Fortnightly Writing Competition - Monumental Memories (Winner inside)

[Sinitrena]

Soldiers, from the summit of yonder pyramids forty centuries look down upon you...

Old monuments like the pyramids probably would have a lot of stories to tell if they could talk. They also are very limited in their perspective. They stay at one place and only see part of a larger picture. On the other hand, they see human interaction over a period of many, many years.

Imagine yourself to be a monument and tell a story from this perspective. It doesn't have to be first person and it's not even necessary to treat the monument like a person. As long as you limit your point of view, it is enough. All kinds of stories are possible: two lovers that always meet at the Taj Mahal, the pyramids witnessing Napoleons speech or the Statue of Liberty being transported from France to New York.

This Fortnightly Writing Competition ends on the 7. August and there will be trophies.
Enjoy writing.

[Baron]

....and there will be trophies.

I've been promised trophies before....

Will put in trophies later. Gotta have trophies, right?

[kconan]

  So for example if one was writing about Angkor Wat, could they could write something like...

   ...The Khmer King looked on as his team of architects, stone masons, and artists hashed out where the temple (or wat) should be located and the details of its construction.  As he watched, the captain of his guard approached bringing news of his brother's latest attempt to rekindle a civil war...

  Is this ok?  3rd person perspective with the action taking place in or around the monument.

[Sinitrena]

  Is this ok?  3rd person perspective with the action taking place in or around the monument.

Yes, that's exactly what I had in mind. The only limit is the physical location of the monument and what the monument could "know".

[Ghost]

Can I write a story about a rock having a sword trust into him? And people flocking around talking about some guy named Arthur?
Does that count as a "monument"?

[kconan]

The only limit is...what the monument could "know".

I want some brief exposition, or backstory, of characters that are at the monument.  The story will only take place at the monument, and the plot revolves around what it was built for in the first place.

[Sinitrena]

Can I write a story about a rock having a sword trust into him? And people flocking around talking about some guy named Arthur?
Does that count as a "monument"?

monument
noun [countable] British English pronunciation: monument /ˈmÉ’njÊŠmÉâ,,¢nt/

    1
    a structure built in a public place to celebrate an important person or event
    monument to:

    a monument to those who died in the attack

    2
    a place of historical importance, for example an old building

    ancient/historic monuments

(http://www.macmillandictionary.com/dictionary/british/monument)

"A place of historical importance." Yeah, that works just fine.  (I never said it has to be a monument existing in the real world, did I?)

The only limit is...what the monument could "know".

I want some brief exposition, or backstory, of characters that are at the monument.  The story will only take place at the monument, and the plot revolves around what it was built for in the first place.

Well, backstory should preferably be in the form of a dialog. In that case the monument would simply hear it. But honestly, it doesn't have to. I certainly won't disqualify a story because it takes some liberties with the rules. And the winner is chosen by voting anyway.

Now, guys, it's good to see you are intrested in entering. Time to write.   

[kconan]

Well, backstory should preferably be in the form of a dialog. In that case the monument would simply hear it. But honestly, it doesn't have to. I certainly won't disqualify a story because it takes some liberties with the rules. And the winner is chosen by voting anyway.

The characters have some internal dialog around the monument.  Also, the monument reads minds.

[kconan]

A man walked his son to the ruins of the largest amphitheater ever built by the Roman Empire.  His son was a strapping young kid in his teens.  They stood facing a pitted, limestone pillar which was lying sideways and had obviously seen better days.  The son said, "Dad, tell me about the hunts."  The father smiled and replied, "Nearly all of the old tales are dark and violent, so don't tell your mother I told you."  He put his arm on his son's shoulder and began...
----

The rules of the main event were simple.  Four lightly armored prisoners fighting for freedom and glory each armed with a gladius, and the largest white rhinoceros that Emperor Vespasian's team of hunters could find from the uncharted jungles West of Egypt, squared off in a battle to the death.  The rhino was big enough to earn the name Gigantus, and more importantly, successful enough to survive ten brutal Colosseum hunts.  Vespasian had recently ordered Gigantus to be armored, in order to fairly justify adding more combatants to the upcoming games.

Marcus stretched as he prepared for his battle with Gigantus.  From the arena passageway he only half-watched a slave being torn to pieces by two half-starved, rabid jaguars.  The crowd roared.  Another slave threw a spear at one of the occupied jaguars, just as a previously unseen third went from stalking to moving in for the kill and leapt on his back.  The spear thrower was reduced to a bloody heap from an onslaught of bites and claw strikes.  Marcus glanced over to where the spear had landed and saw it had gone in to the audience, all of whom fought over the rights as if it was the World's most valuable souvenir.  Marcus was big, Roman, and a decorated soldier until he refused orders to strangle a female slave who had disrespected his imperator.  He wanted freedom, but more importantly redemption through fame.

Flavius ignored the jaguar mauling currently taking place, and examined the razor sharp edge of his gladius.  He had paid off a Colosseum servant to swap Marcus's giant two-handed gladius with a nearly identical copy, but this one had an extremely dull edge.  Flavius wanted Marcus and the other two combatants out of the picture so he could claim a solo victory over Gigantus and receive a larger purse.  He had a hardscrabble upbringing and eventually become a career thief.  This occupation came to an abrupt end after making the mistake of attempting to steal a solid gold seal from a rich well-connected merchant.  Flavius wanted fortune at any cost.

Drustan leaned against a pillar in the arena passageway and thought about vengeance.  He was originally a farmer and blacksmith from Britannia.  His home was invaded by Vespasian's forces, and so all Britannian and Celtic men of fighting age were made slaves.  Drustan was separated from his family during the upheaval, and eventually shipped to the Roman Colosseum to fight for his captor's amusement.  Drustan desired an opportunity to assassinate one or more high ranking Roman officers, and eventually return home in the unlikely event he somehow survives.  Drustan was in this for a rudis - he wanted freedom.

Sangue stopped studying Marcus, Flavius, and Drustan.  His eyes went to the arena, not focusing on the slaughter currently taking place but instead he was mentally examining the space in which he would be dealing death.  The area was basically a large semi-oval circle that had been made to look like a savanna.  The only real cover were the huge randomly placed rock outcroppings.  Surrounding this was the seating areas made from limestone (or if the occupants were deserving enough, marble).  The stadium seating ascended upwards mostly by social class/rank starting with the princeps and finally stopping at the topmost sections, which housed Roman society's most ragged commoners and dirty undesirables.  Sangue wished he had a crossbow, but they had been banned thanks to an errant bolt finding its way to the Emperors box during a recent hunt.  Bolts had previously been peppering the uncovered sections of the non-noble seating areas for years, but these concerns had fallen on deaf ears.  His weapons were the standard issue gladius and a trusty boot dagger, though it was not currently poisoned.  Sangue had been an assassin for various political houses and senators and over time had made powerful enemies who collectively decided that he should be sent to the dungeons for what proved to be a cruel and tortuous stay.  Sangue just wanted blood; everyone's.

Gigantus stared at the door to his pen, cracked his enormous neck, and hoped it would open so he could have more food.  The nearby master pet minder hadn't bothered starving the large Rhino anymore prior to hunts, as the massive beast had developed a taste for people.  The master zoologist claimed the animal was a herbivore, but training through starvation and combat had changed that.  The minder then watched in horror as Gigantus lived up to the name and unleashed its bowels all over the floor of the animal pen.  He would soon renew his argument with the Colosseum master groundskeeper as to who is really responsible for pen cleanup.  His Dad's cousin's sister had married the master scribe in the Senate, and so the minder strategized...

Emperor Vespasian was bored.  He yawned as the jaguars, or "panthers" as his master zoologist calls them, began eating and eventually dismembering the slaves.  The emperor glanced over at the Praetorian guards who lined both sides of his well-protected emperor's box, all of whom stoically took in the gory scene as if nothing was happening.  He also studied the expressions of his wife Sabinus and favorite mistress Antonia, both of whom would have preferred to see one of Seneca's plays.  They only stomached the animals and gladiators to appease their emperor, as is their lot in life.  Vespasian motioned for his master eunuch to fan more furiously, as the day was unseasonably warm despite the cooling effect of the marble seat.

Gallus finished gnawing on a lamb shank, and tossed the remains behind a stairway pillar.  He usually hated the hunts and preferred seeing human gladiator-on-gladiator combat, but the ferocity of that large big horned monster in-action demanded his attention.  When the brutish man wasn't insulting his fellow spectators, Gallus often bragged about his brief stints at gladiatorial combat in the early days of the arena; though he never mentioned that his opponents had all been disabled slaves with no combat training.  His stone seat in the topmost section was uncomfortably hot, and the uneven ridges had scarred his posterior over time.  The seat had a terrible view, but he could at least tell by the crowd reactions if the combatant that he had denarius on was winning or losing.  Gallus looked up and saw a man walking down the stairway hawking wooden carvings of Gigantus.  He walked his eyes over the crowd until they found the emperor's box.

The Emperor lowered his hand, and the fighters entered.  Different sections of the crowd applauded, cheered, or jeered.  The sheer amount of noise caused an annoyed Gigantus to ram open the wooden door to his pen, and dramatically charge into the arena amidst a shower of splinters.

The gladiators waited for the signal and in unison bellowed "Ave imperato morituri te salutant!"  Each man started to spread out when Marcus lunged for Flavius, put him in a headlock, and quickly disarmed him.  Flavius struggled with flailing arms, as Drustan and Sangue watched while each carefully moved to a different stone pillar.  Marcus whispered, "Hai rubato il mio gladius" into Flavius's ear and then hip tossed him onto the ground.  He ferociously bashed in Flavius's nose with the handle of his large dull gladius.  Marcus then grabbed his victim's right leg and wrenched it at an odd angle which resulted in a loud crack followed by wailing from Flavius.  Marcus swapped his gladius with the sharper one previously owned by Flavius, and walked away examining the honed edge of his new sword.

Gigantus had been thrashing wildly and snorting.  The beast calmed down, and then noticed prey writhing on the ground.  The large rhino charged.  Marcus retreated towards the inner wall.  Flavius tried to crawl, but the pain from his mangled leg would only allow slow movements.  The petty thief turned gladiator tried to shield himself by raising his arms.  His last conscious thought was how stupid he was for trying to trick a man like Marcus.  Gigantus stampeded his victim, and each hoof had struck home on a body part.  The crowd roared in delight as they watched the writhing crumpled form of Flavius.

Sangue debated taking advantage of the distraction, but he had studied Gigantus and knew the big beast would quickly resume hunting after taking a few small bites to just stake the claim.  He ducked back behind the stone outcropping.

Just as Gigantus finished marking his kill, Marcus jogged over to Drustan who braced himself for a fight.  Marcus extended his hand for the traditional Roman forearm grip handshake, and Drustan accepted.  They nodded to each other as if completing an unspoken alliance.  The vibration resulting from the incensed crowd's jeers and boos over this development was enough to make Sangue glance from his cover to see what was going on.

Gigantus charged Marcus, who waited and then made a last-minute leap to avoid being gored via huge Rhino horn (which had been sharpened by the master pet minder).  Drustan backed away when he saw the hoofed monster start for his new ally.  Marcus scanned the Rhino's armor plating on its back and sides as it went past to look for possible points of vulnerability.  He didn't see exposed skin, but he did spot a few leather straps which held the armor taught.  Drustan looked as well, though he was evaluating the quality of the armor plating and he resigned himself to the fact that it was top notch.  The big rhino turned around and eyed its prey.

Marcus and Drustan slowly backed up to the opposite side of the inner wall.  Drustan had almost made it when he collapsed in heap.  Some of the crowd murmured and others doled out some brief jeers.  Marcus saw Sangue retreating from his newfound friend who was now on the ground and covered in blood.  Drustan put pressure on what appeared to be a knife wound to his right side.  He knew that the intention of the attack was to slow him down rather than kill.  Marcus kept his eyes peeled for Sangue as he made his way over to Drustan.  The former soldier leaned Drustan up against a huge stone and shook his head.  Gigantus watched, though it didn't have a clear line of sight of any prey at the moment.

Despite the wound, Drustan had a death grip on his gladius and continued scanning his head back-and-forth while leaning against the rock.  His hearing was not great as evidenced by the assassin sneaking up on him, but Drustan's eyesight was perfect.  Marcus motioned for his friend to wait there, and he carefully made his way along the inner wall occasionally glancing at the nearest stone outcroppings.  Gigantus was now milling around the body of Flavius.  Marcus spotted Sangue, who was now throwing rocks in his direction presumably to divert the murderous rhino's attentions toward him.  It didn't work, and Marcus swatted at the rocks as he made his way to Sangue who was silently backing away.  Gigantus loudly snorted, which caused Marcus to look over at the beast.  He then swiveled his head back at Sangue who was no longer visible.  Marcus started to wonder if the rumors he had heard about trap doors in the arena grounds are true.

Drustan stood up even though he was in obvious pain, and began yelling insults at the rhino.  Marcus guessed what his plan was, darted over to a tall nearby rock, and climbed up.  Gigantus came charging towards his prey and suddenly felt a heavy weight push down from his back, which altered his course slightly.  Drustan guessed wrongly on the beast's direction and was rammed.  While the business end of the horn missed him, the force of the blow knocked Drustan fifteen yards in the air and slammed the man hard against the inner wall.  The plan worked, as Marcus was now on top of the monster hacking away at leather straps.  The crowd roared with excitement, and even the usually reserved emperor stood and clapped at the acrobatic feat.  Drustan lay slumped against the wall barely conscious, but he had enough strength to manage a small grin after seeing Marcus riding a large white rhinoceros.

The ride was short lived, as Gigantus tripped over a small stone outcropping hidden in a section of tall grass.  This caused the beast to stumble nearly full force into a larger stone outcropping, and it immediately collapsed.  Marcus went flying through air and miraculously landed relatively unharmed on top of a small bush.  He sprinted towards Gigantus to take advantage of the beast being down, and was blocked by Sangue who had a gladius in one hand and a dagger in the other.  The assassin moved aside and motioned for him to pass, but Marcus knew this was a trick and he stood his ground despite passing up a chance to easily finish off the rhino and hopefully the hunt itself - depending on the emperors whims of course.

Marcus adjusted his askew leather armor and hefted the gladius, which was smaller than what he was accustomed to fighting with during the campaigns.  He pointed a big finger directly at Sangue, and then made a thumbs-down gesture.  The crowd's response was mixed; though most were cheering.  Marcus approached Sangue, who knew that he couldn't back down from such a public challenge.  If he ran or hid now, then the emperor would have his crossbowmen rain down bolts.  Marcus swung his gladius and struck the bronze hilt of Sangue's, and as the swords were crossed the assassin tried to stab with his dagger hand but to no avail as his wrist was grabbed by Marcus's free hand.  The two struggled for balance and position, until the contest was disrupted by a giant head butt from Marcus which sent Sangue reeling backwards.  Marcus thrusted with his gladius, but his opponent deftly side-stepped and then threw his dagger.  The former soldier brought his big hands up to protect his face, and the dagger clanged off of his large wrist bracers.  The crowd was standing and cheering.

Sangue knew that a gladius duel with a former professional soldier was a fool's errand, and so he closed the distance and hoped to disarm and wrestle the big man using dirty tactics.  Marcus faked left and went right with his razor sharp gladius and the sword punched through the assassin's left shoulder as he tackled Marcus.  They both went tumbling as Sangue bit Marcus's ear and ripped off a huge chunk of flesh.  Fighting the extreme pain in the side of his head, Marcus slammed an elbow into Sangue's face and flipped the smaller man onto his back.  With blood streaming down from the torn ear, Marcus applied a choke hold just as he heard approaching gallops.  Sangue was trying to reach back and somehow poke one of Marcus's eyes when he was suddenly turned over face up and promptly stomped to death by a giant white rhino.  The shock waves that Marcus felt being underneath his victim were bad, but not enough to prevent him from getting off one quick, deep stab to the unprotected underbelly of Gigantus as it went over both of them.  The crowd was standing on their feet both cheering and stomping on the limestone floor of the Colosseum.

Marcus tossed Sangue's body aside and stood up with one hand holding the remains of his right ear and the other on his hip which had absorbed a particularly nasty hoof stomp.  Gigantus had slunk off and collapsed in the opposite side of the arena with the sword still buried in its stomach.  Marcus reveled in the crowds cheers, and he bowed.  The hulking former Roman soldier was walking over to check on Drustan when his body convulsed from the shock of being simultaneously hit with thirty-seven crossbow bolts.  The crowd became silent, and all heads turned to the emperor's box to double-check that this had been officially sanctioned.

Drustan was brought up to the emperor's box, and placed in a marble guest chair.  The Colosseum doctor had hurriedly patched him up.  The Emperor said, "You are from Britain I hear...Good thing I speak your language.  Your friend was a rebellious soldier who refused orders, and while he was brave in the arena I just cannot let a man like that go free.  My rhino is still alive it seems.  He is adored by the people and a big draw that we cannot afford to lose, so we will attempt to nurse him back into fighting condition.  Anyway!  As for you, I hereby grant you freedom and fifty denarii.  Return to your home, or you can stay in the city as a commoner, or after recuperating you should consider a return as a free gladiator."  Drustan stared down the man responsible for the invasion of his homeland, briefly glanced at a sharp plumbata dart loosely hanging from a nearby guard's belt, and debated his next move.

----
The kid had been on the edge of his seat.  There was a long pause after the Dad had finished, and then they both continued carefully walking through the ruins around the outer wall of the Colosseum.

[Sinitrena]

We've got 1 entry and still 3 days left. I'll just assume for now you're all busy writing. Right? Right? But if you are, then don't forget to post them (or ask for an estension, should you need one).

[Baron]

Hey gang, I've been off on vacation off the grid!  Is there any way I could get this extended to Friday/Saturday?

[Sinitrena]

Not a problem. I'm sure kconan won't mind some competition.

Deadline extended to the end of Saturday.

[Fitz]

I was going to ask the same thing! A fun idea popped into my head just yesterday.

[Baron]

Of Love and Loss in Lemnos

   What is a monument?

   The interpretive plaque at his feet suggested that it was a commemorative structure or statue, a memorial to something not to be forgotten.  Leander stared out across the diminutive, ant-like men, scurrying back and forth in long lines and playing incessantly with their flashing spark-boxes.  Most of them spoke in strange tongues and had greying hair; he supposed they must be the latest wave of conquerors to invade.  There was nothing new about the stout and virile horsemen sweeping down from the North every couple of generations, but this tribe of frail geriatrics was something novel.  There were the Scythians, and then the Goths, and then the Avars, and then the Huns, and then the Alans, the Bulgars, the Magyars, the Mongols, the Turks.... He'd probably missed a few: they were all as transient as the flashing sparks of the little men now.  A brief flicker of greatness, and then an equally quick descent into shadows that seemed all the darker next to the light that had come before.  And despite the tales, the histories and the monuments, still they scurried blindly oblivious to the essence of life.  Like insects they would dig and delve, or chirp and gawk, but rarely did they pause and reflect about the gravity of existence.  So easily were the great lessons of the past wiped from the slate of collective memory.

   Leander stared impassively, the age-weathered stone of his face revealing nothing but a serene indifference to the world.  But although he appeared even more idle than the greying tribe of flash-boxers, beneath the chipped and cracked façade his mind churned over great matters, dwarfing the frivolous thoughts of the little men just the same as he towered over them physically.  Sometimes he analyzed the events of the present through the powerful lens of wisdom he had acquired over the ages.  Sometimes he reconstructed the great events of the past, trying to tease out the causation of victories and defeats, of progress and decline.  Sometimes he indulged in the memories that still felt so raw and strong that they would easily burst the chests and skulls of the fleshy mortals beneath him.  And sometimes, despite himself, he would indulge in all three mental activities at once, just to test the limits of his insight.

   It was just that morning, when the sun still hung low and the youth of the day had barely emerged from its swaddling of mists and birdsong, that Leander was struck by the transience of time.  This day could have been a hundred years ago, or a thousand.  The way the light danced over the distant mountains and the way the smell of jasmine wafted off the fields could have happened yesterday or in his early youth, the dawn of time itself as far as he was concerned.  And in that moment of realization he was transported back to happier times, when he was young and solid, clean and whole.  A time when the smells of the earth weren't tempered by a shorn nose, and the good things in life were not beyond the reach of a severed limb.

   If he could close his eyes, in that moment Leander could imagine the feel of her at the end of his arm.  Though made of cold hard marble like himself, in his mind she felt as soft as the cherry blossoms dancing about the branch.  In his mind she was as warm as summer sunshine and as light as a feather flitting on the breeze.  Her body was a sculpted ideal of femininity, with fig shaped breasts and a pear shaped bum just barely concealed by a flowing garment so sheer as to seem more silk than stone.  And she had a beautiful soul, for the way she stared up at him with loving adoration could melt him into gooey puddle of magma.  She was Hero, and he loved her for all eternity.

   But time grinds ever onward, and a summer of happiness turns to an autumn of loss and a winter of despair as surely as the world turns.  So brief now seemed their season of happy togetherness, it seemed to flash by more quickly than a statue's blink.  Maybe he was too possessive, maybe she was too friendly with the statue of Adonis that used to stand across the arcade.  Maybe they were both too young to truly understand who they were or what they really wanted.  Whatever the circumstances, like the epic myth they had been sculpted to depict time had split them from each other: she to tumble, he to drown, still aloft but lost to a sea of sorrows.  Briefly she had lain there at his feet but beyond his grasp, in a parting twilight of yearning confused with loathing.  And then she was gone for good, packed off to the art auctions of Campania or Rhodes.  And in the wake of her departure he drifted in the wide, woeful emptiness.

   But time grinds ever onwards.  What can not be helped washes slowly past, like a flood beneath the bridge.  Like the bee and the flower they might never meet again, but still he could keep silent vigil over what they had once so beautifully shared.  He could remember, unassisted by interpretive plaques and the froggy pronouncements of petty prophets with their colourful parasols.  There was meaning in the outstretched stump of his right arm such that the ant-like men of recent times could not dare to fathom.  He possessed more in that ghostly appendage than these trinket-obsessed insects could accumulate in all their frantic days, and for him that was enough.  It was, despite its absence, the greatest monument in the world.

   And then an odd sensation struck him.  It was twisted and odd and ...almost gleeful.  In all his brooding and mourning days since she had left he had never once succumbed to the cynical allure of humour, but now it washed over him like a fresh breeze from the ocean.  Slowly and ever so slightly the corners of his mouth turned upward at the realization.  She had broken up with him two thousand years ago, it was true, but he still had his hand on her ass.

[kconan]

  Time is running out you non-writing layabouts!   The mo' entries, the mo' fun.

[Fitz]

Damn, couldn't make it today, something came up. I see there are two entries, so that should make for a nice duel -- but if you're willing to give me another 24 hours, I should be able to write something.

[Sinitrena]

Oh, lovely, Baron made it in time.

Fitz, I wouldn't mind a second extension. I'm all for more entries. So I give you time till Sunday, unless either kconan or Baron object. But this is defenetly the last extension.

[Baron]

...unless either kconan or Baron object.

Ooo, it's that awkward wedding moment!  Are you going to stand up, kconan, and proclaim your true feelings for the FWC?

[Fitz]

Phew! Sorry for being so late -- but here it is, finally. Hope you don't mind it being so short!

Not A Life's Story. Not exactly...

So, you want a story? My story? Or a tale of someone I knew: someone I've seen come and go. Oh, I've got plenty of those: some longer than others, some more interesting than the others... Lives of wealth and splendor, dirth and misery... Many, many stories -- complex in and of themselves, and intertwined with countless others. Not one is the same -- even if they do blend together a little. But they all ended the same way...
Where do I begin, though? My own story isn't a long one -- not in historical terms, at least: a mere century and a half. But there's a lenghty prologue to it, that's a story unto itself -- or is it that mine is the epilogue? The gist of it is that it's a long one -- and a dark one. Not just the part about the Black Plague -- as important a part of it that it is. Not just about Husite wars -- though, again, they contributed to it. Times of peace were when it really got creepy -- and the reason was me. I was at the center of it. I still am, to this day: a source of unhealthy interest, so to speak. A sideshow freak -- made to inspire awe and fear. Most people just stare or point fingers. A few will blurt out something -- and move on. But some stayed. A lot of them came here before me.
It's hard to pinpoint when I came to be -- or what constitues "me". I'm not a coherent whole. I'm an amalgam of pieces. Pieces that weren't made to become me. Pieces that have their stories; that were pieces of something else. Each of them was a significant whole -- which I borrowed from. Like the handful of soil from Golgotha that was sprinkled over the ground that I would later grow from.
That single gesture that might've started it all -- but however potent with symbolism and religious significance, it fades in comparison with all the lives lost; all the deaths that made me what I am today. Their stories are my story.
History likes splendor -- and often overlooks the tragedies in the shadow of great events. Grand designs require sacrifice, they say. Who will count the workers killed by stone blocks when the pyramids were built? How many have died of disease and exhaustion? Pyramids commemorate one life and one death only: that of the Pharaoh. All else are forgotten, blown away by the wind. I, on the other hand, display those anonymous masses as best I can. Without them, I'd be nothing. A lower level chapel like many. It's their ultimate sacrifice that draws the attention to me. They're in full view, everywhere you look -- and deservedly so. They aren't just my makers. They're all a part of me -- in the most literal sense. I wasn't just made with their hands. All the intricate ornamentation took every bone in their body. They are me -- and I am them.

I am--

Sedlec Ossuary

[kconan]

Ooo, it's that awkward wedding moment!  Are you going to stand up, kconan, and proclaim your true feelings for the FWC?

I'm good.  

The best man speeches are almost as entertaining as the wedding objectors, though the latter only happens in the movies.