“You must want to enough. Enough to take all the rejections, enough to pay the price of disappointment and discouragement while you are learning. Like any other artist you must learn your craft—then you can add all the genius you like.”
—Phyllis A. Whitney

Heroes vs. Anti-Heroes: Which Is Right For Your Story?

Spiderman Hero

Photo by Esparta Palma

Every Wednesday, two of my good Denver girlfriends and I get together for a girls night with food, beer, and an activity. Last week, our activity of choice was watching Disney’s Hercules on my couch. Clearly Disney took some creative liberties (they’re a family company, after all, and Greek mythology is not all that family-friendly), but it sure is entertaining to see Hercules try to prove himself as a “true hero”. And that got me thinking: wouldn’t it be fun to examine all the sides and angles of heroes and villains?

We’re dipping our toes into the waters with a comparison of heroes and anti-heroes.

How Do You Create a Hero?

The traditional hero fights with honor and will never hit an opponent when he is down. He almost always makes the right decisions, is a friend to all on his side, and is a generally well-rounded character. The hero fights on the side of obvious good, and often (though not always) will be the leader of a ragtag bunch of misfits.

He will always win his fights, and if he doesn’t, you can count on there being a rematch later in the story, which he will win. His intentions are pure and he’s nigh-incorruptible.

Basically, you know a traditional hero when you see one.

How Do You Create an Anti-Hero?

The anti-hero lives in a universe with a more cynical, ambiguous moral code. He will have visible character flaws, and he will doubt himself. They will perform heroic acts, like a traditional hero, but unlike a traditional hero, who has both the physical and moral capabilities to be heroic, the anti-hero usually has neither.

Anti-heroes are often the right-hand man or rival of traditional heroes, or the protagonist in postmodern literature or film, or in deconstructions of the traditional hero.

Once you’ve got a general ideal of the setting and tone of your story, it’s pretty easy to determine whether you’ll be writing a hero or an anti-hero.

Which do you prefer, heroes or anti-heroes?

PRACTICE

Take fifteen minutes and write a character description of a hero or an anti-hero. You can put them in conversation with their opposite to enhance their particular type of heroic tendencies, or have them survey their chosen city. Go nuts! Post your practice in the comments and leave notes for your fellow writers.

About Liz Bureman

Liz Bureman has a more-than-healthy interest in proper grammatical structure, accurate spelling, and the underappreciated semicolon. When she's not diagramming sentences and reading blogs about how terribly written the Twilight series is, she edits for the Write Practice, causes trouble in Denver, and plays guitar very slowly and poorly. You can follow her on Twitter (@epbure), where she tweets more about music of the mid-90s than writing.

  • R.w. Foster

    I don’t really have a preference when I write. I just sit in the dimly lit pub with a pint of ale, puffing on my dragonweed, and wait for the next weary traveler to sit, and pay me to chronicle their tale. The World Nexus is a grand place to hear many a strange, and unusual tale.
    Pull yourself up to the fire, Lass, and maybe we’ll meet someone with a tale to share. Don’t forget to ask the waitstaff to keep your Elven meade topped off. Listenin’ can be a thirsty business.

    • Winnie

      You’ve created just the right ambience for a Gothic horror story.

      • R.w. Foster

        Lol. I was tryin’ to set myself up as someone who has stories come to him, rather than making them up. 😀

    • James Hall

      I be thinkin’ a mite o’ flavor in yer dialog be helpin’ along yer writin’ better than ye be thinkin’. But, to each ‘is own. Ye seem to splash a mite, and then drop away. Just ye be bearin’ in mind that if ye be writin’ from a first person’s view, ye don’t be havin’ their dialog be out o’ sync with their thoughts. If ye don’t be followin’ me, I’ll give an example unto ye. If I were to say this was really cool in the middle of here and change, ‘twould it be woe unto the reader’s eyes?

      This was something I had picked up while reading some of your stuff. Happy Writing!

      • Lol. Sorry for tha confusion, Lad. Tha wee brogue that ye was readin’ be only from one character, tha lovley Keeper Dearbhaile.

        I hope that clears up the oddity for you.

  • Andrew Zyjewski

    I do not consider myself a hero in the true sense but
    more of the anti-hero. I go through life trying not to be noticed. My character
    is not of the highest morals nor do I believe that good will always win the
    fight. I tend to stay in the background, watching, waiting for the moment when someone needs help. I am always ready to lend aid to whoever might need it.

    I suppose I like to help those in distress because it makes me feel good and accepted by others. I do believe that people, for the most part, are inherently good and very appreciative, although wary, of anyone such as me who loves to come to the rescue.

    There will always be evil. Evil abounds in our world, be it the the bullies, the gossips, and just the evil-doers in general. For without it we would not know the good. Without the Yin there is no Yang. They go hand in hand.

    I don’t have the ability or the drive to vanquish all evil from this world. That will
    never happen. I can however deal with it when it rears its ugly head my way. That is what I do. I am the Anti-Hero.

    • Andrew… sounds like you’re more the classic hero. You say that you’re “watching, waiting for the moment when someone needs help. I am always ready to lend aid to whoever might need it.” Sounds like Superman. Neither does he ever eliminate all evil… impossible! But you also say you remain in the background with dubious morals… now that sounds like the anti-hero. I generally just equate the protagonist with the “hero”, because in any good story he/she will be called upon to do something “heroic”. Speaking of which, I think that term “heroic” needs to be redefined. Classic heroes are not so common these days, but in most good stories the protagonist confronts the limitations of his/her narcissistic self, and that’s a real crisis. I say it takes real heroics to suffer through that realization and emerge a better person. I just reviewed “American Beauty” with Kevin Spacey. There’s an anti-hero if there ever was one. And what a hero he becomes at the end. Bogart in “Casablanca” the same thing. Cheers.

    • Winnie

      “I tend to stay in the background, watching, waiting … ” Aren’t we all heroes by accident, going with the flow, blending into the crowd, until the right moment? Is that when we might pull off some heroics and not be left with egg on our faces? Shakespeare said something about discretion and valour.

  • Paul Owen

    Here’s my practice:

    I got out my recorder and set it on the table, ready to start the interview. As part of my series on superheroes, I had an exclusive with a recent concert phenomenon, The Bouncer. We were sitting in a hotel conference room, a smaller one at the end of a hall where we were unlikely to be disturbed. The windows in the door were already covered, and The Bouncer put a chair under the door knob for extra security.

    A tray in the corner held a few bottles of water, left over from an earlier meeting. I helped myself to one.

    “Want some water?”, I asked.

    “Nah, I’m good”, he replied.

    I sat down and switched on the recorder.

    “So, you’re known as The Bouncer. How did you get into this line of work?”

    He looked at me through his yellow mask. “Man, I just got tired of mosh pits getting out of control, you know? I was at this one show where a riot was about to start, and before I knew it I was helping the security crew shut it down. And then I got out of there quick, ’cause I pissed off a lot of fans. Same thing a week later. That’s when I made the mask and this became my thing.”

    “I see. How do you get in and out of the shows without detection? You’re not exactly small.” His muscle-bound arms and chest were about to split his yellow T-shirt, which said “Security” on the back.

    “Hey, man, that’s a trade secret. But I’ll give you a little hint: catering trays.”

    “Okay, that’s not much of a clue, but we’ll move on. What’s the usual crowd reaction when you show up?”

    “Well, sometimes they get pissed, you know? ‘Cause I’m disrupting the show and all. But the smaller people that are about to get trampled, I know they appreciate what I do. If my nemesis is there, though, it gets rough, man.”

    “Speaking of your nemesis”, I said, “what do you think his motivation is?”

    “You mean The Howler?”. I nodded, unaware he had another nemesis. “I think he just likes chaos, man. I don’t know how he gets his voice to make that sound, but you can hear it over the amplifiers and everything. Once his followers hear it, they just go nuts.”

    I looked over his bulging torso again. “It’s hard to believe he could get the best of you. Am I right?”

    He gave a short laugh. “Yeah, once, man. Well, maybe a couple of times. I healed up pretty quick, though. And now I have a new secret weapon. Wait ’till the next time he shows his face in a mosh pit, man.”

    “Can you tell me anything about this secret weapon?”

    “Nope.”

    We looked at each other, silent for a few seconds. Then I heard the strangest noise down the hall, almost a screech. Worse than any nails on any chalkboard. It was followed by a booming shout.

    “Where’s The Bouncer! I’m gonna kill him!”

    The interview was over. Jumping up and grabbing the serving tray, water bottles flying, The Bouncer kicked the chair away from the door and disappeared into the hallway.

    • Victoria James

      As a short person who loves rock concerts, I’d love to meet your Bouncer 🙂

      I liked your writing but it was hard to get a sense of the personality behind the Bouncer, only what he does.

      • Paul Owen

        Thanks for the note, Victoria. I agree with your comment also. The interview idea popped into my head, and this was as far as I got with it. Definitely more room for developing The Bouncer’s personality. Maybe something to take on later 🙂

      • Winnie

        I get the impression The Bouncer didn’t have any personality at all, and had created this image of who he’d like to be.

    • Winnie

      Nice picture of an anti-hero whose not as tough as his name suggests.

      • Paul Owen

        Thanks, Winnie!

    • James Hall

      Found this to feel highly original. Thanks for sharing.

      • Paul Owen

        Thank you, James – glad you liked it!

  • Winnie

    Manuel rested his foot on the railing as he surveyed the city spread out
    below his townhouse atop one of the city’s tallest skyscrapers.”It’s been a long and
    hard road getting here. But I’m here. That’s what counts.”
    I thought of the casualties that littered his path to the top. “Candice?”

    “She got what she wanted. Look where she is now.”

    I nodded. His ex-wife, the fourth and, as
    rumor goes, the only one who loved and understood him, was now comfortably
    ensconced in a bungalow on the coast.

    Had this short swarthy man with the
    manners of a truck driver been her meal ticket?But, when they met he’d just been honored by the city for his work among
    society’s castoffs in the slums.

    Candice was now an established fashion
    designer, something she couldn’t have managed without his help. She once let
    slip that she exacted the beachfront mansion as payment for putting up with him
    for five tempestuous years. A quid-pro-quo, you could call it.

    “Angel City.” I said, softly. His back stiffened at the mention of his roots.
    He’d never been back to this notorious part of the city, cheek by jowl with the
    docks and the waterfront district.

    “Take it with you, or leave it.’ He opened his hands in a gesture of
    candor. “I chose to leave my past behind.”

    Because it would look out of place alongside the mink and caviar set he
    moved around in?

    “What about your widowed mother?” As a reporter I happened to know she
    was still living alone in her dilapidated old house, with her five cats and two
    dogs.

    “If she moved, it would kill her.”

    How convenient, I thought. An excuse for keeping her out of the picture. I shrugged; being born and living all your life in one house makes it a part of
    you you cannot easily abandon.

    • Missaralee

      The rich, anti-social, benefactor of the poor. I like it. I’m curious now whether he still works among the castoffs in the slums or if he is washed up and resting on his laurels.

      • Winnie

        Thank you very much, Misaralee. Now that his past is catching up with him,I suppose this will be the real test: was his charity work just for personal gain, or was it done out of altruistic motives?

  • Victoria James

    Sophie rounded the corner and spotted a couple of shamblers crossing the street. She could see that she and Dylan had no choice but to pass them, there was no way of sneaking this time. She hefted the Crovel in her hands, feeling comforted by the weight of it. She took Dylan’s hand with the other and walked slowly and carefully towards the zombies, feeling the muscles tense, ready for action. Coiled like a snake, she thought to herself, the old adage suddenly feeling very appropriate. As she neared the first zombie, she saw it had a large chunk bitten out of its shoulder and the bone was visible on one leg. It had obviously been someone’s meal before it had gotten up and walked. Peering closer at it, she suddenly took a sharp gasp of breath and stopped in her tracks.
    “What is it, babe?” asked Dylan, looking curiously at her.
    “Oh God,” Sophie whispered. “It can’t be…”
    But it was. The tell-tale purple and pink pinstripe of the now-ragged shirt, the pudgy belly overhanging the belt that held up tan corduroy pants. Sophie would recognize that sweet teddy-bear of a man anywhere.
    “Sven,” she whispered, tears fillings her eyes.
    Dylan put his arms around her shoulders and hugged her tight. He had heard Sophie talk about Sven often and know she felt a real fondness for her colleague. He had met him a couple of times at work Christmas parties and had liked the guy. He was… harmless. Was.
    “Do you want me to take care of it?” Dylan asked.
    “No,” Sophie said, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. “No,” she
    said more firmly. “I need to do this. He would have wanted me to.” She squared her shoulders and hefted the Crovel once more. Slowly she walked up behind the zombie and whispered what used to be his name. “Sven.”
    The zombie turned at the sound. He didn’t move straight for her, and Sophie wondered whether there was still some recognition behind those eyes. Her eyes filled with tears again. She wanted to hug him and tell him it was going to be alright, but she knew it wasn’t going to be. It hurt her to admit it, but this would be her first major step towards survival in this horrid new world.
    “I’m sorry, Sven.” Sophie said, and swung the Crovel.

    • Paul Owen

      Great story, Victoria. Zombies and everything! I could feel Sophie’s emotion as she recognizes Sven, indecision and resolution at the same time. Nicely done.

    • James Hall

      Really good stuff. Good tension. Internal and external conflict for Sophie has been done very well.

    • Kathy Stevenson

      great job in moving us from zombies to real feeling. Sophie is a recognizable hero that is easy to relate to and comes to life when she recognizes Sven, then is forced to kill him.

    • Pedro

      This was very well done. You pulled off a great story! I bet anyone could feel Sophie’s emotion as she recognized Sven.

    • David Ferrari

      I have a headache now. You didnt follow the directions.

  • Bob DeSpy former Spycacher

    Tayyib bit his upper lip and with a scant lower lip, his mouth was a fine cut through his face. Mario recognized that expression. Suddenly it was as all his past life poured back into his memory. Way back at that time in the camp. Now he knew whom this Tarik was.
    ‘Of course! You are Tayyib!’ Said Mario astonished. Tayyib has changed so much he had not recognized him. It passed through his mind how the body proclaims the type of life someone has led. As an accident that leaves scars in the human body changing the original features, the emotional scars too, leave visible signs beyond recognition.
    ‘So, you see, it didn’t take long for you to figure out whom I was.’ Said Tayyib.
    ‘Man! I am glad to see you. To know you are alive!’ Despite the situation in which Mario was in he felt great relief. Even the comfort of knowing that Si loved him without limits was as reassuring as knowing that Tayyib was alive. It was as if a large rock would have been taken off him. He believed he had overcome all that guilt produced by the killing of Tayyib. He thought so because of the ease with which he could kill a person, almost without remorse. Eventually, he got so used to that he hasn’t even had to philosophize over right or wrong. It much resembled his former love life: use it; discard it. Always leaving behind a piece of his soul. Crumbling apart, piece-by-piece until he had, to redo his emotional life, go through extraordinary lengths. Now, Tayyib was alive, and he could collect all the crumbs of that guilt, of his first kill and so redeem the subsequent. All vanished; as the smoke cloud left from an extinguished fire.
    ‘Now, I also remember that tattoo! The Chalib had it, Akiff, the sweets dealer had it, and you have it too!’ Mario said.
    Tayyib was now heading towards him with the pistol in his hand and an unpleasant look. The game is over. He thought.
    ‘Yes, that’s so! And all his clan has it!’
    Both startled. They were familiar with that commanding voice. Ismail stood in the doorframe aiming straight at Tayyib’s head with his 9 mm Glock. Somehow he managed to get past Hamid and open the door without making a noise or the tension between Mario and Tayyib clouded their senses so that none would notice Ismail’s arrival.
    ‘They are all bandits, traffickers, abductors and slave masters. The worst kind.’ Said Ismail and noticed a slight tic in Tayyib’s hand holding the pistol. ‘Don’t move Tayyib or by Allah, I shoot you like the stray dog you are.’

    • Winnie

      Who was Tarik? Would like to see how the story works out.

      • Bob DeSpy former Spycacher

        Hi Winnie,
        Thank you! I just realised that the plot starts with the wrong name. It should read ‘Tarik bit his upper lip…’ I have to apologise to all readers for the mistake. It must have caused a lot of confusion. I just made the changes. What an embarrassment!

        • Winnie

          It was a pleasure. You seem to have a feel for the Middle East.

    • James Hall

      You have an amazing attention and ability to splash on detail. Your descriptions are always outside the box. I envy your ability to so so well!

  • Rebecca

    “How can I help you?”

    I say those words everyday. Every. Single. Day. I’m not sure if I am much of a help. Nowadays information is so accessible, people seem to think that the internet is the answer to every single medical issue, by the time somebody under the age of 40 rolls into my office, they have already figured out the solution. Asking ‘how can I help you’ is redundant, sometimes I wonder if I should ask ‘what would you like today?’

    She stared down at the floor… the receptionist handed me her record. It was blank, she’s new here and I don’t recall ever meeting her before. Silence loomed between us. It wasn’t awkward… it was just a of long punctuated silence.

    Her eyes met mine. I could see them loud and clear – there were no tears, but she was crying, she was crying on the inside, her soul was there beckoning to be released from the shackles of depression. She was young, only in her twenties and she reminded me of Eve. When Eve was only twenty, she started to secretly slit her forearms and knees. She kept her cuts well hidden and I never knew about them… Kim came to me one day and told me what she had seen. I saw depressions in people, I fixed them with anti-depressants, I recommended therapy to them. It was simple. And then it happened to Eve. Did I give it to her? Was it my fault.

    Eve died one night, she lived in her pain for too long, she wanted to be released. She hopped in front of a moving train and by the time she was found, it was too late. Her death shook me for years, every single time I dealt with a psych patient, I couldn’t help but think of Eve… Her ghost lingered everywhere – in the street, in the office, at home. And it’s strange, Eve and I never talked about her depressions. I suspect it was because being a doctor and all, she reckoned that I would see her as a patient – a cold hard statistic, a number with a medical record. She only talked to Kim about it.

    On television, my job is heroic. In reality, most of the time, my hands are tied. The girl in my office looked into my eyes and she muttered the all too familiar string of words:
    “I think I have depression.”
    I just hope her disease doesn’t swallow her life like it did with Eve.

    • Missaralee

      Rebecca, it’s interesting that you’re turning a doctor, the traditional hero, into an anti-hero by infusing doubt and helplessness into her practice. I wonder if she’s going to break the moral doctor code and do something radical to help this girl. Kind of like Patch Adams, but without the pool of spaghetti.
      A quick edit would do wonders for this piece. For example, watch out for proper use of common turns of phrase like “a long (un)punctuated silence” or “(hearing vs.) seeing loud and clear.”
      Keep up the good work!

      • James Hall

        Patch Adams is an awesome movie. Radical change is certainly one possible outcome. An alternate, scary, and ironic approach might be for the doctor herself to slip into depression. I definitely wouldn’t say she is happy as presented here.

    • Victoria James

      This really spoke to me as a psychologist, that kind of hopelessness sometimes really is an accurate portrayal in this line of work.
      Well done.

    • James Hall

      Great inner turmoil, which always raised good conflict in the story. The questions at the beginning are never answered, her interpretation of asking “how can I help you?” Though later we see she doubts her own ability to help, you can also see there is some blame on the patients for not wanting to be helped. Whether this was intended or coincidence, it is very literary. I like that and I don’t see it often nowadays.

  • Emma Marie

    Bart finally reached the last stair and bent over, hands on his knees.

    “And you come up here everyday?” He gasped.
    “You get used to the climb.” She called over her shoulder.
    He stepped onto the rooftop behind her and his breath caught at the sight of the golden sun, dripping into the horizon.
    “Beautiful,” He whispered, but couldn’t decide if Christine or the view was more so.
    She was crouched next to the very edge, eagerly surveying the streets.
    “Okay, Christie. Remember my terms?”
    “You’ll help me as long as i don’t kill anyone. Thank you so much, Bart,”
    “No probs.” He blushed.
    Everyone else had thought her stupid and out of her mind. Of course, her red cape was silly, the plan radical, the situation dangerous, and the result certainly terrible, but Bart would do anything for Christine because of what she had done for him.
    After a moment, Christine stood up again and went over to his side.
    “You should have a name,” Bart suggested.
    “What?” Her brow scrunched up.
    “You know, a name. Like, the Night Thieves is the groups’ name. You should have a name for when you become infamous.”
    She crossed her arms and looked out at the cheery sky.
    “I guess…” She licked her lips like she always did when thinking hard. “…Something scary. What do you think?”
    “Scary is good,” Bart nodded. Actually, he thought scary was a terrible idea, but this was all for Christine. She looked up resolutely.
    “I got it… The Red Terror.”
    “Oh no!” Bart raised his voice like the women on the street. “Look out, it’s the Red Terror!”
    Christine tossed her head back and chuckled up a storm.
    Bart shrugged, but a smile was tugging his lips.
    “It could work.”
    “It could work,” She agreed.

    • Missaralee

      Christine is a terrifying person. I think Bart is in a for a world of trouble, but he’s going to save the day when it needs saving most! Good practice 🙂

    • James Hall

      I was a little confused with the dialog towards the end. You could hint a little more of what Christine is up to. Intriguing characters!

  • randomyriad

    The planes kept coming and the bombs thundered. He could
    feel the heat of the catastrophic inferno as the streets all around him filled
    with fire lept like great consuming beasts from house top to house top
    sending firy spawn down to the floors below. Theo knew he had to move, but which way
    then he saw a tiny child wandering around in the shadows of a narrow alley. He
    moved quickly keeping an eye on the tops of the buildings looming over the
    alley. As he moved to the child he noticed some peculiarities in the way she
    moved. Then he figured out what was bothering him. She was floating just inches
    off of the ground. He heard her soft mechanical voice repeating something as
    she hovered in a figure eight.

    “I am not the appropriate model for this mission. Please,
    give instructions or remove me from the area.”

    Theo approached slowly, until flaming debris from above
    drove him into the path of the floating robot.
    The robot stopped and hovered at arms length a perfect copy of a four
    year old girl in a pretty church dress whose feet were not touching the ground.

    “We need to get out of here,” He said scanning above for
    more falling flames.

    “You will show me the correct path. My sensors are
    malfunctioning.”

    “Sure follow me.” Theo grabbed her hand and pulled her up
    the alley toward the street. He had no idea which was the right way to go.

    • James Hall

      Really like what you’ve done with this. When you said the girl was floating, I was expecting some kind of exorcist or EchoNight scene to take place. Then, you switched it to the robot. Which then made me think about Steel Angel Kurimi.

      Of course, the reader wonders, “Why is he in a city that is being bombed? Why is the city being bombed? Who is bombing the city? And what is so special about the robot that he is trying to save her?”

      This presents a lot of intrigue to the reader. You know how to get the reader’s attention!

      I like this scene, thanks for sharing!

      • randomyriad

        Thanks, I just started writing and the scene unfolded. I started thinking of Dresden for some reason. I just wonder how you can be a hero in such a hopelessly overwhelming situation where heroic action would be mostly futile. The robot just wedged itself in there.

  • James Hall

    “Not going down there. I refuse. ‘Tis a dark and smelly cavern, I won’t do it. The air is staler than a century-old loaf. No, peasant, I will not go.” Tirrast moved away tunnel to the cavern entrance, where the stormy air whistled over the cave opening. He crossed his arms and turned his back to Dayotan.

    “They could die down there! We must go!” He shook a clenched fist at Tirrast’s back.

    “No concern of mine. I care not. Foolish dwarfs ought know better than to run off into the underground.” he stared indignantly into the rain. “‘Twould serve them right. I want to go home. Return us home, peasant.”

    “I’ve no home to return thereto…” Dayotan dropped his head in despair. He then thrist his head back up. “You blitherin’ coward!” he screamed, throwing a pewter drinking cup at Tirrast. The cup dinged off the rocky wall near Tirrast’s head. “Move ye hence. I’ve enough of your bickerin’s. We will not leave them down there to what terrible fates we do not know.”

    “To what terrible fates we do not care.”

    “You’ll get ye down there,” Dayotan placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, “if I have to prod the with my blade!”

  • themagicviolinist

    I find anti-heroes more compelling in the sense that they’re unique and not very common (my favorite was Severus Snape, but I guess Neville was, too, in a sense), but I have a hard time writing them. Apparently other writers do, too, because I’ve read some books where the authors do really poor jobs when they’re trying to write an anti-hero! It’s just way too over the top . . . I’m thinking about trying to write an anti-hero again.

  • pearlsofwisdom

    Is these an antihero?
    He’s an assassin thats not worried about hurting the innocent, mainly out for revenge after the harsh and controling goverment killed his parents. He is 16 and is at school, with friends that he cares about. He is average looking and owns a nice flashy car.

    • Pedro Hernandez

      In my book thats an antihero

  • Me

    “Not going down there. I refuse. ‘Tis a dark and smelly cavern, I won’t do it. The air is staler than a century-old loaf. No, peasant, I will not go.” Tirrast moved away tunnel to the cavern entrance, where the stormy air whistled over the cave opening. He crossed his arms and turned his back to Dayotan.

    “They could die down there! We must go!” He shook a clenched fist at Tirrast’s back.

    “No concern of mine. I care not. Foolish dwarfs ought know better than to run off into the underground.” he stared indignantly into the rain. “‘Twould serve them right. I want to go home. Return us home, peasant.”

    “I’ve no home to return thereto…” Dayotan dropped his head in despair. He then thrust his head back up. “You blitherin’ coward!” he screamed, throwing a pewter drinking cup at Tirrast. The cup dinged off the rocky wall near Tirrast’s head. “Move ye hence. I’ve enough of your bickerin’s. We will not leave them down there to what terrible fates we do not know.”

    “To what terrible fates we do not care.”

    “You’ll get ye down there,” Dayotan placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, “if I have to prod the with my blade!”

  • Kevin

    Matt stared at the woman bound to the chair. Blood slowly
    dripped down her face as she let out small painful grown. Matt’s hands were
    clinched as he kept on looking at her, knowing what was about to happen. You knew this day would happen he kept
    on telling himself. You knew you son of a
    bitch.

    Another man
    walked up behind Matt, placing his hand on the shoulder. “We finally found the
    traitor,” he said gladly “After all this time, who would have thought it would
    have been her?”

    The woman
    slowly raised her head revealing large bruise on her face, and broken orbital
    bone on the left side of her face. The third man moved in between Matt and the
    captive woman, dragging an aluminum baseball bat in his right hand. He raised
    the bat and swung it hard hitting the woman’s knee, shattering it like glass.
    An ear-piercing scream was let out, as tears of agony began to flow.

    As his
    brother backed up towards him, Matt managed to relax his fists trying to bury
    his emotions. She made her choice.
    “Now Matt what should we do with her next?” His brother raised the bat again
    moving towards the knee. Matt raised his hand as his brother grinned. Next,
    Matt reached behind him and pulled out his gun. He slowly raised it pointing
    the barrel directly towards the woman’s face.

    “Aw come on now. Let’s not end the fun now.”

    Matt paused
    for a moment, looking at the woman. Her eyes stared back at his and he had to
    fight the reaction of turning away. Her tears kept on falling as her eyelids
    fell. As his brother raised the bat for another swing, Matt fired a shot,
    robbing his brother of any satisfaction. His brother dropped the bat out his
    hand knowing there was need for his chosen instrument. “You should have heard
    what she said to me earlier. She kept on saying she was pregnant. Like it would
    have bought her a pass.” Matt didn’t respond except by lowering his gun. His
    brother walked passed him towards the door. Then matt turned around raising his
    gun. He pulled the trigger dropping his brother with a single headshot.

    I’ll see you in hell.

  • Maxim Remizovic

    what about my character is he anti hero or anti villian

    its in japan so they have samurai and ninja culture and all those things

    He lived in a rich family and had nealy everything but didnt care about it so much as he always were satisfied that he had parents that loved him. One day when he went from training he noticed his house burning when he came to see what happend he saw his family slaughtered by men his father worked for (his clan had visual power) that time he awakend his true visual power and killed all men but one this man said “if you kill me then your uncle will die so instead you can go save him and i will get away” my character accepted this and let one of those men go,he saved his uncle but where very sad that he wanted revenge, his uncle told him that this is why he were trained from when he were kid because this could happen so his uncle said you have two choises one you can start all over again and live normal life in some other countrie or get revenge.

    Ofcourse my character choise were to get revenge hes uncle showed a place where his father prepeared for his son his weapon (katana) after some days at night my character went to this bad guy mansion and started a fight with other skilled ninja samurais (my character were highly trained with ninja skills and wielding a katana) when he came to the top he saw a guy in shougan armor standing there looking at the sky my character asked if he killed his father bad guy answeared that he killed his father for visual power ofcurse my character went in rage and started a fight with this bad guy and won in the end when he came home to his uncle and said that he were tired of this hate in the world and that he would erase hate from this world with the money he had, little like batman but in a little ruthless way like if anyone would stand in his way he would destoy them too because they made their choise.

    sorry if its long and if any of you didnt understood plz tell me because i were tired that day. >_>

  • SecretAngel

    Dante sunk into worn leather, lit up a spark and inhaled the acrid smoke. The clothes on his back weighted by sweat and remnants of his failure. One look and it was obvious he’d dropped out, crumbled the mask of perfection and cut his own path down opposite the one dad had set.

    He couldn’t play the soldier anymore, a chunk of him torn away, the one link to dad’s pride burnt to non-existence. But wasn’t it alright? To step off the pedestal? Let his kid brother, Sam claim the glory of favored son?

    It’d lessoned the load, the high expections muddled from their eyes, now he was free, no one left to please–maybe himself. Or not. He had given up the yacht of life, clutched onto drift wood, enough not to drown. Their was just a vastness in the path he’d claimed, wide and empty and infinite.

    All this extra space.

    Those quiet nights blurred down the bottom of the glass, or rose up into the swirl of smoke and laughter. No longer driven by purpose but something deeper yet to define.

    But they already clouded him in shadows, their was a new golden boy in the family, and Dante their sad memory of what id and what could never be.

  • SecretAngel

    Did my post just vanish?

  • SecretAngel

    Reposting it.
    Dante sunk into worn leather, lit up a spark and inhaled the acrid smoke. The clothes on his back weighted by sweat and remnants of his failure. One look and it was obvious he’d dropped out, crumbled the mask of perfection and cut his own path down opposite the one dad had set.

    He couldn’t play the soldier anymore, a chunk of him torn away, the one link to dad’s pride burnt to non-existence. But wasn’t it alright? To step off the pedestal? Let his kid brother, Sam claim the glory of favored son?

    It’d lessoned the load, the high expections muddled from their eyes, now he was free, no one left to please–maybe himself. Or not. He had given up the yacht of life, clutched onto drift wood, enough not to drown. Their was just a vastness in the path he’d claimed, wide and empty and infinite.

    All this extra space.

    Those quiet nights blurred down the bottom of the glass, or rose up into the swirl of smoke and laughter. No longer driven by purpose but something deeper yet to define.

    But they already clouded him in shadows, their was a new golden boy in the family, and Dante their sad memory.

  • DreamingUnderwater

    Lilac hair in a messy pixie cut, white skin,
    uncommon height, an old man wearing round glasses, a lab coat, and a kind face,
    a messy lab, and black is what I see in the mirror.

    “How you like it?” Professor said in his thick
    Russian accent. “It’s made of magnesium alloy and Titanium, and a few other
    materials that would take a while to list and explain, so it’s 100% bullet,
    fire, water, and acid-proof.”

    There is no noise in the laboratory as I examine
    myself. I am covered from neck to foot in black. Guns are strapped to my upper
    and lower legs.

    “So, what do you think?” Professor said.

    “It’s outstanding. Thank you, Professor,” I said.
    I feel the comfortable, soft, stretchy material on my arms. My hand grazes a
    small, cold circle of metal.

    “What’s this?” I turn to Professor.

    “Oh, I forgot!” He said. He excitedly takes my
    wrist. “This is a button which shoots a grappling hook. It comes highly
    recommended superhero comics. It will be practical when you need a quick
    escape.”

    I finger the little metal circle. I feel dread
    and nervousness rise in my stomach like vomit. I feel sick.

    “Professor—“ I falter.

    “Yes, Hikari?”

    I face Professor when I hear his voice flicker.
    His eyes are filled with tears.

    “I don’t want to be a hero.”