Posts Tagged ‘battle’


Black clouds spread over rippling seas, over rolling hills of lively green, over ice-capped mountains tall and proud, seeking to cover the earth in a choking shroud.

At their heart, the black dragon reeled to full, terrible height. He was a creature of endless midnight, come from the dark places beyond the earth, his eyes fierce, his teeth sword-sharp. His claws dug deep into the earth, carving deep canyons. All the earth shuddered as he let out a thunderous roar.

Then, there came a shaft of light, piercing white. It stabbed through the clouds, becoming a column of swirling white, like a flurry of numberless doves. The dragon roared at it, breathing black night, but the shaft stood firm and unyielding. It would not break before him.

A man strode forth from the white, a dark shape moving in brightness. He held a bright sword in his hand and his broad shoulders were covered by a coat of hardened leather. Holding his shield before him, he charged towards the dragon.

They met in a fury of blows, the earth quaking beneath each stroke. In the heavens above, the dark clouds tore at the light, but they could not break it.

Word Count: 200

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction!



Jan knew he should have felt honored by the great Lord Nirinberk asking him to serve at his side. He knew he should have felt eager for the glory of battle ahead.

But as he stared at the mail coat – the coat he was expected to wear, the coat he might die in – he was terrified.

Jan walked over to the swords and picked one up. The steel was cold and heavy, like a winter storm. Giving it a swing, he tried to imagine himself as a bold knight. He tried to fall back into childhood dreams where swords gleamed and proud warriors came home victorious to the sound of the trumpets.

But all he could imagine was death: blank faces watching the skies, maybe his own amongst them, all the breath gone from his lungs, the last beat gone from his heart.

The sword dropped from Jan’s fingers, clattering like thunder. Jan collapsed to his knees.

“It isn’t easy, is it?”

Lord Nirinberk put a hand on Jan’s shoulder, no longer looking like a storybook hero but rather a man ravaged by battle and memory.

“I was afraid too,” he said. “Fear doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

Word Count: 201

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction.

(I’m very glad to be back and able to do these challenges again. I’ll be putting up a more detailed post about that sometime this week. Thanks to all the readers who read, commented, and liked the content that went up while I was away. You’re all fantastic.)


Covered in dirt and blood, Grimhilt stood at the base of the stone stairs. The door had been closed behind her, held fast by an iron beam. Soldiers flung themselves against it, trying to break through. The hinges strained and the wood buckled, but the door stood strong.

Grimhilt looked up the stairs to see him standing there, clad in simple robes of black. He wasn’t running. He knew there was nowhere left to run.

“Duke Stevrin,” Grimhilt said. “I have come for you.”

“I know.”Stevrin kept staring out, looking at the green fields in the distance.

“You killed my family. My husband. My sons.”

“I know.”

“I’m here to kill you.”

Stevrin turned to face her and she saw the black sword in his hand.

“I know.”

She rushed up the stairs towards him, knives in her hands. They collided like waves and shore, their blows roaring like thunder.

Word Count: 150

This is my entry for this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thank you to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Louise with The Storyteller’s Abode for providing the photo!



Posted: August 10, 2015 by Philip Jean Kilmer in Uncategorized
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I had yet to share any of my writing onto this blog (or to get back to work on it after recovering from a surgery), and am unable to share a full short story with this page. But this is a scene that came to me one day that I will hopefully be able to turn into a story using the characters I created here. It is a break from my current mode of writing, (contemporary vampires/supernatural) and going back to my writing roots (medieval fantasy/war). So here I am throwing you right smack in the middle of a scene for a sample of my writing.


Black smoke strangled the air around her. Though her war paint had bled down her face hours ago, ash had taken its place. Embers filled the sky like ascending stars, and strewn all around her in the barren maw were bodies of both friend and foe. Twisted gauntlets, bashed in helmets, and cracked breastplates gave way to severed flesh and charred corpses.

Alessia wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead, just above her pitch black eyes, smearing her olive skin with ash. A hot breeze carrying the scent of fire and death wisped her raven hair in front of her face and off to the side. She faltered, struggling to bear her own weight, let alone that of the iron armor. She imagined removing the breastplate that pulled her to the ground so heavily, and slipping off her gauntlets that burned her muscles with each swing of his sword, but knew to resist that temptation. She had removed her helmet, unable to breathe with it on once the effluvia of singed hair and burning flesh seeped into her soul and clenched her stomach, but she had paid for it with an arrow that grazed her cheek and clipped her ear, painting the side of her neck a crimson red that dried in a mix of ash and dirt, fading to putrid brown.

A familiar voice in the form of sickly, exhausted coughs crackled from behind her. A young man about her age, his armor similar to hers but with more dents and cracks in it, heaved as he came to a stop next to her. His blue eyes showed what hers could not. Fear. The short, blonde waves on his head were speckled with blood, some his own, but most of it other’s. His name was Gaelin, and they had only seen each other in passing and in training before this battle. They had never spoken directly to one another, nor had they considered each other friends, but now they stood brother and sister amid the chaos.

In front of them a towering figure in black armor and a long, tattered cloak descended a hill of earth and bodies. In his one fully metal hand was a mace of massive weight, twisted with jagged spines at the end of it, and in the other was a greatsword that a lesser man would need two hands for. Each of his weapons, black as they were, were wet and slick with blood. His black armor functioned more like scales, and it appeared that not a single inch of his flesh was left exposed. With his breath came more embers, and an orange glow that heated and distorted the air in front of him until his mouth closed once more. His eyes burned a bright yet dark blue, two fiery orbs shining from under his helmet and face mask. Truly, he was a dragon in human form. And as he walked, it appeared as though his ashen wings would sprout from his flesh, tear through his metal jacket, and carry him into the smoke polluted sky.

Gaelen clenched his fists around his longsword in front of him with another sickly cough. “We’re sure to die in this field.”

Alessia looked from the ground where her shattered bow lay to Gaelen, and their eyes met for seemingly the first time. She too clenched her sword, letting the Obsidian blade hang towards the ground in her one hand. “If we are to die, then let’s hope we can say that he didn’t leave the fight unscathed.”

Their eyes parted and they both gazed upon the approaching dragon of black armor and fire. Mustering up the last of their strength, the two stood tall. They took tight but shaking grips onto their swords. They steadied their racing hearts. And they said their silent goodbyes to those that they loved.

“I’ll see you in the afterlife, Alessia.”