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Trying to stop procrastinating and get writing, so count me in. Tentative choice of 1920: Alexander I, King of the Hellenes.
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May 29, 2013 02:27
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Okay, first thunderdome try, here goes... I chose: Alexander I, King of Greece: 1920. He died from infections caused by wounds he sustained from monkeys while trying to save his dog. The Old World is Dead (~780 words) What follows is a speech dictated by the puppet-king Alexander I to his low-born wife, Aspasia. It was to be read at his lavishly planned funeral, also described in detail by Alexander I. He died eleven days later to a modestly attended ceremony of little pomp and fanfare. His speech was never read nor his reign remembered as legitimate. Countrymen, I ask you: Would you have done differently? Is the canine not man’s best and most loyal servant? Do we not ask, protect me from my enemies, alert me of their presence, pierce their flesh to preserve mine? Is it not then an obligation, nay! our duty to reciprocate this service? Countrymen, again, I ask you: Were you to behold your most loyal and truest friend assailed by demons from beyond, would you not act? Should I have left poor Fritz to fend for himself among those beasts? Perish the thought! For is not Alsatian the most noble of creatures? Is not Ape most base? And I speak, not just of those vile creatures who have so wounded me - is not, Man, too, an ape? I may consider myself yet another victim of The Great War, swept away by the tide of a conflict one cannot hope to understand. At least I have been given time to contemplate. To try to understand. At least. But I am tormented. I hear the whispers. The chortles. His Majesty laid low by monkeys. I cannot bear it. Monkeys? Paw! No mere monkeys beset Fritz and I in the garden. Were it not for my impeccable skill with the rapier and the righteous passion that has flown in the blood of all the high-born men of Hellas since antiquity, I would not be lying here, bed-ridden in my final moments, dictating this missive. They stood hulking, a full head taller than any man. Foul mist emitted from their putrescent maws, under red portals that glared with stygian cunning. My doctors inform me it is the infection caused by these abominations that will sever my mortal coil, but I would not discount the wound itself. I tremble to remove the blanket covering my lower half and peer at the unfortunate wreckage of my left leg -- it hangs on below the knee by little more than a thread. Were it not for the bodily-agility blessed to all my line, I would have been struck down right there. And you say monkey? With a mighty thrust, I severed one of the foul beasts limbs at the elbow, and great black blood gushed forth. Its crony leapt forth and prevented me from finishing the malevolent creature, and to my horror I watched it lap at the spurting blood, hungrily, only for a new limb, a new crooked paw, to sprout forth anew so that it could renew its assault. Does that sound like a monkey? No, my friends. Try monstrosity. Grotesque. Hellion. Satan’s Spawn. All the hate and suffering spewed by mankind amassed into two infernal, blasted creatures. And what were these beasts doing in the Royal Gardens, you ask? Countrymen, I do not know, and such a question plagues me in the dim, humid hours of the night when I am alone with my thoughts, my wounds, and my imminent departure from this mortal plane. I would not rule out assassination, no. I do have enemies, this is true. Underminders. There are scoundrels at court, do not doubt it. I will not put names to these ne'er do wells, but I know, countrymen, you have suspicions to whom I speak. That vile man, that low-born displacer of royal blood! I have heard the rumors. I know what black sorcery he practices, while stealing the throne from my family. He exiled my dear mother first, only so he could unleash his shadowy progeny onto her royal heir while she was away! Eleftherios! Do not think I don’t know of your deeds. If only Mother were here. If only she ******** Dear Prime Minister Eleftherios Venizelos, My Lord Husband, Alexander I , true king of the Hellenes has taken to fever and now desires only to see his lady mother. A humble request you, Mr. Venizelos, have denied with great vigor. I have no illusions, Mr. Venizelos, that my husband’s wish to have the above read at his passing will ever be honored. Indeed, I do not have any illusions you know what the word or ideal of honor means. I wish only for this: a bequest both to my great interest and to yours. Do not let them laugh, Mr. Venizelos. Please, above all else. Do not let them laugh. The Rightful Queen of the Hellenic Republic, Aspasia Manos
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Jun 3, 2013 04:12
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I'm in.
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Jun 5, 2013 16:35
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I clicked the link for my passage yesterday, saw the sentence there and figured that was it. So I thought up a story idea, wrote a few ideas down, etc.... then I just realized now that the link was only the first sentence and not the entire passage and poo poo, not the direction I was going 
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Jun 7, 2013 07:31
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Story is only 3/4th done and guests are arriving shortly and australia time is dumb, so not gonna make the deadline.
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Jun 10, 2013 01:47
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