrus was using his little sheild to defend himself from the javelin, the curved sword came swinging towards Syrus right side. Once more in a state of panic, he quickly moved his gladius he had in his right hand to his left side, blocking the javelin, and using the buckler in his right hand to block the scimitar that was about to strike his left side. His arms were criss-cross, and it was a bit painful. He was suprised that it worked, but he couldn't stay in such a position forever. He began retreating backwards, and the spear and sword slid off his sheild and sword.
Then the gladiator did something Syrus never expected--something he came to realize that they did quite often--he hurled his javelin at Syrus, which slid off his buckler and narrowly missed his shoulder, and then ran up, clutching the scimitar with two hands, to attack Syrus. Neither his short, round sheild or his gladius were strong enough to block the force behind the curved weapon, so he was forced to use both to parry the blows. The first blow was strong, causing his gladius to vibrate. The gladiator, testing Syrus' strength, delivered another strike with the large weapon, coming from the right side. Syrus once again used his short sword and sheild to fend off the chop. The next blow came from up above, but Syrus deflected it, and pushed the sword to his left side. Taking advantage of the little time he had, Syrus then darted to the gladiator's left side, and impaled the buckler into his face. The man cried in pain; his mouth was pouring blood from teeth and gum that had been uprooted. He spat the blood out and fell down, choking on the blood. Syrus then stabbed the man in the back, and he fell face first into the sand of the Colliseum floor.
This time there was no break. The doors opened immediately revealing not one but two gladiators. One was an Egyptian--dark skinned, but not so much as the man Syrus had previously killed. He bore a huge sword, carrying it with two hands as he rushed to meet Syrus. He barely had the time to examine the other opponent. He was a Greek, obviously distinguishable as one by his curly, dark brown hair and tan skin. He did not look like a slave fighter, but more like a handsome youth given a chain with an iron ball on the end, along with a medium-sized square sheild. The two gladiators both ran to meet Syrus, but began slowing down when they were about fifteen yards from him. They slowly approached him from there, and, when they were about twelve feet from him, began to circle around him. Syrus didn't want to wait for them to attack him, he immediately threw himself at the youthful gladiator who had the chain. The Greek tried to bind his feet with the chain, but Syrus jumped up. He could see the other gladiator, the Egyptian, rapidly running to engage in the combat. The youthful gladiator smashed his square sheild against Syrus' ribs, pushing him to the left of him. The Egyptian, obviously not used to working with another gladiator, awkwardly swung his two-handed sword around with little force so he could stop if it got to close to the Greek youth. Syrus took advantage of this--when the dark-skinned gladiator swung, he used the bottom of the hilt on his gladius and his buckler and smashed down upon the massive sword. Suprised by the blow, the Egyptian stood there, dazed. However, his confusion was pushed aside, and in a split second, he jumped at Syrus' right side, grabbing his right hand, preventing him from striking him with the gladius. Syrus once again used his sheild as a weapon, this time knocking it against the gladiator's dark ribs. He recoiled with pain.
Just then, Syrus noticed that the youth, who had been watching the conflict between the two unfold, once again attempted to bind his feet with the chain. However, Syrus reacted just in time, and jumped out of the way. The Egyptian, who was oblivious to the chain, didn't see it in time--it instantly bound his feet, and he fell over. Syrus then jumped on top of him, stabbing the gladiator's chest with his gladius. Now it was between the youthful greek and Syrus. He wiped his brow, and not only sweat came off, but blood as well--not his, but from the men he had killed. The gladiator once again tried to entangle Syrus with his chain, but this time he aimed at the stomach area. Foolishly, Syrus attempted to block the blow with his buckler. Instead of deflecting the chain, it encircled his left arm. The youth, suprised by how succesful the chain had been in encompassing Syrus, gave a half-hearted attempt to pull the chain. Syrus, who was stronger than the young gladiator, yanked on it as well, with much more force than the Greek could muster. Refusing the let go, the youth, holding onto his chain, was thrown at Syrus. As the gladiator fell upon him, dazed, Syrus pointed his sword toward the tumbling youth. The youth was thrown right onto the gladius, and it pierced right through his stomach. His face began a series of facial expressions, first one of agony, then of frustratin, then one of nothingness as he fell to the ground, dead. The crowd roared--he had triumphed. Five gladiators lay dead across the arena.
"Syrus has succesfully served his sentance, and will now be allowed to go free! He will retain the status of a citizen! Go now, and claim your freedom!" the announcer shouted. "Now, we proceed to the matches between gladiators and beasts! We have the most wild creatures from as far away as south-east asia..." he continued announcing the creatures who would be featured in the gladiator and beast matches, but Syrus was too excited and relieved to care. A single door on the floor of the giant arena was open--it had several roman guards around it, while the magistrate, Judge Cyrianus, stood there, along with a beautiful, blonde-haired woman. Syrus' heart throbbed. It was his love, Jessina.
As he approached the exit, he noticed that she wasn't happy to see him. Her eyes were wide open, but there was no smile on her face.
"Congratulations," the judge spoke with a smile. "I'm glad to see that you've come out of it alive."
Syrus glarred at Cyrianus with disgust. Then he turned to his wife.
"Jessina, I'm here, I did it!" he said, attempting to gain her enthusiasm for his safety.
"You're not here," she said, her lip trembling. The words struck Syrus into confusion. Before he could ask what she meant, she spoke again, "You're not the man I loved! You're a monster!" She immediately ran away from him, through the corridors beneath the stands. As soon as she started running, Syrus began following her, dropping his gladius and buckler.
"Jessina, come back, I love you!" he pleaded with her. Tears formed in his eyes. He wiped them off, but instead of seeing a glistening, clear drop of salt-water, he saw redness; blood. He looked at his hands--he was covered with it. He wiped his entire face as he ran, and he looked at his arm, and saw it still: blood. His once-white shirt was now crimson. He looked up ahead, and saw Jessina, still running from him, out from the huge arena and into the streets, which were mostly deserted from the "festivities" at the Colliseum. He continued chasing her, but he was exausted and dehydrated from the five battles he had fought.
"Jessina!" he begged. "Jessina! I love you! I did this to protect you! I did this because I love you!"
She stopped at the top of a hill, tears in her eyes. She looked back, and Syrus halted, as well.
"Jessina," he cried. "Please!"
She then turned and ran into the forum of Trajan. Nobody was there, with the exception of a blind beggar who, as Syrus ran by, held out his shaking, elderly hands, chanting the word "alms," over and over. Syrus was confused as to where she was going. The two had rarely travelled to this side of Rome--they lived and worked in the densely populated area outside the Temple of Jupiter, where they operated a small crafting shop. But then Syrus got an answer: his wife was heading towards the steep cliffs of the forum.
"No, Jessina! This is not who I am! Jessina!" he cried out with agony. Once again, she stopped, and turned around, tears falling from her eyes as she shook her head. "I love you!"
She did not respond, continuing to tremble.
"Please, come here!" Syrus, who also stopped, began to feel himself shaking with fear. Fear of losing Jessina, fear that she would cast herself off the steep cliff and into the Tiberus River. "Please," he repeated. "Please..."
But she did not abide--she leapt off the cliff and into the waters below. Syrus ran up to the cliff and looked down. There was no sign of his beautiful wife anywhere. Agony and rage clutched his heart so tightly that he felt as if he could burn Rome to the ground, just as it had been burned by Nero ninety years previous. But without Jessina, he had nothing to live for. He looked at the rocks below, the same rocks that his wife had fallen onto, and he let himself fall upon them.
