Titus

The emperor gave Titus the signal and he plunged his sword into the gladiator. Blood gushed from his neck, and he took his last gasp. The crowd chanted and Titus waved his arms in victory.

Titus’ master approached. “Well done, Titus. There hasn’t been a gladiator to match you, and I hope it stays that way.”

The ground began to rumble. The emperor’s statue fell in a heap, and people began tumbling to their deaths.

Someone in the crowd yelled. “Look at the mountain. It’s on fire!”

Mount Vesuvius spewed fire and rained pumice.

Titus would not fight another day.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Runaround

For his eighteenth birthday, Lathan got magical boots from Grandpa, so nobody could catch him up.

When cyclopes attacked the village, Lathan ran into a leafless forest, where witches boiled bones in cauldrons; so he fled to the Glass Mountain, opaque crystals everywhere, and their shimmering princess offered engagement; flushed in embarrassment, Lathan roved to a roadside tavern, mocked by goblins, and a bounty placed on his head. He circled around the empire for a month but eventually ended up at home.

As cyclopes growled, Lathan finally faced his worries, selling the boots for a rusty sword at the blacksmith.

From Guest Contributor Bettina Laszlo

Bettina writes fiction to convey what is beyond expression. Her work has appeared in NUNUM, Dragonfly educational programme, and is forthcoming at 101 Words. She lives in Budapest with her fiancé.

The Sword

Steel prices being what they were, a single sword was worth the same as a medium-sized village. We're just talking the value of the land, buildings, and farm animals. The human lives weren't counted, since they mostly had a negative cost the way these things were reckoned.

Walter kept his sword hidden below his floor boards. It was a secret that had belonged to his family for generations. His ancestors were once counted among the nobility. Now there was just this sword. He could sell it and feed his children, but this would be frowned upon by his financial advisor.

Imminent

The blow knocks me and my horse to the ground. I reach for my sword and swing at the enemy, his roars deafening. My leg is cut, and the breath is knocked out of me, but I endure the pain for my king and country.

Another foe is coming toward me. A comrade rushes to my aide and stabs him in the abdomen. He gushes blood from the mouth and dies.

I manage to fend off my attacker for now. One of us will tire.

And so, it seems death is imminent for him as my sword pierces his heart.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Knight That Was Too Great

The Knight is known for fire and might. Day after day he proves himself worthy of his sword. His title. His name. Out into the world he rides, his demeanor like an armor around him. Many dragons he has slain, yet some refuse to die. His sword is covered with the blood of both his enemies and his own heart. He seeks to be noble, but in doing so becomes pathetic. He is invincible in battle, but hopeless in everything else. His armor is impenetrable, but forever clings to him. No dragon can hurt him. Only the soft flower can.From Guest Contributor Richard Snow

Richard is a student of creative writing and journalism at Pikes Peak Community College. Currently writing a fantasy trilogy set in the early 20th century.

Cursed Sword

Dark ripples spread across the surface as I wade into the water. I hold my breath and dive. To my surprise, the sword lies among the weeds, quite within reach. It’s mine. I chuckle with joy. I kick my legs harder, needing to go only a few inches deeper, but I can’t reach it. No matter how long I swim, I can’t grab the sword. I can’t hold my breath anymore. I struggle to the surface, but I’m yanked down. I tear at the weeds tangling my feet, but, as I sink, all I see is the sword’s gleaming wink.

From Guest Contributor Yukari Kousaka

Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Born in Osaka in 2001, Yukari Kousaka is a Japanese poet, fiction writer, and essayist. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, Yukari’s writings have appeared in The Crypt, New World Writing, and The Wondrous Real Magazine, among others.

Victory

The force of the sword against my shield knocked me to the ground. As the sword came toward me, I turned and pushed myself up. I could barely see through my protective head shield and the sweat dripped down my face. The man, large and fierce, came at me again, and the clanking of our swords filled the arena.

One of us would die, slaves no one cared about.

In one last attempt, I lunged, stuck my sword into his side and twisted. He moaned, collapsing to the ground face down. The crowd cheered.

I raised my hands in victory.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

On The Floor

Marty was a penny stock trader back in the 80s. A breathtaking collection of liars and cheats, everyone doing blow. Stock exchange officials were bribed. Client accounts were bled. It was something to behold.

His supposedly statelier sales manager was all smiles but for the dead shark eyes. He would say, "If people want yellow ties, sell them goddamn yellow ties."

Once or twice a month, after market hours, Marty would go out and stick up random banks, his rickety scheme to salvage honour.

His profession was put early to the silicon sword. Mercifully, Marty never saw the party end.

From Guest Contributor Kevin Campbell

Kevin writes in Vancouver, Canada.

The Arena

He sat on the stone bench waiting his turn. All his training for the last ten years led up to this moment. He could hear the muffled roar of sixty-thousand screaming fans in the stadium above. If he won today, the Emperor would grant him his freedom and the citizenship.

His trainer signaled him to get ready. He picked up his shield and sword and walked to the platform that would slowly raise him to the arena floor. As his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, he saw the lions. A sudden foreboding flooded through his body. The crowd cheered.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Martial Arts As A Way Of Life

Ken determined that martial arts would be his way of life and so set about training with both sword and spear. His intention was to practice until he was ready for mortal combat, and then square off against consecutively more difficult challengers. In this way, he would rise to become the greatest master of sword fighting.

Training with a wooden sword is not the same as fighting with a metal one. For this reason, Ken spent three years sparring against fellow students before he felt himself ready to fight his first fatal duel.

His first would also be his last.