“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” -Sylvia Plath

Editors Editor-in-Chief The New World Oceania Prose Editor Aquitayne Visual Arts Editor Aelarus Copyeditor Elemental North

Finalists Cover Art

Aelarus, Corvus Metallum

Fiction Finalist The Autumn Feast – Rhodevus

Poetry Finalist

Unconventional – Page

Visual Arts Finalist Bitter-Sweet – Canador

The NationStates Improviser Summer 2014

Table of Contents

Fiction

Aillt y Gawywffon – Glasgia 6

Gone in the Morning – Super-Llamaland 8

Poetry

Unconventional – Page 11

On Second Thought, No – Respubliko de Libereco 12

Visual Art

Swan Song – Corvus Metallum 1

Bitter-Sweet – Canador 5

Stanley and Paul – Creative Vikings 10

Non Relevant – Rumek 13

Acknowledgements

Editors & Finalists 3

Sponsors 15

Fiction

“Bitter-Sweet”

Canadora

Aillt y Gawywffon Glasgia

Fiction Finalist Ætheling. It was an

insult really. A prince

in name, but by no

means in nature. I

squirmed

uncomfortably to let

the hunk of meat, so

keen to flaunt such

names, past. Even if it

rid me of these

monsters, I would not

wish to find myself at

the heart of such a

battle – Not entrapped

the horror that those

front ranks would soon

became.

Past the shoulders of

those before me, my

eyes met with the

enemy beyond. They

were far greater in

number than the men

with whom I fought, yet

it probably mattered

not. They were raiders,

young men like him

who had, unlike I,

looked for adventure

on foreign coasts. Most

likely Ffriseg or Daneg,

the irony of which

stabbed at my heart.

The sea wolves

themselves being

hunted by fresh packs.

My muscles twitched

into a form of grimace,

too raw and battered to

force themselves to the

point of a smile.

The spear chafed at my

hands as it was shunted

again. Hadyn, ddihirod,

fastard, nihiryn. The

brutes that surrounded

me were just that and

no more. Brutes. They

fought and they drank

and they slept and little

else, so god forbid if

they tried to put their

brains to the same

rigorous use that their

bodies so easily

endured. None would

ever set aside their

ways to think of the

warriors who they had

slaughtered, whom

they had condemned

to purgatory, those

who had been left to rot

on a field with no

blessing or confessions

to save their souls.

These men did not

think of that. They did

not think. The drank

and when they did look

towards the afterlife, it

was only to think of how

they would drink their

halls of sin just as they

did so in their twisted

mortal lives.

I looked back, towards

the wagons behind.

Eithne stood there,

hidden from my view

yet clear in my mind.

She may have been a

Saxon in blood, but was

no such creature in

mind. I appreciated

that, my last glimmer of

appreciation that I

could salvage in this

heathen pit. It was with

her, she a mere slave in

my company, that I had

run from my father's

fate.

The eyes of wolves did

not rest and therefore

we did not either, a

vain attempt to escape

the ever encroaching

submission to foreign

foes. A smattering of

my father's men had

come too, their

chances for survival

few in harsh lands.

Even the peasants

detested us, their words

swayed by sermons

corrupted with the

power of money – with

the power of a victory -

and with that power

history could be re-

written. They had

rejected us, left us to

starve rather than

accommodate men

they saw as demons,

and so my own guards

rejected me. They

preferred payment to

loyalty, and such a

choice was one that I

now accepted too.

“Wyrstotsen!” An

unfriendly cry forced

me onwards, though it

did not cut through my

thoughts. The enemy

were no more than a

hundred yards away

now and both sides

produced a few

ambitious throws, their

javelins and angons

falling well short of the

first ranks. Tywysog

Cadoc map Cyndyddan,

Cadoc de Ætheling. My

kingdom for a spear,

though it had not been

my choice.

Gone in the Morning Super-Llamaland

and awoke to a low

buzz. A cricket chirped

outside. He blinked,

looked at the clock

(2:08, it read) and

yawned dully. He tried

to sleep again, heard

again the buzz, now

accompanied by a dull

thudding, and got up

and stumbled in the

direction of the

bathroom.

A violent noise, best

described as thu-

pow! with notes of

kririsch and crash,

exploded from the

downstairs door and

knocked the boy over.

He blinked, ears

ringing, and stumbled

back up. He remarked

in sleep-induced

drowsiness that the

racket sounded a lot

like the door being

kicked over.

Todd froze in

realization, giving the

man behind him a

great opportunity to

slip a bag over his

head and rip the

drawstring shut. Todd

clumsily pitched over

in drowsy shock, and

another man quickly

trussed him up.

Survival kicked in,

adrenaline surged into

his mind, and Todd

bravely began to roll

away, to the amusement

of his abductors.

Powerfully flopping by

one man, grinning and

sweating, he surged

forwards and rolled

down the stairs.

"Ow!" he cried as he

bounced off the third

step from the top,

waves of pain surging

up his leg as he

somehow flipped

around and landed on

his head.

His arm cracked on

the seventh step,

sending him into a

reeling spin down the

long staircase. All the

way down he screamed,

spinning dizzily into the

arms of a third

kidnapper, who

knocked him

unconscious

Despite this, he left no

trace that he had left. It

was the perfect crime,

utterly unsolvable.

Thirty-two seconds

after the door

shattered, a solitary

white van drove off into

the sable night.

Todd awoke twice in

the next twenty-four

hours.

At the first, he blinked

awake. It was still pitch

black outside the van,

careening as it flung

itself off various cracks

and potholes in the

country road, kicking

up prodigious clouds of

dust as it did so.

Everywhere hurt.

Aches spread

themselves throughout

his body; infernos

pitched against his

mind. Even when he

yawned, a fiendish

agony unraveled

against his face. As his

head slowly cleared,

he overheard

something in the

midst of his muddled

mind.

"So, where are we

taking this kid?" the

first man, possibly the

driver, asked.

"Don't know what the

Institute thinks,"

replied a second.

Todd blinked and

continued to listen.

"Have no idea what

they do to these kids."

"Don't you feel bad? I

hear they get tortured."

"Eh, it pays well for

you," muttered a third,

"just get on with your

job."

"Shut up, Johnson, it's

not like you pay us."

said the second from

the seat in front of him.

"What?" Johnson asked

slowly, reaching for his

hip. The driver

coughed nervously

"I said, 'Shut-'"

With a deafening crack,

Johnson's pistol went

off, sending blood

spraying into the air.

Todd gagged as a

splatter hit him square

in the face, while the

man in the second row

slumped back into his

chair. Johnson casually

pocketed the gun and

opened a window.

Terrified and

desperate, Todd swore

that he would not allow

them to capture him,

whereupon he fell

asleep again.

But by the second time

he woke up, they

already had him.

Poetry

“Stanley and Paul”

Creative Vikings

Unconventional Page

Poetry Finalist

To be unafraid

and my debts repaid,

where to go from here, the question.

I need a cipher

To decode life lessons.

Someone should make me mechanical hands,

I'd have a handle on the conventional.

But I'm in love and want no life of

settle down, take-or-leave it price of

complacency. That'll never work out for me.

I want to give more than I take,

I'll hope for good luck with glass to break

and to be remembered, whatever of my life I make.

Creatively unstable, beyond description in my way What should I do with all these days?

To be high on life

what would that taste like?

I think those hits I take aren't so pure.

Someone should make me a bracelet of thorns.

I'd be the savior of the lost.

Each fresh cut would remind of the cost

as I write.

And I've known love, I've felt accomplished

but when I'm selfish and thoughtless

I always am consumed by my worst.

The most vibrant color, the great outline,

a work of art, but a tragic design.

Still, I don't mind.

On Second Thought, No Respubliko de Libereco

Your writing's abysmally horrid;

it's purple, and too fucking florid.

If you call someone's eyes

"Orbs as blue as the skies"

then you rightfully should be deplorèd.

[Editor’s Note: This poem, originally written in the Writing Discussion

thread, was preceded by Respubliko de Libereco’s comment, “Perhaps

you can add a false layer of joviality to your criticism by presenting it as

a limerick.”]

“Non Relevant”

Rumek

We thank you for reading this Summer 2014 edition of

the NationStates Improviser!

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