HOME | DD

Description
Chapter I: The Dark Ordeal

October 24, 2003. Many a tale lives on the breath of the wind, some of them as dark as a moonless night, others as light and happy as a feather caught in the breeze. My tale is a recent one, but one full of life. And yet, it’s also full of death at the same time. This tale goes back before Katrina’s assault on New Orleans, before the Iraqi War, even before the reelection of George Bush II. Let me take you there the only way I know how…

“Another year, another challenge.”

It’s always hard to adjust to a new school. This was my first year at middle school, and things were a lot different than before. There were tons of students, almost 99% of them I had never even seen before; the number in my year alone totaled more than what had been in my entire elementary school combined. The attitude had changed as well. Cuss words were used every other word (unless a teacher was a part of the conversation), and the amount of talking was enough to put someone with even the slightest bit of sensitive hearing into the madhouse.

It was approaching the end of the second month, fast approaching Halloween. Only these thoughts kept me preoccupied and safeguarded against all the talking.

My eyes wandered about the room I was in, the lunchroom. Here the talking was even more concentrated and less subdued. Why people felt the need to shout their conversations to the person just across the yard-long table was beyond me.

Luckily I had two of my best friends that I knew from various organizations I had participated in during my younger years.

Garrett sat across from me. He was one of those guys who always had guns as his ammunition whenever he shot his mouth off, and he talked almost like a machine gun. I hardly knew anything about them besides pull the trigger and BANG!

The other encyclopedia at the table was Mark. He was one of the smartest people in the school, taking various math courses that the freshmen in high school were taking. He might have looked slightly nerdish with his striped shirts, glasses, and home-packed lunch, but he was one of my best friends in the school.

Sitting on my other side was a girl named Laura. She was one of the more classic girls of the school, a trashy loudmouth with more makeup on her face than a clown’s and more trash coming out her front than her behind. Half of the girls in the school fell under her category, but a majority of the other half leaned more towards Mark’s style. No offense to them (well, to Mark at least).

I picked at my pizza, my thoughts distracted by my adventures from my old school. So much had happened in those halls that reminded me of why I was a writer. Strange and wondrous occurrences had happened there that had sparked my creativity and motivated my nimble fingers. No one would have thought twice about putting my stories into the fiction category, maybe even fantasy, but they were my life, my world, my happiness. Nothing could shake those glorious times from my brain.

Until an even greater adventure stepped forth to replace them.

…

It was as dark as any night got, a night filled with darkest despair and saddest sorrow. The taste of death clogged the senses and blotted out all hope and happiness in anyone who dared to venture beyond the safety and tranquility of their homes. Black storm clouds grumbled overhead, blocking out the moon and stars; a storm was imminent in the bleak darkness.

The only thing to bring cheer to this desolately gloomy night was a sweet melody that echoed through it. This melody’s song was as sweet as a box of candy and as beautiful as nature itself, but it was also as sad as the death of a dear friend. However, as sweet as this song was, only the dead could hear it, for it was a mystical tune known as the “Requiem of the Wayward Spirit”.

All of the ghosts, zombies, and other miscellaneous spirits found throughout the city floated, walked, or crawled to where the music was coming from; they came from graveyards, centuries-old houses, and even from television sets, all drawn by the music’s lure. Their paths converged at the old, abandoned theatre in the near center of the city. It was a miracle that no one noticed his arcane phenomenon.

…

Meanwhile, back at my house, I was having another rough night. I just couldn’t sleep. None of my CD’s could lull me off to sleep, and I was starting to grow restless. “I should stop these all-nighter Nintendo sprees,” I grumbled to myself in the darkness around my bed covers.

As soon as the last song on my CD player ended, another one replaced it. This song was like nothing I ever heard before. It wasn’t fancy and droll like classical music, but it wasn’t loud and annoying like rap or rock, either. This song, accompanied by a rush of butterflies by my window, was enough to sap my body of insomnia. My head fell on my pillows as I dozed off to dreamland.

…

A solitary figure stood on the stage of the theater. His spiky yellow hair stood out from the drab, death-withered colors of his audience amassed before him like the moon to the night sky, especially in his red and white Chinese outfit. He outstretched his arms, holding a highly-adorned flute that looked like a spider spinning a web in one hand. He addressed his undead audience with a warm embrace, saying, “Greetings, fellow scourges of the beyond, brothers and sisters of the dead. This day we will take our revenge upon the living!” A cheer came up from a large portion of the gathered.

“I plan to turn our revenge into a contest of skill, cunning, and daring to make it all worthwhile and exciting. For you zombies and corpses, your challenge is to drain as much blood from as many people using whatever method pleases you most; it doesn’t matter to me.” An even bigger cheer came from the rotting forms of the monsters in this portion of the contest.

The person with the flute turned his attention to the ghosts either floating in the rafters of the theater or in seats alongside the zombies. “For ghosts and spirits,” he told them, “your challenge will be to overshadow the most brilliant minds of the Living Realm and bring them back here. As with the other contest, any method will – yes?”

A hand had been raised by a beautiful Arabian ghost by the name of Desiree. She posed this question to her generous host: “How will zombies be able to tell the difference between a ghost-possessed person and a normal person? After all, zombies can’t tell eye color or voices when they’re in a blood frenzy.”

“You pose a good question,” replied the host, “and one that I have already developed a solution for. My assistant will supply a green medallion to any and all ghosts that plan on entering. The ghosts are to put that medallion around the neck of the person they’re possessing. Any zombie who touches a person with one of these green medallions on will be disqualified on account of cheating. Other than that, just go out there and have fun! The contest will begin as soon as dawn breaks; rest those weary bones for one more night and hold your hate for a little while longer. Tomorrow begins the march of the dead!” One final cheer arose from the crowd as they filed out of the theater, smiles drawn wide across their rotting and undead faces. They had wanted to see blood or so long; the time to get it was now.

…

As the meeting was going on, a pale blue-skinned maiden in a snow-white dress and a bouquet of flowers in her hand watched from the recording both in the way back with a single eye. Her gentle face grew more worried as the strange flutist’s contest unfolded. “He’s going to be first on their list, I know it!” she breathed. “I can’t let that happen!” As the other undead exited the theater, a light flashed, and the blue-haired maiden disappeared. Butterflies flew out of a broken window and into the open night air.

Description
Chapter I: The Dark Ordeal

October 24, 2003. Many a tale lives on the breath of the wind, some of them as dark as a moonless night, others as light and happy as a feather caught in the breeze. My tale is a recent one, but one full of life. And yet, it’s also full of death at the same time. This tale goes back before Katrina’s assault on New Orleans, before the Iraqi War, even before the reelection of George Bush II. Let me take you there the only way I know how…

“Another year, another challenge.”

It’s always hard to adjust to a new school. This was my first year at middle school, and things were a lot different than before. There were tons of students, almost 99% of them I had never even seen before; the number in my year alone totaled more than what had been in my entire elementary school combined. The attitude had changed as well. Cuss words were used every other word (unless a teacher was a part of the conversation), and the amount of talking was enough to put someone with even the slightest bit of sensitive hearing into the madhouse.

It was approaching the end of the second month, fast approaching Halloween. Only these thoughts kept me preoccupied and safeguarded against all the talking.

My eyes wandered about the room I was in, the lunchroom. Here the talking was even more concentrated and less subdued. Why people felt the need to shout their conversations to the person just across the yard-long table was beyond me.

Luckily I had two of my best friends that I knew from various organizations I had participated in during my younger years.

Garrett sat across from me. He was one of those guys who always had guns as his ammunition whenever he shot his mouth off, and he talked almost like a machine gun. I hardly knew anything about them besides pull the trigger and BANG!

The other encyclopedia at the table was Mark. He was one of the smartest people in the school, taking various math courses that the freshmen in high school were taking. He might have looked slightly nerdish with his striped shirts, glasses, and home-packed lunch, but he was one of my best friends in the school.

Sitting on my other side was a girl named Laura. She was one of the more classic girls of the school, a trashy loudmouth with more makeup on her face than a clown’s and more trash coming out her front than her behind. Half of the girls in the school fell under her category, but a majority of the other half leaned more towards Mark’s style. No offense to them (well, to Mark at least).

I picked at my pizza, my thoughts distracted by my adventures from my old school. So much had happened in those halls that reminded me of why I was a writer. Strange and wondrous occurrences had happened there that had sparked my creativity and motivated my nimble fingers. No one would have thought twice about putting my stories into the fiction category, maybe even fantasy, but they were my life, my world, my happiness. Nothing could shake those glorious times from my brain.

Until an even greater adventure stepped forth to replace them.

…

It was as dark as any night got, a night filled with darkest despair and saddest sorrow. The taste of death clogged the senses and blotted out all hope and happiness in anyone who dared to venture beyond the safety and tranquility of their homes. Black storm clouds grumbled overhead, blocking out the moon and stars; a storm was imminent in the bleak darkness.

The only thing to bring cheer to this desolately gloomy night was a sweet melody that echoed through it. This melody’s song was as sweet as a box of candy and as beautiful as nature itself, but it was also as sad as the death of a dear friend. However, as sweet as this song was, only the dead could hear it, for it was a mystical tune known as the “Requiem of the Wayward Spirit”.

All of the ghosts, zombies, and other miscellaneous spirits found throughout the city floated, walked, or crawled to where the music was coming from; they came from graveyards, centuries-old houses, and even from television sets, all drawn by the music’s lure. Their paths converged at the old, abandoned theatre in the near center of the city. It was a miracle that no one noticed his arcane phenomenon.

…

Meanwhile, back at my house, I was having another rough night. I just couldn’t sleep. None of my CD’s could lull me off to sleep, and I was starting to grow restless. “I should stop these all-nighter Nintendo sprees,” I grumbled to myself in the darkness around my bed covers.

As soon as the last song on my CD player ended, another one replaced it. This song was like nothing I ever heard before. It wasn’t fancy and droll like classical music, but it wasn’t loud and annoying like rap or rock, either. This song, accompanied by a rush of butterflies by my window, was enough to sap my body of insomnia. My head fell on my pillows as I dozed off to dreamland.

…

A solitary figure stood on the stage of the theater. His spiky yellow hair stood out from the drab, death-withered colors of his audience amassed before him like the moon to the night sky, especially in his red and white Chinese outfit. He outstretched his arms, holding a highly-adorned flute that looked like a spider spinning a web in one hand. He addressed his undead audience with a warm embrace, saying, “Greetings, fellow scourges of the beyond, brothers and sisters of the dead. This day we will take our revenge upon the living!” A cheer came up from a large portion of the gathered.

“I plan to turn our revenge into a contest of skill, cunning, and daring to make it all worthwhile and exciting. For you zombies and corpses, your challenge is to drain as much blood from as many people using whatever method pleases you most; it doesn’t matter to me.” An even bigger cheer came from the rotting forms of the monsters in this portion of the contest.

The person with the flute turned his attention to the ghosts either floating in the rafters of the theater or in seats alongside the zombies. “For ghosts and spirits,” he told them, “your challenge will be to overshadow the most brilliant minds of the Living Realm and bring them back here. As with the other contest, any method will – yes?”

A hand had been raised by a beautiful Arabian ghost by the name of Desiree. She posed this question to her generous host: “How will zombies be able to tell the difference between a ghost-possessed person and a normal person? After all, zombies can’t tell eye color or voices when they’re in a blood frenzy.”

“You pose a good question,” replied the host, “and one that I have already developed a solution for. My assistant will supply a green medallion to any and all ghosts that plan on entering. The ghosts are to put that medallion around the neck of the person they’re possessing. Any zombie who touches a person with one of these green medallions on will be disqualified on account of cheating. Other than that, just go out there and have fun! The contest will begin as soon as dawn breaks; rest those weary bones for one more night and hold your hate for a little while longer. Tomorrow begins the march of the dead!” One final cheer arose from the crowd as they filed out of the theater, smiles drawn wide across their rotting and undead faces. They had wanted to see blood or so long; the time to get it was now.

…

As the meeting was going on, a pale blue-skinned maiden in a snow-white dress and a bouquet of flowers in her hand watched from the recording both in the way back with a single eye. Her gentle face grew more worried as the strange flutist’s contest unfolded. “He’s going to be first on their list, I know it!” she breathed. “I can’t let that happen!” As the other undead exited the theater, a light flashed, and the blue-haired maiden disappeared. Butterflies flew out of a broken window and into the open night air.