Tell me a story Veeky Forums

Through tears, he finally calmed her down until she could deliver the horrible news. The young Lady was to be married. Not to her love, but to the son of the Count, the sickly spirit who haunted the halls they had grown up in. The Lieutenant was not saddened, but steeled. He told her that they would run away together. It would be that very night. They would skip the capital and catch a boat, sail across the sea and live out the rest of their day in the simplest life they could find, but together. The young Lady finally held back her tears and smiled up at him. This would be their greatest day, their most total act of romance. With no more than a kiss, the young Lady bid adieu to the Lieutenant and left for the Palace. There was much to prepare after all. The Lieutenant sat dazed for a moment, but returned to the street, where the scene had become completely uproarious. The people had been taken up in some patriotic fervor, singing songs in praise of the King. Many smiled at him and offered to buy him drinks simply for wearing a uniform. A girl had even tried to kiss him, but he rushed off too for the Palace.
The scene was there in the court as well. His father seemed relieved to find him. He asked where the young man had been, and he could only answer that he had met with his comrades from the Academy to celebrate. His father told him there would be plenty of time to celebrate later. As it turned out, not to the Lieutenant or the young Lady's knowledge. The evil Kingdom to the West had finally started the war people had been speaking of for weeks. The army was being mobilized. He looked up to the King on his throne and beside him sat the Count, who had grown even sicker than his son who sat beside him, and beside his son, with hand in hand, sat the Young Lady.
Again, however, he was not saddened, but steeled. He would never marry his Lady as things stood, but in war he could find his glory. Like his father, he could rise above his rank and prove himself to be worthy of her hand. He wrote to her to not prepare to leave that day, but to try and delay the wedding as long as she could, he would be back by new years day he promised. He left the Palace without having her company again.
The Lieutenant was sent at once into the fray. When he arrived on the front, he found he had been given an entire company to his charge. When pressed on why, the General told him, there is nobody else. His men were just as eager as him, singing the songs of their Kingdom. They were peasants from all backgrounds, together under the command of the son of one of their nation's greatest heroes. The Lieutenant took the mantle of command with great enthusiasm. He was ready to fight his enemies to the West. He had no fear of death, only fear of what would happen if he could not end this war before the year was done, if he could not make it back to his love in time.

hurry the fuck up. losing patience with this stupid story.

Poseidon sat at his desk, doing figures. The administration of all the waters gave him endless work. He could have had assistants, as many as he wanted--and he did have very many--but since he took his job very seriously, he would in the end go over all the figures and calculations himself, and thus his assistants were of little help to him. It cannot be said that he enjoyed his work; he did it only because it had been assigned to him; in fact, he had already filed many petitions for--as he put it--more cheerful work, but every time the offer of something different was made to him it turned out that nothing suited him quite as well as his present position. And anyhow it was quite difficult to find something different for him. After all, it was impossible to assign him to a particular sea; aside from the fact that even then the work with figures would not grow less but only pettier, the great Poseidon could in any case occupy only an executive position. And when a job away from the water was offered to him he would get sick at the very prospect, his divine breathing would become troubled and his brazen chest begin to tremble. Besides, his complaints were not really taken seriously; when one of the mighty is vexatious the appearance of an effort must be made to placate him, even when the case is most hopeless. In actuality a shift of posts was unthinkable for Poseidon--he had been appointed God of the Sea in the beginning, and that he had to remain.

What irritated him most--and it was this that was chiefly responsible for his dissatisfaction with his job--was to hear of the conceptions formed about him: how he was always riding about through the tides with his trident. When all the while he sat here in the depths of the world-ocean, doing figures uninterruptedly, with now and then a trip to Jupiter as the only break in the monotony--a trip, moreover, from which he usually returned in a rage. Thus he had hardly seen the sea--had seen it but fleetingly in the course of hurried ascents to Olympus, and he had never actually travelled around it. He was in the habit of saying that what he was waiting for was the fall of the world; then, probably, a quiet moment would yet be granted in which, just before the end and after having checked the last row of figures, he would be able to make a quick little tour.

Poseidon became bored with the sea. He let fall his trident. Silently he sat on the rocky coast and a gull, dazed by his presence, described wavering circles around his head.

But fate had other plans. Near the end of December, he found himself sitting in a puddle of mud, his company of eager young lads turned into sad and shattered men by only three months of fighting. His company had not done anything for over a week now, and for that, he praised whatever God there may be. The men of the evil Kingdom to the West had turned out to be quite the match for him, if not more so. In their first engagement, three months and a lifetime before, their army had been cut down and he had only survived through the quickness of his feet. Yet, he never lost the faith. He was kept alive by the letters he wrote to his beloved, and the letters she returned to him as fast as she could.
The next year brought even worse circumstance, the Kingdom's army was in retreat. Even worse, his nightmare had come true. The marriage had been delayed when the Count had died, but his son, who now was Count, had married the Lady, who now was the Countess, in April. Yet, the letters still flowed in. She said she could never love the Count the way she loved the Captain. Fear rose in the back of his mind though. He feared that she would stop loving him. He feared that what they had would trickle away while she lived in luxury and he lived in death. His fears seemed validated by his subconscious. Had the last letter arrived just a little later than before? Had she written just a little less passionately? Did she forget to tell him how much she loved him?
In reality, the letters did slow down. For a year, they trickled to a near stop. Then at once she did not write him for three months, and when a letter did arrive. She told him that the Count had discovered her and that she would not be able to write him again. The Captain was incensed. He could not believe what he was reading. Was it the vileness of the Count? Had she stopped loving him? He tossed himself about in impotent rage. Then returned to his bed and cried. He decided he no longer cared if he lived or died. He volunteered to lead his men into a dangerous section of the battlefield the next day. He did not return.

Should have made the Count's son be the one to write all the letters so that the Lieutenant would still have the morale to maintain the army holding fast the power of the soon to be Count and the kingdom at large.

In the Palace, the scene was different. The Countess had taken the news with a stone face. The Count, although unfit for military service, had proven himself indispensable to the war effort in other manners. He oversaw many things from the safety of the Palace and the decorated heroes of the General Staff told him that he was as valuable as an army all on his own. In a sense, he had found a sort of meaning in his life through war that had escaped him in his youth. He sat now, right beside the King. However confident the Count had grown, the scene at the capital had become tense. Every day, the names of the dead grew longer, hope of victory grew shorter, bread grew scarcer and hatred grew stronger. The people began to hate the King, who they had once loved. They claimed that it was his fault they were in this war and that there would be no end until they were all dead. Or he was. The King had grown inward and paranoid. In many ways, the young Count now ran much of the state.
On some day, three years after the war had begun, the Count was informed there was a messenger with important news from their allies far away. The Messenger hobbled in with a large cap, and luxurious coat. He addressed the entire Court. Ripping open his coat and hat, he revealed himself to be the Captain, scarred and dirty. He told the court that he was there to save the love of his life from the arms of a villainous wretch. At last his speech had ended, he drew his sword and pointed it at the Count. A challenge was issued. It would be to the death and the reward would be the Countess. The guards all raised their weapons, but the Count called them off. He accepted the challenge. The Generals and Lords and Barons and Ladies all begged him not to, but he was eager. In some sense, he had grown tired of being a sickly wretch. He would not let this man come into his house and steal his lovely wife. For the simple reason that he had kissed her first. The Count had loved her too. Watching her from his window, creeping around the Palace, waking up to her every morning. He would finally gain the honor he so thoroughly craved.
The Captain was elated and retired back to the streets. Again, the Court tried to persuade the Count to reconsider, but he would have none of it. He ordered one of the Guards to the courtyard to practice. He would have only sixteen hours to train from nothing. The Captain had bought a room at a common public house. He spent the night practicing as well on the nightstand. At midnight, he knelt down and prayed. He could only hope for absolution in love or in life. He asked the Lord to guide his blade the next morning.
There was a knock at the door.

He took a pistol from his dresser and opened it slowly. To his surprise, there stood the Countess, dressed as a commoner. It seemed the Lord had answered his prayers. She came into the room and sat beside him on the bed. All at once, she fell onto her knees and began to weep. The Captain asked her what the matter was. She begged him not to duel the Count, she told him that she would run off with him that very evening if he promised not to hurt the sickly boy. The Captain looked into her eyes. He realized that she made that request not because she loved him but because she loved the Count. He became enraged again, but suppressed it at once. He told her that she didn't have to love him, but nothing could stop him. He was going to that field in the morning and he would get his revenge. The Countess fell into tears on the floor, and he demanded that she left.
The following morning, the Count and his Second, and many members of the General Staff who wanted to witness the event came out onto the sacred field and waited in the brisk air. They looked out through the morning fog for the arrival of their opponent, but as hours passed by he never arrived. The Count was in some way relieved and in some annoyed. He could not dwell on it for long however, the situation at the front and at home had taken the turn for the worse.
As months passed by, mutinies were starting all across the King's armies. The Peasantry in every town and village had become fully riotous. Riots turned into rebellion. In fact, in a storm of bullets and a frenzy of anger, on one historic day the Count awoke as one of the most powerful men in the world and fell asleep in a jail cell. The rebels had captured the capital and the King. His only solace was in the fact that he knew his love slept in the cell beside his and was safe. They could not see each other, but learned to speak through a series of tapping. Every day, they would tap twice for Good Morning and in the evening, twice again for Good Night. Three taps would mean I love you, and four would be Stay Strong. Five taps was reserved only for emergencies and for months he never once had to use it.

As the weeks passed, the prison became more and more full. The most exciting day had come when the rebels had begun to fight themselves. The only difference it made to the Count however, was that the prison became even more crowded. At first they just began to stuff more men into each cell. The Count's new companion was a priest, thrown in prison for being caught giving rites. He told the Count about all that had changed in the year he had been imprisoned. The King was dead, as well as many others in the Court who had not escaped. The war with the evil Kingdom to the West had ended. The newest rebels signed a treaty and began to create a new society, one that did not look kindly upon the Priest.
When the overcrowding became too much a problem again, the rebels simply began to remove the prisoners. The prisoners argued over whether the ones who were removed were killed or not. The Priest was removed one day but not seem to bothered by it. He only laughed and struck his beard as they jostled him out. His new cellmate had been a rebel. The Rebel told him that some prisoners were shot and others were simply sent away in trains to the middle of nowhere. He said the way you knew was if the soldiers took you out, you were being deported, but if the Hammer himself came too, you were to be shot. The Hammer was a hulking fellow, who wore a large, furry hat and an eye-patch. The rumors that surrounded him were as numerous as they were extravagant. He was the highest ranking rebel who ever visited the Prison. The Count did not recall seeing the fellow when the Priest was dragged out the day before, which gave him some solace that the man still lived, however life was on the other end of those trains.
On one evening, the Count was enjoying hushed conversation with the Rebel when at once he heard the chilling sound of five taps. He jumped to his feet. In the distance he heard boots crashing on the ground beneath him. They stopped outside his gate. The Rebel smiled at the ground. The Count hardly had the courage to look up. There before him stood the Hammer.

The Countess had no sooner got off the warning before she saw the men dragging the Count past her cell. He looked at her with his pale expression and smiled one last time at her. She screamed at the men, and one broke off to look at her. He was the tall one with the large hat and injured eye. He opened her cell and dragged her out. He took her to a quiet corner of the prison and sat her on a bench. At first, she did not dare to look him in the eye, but when she did she saw something familiar in his dark and soulless eye. She asked him why he was doing this. He told her that he should not but that he was saving her life. Silence followed as she gathered herself, the Hammer said nothing either. She asked about the Count. The Hammer said he could not save him, too. The Countess cried again and told him that he ought to give her the same fate.
The Hammer said nothing but nodded his head. He dragged her down to the depot with the rest of the men. There the prisoners were all loaded onto the train except the Count. The guards told him to get on his knees. The Hammer stepped in and told the guards to put the Countess into her own car. One objected to the highborn lady receiving such privilege, but ceased as soon as the Hammer looked at him. They were to leave immediately after. The Hammer would deal with the Count. He drew his pistol as the door was slammed right in front of her. She listened for a moment at the soft hushes of their voices. She could barely hear them over the cries of the poor souls in the other department. A shot rang out silencing all.
She cried and cried but the door suddenly opened. The Hammer grabbed her and dragged her out of the car. She screamed that he would have to kill her too. The Hammer did not reply. She heard the traincar's door slam behind her. The Hammer was taking her to the woods. She had no idea what he planned for her there. She began to struggle and his grasp slipped much easier than she had expected. She rolled onto the ground and looked up to face him. But it was not the Hammer that looked down at her, it was the Count in the Hammer's coat and hat. At once, she began to cry again in joy, as he led her to the woods.
As the train started to rumble off to nowhere with a whistle, the Marshall's son smiled in his lonely car. He knew that the two would pass through with no question if the Count wore his uniform. He knew they would find a boat and use it to travel to the Republic across the sea. He knew there they would find a simple life, happy because they were together. The Lord, he presumed, had guided his sword.
yeah it's a tale of two cites ripoff suck my dick

>his dick was pointed at us.
damn...

They returned them to FootLocker.

Love that memory.

If it's a letter to home, you lie like an asshole and tell Mama how the Mess Seargent somehow scrounged up turkeys for Christmas dinner and that you spend most of your days just observing the enemy lines and being bored. You tell them about Miles and his wacky family stories, leaving out the part about Miles getting his head blown off two days before, and tell Mama that she'll meet him when you all come home and sit down to dinner together. You tell her how you've raved about her famous chicken pie and she'll have to make a lot of it because your buddies eat like a train of horses, also leaving out the part where the only meat you've eaten in a week was when you managed to bayonet a rat running through your trench. You sign off with some vague military term that she won't understand, and tell her you think this will all be over very soon and you can't wait to come home and tell everyone how beautiful the country you're in is.

You'll hastily fold the letter and hand it to the Battalion runner who's collecting them. The warning whistle will sound, and you'll stack up with everyone else on the shallow trench step, bayonets fixed. Listening to the friendly shells screech overhead, adrenaline and terror will surge through your veins and you'll tap your fingers on the body of your rifle, praying that the shells go on forever while simultaneously wishing they'd stop so you could get it over with. You won't recognize that silence has fallen over the field until the attack whistle sounds, and then you and your comrades will pour over the top, once more into the breech.

Long ago, in Kentucky, I, a boy, stood
By a dirt road, in first dark, and heard
The great geese hoot northward.

I could not see them, there being no moon
And the stars sparse. I heard them.

I did not know what was happening in my heart.

It was the season before the elderberry blooms,
Therefore they were going north.

The sound was passing northward.

Tell me a story.

In this century, and moment, of mania,
Tell me a story.

Make it a story of great distances, and starlight.

The name of the story will be Time,
But you must not pronounce its name.

Tell me a story of deep delight.

shit ending

The worst thing imaginable happened to the best possible person
The end

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