To Rage

Something new with great potential, dead before it ever began.  Perhaps easier on the weary heart, yet I ache at the loss of could be.  The future, the unknown, which I seek so passionately, and feel more distant from by the moment.  The realization that we are all as empty and worthless as I feel in those dark moments.

Destruction runs wild in everyone.  Creativity fills my heart, but it pales to the carnage spread around me.  To build a monument in a field soaked through with the blood of ten thousand dead men, how can I rejoice in what we manage to construct?  Pale, weak, shallow, selfish little mortals who scurry and scrape without ever knowing why.

I aim to be enlightened, so escape the humanity I was born into.  Difficult, when I feel so shackled.  A sinking of the heart, into the thick, murky bog of my innards.  

Frustration leads away from creation.  I yearn to smash something.  To fight and crush, feel blood that is not mine splatter across my face.  To destroy as it feels all I know. 

Sprinting for the Future

    What is it we pursue? Is it something new, or rather chasing a feeling or place we once were? I often find myself torn between the desire for the unknown, and the comfort of the familiar.
The familiar is safe, predictable. I know how I will feel when I achieve something, I know what the risks are, and I know what it will cost me. These patterns, however, I feel are often destructive. Like a drug, you end up chasing the feelings you had before, rather than pushing through them. When things do progress beyond your comfort zone, into the unknown and unexplored, you will turn and run, abandon what is around you, and find something new to serve as a rewind.
I know this, because that is where I was, years ago. I was terrified of the unknown. I wrote stories about this fear, about pursuing what was once had, that feeling I had assigned perfection to. Now, I no longer fear the depth, the realm beyond my understanding, emotion surpassing my current capabilities. I hunger for it.
I want to push past all that has limited me. I want to love deeper than I have, and be loved deeper in return. I want to know joy and pain, laughter and sorrow beyond my current comprehension of these words. I want to feel beyond expression. I want depth.
Such depth takes time, and effort. It takes a will not only to stay in the moment, but also to keep pushing it ever forward. I feel a frenzy within me, a force that spurs near frantic behavior and emotion. Yet I know if I stop it, or try and quell this raging sea, I will die. I will put out a flame that has burst to life to achieve, see and know.
I will hunt the edges of understanding, stalk the unknown, bask in the lost emotions. I will have this even if it destroys me, because if I don’t, I might as well have never lived at all.

Starting the Journey

    My mind blazes. A fire of thought and emotion rages through the deepest corners of my brain. Sitting in a college coffee shop, I try and sift through the chaos, to pull out what is of value, and put it to pen. The struggle is difficult, though, for many reasons.
I came here, to this school far away from what I know, to start the novel I need to write. The greatest story I have yet lived, the darkest, yet strongest, chapter in my life. A story of betrayal, loss and heartbreak, but also courage, grace and growth. I know pain awaits me in this process, this first serious and committed attempt at writing. I feel ill prepared to capture what needs to be told, to convey the message of my heart.
I’m not sure what expectations I had in being here. I had hoped inspiration would strike like lightning, driving me forward, producing work beyond my talents. Staring at the page, waiting for that magical moment, I know it isn’t coming. I have it all in me, I have the conviction to write it, and I need to just do. Yet it intimidates me still. I feel this is because it is a story I must tell, not one I want to.
The events of my life I am to capture in the novel I start today have changed me, permanently. Though I have steered as much change as possible in a positive direction, it is still something I mourn. Despite the fact that my life now seems flooded with possibility and renewed potential, I can’t help but wonder over what has been lost. Perhaps my life would have remained mundane and in all ways ordinary, but the love I had was not ordinary. The care, affection and adoration I had for someone else was not simple, it was strong and lasting, true in every way. I can’t shake the feeling that I will never love again in such a way, if only because the scars and damage to my heart have left me no longer capable of such pure feeling.
What will become of me now? I will write this novel, pour heart, soul and passion into it. I will push and see it through. I dream of becoming a success, of exploring the world in search of new depth and story worth telling. I feel that these are not mere dreams, that it is merely a matter of time and perseverance for me.
Such success does not breed happiness, however, as is evident in so many of the authors I admire. Too often the source of such emotional creation is pain that tarnishes the beauty of life. Too many of my heroes were suicides. Dark thoughts in the face of this journey I am about to undertake.
I suppose that these are things that I will always struggle with. The same conviction I have in my work I must translate to life. I want to love and care as I did, and so I must put forth the effort to heal and mend, to one day get back to the point of at least being able.
For now, I will just thank you, dear reader. Your caring, attention and connection to me keeps me strong in this. I hope that what I produce is worthy of you, and in fact can move you. I write for those who relate, who value depth and struggle. I am so grateful you exist in this world, too often absent maturity and love.

The Publican

A short intro to this post.  I entered the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge, and for my first round was assigned to heat 24, given the guidelines of a sci fi, a new law, and a tax collector.  Below is the story I submitted.  It was so much fun to participate, and I am hoping to advance to the next round, as well as find other fiction contests.  I hope you enjoy!


 The Publican

     I stood in the threshold of the couple’s home, smoking a cigarette as the soldiers did their duty. The woman of the household was pinned on the floor, screaming pleas for mercy. Pvt Myles was on top of her, his knee pressed against her back, a hand clutching a fistful of hair so she couldn’t look away. In front of them, her husband was slumped over in a chair, face bruised and bloodied. Sgt Harmon paced the space between the couple, tapping his baton impatiently against his thigh.
    I flicked my smoke outside and walked back into the house. As I approached the woman quieted her wails to low moans, and I was grateful. I had been at this all day, and my ears were ringing.
    “Ma’am”, I spoke gently as I knelt next to her. “You know why we're here. You know we are not going away. This can all end right now, just tell me where your child is.”
    She sobbed in silence, biting her lip and shaking her head in somber defiance. I took a deep breath and sighed, folding my arms across my chest. I turned my head to nod at Sgt Harmon. He readied his baton and placed himself in front of her husband. He activated the weapon’s taser, and it awoke with a sharp crackle. I heard the woman’s fear escaping her as a whimper as he pointed the baton at her husband.
    “Are you sure we can’t solve this in a more civilized manner?” I asked, looking back to her.
    “Go to hell, Publican!” She spat the words at me. This was her decision.
    Sgt Harmon thrust the rod into the beaten man’s chest. A horrible howl erupted from the husband’s lungs as he writhed in his chair. His torturer continued to press it against him until my ears could no longer handle his cries.
    “Enough, Sgt. They know we aren’t leaving. Not until we find him.” I said, shaking my head.
    I stepped outside and lit another cigarette. This had been my day, and I was exhausted. Nearly every parent had tried to hide their child from us, had tried to keep them from joining the Ark. Why couldn’t they accept and understand? There could be no peace with Earth. Had they all forgotten the missile assault that rained down upon us barely a decade ago?
    I stared out at the setting suns, and the massive silhouette in front of them. The Ark of War, Alpha Centauri’s answer to the death dealt that day. The colossal vessel had taken eight years to build, and finally stood near completion. All had known it was to take ten million souls on the twenty year journey to Earth to defeat the aggressors, to ensure peace and survival for our people. Few of us had known the Emperor's plan to seed it with infants, to be trained over those two decades into the most elite army ever known.
    Few had known, but they should have suspected. Certainly they didn’t expect Earth to fall to an army of middle aged soldiers. Yet when the Decree of Perseverance was issued just a few weeks ago, requiring all children born in the next two years to be submitted to the Empire and join the Ark of War, parents across the globe began to hide their newborns.
    It was anticipated by the Emperor. He had formed the Publicans, men and women like myself, tasked with collecting the children. We had been preparing for this for several years, still I had hoped more would pay these dues of justice with pride. Scurrying like rats, stuffing their children in basements and cabinets, I expected better of our honorable citizens.
    Of course I didn’t anticipate people swarming the streets, thrusting their babies into my arms, but I thought they would at least understand, and be proud that their offspring would secure peace and freedom.
    I dropped my smoke on the stoop and stamped it out. There was no point wondering why they couldn’t understand, there was simply the task at hand. I strode back into the house.
    “Pick her up”, I ordered Pvt Myles. I turned to the husband, lightly slapping his cheek until he opened his eyes. “What we’ve done to you, we will do ten times worse to your wife. End this insanity, tell me where you’ve hidden your child.”
    I stepped aside so he could watch as his wife was pushed into a chair opposite his. Pvt Myles bound her hands, then drew his own baton off his belt, brandishing it to the beaten man. The husband coughed quietly, then whispered something inaudible.
    “Don’t tell them anything! Keep our boy safe!” the wife shrieked.
    “Shut her up” I snapped. A series of jabs to the abdomen ended her commands. She was coughing and crying, and I turned back to the husband. Still unable to hear his words, I lowered my face to his.
    He lunged, snapping his jaws ferociously. As I tumbled backward, he fell on top of me, his teeth finding flesh upon my cheek, and they sunk in. Flailing, punching, I desperately tried to free myself from his bite. Sgt Harmon finally pulled him off of me, and I leapt to my feet.
    “You bit my face!” I shouted in a mixture of anger and disbelief. “You just bit... My face! Are you insane?”
    The husband was laughing, my blood still dripping from his teeth, dribbling down his chin. His cackle was mindless, and it shook me. This bruised man before me was broken beyond the beating, whoever he was had left in a primal panic to protect his family. I stared at him laying there, out of options, nothing but desperation, and in that moment I feared him.
    I retreated to the kitchen to wash my face. Gingerly dabbing it with a wet towel, I looked around for some bandages. I began to walk up the hall towards a bathroom after I couldn’t find any in the kitchen, but stopped and turned to the wall.
    I had already searched the house, I had been up and down this hallway a dozen times, yet I hadn’t paid any mind to all the pictures on the wall. Now, they captivated me. I stood, staring at images of the couple in the next room, smiling, laughing, playing. There were wedding pictures, shots from vacations, and even several with their new baby. As I looked at their faces, I hardly recognized them.
    I turned away, suddenly unable to face this family. All at once, I felt that this was their end. They would never again smile as they had, their laughter would be hollow, as their existences would remain empty. Somehow now, the big picture seemed insignificant. Children sent to protect a world that would forever miss them. Families torn apart that would rather die together.
    I walked back to the front room. All of us had fallen silent, they weren’t going to talk, and I couldn’t summon the conviction to continue an interrogation. I sat in one of their chairs and lit another smoke. Leaning back, I stared up at the ceiling, wondering if I even knew what was right anymore. I exhaled a foggy column, curious if there even was a “right” anymore.
    Silence was then broken by a faint, muffled crying. For several moments, all was frozen, five of us stopped breathing, transfixed by a baby’s bawling. Action then exploded upon the room, the parents frantically struggling once more, the soldiers restraining them, and I raced out of the room, following the cry.
    In the kitchen again, I paused and listened. Honing in on the sound, I emptied a cabinet. The baby wailed, resonating through the base of the cupboard. Feeling around, I found a latch, snapping it open to reveal a small compartment, and the child I had come to collect.
    The child quieted as I picked him up, and as I looked down into his face, I couldn’t shake a feeling of remorse. What was I taking from this child? What would he have become, living his life here on our home world? I imagined him as a painter, a doctor, a teacher, even a government official, like me. Whatever he became, it would have been his choice, and that is what I was taking this night.
    To secure the freedom of billions, we were taking the freedom of millions. I had thought this over before, it had made sense, it was reasonable. Yet in this moment, it seemed so cruel, so unfair and unjust. This boy was only days old. He would not remember the world he fights for. He would never know his parents faces. A life without a mother’s love, or a father’s guidance. He would be brainwashed, his convictions would come from training rather than emotion. Was I robbing him of the very things that make him human?
    As I reentered the living room, I felt as if I were entering a funeral. The boy’s parents stood together, crying quietly, their hands still bound. His mother’s head was buried in his father’s chest. It was over for them as well. Their lives had built together to this moment, they had a child out of love, and now I was taking him away forever. How did we expect them to recover from this taint upon their lives?
    “Untie their hands”, I commanded, weakly. The soldiers looked confused, but complied. “I really could use another cigarette. Would you hold him for me as I step out?”
    I handed the child to his mother. She clutched him close to her chest, and began to whisper to him. Not wanting to hear their goodbyes, I walked out the front door.
    As I lit my cigarette, I wondered how many I had smoked that day. I had been talking of quitting, but I somehow knew now that I never would. It was a comfort I would need forever.
    I picked at the blood dried to my face as I tried to imagine how I was going to do this every day for two more years. I tried to summon up the pride and certainty I possessed before, but I could not find it within me. Regardless, this was reality. I had no more choice in this than the parents inside the home behind me. Even if I quit, another Publican would come for them.
    I put out my cigarette and turned to go back inside. I struggled to control my expression. I could show no remorse, no doubt. This was necessary, I told myself. This was an unfortunate tax of life, but there was no other way. I knew this to be true.
    I took the boy from his mother’s arms. She resisted for a moment, but relinquished her son to me. I could see the fire had died in her eyes, she had surrendered to the darkness, the cold facts of life. I left them like that, hoping to never see them again. I could hardly handle the thought of them drifting through the rest of their lives, forever dominated by fear and guilt for the son they surrendered.
    I climbed into the back of the transport and placed the child in the container prepared for him. Looking down at his blank stare, I felt a small joy in the fact that he would at very least not remember this night. I turned away and strapped myself in as the vehicle began to move.
    On the seat next to me was my communicator, which I specifically had not brought inside. It was blinking with missed messages, and I picked it up, hoping for a distraction from the events that had just transpired.
    Fifteen missed calls from my wife, and worry flooded through me. She rarely called me at work, and certainly not fifteen times. I quickly called her back.
    “What’s wrong? Are you alright?” I asked immediately when she answered.
    “No, I’m not. I don’t know what to do.” Her voice was hollow, and my worry turned to panic.
    “What’s going on? Has something happened?” I waited for her response. I could hear her breathing shortly, and knew she was crying. I was desperate to know what had made her like this, but knew better than to rush her. It seemed an eternity before she answered.
    “I’m pregnant.” My body went cold, as if all the blood in my body had suddenly evacuated. I searched for words of reply, but had none. Stunned, silent, I just sat there, her two words repeating in my mind over and over until she finally spoke again. “What are we going to do?”

Maybe You Don't

    How foolish you are, little person.  How completely blind you are to all around and in you.  You dare to throw around words of love, when you have no idea what love is.
    Love does not just come into being.  Love is not just attraction or infatuation.  Love is, when true and real, a force in itself.  It must be, as it is battered and tested through time.  It is hardened in a fire of conviction and commitment, yet you don’t consider this at all.
    Your love is a clay.  Moist and cool, you move and mold it into the shape that suits you now.  Never fostered, never fired, it remains weak.  A weakness you celebrate, for when love fails you, it makes it easy to ball up and restart.  
    You will never find a use for this love, though.  It will add nothing to your life, as you add nothing to it.  The clay will become dirty and dry, begin to crack.  Each reforming becomes harder, until it resembles nothing at all, a pile of worthless dirty.
    If only you could see beyond the initial flame of passion.  You see love like a match.  You strike it, and it bursts into flame.  An ignition of heat and light, burning through whatever material you have for it.  You can try to pile on fuel, but ultimately, fire dies.  You remain, perhaps exhausted by your efforts, covered in ash.  
    It must be so lonely, it must be so maddening.  You must be so frantic all the time.  Those around you must shake their heads as you run to and fro, but how can they show you what you refuse to see, what you find yourself always to busy to contemplate.  Perhaps those around you know no better themselves.
    Sit down, little one.  Breathe deep and slow, and consider what you want to build, not what you hope to find.

Wedding Haze

    I don’t believe you can go to a wedding at not think of your own.  As I attended a friend’s ceremony this weekend, I was pulled back to mine.  I remembered watching my own bride walk down the aisle, her tearing up as she read me her vows, and all that has happened since.
    It was a beautiful day in a tragic love story.  It is hard to think of that day and understand how it ended in such hurt, deceit and betrayal.  Its hard to believe that just a few short years later, her passion and conviction of that day could have dissolved to nothing.
    Standing amongst the guests at the reception, I hear people speaking of true love, of the glimmer in their eyes, the excitement in their faces, and I remember hearing those same words at my own.  How many times were we told our vows were beautiful and moving, and so obviously from the heart?  I stay quiet and drink my wine.  I find a seat and try to stabilize my mind.
    Another glass, I meet the people at my table.  A singer/actor couple sits next to me.  They were married the same summer as I, but I see affection between them.  She looks at him with adoration as he speaks, and I can tell she is so proud of the man he is, the man she married.  They are sweet and warm, and I speak little of myself.  I smile and laugh and pretend I was never wed.
    Dinner comes, conversations continue, several more glasses of wine are consumed.  I listen to the toasts, the advice given to the newlyweds.  None of it is unknown to me, no words I didn’t live by, no actions I didn’t do.  
    Their first dance, sweet, playful and impressive.  We had practiced ours for weeks, taken lessons, put in so much effort.  I didn’t dance before my bride, I had never been drawn to it.  But she loved it, and so I had learned to love it.
    They open up the dance floor for everyone else, and I come to a moment in myself.  A choice of self to be made.  I could sit in this chair, and wallow in her decisions, or I can make one for myself.  Dancing may have been sparked by her, but tonight I will dance for me.  I finish the wine in front of me and get up.
    So few of us dancing for a wedding, but I don’t mind.  Music with a beat, and I lose my mind in the movement.  A blur of hours, faces, dancing with dozens of strangers, I laugh honestly as I realize I am having a good night.
    Standing outside, snow falling heavy on me as I savor a cigarette, the bride and groom driven off through the night, I sigh with a calm contentedness.  I can build within myself all I loved in her.  I can be my own source of passion, happiness, and joy.  I can dance the night away, and enjoy every minute of it, no matter who she decides to be.

A Knight's Vindication part ii

    The ground was glazed with frost as the three hooded horsemen rode into the village.  The men were armed and clad in heavy leathers and furs, clearly warriors, and as the townsfolk noticed them, they retreated into their homes.  There were few reasons soldiers would visit such a hamlet, none of which the citizens would want to be involved in.
    The frozen earth crunched noisily under the horses’ hooves as they rode to the center of town.  The largest building in town was the inn, and there the men dismounted and entered, walking tall and with purpose.  Their boots sounded heavily on the wooden floors of the hall as they strode toward the keeper.  The keeper was a small man, standing barely to the shoulders of the hooded men, and as they neared he seemed to shrink even further.
    The tallest of the hooded men removed his cover, revealing his stern, weathered face.  His eyes, gray as the churning seas, captivated the keeper, and as he stared back into them, he felt a powerful mixture of sorrow and fear.
    “I am looking for the man named Decker”, they gray eyed man stated.  The keeper stood, still transfixed under this stranger’s gaze for several seconds before responding.
    “Decker?  The painter?”
    “Yes, that is the man I seek.”
    “What do you want with him?”
    “That is my business”, they gray eyed man’s words were calm, but still sent shivers of terror down the keepers spine.
    “I-I...  I can show you.”  The keeper led them up the main lane for a ways, before stopping in front of a small home.  Barely more than a shack, it was crudely fashioned, and was in ill repair.  
    “Go back to your inn, commoner”, one of the other hooded figures snapped.  The keeper retreated back down to his lodge, not daring a backwards glance.
    The three men stared at the house in silence for a time.  The other two looked the the gray eyed man, who nodded silently to them and strode forth to the doorway.  They understood the wordless command, and stood their ground on the road, waiting for their companion to complete what he had traveled so far to do.  The gray eyed man pushed open the door, and disappeared inside.
    Inside sat a thin man, haggard and bald.  He sat up straight, and summoned the most determined look he could as he looked at the man who had invaded his home.
    “I’ve been searching you for some time, Decker.  You can not have thought you could evade me forever”,  the gray eyed man’s voice remained as cold and empty as before.
    “I always knew, Jaren.  I never thought I would escape you”,  Decker could not look into Jaren’s face, dropping his gaze to the floor.  “But killing me will bring you no peace.  It will not bring her back, and she wouldn’t want this.”
    “Regardless, I am here.  There is no peace for me anymore.  The two of you took that from me”, Jaren stated, ever calmly.
    Decker lunged forward, brandishing a short blade he pulled from behind.  Jaren caught his sword arm by the wrist, stopping it mid swing.  His face curled with anger as he stared into Decker’s eyes, inches from his own.  In a single movement, Jaren stripped the blade from his opponent’s hand and kicked him back into the wall.  Dust fell from the ceiling as the shack shuddered under the impact, and Decker coughed the breath out of his lungs.  Before he could gasp another in, Jaren plunged the taken blade forth, spearing Decker through the shoulder, pinning him upright against the wall.
    Jaren stepped back and stared at the man bleeding before him.  The anger had left his face, replaced with the emptiness of before.  Decker choked on fresh tears, and Jaren pondered if they were from his wound, or a deeper pain.
    “All I did was love her!  I loved her and she loved me!”  Decker screamed through his tears.
    “You don’t know what love is, and neither did she.”  Jaren unsheathed his longsword slowly, letting the scabbard scratch dramatically against the blade.
    “This serves no purpose!  She is gone, and that is your fault!  You should have let us be, you cou-” Jaren slashed the sword tip across Decker’s throat, what words remained came out only as a gurgle, a splutter of air and blood.  Jaren stood in silence before the dying man.  Waiting for the end, he was patient until all life had left, then turned and exited the hovel.
    Jaren’s companions fell in stride behind him as he strode back toward the inn.  They stayed a pace behind him, glancing between themselves with unhidden curiosity.  Upon reaching the horses, Jaren quickly mounted and reined his steed around to leave the village.
    “Is it over?  She is avenged?” One of the men asked as he climbed upon his own mount.
    “This was not vengeance.  This was not wrath.  What I did today was a mercy for a pitiful soul.”  Snow began to fall, slow and softly as he spoke.  Jaren looked up, letting it fall upon his face.  The cold was soothing, it echoed all he knew.
    They spoke no more as they rode away.