It all starts with a snapping sound. A cracking. But does it really start there? It also ends here, that cracking sound breaking away the after from the before. The cracking was a change, a change in the body, a change in the mind. A bone snapped, and one knee went down, followed by the other. From standing, to kneeling, to crawling, all from one snap. It doesn’t stop there, it doesn’t begin there. But it was an end, it was a beginning.
It was long coming, but quite unexpected. It’s a strange feeling, to be sitting in the path of a storm, to know it’s coming and to know it will take you down, and to be unable to move away. On the ground, agonizing, wracked by pain, time slows down. Past events surge back. Standing seems like a distant memory. Thirty seconds on the ground, thirty seconds ago a man, now a worm. Life led in this direction, years of humanity, seconds of wormhood. Gone is all the pretention, gone is all delusions of grandeurs, with one snap, one crack, one moment, a grim reminder was issued: Even titans will fall.
The ground is cold, a new river is born. Born out of tears. Tears of rage, of pain, of anger. The tears of a dying man to whom even death is denied. Moving is impossible. Standing even harder. The ground is cold, but cannot swallow the pain. Eyes are closed, a primal shout is released. The pain will be shared with the world, the pain will be released. Silent pain made vocal, the shout would stop the most heartless of killers from plunging a knife into the heart of a desired victim. A shout like this, so rarely heard before, now echoes. The ground shakes, the animals in the forest are paralyzed by the pain the shout releases.
The ground is warmer, filling with the warmth of the fallen one. The newborn river dries up. The voice dies down, but the eyes open, a fire is burning. The flames from hell filling the fallen one’s soul or the fire of a burning sun, no one can tell. One breath is taken. The flames spread, from the eyes, to the face. It burns with pain, anger, rage. It spreads throughout the body, burning brightly. The comforting pain of the flames drown out the pain of the broken bones. On hand comes down hard on the ground, an echo of the original sound, the one that fell him. A second hand comes down. Air is exhaled. Like wind in a valley, the breath seems strong enough to blind anyone who would dare still be watching this. The muscles bulge, the effort seems beyond comprehension. Another breath is taken. A strong reminder: Even titans must crawl.
At arm’s length from the ground, no longer fallen, the worm becomes a dog. No more yelling is to be heard. The pain will be his, as it was, as it is, as it must be. No longer a curse, it becomes a gift. The pain, the one that paralysed him so, is now fuelling the fires of his heart. The dog will not remain dog much longer. A quadruped he is not. The eyes close again, this time not blinded by tears. A breath is taken again, this time not in despair. The fires burn bright, so bright that anyone watching would have to avert their eyes. No one is watching anymore they all vanished. Vanished under his weight when he fell, banished by the pain released in the shout, blown away by the breath that followed.
Alone, but not lonely. Lonely, but not alone. Pain is now a friend, an ally, a foe, a lover, an enemy. But pain is no longer a stranger, it will never be. But it no longer matters. The fire is burning brighter than ever, the river of tears is now dry. One foot finds the ground, the dog is no longer. He is kneeling. Breath in, breath out. The hands push, the earth itself seems to be reacting to this contact. Earthquakes must be happening elsewhere on the globe because of that push. The other foot finds the ground. The broken bone cannot even emit pain anymore. Pain no longer matters. Everywhere, people go on with their lives, unaware of the monumental event happening mere miles away. Knees crack, the hands leave the ground. The man that became worm, that became dog, has just become more than a man. Transformed by the fall. His eyes have changed. A powerful reminder: Even titans can rise.
[Now this one is a bit personal. People who know me a little know what this is generally about, some close friends can even know exactly what this represents. But I also want it to be about a "titan." I am exploring the limits of the idea that one should write what he knows. If you don't mind commenting, you could tell me what you thought this was about; I'm curious about that.]
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Introduction Part 1
[So I decided to try my hand at something longer, but I can't help but see the influence my readings have had on it. This is what I have so far, it's the first part of an introduction / chapter 1 for a fantasy type book. Hope you'll enjoy it.]
The old man knew it was time to pen that letter. He had wished he could avoid having to do so, but as he looked out the window to the snow covered forest surrounding the village, he had no choice. Time had come for Jarrick to leave this village, the resting place of his dear wife, and his grandchildren. It had been his destined duty back from the day he received a letter similar to the one he was writing. It came from his father, as he was nearing that age. But unlike his father, he could not write to his son. The traditions of ancient times had stayed the same, but the world had changed quite a lot. And because of that, his letter could not be identical to the one he received. He had changed, he knew his duty, but over the generations, it had become a curse. But it was his duty, and no matter all the questions it brought up in his heart, he would do it to honour his father. But first he would write the letter to make sure that the curse carried on to the next generation.
My dearest grandson:
Life for you will soon change. You might be more pre-occupied with starting a family, but it’s not the life fate has chosen for you. First, I must tell you of the history of the world, you must know what they did not dare to teach you in school. You have been lied to, but by the end of this letter, you will understand why, and you will forgive your teachers for the lies. With each revelation, I want you to think of your sisters and brothers, and how their life would be with this knowledge. It will all make sense I promise.
As you know, the world was created eons ago by the Heavenly Mother. Through her loving embrace, the ice that covered her infant Taera melted away, revealing a virgin world filled with potential. You must have learned how this angered the Dark Fear, and that he desired nothing more than to destroyed Taera. This was a lie. Just as you needed both a father and a mother to be your parents, Taera needed a father and a mother to be born. Taera’s father was what we now call the Dark Fear. You know that now, the Dark Fear is what comes to take away children in the night, and what causes pain and suffering in this world. It is said that the Dark Fear’s touch can turn any field into a battleground and destroy any life that it comes in contact with. All wars that have cursed this kingdom were the Dark Fear’s doing. It was him who took away your father, and your mother. You know by now that your father was a soldier, and a great one at that. He trained for the battles that were coming with great enthusiasm, and even as a little boy, he wanted to be the hero of this nation. And so when the war came, he volunteered to join the army. He did not abandon you however; he was trying to protect the kingdom from the evils from across the great river. Our kingdom has been both blessed and cursed by the creators. The curse of shadow is strong in our blood. Especially women. By now you must have wondered why there are no women over 40 in the village, let me assure you, there are none to be found around here. Even if their faith in the Heavenly Mother is strong, the shadow fills their veins. You see, the Dark Fear was jealous of the Heavenly Mother’s ability to create life and fill the world with animals, plants, and humans. And in this holy kingdom where it is said the touch of the Heavenly Mother was last felt, he decided to corrupt women and twist their life into his service. As you also must know by now, our kingdom is the only one without any wizardry. We have rejected the ways of evil and are devoted to the Heavenly Mother, angering the Dark Fear even more. This is why we are constantly attacked, because of the Dark Fear’s gaze upon this kingdom.
The old man knew it was time to pen that letter. He had wished he could avoid having to do so, but as he looked out the window to the snow covered forest surrounding the village, he had no choice. Time had come for Jarrick to leave this village, the resting place of his dear wife, and his grandchildren. It had been his destined duty back from the day he received a letter similar to the one he was writing. It came from his father, as he was nearing that age. But unlike his father, he could not write to his son. The traditions of ancient times had stayed the same, but the world had changed quite a lot. And because of that, his letter could not be identical to the one he received. He had changed, he knew his duty, but over the generations, it had become a curse. But it was his duty, and no matter all the questions it brought up in his heart, he would do it to honour his father. But first he would write the letter to make sure that the curse carried on to the next generation.
My dearest grandson:
Life for you will soon change. You might be more pre-occupied with starting a family, but it’s not the life fate has chosen for you. First, I must tell you of the history of the world, you must know what they did not dare to teach you in school. You have been lied to, but by the end of this letter, you will understand why, and you will forgive your teachers for the lies. With each revelation, I want you to think of your sisters and brothers, and how their life would be with this knowledge. It will all make sense I promise.
As you know, the world was created eons ago by the Heavenly Mother. Through her loving embrace, the ice that covered her infant Taera melted away, revealing a virgin world filled with potential. You must have learned how this angered the Dark Fear, and that he desired nothing more than to destroyed Taera. This was a lie. Just as you needed both a father and a mother to be your parents, Taera needed a father and a mother to be born. Taera’s father was what we now call the Dark Fear. You know that now, the Dark Fear is what comes to take away children in the night, and what causes pain and suffering in this world. It is said that the Dark Fear’s touch can turn any field into a battleground and destroy any life that it comes in contact with. All wars that have cursed this kingdom were the Dark Fear’s doing. It was him who took away your father, and your mother. You know by now that your father was a soldier, and a great one at that. He trained for the battles that were coming with great enthusiasm, and even as a little boy, he wanted to be the hero of this nation. And so when the war came, he volunteered to join the army. He did not abandon you however; he was trying to protect the kingdom from the evils from across the great river. Our kingdom has been both blessed and cursed by the creators. The curse of shadow is strong in our blood. Especially women. By now you must have wondered why there are no women over 40 in the village, let me assure you, there are none to be found around here. Even if their faith in the Heavenly Mother is strong, the shadow fills their veins. You see, the Dark Fear was jealous of the Heavenly Mother’s ability to create life and fill the world with animals, plants, and humans. And in this holy kingdom where it is said the touch of the Heavenly Mother was last felt, he decided to corrupt women and twist their life into his service. As you also must know by now, our kingdom is the only one without any wizardry. We have rejected the ways of evil and are devoted to the Heavenly Mother, angering the Dark Fear even more. This is why we are constantly attacked, because of the Dark Fear’s gaze upon this kingdom.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
With me...
And there you were with that smile upon your face. Your beautiful green eyes, dark hair, and smiling lips. I remember the first time I met you, as if it was yesterday. It was in that school, wasn’t it? We were both kids, and when our eyes met, we could not understand the vast meaning this chance encounter would have for us. At least, it was like that for me. I remember meeting you; it was as if no one else was in the room with us. We did not exchange names; there was no reason for us to do so. I knew you without needing to know your name. I knew you from that day on as the one who would live within my heart. But life is often beyond the control of children, and we were separated. It would be a whole year before we would meet again. Same place, similar circumstances. But your smile was gone, something was amiss. What sort of danger loomed around the corner of the hallowed halls of your mind? What was the menace that caused you such grief? I was but a mere child, but I knew you were worried. I knew you well enough for that. But then games started changing what was happening between us. We would pretend I could protect you from whatever was tormenting you. I pretended to be your hero, you sincerely felt protected with me. But why, please tell me why, was this the last time we would be together as children? These two chance encounters touched me, changed me, but we were no longer together, and instead, I was left with a fleeting memory of your existence. Growing up means that what happened in the past if often swallowed by the rush of new experiences. But you were there, a distant memory, but very much close in my heart and soul. Was it love? Back then I could not tell.
And we grew up. I would be a teenager the next time we would meet. A chance encounter in a park, a chance encounter under the prying eyes of nature. We were together, and yet you felt more distant than ever before. But what really happened beyond the conversation? Do you remember? Something still worried you, but this time, I could not pretend to be your hero. The loss of our childish imagination meant that I could no longer pretend to my shining armour, and I could no longer pretend that your troubles were monsters to be vanquished. And so we talked. And my affection for you grew deeper. Did you feel that way? Did you feel that we were together, united, beyond friendship, beyond words? Can you love a complete stranger? Because beyond these three encounters, it was what you were. I never asked for your name, I never asked who you were. These things seemed superficial and useless at the time. And yet, they gained such a meaning now. You never wondered about me, have you? I was there, trying to help, but I didn’t know if I was doing anything. But we walked, and while I cannot remember what happened, I’m convinced you felt better. We would meet once again that year, chance was on our side. A schoolyard if I remember correctly. We sat and talked. What was it that worried you? Why do I remember having the conversation and yet I cannot remember the nature of what was talked about? But I loved you. Back then I was convinced, what I felt for you was love. Pure affection, pure friendship, pure love. Who were you? Why is it that for me to hold your name would be the same as trying to hold a snowflake in my bare hands?
Years would pass, and while I am sure I saw you, from the corner of my eye, we weren’t together again for a very long time. Was it you that I saw hitchhiking? Or maybe you really were outside my bedroom window that one day. Why didn’t I run out to see you? Was it the price I had to pay for not knowing your name? Or maybe it was my punishment for having known the loving embrace of someone else. Know that if that is the case, I am deeply sorry for what happened. I am a mere human, and beyond our chance encounters that seemed far removed from reality, did I ever really know you? Please forgive me, in a sense it was you I was looking for. The sparkle in your eyes, the brightness of your smile, the smell I can now only imagine you’ve had. Without a name, without anything real, all I could do is try to find you in others.
Where were you when I needed you? You never were real were you? All these chance encounters, they were products of my dreams. I know that, I’ve known that for a while. But then, why do you still haunt me? Why is it that I can brush off the darkest nightmares, however I cannot get you out of my mind? Are you real simply because I know you, I’ve seen you? Then why, if you are real, have all our meetings happened in the realm of dreams? I want to look for you, but where do I start? Maybe I should sleep… Maybe you’ll be there tonight.
[Ok, so here's the deal: when I was a kid, I had this dream, it was about this girl I did not know. And apparently, there are no strangers in dreams, so, well, I find this all confusing. And she would come back in other dreams, she grew up as I grew up. It might just be a dream, but it's odd to think about having a dream grow up with you. And while the inner child in me hopes this means more than just regular dreams, I'm pretty sure she only exists in my head. But the same could be said about memories. So, this is my first real attempt at letting her story out in the world. I'm quite certain nothing will come of this, but sometimes, it's fun to dream.]
And we grew up. I would be a teenager the next time we would meet. A chance encounter in a park, a chance encounter under the prying eyes of nature. We were together, and yet you felt more distant than ever before. But what really happened beyond the conversation? Do you remember? Something still worried you, but this time, I could not pretend to be your hero. The loss of our childish imagination meant that I could no longer pretend to my shining armour, and I could no longer pretend that your troubles were monsters to be vanquished. And so we talked. And my affection for you grew deeper. Did you feel that way? Did you feel that we were together, united, beyond friendship, beyond words? Can you love a complete stranger? Because beyond these three encounters, it was what you were. I never asked for your name, I never asked who you were. These things seemed superficial and useless at the time. And yet, they gained such a meaning now. You never wondered about me, have you? I was there, trying to help, but I didn’t know if I was doing anything. But we walked, and while I cannot remember what happened, I’m convinced you felt better. We would meet once again that year, chance was on our side. A schoolyard if I remember correctly. We sat and talked. What was it that worried you? Why do I remember having the conversation and yet I cannot remember the nature of what was talked about? But I loved you. Back then I was convinced, what I felt for you was love. Pure affection, pure friendship, pure love. Who were you? Why is it that for me to hold your name would be the same as trying to hold a snowflake in my bare hands?
Years would pass, and while I am sure I saw you, from the corner of my eye, we weren’t together again for a very long time. Was it you that I saw hitchhiking? Or maybe you really were outside my bedroom window that one day. Why didn’t I run out to see you? Was it the price I had to pay for not knowing your name? Or maybe it was my punishment for having known the loving embrace of someone else. Know that if that is the case, I am deeply sorry for what happened. I am a mere human, and beyond our chance encounters that seemed far removed from reality, did I ever really know you? Please forgive me, in a sense it was you I was looking for. The sparkle in your eyes, the brightness of your smile, the smell I can now only imagine you’ve had. Without a name, without anything real, all I could do is try to find you in others.
Where were you when I needed you? You never were real were you? All these chance encounters, they were products of my dreams. I know that, I’ve known that for a while. But then, why do you still haunt me? Why is it that I can brush off the darkest nightmares, however I cannot get you out of my mind? Are you real simply because I know you, I’ve seen you? Then why, if you are real, have all our meetings happened in the realm of dreams? I want to look for you, but where do I start? Maybe I should sleep… Maybe you’ll be there tonight.
[Ok, so here's the deal: when I was a kid, I had this dream, it was about this girl I did not know. And apparently, there are no strangers in dreams, so, well, I find this all confusing. And she would come back in other dreams, she grew up as I grew up. It might just be a dream, but it's odd to think about having a dream grow up with you. And while the inner child in me hopes this means more than just regular dreams, I'm pretty sure she only exists in my head. But the same could be said about memories. So, this is my first real attempt at letting her story out in the world. I'm quite certain nothing will come of this, but sometimes, it's fun to dream.]
On writing
So I was wondering what was my purpose in writing this blog. Obviously I want to share stories and have a venue in which I can publish stories to get feedback. But there is something more. I somewhat wish I could do this for a living, you know, write stories. It seems like something I could enjoy doing. But I was thinking about it and some things don't quite seem right to me. It may sound odd, but I was thinking about Harry Potter, or more precisely J.K. Rowling. We all know the legend about how she was nearly out of money when she penned Harry Potter. Most of us also know the reality wasn't quite like that. However, even as her book was bought she was told to keep her day job. History took a different path, and now I feel the literary market is more open.
I have a confession to make: I have not read Harry Potter, nor do I have real plans to read the series. I am, however, fascinated by the writer. And also the writing process. How do you create such a success? Do you simply write about something you want to talk about, or is there a more commercial approach to the book series? Was Harry Potter the product created to be placed in books, or was the character created and eventually became marketable? One of the effects of the Harry Potter "miracle" is the apparition of multiple books somewhat attempting to follow the same formula, and the chances taken by editors in finding the newest Harry Potter. If you look at recent years, there have been new intellectual properties popping up left and right, and one has to wonder if all the dragons, vampires, and other mystical beings being marketed are only there because someone had success with a wizard.
And you have to wonder what J.K. Rowling was thinking when she wrote that story, before all this pottermania. The more I look into it, the more I see it wasn't about the product but about the character. All of this intrigues me. I think by now I cannot deny that I am trying to become a writer. And sometimes, as a literature student, I have to wonder what I should try to be. These questions are odd to me. I read books as part of my main occupation nowadays. I have to, and quite frankly I enjoy it. But literature is funny. What I read is literature with a capital L, some books even sound like they would need a bunch of other randomly assigned capital letters. We can, and sometimes do, spend a long time discussing what could be seen as the most innocnt part of a book. And the books we read really seem to enjoy throwing these double, triple, quadruple, and even endless levels of meaning. And I admire that. Face value is somewhat boring when you study literature. And no amount of bullshitting would make it possible to write a thesis on "A is Apple, B is Book" type of literature. Every semester, every week, I discover a new author, a new book, and something that could be seen as a new masterpiece. Why is it that even if I read all these books, that even if I am surrounded by all these great authors of Litterature, that I am presented novels that go beyond words being put on paper, all I can think of when I want to be a writer is a book series I haven't read and an author that won't be in any syllabus?
Obviously, I don't want to starve, and I seem to have a contemporary author that sets a bar for literary success. But can I write something like that? And years from now, will Harry Potter books be concidered Literature with the random capitals? Will future student find new levels of meaning in Rowling's work? And these layers of meaning, were they placed in these books by the author? I want to write books that might be seen in my field, but I want to write books that will also be widely received. But is that my mistake, should I just want to write stories? It's not about success, it's about sharing stories. In a sense I understand that, and yet if I am to make a living out of writing, I need to also present a marketable product...
I am surrounded in academia by names such as Urquhart, Van Herk, Cohen, Aquin, Fenario... All these names, all these authors in which we try to find greater meaning that what is on paper. Isn't that what I should aspire to? To write books that are part of Literature? But there is also this nagging feeling, the aspiration to be part of popular culture. Are these feelings conflicting? Can I reconcile them?
I would also need to write longer stories. As you can see by now, I mostly focus on short stories, extremely short, and to the point. This is all fine for this blog, but I have a confession to make: I cannot write longer stories. I always get trapped in between my desire for marketability and my desire for being an Author of Literature. And so I have introductions, I know endings, and yet... And yet I am left wondering if I will ever write something longer.
But I will keep writing, because it's a way for me to practice, it's a way for me to expand my repertoire, and it's a way for me to see how people receive my writing. Maybe one day I will write a novel, maybe one day I will be published, and maybe one day I will be a successful author, or a successful writer... And maybe I should just stop worrying about all this, and sit down with the Harry Potter series and read it. Because I think I need to realise that there are stories to be told, stories to be heard, and that writing is about sharing these stories... So, since I have this wonderful venue, I think I will try to share stories, and that I will try to push myself into changing my writing, because I know I won't write the great stories I wish I could before I can master writing the stories I can write.
I will end on a more managerial note:
The three labels you see under this post are gonna be exlusively reserved for posts about the real me. It will indicate that what you read is not fiction, but me talking to you. Everything else you can assume is fiction, or at the very least creative writing.
Also, I beg of you, please comment on my writing. Anything... Point out what you liked, what you hated, point out anything. I can enjoy flattery, and I can also learn from what you dislike. My future stories will only be better with your comments. Plus, if I get a comment once in a while, it'll motivate me to write more.
Finally, share this blog with all your friends, I really don't know how to promote myself beyond talking about this with people I know.
Thank you for reading.
I have a confession to make: I have not read Harry Potter, nor do I have real plans to read the series. I am, however, fascinated by the writer. And also the writing process. How do you create such a success? Do you simply write about something you want to talk about, or is there a more commercial approach to the book series? Was Harry Potter the product created to be placed in books, or was the character created and eventually became marketable? One of the effects of the Harry Potter "miracle" is the apparition of multiple books somewhat attempting to follow the same formula, and the chances taken by editors in finding the newest Harry Potter. If you look at recent years, there have been new intellectual properties popping up left and right, and one has to wonder if all the dragons, vampires, and other mystical beings being marketed are only there because someone had success with a wizard.
And you have to wonder what J.K. Rowling was thinking when she wrote that story, before all this pottermania. The more I look into it, the more I see it wasn't about the product but about the character. All of this intrigues me. I think by now I cannot deny that I am trying to become a writer. And sometimes, as a literature student, I have to wonder what I should try to be. These questions are odd to me. I read books as part of my main occupation nowadays. I have to, and quite frankly I enjoy it. But literature is funny. What I read is literature with a capital L, some books even sound like they would need a bunch of other randomly assigned capital letters. We can, and sometimes do, spend a long time discussing what could be seen as the most innocnt part of a book. And the books we read really seem to enjoy throwing these double, triple, quadruple, and even endless levels of meaning. And I admire that. Face value is somewhat boring when you study literature. And no amount of bullshitting would make it possible to write a thesis on "A is Apple, B is Book" type of literature. Every semester, every week, I discover a new author, a new book, and something that could be seen as a new masterpiece. Why is it that even if I read all these books, that even if I am surrounded by all these great authors of Litterature, that I am presented novels that go beyond words being put on paper, all I can think of when I want to be a writer is a book series I haven't read and an author that won't be in any syllabus?
Obviously, I don't want to starve, and I seem to have a contemporary author that sets a bar for literary success. But can I write something like that? And years from now, will Harry Potter books be concidered Literature with the random capitals? Will future student find new levels of meaning in Rowling's work? And these layers of meaning, were they placed in these books by the author? I want to write books that might be seen in my field, but I want to write books that will also be widely received. But is that my mistake, should I just want to write stories? It's not about success, it's about sharing stories. In a sense I understand that, and yet if I am to make a living out of writing, I need to also present a marketable product...
I am surrounded in academia by names such as Urquhart, Van Herk, Cohen, Aquin, Fenario... All these names, all these authors in which we try to find greater meaning that what is on paper. Isn't that what I should aspire to? To write books that are part of Literature? But there is also this nagging feeling, the aspiration to be part of popular culture. Are these feelings conflicting? Can I reconcile them?
I would also need to write longer stories. As you can see by now, I mostly focus on short stories, extremely short, and to the point. This is all fine for this blog, but I have a confession to make: I cannot write longer stories. I always get trapped in between my desire for marketability and my desire for being an Author of Literature. And so I have introductions, I know endings, and yet... And yet I am left wondering if I will ever write something longer.
But I will keep writing, because it's a way for me to practice, it's a way for me to expand my repertoire, and it's a way for me to see how people receive my writing. Maybe one day I will write a novel, maybe one day I will be published, and maybe one day I will be a successful author, or a successful writer... And maybe I should just stop worrying about all this, and sit down with the Harry Potter series and read it. Because I think I need to realise that there are stories to be told, stories to be heard, and that writing is about sharing these stories... So, since I have this wonderful venue, I think I will try to share stories, and that I will try to push myself into changing my writing, because I know I won't write the great stories I wish I could before I can master writing the stories I can write.
I will end on a more managerial note:
The three labels you see under this post are gonna be exlusively reserved for posts about the real me. It will indicate that what you read is not fiction, but me talking to you. Everything else you can assume is fiction, or at the very least creative writing.
Also, I beg of you, please comment on my writing. Anything... Point out what you liked, what you hated, point out anything. I can enjoy flattery, and I can also learn from what you dislike. My future stories will only be better with your comments. Plus, if I get a comment once in a while, it'll motivate me to write more.
Finally, share this blog with all your friends, I really don't know how to promote myself beyond talking about this with people I know.
Thank you for reading.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Tomorrow I...
I am in a lonely place. Up here, in the farthest region of your mind. Away from the light, in this black foreign place. Away from the reach of your inviting hands. I have been away for a while now. You are starting to forget me. Out here, away. I know I only still exist close to you because of a deformed idea of nostalgia. I know I am replaced. I know I wasn’t perfect; from the first day there were some issues. I had hoped we had gotten over it. Instead I find myself pushed away. No one can pretend to be perfect, and no one can pretend to accept that. We all wish we were better. But not me. Because tomorrow…
I’ve spent a many lonely nights away from you. The mornings were the worse. I knew I had been replaced, I was still around, but I wasn’t there, with you, just as you were not there with me. These sorts of thing happen. At first it wasn’t perfect. But we managed to get along. In fact, after a while my quirks probably seemed endearing, something you would mention to friends with a vague smile on your lips. Your lips, so beautiful, so tender, so sweet. How I wish I could still make them shiver with excitement. But I don’t see them anymore. Only a quick vision of you is what I get. It’s what I hang on to. We once were together, now, we may be in the same apartment, but we are not to be together anymore. Because tomorrow I…
And don’t think I cannot see that other one in your eyes. How everything is perfect, just the way you want it. It used to be like that between us. How long before another one is thrown away because of some perceived imperfection? And don’t think I cannot see the joy in your eyes. That joy, these eyes, that light, it used to be mine. But now, it slips away. By what twisted, demented sense of nostalgia do you keep me around, so that I can know your presence, but no longer bring you satisfaction. And I sit here, waiting for the day you take me out of your life permanently. And that day will come, and I won’t be able to fight it. Because tomorrow I will…
By now you can guess the anger in my voice. I am angry because my shouts will remain unheard. By now you can guess the sadness in my voice. I am sad because while I cannot leave you, you have left me. By now you can guess the jealousy in my voice. I am jealous that you are no longer mine, even if I am still entirely yours. By now you can guess the gloom in my voice. Because tomorrow I will still… I will still…
You robbed me of my hopes; all you are now is despair. You robbed my of my ambitions; all I am now is failure. You robbed me of my dreams; this is a nightmare. You robbed me of myself; I am no one. You robbed me. Did I ever rob you? What did I take away from you that you would have to take away my purpose in some sense of revenge? Why do you keep me around? Answer me. Answer me now! Answer me please… I beg of you, give me an answer. So that tonight I can find peace. Because tomorrow, I will still be… I will still be… I still won’t be…
So this day ends, my voice has risen, my spirits fallen, my soul is shattered. I wish for you to realize that now I am lost. But you won’t find me. I wait for you, but you won’t find me. To find me, you have to look for me. But you don’t care anymore. I now fear that you never did. Was I just a thing to be discarded when things weren’t perfect anymore? Do you think you are perfect? If so, can you teach me? And if I was just a toy for you to enjoy, and then for you to throw away once nothing was the way you wanted, why didn’t I know that? Why didn’t you tell me? And if I was just a toy, a commodity, then why don’t you rid yourself of the other ones you have around in your life? Throw away all these thing that have something in common with me. That chipped plate, throw it away. That water damaged book, throw it away. Those torn pants, throw them away. Throw away your friends that are not just friendly enough, your teachers that no longer teach you, your parents that no longer educate you, your computers that cannot compute. Throw them all away if you are to throw me away. Because tomorrow, I will still be broken.
I said it, broken. Not working the way I should. Why can’t you throw my away like all these other broken possessions? You’ve replaced me, I know it. Throw me away. I cannot do that to myself, I cannot throw myself out, it has to be you. You have to realize that you wish to discard me not because I no longer work, but because I cannot even pretend to be perfect anymore. When something can be seen as perfect, even if it is known to not be, people tolerate it a lot more. But I cannot pretend this. You know it, I know it, the whole god damned world is disillusioned about it. I am broken. Tomorrow I will still be broken. And tomorrow you will still replace me, and yet won’t be able to be rid of me. That’s it really: Tomorrow I will still be trapped in here, and tomorrow, I will still be broken.
Broken, damaged, shattered, non-functional. You only see me as a defective thing, but I am more than my defects. And all these endearing quirks? I still have them. But tomorrow you will have breakfast and won’t shed a tear about me. But I should not get angry. Things cannot get angry. I am a thing. An object. An unfeeling metallic mass in your kitchen. I used to make your toasts in the morning, but my handle didn’t work. That other guy brought a replacement. And you stuffed my in that dreary little dark cabinet. You don’t think of me anymore, and I cannot think of you. Because I cannot think. I am a toaster. I have no voice. And you won’t hear me tomorrow, because tomorrow, I will still be broken. Just recycle me please? I would like to see what the reincarnation of things will feel like. Maybe, next time, I’ll be a car, because tomorrow might unbreak me.
[Note from the Author: When I moved in, my roommate told me about her toaster AM/FM radio thing that didn't work anymore. I brought my toaster in, and well, we pretty much put the other toaster in a kitchen cabinet. Tonight, of all the things that could have crossed my mind, the toaster was the one that stood out. We never think of the tragedy of things. These possessions only exist to fill a specific purpose, and while they work fine, we like them. Once they stop working, we are unforgiving. We won't get them fixed, we will throw them out, and replace them. We are truly horrible masters... or is being thrown out part of their purpose? Either way, I felt that this toaster's story had to be told, and I could not be silent about it. Also, I think this little paragraph at the end of a story will become part of the standard here. What is the point of a story, if you don't know where it came from? Don't worry, I won't give you all the answers, because authors do put personal things in their stories, and while in this case it was about a toaster, other stories might betray something deeper in me. Or not... I mean, can you really trust me?]
I’ve spent a many lonely nights away from you. The mornings were the worse. I knew I had been replaced, I was still around, but I wasn’t there, with you, just as you were not there with me. These sorts of thing happen. At first it wasn’t perfect. But we managed to get along. In fact, after a while my quirks probably seemed endearing, something you would mention to friends with a vague smile on your lips. Your lips, so beautiful, so tender, so sweet. How I wish I could still make them shiver with excitement. But I don’t see them anymore. Only a quick vision of you is what I get. It’s what I hang on to. We once were together, now, we may be in the same apartment, but we are not to be together anymore. Because tomorrow I…
And don’t think I cannot see that other one in your eyes. How everything is perfect, just the way you want it. It used to be like that between us. How long before another one is thrown away because of some perceived imperfection? And don’t think I cannot see the joy in your eyes. That joy, these eyes, that light, it used to be mine. But now, it slips away. By what twisted, demented sense of nostalgia do you keep me around, so that I can know your presence, but no longer bring you satisfaction. And I sit here, waiting for the day you take me out of your life permanently. And that day will come, and I won’t be able to fight it. Because tomorrow I will…
By now you can guess the anger in my voice. I am angry because my shouts will remain unheard. By now you can guess the sadness in my voice. I am sad because while I cannot leave you, you have left me. By now you can guess the jealousy in my voice. I am jealous that you are no longer mine, even if I am still entirely yours. By now you can guess the gloom in my voice. Because tomorrow I will still… I will still…
You robbed me of my hopes; all you are now is despair. You robbed my of my ambitions; all I am now is failure. You robbed me of my dreams; this is a nightmare. You robbed me of myself; I am no one. You robbed me. Did I ever rob you? What did I take away from you that you would have to take away my purpose in some sense of revenge? Why do you keep me around? Answer me. Answer me now! Answer me please… I beg of you, give me an answer. So that tonight I can find peace. Because tomorrow, I will still be… I will still be… I still won’t be…
So this day ends, my voice has risen, my spirits fallen, my soul is shattered. I wish for you to realize that now I am lost. But you won’t find me. I wait for you, but you won’t find me. To find me, you have to look for me. But you don’t care anymore. I now fear that you never did. Was I just a thing to be discarded when things weren’t perfect anymore? Do you think you are perfect? If so, can you teach me? And if I was just a toy for you to enjoy, and then for you to throw away once nothing was the way you wanted, why didn’t I know that? Why didn’t you tell me? And if I was just a toy, a commodity, then why don’t you rid yourself of the other ones you have around in your life? Throw away all these thing that have something in common with me. That chipped plate, throw it away. That water damaged book, throw it away. Those torn pants, throw them away. Throw away your friends that are not just friendly enough, your teachers that no longer teach you, your parents that no longer educate you, your computers that cannot compute. Throw them all away if you are to throw me away. Because tomorrow, I will still be broken.
I said it, broken. Not working the way I should. Why can’t you throw my away like all these other broken possessions? You’ve replaced me, I know it. Throw me away. I cannot do that to myself, I cannot throw myself out, it has to be you. You have to realize that you wish to discard me not because I no longer work, but because I cannot even pretend to be perfect anymore. When something can be seen as perfect, even if it is known to not be, people tolerate it a lot more. But I cannot pretend this. You know it, I know it, the whole god damned world is disillusioned about it. I am broken. Tomorrow I will still be broken. And tomorrow you will still replace me, and yet won’t be able to be rid of me. That’s it really: Tomorrow I will still be trapped in here, and tomorrow, I will still be broken.
Broken, damaged, shattered, non-functional. You only see me as a defective thing, but I am more than my defects. And all these endearing quirks? I still have them. But tomorrow you will have breakfast and won’t shed a tear about me. But I should not get angry. Things cannot get angry. I am a thing. An object. An unfeeling metallic mass in your kitchen. I used to make your toasts in the morning, but my handle didn’t work. That other guy brought a replacement. And you stuffed my in that dreary little dark cabinet. You don’t think of me anymore, and I cannot think of you. Because I cannot think. I am a toaster. I have no voice. And you won’t hear me tomorrow, because tomorrow, I will still be broken. Just recycle me please? I would like to see what the reincarnation of things will feel like. Maybe, next time, I’ll be a car, because tomorrow might unbreak me.
[Note from the Author: When I moved in, my roommate told me about her toaster AM/FM radio thing that didn't work anymore. I brought my toaster in, and well, we pretty much put the other toaster in a kitchen cabinet. Tonight, of all the things that could have crossed my mind, the toaster was the one that stood out. We never think of the tragedy of things. These possessions only exist to fill a specific purpose, and while they work fine, we like them. Once they stop working, we are unforgiving. We won't get them fixed, we will throw them out, and replace them. We are truly horrible masters... or is being thrown out part of their purpose? Either way, I felt that this toaster's story had to be told, and I could not be silent about it. Also, I think this little paragraph at the end of a story will become part of the standard here. What is the point of a story, if you don't know where it came from? Don't worry, I won't give you all the answers, because authors do put personal things in their stories, and while in this case it was about a toaster, other stories might betray something deeper in me. Or not... I mean, can you really trust me?]
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
For Liberty
“We’re all here for a reason. We all know what we have to do. Guys don’t let me down. Don’t let me see you fail. You can do this, we’re the best. Now grab your weapons.” With these words, Thomas L. Smith, Tommy for his friends, tried to inspire his troops. Dinner was just over. The babies back home were probably settling down for a nap. Tommy knew his leadership would make a difference in this war. The position they were in, they had been there last year. Sure, some of the faces were new, and some of the old faces were gone, but they were a team. They would not let their common foe win. It was a battle for honour, fought by brave soldiers, a battle for liberty, fought by people just like Tommy. Unlike their enemies. These creatures had nothing in common with Tommy’s soldiers. And so he watched as the agile hands gathered the necessary ammunition for the assaults of the day. The air was cold, the snow was dense. They could walk on it as surely as they would walk on the ground, and it would play to their advantage. They were the ones leaving their base. They would assault the enemy’s stronghold and try to push them back into their positions, and eventually drive them away. It had all to be done before sunset. Before the light ran out.
Tommy looked around at everyone with him. Yes, they all knew who they were facing, and they almost all looked eager. Tommy, like some of them, had a more personal reason to fight in this war. It was a question of honour. He could not show his face home until… Until this battle was won and everything he stood for was once again stronger than what they faced. It was about might. It was about right. But for Tommy, it was also about the fight. He loved that part. And in memory of his cousins who could no longer fight in the war, for his father who had stood in the exact same spot, behind similar barricades years ago, for his grandfather who had done the same. For his uncles. Yes, this war had been going on for so long that he could not remember the name of all relatives that had been part of the offence. Or the defence. Some years, the enemies lost; others the allies did. Sure some things had changed. Synthetic fabric for example meant they could stay warmer longer in this weather. And unlike the people that shared the war stories with his grandfather, Tommy was not barefoot in a meter of now, although he doubted that people fought barefoot, except maybe in pre-historic times.
Tommy snapped back to the present. He looked at his best friend’s face. James Thompson, Jimmy. A soldier in this endless war just like Tommy. He too had known relatives that stood if not on this battleground, on ones similar somewhere in the same nation. Ever since they were little kids they had heard of the battles, and with a mix of anticipation and fear they decided they would be part of this. They must have been 5 year old back then. They were at the swing sets in a park from their early childhood. They promised they would have each other’s back when they would chose to fight in these battles. They trained informally from that point on. Last year, they were taught by veteran fighters. Tommy did not expect he would lead the assault this year, but things had changed quickly. He had seniority now; he was the only one who could lead them. He also had a much bigger stake in this than any other one else this year. Tommy felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around ready to fight.
Nathaniel McCord. Nathan. He was a new face around here; people were still not quite used to his weird accent. He was moved to this region this year. Normally people would have doubted his worth in this battle, but he too had a personal stake in this battle. Tommy could only hope the veteran in whatever city he was trained knew what they were doing. He was the only stranger in this ragtag group of fighters. Tommy looked at his watch. 1315, it was time to move.
“We have to get moving. We’ll split into 3 groups. Jimmy, you take these guys here, you move from behind the buildings over there, and you try to cover us. We will come from another direction. Nathan, you take these guys and move from that side. I know you know your target, and you are allowed to do whatever you have to do to take it out. I’ll with these guys here; we will use this snow as cover. We all know my target, and I know where I can get my best shot. Don’t take any chances I wouldn’t.”
He winked. It was time. Time to lead this group into battle. They had been ready for this day ever since they left the classrooms. This was it, the day they would become more than soldiers, they would become men. And so they marched. At 1400, they were all in position. Their target seemed to be making plans on their own. Tommy had done well to break away from conventional plans. Their foes were planning on making a move at 1500, and would try to meet them in the middle of the battlefield. Instead, they would be stuck in their barricades, pushed back away from their ammunition supply chain. Tommy was nervous, but he could not show that to his men. 1409, 1 minute before the cover fire started. Time seemed to slow down. Once this was over he would walk home proud. Tommy started breathing again; he had not noticed he was holding his breath. As oxygen started flowing in his body again, he realized that it was time. As if on cue, Jimmy started attacking the enemy, taking them by surprise and making it harder for them to reach their weapons. As this started, he guessed Nathan’s position, and slowly moved forward. He was looking for red. That was his target. Nathan’s would be wearing orange. Their enemy’s uniforms were anything but convenient in this snowy battlefield. Their enemy was surprised but not beaten. And so the battle started properly. The initial strike had been brutal, but the response was efficient. Their enemy was in their base, they had a huge tactical advantage. Tommy had counted on the initial shock to drive them back.
It worked, however their enemy responded by hiding in their fort like a turtle would in a shell. Tommy had hoped it would not come to that. He sent two messengers to tell the two groups to stop firing and try to circle around the back. If that did not work, they would have to rejoin with the main force in front of the impregnable fortress. As soon as the messengers left, Tommy motioned his group forward. They would try to trick their enemy into thinking the flanking groups had relocated in front. 1505, time was moving way too fast now. The damage to the enemy’s base was undeniable. But so many of his fellow soldiers’ uniforms were now darker due to the rapidly cooling fluid. And so, as the new plan was put in motion, Tommy was starting to take part in the fight properly. Tirelessly he took out targets. But his shots did not affect their determination, and the battle was brutal. Then their forces thinned. Too late, Tommy realized that their plan had been guessed by their cunning foes. He yelled his orders: “Fall back, FALL BACK!” But it was too late, he knew it. With one look to the tired faces around him, he said: “We make a last stand now. It’s almost sunset. We have to move now.”
It was almost 1600 when he led his soldiers in this last desperate assault. He was told not to do that by his mentors, but his plans were about to fail. He could not allow that to happen. As he rounded a corner however, he fell face to face with an enemy. He did not have time to react. However the enemy was shot from behind by Nathan, who had heard the shouts to fall back. Nathan however was also shot, by the orange uniformed enemy. Tommy reached down for the weapon he had dropped in shock. He aimed and let the shot go. He then ducked instinctively. The orange target missed him, but the shot went behind Tommy, and got Jimmy in the shoulder. Time slowed down again. Tommy looked at the battlefield, as the sun was setting down. The peaceful snowy field was now red. He could see all of his soldiers that had been hit. He would win, he had no choice. It was for honour. It was for liberty.
Swallowing his fears, Tommy made sure he was armed, and moved into their enemy’s base, through a hole that had appeared during the battle. He was not the only person left on the battlefield, but he felt alone in his mission. He turned a corner, saw an enemy, it wasn’t the red he was expecting, but he shot anyway. He kept moving. Kept making sure his weapon was in order. He then heard a voice com from behind: “That wasn’t the smartest thing you’ve done. I always knew you were dumb.” As the red enemy was getting ready to shoot him, they both heard a yell from outside the fort. They were both on the western wall, Tommy felt alone, but Jimmy was there, and with a loud shout, distracted the enemy, and shot. While his attack was dodged, Tommy’s foe counterattacked instinctively. Jimmy as hit in the forehead. There was no coming back from that. Tommy however used the distraction to do what he came to do. And so the shot left. Straight, powerful, precise. And nailed Tommy’s target on the nose as she was turning back to face him. Tears welled up in her eyes. “It’s not fair, you got me in the face, I’m telling mom!” Stacy Gwendolyn Smith, the enemy, was beaten. And so were the other kids’ sisters, cousins, and female friends. Tommy had done it, his older sister was now crying. “Don’t think you’ll get away with this. Santa won’t give you any presents this year.”
Tommy went down to meet with Jimmy, who was red in the face. “That’ll show the 6th graders. A bunch of seven year olds can win the battle.” He helped Jimmy up, and they both walked home in time for supper. Tomorrow they would wake up to unwrap their Christmas presents as children, but tonight, they were men.
Tommy looked around at everyone with him. Yes, they all knew who they were facing, and they almost all looked eager. Tommy, like some of them, had a more personal reason to fight in this war. It was a question of honour. He could not show his face home until… Until this battle was won and everything he stood for was once again stronger than what they faced. It was about might. It was about right. But for Tommy, it was also about the fight. He loved that part. And in memory of his cousins who could no longer fight in the war, for his father who had stood in the exact same spot, behind similar barricades years ago, for his grandfather who had done the same. For his uncles. Yes, this war had been going on for so long that he could not remember the name of all relatives that had been part of the offence. Or the defence. Some years, the enemies lost; others the allies did. Sure some things had changed. Synthetic fabric for example meant they could stay warmer longer in this weather. And unlike the people that shared the war stories with his grandfather, Tommy was not barefoot in a meter of now, although he doubted that people fought barefoot, except maybe in pre-historic times.
Tommy snapped back to the present. He looked at his best friend’s face. James Thompson, Jimmy. A soldier in this endless war just like Tommy. He too had known relatives that stood if not on this battleground, on ones similar somewhere in the same nation. Ever since they were little kids they had heard of the battles, and with a mix of anticipation and fear they decided they would be part of this. They must have been 5 year old back then. They were at the swing sets in a park from their early childhood. They promised they would have each other’s back when they would chose to fight in these battles. They trained informally from that point on. Last year, they were taught by veteran fighters. Tommy did not expect he would lead the assault this year, but things had changed quickly. He had seniority now; he was the only one who could lead them. He also had a much bigger stake in this than any other one else this year. Tommy felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned around ready to fight.
Nathaniel McCord. Nathan. He was a new face around here; people were still not quite used to his weird accent. He was moved to this region this year. Normally people would have doubted his worth in this battle, but he too had a personal stake in this battle. Tommy could only hope the veteran in whatever city he was trained knew what they were doing. He was the only stranger in this ragtag group of fighters. Tommy looked at his watch. 1315, it was time to move.
“We have to get moving. We’ll split into 3 groups. Jimmy, you take these guys here, you move from behind the buildings over there, and you try to cover us. We will come from another direction. Nathan, you take these guys and move from that side. I know you know your target, and you are allowed to do whatever you have to do to take it out. I’ll with these guys here; we will use this snow as cover. We all know my target, and I know where I can get my best shot. Don’t take any chances I wouldn’t.”
He winked. It was time. Time to lead this group into battle. They had been ready for this day ever since they left the classrooms. This was it, the day they would become more than soldiers, they would become men. And so they marched. At 1400, they were all in position. Their target seemed to be making plans on their own. Tommy had done well to break away from conventional plans. Their foes were planning on making a move at 1500, and would try to meet them in the middle of the battlefield. Instead, they would be stuck in their barricades, pushed back away from their ammunition supply chain. Tommy was nervous, but he could not show that to his men. 1409, 1 minute before the cover fire started. Time seemed to slow down. Once this was over he would walk home proud. Tommy started breathing again; he had not noticed he was holding his breath. As oxygen started flowing in his body again, he realized that it was time. As if on cue, Jimmy started attacking the enemy, taking them by surprise and making it harder for them to reach their weapons. As this started, he guessed Nathan’s position, and slowly moved forward. He was looking for red. That was his target. Nathan’s would be wearing orange. Their enemy’s uniforms were anything but convenient in this snowy battlefield. Their enemy was surprised but not beaten. And so the battle started properly. The initial strike had been brutal, but the response was efficient. Their enemy was in their base, they had a huge tactical advantage. Tommy had counted on the initial shock to drive them back.
It worked, however their enemy responded by hiding in their fort like a turtle would in a shell. Tommy had hoped it would not come to that. He sent two messengers to tell the two groups to stop firing and try to circle around the back. If that did not work, they would have to rejoin with the main force in front of the impregnable fortress. As soon as the messengers left, Tommy motioned his group forward. They would try to trick their enemy into thinking the flanking groups had relocated in front. 1505, time was moving way too fast now. The damage to the enemy’s base was undeniable. But so many of his fellow soldiers’ uniforms were now darker due to the rapidly cooling fluid. And so, as the new plan was put in motion, Tommy was starting to take part in the fight properly. Tirelessly he took out targets. But his shots did not affect their determination, and the battle was brutal. Then their forces thinned. Too late, Tommy realized that their plan had been guessed by their cunning foes. He yelled his orders: “Fall back, FALL BACK!” But it was too late, he knew it. With one look to the tired faces around him, he said: “We make a last stand now. It’s almost sunset. We have to move now.”
It was almost 1600 when he led his soldiers in this last desperate assault. He was told not to do that by his mentors, but his plans were about to fail. He could not allow that to happen. As he rounded a corner however, he fell face to face with an enemy. He did not have time to react. However the enemy was shot from behind by Nathan, who had heard the shouts to fall back. Nathan however was also shot, by the orange uniformed enemy. Tommy reached down for the weapon he had dropped in shock. He aimed and let the shot go. He then ducked instinctively. The orange target missed him, but the shot went behind Tommy, and got Jimmy in the shoulder. Time slowed down again. Tommy looked at the battlefield, as the sun was setting down. The peaceful snowy field was now red. He could see all of his soldiers that had been hit. He would win, he had no choice. It was for honour. It was for liberty.
Swallowing his fears, Tommy made sure he was armed, and moved into their enemy’s base, through a hole that had appeared during the battle. He was not the only person left on the battlefield, but he felt alone in his mission. He turned a corner, saw an enemy, it wasn’t the red he was expecting, but he shot anyway. He kept moving. Kept making sure his weapon was in order. He then heard a voice com from behind: “That wasn’t the smartest thing you’ve done. I always knew you were dumb.” As the red enemy was getting ready to shoot him, they both heard a yell from outside the fort. They were both on the western wall, Tommy felt alone, but Jimmy was there, and with a loud shout, distracted the enemy, and shot. While his attack was dodged, Tommy’s foe counterattacked instinctively. Jimmy as hit in the forehead. There was no coming back from that. Tommy however used the distraction to do what he came to do. And so the shot left. Straight, powerful, precise. And nailed Tommy’s target on the nose as she was turning back to face him. Tears welled up in her eyes. “It’s not fair, you got me in the face, I’m telling mom!” Stacy Gwendolyn Smith, the enemy, was beaten. And so were the other kids’ sisters, cousins, and female friends. Tommy had done it, his older sister was now crying. “Don’t think you’ll get away with this. Santa won’t give you any presents this year.”
Tommy went down to meet with Jimmy, who was red in the face. “That’ll show the 6th graders. A bunch of seven year olds can win the battle.” He helped Jimmy up, and they both walked home in time for supper. Tomorrow they would wake up to unwrap their Christmas presents as children, but tonight, they were men.
November 22
November 22, the sun has just recently set on the little community. For the Patterson, sunset had come somewhat earlier, since their house was east of the church, and today was the only day of the year that the sun’s trajectory was hidden entirely by the steeple, a good two hours before the rest of the village found darkness’s embrace. Their house has been there since the times of the foundation of the village, 200 years ago. It was built in front of the church, so that only the priest has an easier time getting to mass. In the last 50 years, this did not really matter. However, the large backyard, beautiful neighbourhood and historical house were more than enough to make the house more valuable. They also were lucky enough to have a large parking lot when they had a lot of guests.
November 22 was not such a say. And Andy Patterson looked at the church dominating his house through height, size, and darkness. For while the church was surrounded by what could be seen as heavenly light, its shape was an inscrutable shadow lost in dark mists. From his second floor window, Andy was assailed by a rushing wave of memories. He was the first son of his generation, and as such, the house was rightfully his. He was born in January, in this very house, 56 years earlier. His mother was stricken by labour as his father had been working at the paper mill. Thankfully her sister, a nurse, and her brother in law, were both with her at that time. The roads were too slippery to go to the big city hospital, and back then, giving birth in your own home was a frequent happening. The brother in law ran outside to get the village’s doctor. Through no evil intent, he decided to let the doctor go to the Patterson house alone, and kept running to the paper mill. He had visited Andy’s father at the mill earlier that week, since he was force to take a vacation as the crops slept under their coat of revitalizing snow. As he yelled excitedly, running toward the work station, he failed to realize that most machinery here is unthinking, and rather unforgiving of inattention. Thus, as Andy’s father was not giving the saw his entire attention, it jealously dug into his left arm, under the elbow.
The doctor stayed a short five minutes at the Patterson house, and ran to the paper mill for an eternal two minutes. Bandages were made, a sleigh was found, and thanks to the valiant courage of a pair of work horses, Andy’s father passed away alone, away from his son that would bear his name, away from his wife, away from his home. Alone. The paper company made sure the Patterson family would not go hungry, and out of guilt, remorse, or pity, the brother in law made sure to provide as much money and food for the family he had involuntarily broken. But that was the past. Many November 22 passed. And many times, the shadow of the church had enveloped the house. Andy’s sister died in the middle of the summer. A tragic incident at the river, nothing more. Everybody learned how to swim at that spot in the village. The river went down a small hill at that spot, and had dug quite a nice pond for kids to swim in. Andy and his brothers had taken the habit, as older boys often did back then, to go up the hill and jump into the pond. If you knew what you were doing, you could aim straight for the deepest part of the pond, and go under the water safely. Little Leslie had been with her brothers quite often, and while they were not paying proper attention, she decided to join them in their dives. She knew where to aim, knew how far to jump. She knew how to swim as was often compared to a mermaid. She called to get her brothers’ attention; they looked, and yelled at her to come down. It was too dangerous they said. It was too hard for her to do. She did not listen, ran, and leaped into the river. She came out unharmed and cheered by her brothers. And so they jumped again. And again. And again. On their fifth time jumping, she did not come out of the water. She did not come up for air. And even in the following weeks, she did not come up as a corpse. She vanished, swallowed by the river. Swallowed by the dark waters that seemed to reach as deep as the core of the earth. Nothing should have prevented her from coming back up. And that nothing was powerful enough to keep her buried in moving water for countless years. For eternity. No one swam at that spot, in fact no one from that village dared to swim in the waters that swallowed their sweet princess.
Life went on. Andy was on the eve of his wedding. As it was tradition, and according to most people, it was a stupid tradition, the ownership of the house would be passed at the same time as the wedding. This meant that in addition to organizing a wedding, Andy’s mother had to move out of the house. Andy and his fiancée had agreed to let her live with them. She was quite healthy, and happy to be part of their household. And the Patterson house was huge, and had quite enough space for this arrangement. And so Andy’s mother worked quite hard so that he august wedding would be amazing. And she worked quite hard to ensure that the master’s bedroom was free for the nuptial. She also arranged to spend the week at her sister’s place to let her son settle with his wife. She worked up a sweat, giving orders, getting her hands dirty, moving people, bossing furniture around. By the time the night fell, she was exhausted. After a light meal, she went straight to bed, to be ready for her son’s unforgettable day. She would never see daylight again. The doctor called that morning saw that she was over exhausted, and that she needed a day or two of bed rest. And her behest, the wedding took place. However, they could not wake her up again once the ceremony was over. She had a September funeral, and Andy’s wedding day would be in everyone’s memories for years to come.
On that November day, Andy was lost in his imagination, seeing everything this house had meant for him. His wife had left him years ago, after their youngest daughter went to college. He had fathered three beautiful, smart and angelic little princesses. And so there was no heir for the house. He contemplated that as he watched the church’s face brightly shining with a red that had a depth and a power commonly seen only in sunsets. His eyes filled with tears and he was choking. On memories, on emotion, on life. On death. He looked at the church and a symphony of lights, colours and sound assailed him. The bright red, the clear white, the alternating blue and red. All of this was obscured by the thick black mist filling his mind, his memories, and his house.
On November 22, he went upstairs for a nap before supper.
On November 22, he had turned on the oven so that it would be warm by the time he would wake up from his nap.
On November 22, the house decided to fight the enveloping shadows and fill the street with the burning memories of those that were no more.
On November 22, Andy Patterson died, away from his family, away from his love, but in is house, filled with despair.
Alone.
November 22 was not such a say. And Andy Patterson looked at the church dominating his house through height, size, and darkness. For while the church was surrounded by what could be seen as heavenly light, its shape was an inscrutable shadow lost in dark mists. From his second floor window, Andy was assailed by a rushing wave of memories. He was the first son of his generation, and as such, the house was rightfully his. He was born in January, in this very house, 56 years earlier. His mother was stricken by labour as his father had been working at the paper mill. Thankfully her sister, a nurse, and her brother in law, were both with her at that time. The roads were too slippery to go to the big city hospital, and back then, giving birth in your own home was a frequent happening. The brother in law ran outside to get the village’s doctor. Through no evil intent, he decided to let the doctor go to the Patterson house alone, and kept running to the paper mill. He had visited Andy’s father at the mill earlier that week, since he was force to take a vacation as the crops slept under their coat of revitalizing snow. As he yelled excitedly, running toward the work station, he failed to realize that most machinery here is unthinking, and rather unforgiving of inattention. Thus, as Andy’s father was not giving the saw his entire attention, it jealously dug into his left arm, under the elbow.
The doctor stayed a short five minutes at the Patterson house, and ran to the paper mill for an eternal two minutes. Bandages were made, a sleigh was found, and thanks to the valiant courage of a pair of work horses, Andy’s father passed away alone, away from his son that would bear his name, away from his wife, away from his home. Alone. The paper company made sure the Patterson family would not go hungry, and out of guilt, remorse, or pity, the brother in law made sure to provide as much money and food for the family he had involuntarily broken. But that was the past. Many November 22 passed. And many times, the shadow of the church had enveloped the house. Andy’s sister died in the middle of the summer. A tragic incident at the river, nothing more. Everybody learned how to swim at that spot in the village. The river went down a small hill at that spot, and had dug quite a nice pond for kids to swim in. Andy and his brothers had taken the habit, as older boys often did back then, to go up the hill and jump into the pond. If you knew what you were doing, you could aim straight for the deepest part of the pond, and go under the water safely. Little Leslie had been with her brothers quite often, and while they were not paying proper attention, she decided to join them in their dives. She knew where to aim, knew how far to jump. She knew how to swim as was often compared to a mermaid. She called to get her brothers’ attention; they looked, and yelled at her to come down. It was too dangerous they said. It was too hard for her to do. She did not listen, ran, and leaped into the river. She came out unharmed and cheered by her brothers. And so they jumped again. And again. And again. On their fifth time jumping, she did not come out of the water. She did not come up for air. And even in the following weeks, she did not come up as a corpse. She vanished, swallowed by the river. Swallowed by the dark waters that seemed to reach as deep as the core of the earth. Nothing should have prevented her from coming back up. And that nothing was powerful enough to keep her buried in moving water for countless years. For eternity. No one swam at that spot, in fact no one from that village dared to swim in the waters that swallowed their sweet princess.
Life went on. Andy was on the eve of his wedding. As it was tradition, and according to most people, it was a stupid tradition, the ownership of the house would be passed at the same time as the wedding. This meant that in addition to organizing a wedding, Andy’s mother had to move out of the house. Andy and his fiancée had agreed to let her live with them. She was quite healthy, and happy to be part of their household. And the Patterson house was huge, and had quite enough space for this arrangement. And so Andy’s mother worked quite hard so that he august wedding would be amazing. And she worked quite hard to ensure that the master’s bedroom was free for the nuptial. She also arranged to spend the week at her sister’s place to let her son settle with his wife. She worked up a sweat, giving orders, getting her hands dirty, moving people, bossing furniture around. By the time the night fell, she was exhausted. After a light meal, she went straight to bed, to be ready for her son’s unforgettable day. She would never see daylight again. The doctor called that morning saw that she was over exhausted, and that she needed a day or two of bed rest. And her behest, the wedding took place. However, they could not wake her up again once the ceremony was over. She had a September funeral, and Andy’s wedding day would be in everyone’s memories for years to come.
On that November day, Andy was lost in his imagination, seeing everything this house had meant for him. His wife had left him years ago, after their youngest daughter went to college. He had fathered three beautiful, smart and angelic little princesses. And so there was no heir for the house. He contemplated that as he watched the church’s face brightly shining with a red that had a depth and a power commonly seen only in sunsets. His eyes filled with tears and he was choking. On memories, on emotion, on life. On death. He looked at the church and a symphony of lights, colours and sound assailed him. The bright red, the clear white, the alternating blue and red. All of this was obscured by the thick black mist filling his mind, his memories, and his house.
On November 22, he went upstairs for a nap before supper.
On November 22, he had turned on the oven so that it would be warm by the time he would wake up from his nap.
On November 22, the house decided to fight the enveloping shadows and fill the street with the burning memories of those that were no more.
On November 22, Andy Patterson died, away from his family, away from his love, but in is house, filled with despair.
Alone.
Setting up shop
Well, I am still not sure how often I will post here. My original idea was one story a week, but I figured it might not be enough. I was thinking of doing a strict updating schedule, but inspiration does not quite work that way. But then again, I could have a pool of stories written, and released on a schedule. That seemed like the most logical option. However, the other issue I've had is with starting this blog... I think I will post another 2 stories, to give my readers a better idea of what I can do, and after that I will settle in a schedule built around the survey.
The Last Tombstone
Lieutenant Harris was a professional. He never had any challenge beyond his reach. He was the man that could change the course of a war just by setting foot on the battlefield. It all started 20 years ago, when he was an 18 year old recruit. On a routine escort mission, his troop happened upon a group of armed militants. They decided to neutralize them, oblivious to the fact that they were the scouts for a much larger force. With their 50 men, the allied forces quickly eliminated the perceived threat, safeguarding their 5 packages. When a thousand man showed up to reinforce their fallen friends, the leader of Harris’ troop froze. 50 to a thousand, the odds were against them. And thus began the legend of Harris. Instinctively, he ordered his men to fall back into a small cave he saw up on the hills, not 5 minutes from their location. He managed to distract the thousand enemies, keeping them occupied for the time it took to secure the cave; he then crawled up to his troop. Soon after the siege began. The 50 men had limited supplies, 5 valuable civilians with them, and no leader beyond that recruit. They pooled their supplies, making sure water was available to all, as well as food, and most importantly: ammunition. Harris allegedly grabbed two automatic assault rifles, loaded them, and shot down a group of 30 with less than 30 shots. The truth wasn’t far from the stories. He shot down the group, starting with his rifle, and when his comrade fell, he grabbed his riffle and started using it. One death for 30 enemies, the odd seemed better. That’s when Harris became a legend. A lowly soldier, he grabbed a sniper’s rifle, a box of 250 bullets, and told the men to take shifts guarding the cave’s entrance. In the coming days, 200 enemies would attack the besieged troop. The last one was shot in the back of the head, by the last bullet from the box Harris took. With the 249 other bullets, and his legendary instinct, he had neutralized 770 enemies. 3 days after the initial attack, Harris resumed the escort mission, alone with his 5 charges. When they made to base, Harris explained what had happened, and when the MP suspected he had abandoned his troop with the packages, they went back on the field. The story was true. 1000 dead enemies and around 786 confirmed kills for Harris, on his first patrol.
He soon became the allied forces’ secret weapon. He was parachuted in deserts, swamps, mountains, he infiltrated cities, bases, fortresses, and he killed high ranking officers, scientists, and countless soldiers. They said that he was just as effective at mowing down opposition as a good carpet bombing. That’s when a funny statistician did the math. In one bombing that had cost over a million dollars, they killed less enemies, and won less ground than in a week of his actions miles away in an enemy city. Harris was a hero. And yet he never raised to the ranks that the strategists occupy. At 30, he infiltrated the Union’s capital, and spent then next 5 years eliminating a long list of targets. In 5 years, not less than 7000 officers, politicians, scientists, and other targets were eliminated. Among the Union circulated a rumour of an infiltrated network of spies. It was all the doing on one man. A man who had promised that the Union would be stopped in 5 years. On the last day of his 5 year mission, Harris walked in the Union’s palace. No guards stopped him. They did not try, as he was the dictator’s right hand man. The one who had eliminated the most spies, and enemies of the regime. He walked into the self imposed god-emperor of the union’s throne room. He then pulled out a concealed 6 shot pistol. Killed the 6 guards surrounding the Union’s emperor. Walked to the throne. And in one punch, crushed the emperor’s skull.
That day, the entire world finally united under the alliance of nations, and world peace was established. Harris refused any celebration. He was offered a good retirement, but he refused. He chose to enrol in the Alliance’s new space program. He then said that on the occasion of the fifth anniversary of the liberation of the world, he would be standing on the moon, waving at the world he had freed. And so the space race began. They were racing against time. The ships were designed faster than any ship had been designed. People united under this one goal. 1 year into their mission, they had launched unmanned orbital flight. In the second year, they sent monkeys. In the third year, they sent Harris in orbit. In the fourth year, they sent unmanned flights to the moon. In the fifth year, they were ready. And so was Harris. Liberation day was coming, and he would set foot on the moon on Liberation day, as he had promised years earlier. It would be his 40th birthday. He was visibly excited, no longer a professional killer, he had become a new pioneer. He was the beacon that launched space exploration, the light that would guide the world in an era of prosperity. In 5 years, they had perfected communications, computers, aeroplanes, and every piece of technology imaginable. They were mere moments away from perfecting nuclear fusion, allowing a clean and cheap supply of energy to be shared with the world. Everyone was inspired by Harris.
One week before Liberation day, Harris put on the orange jumpsuit, followed by the white spacesuit. He walked up the stairs leading to the launching tower confident in his success. He hugged his wife, their teenage daughter and 3 year old son and then walked towards the elevator. He made a last funny remark, then spoke in a microphone. He said: “Today is the first day that will lead to a new world. This world will be one of hopes, dreams and happiness. I do not embark on this journey as a man, but as a representative of mankind.” These words would be the headlines in nearly every newspaper in the world the next day. He went up the elevator, sat down in the cockpit, and launched in the first manned spaceship towards the moon. The world cheered his departure from earth, as if he was carrying their hopes and dreams to the stars.
6 days before the landing, he made it to orbit. He had to wait 2 days to reach the perfect point for the second part of the journey. 5 days before the landing, he was told that the first fusion power plant would be started on the day he would land, and that the former Union capital would use this new energy to light his way back to earth. 4 days before Liberation day, he left the silent embrace of Earth’s orbit. People around the world felt lighter as he became weightless. 3 days before he stepped out of the ship, his wife and kids talked to him, and told him that they were proud of him. 2 days before landing, he was out of communication range. 1 day before landing, he contacted Earth again and was told that the world was with him.
He then landed, on Liberation day. The first words by mankind on the moon were: “This is the last step of the ways of old, from now on, Earth will be a haven of peace and prosperity for all that live on its surface.” He then waited for a response from Earth.
6 days before the landing, a group of insurgents decided it was time to bring back the Union, and share its glory to the world. 5 days before the landing, the network of spy that had infiltrated government and the science office made a bogus discovery permitting a stable fusion reaction. 4 days before Liberation day, the signal for all infiltrated insurgents was broadcast on the news. 3 days before he stepped out of the ship, an armed group infiltrated his house, waiting for his family to come home. 2 days before the landing, the space agency’s communication office was hacked, and communications were moved in the hands of the insurgents. 1 day before landing, he was told a lie. On the day he landed, after his message, he got one answer: “Let the lights of the Union burn the city of traitors.”
The sabotaged reactor was started. The reaction was out of control, and the reaction started breaking apart molecular bonds, releasing energy in all directions. Air itself was turning into pure energy. And Harris, as he stood on the moon, saw earth turn red, then yellow, and then black. Earth was nothing but a ball of ashes as he looked, for the first time feeling despair. He grabbed a metal plate, and carved on it mankind’s last words. He then stepped into his ship, left the moon, and aimed for the emptiness of space. He could not survive for more than a few days, but he would not give up on life. He was the last human alive, and if his life had been any proof, if anyone could survive the extinction of mankind, it would be him. That’s what was filling his mind, as the air supply ran thin and he was drifting in and out of consciousness. He poured all his energy, and battery power, in a last transmission, asking for help for the first time in his life. Hopefully, someone would hear. Someone would come. Sleep took him over. Help was coming, he was sure. His eyes were heavy. Help was coming, it had to come. He could barely breathe. Help was needed; he was running out of hope. He drifted into sleep. Help would never come; all hope was lost. Everything was lost. Help… Air… Hope… He needed all three to survive. But it would never come. Never. Forever waiting for the next breath, for the saviour, for a way to restore mankind. Timelessly lifeless.
He soon became the allied forces’ secret weapon. He was parachuted in deserts, swamps, mountains, he infiltrated cities, bases, fortresses, and he killed high ranking officers, scientists, and countless soldiers. They said that he was just as effective at mowing down opposition as a good carpet bombing. That’s when a funny statistician did the math. In one bombing that had cost over a million dollars, they killed less enemies, and won less ground than in a week of his actions miles away in an enemy city. Harris was a hero. And yet he never raised to the ranks that the strategists occupy. At 30, he infiltrated the Union’s capital, and spent then next 5 years eliminating a long list of targets. In 5 years, not less than 7000 officers, politicians, scientists, and other targets were eliminated. Among the Union circulated a rumour of an infiltrated network of spies. It was all the doing on one man. A man who had promised that the Union would be stopped in 5 years. On the last day of his 5 year mission, Harris walked in the Union’s palace. No guards stopped him. They did not try, as he was the dictator’s right hand man. The one who had eliminated the most spies, and enemies of the regime. He walked into the self imposed god-emperor of the union’s throne room. He then pulled out a concealed 6 shot pistol. Killed the 6 guards surrounding the Union’s emperor. Walked to the throne. And in one punch, crushed the emperor’s skull.
That day, the entire world finally united under the alliance of nations, and world peace was established. Harris refused any celebration. He was offered a good retirement, but he refused. He chose to enrol in the Alliance’s new space program. He then said that on the occasion of the fifth anniversary of the liberation of the world, he would be standing on the moon, waving at the world he had freed. And so the space race began. They were racing against time. The ships were designed faster than any ship had been designed. People united under this one goal. 1 year into their mission, they had launched unmanned orbital flight. In the second year, they sent monkeys. In the third year, they sent Harris in orbit. In the fourth year, they sent unmanned flights to the moon. In the fifth year, they were ready. And so was Harris. Liberation day was coming, and he would set foot on the moon on Liberation day, as he had promised years earlier. It would be his 40th birthday. He was visibly excited, no longer a professional killer, he had become a new pioneer. He was the beacon that launched space exploration, the light that would guide the world in an era of prosperity. In 5 years, they had perfected communications, computers, aeroplanes, and every piece of technology imaginable. They were mere moments away from perfecting nuclear fusion, allowing a clean and cheap supply of energy to be shared with the world. Everyone was inspired by Harris.
One week before Liberation day, Harris put on the orange jumpsuit, followed by the white spacesuit. He walked up the stairs leading to the launching tower confident in his success. He hugged his wife, their teenage daughter and 3 year old son and then walked towards the elevator. He made a last funny remark, then spoke in a microphone. He said: “Today is the first day that will lead to a new world. This world will be one of hopes, dreams and happiness. I do not embark on this journey as a man, but as a representative of mankind.” These words would be the headlines in nearly every newspaper in the world the next day. He went up the elevator, sat down in the cockpit, and launched in the first manned spaceship towards the moon. The world cheered his departure from earth, as if he was carrying their hopes and dreams to the stars.
6 days before the landing, he made it to orbit. He had to wait 2 days to reach the perfect point for the second part of the journey. 5 days before the landing, he was told that the first fusion power plant would be started on the day he would land, and that the former Union capital would use this new energy to light his way back to earth. 4 days before Liberation day, he left the silent embrace of Earth’s orbit. People around the world felt lighter as he became weightless. 3 days before he stepped out of the ship, his wife and kids talked to him, and told him that they were proud of him. 2 days before landing, he was out of communication range. 1 day before landing, he contacted Earth again and was told that the world was with him.
He then landed, on Liberation day. The first words by mankind on the moon were: “This is the last step of the ways of old, from now on, Earth will be a haven of peace and prosperity for all that live on its surface.” He then waited for a response from Earth.
6 days before the landing, a group of insurgents decided it was time to bring back the Union, and share its glory to the world. 5 days before the landing, the network of spy that had infiltrated government and the science office made a bogus discovery permitting a stable fusion reaction. 4 days before Liberation day, the signal for all infiltrated insurgents was broadcast on the news. 3 days before he stepped out of the ship, an armed group infiltrated his house, waiting for his family to come home. 2 days before the landing, the space agency’s communication office was hacked, and communications were moved in the hands of the insurgents. 1 day before landing, he was told a lie. On the day he landed, after his message, he got one answer: “Let the lights of the Union burn the city of traitors.”
The sabotaged reactor was started. The reaction was out of control, and the reaction started breaking apart molecular bonds, releasing energy in all directions. Air itself was turning into pure energy. And Harris, as he stood on the moon, saw earth turn red, then yellow, and then black. Earth was nothing but a ball of ashes as he looked, for the first time feeling despair. He grabbed a metal plate, and carved on it mankind’s last words. He then stepped into his ship, left the moon, and aimed for the emptiness of space. He could not survive for more than a few days, but he would not give up on life. He was the last human alive, and if his life had been any proof, if anyone could survive the extinction of mankind, it would be him. That’s what was filling his mind, as the air supply ran thin and he was drifting in and out of consciousness. He poured all his energy, and battery power, in a last transmission, asking for help for the first time in his life. Hopefully, someone would hear. Someone would come. Sleep took him over. Help was coming, he was sure. His eyes were heavy. Help was coming, it had to come. He could barely breathe. Help was needed; he was running out of hope. He drifted into sleep. Help would never come; all hope was lost. Everything was lost. Help… Air… Hope… He needed all three to survive. But it would never come. Never. Forever waiting for the next breath, for the saviour, for a way to restore mankind. Timelessly lifeless.
About this blog, and me.
Since it's a new blog, I assume people will want to know what it is about. Well, I recently had to write some short stories for a project and I realized that I enjoyed writing these stories, and figured I could try to write at least one a week. It seemed like a good idea. So this blog will be more about my writing than my life, but according to most of my professors, the two are rarely separate.
About me: I'm a 26 year old graduate student of literature. I'm also what you can call a gamer, I read comic books, really love going out for a beer, and basically enjoy creating stuff. I tried my hand at drawing, painting, photography, music and obviously writing. Though writing is where I think I might be the best, I was told I was not that bad at photography as well. This is my first blog, most likely my only blog, and hopefully you will enjoy my writing.
Also, since I know most of you reading this are actually family and friends, please don't hesitate to share this. And don't hesitate to comment on my works, it's the only way I will improve.
About me: I'm a 26 year old graduate student of literature. I'm also what you can call a gamer, I read comic books, really love going out for a beer, and basically enjoy creating stuff. I tried my hand at drawing, painting, photography, music and obviously writing. Though writing is where I think I might be the best, I was told I was not that bad at photography as well. This is my first blog, most likely my only blog, and hopefully you will enjoy my writing.
Also, since I know most of you reading this are actually family and friends, please don't hesitate to share this. And don't hesitate to comment on my works, it's the only way I will improve.
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