Rough-Draft

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story in which i hope to share more as I continue to write.

Submitted: May 22, 2016

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Submitted: May 22, 2016

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The time I died.

Darting around the screen with constant site at the enemy, I danced through the pawns and made my play for a checkmate; I had successfully isolated the prey, disarmed his defense, and had loaded my weapons. So why did he look at me with the eyes of a victor? Why did he taunt me as if I was the one with no foot hold? Blood boiling with anger, I cocked the pistol aimed for his head, yelled out “This is where it ends, Kizu” and shot… This is where I learned my lesson. Before the fetus of victory could even encumber me the man disappeared, he was gone, nowhere to be found; until I felt a sharp metal edge emerge from my body introduced by a stream of red substance. I had died. I had been tricked by my own eyes, I had been lied to by my own instincts, I had been deceived by my own pride, and without a doubt I had been killed by own mistake. And that is where my 23 years, 8456 days, 201480 hours on this planet had come to an end.

They say that before a man dies he is given 7 minutes. 7 minutes to see his life; his most prized moments, his most regretful moments, and even his greatest secrets. These 7 minutes are the summary of those 23 years, 8456 days, and 201480 hours, and are also where my story will be shared. 

Let me start by saying this I am no great man, I have no titles to my name nor am I a noble man, but something that I am is different. To tell this story right I must start at the beginning, after the gods created the universe but before my first name day.  

Sprinkled with laughter, and optimism house Asaki was inflamed with festivities, for it was the family’s heir’s first name day. The boy was called Mais, named after the god of fortune and power, an ironic statement for his body was small and fragile, even for an infant, and his face only supported the irony for all he could be described as was an ugly baby. He had no chubby cheeks, nor did he have an even skin tone, no, no all he could be called was an ugly baby stained with a black mark on his for hand. His father and mother, the King and Queen of Magine: the greatest kingdom of the Southern World, gifted with a robust economy and a dwindled poverty rate was helpless in fixing the baby. All there silvers and golds, diamonds and platinums where worthless. There army of a million their swords forged with dragon stone where helpless. For the baby was ugly and only ugly, he was not royalty, no he was just another ugly boy. The king and queen had made a choice a choice covered with pride and greed, in a daze of rushed thoughts they had come to this choice to give the baby a year: a year in which he would out grow his file body and inherit the magnum throne, and today was his last day. No one knew what would happen if he did not complete this task, not much like they cared anyway the nobles and the peasants alike saw the boy just as his parents did: unworthy to rule without a proper 


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