Bethany A. Jennings says:

The guard would never let me enter if he knew what I was planning.

If only I could somehow get his attention.

Despair rises inside me as my feet keep walking, my eyes straight ahead, my jaw locked. The sorcerer’s enchantment holds me as tightly here as it did in his chambers. I cannot even turn my face toward the soldier or give him a desperate glance.

He bows courteously as I pass. “My queen.”

No! Inside I’m screaming, my mind scrabbling like small vermin trapped in a cage.

Dangling in my voluminous gold skirts, the bomb thuds against my knees.

Sweat beads on my neck. If I stop breathing and I faint, perhaps the sorcerer’s hold will break.

I can no more stop breathing than stop walking.

One step more.

One more.

Into the shaft of sunlight shining from the vast dome of the throne room.

Toward the dais in the center, where my husband sits, deep in discourse with a courtier—his lanky form posed casually on the throne as if he’s reclined at table, his golden curls like a lazy halo around his head.

My king. My love. I have not set eyes on him in days.

I will never get to take back the words I said in that fight. Never kiss his fragrant lips again. Never lose myself in his arms.

How did he vex me? I cannot remember why. All I see is his golden face. All I feel is the deadened thud of my heart. All I hear is the tick of the bomb against my knees.

Oh, powers below, let him not look at me.

A sob bubbles in my throat, but the spell holds it inside, another explosion waiting in my chest.

Then he turns.

Surprise crosses his face—and a shadow of a smile.

Hope.

Oh, powers, please, not hope.

Not for me.

TJ Marquis says:

The guard would never let me enter if I knew what he was planning.

Too bad I’m incapable of lying. This called for a delicate approach.

“What’s yer business, miss?” He growled.

“I… need to see to the dress,” I said. Not a lie, but a little too close. Needles pricked the inside of my veins.

“The wedding dress? You a seamstress?” He asked.

If he’d said the instead of a… I almost sighed my relief.

“Yes sir.”

“Well I can’t be holdin’ that up. Not today. Go on then, double quick.”

He gestured me through the marble archway brusquely.

I was a seamstress. My tools hung low in a bag across my back. I wasn’t here to mend anything though. Alter it, sure, but not in a way Kiron’s citizens would like.

I followed the sounds of preparation through polished halls, over rugs worth more money than I’d ever earn. No one stopped me. I was a servant about my business, not worth breath or spit. They believed I belonged.

The bride was not in her dressing room. I thanked God, though I still wasn’t convinced that what I planned to was entirely right. All the same, it had to be done. I steeled myself like a soldier to do my duty.

I closed the door softly, bolted it. Get caught, die – but I had no choice.

The dress stood alone on its form. Did its fabric shrink from my touch?

I went to work, pulling out copper fiber thread, stitching it into key points of the dress. I entangled the copper with the remote trigger in my glove, and sweating, stepped away.

This was my blessing – I’d chosen the ninth of ten – if I kept my lips from falsehood, I could reveal truth to others, through my craft.

Soon, everyone would see what the king’s new wife really was.

Amanda Pizzolatto says:

The guard would never let me enter if he knew what I was planning. But my biggest concern was that he would recognize me. I was Evan Wordsworth’s girlfriend after all. We had tried very hard to keep the paparazzi from snapping pictures of me, but they had managed to get a few pictures and got some info circulating on the web. Fortunately, Evan has some of the best fans around and they kept the pictures from circulating too far. Unfortunately, they could still be found if one looked hard enough, which I figured this guy’s boss did look hard enough.

I closed my eyes as an image of Evan formed in my mind and tears welled up in my eyes. I had to do this, there was no choice. Sure, I could be captured and they could force Evan to do what they wanted by threatening my life, but I was also the only person who could save him. I quickly dried my eyes and picked up the tray of food and water. I let out a breath before trying to walk towards the guard confidently and calmly. It didn’t help that my heart was pounding loud enough to wake the dead. Evan’s voice rang through my head, telling me not to think about it. I concentrated on his voice, and I think it helped a lot.

The gaurd saw me with the tray, nodded at me when I smiled at him, and opened the door.

“Thank you,” I said before walking into the room.

He nodded again, looking a little more pleasant. “You’re welcome.” He closed the door, and I fought to keep from bursting into a grin. I made it in!! But the next second, the urge to grin vanished.

Esther Wallace says:

The guard would never let me enter if he knew what I was planning. If he knew what I intended to steal, that I intended to steal at all, I would be hung for sure.

Instead, he let me through, and I walked past, again lifting my furs to my shoulder. I could have turned back. I should have, but I wanted that treasure more than anything, more than life itself. With it I would feel like a king.

Selling fine furs to Lady Magaree of Hambridge would put me in the chambers where housed my greatest desire.

I kept my feet to a slow shuffle, telling each guard who blocked my way, “Can you direct me to Her Ladyship? I have more furs for her.”

“Ah, Ham.” They all said, for I had been there many a time in my preparation, and after all there were many Hams in Hambridge. Then the guards would remind me which corners to take, each one bringing my thieving fingers closer to my goal and my heart farther into my throat.

Then, I reached the door of her ladyship’s outer chamber, raised my shaking fist, and knocked. The door opened and I was ushered inside. There, I froze. The lady met me, coldly regal as always. This time, however, it was as if she knew my intentions, and I dropped to my knees. I hoped it looked like subservience.

“Ah, Ham,” she said, unintentionally parroting the guards. “I have no need for furs today, but my daughter, Clerese, has wanted some to make a winter cloak.”

Clerese, always full of life, leapt up from the windowsill. “I’ll show you my wardrobe.”

My heart pounded, but I followed her out of the room. As soon as we were alone, I could wait no longer. “Clerese, will you elope with me?”

Angela R. Watts says:

The guard would never let me enter if he knew what I was planning. No guard would allow a child into the Great Kingdom. Children were unwelcome. They needed care while the Kingdom was a prospering place.

“Please, sir.” He would see me as a starving beggar girl and rebuke me.

I prayed he would.

“Please…” I called, voice pained, like a fox’s whimper when stuck in a hunter’s trap. “I have nowhere to go…”

The guard’s emotionless eyes studied me. I was so close to him now, he could strike me down with one mighty fist. “Children are unwelcome past the gates.” His tone was just as cold as his old eyes.

“Just a morsel to eat? I’ll leave!” I hugged my arms around my shaky frame. It was as if Elyon himself blew the cold wind that nipped my chapped lips.

“Move along. The Great Kingdom cannot afford the like of you.”

“Mercy, please.” Tears welled in my eyes.

The guard looked around. He was a single guard at a merchant’s entry way–he was alone.

Or so he believed.

He would strike me dead if he knew what I was doing.

“You have nowhere to go?” He asked.

“No, sir.” To lie was to bring honor, my papa said. But the words of Elyon tugged at my pounding heart. If only Mama hadn’t found the Written Letters! Lying would come so much easier for me now.

The guard mumbled something in his native tongue, pulled a key from his thick coat pocket. “Aye, a morsel won’t hurt at this late hour…”

I looked to the gates, saw the guard’s scarred face soften, but I did not move. “I am sorry,” I whispered.

A silent arrow pierced the night air and lodged in the guard’s heart. He fell, blood mingling in the snow, and my papa and his men darted toward the gate.

Lorraine Cassidy says:

The guard would never let me enter if he knew what I was planning.

Stealing into a soul to Waken it is never easy. This particular guard was Sloth, so I was sent to sneak into this particular soul. The Almighty keeps all Anointed feelings around to bring the Awakening. I go by many names as I sneak into souls – Boredom, or Listlessness.

I must be careful not to linger or be caught by the soul itself. For my work is delicate, enough to encourage but not enough to discourage. I am a powerful emotion, so I must keep my spiritual footprints light.

The guard is Sloth, however, and he does not care about emotions. We come and go as we please. If he knew, however, he would overtake me and try to smother me.

I slide past the guard, aware of the beady eyed stare, the examination. No Excitement here, no Desire or Passion. No, I am Anointed Boredom, and no evil penchant recognizes the gateway. That is why I am first.

The soul itself is brilliant, a drop of the Immortal in cloying spiritual darkness. I dance around the soul, tapping light and high. Other emotions around me hammer with fisted thoughts. Sadness pounds with memories of hurtful words. Depression scratches at the bottom, leaving deep wounds that no human mouth could mutter. Humiliation howls with every horrible happening that causes this soul to lay low.

But my tapping is having an impact. The soul brightens, responds to my spiritual footprint. Sloth shifts in its position, noticing the change, and beady eyes land on me. I laugh. Sloth is too late.

For as I lay boredom lightly across the soul, I can sense Discontent following me. And when Anointed Discontent begins to knock across a soul, Sloth can not stop it.

Lady Arin says:

The guard would never let me enter if he knew what I was planning. Like the others in the village, he bowed when the Elders passed, and recited the Chants with fervor. When the Elders declared the will of the Divines, he believed them, like everyone else. Like I had, before the nightmares.

Acolytes take a vow of silence, and must veil their faces. I had never been more grateful for either. My throat was so dry I couldn’t have spoken if I wanted to, and my face surely betrayed the fear twisting in my stomach.

“Bit late for a cleansing ritual,” he said.

Idiot, a voice whispered in my ear. Do you spend hours studying the texts? Are you worthy now to recite the prayers? What makes you think if the Divines had a message, they would give it to you?

“Hurry up then,” the guard said.

I jumped. In my moment of distraction, he had opened the door. Before he got more suspicious or my courage failed, I ducked into the chamber. The door shut behind me, and for a moment I was blind. Then my eyes adjusted to the dim light, and I froze.

I had wanted to believe the Elders. I had wanted to think my dreams were only dreams. But there was the cell, just as filthy and small as I had dreamed it. And there, chained like a vicious dog, was the king’s son.

The Elders said he had abandoned the Divines. They said they sent him home with a warning.

His lips were cracked and bleeding. His face was swollen and bruised. He stared at me with wide, bloodshot eyes.

I pulled off my veil, and knelt in front of him. “Don’t be afraid,” I whispered. “I think your God sent me.”

Sarah Levesque says:

The guard would never let me enter if he knew what I was planning. I had to be calm, confident, charismatic to get by him, or I’d be shot. Or worse. Getting out would be harder – I’d have to use all my acting skills to brazen my way back out of the ghetto with the Jewish children hidden in the ambulance. Thank God they knew how to be quiet, far better than I had as a child. They had learned from the fear of their elders.
“Halt!”
I showed my papers. They were all in order. They had to be for me to pull this off. I flirted a bit as the guard checked the ambulance, and was finally allowed into the ghetto. I sighed inwardly with relief – the first part was over.
I was a familiar face here. I handed out food, clothes and blankets, I gave simple medical care, I talked with the residents of the ghetto, and I quietly collected children in my ambulance. Then it was time to leave. Time to act again. I took a deep breath. Calm, confident, charismatic.
“Halt!”
I showed my papers again. They were still in order, of course. I flirted again as my ambulance was given a cursory glance.
Finally I was allowed to continue. Again I breathed a sigh of relief, this one probably audible to the children hidden in my ambulance.
We were free.

[Based on the life of Irena Sendler (née Krzyżanowska)]

Gregory N says:

The guard would never let me enter if he knew what I was planning. But some things are worth fighting for. Even at the first ecumenical council of the holy Church. Even in front of the Emperor.

Bishop Eusebius was an older man, but his easy smile and magnificent robes were a shocking contrast to some of the desert monks in attendance at Nicea. Upon seeing my guide, he stiffened.
“Well, if it isn’t our friend, the Black Dwarf,” a few snorts of laughter from the Bishop’s entourage. “Athanasius, what brings you to our side of the aisle?”
“This man has asked for an introduction.” He nodded at me. “Nicholas of Myra.”
I wasn’t here to listen to jokes, so I spoke before he could tell another.
“Is it True? You intend to argue that the Son is merely a creature?”
The Bishop tisked. “How dramatic. But, perhaps an explanation from the source,” Bishop Eusebius of Nicomedia waved his hand toward one of his underlings and beamed with fatherly pride. “Arius of Alexandria.”
The youth had curly hair and a ruddy complexion.
“If God is, as Plato argues, unoriginate,” He postured, “then not even the Son can be His equal.”
The bishop clapped his hands for his protege.
That’s when I punched Arius in the face.
He hit the floor. Hard.
One of Bishop Eusebius’s assistants screamed, but I roared louder.
“You’d worship Magnificence, but downgrade the crucified Carpenter! Your unoriginate is a god for the powerful but you will not confound the Son, Light of Light, True God of true God.”
“Enough. You brute.” The bishop. No longer jovial. “Leave us.”
My diminutive guide hurried me away.
“Your cheeks are as dark as sugarplums.” he said, grinning.
“Their arrogance is as deep as their heresy.” I muttered, attempting calm.
“Nicholas the Red.” Athanasius laughed, “Someday they’ll make you a Saint!”

Ann Milo says:

Hi, everyone! Here is my story: hope you enjoy it. 🙂

The guard would never let me enter if he knew what I was planning.

Violet’s thoughts swirled through her head as her horse strode purposefully toward the guard stationed at the distant gate.

She’d been told the next clue would be inside the San Trans Villa. It was crucial for her to find the clue in order to deactivate the bomb.

Violet’s thoughts abruptly came to a halt as her horse reached the guard. “Hello, sir,” she said brightly. “Would you mind letting me in?”

The guard remained motionless, staring straight ahead. Violet waved her hand in front of him. Nothing. She backed her horse up 200 feet and charged him toward the guard.

The guard snapped to attention, immediately sprang out of the way, and unwillingly opened the gate.

Once inside the villa, Violet crept cautiously along the long hallway. The crystal chandeliers were covered with cobwebs. The dusty hall was ornately furnished. The atmosphere was dark and forbidding. Not a soul was in sight.

Violet glanced uneasily about her. There was a rustle, and she turned, quickly looking around while backing down the hallway. Suddenly she bumped into a dark form. Slowly she turned to face a huge man with a scarred face, holding an ax. She shrieked. The man, frightened by the tiny girl, shrieked as well. They both tried to run, but collided with one another. The man kept whispering, “God has not given me a spirit of fear, God has not given me a spirit of fear. . .”

As they broke free, the man rushed from the room. As he ran out, something small and round bounced from his belt.
The clue? Violet glanced down. Then it hit her.

It was the answer to the code for deactivating the bomb.

Suddenly she heard rustling, and her foot hit the clue, sending it down a grate in the floor.

Carolyn Dickinson says:

This was fun. I shared it with my writing group, and we each wrote something. Some will post. Thanks for the offer.

The guard would never let me enter if he knew what I was planning.
“Who are you and why are you here?”
My robe and the hood shadowing my face identified me as a monk. “Brother Herbert,” I mumbled, with my voice in tenor mode. “I’m here to see the young woman sentenced to death.”
He shook his head. “She said no religious visitors.”
“Not religion. I want to talk about her future.”
“Like heaven or hell?” he chortled.
“Something like that.”
“Follow this tunnel. At the T, turn left. She’s at the end, as far down as the dungeon goes.”
My sandals made no sound on the packed dirt. She stood with her back to the bars. I cleared my throat. Twitching in surprise, she turned to face me.
“What do you want?” Her jaw was clenched, her eyes cold.
“I’m here to help,” I replied.
“Help? How can you help me? I’m to be burned alive tomorrow.”
A few mystical words opened the cell door enough for me to step inside. “Take my robe and hood. Keep your head down as you pass the guard. Don’t talk. Mumble if you must.”
“What?”
“Just do as I say. Your friends are waiting outside.”
“They’ll burn you!” She tried to keep her voice low, not very successfully.
“Not likely. But I’m not afraid to die.”
“Neither am I!”
“I know, but you are far more important than I am. You are the leader of the revolt. They need you, not me.”
Minutes later she walked slowly up the tunnel, head down. I closed the door gently. After a few more mystical words, a black cat followed her past the guard and out of the dungeon.
The unfortunate part of my plan was that, the next day, some other young woman, hooded for burning, stood in the place of Joan of Arc.

Abigail Falanga says:

The guard would never let me enter if he knew what I was planning.
A terrible risk.
“Worth it!” I muttered.
“What’s that?” asked one of the others.
“Nothing,” I replied, hopeless as everyone else. Nothing – yet.
But soon… If it worked. If I could pull it off.
I had to. It was worth the risk. The situation couldn’t get worse. I couldn’t shake from my vision the desolate dwellings, gaunt faces of women, silent children without laughter or play or even complaint of hunger and fear.
It had gone on long enough.
The marauders swept through regularly, taking our sustenance, whatever caught their attention, until nothing was left. For years it had been so, until we expected it, as if this was life. Sun, sand, sword…
And still, no one dared rise and stop it. We were strong enough – we of the Sons of the Right Hand. But resistance met death.
But… If the head of the marauders was destroyed, the rest would crumble.
And I had a secret I had at last determined to use.
The guard glanced us over, disdainful of the ragged men with cloaks draped away from our left hip to show we carried no weapon.
Then he nodded, sneered, let us enter.
“Tribute, lord,” I said.
The marauder chieftain was a revolting mountain of fat, like a leech sated on blood. He smiled, as if kindly accepting an offering that would keep his hordes off. It never did.
We laid the tribute at his feet, bowed, and withdrew.
All but me.
“I have a private message, lord.”
A bribe – that’s what he thought. “Very well, remain,” he said, motioning his attendants off, and asked indolently: “What is your name, and what is this message?”
“My name is Ehud, lord,” I said. “This is my message:” and reached my dominant left hand to the sword hidden under my cloak.