Sunday, December 10, 2017

Meeting of the Goddess

We found her in her orchard, there amongst the trees. Her face reflected every song we ever sang for the loves we longed for at home. She is the reason we go to war. Every inch of her body spoke of love and warmth and home and hearth. Even as we cut her down and removed the rope from around her neck, we know we were looking into the face of everything we left behind.
The trees had been plicked free of any fruit, except for her. There were no chickens or eggs to be found in the cages.
Cows and horses had been slaughtered and what meat wasn’t carried away was left to rot in the fields.
We had hoped to find sme fresh food, perhaps a jug of milk or a round of cheese, or even an errant bottle of wine that had rolled under a bed, but the house had been stripped bare. The charred bed and smoke damaged walls gave evidence of an attempt to burn away crimes committed on this tiny farms.
She had been kept for days, if we understood the comparison of the state of decay of the animals in the field to the state of her body. I tried to look past the bruising and blood to find the beauty beneath.
I saw my wife reflecting back when I studied her face. The color of her eyes and tone of her skin lacked my wife’s fair coloring, but she was a woman. A mother. A wife. A child. And she had fought. Her hands were broken and bloody, showing where she had scratched at her aggressors. Her arms and legs were covered with bruises and the blood of the violence done upon her.
Her children were hidden in the barn, buried beneath a pile of hay. We don’t know how long they wre there. I placed the infant in her mother’s arms before we buried them. The boy is too young to be conscripted into the army. And even if we tried to make a solider of him there is an emptiness in his eyes.
He is too young to remember the trauma here. Or, perhaps he’s not. Perhaps he will remember the death of those who were central to hi youth.
He sits now on top of the crates carrying our supplies eating an apple. His jaw barely moves up and down as he chews. There is no color in his hollow cheeks, even though we have given him enough food to fill his hollow belly many times over.
There is much debate in the ranks about what to do about the child. Even before we left the farm there were arguments. Many wanted to leave him behind After all, despite his youth, he was still a child of the enemy. A child has no sense of danger. Someone would have to stay beside him if we found ourselves in battle. Who would be willing to stay and protect a child of the enemy while his brother’s in arm was being strafed by enemy fire?
Perhaps, when we finished our march and set up our encampment we can turn him over to the women who inevitably fall in behind the lines. Their cold arms and silent hearts echo the pains of this war. Some carry disease and we know others are there to try to pry secrets from the lips of men who surrender to their inadequate seductions.
The women are a hollow echo of the life we left behind. They give warmth and hope and the possibility of finding just a moment of forgetfulness. Maybe one of them would be willing to take this child to replace the one they lost to famine, or disease, or cross-fire. Or maybe they will take this child and hewill suffer the same fate as the missing children of the city.
I look into the dark eyes of this child and I imagine the light colored eyes of my young one, still safe at home. Safe until the war comes to my shore.
I must fight this war to save all the children on all the shores.
It is my duty as a father, as a son, as a follower of all that is holy.

And I am left to wonder if it was soldiers on our side or the other who destroyed the women.

Thursday, December 7, 2017

The Challenge

The city is left behind. We traverse the windy trail full of unseen dangers and enemies who know this land better than us. Strangers on foreign soil, we are ignorant of the monsters hidden along tree-lined paths. There is no help, no relief, from those who dwell upon this shore. All are the enemy.
The march is long and the clime harsh on our souls. It is all at once too hot, too cold, too windy and too dry. I cannot shed my armor as I march, for to do so would be to risk being struck by enemy fire. My head, my heart, my soul must be protected at all times. Sweat pours from me as if I was a pregnant cloud, heavy with the gathered waters of the sea, cooling my skin so at night I lie in my blankets shivering from the cold brought in by the setting of the sun.
There is no relief from this march. Always, we must put one foot in front of the other until we reach our ultimate destiny. The fear of waiting for us at the end of the march is almost as great as the fear of what we are finding in the tree-lined path as we traverse the windy road.
Today it was a good day. Only the three men in the front of the line were killed by enemy marksmen. They ranged ahead to warn us of any danger. Their deaths were warnings of the monsters on the trail. Our men heard the death cries of the men and were able to take cover before the enemy could attack.
We stayed the course and our scouts found the nest of enemy vipers. There wasn’t much of a fight and when they dragged the bodies of the enemy from their encampment to where we had hid ourselves we could see why.
The enemy were little more than ragged, half-starved creatures of questionable age. If these soldiers were all the enemy could find to fight their war it won’t take much to disarm them.
There is a long road to travel still and there are many enemies to encounter before we arrive at our destination.
The ragged clothes and the hollow cheeks of our enemy could just mean they were far from their base. We are headed into the nest of the contagion and as we get closer to the source of the infection in this land I can only imagine we are going to confront even more obstacles.
Even now, as I shovel the dirt over the body of these monsters, for monster could be the only word I find for these beasts who would allow the atrocities I have seen occur, I can only wonder what compelling force could keep even such as these loyal to their cause.
Hunger and pain is the true test of loyalty. I wonder how the men I march with would stand in the face of such adversity. Our supply lines still run strong. Our uniforms and armor is still intact. Our souls are still being fed daily by the message of our call. Fear and hunger and cold do not drive us to turn to other sources for sustenance.
Fear and hunger and cold has been the constant companion of our enemy. They strike from hidden nests and from deep within caves. Supplies are slow to come and I have seen the source of some of their food. And yet, they stand unwavering in their cause.
I must remember the rallying cry of my people. I must remember the face of my wife and my children. They are who keep me whole this far from home. The arms of these foreign shores are cold and hard. I must armor myself against the hidden attacks they thrust at us from all sides. I must protect my body, mind and soul.

We march again tomorrow.

Enemies

We have been in the city for months and still we have not seen the face of our enemy. They are here. I can sense them in every quarter, following our movements from their secret hiding places. We freed the common people from their oppressors and yet instead of welcoming us with grateful hearts they have poisoned our wells and set fire to our barracks. I was charged with leading our men into the city to round up the instigators, but all we found were old men and weak women huddled in their beds.
We wade through streets ankle deep in filth and excrement only to the disdain of the people who we are trying to protect. Late in the day we captured a young woman trying to slip through a weak spot in the wall. I captured her and put her in chains. Her wailing nearly softened my heart to her pleas and I approached her to release the binds on her hands. As I reached towards her she grabbed my wrist and pulled it towards her face. I managed to twist away from her grip, but not before she bit into my flesh and tore out a chunk of my hand. I thought at first she was just trying to defend herself, but I could make out the movement of her throat as she swallowed down my flesh, licking her lips and grinning at me with blood stained lips.
“Such sweet tasting flesh.” Her voice was raspy and harsh and I noticed her teeth were sharpened to a fine point. Not as tender as we are used to, but you’ve had more years to mature than our usual fare.”
It took me some time to realize the kind of fare she was talking about. The city suffered from a lack of resources. Even the dogs and cats usually found roaming the alleyways seemed to be sorely lacking. There’s an overabundance of rats, but every city always has an overabundance of rats. It’s the lack of children I find particularly disturbing. There are a number of pregnant young females around, some of whom became pregnant not long after our takeover of the city. Some of the men are keeping their favorites close and the relief in their carriage speaks volumes. I want to tell the men if they want to protect their offspring from the cooking pots they need to either bring the girls with them through the rest of the war or find a way to bring food through the blockades and into the city.
Of all the damage I have seen in this war it is the unseen horrors of those caught in the middle that disturbs me the most. There is no such thing as innocence here. We have brought the war to the city and the residents have expressed the desire to have the evil they know rather than the evil of the unknown. As long as they are unfed and unwashed we will be unwelcome. The people will gather at the gates and open them wide when the enemy wagons roll across the bridge and through the mud to entrench themselves around the city.
We must clear out the rats and purge the city of the contagion. Now, I must soak the wound caused by the nails and teeth of the woman before they fester. My friends are gathering at the mess hall to eat their evening meal. The idea of eating the meat swimming in brown gravy churns my stomach. I’ve seen the hunks of dried beef they use to create our meals, but the knowledge of the meat being used throughout this city takes away my appetite. I will not eat tonight. If we are to protect the children from the feast we need to find a way to feed the people.

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

Companions

There’s something to be said about dodging enemy fire bringing friends together. Before this war the only people I really cared for was my family. My friends and I used to go out together at home. We would drink and play and act like fools. What kind of games would we play? I don’t think it really matters. We were young and we were fools.
We would play at war. “Look at me!” We would call out and beat our chests and tell anyone who came in range of our imaginary weapons to beware or we would kill them. We would play dead on the fields of battle. Our pristine, pale skin absorbing the sunlight as our bodies quivered with suppressed mirth at our attempts to create the most grotesque positions we could imagine. I’ve seen the contortions of death first hand now and know our attempts at horror paled in comparison.
The companions of my youth have melted away and now I am left with the survivors of the battles as my friends and companions. Each of us bear the scars of pain and death. Some of which can also be seen upon the surface of our skin, others can only be found deep within our minds and souls.
I had many friends when I first began this adventure, but the war has taken most of them from me. They have either faded away because of the horrors of this war or have been taken from us on the field of battle. Now, there are only the four of us standing. We are what remains.

When we started this we were promised honor and glory, but there is nothing honorable in the death I have seen and the heavens have not showered glories upon my head. I scramble in the dirt to find cover. I sometimes shoot first, before I have even taken aim at the enemy and sometimes wonder if it was my weapon that pierced the skin of my companions. Death will come to us all in the end. I do not fear death; He has become as much of a companion to me as the friends who stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me upon the field of battle. When He comes I will greet Him with a smile, wrap my arms around Him and give Him a welcome kiss.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

The Belly of the Whale

We have taken the shore and have managed to build our defenses. Claiming this tiny strip of land has cost us dearly. Nearly a third of our men are left soulless near the water’s edge. We have gathered their bodies and prepared them for burial. They will be lauded the hero’s death and given wreaths and laurels and their family will receive their death benefits, but they will never behold the faces of their loved ones again. I have found too many of my friends and companions in the breakers where the rocks meet the waves. The gaping wounds on their bodies didn’t bother me. it was the look of surprise on their faces, as if they were seeing the gates open to the afterlife before their eyes and it wasn’t what they expected.
All the nests are cleared and our encampment is secure. We will be receiving reinforcements soon. Now that other nations have seen the enemy can be destroyed they will be sending in their own troops. It has taken this forward push to show the others what can be accomplished if we don’t allow this evil to spread. The enemy can be held back. We can force our way into their strongholds and prevent further incursions into our homes.
We came to one of their strongholds in the night. I was terrified of what I would find. The walls were thick and from where I was standing I couldn’t see a way inside. Everything was silent as we approached and I wondered if the fortress had been abandoned, but just as we established our lines the sudden clash of the enemies’ weapons being brought to bear shattered the silence of the night and suddenly the air was filled with the smell of burning sulfur and torn flesh. Our entire front line melted and we had to pull back out of weapons range.
We would have been entrenched around the city if the city council hadn’t been terrified when they saw our army approach and tried to take off through a bolt-hole. We spotted them coming out of a cave entrance and captured them. Our commanding officers questioned them throughout the night. We could hear their cries as the questions became more intense. It seems the enemy promised the city protection as long as they kept the supply lines open from the coast. Our arrival on the shore effectively cut off the major supply lines into the city and therefore dried up the flow of supplies to the front. The enemy has other ways to get supplies, but if we can take out the three major cities along the coastal region we will leave them without a surplus and we will be able to create our own supplies lines without fear of attack by sea. A war can’t be fought by soldiers with empty stomachs.
It seems the enemy was unprepared for our incursion and only left a minimal complement of defenders along the shore. Hopefully it will be too late by the time they realize their mistake and we will have already taken the cities before they turn their eyes to this shore.
The city was left with few defenses by the time we arrived and the first volley of weapons was its last. My companions and I disguised ourselves with enemy armor and painted our faces with ashes from the fire. We didn’t look exactly like the enemy, but it was dark enough we were able to make our way into the city through the bolt-hole and clear the way for our companions.
The tunnel into the city started as a natural formation in the rocks. It was too small to really be considered a cave. We were only able to enter one at a time through the narrow opening. Even then we had to duck low and a few of us had to wiggle in order to squeeze our frames through. Once inside the opening had been carved out to allow two people to stand abreast. There was a tunnel leading under the city walls that had obviously been carved out by hand. The tunnel must have been started early on the war and was intended to reach out more than just under the city. We didn’t have time to completely explore the side passages, but now that we’ve taken the city we will be able to use the passageways to our advantage. We will expand it and build our entrenchments under the city.
Every moment we were in the tunnels I kept expecting to be attacked. I wanted to open my heart to my God, but every time I tried to pray my heart seized and the tortured faces of the dead burned through my brain. I knew when we reached the end of the tunnel we would either be meeting our death or dealing the death blow ourselves.
The tunnel led to the back storeroom of a bakery. An empty bakery. Most of the shops on the street were empty. Most of the streets in the city were empty. The few soldiers left in the city surrendered as soon as they saw they were outnumbered. They are locked in the tunnels with the rats and empty storerooms. I would be concerned about the health of the prisoners but when I saw the faces of the townspeople my sympathy waned. The baker and his family had the same fearful, staring expressions of the dead bodies in the trenches. It was nearly as startling to see the expression on the faces of the living as it was to see it on the dead.
We will fortify the city on the morrow and prepare for incursions on the other cities. Our scouts have reported these cities are as poorly defended as this one. Attacking both cities would mean dividing our troops three ways. I wouldn’t know which city I would want to attack first. Perhaps I will be with the troops staying behind to defend the city we already have. The least we could do is offer these people food and safety. We would offer to shelter their pets as well but I haven’t seen a dog or a cat in any home. There are no animals beyond a stray rodent or two and I have a feeling those have ended up in some kitchen-wife’s stewpot yet.

 I will find out my destiny in the morning. In the mean time I will enjoy my meal and try to find my voice for prayer. Perhaps there will be some miracle in the morning and the enemy will surrender. My deepest desire is to return home and see my children grow. I imagine my son is learning to roll over and is exploring the world by sticking everything he can grab into his mouth. I have been looking around the city for a child near the age of my own two, but I haven’t seen a child under the age of five years anywhere in the city. I wonder if they were being kept hidden away so they didn’t interfere with the soldiers. Tomorrow we will explore the city and discover its secrets.

Monday, December 4, 2017

Crossing the First Threshold

We have come to the shores of our enemy and now it is time to confront the evil they have brought upon us. There are the mechanisms of offensive power in front of us. With these weapons we will be able to breach walls, attack from every angle, dig deep into the ground, set traps, spy and destroy any who come against us.
All my companions have followed my example and have named their weapons of war. As we move forward we will be riding on the Dragon Slayer and Demon Seeker. Our forward phalanx carries their weapons with pride, polishing them until they shine.
I am ready to face the hordes. The beaching was hard. There are nests of enemy buried along the beach. They are prepared for us and they know this land. Our shiny weapons with their fancy names don’t help us much when the enemy is able to hide from our attack. Our forward progress has been halted by the enemy lines spread across the beach. We are holed up in an encampment in a copse of trees.
The enemy lines are spread thin to protect the border and we have found the high ground. It will take time to sniff out the nests of the enemy and eradicate them. I fear the toll these nests of contention will be more than any of us should give.
We sit here by the soft glow of the lantern and study the faces of my companions. I want to know more about them, but I’m afraid if I get close I will feel nothing but sorrow and pain when they lose their life.
Today we routed out a nest of contagions and fired them up with every weapon in our arsenal.  The light from the resulting fire flared into the sky and burned the foliage for miles around. Even now the memory of the screams of fear and pain from our enemies echoes in my soul and pierces my brain. I wonder if killing them is really necessary, but then I think of leaving an enemy behind is as we move forward to pick away at our rear guard and know the only way to protect ourselves is to destroy every hiding place and burn away any weapons and supplies they leave behind.
My companions. They come from all corners of the land. Each of them are seeking their own glory. Each has their own reason for fighting the enemy. I had never met any of these soldiers before making their mark on the conscription papers. I wonder what name they used to sign the papers, or even if they remember their real names. We have all been given names more fitting for our roles.
They call me the Spearhead, because I am first in when it comes to fight. I decide where and when we attack. My voice is the one they hear as we approach every enemy outpost.
My closest ally is the man they call Bull. He is built like his name, big and fearless. I have seen him grab a man by the throat with one hand and crush the life out of him. The enemy weapons seem to have no effect on him. I’ve seen blades turn aside before they can penetrate his skin.
There is one here we called the Old Man. He followed his son to the recruiter, begging him not to join in this time of war, and joined himself when he realized his son was ignoring his desperate pleas. His mark is on the paper so even though his son died in the first rush at the beach, he had no choice but to stay with us. He said he had no desire to return home to his wife and daughter only to tell them about the of death of their son and brother. Now, he watches over all the young men and tries to teach them ways to defend themselves from attacks.
There are many others here. I wonder how many of them have left loved ones behind. How many of them have a wife or a sweetheart? Do they have children or a mother sitting at a table begging for news of a child she may never see again?
Even now, as I try to sleep, I am hearing the screams of my enemy echoing in my mind and I wonder who they have left behind. How many members of their families will never hear their loved one’s voice or hold them in their arms?

I remember holding my children in my arms and comforting them as they cried. My enemy was someone’s child, too. Some woman labored for hours to bring them into the world. Held them when they cried. Let them go into the world. And now, because of a moment of anger and hate, will never see their child again. 

Sunday, December 3, 2017

Supernatural Help

I went to the temple to pray today. It was the last bastion of hope I had. I wanted to pray to every deity ever imagined in the history of humankind, but as I knelt before the alter with the only thing I had left to sacrifice, my own heart and hands and life, I couldn’t think of the words to say. How do you take all the fears of war and pray them away?
What am I supposed to ask for when I pray for war? Do I ask for the ability to win at any cost? I’m sure, somewhere across the seas and over the hills and mountains and rivers and lakes and every other body of water and expanse of land there is another soldier kneeling in a temple, praying to the same God I am praying to now. The God may hold a different form and have a different name, but aren’t all Gods the one God or isn’t the one God all Gods? Sometimes I don’t even know to whom it is I pray.
God can guide my steps and keep me safe and lead me into the right paths, but can he truly preserve me in the face of mine enemies? What would it take for me to be safe when the wolf is at the door? Will it help when I take their life if I think of them as no better than the wild creatures who threaten my home and livestock?
What if my enemy is praying for the same guidance as me? What do you pray for in war?
I will pray for safety. I will pray my family is cared for in the face of devastation. I will pray for the ability to take the next hill, the next town, the next target, even if it means taking a life. I will pray for strength and courage and pray the enemy isn’t praying for the same things.
Which one of us will the Gods listen to when we pray? Am I in the right in going to this war? Am I right to bring God into this war? Sometimes I wonder if God even has a hand in the field of battle. I know my God exists. I have felt the power of the hand of God lifting me to the heights and supporting me at my lowest points. The path has made clear before my eyes, and the power of the Gods has been revealed before me.
Can the might of a God overcome the strength of the enemies’ weapon? I don’t know how much good a prayer will be when the enemy has a blade at my throat.
I brought my armor and my weapons to the gate of the temple to be blessed and imbued with the power of God, but they stopped me at the gate. War needs to be stopped in the gates of the Gods.
I pray the offerings I bring to the temple will satisfy my God. I have little to offer except my heart, my head, my hands. I need my lands so my family can be cared for while I am away. There is nothing more I can give. I hope it is enough to save me.
I am marching into battle with armor and weapons and companions, but I fear I am moving forward without my God. My faith is strong and I will continue to offer sacrifices upon the alter of the temple as I push forward into my death. Will my God be with me as I go or will my enemy’s God prove to be all powerful in the face of destruction?
I did not bring my armor and weapons into the temple to be blessed. I prayed to my God and asked if he could bless the armor even without the priests and priestesses to sanctify them. I begged the Gods to strengthen my arm and give my heart courage, even if they can’t be beside me in battle. I prayed to all the Gods, even the ones I didn’t believe in because I can’t take any chances.

So, today, I put on my Gods’ blessed armor and strap on my weapon. I will call it Redeemer. Without my Redeemer I will be lost and alone. When I am deep in the heat of battle I will call upon my Redeemer and he will save me. It may be my only hope.

Saturday, December 2, 2017

Refusal of the Call

The time has come. They have called for me to join in the battle and this time I cannot escape my fate. The enemy has approached our shore and if I do not go out and join in the battle everything I hope to give my children will be destroyed. I thought they would never come and we would be safe, here in the home I built with my own hands. But now I know I had been deceived. I cannot trust the fate of those I love in the hands of others.
The first time they came for me I begged for time to make sure my fields were in order and my crops were planted so my family would be assured of a bountiful harvest. I did not know how long this war would last and I wanted to make sure there would be food on the table no matter how many years I was away. They sent me a crew of young boys and old men to sow my fields and return for the harvest season. The promise of help assuages much of my concern, but what will happen when they call for the old men and the young boys?
The second time they came for me I cried out ‘But, my children needs their father. My wife needs her husband. Shouldn’t we put our families and homes before our duty to the government.’ They reminded me my government is what allows me to have my family and my home and if I did not do my duty everything I loved would be destroyed. I studied the face of my daughter and my son and I knew I could not allow the enemy to land upon our shore.
And when they came for me this, the third and final time, I tried to find a reason I could not go. There were no words I could find to express my fears and prevent them from taking me away. I belong to the War as my father did before me and his father before him.
My daughter clung to my robes and cried out to me. Even now her cries echoes in my soul. ‘Father, don’t go. Don’t let them take you away.’ Her tiny fingers wrapped themselves into the fabric of my sleeves and her tears dampened my bosom. They had to pry her from my arms before I could join my column and march away from the shelter of my home. I could not look into the eyes of my beloved wife for fear I would find my destiny swimming in their depth. The last image I had of my home was of my wife standing in the entryway with my son in her arms and my daughter clinging to the gate, tears streaming from her eyes and the puppy huddled at her feet. I gave her the puppy so she would have something to hold in the night while I was away.
Even now, as I entrench myself in the training grounds, I am begging for the chance to return home. This war is not for me. I have no stake in the game. The enemy will strike out at military targets before attacking fields and homes. As long as the battlefield was across the sea I could believe this was true. But now, as I see the damage the attacks have caused, the scars the enemy has left on the very earth itself, I know I am deluding myself. The enemy will not stop at the killing fields, picking only the soldiers who defend the land.
The enemy at the gate will destroy any thing standing in its way. That is what they say, these men who are teaching us the best way to kill. Our fields will be left bare. Our wives will be raped and killed or killed and then raped. Our children tortured and left orphaned and starving or dead. I find the last image of my family shifting in my mind and I close my eyes so I don’t have to picture the broken and dead bodies of my wife and children against the backdrop of a sky blackened with the smoke of my burning crops.
I will fight to protect my family. I will fight to protect my land. This is the banner we cling to as we learn the ways of the enemy.

Friday, December 1, 2017

The Call to Adventure

The call has gone out. All who are able must come and fight. Messengers are being sent to the far corners of the land to gather all able-bodied soldiers to the training grounds. It is impossible to refuse the call. Even as the words reach across the abyss of time, I can feel them pulling at my soul and telling me my destiny lies upon the field of battle.
You, my son, you are too young to understand. Even your sister, with her fresh, young face and innocent eyes, can comprehend a little bit about the fear spreading in the world. I think she can sense our fears, mine and your mother’s. It is too much for her little heart to take. I understand when she wakes up in the night, crying out for fear of the monsters who destroy her sleep and threaten her peace. No soothing words or checking of the dark hiding places assuage away the terror coming for her in the night. I wonder who she will call out for in the night when I am no longer here to comfort her?
They are not calling for me, yet. There is time for us to be together, to be a family. The war is far away and does not touch our shores. As long as we stay here, quiet, and don’t interfere in other’s battles we will be safe. This war may be over long before they call for me. They are calling for the young, those without families, those without responsibility to come first. Like any war, they will take all who come to fight, but they don’t need me, yet. Maybe they will never need me.
When will this war be done? What damage will be inflected upon the world by the mechanisms of battle? How many young lives will be sacrificed upon the fields of glory before they call ‘mercy’ and beg for peace?
There was war in my grandfather’s time. There was a great battle and it was fought only a few days’ journey from here. My grandfather fought in the battle and he was left with scars upon his body and mind we could never understand. He took us there once and showed us the ground where his generation watered the crops with their life’s blood. I was expecting to see deep trenches lined with the bones of fallen soldiers and the dark stain of pain and suffering marking the ground where an entire generation lost their innocence, instead we found a field of grass and cows placidly chewing their cud.
I asked the farmer “where are the battle scars? Why are there no monuments giving homage to the unnumbered dead?” The farmer looked at me and said. “Why commemorate the battle field of a lost war?” My heart broke in two as I thought of the loss my grandfather suffered and realized the world would forget the pain war causes if they refuse to remember.
The world has forgotten the pain of war. Even now I can hear the hateful words spewing from the mouths of those who should know better. The names they call the enemy vibrate through the air, warning children to fear anyone and anything that is different.
“They are not like you. They will take what you have and destroy your way of life.” The words seep into the minds of the future generation, teaching them to hate. We are not born hating another. We need to learn hate and fear. I learned the hateful words as I sat at the feet of my grandfather and listened to the stories he told of battles fought so long ago only to be relived in his memory like a diseased fog taking over his mind.
I do not want to be my grandfather. I do not want to hate for hates sake. I want to teach you and your sister of nothing but love and peace, but how can I teach you a concept I barely understand myself.
I can hear the war drums beating. They are not beating in the streets or calling from the shore. They are vibrating in my chest and pulling at my gut. I want to answer their call and drive the enemy back into the hole they climbed out of before they tear apart the world.
Would you be able to forgive me if I went to battle when you needed a father to show you what it means to be a man? Maybe we have moved past the time when a boy needs a father. How many generations of fathers before us have been claimed by war and yet we still have an entire world full of boys who learned what it takes to be a man without their fathers to guide them.
I will not go away tonight. This will be our time together. Maybe I will be able to stay forever. They haven’t called for me and I will try to find a way to stay.
Come to my arms and I will tell you the stories of my father and my grandfather. They proved themselves in fields of battle so the future generations would not have to fear the evils of the world. But, now we are here again. The next generation being called to action. I will answer the call, if it comes and hope you will never hear the drums of war.

Monday, November 27, 2017

Rebirth

It's time to get back to my stream of consciousness blogging.
Quite a while ago I was in the midst of telling a Hero's journey.
That thread is long buried, but I want to get back to telling that story.
Over the next few posts I will reblog the past writing.
Once I have done that I will continue with telling the story.
I hope you enjoy my musings.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Why I Write


I am a writer
I add black words to white pages
I form them into lines
Sometimes they make sense
Sometimes they make sense only to me
I am a writer
I have to write
I have to wrestle the demons out of my head and onto the paper
If I don't they will pound on the walls of my skull
Tearing and clawing 
until my head is cleaved open
And they spring forth fully formed
in gleaming gold armor
I am a writer
I write so the voices in my head
will stop buzzing in my ears 
and stay on the page where they belong
If they really belong there
Sometimes I don't know where they belong
But they don't belong in my head
I know
Because I am a writer
Are you a writer?

Monday, September 18, 2017

The Storm


The lightning strike and roll of thunder were so close as I walked into the house this afternoon I could smell the sizzle of the air and my teeth vibrated in my head.
I paused just to smell the crisp tang of ozone frying the air.
Perhaps I paused too long, but I never felt more alive.

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

Free Flowing Poetry

Rip the lid off this thing we call poetry and let the real feelings flow through. After all, it's not about the words written in black ink on white paper. It's about the red dots and water marks of tears inscribed beneath the lines. do we need rhyme scheme and rhythm and iambic pentameter to allow the feelings to drop from our lips on to the paper. or do we need the thoughts and feelings of our hearts left to scatter across the page and drop like so many tear stains to water the roses of our lies?

Sunday, September 3, 2017

Daniel Washington

Unknown 1858- April 6 1883
Born in Missouri a slave died in Massachusetts free
Give praise to Him who dwells on the highest plain.
Give praise to Him who guides your feet in the path away from prison.
Give praise.
Give praise.
Oh, give praise.
He saved my soul from sin when my body and spirit were broken by the whip.
He gave strength to my feet despite the slashing of my heel.
He guided me under the stars.
The Dipper.
The Bear.
The Guide Star.
Until I could find my way on my own.
I could feel the comfort of His spirit as I followed the muddy waters of the river from house to house.
I heard the searchers and knew the path the baying dogs would take.
Once or twice I even saw the shadow forms of His protectors wiping all signs of my footsteps out of the dirt as I followed the trail to freedom.
Words buried in Hymns of praise guided me when I knew it was time to run or face death.
He opened my heart to love even my enemy.
He gave me the strength to work until I could earn enough to buy my wife and my children from their captors.
 My beautiful Maisy. My son, who was named for me. My daughter who had the face of the master but was still the flower of my heart. All saved by the sweat of my brow and the callouses on my hands.

I prepared the path for them as my God prepared the path for me.

Monday, May 1, 2017

Want

I want to stand at the wall and scream
Until everyone hears my words
I want to yell into the void
Until my voice echoes into the universe
I want to cry into the wind
Until the clouds give me back my tears
I want to run into the darkness
Until the light reflects off my soul
I want to pound on the door
Until my hands are as cracked and broken as the world
I want to claw away the cobwebs
Until the pain has faded away
I want
I want
I want
I want it to be gone
I need it all to begin again
As if it never was
Clean, fresh, new
It will never be the same
It is time to accept, learn and go on
There is no want

There is only need

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Return to the musings

I have been away for far too long.
I enjoy my journeys into my own mind and miss sharing my thoughts with others.
I will be returning to my musings.
Hopefully it will be a daily thing. We will see.
I am changing the format of the blog.
I will still share threads of thought and occasionally those threads will become books.
Sometimes those threads will just be my musings put down on paper.

Monday, January 2, 2017

Tom Fallwell- This is Me

Retrospect
I look behind
To see where I came from
Introspect
I look inside
To see what I've become
Circumspect
I look around
To see just where I am
Without regret
I move ahead
And do just what I can
This is me
It's who I am
Life can't hold me down
This is me
It's what I do
When trouble comes around

Sunday, January 1, 2017

This is Me-Lucinda Moebius


This is Me
July 9th, 2016 (This was written a few days after my husband’s second stroke)
This is me
This is who I am
I am white
I am a woman
I am wearing what makes me comfortable
I am old
I am flawed
I am weak
I am broken by life
This is me
My heart breaks because people have to argue about whose life matters more
And in the meantime more valuable lives are taken by hate and anger
I am in pain because I cannot understand, comprehend, empathize with those who suffer
Because this is me
My tears are at the surface
Closer than they have ever been before
This is me
I can't be beautiful
Because the pain of age and death has taken all I have to give

This is me

Happy New Year!

This month I am going to finish a couple of projects. I will make a goal of creating at least 6 30 Days threads in 2017.
I want to finish The - in between by the end of January
I will tackle The Hero's Journey in February.
We will see what happens next!

Great Lines Think Alike

Every once in a while a line will pop into my head and I find myself needing to write it into a story. My most recent line: I will die a ...