# January 2017 - LM - When a Good Man Falls



## kilroy214 (Jan 3, 2017)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS
*
*When a Good Man Falls*​
The winner will receive a badge pinned to their profile and given a month’s access to FoWF where you’ll have access to hidden forums and use of the chat room. 

This is a Fiction writing competition, and the prompt is '*When a Good Man Falls*' Pick your own title, write about whatever you want, as long as it's related in some way to the prompt.


 The Judges for this LM are: The Fantastical, Bishop, rcallaci, and kilroy214*
*If you want to judge and I left you out, send me your scores by the deadline. If you're listed here and don't wish to judge, let me know at once (please).

 All entries that wish to retain their first rights should post in the _LM Workshop Thread_.

 All Judges scores will be PMed to *kilroy214*. 

All anonymous entries will be PMed to *kilroy214*.


*Rules*




*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum.
*No Poetry!* Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place for your poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good competition over there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able to understand your work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges. Play the prose-poem game at your own risk.
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there.
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored.
*Only one entry per member.*
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.* If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word is the standard for checking this. If you are unsure of the word count and don't have Word, please send your story to me and I'll check it for you.



*There are a few ways to post your entry:*





If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread.
You can opt to have your entry posted in the*Workshop*which is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights, in case you wish to have the story published one day. Note: If you do post it in the workshop thread, you must post a link to it here in this thread otherwise your story may not be counted.
You may post your story anonymously. To do so, send your story to the host of the competition. If you wish to have us post it in the workshop thread then say so. Your name will be revealed upon the release of the score.




Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score. Please refrain from 'like'-ing or 'lol'-ing an entry until the scores are posted.

Judges: In the tradition of LM competitions of yore, if you could send the scores one week after deadline it will ensure a timely release of scores and minimize the overall implementation of porkforking. Please see the *Judging Guidelines* if you have questions. Following the suggested formatting will be much appreciated, too. 

*This competition will close on:*Sunday, the 15th of January at 11:59 PM, GMT time.​
Scores would be appreciated by Sunday, the 29th of January. 

Click here for the current time.


----------



## CPMurphy (Jan 8, 2017)

*King's Call*

Other than the gold sash, Artum’s uniform did not differ from any other member of the Royal Guard; the gold sash signified its wearer held the rank of elite, Leader of the king’s army.

Artum had not earned the rank he inherited from his father. An old tradition that when a good man falls, his position passes on to his eldest.

Artum stood in front of his king with news he dreaded to report. Clearing his throat, he proceeded to relay what he had learned. “My lord” hesitating briefly before continuing. “The scouts have reported that the Borrvin army is less than two days away. Their numbers are more than ten times that of our force; I beseech you to take refuge in the dragon’s tower”.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, King Wortord cut him off. “My young Royal Guard alas you may have inherited your fathers rank and features, but sadly not his bravery” his hand caressed an amulet that hung from his neck, a strange red glow emitted from it. “Those whores who have risen up against me could outnumber us one hundred times, as long as I have this Amulet I have the great power of the Elders to protect my kingdoms”. He grinned, “Let them come and let them meet their maker when they face my sorcerer”

Although ancient in years King Wortord had the appearance of a man in his prime. Many believed the amulet not only gave him control over Saratin the last great elder it also gave him youth.  He waved his hand again, this time to dismiss Artum.

But Artum was not finished with his report and braved facing his lord's wrath, “My lord, there are reports that the Borrvin Army is led by an Elder, and our people are fearful, the lord Saratin has not been seen since long before my birth”

King Wortord was starting to grow annoyed by Artum’s persistence, _Maybe it is time I changed tradition and chose a new elite, _He thought,
“As long as this amulet glows it signifies that the last great elder lives, NO elder, sorcerer, or god can stand against him, but it you feel those peasants who call themselves loyal subjects need reassurance then go ring the bell and summon Saratin. That will quell any fears”

Artum bowed his head as he backed up and out of the king’s chamber, His father was the last person to have tested the king’s patience, the result of which was how Artum earned his rank.

Taking the bell towers steps two at a time he finally reached its belfry. Grasping the cord, he rang the bell. Its peel ringing loud and clear, the crowds that had gathered below craned their heads upwards very few had heard the bell rung before.

Artum returned to the king’s chamber. This time without waiting for consent, he reported.  
“My king the lord Saratin has not answered the summons of the bell”,

King Wortord looked at him with disbelief, “that is impossible, he is bound to this amulet till his death, and the amulet still glows so he still lives” before he could continue a bright flash in the corner of the room cut him short, the two men watched as a figure started to medialize. A smile started across King Warlord’s face, “you see Artum, Saratin still answers my call”

The hooded figure that had appeared in the room turned to face them. “My father no longer answers any summons, his soul now rests in the hall of the Elders” I am Thorin. The last of the great elders, with my father’s death I inherited his rank and powers. I am here to claim his amulet that you stole and used its powers to keep young, not realising my father also needed it to sustain his life. I am Thorin and I answer no king’s call


----------



## godofwine (Jan 9, 2017)

The Preacher’s Wife by Godofwine (643 Words)


----------



## kilroy214 (Jan 9, 2017)

The Catcher in the Sky
by Anonymous


----------



## JaneC (Jan 11, 2017)

*To Kill a King (645 words)*

To Kill A King
By JaneC


Shrouded in the shadows, he awaited his moment to strike as the army of men rushed past him. His mission – to kill the king; and if it was the last thing he’d do, he would accomplish it.

Thorne held himself close to the ruins beneath the moonless sky. His focus faltered as he thought of his wife, killed mercilessly at the hands of the king he had once been loyal to. When he’d heard of her brutal death while away on a mission, Thorne broke his vow to protect and made a new to destroy.

The sound of heavy footfall faded and Thorne knew that Leon was near. He’d be accompanied by a handful of well-trained men; men _he_ had trained and knew well, yet have no choice but kill for his revenge.  He heard the clanging of the multitude of gold accessories King Leon always wore grow louder. He stilled his broken heart and lunged from the shadows; his sword quickly finding the gut of his first victim. The blood curdling grunts were masked by the yells of the two other guards at Leon’s side.

Thorne pulled his sword from the body and swung again; spinning, he slashed at the next.  A loud clang of metal colliding filled the air as his sword met another. He pushed the guard back and swung again, swiping his arm and drawing blood. Thorne quickly turned and caught the third guard by the throat, whose eyes bugged as Thorne squeezed, before sinking his sword deep into his abdomen.

Rage filling him, he the body fall and raked the air with his sword again colliding it with the last guard’s sword for a second time. Thorne could feel the guard’s fleeting strength and spun around; landing a blow of his elbow to the gaping wound on his arm. The guard screamed in pain and crumbled to the ground, meeting his end with a quick swipe of Thorne’s sword to the neck.

Heaving and blood covered, Thorne finally looked at the man he once called his king; now holding a sword himself. Gripping his sword tighter, Thorne glared at Leon. His brow creased and he pursed his lips when he saw a wide smile across the king’s face.  “It’s finally just the two of us” the King chuckled, making Thorne’s rage double. “Why, Leon? Tell me why you killed her.” He demanded, pacing back and forth as the King stood his ground. “If I’m going to die today, I’m taking you with me” Leon sneered, no doubt knowing he couldn’t win this fight. Thorne smiled as he thought of the release that death would bring him and the fact that Leon had only held a sword for ceremonial purposes in the last few years. He was overweight, over dressed and out manned.

“In all my years of service, I never failed you. Tell me, why!” Thorne demanded again.
“We all out live our usefulness, and she had long since met hers.” Leon said coldly, as he held his gaze on Thorne.
“What?” Thorne questioned, stopping in his tracks.
“You think she slept alone at night when you were gone on mission after mission?” Leon chuckled.

Thorne sneered at the idea, knowing his wife had been just as loyal as he was. The last tether holding him back snapped and Thorne lunged forward; his aim firm for the King’s heart. Dodging a swipe of Leon’s sword, Thorne felt his sword sink into Leon’s chest. His mission was complete.

Thorne’s smile faded as crippling pain radiated through him. Looking down, he saw the King’s sword sunk deep within him as well. The grin finally faded from Leon’s face and Thorne smiled again. The king was dead. Unaware of what caused his once great King to fall so far, Thorne closed his eyes and saw his wife, welcoming him home with open arms.


----------



## Dictarium (Jan 11, 2017)

fantastic(al) or when a boy falls in love (641 words)


----------



## Sleepwriter (Jan 14, 2017)

Bad Day 650 words


----------



## Ibb (Jan 15, 2017)

*Mr. Goodman / 650 Words / (Profanity Warning)*

Mr. Goodman missed a step, took a spill, cracked a bone and, through one of those incomprehensible miracles of modern malady, contracted a rare case of unclassifiable pneumonia and was hospitalized soon thereafter. The media, of course, was all over it. Here was Mr. Goodman exiting the courthouse; Mr. Goodman as he approached the steps; Mr. Goodman as he raised his hat to the surrounding crowd and proffered a quick smile before resuming his skidaddle; then, at last, Mr. Goodman as he laid the heel of his foot just two errant inches beyond where it was comfortable―before disappearing almost immediately into a crumpling of limbs, clothes, and head-over-asshole tumbles. The cameraman who’d been slightly hungover and not really up to the task of filming that day had already been somewhat off kilter with his direction, and by mere coincidence of his drooping the camera slightly lower than was protocol did he capture the quintessential angle at which best to witness Mr. Goodman falling on his ass. The footage, repeated ad infinitum, caused an uproar all over town, carried like a fire across the sea, made its way through broadcast and datastream into the household of innumerable cheerer-ons, and increased the overall happiness of the world’s population―if such a thing were strictly empirical and able to objectively be tallied―by 43.8% that day. 

When word spread that Mr. Goodman would, indeed, kick the proverbial bucket, local governments around the world could not halt the tide of spillage into the streets: songs, music, dancing and cheer swelled the usual silence into an incomprehensibly joyous hullabaloo. Confetti burst like fireworks from the rooftoops, sparklers traveled with the grace of comets, stalls serving kebabs, pastries and pork loins popped up almost instantaneously, and brick buildings previously bare were adorned overnight in innumerably colored, artistically lenient portraitures of Mr. Goodman, his round scalp and flat cap accessorized with horns and serpent tongues, accompanied by the slogan: _Good is Dead!_

He was pronounced kaput at 2AM. The media, smelling blood in the water, quickly scrambled and devised how best to draw the thing out; a famous dead person, on average, was agreed to solicit at least one week’s worth of solid viewings, and all you really needed was a few perfunctory headshots, some slow zoom-ups, 15 to 45 seconds’ worth of loopable interviewee footage, casting calls for upcoming biopics exceptionally quick in their zest to dishonor the dead, announcements of upcoming documentaries―the works. Mr. Goodman’s coffin wasn’t necessarily paraded around the streets, but it might as well have been. Proliferations of the dead are simply too profitable these days to let one simply die in peace. Why not prod the corpse a bit, shake it upside down before a frothing public, see if a few coins or long buried secrets pour out? If it’s worth a buck, who gives a fuck? (_sic_) 

 Death opened the floodgates. Those who aspired to Mr. Goodman’s seat were quick to distance themselves from the man with whom they’d previously been pals. Not for them, they said, the Christmas cards sent back and forth, the lamb dinners shared over cocktails, the laughs, snorts and red-faced snickering when paying lipservice to Common Good before taking repeated shits all over it behind closed doors. Nay, said the aspirants; if there was one thing each of them could agree on, it was that they themselves were Not Good. Their proclamations received applause, the appraisal and agreement of intellectual wahoos, and the backing of rockstars, actors, and other entertainers who confused fame for merit. Things would be better, all promised: Transparency; Freedom; Greatness; Hope; This Shit; That Shit; horses on a carousel. Hardly a week was past. People began to repeat the words, regurgitate the slogans, and say with conviction that this was it, _this_ was the one. 

And it was funny. Once upon a time they’d said all the same things about Mr. Goodman.


----------



## kilroy214 (Mar 16, 2017)

Angel of the Morning
by Anonymous


----------

