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3 entries this month
Boxing Figures00:17 Mar 29 2010
Times Read: 607
A man sat in his office surrounded by paperwork but had no interest in doing any of it. He sketched away in boredom at his desk, two silhouetted figures facing off against each other. He stared at the page after giving it it's finishing touch, content with his final image. As time passed the figures seemed to come to life on the page, ducking and dodging each other's fists. The brawlers fought hard and fast, pushing each other to their limits. Fists clash with bodies and limbs, each contender trying to break through the other's defences and get a clear shot in. Their bodies sway back and forth to avoid hits while still trying to get a punch in. A knock on the door breaks the man's attention from the sight as he looks up to respond to a message. He glances down at the now still figures before getting up and leaving the room. As the door slides shut behind him, the two figures resume their fight. Their second round is much like their first, both fighters going all out to beat the other. Tiredness settling in forces each attack to be slower and each dodge to be more clumsy. These two figures were giving it their all to beat each other. The opening of the door signals the return to the artist. He sits back down at his desk ready now to get on with his work but when he looks down at the piece of paper, his two figures were slouched and leaning against each other for support because they had been too tired to continue. In the end, the match was concluded with a draw and the artist still had no idea as to how his figures had come to life or how they had ended up sitting on the bottom of the page unmoving and totally worn out.
Savage Defender
00:57 Mar 23 2010
Times Read: 615
Blood pours over him and down his body, drenching his clothes. The helmet of his slaughtered enemy clatters against the ground, startling the people around him. Dropping the corpse, he is off with a jolt. Barging his way through the crowds, he leaves a trail of crimson on the people he passes and the ground he covers. It seems as though it is death that is following in his wake, his deeds leaving their mark on the land. Why it has come to this, why blood has become the cost for choosing his path as a defender of the land, he does not know. It is a mystery as to why he even chose to defend his home land when he has been outcast from the people there all his life and even now he is forced into isolation by the fear people have for his savage methods of destroying the monstrous beings who threaten to do harm to all. They could not understand what he had to do, the burden he had to carry. The guilt he felt each time he took a life tore him apart, little by little.
He reached a point in the land, where the buildings were crumbling and the people are scarce. There he cried out, a thunderous roar. Beating his fists, bruised and bloody against brick and steel. His pain coursing through his every vein. The walls cracked and crumbled under his might. The shear brutality of his strikes on everything around him made the land tremble. He drops down, propping himself up in exhaustion. He bangs his head in aggravation. Suddenly he stops, lowering his head his eyes flash red. A demonic laugh burst out from him. He was no longer in pain. He no longer felt guilt for what he had done. The winds had changed and he had realised how little he owed the people he had protected. They were in his debt. Now he was going to claim it from them.
The Fictional Savage Brute
02:44 Mar 22 2010
Times Read: 622
He stands his ground, a pedestal of force and feeds on the energy of conflict. A body toughened by battle, braced against the onslaught of enemies. A figure, glowing with a dark radiance. He is a protector by design. Created for the sole purpose of protection. He will never give in, his pride and will are too strong to let him submit. Viewed as psychotic but kind, charming and emotionless. He is so much but is perceived so differently. He swears his allegiance to those he sees fit of it. Those he protects are defended by the brutality of his bare hands and those who oppose him suffer at the savagery of his might. He is divine in his judgement, the true bastardised men and women are his enemies. He is far from God but holds no ties with the Devil. He is not a pure being, nothing of an angel, closer to a demon but nothing more than human.
He kneels in a pool of blood, the burden of his tired arms dragging his hands to the worn and shattered ground. His eyes roll up to see his enemies before him. His breathing becomes heavier, deeper, longer. His teeth grind and his body shakes. He has stood before too many enemies, seen too man battles, given up too much to lose here and now. If he had to lose, he would not do it in this sorry state. He would stand his ground until he no longer had any life left in him. Rising up from the ever growing pool of blood, he stretches out his limbs, scanning the desolate land of rumble and ash. This is his warzone, a place he had fought so many times. If this was to be his resting place, then so be it. Without sign or warning, he was off. Running at speed towards his enemies, building momentum as he went. What happens after that, shall be left to your imagination.
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