Pt 4.

As I ran, a storm had began forming above. Could it be Zeus’ doing? After all, I did just leave his son for dead. But if mythology, no, if HISTORY serves correctly, he didn’t care much for his children. But could I even call it history? I ran even harder. Faster than I ever have. I may have been able to free myself from Ethdos, but Zeus would be an entirely different story. I could never face off with the king of the gods. He would rip me in half, never having thought twice about it.

After running for what felt like hours, I finally decided to stop and find shelter. The storm had me paranoid, but it appeared to be just like any other. I found a small overhang protruding from a hill side and decided I could camp there.

As I made my way over, I gave a few looks around, listening, making sure nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Everything appeared normal enough. I sat down and let out a loud sigh. This would be my life now. Running from the gods.

“Damn it! I didn’t ask to be a god!” I yelled towards the heavens, as if Zeus would hear it and forgive me.

I closed my eyes, hoping to get some sleep. As I began to relax and drift off into the realm of dreams, I was pulled back to reality by a bone rattling thud. My eyes flew open just in time to see a fist hurdling towards my face. It was Ethdos.

I quickly ducked off to the left, his fist grazing my face and planting itself in the rock behind me. That punch would’ve surely killed me.

“Please just leave me alone!” I yelled at Ethdos. My pleas fell on deaf ears. He pulled his hand from the rock, turning towards me. He threw a right kick. It was too fast to duck this time. I threw my hands up to try and block it, but it was little help. His kick connected with my arm, slamming it into my head and sending me hurdling into a nearby tree. To my surprise, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as I had imagined. This gave me a boost in my confidence. I couldn’t run. It was clear he could just follow me. I would have to fight.

“I don’t want to fight you Ethdos. We’ve only known each other for a few hours! I’m not the dangerous person you say I am! I just want to be left alone!” I yelled, hoping he would just forget about me and go on with his life.

“I can’t do that Zeke. My father killed you for a reason. You shouldn’t even be here.” He explained.

He threw himself at me, fist drawn back. I stepped to the right. He was moving slower now. Or was it that I was moving faster? As he made contact with the tree, I threw a punch into the left side of his rib cage. I heard a loud crack, and watched as Ethdos was catapulted towards the river.

I was smiling. Why was I smiling? Was it that my newfound strength brought me joy? My lower arms and hands were going numb, ready for the fight.

Ethdos rose from the river, hovering just above its surface. In a split second, he soared towards me, moving even slower this time. As he neared, I jumped forward, grabbing him by his face. I felt a strange pressure build up in the base of my forearm, and then my hand. I relaxed my wrist, causing an explosion to erupt from my palm, which sent Ethdos hurdling back into the river.

“Is he dead?” I thought to myself. How did I know to do that? It was as if my body had years of experience that my mind lacked, instinctively taking over to ensure my protection. For some odd reason, I didn’t care whether or not Ethdos was dead. It almost felt good. Like I wanted to kill him.

I stood there, waiting to see if he would rise from the water a second time. He didn’t. I turned and started towards the north once again. I had made it only three steps before I felt another tremor beneath my feet, followed by a loud crack. As I turned around, I seen a tall man, who was missing an arm, standing before me.

Let me know if y’all want part 5!

Coder here and I am still wondering how their ships held together let alone fly with their mathematics being base 8 never mind the military part of my brain has spoken kill them all

Thank you, that's very kind!

Fable?

Nah i think hes just a regular ghost now.

Finish the damn story!!! Can't leave us hanging

> it negatively affects my writing style

That might be a little harsh! It's definitely a case-by-case thing. And I'm not even close to an expert, so that's another thing

Is it a twist though? He is still narrating after his own death

Thank you. I really appreciate the feedback, that's good stuff.

To be honest, I don't know how they would have actually spoken, how their cadence and scansion would sound translated to modern english--it's been a few decades since I read anything like the Canterbury Tales, or other stuff from that literary era. I was mostly hoping flowery eloquence would stand in for historical accuracy. If anyone feels like britpicking for middle english, I'll happily make appropriate changes.

As for the show-don't-tell: That's a good point. I think the problem I have is that I was raised in a place where that sort of rhetoric is common; if it is not specifically called out and examined, it would pass unremarked by too many. People around me see it as too 'normal' for them to notice the showing, so I'm now in the habit of heavy-handed telling--yelling, even--when dealing with various -isms. You're correct, it negatively affects my writing style. I'll edit it.

One counterpoint, though: Robin Hood does not have control over the situation. He thinks he does, and it is that which proves to be the tragic flaw which doomed him and the people he cares about. The betrayal had already happened; the baron's armies attacked the livery of Robin's company on sight. The Merry Men were never leaving London alive.

Whatever happened to creative freedom? We all know these prompts are too limiting and overspecific

He’s got an iron will, nerves of steel, and several other metal themed attributes! Doo be doo be doo ba doo be doo be doo ba…

Unless your pet rock Was named Grandma and she had arms, i dont think this fits.

There's not a modern society that can handle switching their counting system from one base to another, and a person that tries is basically just trying to learn to count all over again, except they already know how to count "wrong." Base2, base12, and base60 all have a few things in common, they're all highly composite numbers and are used in wide scale applications. Base12 is "better" than base10 pretty much only based on 12 being highly composite. Though if you look at the English language "twelve" doesn't exactly say "2+10" the way thirteen says "3+10"

Another thing to consider, when counting in Base(n), "n" is always rendered as "10" If something is actually in base12 then ten would usually be rendered as "A" or "a" and eleven would be rendered as "B" or "b"

Base12 isn't going to be better to use in pretty much any modern person's life, but if a hypothetical new society emerged independent from our, base6 or base12 would almost certainly be more useful than base10.

Though using base6 can be pretty easy for most people; you can think of one hand as the "ones" place (is usually use my right hand) and the other hand as the "sixes" place. count on your fingers as normal until the "ones hand" is full, when you reach five. Then you add one by closing the "ones hand" and opening one finger on the "sixes hand". If you repeat this (and have all your fingers) you should be able to count to thirty-five on just your hands! Doing this might also help you notice that thirty-five renders as "55" when written in base6.

I’d like to think that that boy god killed like three-four other supposed gods

Please make more.

Also please ping everyone who replied here.

Focusing on the first several paragraphs.

I think this sounds like the beginning of a good story. It's well choreographed. You've got these obnoxious elites shouting over one another, and then you have this outsider who will slowly but surely take over the room. I think you've set it all up in the right order to maximize the impact of the moment. I like the flow of how the MC gets everyone's attention.

And your dialogue... I probably shouldn't say much here because I absolutely suck at writing British English* from any era lol. But it sounds authentic enough to me!

On the topic of "show vs tell" though, I have some thoughts.

I think your characterization could have been stronger with slightly more "showing" and less "telling." You have these three elites, each representing a different side of the argument. I think you can safely scrap the lines accompanying their dialogue (e.g., "pretending patriotism) while at the same time keeping the sentence of how our MC marks each one (i.e., "The jingoist; the racist; the coward").

The reason why I'd keep the ending bit is because it tells us more about the MC and what's going on inside his head. It gives us this sense that he's got an accurate read on the room, and therefore, he has control over the situation.

But I would scrap the previous bits just because it's less interesting to be straight-up told this stuff by the author. The resulting problem might be, "Well then how do we know that one person is feigning patriotism or that this other guy is just a coward?" And I say either the dialogue reflects it (e.g., "incompetent continental aliens") or their actions do (e.g., maybe the third guy squeaks out his comment). And then by the time we get to your MC's assessment, the reader gets this satisfactory "I knew it!" feeling and identifies closer with the MC.

Thanks for sharing!

--

* I know!!

Dude, stop writing parts. And white this as a book!!!!! This is amazing!!!

I've been stuck in the elevator for a very long time with Giselle, Armelinda, and Kylie. It's weird. Our hair hasn't grown. Nobody has had to pee. Yet it's obvious that a lot of time has passed because Giselle is deconstructing. Armelinda and Kylie have barely done more than check their makeup, talk business, and nod sympathetically as Giselle dissects her past.

For a long time I've known that I am a supporting player in Giselle's life. I've also realized that Armelinda and Kylie are sidekicks. Tropes. They could be any two pretty girls who care about their pretty friend and support her narrative. Right now they are planning the next social media ad blitz.

What I haven't known until now is my role in this story. I thought I was an unlikely and more perceptive sidekick. Not pretty in the traditional sense. More like an advisor than a sidekick. After all this time to reflect in this elevator I realize that I am The Mentor. Usually the mentor is older, not a peer, but I'm an old soul. I am the one who provides Giselle with information and psychological support. I gently nudge her decision-making. And she gets the credit. It's been that way since we were kids. Unlike the other three I majored in literature in college. So while Giselle has been deconstructing and

My conversation with Giselle in the elevator has been a lot of back and forth, helping her deconstruct from her parent's influence. She's been stuck in the cave. We've spent far longer on the threshold. We graduated from college and opened an online fashion outlet that is reasonably profitable. The four of us have found SOs with whom we are reasonably happy. We each have purchased decent starter homes in okay neighborhoods where we park our mid-priced medium-sized SUVs. No bumps in the road. No personal growth. Just day after day of walking our respective poodle mixes and getting massages.

Until this elevator. And nothing bad had happened in here either. Except that I've realized that we are as physically stuck as we have been metaphorically stuck.

The elevator doors open. We are greeted by a friendly man in basic business attire.

"Right this way."

"Do you remember why we're here?" Giselle whispers.

"We've been in that elevator so long I've forgotten," Armelinda whispers back.

Kylie shakes her head and I shrug.

We are led into to a conference room and asked to sit.

"I hope the wait isn't as long as the elevator ride," Armelinda jokes. She's the funny one.

The door opens and a person walks in. They fill the room. I can't describe it any other way.

"Allison. We need to talk."

I look at my companions who seem to be calmly sipping on coffee and looking at a screen in the conference room.

"They aren't having the same experience right now. They are listening to a new designer pitch their small clothing line. It will be a big break for all of you."

"Sorry? I'm not following."

"Allison. You figured something out in the elevator didn't you?"

The eyes hold me. I feel exposed. Known.

"I kept you there long enough for Giselle to work through what's been holding her back. And for you to understand your role in her story."

"Who are you? What is this?"

"I am the writer of the story you are in, among others."

"Well, couldn't you have just put the thoughts in our heads then?"

"That doesn't always work. Not for this type of story. Giselle thinks she's in a romantic comedy right now. She's had a sparkling life with funny little inconveniences and cute skirmishes with her love interest. But in that elevator she's remembered the traumas of her childhood. And they are dark. She hasn't told you everything. She will. And her boyfriend. She will tell him."

"I suspected something when we were kids."

"Of course you did. I made you perceptive. Maybe too perceptive. You were not actually supposed to realize this isn't your own narrative. The trick of writing life is that everyone needs to think they are the main character in their own narrative and also as supporting characters in their loved ones narratives. Otherwise mental health devolves quickly."

"Am I going crazy? Is that what this is?"

"Not at all. It's just that Giselle's narrative is central to affecting change in the world. Yours isn't. It's not that you don't matter on a micro level. Just not so much on a macro level. Except in the way that you influence Giselle. So far you have done a stellar job. But now it's Mike's turn to take that role."

"So it will get serious with them."

"Very."

'Okay, so I'm the mentor. How am I supposed to ment."

The writer smiles.

"When the time comes you will say wise things. Beautiful, memorable things. You will hear them in your head as they come from your mouth. It will feel natural at the time. It will be soon. And then your part in the story will be over."

"Over?"

"I can't tell you what a joy you've been to write. I've tried and tried different versions to get the same result. In a story like this, the main character must experience loss. The thing with her parents is the start. But, on order to move where she needs to be even Giselle's positive ties with her past need to be severed."

"Me."

"You."

"Where will I go?" I know already but I want to make them say it.

The kindest, gentlest voice answers, "Your death is pivotal. It will bring movement, wisdom, strength, empathy, power into Giselle's character. She and Mike will become forces for good in the world. Armelinda and Kylie will become three dimensional."

Tears roll down my cheeks. "It's hard to take. Not mattering in my own right."

They nod, "For what it's worth, writing you has been one of the delights of my infinitely long stint as a life writer. I have tried killing off every other character in hundreds of thousands of drafts. I broke the wall to tell you how much you mean. Giselle's childhood trauma is good for a few more years. She'll need you for that. I promise to write in some delightful surprises just for you. You won't remember this conversation. But from now on your instinct will be to live as if every day might be your last."

"Thanks for that, I guess."

Giselle, Armelinda, and Kylie are standing, laughing, talking excitedly to the young man who met us at the elevator. Beautiful clothing samples hang around the conference room. I am sitting, dazed. My coffee is cold. My mind wandered. I get up to go and stand beside Giselle. I sense she is going to need me.

This is spectacularly well done.

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Chilling. I could feel the mad gods eternal sadness

Thank you for reading it!

I mean, it's not exactly like he stopped thinking - maybe his physical body was holding him back, and by getting rid of it, he can ascend to a higher plane spiritually

AREEES

> "The madness of slavery is over, the time of liberty has been granted, English necks are free from the yoke." Gerald of Wales, ~1216

The barons gathered the same evening John had been routed by mecenaries, their own armies yet to arrive. But they had come, these brave men righteous and true--or so Robert had been told of them. When he arrived at the royal court and saw them, however, he found fat merchants and petty aristocrats arguing over whether to invite the French to invade.

"We'll not cede an acre to those continental aliens! We only need their steel; their boots can stay home!" shouted one.

"You, who sail a French ship and ride many French mistresses, now say they're unwelcome? You talk of aliens, yet you've got a floating bedroom full of them!" came a snide rebuttal.

"Louis can be bargained with; he's a fit man for hard times as these! We all know John will return, and he'll rain iron upon us, if we have no royal shelter!" insisted a man who trembled at the thought.

Robert listened carefully, marking each man in his mind. The jingoist; the racist; the coward. Tall, fat, frail, fit; he marked them, thirty in total. He tried to weigh them, but found each wanting. Uncharitably, he thought they'd weigh more accurately as pork than as politicians.

"Gentlemen," he interrupted.

Here and there, a head turned. But the conversation did not abate, and even those faces turned away after a glance.

With an ease borne of long battle and a grace borne of long hardship, he rose from the abandoned throne of England where he had been lounging.

"Gentlemen, a word," he said again, his voice powerful.

This time there was more attention, but still not enough.

There were no arms permitted in the royal hall, by order of the Merry Men who occupied it, but Robert had little need of steel when wood could suffice. He kicked a stool up with one long leg, catching it as it somersaulted, and flung it across the table. It clattered alarmingly, barely missing a man at the far end. A silence descended.

Thirty angry faces stared hard at the Hero of Nottingham, but he had captured his audience.

"I am aware that there are many considerations to be made for the return of John and his armies. First, however, we feed and clothe the good folk of England who have suffered, under his rule and the long absence of his brother Richard."

He leaned forward to rest his hands on the table, hands hardened with callouses from wielding bow and sword in service of the land while these men wielded pens and forks in service of the coffer. He was an imposing man, a kind killer and a noble brigand, and each man in his presence knew him to be capable of a great and righteous wrath.

"We start with the people; those were my terms. Then, once we have ensured the wellness of the populace, once I have been paid my pittance, I will take my company and go. You can take as much time as you like after, to bicker about who gets what measure and profit."

"What are you, Arthur reborn, then?" scoffed a great fat baron, whose fief included much of the land about London itself. "What lands do you hold, that gives you vote and voice?"

"None, sir. Only the holding of the blades and the pikes surrounding this hall," Robert warned. "Would you throw me out, knowing the doorman might take offense?"

They looked amongst themselves, those thirty. Robert narrowed eyes as his instincts shouted. They were not looks of concern, but of conspiracy.

"I think your contract is over, mercenary," said one.

In the silence, they heard outside a commotion. Marching, shouting, a call to arms. The armies of the barons, arriving at last.

"Perfidy! We are betrayed! To me, men!" Robert shouted, pushing himself away from the table, searching for a weapon. "John Lyttle, to me! I've need of your axe!"

No rebel, no Merry Man of the company who served Robin of the Wood, did appear. The shouting outside grew quiet, a peppering of arrows against wood and stone proclaiming why. The door to the royal court remained sealed, and if blood trickled under it, none could tell whose.

Robert's hands found a rod for the curtains, stout and heavy. It would have to suffice. He put his back to the wall, and thirty men drew their hidden knives against him.

There in the halls of power, where once reigned the pettiest tyrant of English lore, did Robin of the Wood do his last righteous battle. Four men he killed bravely, and one later died of his wounds; twenty and five survived, when they had knocked him to the ground and pierced him with their daggers.

Not a whole day had passed from the routing of the wicked John--that King who should have stayed Prince--and the bleeding of the last true hero of England.

Marian, virtuous and true, was taken and sold; Lyttle John and the other men of the company, even those who surrendered, were all branded traitors for their services. They were hung on gallows and mounted on pikes, living and dead, officially denounced. Speaking their names was declared a crime akin to blasphemy, and their families were shunned.

Knowing they dared not admit such men as themselves could be defeated by a lowly villain, the conspiracy of barons decided that the five fallen among them had never arrived at all. Their remains were fed to pigs and pits and fires, as nameless members of the Merry Men, their confederates forsaking decency as well as truth. Twenty and five were the barons recorded; twenty and five were the names listed as great men who thwarted a greater foe.

The barons had their rebellion, their glory, and England.

And the people, as usual, had nothing... nothing but stories. Stories of a man who had once tried to help, who had once stood up to injustice. Stories of a man labeled foe, for daring to be a hero. Stories, legends, myths, even: tales of the man called Robin Hood.