Eric Dulin Collection: Short Stories and Poems Eric Dulin Published by Eric Dulin at Smashwords Copyright 2012 Eric Dulin Discover other titles by Eric Dulin at Smashwords.com Condemned: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00ACW37L0 Collection: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00AKT5Q0K/ The Lost Literary Short Story “God’s here. God don’t wait for no man.” The man on the corner watched the blind friar pass by. On the road to nowhere. One foot behind the other. Soon gone from sight. Beyond the dark horizon. Eyes spoke as the man left. The empty words trailed behind like the ash in the wind. An ashen leaf fell from a white tree in the center of the gray town. Only a hundred remained, shriveled veins fighting to hold on. The final ray of light gone, the darkness engulfed everything. The man on the corner didn’t move beneath his tarp. The other ghosts crawled back to their broken dreams, whispers of the Lost passed in silence between them. Whose echoes were long forgotten. Even though others treaded in their steps. The endless clouds shrouded the sun as it rose. The shadow of the future passed away with it. Ash falling from the heavens, ash rising from hell. The ghosts returned to the streets. The man waited under his tarp, waiting for the future. He fiddled with a key around his neck—the bronze long rusted. The ghosts tended their crops with water from a well, a trek of a thousand steps. The sacrifice for life. Skeletal animals sat silently in the ash. Cold and unforgiving, the sun stood high above the things below. Watching with empty eyes. The darkness again. A host of wind kicked up. A thousand miles of screaming pain. The man waited under his tarp, the cloth flapping in the wind. His ears blind to the words that came. The ghosts into their huts of broken dreams. The earth sighed in remorse. The servants of the sun sat stagnant and dead. Their corpses piled atop the clouds. Their filtered blood forgiving the things below. But at the same time condemning them. The man on the corner watched the blood fall as he waited. The ash sucking up every ounce of moisture. None left for the ghosts. A dozen leaves left. The light and dark blended together. A week passed. The man on the corner opened another gallon of water as he waited. Another tin of gruel. The well long gone. the ghosts looked for another. The man drank and watched from his corner. The skeletal animals were taken to the huts. Never to see the darkness again. The gray shrubs withered. Many against the cold ground. Frost weaved itself into their flesh. The man on the corner fed them to his fire as he waited. The ghosts watched him with low eyes and watched the lighter in his pocket. They fled into their huts. Frozen ash fell from heaven. Hell already frozen. The man covered himself with his spare blankets. Deeper into his dugout. He cupped the fire in his hands, hiding it from the ghosts. Their naked faces watched him from their huts. The man’s eyes deaf to the screaming. His ears blind to the truth around him. He waited. Cold days. Colder nights. Only his fire stayed lit in the night, feeding it life with pages from his books. The crackling embers spitting out ash. A glint of silver in his hand. The skeletal ghosts only stared. Ash rain. Only half of the ashen ghosts danced in it. The other half were beneath the ground. Their shrunken bones flailed through the air. The man waited under his tarp. The rain pooled and fell into his buckets as he watched. The bloody sun trapped in the clouds. The man waited on the corner. He rubbed his gut. Pain. The edge of the future slipping away. He boiled the water and waited for it to cool. He took a sip and spit it out. Ash. He drank again. With every sip he spat out ash. Warm days. Warmer nights. The clouds parted. Blood soaked through the gap and flooded the land. The ghosts shrank back from the light. The man blinded as he turned away. He unearthed a pair of small shades to shield his eyes. The ghost emerged one by one to dance in the light. Jubilant cheers rang through the ash. The man waited behind his dark shades. The man waited on his corner when he saw it. A color long forgotten. It grew out of the ash outside of his tarp. Slender and serene. Glistening in the morning dew as it stretched. Soaked in the blood of the sun. He lowered his parched lips to it and removed his shades. Slow at first. Then he stared at the sprout. The color long forgotten. He reached for it. The blood startled him and he drew back. The pain in his side. Nausea. He vomited on the plant and waited. The man waited. The sprout pulled at its roots. Reaching for the father that bled to bring it life. Against all odds. The man prepared to water it. He shook his head and left the bucket at his side. The sprout grew. The ghosts watched from their huts. The color long forgotten. An explosion in his gut. Feral screams rang through the night. The ghosts shook from their tombs and looked to the street. The man on his side in agony. His shades shattered. Another minute of screams. Then the ghosts stumbled from their huts. “What do you think?” one asked. “Can be a lot of things. Only He will know.” The ghosts snatched up the man, taking him into one of their tombs. “Doctor.” The Doctor kneeled above the man. His screams endless. “Where does it hurt?” He asked. The man pointed to his side. The Doctor pressed down. A louder scream. “Has it hurt before?” He asked without waiting. The man nodded. “How long?” The man shrugged. His eyes spoke of eternity. “Appendicitis.” The Doctor said nothing more. With a mind that held no doubt. He waved the other ghosts out. “Do you know what that is?” The man shook his head. Gritted teeth. “There’s nothing that can be done. Nothing but wait for the end.” The man shook his head. He pulled out the silver object from his side. A shiny revolver. Four shells in the cylinder. A key dangled by a chain around his neck. “Is this what you want?” The man nodded. “Then you don’t need to wait.” The man looked at the gun through teary eyes. He pointed the hilt towards Him. He only watched the man. “You can’t do it?” The man shook his head. The ghosts crowded outside as their eyes spoke to one another. A gunshot. They waited. He stepped outside. A smoking gun in his hand. “Doctor?” The Doctor continued without a word. He went to the corner. The supplies had already been taken except for a lock box with no key. He picked it up. Then he knelt next to the sprout. Six inches. He rubbed a finger down the stem. He stood and returned to the crowd. “Help me with the body.” The ghosts carried the man to the top of a hill over the town. “Where do you want it?” “Here is fine.” The Doctor took a shovel and shoved it into the rocky crust. The ghosts floated back to town as He dug. Ash rain. It didn’t stop Him as he worked. Hours of digging. Lightning in the distance. He never stopped. By the morning His work was done. He placed the man into the hole as the sun came up. Its fresh blood coating the land. The Doctor placed the revolver with the three shells on his chest. He pulled out the key and box in his pocket. He put the key into the hole and stopped. Roaring screams lured him in. To break them free of their prison of souls. A prison built upon a world beyond. Where words held meaning and fate entranced all. Where good and evil held purpose. He yanked the key out and placed both objects next to the gun as he shook his head. He then covered the man with ash and patted the ground. He placed a wooden sign in the ground with a name. He returned to town as a cloud covered the sun. The hill remained in darkness. A week passed. The last three leaves on the tree had fallen. The ghosts returned to the hill. In an hour He lay in the hill next to the man. The rain had claimed Him. His journey complete. The ghosts packed their belongings and bid their goodbyes to Him. The final addition to the Lost. “God’s here. God don’t wait for no man.” The blind friar had returned with an entourage of angels. Bread and wine from a land beyond. Built from the children of fallen gods. The group of the dead made their way down this new horizon. The shadow of the future gone. The light of the present filling its void. They carried the sprout in a pot. His last wish. With one fire gone, a new had begun. A brave future on the horizon. A passage for the dead. Analysis: The Lost is supposed to demonstrate how stagnancy leads to decay, how waiting instead of taking action and abandoning those around you can lead to one’s downfall. The Lost is representative of all the past ideologies that were “lost” to mankind: by forgetting what makes us human and our histories, we are but ghosts of a desolate past. But it is better to think and move for the future rather than reminisce and analyze what cannot change and what has already been lost. Love is Clockworks Literary Poem over Romance Love is clockworks Made of cold steel, Played by blind gods They have nothing to feel, Made of a thousand parts And a dead faith, Holding broken hearts And shattered hate, Laid in a deep well Of frosted veins, From a frozen hell And a game of flames, It is a ticking clock Made of threaded knots, Held by a broken lock Sealed in silent mocks, With molten glass And sunken dreams, A squelching mass Of choking scenes, They have nothing to feel, These blind gods Made of cold steel, Love is clockworks Analysis: This poem is demonstrates the endless nature of love with its reciprocal beginning and ending as well as lack of periods. It also, through paradoxical phrasings, shows the madness love can become, and how people, (blind gods) cannot truly understand love. A Final Branch Literary Poem over Nature and Life Leaves green and turgid Branches a rich brown As a fleet of birds Dive deep on down Screaming their war cries As their prey flee Crying to false gods As they are cut down beneath Yet this final vagabond Sits tall and serene As though misplaced With a sanguine sense This silent guardian Between a dozen worlds Takes a leap of faith As it travels to and forth Analysis: This poem emphasizes the facets of nature and the complex undertones it carries. Though simple and beautiful, it can also house great misery and chaos, yet as a whole it remains untouched by what goes on within. Comparable to society, the “weak” are devoured by the young, but society can only watch. That is what it, and nature, are destined to be. Segmentus Invictus Fiction Short Story (Related to universe of my novel Condemned) “Zorrul, this is suicidal. We are farmers, not soldiers,” Azrael said. The earth shook as Akrad took another blow from the ometron fleet. Dust fell from the ceiling of the tight basement as the room shook, the stale air stirred by the explosion. “I would rather die now than live forever without them.” “But-“ “Listen to me! Victoria and Gaius…they are all I had left. What if Alexandria was alive? What if-“ In an instant I was against the wall. “Don’t go there brother. Do not go there.” “Would you not fight for them? Die for them? For even a chance?” The earth shook. His eyes were unmoving, his jaw clenched. “I…yes, I would.” “Then you understand what I must do.” “Yes.” He backed away, breaking from my eyes as he watched the ground. His fists unclenched. “I…I’m sorry for what has happened. They…they didn’t deserve what happened.” The earth shook. Dust. “Nobody deserved what happened.” “Seraphir said they will likely be in Segmentus Invictus, correct?” “Yes, where the fighting is the worst.” Nothing. “Then let us hurry, the bombardment is over.” “Lead the way brother.” We powered up our arm-mounted energy cannons, the energy cells humming to life as they restored power. The weak weapons all we had to defend ourselves from any ometrons we encountered. I was unsure how much time we had before the bombardment began again; hopefully our brothers in the sky could drive them away soon. How had this happened? How had the machines turned on their creators? The Code was perfect, the Emperor himself had secured it. Unless Seraphir was right, and one of our own brothers betrayed us…but why? And Victoria…I must find her. Our mountain village was razed to ashes when we returned from our trip to the marketplace. Azrael had told me to go tomorrow. I had insisted. Now his wife and three daughters were dead because of me, while Victoria and Gaius were somewhere in the city according to the gate keeper. There are no words to describe the guilt I hold for Azrael, and I still do not understand why he chose to come with me; perhaps he hopes that at least one of our families will be alive. Seraphir, Lord of Legions 176 and 284 was trying to withdraw the civilians, but the attack was without warning so there were few survivors before they could mobilize. We had five minutes if we were lucky to make it to Invictus, and I could already tell by the screams and explosions outside that hell had already started up again. Shoving the door open, I leapt to the metal floor as fighting raged outside. The blurred orbs of ometron displacement cannons tore apart everything they hit as ometrons on the other side of the street had opened fire on a squad of arcadians, already moving to the rooftops for mobility. Arcadian energy cannons fired invisible laser beams at the ometrons as their blue shields absorbed hits, several falling over motionlessly with the failure of their shields. Some took cover and reattached missing limbs with fusion cutters before returning to battle, but I couldn’t help my brothers for Victoria was all on my mind. Azrael was right behind me as I broke through the wall in a heap of rubble, the familiar scent of scorched flesh filling my nostrils, the taste hanging on my tongue. Explosions and screams tore through the air in a continuous flood as ships waged brutal dogfights in the skies. The ometrons were too focused on combating the soldiers to notice us as we escaped an alley to the next street. Invictus was straight in the direction we were heading. As we came across the Grand Plaza of Invictus after crossing another war torn street, my heart stopped beating. Words could not describe the battle. Tens of thousands of arcadian and ometrons alike fought upon as many mangled corpses, torn apart by weapons of both sides. Smoke obscured most of the battlefield, but my eyes pierced the clouds as though they were nonexistent as I absorbed every detail in seconds. Hundreds fell in droves on both sides as massive amounts of firepower wiped out entire platoons and the fallen corpses that were used as cover. Powerful anti-matter missiles annihilated hundred yard chunks of land, leaving charred craters, the ometrons without care for friendly fire. The lines were mixed together; the forces indistinct from each other as vicious close quarters combat broke in several areas only to be wiped out from a volley of fire or a missile. It wasn’t burning flesh that choked the air; it was Death made manifest. The fumes of a thousand corpses tainted the air; it was a stench that I would grow accustomed to. I broke from the scene, for I had barely even spoke of the atrocities going on in the agglomeration of flesh and metal. “Azrael, with me,” I said, leading us around the perimeter as it became apparent that no area was safe. My eyes scanned the block a mile away at four hundred civilians, but many weren’t looking my way to identify. We pounded the ground with our feet onwards as an orb destroyed the ground twenty yards in front of us; another moment and we would have been killed. Four hundred yards ahead, the glowing muzzle of an ometron standing atop a mutilated arcadian fired again as I leapt out of the way with Azrael at my side. We landed on the side of the street as the land we had been standing on was obliterated. The helmet of the ometron had a dull grey octagonal visor that traced after us. It was around fifteen feet tall and a good eight feet wide, considerably larger than me in height and twice the height of Azrael. The bulky armor of the machine was deceptive for they were as mobile as even the fiercest arcadian warrior. We opened fire simultaneously on the ometron, it’s shields absorbing our hit’s as it fired again. It traced me as I moved, continuing to fire as Azrael reversed, escaping harm as the ometron let him go. The hits drew closer as we continued pounding the machine, but it’s shields were powerful compared to our weaker energy cannons. However, it suddenly turned as several soldiers opened fire on them, sensing our threat level was next to nothing. Our gold visor comrades quickly kept them in combat as I led Azrael through cover towards the civilians, knowing that we had little time. We were a thousand yards from the civilians when something pounded the ground behind me. Azrael vanished into the side of the building with colossal force as an ometron charged me, it’s cannon damaged beyond repair. My weapon was useless as I tried to outmaneuver it, but it grabbed my ankle and flung me fifty yards through the air as I smashed into a building. I broke through several walls before coming to a stop, the world shaking as I stumbled up. Dust, ash, and debris fell off my body as the ometron was already on me again, flinging me back into the street as I smashed into a crashed ship. A fresh wave of screams reverberated from the street up ahead. Ignoring the pain and blood that filled my mouth, I found the hilt of a sword next to a fallen brother. I had never used a sword before, but the ometron was going to kill me if I didn’t kill it now. Rising to my feet, the ometron scanned my new weapon as it wrenched a large bar from the floor. A blast hit the ground to the left of us, but I was focused on every movement of its body to notice it. It limped on its right leg. The bar was bent on the upper half. It’s right arm was critically damaged. It put extra weight on its right heel. Then it came forward. The blade was light but strange as I attempted to wield it, but as our blades danced in a storm of metal, I knew I couldn’t win. I had never practiced the art of a blade while the machine had been programmed by the best of the Legions. It smashed me in the side, sending me into the ship again as it leapt atop me, swinging the bar upon me again. I caught it in my hand, but it had tremendous strength as its fist pounded the ground next to my face. I kicked it’s right leg were it limped as it staggered back for a moment. Taking advantage, I tackled the titan as we rolled on the floor. It became apparent that the machine was stronger than I, but I continued to keeps myself out of harm. “Zorrul!” The voice I knew from anywhere. The sweet angelic voice that I savored every morning. Keeping the machine at bay, I turned to the direction of the voice. All I saw was a figure with a bundle vanish in a blast. Everything stopped. Debris rained on my face . They were gone. This was all for nothing. What was once my heart died away, cracking to pieces as each shard shattered into a thousand fragments. Pain in my chest. Anger. Hate. The ometron tried to overpower me as I smashed my fist into its face, ignoring the pain of the blow as I broke my hand. The machine continued to function as I reached for the blade, gripping it tightly as I drove it through the center of its chest. I wasn’t sure if it was dead, but I didn’t care. That couldn’t have been them. It can’t be. I ran over to the crater, but all that remained were the pieces of charred remains. Burnt flesh singed my tongue and clogged my nose. I collapsed in the pit, grabbing a handful of what was a body as it degraded to ash in my fingers. Then metal. I lifted the charred piece, white hot from the explosion. Impossible. Our wedding amulet. The pain in my chest intensified. My hands trembled. Something wet landed on the amulet. It vaporized to steam in a second. It couldn’t be possible. None of this was possible. The metal didn’t cool down; it grew hotter. The ground was smoking around me. My mind was collapsing on itself. Nothing could fill this cavern in my heart; the only salvation would be death. Why didn’t Death take me? Victoria nor Gaius deserved death. Why? The pain exploded. A thousand knives pierced my heart at the same time. My skin was scorching. The amulet was melting away in my hands. The smoke around me grew in strength. A bloodcurdling scream tore through the smoking crater, across the field, the entire city. It was not my scream. It wasn’t an arcadian scream. Pain. My skin was on fire. My skin was fire. My brain was swelling like a balloon, and I tried to press my skull together. The amulet was molten metal, and it slipped through my fingers in the smoking pit. Pain beyond measure. As I became fire, so did I become pain. The heat became worse as plasma replaced the blood in my veins. I collapsed onto the ground as the beaming sun pulled my eyes away from the pain; its invisible rays were gushes of flame against my body. Fire erupted in the ground around me as white hot flames engulfed my entire body. The fire burned my body, and I cried out in pain as I sought out some way to expunge it along with the hole that had replaced my heart. Displacement orbs flew at me, but they vaporized in the air fifty yards away harmlessly as I screamed out in agony. A torrent of the fire left my body, reducing the pain by a miniscule fragment. An escape. It was no longer fire that surrounded me, but pure energy. Time became non-existent. I was trapped in this cycle for an eternity. This was insanity. Inch by inch the pain lessened. A thousand inches and I was only a thousandth of the way there. Insanity. Freedom. The ground met my smoking body. Half of the city was gone; one side was a black smear the went on indefinitely. The other half held combatants still fighting. The stench of thousands who had vaporized clogged my lungs in clouds of smoke as Azrael and a group of heavily armored arcadians approached me. A booming laugh. Darkness. Analysis: This is an entertainment work offering some insight on the mysterious characters, “arcadians”, which are discussed in both my novels Condemned and Nightfall. In particular, this scene reflects over Segmentus Invictus, the first battle in which the ometrons (machines the arcadians built to protect themselves) instead chose to destroy them. This war became known as “The Fall” and lead to the essential extinction of the entire arcadian legacy. The survivors, known as The Legion, still wander space as vagabonds searching for purpose. In Memoriam The Fall Poem over death and guilt (Related to the universe of my novel Condemned) Many think time is the solution to everything But I can guarantee you that they are wrong. What can you do when the thing you desire Will forever be out of grasp? Nothing. These eyes have worn through hope and despair, Hate and love once flooded my veins. Yet here I am, with the universe to call my own, Where time and space is meaningless. Revenge has been tried a thousand times, But nothing I do brings me peace. When a mind only remembers and never forgets, It is hard to make ends meet. So, alas, here I am, Waiting for Death to overcome its fears. Then I could be joined with the ones I love, You Victoria, and Gaius, is he grown? This void of space is an endless plain, And I search but can never find what it is that I seek. What cruelty did we commit for the Ancients to forge us so? Death is such a fickle thing, A release from this prison that is life. How many eons must I spend here, Knowing what I seek is on the other side? The fool that hopes to live forever should reconsider, For there are far worse things than Death. I’ve stared down Death and spat in his eye, And yet he is too scared to make a move. I open my arms and beckon him forth, But here I stand, free and without harm. So, what can one do when there is time for everything? Nothing, that is what I can guarantee. Death is what brings purpose to life, A reason to fight for the ones you love. But when you can live forever, And you lose the ones dearest to you, What do you have left? Analysis: This poem, like the prior short story, details Zorrul specifically as he reminisces over the Fall. It comes to show how revenge and anger can never overcome the grief of death, and there are far worse things than dying. The last word, which is implied by the emptiness, is meant to be “Nothing,” showing how a life without any purpose is a worse fate than death. Dark Side of the Moon Literary Short Story A world of creation, a world of destruction. A world of lavishness, a world of frugality. A world of the young, a world of the wise. A world of redemption, a world of retribution. A world where the strong ate, a world where the weak starved. A world of opportunity, a world of deception. A world of the dead, a world of the dying. This world enveloped the lives of Kichner and her fellow workers of C Block, 74th Division of Hollow Colony. All two thousand of her comrades served their three Queens with undying fervor, along with the other hundred thousand souls who called Hollow their hearth. Constructed on the Northern fringes of the many colonies of Algonia, it held guard along with her sister colonies near the frontier of the Feeding Grounds from which their food was harvested. They were sacred grounds hidden amongst the bases of three dozen ancient oaks that watched over all in their silent slumber, the last of what once had been a great forest brought to destruction by the Big Ones. The sun’s radiant rays danced across the grassy meadows of Algonia, untouched and unscathed by time as a gentle breeze swept through the lands, ushering forth a wave of warm air. The serenity was merely an illusion for the darker powers at work. For Kichner and her brethren of Hollow, the times were not well. A new race had come to challenge Algonian dominance of the meadow, and when the Algonians could have wiped out the intruders with little bloodshed, they had chosen not to. They figured the intruders would be defeated by the older colonies in the Northern Hills or by collapsing in on themselves with their malicious ambitions, but the opposite happened. The Algonian’s adversaries exploded in a raging innumerable tide, sweeping away all resistance under their lightning black tides that were darker than night. Colony after colony fell in rapid succession, and soon a dozen nations and a million corpses lay crumbled at the feet of their foe. The Javalonians were smaller than Algonians, but what the attackers lacked in size they made up in mobility. Under the iron might of their leader, Queen Jarvinia, they sought domination over the weak as they viewed themselves the supreme race, destined to conquer all. But Kichner, along with the millions of other Algonians, would not surrender their sacred hearths so easily. The Algonians, however, believed that they had time to prepare for the costs of war. The three dozen ancient oaks provided a key strategic point for the Algonians, having long protected them from the intruders with their vicious predators and harsh terrain. But last night, the night of a full moon, the Algonians found in horror that six Big Ones had devoured the trees with their great machines, reducing and uprooting the lands to nothing. Worse than losing their major feeding ground was the fact that the great barriers dividing the two forces had been breached; they waited for an inevitable storm. Kichner was hard at work in Tunnel Quadrant D6 of Hollow, expanding the colony for the new young. Dirt and dust clogged the cramped air around Kichner and her fellow workers, but she was so focused on her work that she paid little heed to the conditions. She helped a comrade dislodge a pearly white stone which plopped into a pile of mud, the white forever stained by the filth as a worker took it away. Kichner had been working for most of the night when the alarms of the fall of the trees had created the perfect conditions for an invasion. Her limbs were sore, her muscles fading her as she worked on will alone. Her heart thumped as fast as her breaths. One of her comrades tapped her. “Kichner?” It was Althea, one of her oldest friends. “Althea, where have you been?” “Not even a hello? Quadrant E4, if you must know.” “Forgive me sister, the long night has taken the best of me. What are you doing here?” With combined effort, the two managed to dislodge another stone. “Once this passage is complete we can rest, and I like my sleep. Imagine what it will be like tomorrow, with all the talk of war flying through the ranks.” The fatigue in Kichner vanished as energy buzzed throughout her body for a new desire. A desire that rose in a scorching wave of fire. A desire that made her heartbeat explode, pumping fiery blood through every cell in her tired body. A desire that rid all other desires. A desire for war. War. It was the foundation on which both the Algonians and Javalonians came to power. It was in the heart of every Algonian, but surely none had become as devoted or embracing to war as Kichner. War had even overtaken Yalak in Kichner’s heart, the Creator of Life. It was a rage for the youth, longing for violence and bloodshed for even the most trivial of reasons; sometimes no reason at all. War was the mightiest of honors to bestow on oneself, to serve in a glorious war for Algonia and the Queens. “Yes, glorious war! Oh, we will finally be able to fight! They will sing of us in the Hall of Warriors, of our march, our crushed enemies! Of our magnificent victories, rivaled by none!” “Don’t get too carried away, we are workers. I doubt we will even see the field.” Kichner wanted no discouragement. “We will fight, we have to. This will be the biggest war for many generations, why would they exclude us from glorious war?” “Who says that, who keeps chiming of glorious war?” Kichner recognized the voice; one of the lone older workers. She spoke little, and the only reason Kichner remembered Lavica was because she had once yelled at her for dropping a small stone on her foot, not worthy of such a response. Neither Althea nor Kichner replied. “It is you, Kichner, isn’t it?” “Why does it matter?” “Stop. We don’t need to hear of your nonsense, of your glorious war.” Whether due to her hype or that she failed to think, Kichner said, “Why? Because you can’t go?” “What? You dare say such a thing?” If Lavica wasn’t missing a limb, she would’ve proved much more terrifying as Lavica turned to face Kichner, barely working. “Let me tell you what I think of your glorious war. Glorious war is the reason that all of my friends are dead. Glorious war inspires you babbling fools to die for reasons you don’t even began to comprehend. Glorious war is why I am alone and old, surrounded by young. Your glorious war has taken everything from me. Everything! Some say Yalak spared me, I survived by His grace. I would rather die in peace than live in agony, the only true reward of your glorious war.” Kichner, along with the other dozen workers in the passage stared in frozen horror at Lavica as she lashed forward. However, several workers already pulled Lavica back as Althea led Kichner to another section of the passage to ease the tension. “Embrace the dark side of the moon Kichner, or it will claim your soul just as it claimed mines.” The icy words reverberated through Kichner like the ripples of a still pool disturbed by a stone. “Don’t listen to her, she is only an old mumbling fool.” Althea glanced at Lavica as she was taken away to prevent her blasphemous teachings from reaching others. “I hope so.” After the brief confrontation with the older worker, Kichner and Althea finished the passage before their group was dismissed to their sleeping chamber. They were greeted by Songrad and Shaisha when they entered the dark room; old friends of Kichner as well. “Ah, back at last!” Songrad said, the smallest yet oldest of the group. “It has been a long night. Have you any word of the frontier?” “Very little, it is still quiet on all fronts. Why?” “Why? For the glories of war of course; what other reason?” “Oh Kichner, still consumed by your fantasy of war. As if we’ll ever fight.” “Not you Songrad, you’re a little on the short side.” “Hush sister, you needn’t be so brusque. Imagine what the soldiers think of us,” Shaisha said, who had always assumed the role as the guardian of Songrad despite being the youngest. “Hah, as if I’d want to fight.” Songrad’s tone undermined her words. “So, nothing then?” Kichner asked. “Well the Western Queens are upset with the due course of action, they insist that the Eastern forces make the offensive and they’ll provide support.” Kichner paid as much attention to the Queens of the West than she did to peace. It was a small, isolated sector of Algonian colonies that had over time grew farther and farther apart. “They can squabble all they like. They will not be leading the war. So is that all?” “That’s all I’ve heard.” “Then I am off to rest, I’m sure we’ll have a long day tomorrow.” “Agreed sister. Good night,” Songrad said. The group dismissed themselves one by one after Kichner, who moved to her corner where she always slept as the dozens of other workers were settling down. She had long grown accustomed to the firm earthen floor that for countless nights she slept upon, and her body would have as easily accepted a rough rock as a suitable bed with the fatigue that pulsed in her body. She stretched her worn limbs as she collapsed on the ground, taking a final breath of the stale air as she nestled her head against a clump of dirt; her mind the entire time trying to salvage Lavica’s words for an answer. Kichner wasn’t sure where she was. Her body was gone, but yet she was still alive in a world of darkness. An endless abyss surrounded her in the void. Then the darkness engulfed itself in a hurricane as everything snapped into a single point of space as everything snapped to focus. She was outside of Hollow, along the base of the cold hill under the starry night. Thousands of Algonians were outside; Songrad, Althea, Shaisha, Lavica amongst them. They were going towards something, but what? The stars were the only source of light in the sky, but they held no direction nor guidance for those below. Then a western wind came in an instant with a force of a thousand gusts as the entire colony was swept away. Yet Kichner still stood as everything before her was cleansed from the western winds. The winds of the west were relentless and unforgiving, and soon they swept across the stars and even the moon. The wind began tugging on Kichner, and she could only see one speck of light left; a small segment of the moon not yet succumbed to the darkness. Then the darkness engulfed her in a torrent of power. Kichner jolted as she awoke. Her sisters were still asleep; she had awoken in the middle of their resting period. Her limbs trembled, not of fatigue, but of fear. She had never experienced such an image, and she shook her head as she collapsed, knowing her body needed every ounce of rest it could get. For two weeks Kichner and her fellow workers and friends continued working, expanding the colony as fresh workers poured in faster than they could build. With each passing day, Kichner’s desire for war forged a connection as strong as the bonds linking life to the sun. Lavica was shifted to a different unit while Althea also fell under the hopes for a glorious war. Songrad continued to act without a care for the thing. Instead, Songrad had shifted her focus onto worship of Yalak for peace between the two nations, a focus that Shaisha also followed while Althea and Kichner held similar respects for war. On the night of a half-moon as Kichner and her sisters slept, alarms shattered the serene silence of the colony. Kichner awoke after a struggle with her fatigued body, but once the messengers spread word that the Colony was mobilizing for war, all signs of weakness vanished from her body. Several worker units were being sent with the Guard, and Kichner’s was one of the chosen. Songrad stayed behind, deemed too small to fight on the offensive as Kichner, Althea, and Shaisha followed eight hundred of their fellow workers through the dark tunnels of the colony to the surface. But one of the thousands, not called into action said to the others, “You fools march to you own deaths! Turn back and there may be salvation for you all!” “Don’t listen to her, she is only an old mumbling fool,” Althea said as the old adversary was taken back to the colony. They climbed out in the thousands, the lights of hundreds of stars illuminated the workers and soldiers who mobilized into battle formations. One of the outer colonies had been attacked by the Javalonians, and they had called for the aid of other colonies to send reinforcements. The assembled force began their march in jolly unison as the cries of battle and scent of blood filled the air. Cheers and songs of war danced in the air as the army marched, preparing for the glorious war ahead. A light wind from the west brushed the force; the silence before the storm. In no time, Kichner and the army came across an escalating battle as allied colonies sent their forces with matching opposition from the Javalonians. The colony that had called for aid was in a desperate situation; the enemy had penetrated the interior of the structure and broke the lines of the Algonians, who fought in mixed patches with their swift adversaries to the death. Thousands of the dead and the dying littered the field in a forest of limbs as both sides fought in brutal melee combat; tearing, gouging, biting, disemboweling, decapitating, and in other means defeating their opponents. The colony seemed lost in many aspects, but many things changed as the reinforcements entered the fray. The Javalonians were water against stone as they clashed with the new forces. Keeping strict lines, the Algonian forces fought back wave after wave of the intruders as they marched over the dead to salvage what they could of the colony. Kichner and her friends were near the middle of the force, and her blooming desires had finally been grasped as she crawled over the dead after the quickly shrinking Javalonian forces. Occasionally tearing off the limb of a long dead adversary to proudly wave in the air, nothing could disturb her from this moment of glory. Nothing except for the great black swab that swelled in the darkness, obscured from the faint light emitted by the moon. The Javalonians had waited in the darkness around the colony, urging their seemingly victorious enemies closer and closer to the colony; in the center of their main army. Once they reached the colony, the Javalonians washed across the field in a lightning wave, clashing with the Algonians from all sides. Kichner was torn from Shaisha and Althea as the ranks broke, and Kichner found herself facing her pitch black foe, nearly invisible under the night sky. It lunged in a lightning strike at Kichner, who dodged blow after blow when her foe was suddenly charged by an Algonian soldier. The soldier cried for help as Kichner snapped from her trance, unsteadily helping the soldier decapitate her foe with a quick snap. Kichner trembled as she stumbled back, the soldier being attacked by another. She lost balance and collapsed in a pile of lifeless corpses. Or so she thought. One clenched her leg in an iron grip, and Kichner cried out as she tried to escape. The grip tightened. It started to hurt. Kichner was screaming, and she suddenly turned upon her attacker, savagely beating again and again until the grip vanished. Mortified by the blood coating her body, Kichner leapt away, crashing into an agglomeration of struggling bodies as she fought for her life. The battle had ended by the time the sun rose. A thousand ghosts were all that remained of the twenty thousand strong force that had left Hollow, and they solemnly made their way back to the colony. Kichner was one of the thousand. Althea had survived as well, while Shaisha was missing. They both knew that Shaisha was with Yalak, no longer amongst them. The group was silent on the long march back to the colony. They crossed the grassy plains as the weak beams of sunlight uncovered the devastation of the field: hundreds of thousands of bodies and limbs atop a colony, more dead than alive. A glorious war. When they reached the colony, they were greeted by cheers and shouts along with jokes of the enemy. The ghosts were silent. The crowds fed and nurtured them to health, fulfilling any desire they asked. The ghosts were silent. The young asked about the battle while the High Priests of Yalak gave their blessings. The ghosts were silent. The Hall of Warriors sang many great ballads for them and recitations for the fallen. The ghosts were silent. The news that Lavica had been executed for being a prophet of deception reached the ranks of the ghosts. The ghosts knew she was no fool. Then Songrad asked of Shaisha in the sleeping chamber the night of the battle. “It’s great to see you, I was so…where is Shaisha?” The ghosts were silent. “Where is she?” The ghosts were silent. “No…she is with Yalak, isn’t she? The ghosts nodded. Songrad trembled with the words as she fled to her corner, shutting herself away from the others as she wept. The ghosts looked at each other before moving over to Songrad, nurturing the old worker as she wept for her great friend. The ghosts said nothing. Even after a week, the ghosts had only begun crawling out of their shells. The war, however, was not going as planned. In what had been the largest battle of the war, Big Ones had intervened, sparing nothing as they laid waste to both forces, leaving both sides without an army. But while the war wavered, greater events occurred elsewhere. The western winds, which had so long been silent, erupted in an unstoppable storm. Kichner was in the abyss again on the night of a crescent moon. Ever since the battle, she always thought of the same thing. But this time, it was different. Everything was white. She was alone in this world of white, but the moment she moved, a sudden black smudge grew on the ground below her. The swelling darkness soon erupted, branching endlessly in all directions as Kichner fled, finding her movements sped up the reaction as there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. All that remained was a small beam of light at the end of the tunnel. Then the darkness engulfed everything. Kichner recognized the signal in the air before she could react, the same signal she had reacted to with eagerness only a few weeks ago. The threat of danger, of battle. Instead of eagerness, a great dread entrenched itself in her heart, commanding her to dig into the ground and hide, to never come out until it was over. The screams and yells of the dying reverberated in her mind in a thousand voices; the ghosts of the past haunting her still. “Quick Kichner, the colony is under attack!” Althea called out at the end of the chamber. “What? How did the Javalonians get here?” “The Javalonians aren’t attacking. They come from the West.” “Impossible, why would they attack?” “We don’t have time Kichner, we must fight or Hollow is lost!” “Yes, go on. We must fight.” Kichner’s limbs trembled at the words. Althea, Kichner, and Songrad followed the other workers of the chamber out of the colony, but the screams and stench of battle that shattered the serenity of the night found Kichner long before they came across their foe. Thousands of soldiers from the Western colonies had come to invade Hollow; the six Queens of the West long plotting to overtake the East, weakened by the costs of war while their army was expended fighting the Javalonians. Kichner could already tell they were fighting a losing battle, their numbers had not replenished since their devastating losses of their last battle. Kichner spoke to Althea, more in fear of battle than the fact that they had already lost, “We must flee to another colony; Hollow is lost.” Althea came to the same conclusion. “Yes, Songrad, come quickly!” “By Yalak…Yalak will not allow this. He cannot allow this. Yalak will intervene.” Songrad was trembling as her sisters were cut down around her in droves, Althea and Kichner’s cries unable to breach her broken mind. Kichner scrambled towards her as Songrad had went astray, but several paces before she could reach her, Songrad was suddenly snatched up by a soldier of the West. Songrad scrambled in the iron grip of the soldier as she yelled, “Yalak, help me! Yalak! Ya-“ Her scream was cut off as she was cut in half in a fountain of blood, her twitching body left on the ground. Kichner’s jaw dropped for a second as the soldier moved forward. Kichner broke out of her stance, her small body allowing her more speed as she outran the soldier and joined Althea, frozen in place by what she saw. An enemy soldier moved for Althea from behind, but Kichner charged the attacker, flipping the soldier on her side as she clawed the soldier to death. The soldier tore a gouge from Kichner as she yelled in agony, not stopping her assault as Althea helped pummel the attacker. Under their combined efforts, the soldier finally went limp as Kichner rolled to the side, fluids pouring from the deep gouge in her side. Althea hefted Kichner up as she fled the scene once the fate of the colony passed through the fighters; the invaders had killed the Queens of Hollow. Kichner rasped as Althea took her away from battle, away from fighting, away from death. Why Songrad? Why her? Why did she just stand there…why? Where was Yalak? Why did He do nothing? The questions raced through Kichner’s mind as fast as her ragged breaths from her shriveled body, and Althea did not stop until they were far from the colony with several other survivors. By the time they escaped the battle, Yalak became another corpse on the field. Althea stopped and let Kichner down gently against the cool base of a rock as she struggled to breath. Kichner found herself immobile as she attempted to move; her body collapsing on the icy stone. Dark clouds swept over the night sky as a lone star and the crescent of the moon were the last sources of light; marking the path in which all things followed. Kichner’s limbs trembled from the seeping cold in the now gentle breeze of the west, her body fighting against the inevitable. “Oh Althea…Why must it end so? Songrad, Shaisha, Hollow…” “End? Kichner, it has only begun! The Eastern colonies will come to our aid, they shall not allow such barbarism!” “Yes…only begun. For you it has only begun.” A cloud covered the final star and crescent of light emitted by the moon; leaving a sky void of light. “Kichner? Kichner? Oh…oh Kichner…” Kichner lay still against the rock, embracing the dark side of the moon as Althea wept over her crumpled body. She no longer felt or heard the world around her. She had entered a world where no creature that breathed life could ever truly embrace, a world where the strong didn’t eat nor the weak starve, a world which for Kichner had only begun. A world of peace. Analysis: This story is a metaphor to war in general, with the loss involved and how many youth are eager for it without knowing the implications it carries. Specifically, this is supposed to model World War Two. It has a large amount of symbolism, one being the different phases of the moon that come to reveal Kichner’s path to enlightenment. The other, which is very obscure, is that this story revolves around ants. These are not people or aliens, simple ants. This is supposed to also show the universality of loss and death. In My Mind Poem/Song This is what it’s like when you’re trapped in my mind, Where dreams and hopes work to make you blind. What can I say? It’s just me, Bringing to light a perspective of things. The world we’re in is a game of dice, Flick of the wrist can change your life. A lotta things come from what we call chance, The good, the bad, the things that make you sad. It makes me mad about the crap I coulda had, Then maybe my dad would be proud of who I Am. Don’t think I’m saying I’m from the hood, But I can tell you that I’m far from good. Sometimes you hope it’s all just a dream, When you begin to break down at the seams. But the difference between a dream and a nightmare, Is that nightmares die while dreams forever haunt you. The times may change but Life’s still the same, Find myself trapped on a ruthless blade, Hanging by an inch from the crowded edge. Places like this are where men are made, Far from any kind of help or aid. You’re stuck with you past, weighs you down to the last, All you’ve got left are the words you cast. Now kids these days are talking trash, Thinking it’s cool to pop some caps, Win fights in school or bust a new rap. Thing is they don’t know all the battles Their idols endure just to pursue their ambitions. Some just get that girls and drugs are tools, And that smoking dope is the new cool, Not realizing that they are the fool. If you ever find yourself all alone, Trapped in a cycle of an inevitable doom, Where there’s nowhere left to run or hide, You don’t need me to help you survive, To give you fresh hope to start a new life. Call a friend, maybe that guy down the street, Anyone will listen with a couple rhymes and a beat. This isn’t my idea of an intervention, Nor an inception of a deception for misleading conceptions. It’s just an outlook on that thing we call life, In hopes that I can save or change a few lives. This is what it’s like when you’re trapped in my mind, Where dreams and hopes work to make you blind. What can I say? It’s just me, Bringing to the light a perspective of things Analysis: This poem is set more towards the youth of my generation and my reflections on changing society. The youth generations are starting to lose grip and focus over what is important in life. Many are too afraid to stand up for their own ideas as they risk being targeted by others. But trying to be someone you’re not only leaves to conscious disassociation, which only makes things worse. Being yourself is a right everyone has, and you shouldn’t let others take that away from you. Sins of a Father Literary Short Story I quickly paced through a quiet alley in Hastings, a fairly large city in Britain. My shabby, filthy clothes swayed loosely off my thin, bony body. I wasn’t sure how I had ended up here; I just woke up lying on the ground out in the country and somehow made it here. The only things I had were my rags and a small brass amulet, which meant everything to me. I’ve found it easier living here than there, as there is always food and shelter is fairly easy to find. I have no family, or pretty much anyone that I was close too. With that, I don’t even know my name. On the day I entered this place, an old woman mistook me for her son and called me Wallace, and I adopted the name as my own. Life has not been fortunate to me, however, as I have a grueling deformity on my face, and I wear a low hood in order to conceal it. Where this deformity came from, I do not know, but I have red, scaly skin and an abnormally large eye on the left side of my face. I have been shunned and forced to live here, as people won’t let me show my face. I am taunted daily by people calling me a ‘monster’ and other darker words, and I’ve learned to live with it. When I first came, the taunts were harsh and hurt me deeply, knowing nobody accepted me for my physical appearance, but I was a child then. As time grew, they no longer hurt me, though their volume and numbers seemed to increase day by day. This alley that I walk through is practically my own, apparently no one wants to venture where I walk, which is helpful for me. It has a nasty smell of sewage. As I look at myself, I’m ashamed that these conditions are what I consider normal, but there is little I could do. They have guards nearby so I don’t do anything, but I don’t see why they consider me as a threat. I’m just as human as they are, and not as mad as most of them. I heard my stomach start to growl and wondered when dinner was coming. It was a little later than usual, which was why I began to pace. As a few minutes ticked by, I heard one of the back doors open and a man hastily put a trash bag outside. As he went back inside, I quickly hurried over, wondering what there was to eat tonight. I scavenged the smelly, fly-infested bag carefully and searched for food within its depths. I took out several broken pieces of bread, some vegetables, and a few pieces of discolored meat. Most of it was covered in mixed sauces, but I had been eating like this for a long time and it no longer bothered me. I placed it on one of my dirty plates and quickly devoured the makeshift meal. I picked up the bag and placed it in the dumpster at the end of the alley. The restaurant owner paid me several coins to take out his garbage since no one else wanted to venture where I was. He was more generous and kind than others, but he was still very strict, for he never wanted me in view of his customers. I was simply to take out the trash for a little change, and for food, and that would be all. I went back and scooped up three small coins that had been slipped through and put them in a small burlap bag I used to hold my money. Nearly a hundred coins now jingled around, but I had no idea how much it was worth. I could feel it getting cooler as the sun escaped my view behind a building. I shooed a fat, ugly rat away before I lied down in the little tent I had set up against the wall. I felt quite tired, and it didn’t take long for me to fall asleep. 2 Years Later… I opened my eyes to the bright morning sun, and I felt a breeze of the chilly autumn air. I wasn’t sure how old I was, but it’s been three years since I woke up out in the country. The restaurant owner assumed I was in my teens, but he and I really have no clue how old I am. I changed a lot over the years; I am now tall, strong, and muscular, though I don’t know how. My diet of old bread and rotten leftovers hasn’t really changed much. The owner actually had to get me some new clothes since I had out grown the rags I wore before, and that’s what I wore now. I would have gotten them myself if the other shopkeepers would let me buy something from them, but their rules haven’t really changed. What he got me was just a pretty simple hooded tunic and slacks, but it was a whole lot better than my old, smelly rags. It had become a lot quieter here over the years, several shops have shut down, and few come to taunt me anymore. I crawled up out of my small sheets, brushing a large rat away, and looked around. It was quiet this morning; I heard no clopping horse hooves or the chatter of the people in the square. I looked next to my sheet and saw my moneybag, now nearly full, but I had little to do with it. No other shopkeepers would even let me near their stores, so I just kept it in case I ever did need it. A faint scent of pie was in the air, above the usual filthy smell of sewage, and I suddenly felt hungry as I savored for something I’d never have. I turned away from the smell as I pulled out my concealed amulet, putting it on. I gazed at the oddly clean surface and saw my face. It was my only hope for someone to recognize me, and for me to leave this hell. I put my hood on as I walked down the street. I carefully walked through the back alleys to avoid being yelled at by the shopkeepers as I saw some signs that read, ‘No Monsters Allowed’. It saddened me that the people here still had such anger and hatred in their hearts though they didn’t know me at all. But, alas, it was what I had become used to over the years. It was still quiet in the town, and I continued my walk. As I turned a corner though, I bumped into a small child. Before I could apologize, he looked at my face and screamed before running back the way he came. I sighed, but understood. He was a child and didn’t know any better, but now that I think of it, they all act the same. I shortly returned back to my little tent in the alley and sat down as I waited for breakfast. After a few minutes passed, I started to hear a growing commotion in the square. I ignored it at first, but as it grew, I decided to go take a look. I stood and moved a little further up the alley as I saw at least a few dozen people crowding about in the square, many holding small tools. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I noticed the small child in the center of the crowd. As I took a few steps forward, he pointed at me and started to cry out something. The others started to move towards me before breaking into an angry mob, all screaming savagely as the started to run frenziedly towards me. I was confused at this, but I quickly worked the puzzle together. Perhaps my encounter with that child in the alley made him make a wild story about me, perhaps attacking him, and now the people had risen in revolt. The story would have been less believable if it hadn’t been me, but their prejudice and hate now had a reason to harm me. I couldn’t believe the irrationality and unfairness of this, but I knew I would have to flee as a stone the size of a fist whizzed past my head. I knew nobody would help me here. I started to run towards the one place that could bring me safety now, and that was the country. I quickly ran, not caring to take my money, as I headed through the narrow alleys. In this, I had great success as I took a winding path through the city that they could not easily follow, all due to them isolating me. I knew the back alleys of Hastings better than the men who built them, and it was not long until I ran out the front gates. A guard shouted at me to stop and I heard him fire his musket, which missed narrowly. I had eventually made it to a forest near the city and ran for nearly an hour before I convinced myself I was safe and collapsed near a small stream. I had evaded death twice today, one by skill and one by luck, and I was grateful for that. Now though, I was unsure of what to do. It seemed my own kind thought of me now as an enemy, and I had no friends to go to, nowhere to be safe. I drank from the stream once I caught my breath and washed my face off, trying to think. My mind was disoriented by today’s events, and I lied down on a makeshift bed I had made of leaves. As I struggled to find a way to sleep, I felt a sudden pain I had never felt in the city. I felt alone, like a child in the dark. When I woke up, the sun was almost down. My sleep helped restore my thought, and I began to focus on what to do. I could live by this stream with a constant supply of water; all I needed to do was find food. I could suddenly hear something in the forest, the shuffling of feet. I could see the faint lights of lanterns and realized that the townspeople were hunting me down. I turned tail and started to run again, deeper into the forest. I ran for only a few minutes until I reached a sudden cliff overlooking the sea, extending miles both ways. I could hear the people following me with shouts, and I suddenly saw a structure far along the cliffs to my right. A thin spire with a single golden light stood against the darkening gloom of the setting sun, and I made up my mind to head there. I ran along the jagged rocks, which looked like a gaping jaw, keeping my step as I reached the place with little time. I hesitantly knocked on the door. I was putting my life into their hands now, and I only hoped that fortune would smile upon me on this horrid day. As the door opened, a tall, well-dressed man stood in the open archway. He had graying hair and dark blue eyes that seemed to pierce deep within me. He had a frown on his face, and I felt he knew what I would say as I asked desperately, “I need to hide, please, these people are hunting me down because of how I am.” “Come in my poor boy, we shall discuss this inside,” he replied quickly. He let me inside his house, though a mansion would properly address it. A white marble staircase shot out of the tiled floor as a glass chandelier was attached to the ceiling. I could smell a faint incense in the air, giving a peaceful, soothing sensation. He led me to some chairs near a fireplace, and I sat down as he and I talked about the situation. He understood and said I could live here and work as a servant, and I also learned about him. His name was Edmund, and he lived here alone with his daughter Ruth, who happened to be blind from a disease. He only asked if he might study my deformity and see if he could find out what was wrong with me. He told me he was a scientist and might be able to help me in the future. I then met Ruth and talked with her. She was tall as well and her eyes were cloudy like something was covering them up, which looked strange, but I had no room to talk. It felt odd talking to other people, for I never had anyone I could talk to. She was very nice and she was one of the first people that couldn’t judge me for how I looked. I didn’t feel alone anymore. Edmund let me take a bath and get fresh clothes before taking me to the basement. He was going to take a look at my deformity tomorrow and I quickly fell asleep on the comfortable straw bed. The next morning, I woke up and headed to the dining room. Edmund and Ruth were already eating and a maid handed me a plate as I took a seat. It was some eggs and bacon, which smelled delicious, and I ate it as fast as a starving dog. After I finished, Edmund said he would be out for a few hours and just to relax here. I talked with Ruth and asked her a lot of things about her life. I never knew there were people like this, who lived in mansions while there were the less fortunate like me in the alleys of Hastings, with only sheets for beds. We both shared the same curiosity of why it was so, why no one would help people like me or just shun us away from society. It is an odd side of man, to help himself over others. She also told me why she had no mother, she had died a long time ago, but Edmund never told her why. They were the last people alive of their once powerful family. Edmund came home shortly after our conversation ended, and he showed me how to work around the house. I was just to help Ruth around the house and keep her company as he worked in the city, which was fine with me. As days passed, I began to like Ruth a lot. She was the one person that could not see me for how I looked, but for how I am. It seemed more like she was the only human who could see while all the others were blind fools that wandered in the dark. I was starting to feel a gap fill that had been in me for such a long time and that I had long thought vanished, a heart. After nearly a week had passed, Edmund came home after finishing his work in the city. Today though, something was different. He looked troubled, even worried, and before I could speak, he said, “They’re starting to look for you, all over the country. They’ve even put up a bounty for your body, and it’s becoming dangerous for me there.” I could see this wasn’t going to end well. I couldn’t stay here much longer, or else I’d risk these people’s lives. I wasn’t that evil of a man, a monster. I would have to flee to another country if I’d ever want peace, and even than it would be difficult. Suddenly, someone started pounding on the door. “We know that you’re housing a refuge, give him up or we’ll have to arrest you as well. Now open the door!” Wallace assumed the men followed Edmund from Hastings. He would not sacrifice these people’s lives to save himself, for he was no monster. He was a man. He opened the door, letting the men drag him to the city, beating him along the way. Several days later, Edmund opened a letter from a stranger that contained an article that read, “Hastings’s ‘Monster’ Disappears into Ocean”. Within its depths he also found a brass amulet, the surface now gray-green, and a note that read, ‘Thank You’. Than Edmund wept madly, for he had given up his own blood, making him more a monster than his son. Analysis: Many are treated differently due to deformities and other unique factors. The 18th century was no exception: in fact, many disabled or deformed people had little protection against abuses. I wanted to show the struggles of some of these people through this story, and how even brilliant people due to the negative actions and perspectives of others hinder us all as a society. And yes, Edmund gave away his own son to the authorities. Power of Promise Persuasive Essay Some have hoped to bring truth, only to spread deception. Some have hoped they would bring prosperity, only to start a depression. Some have hoped to become the greatest, only to fall among the worst. Some have hoped to ensure peace, only to bring their nation to war. Politicians promise. All that politicians can do is promise. Promise that their leadership will lead their country and its peoples to success and prosperity, like Obama’s promises to provide federal healthcare to all and solve the energy crisis by promoting ethanol use. Republicans, Democrats, Liberals, Conservatives, men, women; any and all politicians can promise. It is their most valuable and essentially only tool, using the mere power of words. Words that, if in the right hands, can succeed in converting millions. Words that spread ideas. These ideas are like viruses: just as there is no cure for the cold once contracted, there is no cure for the hope a promise brings to citizens. The hope that if their politician is elected, their lives will improve. The conundrum all politicians face is between making promises and fulfilling them, for making promises only instills hope in citizens, but to keep this hope, and the office, politicians must keep their promises or make new ones. Although Rick Perry’s promise to end illegal immigration is laudable, he can’t keep this promise because he nor any politician can stop illegal immigration, and even if possible, stopping it would result in disastrous economic consequences. He might as well have endeavored for world peace. North Korea is a prime example of the sheer impossibility of stopping illegal immigration. The Demilitarized Zone extends across the entire 151 mile border between North and South Korea and is fortified with razor wire, guard towers, electric fences, “landmines, tank-traps and heavy weaponry.” It continues to be the most fortified border in the history of man. There are few, if any ways this system could be improved. Yet even with all of these defenses, North Koreans seeking to escape the totalitarian rule of their country have managed to find ways through all of these countermeasures. And for escapees, to fail is to die or face years of punishment; there is no turning back. How does the U.S-Mexico border compare? Roughly twenty thousand Border Patrol agents cover the entire 1,951 mile border, which only has a partially completed fence and minor additional defenses. The U.S border security might as well be a line in the sand with “Stay Out” signs compared to the DMZ. If North Korea still has issues locking down its border, how can the U.S ever hope to do so? Even if a theoretical “perfect system” managed to prevent illegal immigration, there would be unintended consequences if it was put into effect. It would damage the entire American economy, if that counts for something. Illegal immigrants account for approximately “five percent of the total U.S labor force.” They promote economic growth by spending, which creates jobs and supports the economy. They are vital to the survival of small businesses and industries, as well as construction. They “pay sales and property taxes” along with “federal and state income taxes” while they’re ineligible for “Social Security, Medicare, and many other programs their tax dollars help fund,” contrary to popular belief. Around “1.4 million undocumented immigrants in Texas alone added almost $18 billion to the state's economic output.” These are the exact same immigrants that Rick Perry seeks to block from the country, whom fill millions of jobs. Some believe this is beneficial as these jobs could be filled by unemployed, legal Americans. But would a laid off IBM project manager who made six figures want to seek a job in a Ford Factory? Not every unemployed person in America is a low skill worker; they vary from lawyers and doctors to mere retail clerks. If this promise came true, who will build our houses? Who will work in our industries? Who will work for small businesses? If illegal immigration is stopped, there may not be enough to answer those calls. So what is the power of promise? A politician without promise is simply a man in a suit. A politician with promise can be anything. Without promise, there is no potential. Without potential, there can be no success. Politicians must promise if they wish to succeed, to gain the support of millions. Americans don’t elect politicians because they have good morals, a fancy tie, and an agglomeration of campaigning. American’s elect politicians because they promise. Alas, promise is only potential. To truly succeed, the politicians must keep their promises. They can’t keep every promise, for they are human, but they have to keep as many as possible or their support will die away. Ergo, politicians make many promises so they have a wide arsenal to draw upon as they know they can’t keep all of them. This is exemplified by Rick Perry and his broken promise to end illegal immigration; if this was his only promise, his political career would be over. Unless Perry plans on building a thousand foot wall across every mile of the U.S-Mexico border with guards on every inch of land, illegal immigration can’t be stopped. People have been moving since the beginning of time, whether to escape past lives or to establish new ones. It is an innate cycle of human behavior, a cycle that even a border as secure as the DMZ can’t stop. Not to mention that stopping illegal immigration would cause severe economic repercussions. Small businesses, construction, industries; all would suffer. But even though he can’t keep his promise, it must be noted that it took promises to get him to where he is today, whether they were broken or kept. A promise of some sort is better than no promise at all, for without promise, he would just and forever be another man in a suit. Analysis: This is no political slander, my main idea revolves around the idea of how people condone politicians for making promises they cannot keep. In reality, these politicians must make promises simply to act their role. If they do not risk making such promises in the first place, how can we as people even conceive giving them power to govern us? Thank you for reading: I hope you enjoyed my work! If you want some more of my modern work, please take a few minutes to read the sample of Condemned. These are a mix of works over the past 2 years, and as it is with all writers, my writing style has dramatically changed.