The Sword by Vibreo
Ok guys, the point of this writing is to see if I can make you see what I see, its written to be explicitly graphic and vulgar. Why did I write it? I figure, first write to make people see what you see so that when you write your stories will be alive, my next story will be to make you feel what I feel.
Darkness. Sweat. Blood. Dirt. Smoke. They pummel his senses. The heat of his cage engulfs him, swarms his body and courses through his veins.
“…Pig …fucking …job.” He hears muffled voices around. Someone laughs and kicks his cage. WHOMP! The sound of wood, sturdy wood but wood nonetheless. He starts to feel around his cage, looking with his fingers, seeing with the palm of his hand. There a crack in the grain, there a nail pushed through to far; there are cracks and holes through out the box Not so sturdy as I thought.
“Would ya look at dat fooking sword!!?” “ It’s HUGE!!!!” “I got dibbs on dat pig sticker” “My aunt’s cooch ya do, that there is my sword!” Suddenly there’s a scuffle, and Brock can hear the men outside his prison cheering on. There must be at least 6 of them. “Ahhhhh,” a cry pierces the night. WHOMP!!! A body hits the box and expands a crack near a peephole. Now I’ll get them. Brock begins to breathe heavy, he feels the rage begin to revive his muscles, he remembers the screams……
It was a cold night and the smell of fresh snow filled his house. Brock had moved his family around for years now and finally had found a safe haven. In a secluded mountain range, hidden behind a forest near a small waterfall stood his house. It was a small house, made of good oak. In the back yard there were scarecrows filled with arrows from the days practice, his children couldn’t hit specific parts yet but they didn’t miss anymore. His eldest boy Josh was old enough to begin to learn the sword, and so an oak log was full of cuts. Brock of course was the teacher of the sword, but his wife taught the bow and the knives. His daughters were barley strong enough to pull back a bowstring but they could throw an knife hilt deep into the oak log. Today he was tired, his eldest was still practicing. “Time to sleep Josh, you’ll have plenty of time for that tomorrow.” “ I’m almost done Da, just workin on the underhand.” His blade moved into ready position, dropped a bit low and rose crooked, the cut stuck on the oak. “ No, no…like this.” Brock took his son’s sword and demonstrated. He raised his blade to ready position, dropped the blade and rose it in a flash, his muscles bulged as he worked the blade as if he very life depended on this and only this cut. A huge chunk of oak flew off his blade as his sword went through the log. “ Now go to sleep.” Awestruck the boy went back inside, dropped to his bed and was asleep in a blink. Brock too took the cue to go sleep in his bed with his wife. Crack. Shuffle. Crack. Odd that someone should be up this late. Crack crack. Brock sprung out of his bed and ran to his weapon. Out of the corner he pulled out a huge blade. Made in the times of his ancestors, rumored to be made from a falling star the sword was massive. The blade razor sharp. It’s handle was made of the bone of some long lost creature, the pommel embedded with a jade stone. The blade had tiny gutters so that the blood might run off. After years of practice and training Brock moved the blade as if it weighed no more than a branch. He ran noisily of his room, awakening his wife and his kids nearby. As he ran into the living room the door burst, men poured in wearing ungodly armor, faces painted with glowing paste and tattooed to make the invaders look more like demons than men. Brock fought hard, his sword cutting through swords and limbs alike. One man raised his shield, only to have it cut in half lengthwise, along with his head. Another man dropped low and cut at Brock’s legs, the pain cut his concentration and he swung down to dispatch the invader, it dropped just in time to let a cudgel through to his head. The world went black, the sword fell from his hands. He heard his children and wife fighting back, felt the horde of men rush by him and knew they stood no chance. They tied his hands and legs and poured water on him to keep him awake. “I want you to see this,” a familiar voice said “I want you to feel as I felt… helpless to save those you love, those you swore to protect. BRING THEM IN!!!” First was his youngest daughter, voice of an angel, now with her face bloodied and her lip split. “She killed 3 men, two from afar with her knives and one up close with a stiletto, you should be proud.” She was only 6. First they stripped her, the largest men raped her first, she didn’t scream. They cut off the skin of her chest, and finally strangled her with her own intestine. Brock could not move, his body was so tensed it threatened to break his spine. Next was his middle daughter. She was a dancer, she didn’t even need music to dance, the wind was her music, the waterfall her percussion. “She killed 3 as well and wounded many more, they won’t live. She danced around them like a ghost, she fell when she tripped over one of the dead.” She was 15, they stripped her and the largest men were first again. Her screams filled the night, when they finished they burned off her breasts. Then a man grabbed her from behind and stuck his hands in her mouth, and began to pull. Her scream was inhuman and was cut off with a sickening CRACK as her face was torn in two. Next they brought out his son already dead. “This one, fought like a madman. He tore men in two with that sword of his, I don’t know how many he killed but it was more than you. He died protecting his mother.” His hand was missing fingers, his left arm absent. He was cut all over and bleeding from every surface. He had two swords in his chest but the blow that killed him was the one that had cut half his neck out. The men stripped him, defecated on him and pissed in his mouth. One man took out his eyes and put them on a necklace that held other eyes. Finally they brought out his wife. She was dead as well. “ The men couldn’t take her alive, I told them too but they failed. I loved her… but in her blindness she chose to love you. She is lost to me, as lost as the life you took. She killed many men as well, knives flew out of her like rain falls in a storm. No one could touch her, until she ran out. Then the men moved in, one went high and one went low, she jumped dodging the low and caught an axe in the chest. Her death was quick, not long enough to make you suffer… you will suffer now.” They stripped her clothes and then raped her. The first men got between her legs, the others took her mouth, but the last ones offended by the foul liquids in her nether parts took to the chest wound. After the men defecated on her body and strung her up like an unholy mannequin from the deepest layers of hell. “Come Brock, I will take you to your grave.”
Tears threaten to take him Not yet, not now. He breaths deeper and flexes his muscles again. Finally, he’s ready. The blood had seeped into the box, the weight supported the frame of the box, but it was no match for him. He braced against the walls of his tiny prison and pushed with the rage of his grief, the strength of his ancestors pushed him forward and the box erupted expelling a man burning fiercer than lava. The men couldn’t believe their eyes. They were so stunned they remained motionless, not that it would have mattered, Brock was a lion among sheep. He stood tall flexing his mucles and let forth a ghoulish scream that scared the Morning Star himself. He reached for the first man, still frozen with fear, grabbing him by the head he raised him high. “NOW IS MY TIME!” He smashed him into the ground, face first into the bonfire. Sparks flew everywhere causing the men to sping into action. One went for Brocks sword but was unable to lift it, Brock got him first. Like a flash Brock took the mans knife and slashed him behind the leg, then in the armpit, and finally put the knife hilt deep in his forehead. Now the others were armed Five left thought Brock. The first came at him overhead with his sword, Brock was a blur of movement first down to his sword then rolling to the side and finally a dive… towards the other four. The offence was unexpected, he tackled the first man dispatching him by tearing out his windpipe. From the floor he whipped around his sword cutting straight through the leg of one of his captors. Brock stood as his one legged captor fell and faced off with the 3 men left standing. The first came high, the second low, Brock dodged left throwing his body into the man that went low. He pushed forward carrying his captor fast towards the trees behind, the impact with the tree crushed the mans spine line a blade of grass, an involuntary scream torn from his throat as the wind was forced out of his lungs. Brock held him there a moment, churning forward to make sure his victim would never again fill his lungs with anything but blood. The other two men took this moment to charge, attacking him from every possible angle. Swinging as if their life depended on it, they managed push Brock back. Further they pushed him, first around the tree then back to the camp; slowly they pushed him, causing his retreat against the fury of their attack. The smell of man’s flesh began to fill the air as the first corpse continued to cook in the fire, they passed through the smoke ever so slowly almost as if they slowed purposely to enjoy the aroma. Brock was so concentrated on the task at hand that he didn’t notice behind him a one legged man laying in the ground sword in hand, revenge flashing in his eye. The pain seemed unreal, the pressure was like having a mountain sprout on your chest. His lungs could barley pull air, his hands fell, dropped to his knees, heard the failing laughter of the man that had run him through. His senses dulled as he fought to stay on his knees, the ground blurred, his heart pounded hard in his ears. “I told ya that pick sticker was mine.” A hand grabbed his head, the cold knife against his throat, the shock of the blade beginning to slide against his throat. “UGH!!!” The blade stopped, fell… his executor dropped over him and arrow head sticking out his eye, with two more arrows in his back. “You will suffer more before the day is done Brock” a familiar voice whispers softly in his ear “You will suffer more….HAHAHAHAHA!!!!”
