The Steel

The steel met with a deafening sound. Sparks flew around the two men. This was the moment they had been both expecting. The swords grinded against one another, producing a hissing sound, a primal growl. They both stepped back, and as of one body, they both flexed their arms, sending their weapons on a collision course. Sparks flew once more; the sun was setting and the sudden brightness of the impact was soon becoming the only light. Elsewhere on the darkening field, others were also paired up. The impacts caused eruptions of light all over the plains as the two armies met under a setting sun. When sparks did not fly, blood gushed out of the newly formed openings on the soldiers bodies. All of this did not matter for the pair dancing the deadly dance. Their synchronism was perfect, steel meeting steel, and bodies moving so that only the air was sliced.

They looked at each other. They were both tired, but they would never admit it. They were brothers on the battlefield, facing each other but giving each other purpose. As if the same thought filled their minds at the same time, their resolve grew stronger. And so the swords met in a deafening impact that lit up the night. Next to them, their allies were dying and living. But it did not matter. Years of camaraderie paled before the majesty of seconds of enmity. They did not know each other, they hated each other, and yet they were both part of a whole. Something that was separated all their life and that was being violently reunited. One stepped to the left, the other followed. The moon was rising, the pale white light turning the armies into ghosts. And the sparks still flew, in lesser number now that time had passed, but in greater significance.

This was what they had both trained for. Years ago, when they enlisted, it was for this moment. The nights in the barracks, the days training their sword arms, learning how to use a shield, learning how to follow orders. It was for this moment. It was not about dying for the king or for god, or for any being with the pretension of controlling their lives. Everything they had done led them here. Their wives left behind, pregnant and crying, their mothers being sick with worry, their children being orphaned by their decision. Everything was just a minor detail. This moment, under the moon, surrounded by blood, steel, and pain, this was what they were born for. Sparks flew, revealing an ever emptying field around them.

That moment of nostalgia was gone; the swords were coming back to life. They met with a newfound harmony. Music rose as swords met swords, shields, and air. They both did not hold back, they sent their blades towards weak spots in each other’s defence. They respected each other enough to not be insulting by holding back. The movements gracefully accommodating for these precise strikes, it was a choreography they were improvising and yet they knew it by heart. They both wanted this battle to last forever, not because they were afraid of dying like the wailing injured soldiers that surrounded them, but because they were afraid of killing.

The moon was slowly going down behind the hills; the first light of dawn was shining. The swords met with less vigour, the arms were tired. But they still fought, giving up was beyond consideration. They both had silently agreed, the fatigue did not matter and they would fight to the end without bitterness or resentment. This night spent in complicity gave a new meaning to both their lives and their deaths. The swords met one more time, the arms relentlessly bringing the steel to meet. Something new happened, a sword broke. The two men had lasted beyond all comprehension, but the steel had given up and one of them was defenceless. They both understood what it meant but had accepted it. And so the sword came down again, this time biting through steel, leather, wool, and, eventually, flesh. As the sun rose, the blade was suddenly covered in ruby, for a man such as his foe could not be bleeding anything other than precious stones. The warm sun was comforting for the dying man. They had both knew this moment would come, and so the one that lived did not hold his hand back. And the steel sword pierced his brother in battle’s heart. The battle had been over hours ago, the victors did not matter. The battle had stopped so that all soldiers could watch this destined battle. And as death fell over the vanquished, silence fell over the field. No one could explain what they felt at that moment, but years later, when they would describe this moment in history, no one but the two men who fought all night were deemed worthy of being called warriors.


[New type of story again. This is a lot closer to what I wanted to write as a kid. Heroic battles, heroes, villains and dramatic conflicts. But in a sense this is also a lot further than what I thought at first glance. There is no sense of good and evil, both fighters are heroes in their own right. It's not black and white, it is a rather grey story. There isn't much to say about this.]

Even Titans...

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.]

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 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.