Of Gods - Part One

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Jonunji*, known to his friends as Jon, is a god. He's one of the lesser-known gods, and in the present day, an almost entirely un-worshipped god. this presents a problem, as gods survive on the worship of mortals and despite being the god of fire, who bestowed the aforementioned element upon mankind, Jon hasn't received any worship for quite some time. Those who aren't worshipped for a period of several hundred years or so (it depends on the god), lose conciousness. God, sat up in heaven with his angels is alright, but in the polytheistic camp, times are not so good. Small Breezes, for example, lost consciousness centuries ago. It was for this reason, to decide how to restore themselves to their former glory, that the Council of Gods was held, chaired (controversially) by Concern, (logically) Logic and (rationally) Rationality.
The Council began, Punctuality keeping everyone to schedule. Concern launched immediately into worrying, anxiety ringing loudly in his voice,
"We all know why we have been summoned here today. We are wasting away; losing consciousness. Without the mortals' worship, or belief, none of us will last long. Not even you, Luck." He had an unnerving ability to make the circumstances seem desperate and hopeless, no matter what the situation, with nothing more than the sound of his voice. Rationality brought things back into perspective, calming Panic,
"Now there is no reason to lose our heads here. We still have options. But firstly, why in all of our Names was Concern chosen to Chair this Council!?" he queried, incredulous.
"We all know what happens when he starts talking!" at this point, the Council erupted into argument, gods (not known for their placid natures) arguing against gods, insulting and retorting. Down on earth, an earthquake destroyed a small island in the Pacific, and a long-dormant volcano killed fifteen sightseers. Arguments in the heavenly realms can have unfortunate consequences.
"Now please, please!"Roared Control, "Let's keep this civil, can we? Please?"
"You're right" agreed Logic, the hall now quiet and attentive once more, "as Rationality so sensibly pointed out, we do still have options. There are several cards up our sleeves that we can still play. An Act of Wonder or two is always good for renewing belief" - Doubt interrupted -
"Yes, but that never works for us! God separates some water and suddenly everyone believes. Whenever we try similar gigs, all the credit goes to God, or Allah, or somebody else. The fact of the matter is that nobody really believes in us poly-deities any more." The Council was silent. They all knew it was true. The gods hadn't felt so hopeless since Despair had his embarrassingly public emotional breakdown.

*Jonunji means 'fire' in an ancient Polynesian language, which is now extinct. The ancient Polynesian tribe had worshipped Jonunji, and named him so. Ironically, the entire Polynesian tribe was wiped out when a nearby volcano erupted during their annual Fire Ritual. The event was something Jon always felt somewhat guilty for.

~J.L.

The Perplexing Profession of Penguin Phil

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Read the first instalment in the Penguin Phil series (The Philosophical Passtimes of Penguin Phil) here!

A long time ago - 7 months and 20 days, to be exact - in a galaxy not so far away - to be precise, this one - there was a penguin. A penguin called, as you might recall, Phil. So, for several reasons (mainly species and name) the penguin, called Phil, came to be known as Penguin Phil.

When we left our hero - because Penguin Phil was a hero, amongst penguins at least, no one really remembers why; most penguins are, in fact, heroes - he had decided to leave his home, and seek a job! Because, Phil (a penguin) was not fond of his home. Sure, if you liked snow and fish, it was heavenly, but Phil, despite his love of fishing, was a vegetarian. He also had a great dislike of the colour white - a dislike not at all helped by the fact that he was, at least, half white. Because he was a penguin. Called Phil. Phillip to his mum, who is, as you might've guessed, also a penguin. Called Phyllis.

So Phil set off one morning, on a snowmobile, because - after, oh, a foot or so? - waddling tires you out. And, you may remember (I'm sincerely hoping you do remember all of this), Phil was asthmatic. He rode and rode (for penguins cannot fly. Unlike puffins. Damn puffins. Remember, penguins hate puffin. And Phil was a penguin) until he reached the far right of the South Pole. Here, Phil was stuck, there was a sea in front of him. Phil was a penguin, of course, so could swim, but really, it is rather cold, you know. So, Phil, using all of his penguin prowess, stood there. For three months. Nothing happened. Phil, a penguin, despite the notoriously good patience of his kind (penguins) got bored. So he swam. Like a penguin. Called Phil.

When Penguin Phil arose, on land, like the proverbial sea Pokémon arising for a battle (but not Magikarp. Magikarp sucks.), he was a litle warm. Phil had swam to Australia, which is, as you may realise, quite a bit hotter than the South Pole. Phil, a penguin by nature, and, indeed by all the other stuff, was rather toasty. So, Phil waddled (alas, Australia was sorely lacking in snowmobiles) to the nearest shop, and bought himself two ice packs. Phil had no money, per se, but he did pretend to be the penguin off Happy Feet to get free stuff. He duly held the ice packs under his flippers, sandwiching them in a familiar chill.

When Penguin Phil, now lovely and cold, waddled (alas, the shop, too, had a startling lack of snowmobiles - or even shopmobility scooters) outside, he saw a man. Men, aside from David Attenborough, who Phil was quite familiar with, didn't frequent the South Pole. Because, men, much unlike penguins, like Phil, didn't like the cold. So this one, a tall, pink fellow with a beard and long hair, was an odd sight. Though, I quite imagine that he was more shocked to see a penguin, like Phil, emerging from the shop with two ice packs and a Mars bar - a rarity for penguins, like Phil, at home. The man said Phil was perfect, however, as penguins were just what he needed for his latest film. And, lo and behold, Phil was a penguin!

So, this is how Phil, a penguin, became the first penguin, called Phil, to get a job working on a live-action blockbuster. The man, not at all penguin-like, Phil had decided, who called himself Peter Jackson (a human, not the famous penguin long-jump champion) was directing a film called The Hobbit and needed something to keep the hat of a fellow called Gandalf (again, no penguin) straight. Phil, as a penguin, it turned out, was the right shape. Soon thereafter, Penguin Phil, in a snazzy little hat and mittens combination he'd bought (by impersonation), and Peter Jackson (the human, not the penguin) were flying over another (smaller) sea to New Zealand to film. Flying. Take that puffins!

Penguin Phil will return in the Puzzling Prosthetics and Peters of the Perplexing Profession of Penguin Phil!

WJ

Am-bish-un.

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Ambition. Am-bish-un. Amm-bish-unnn. It sounds weird and heavy on my tongue. And clumsy. It’s a clumsy word, in my opinion. And my opinion counts- Mam says. Mam says that my opinion counts and Mam says that “having ambition is a good thing, Jonno; it’s something you should get”.

And then I say, “Mam, I would get some am-bish-un if you gave me some money, and let me go t’ the shop.”

And then Mam pats me on the head and says, “You are a silly one, Jonno”. I just smile, cause I don’t actually know what Mam is talking about. Sometimes Mam talks in “tongues”. Mr White told me that. Mr White told me that talking in “tongues” means that nobody can understand you. Or something like that. I like Mr White.

I don’t like the smell of anty-septic. It’s really clingy. And even when I am far away from it, I still think I can smell it through my nostrils. It’s a bit like lights. When I see a light and then go and shut my eyes I can still see it. I told Mam about that.

Once, I went to the shop. To look for some am-bish-un. The shop lady is very nice. Every time the shop lady sees me, I get a smile. And sometimes the shop lady will say “Hullo Jonno!” And I like it when the shop lady says that, cause it rhymes. Hull-o, Jonn-o. 

So I said “Hullo!” to the shop lady, and then the shop lady asked me what I was looking for. “I am looking for some am-bish-un”. The shop lady didn’t understand, so I began to talk about Mam telling me that am-bish-un was a good thing to have.

“Oh you silly boy, Jonno! Ambition is not a thing you can buy!” And this confused me very much.

Then Mam appeared and took me home.

I would like some am-bish-un. I just don’t know how to get it. Mam told me that am-bish-un is where you have a goal. I don’t know how to get goals except in footie, and I’m not good at that at all. I always fall over when I play footie, and my team usually laughs at me. And I laugh with my team, because I am a “silly one”.

So, the question is- Mam says I sound fil-o-sof-ic-ul when I say that-the question is: how do I get a goal? How do I get some am-bish-un when I am not good at footie? If I ask Mam, I will get called “silly” again. Silly is another funny word. Like am-bish-un. But not as bad.

I am going to ask Mr White to get me some am-bish-un. Mr White is coming round to my house later. Mr White always comes round to my house on a Wednesday, because it is a school day. Mam likes Mr White too. Mam always says, when school is over in our living room, that I have to “say thank you to lovely Mr White for helping you, Jonno”. And I do. Every time school is over in our living room.

Am-bish-un is very confusing. I want some, but I do not know where to go for it. I want to get Mam some for a present. To say thank you to Mam, because Mam looks after me. Mam makes me some dinner every day, Mam buys me some picture books when I am good, Mam pours me some milk when I am thirsty, Mam is nice to me when I feel sad. I don’t feel sad very much. Mam says that when I am sad, Mam is also sad. I don’t understand that, but Mam just smiles. I think Mam deserves some am-bish-un, because it is good to have. I want some too, but Mam always says that you have to “think of others before yourself”. I understand that.

I don’t understand much. Am-bish-un is something I don’t, but I will. I am going to get some am-bish-un for Mam. Then for me. No, for Mr White, first. Because Mam always says that you have to “think of others before yourself”. Then for me.

Then Mam, and maybe Mr White, will give me big hugs and say, “Well done, Jonno! You are a very good boy!” And then I will smile, because I like it when people call me a good boy. I try to be a good boy. But I am clumsy. And it is hard to be a good boy as well as being a clumsy boy at the same time. Mam always says I look sol-um when I say that, but Mam also says that it is understandable.

Am-bish-un. Amm-bish-unnn. I like that word. I am going to start using it. Even if I don’t know what it means. Apart from goals. Because I don’t understand why Mam thinks I need goals for my future. Mam says am-bish-un is about future. I say I don’t want future with Mam. Mam laughs.

I can’t wait to get some am-bish-un. Mam will be very proud. And Mam will stop doing the sad smiles that I see on Mam’s face when Mam is looking at me and Mam thinks I am not looking. With am-bish-un, Mam might stop secret-crying that I am not supposed to see, but I do, when we are in the hospital for me.

Am-bish-un will make everything better.

~H

Copyrighted by the author ©

Last Farewell.

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The day was mist and cloud banks,
You came to me and cried,
You told me you were sorry and-
You never should have died.


Thunder cracked with lightning,
There was nothing I could do,
Once dead the dead stay buried, and-
Their mortal life is through.


Parted lips and shallow tears,
You gave a perfect show,
Reasoning with how unfair, and-
Making me feel low.


I cannot just re-animate,
Your body and your soul,
Once a person's fully gone,
They'll never come back whole.


No reasoning will change my mind,
I'm sure you'll understand,
I will not acquiesce to you,
Cannot perform demand.


So finish what you started, Corpse,
And get your business done,
Say your last farewells because-
You'll fade come morning sun.

~H

Actor's lament

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“All the world’s a stage and the men and women merely players, they have their entrances and their exits”.


 Looking out, audience faces beaming and they cling to every word. You search in the crowd to see someone, anyone you know if only for some comfort. You look down and see yourself in a costume that ordinarily you would never be seen dead in, but to become someone else, even if only briefly, gives you a sense of release. Every controlled step you take was carefully constructed over months of work to get to this point. You see your partner on stage who gives you that little reassuring smile that you so craved, and that all too familiar feeling of butterflies in your stomach soon disappears as you utter those first important words. “Help!…”
 -R x. 

Bliant. I

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He flicked down a pair of bronze goggles over his pale brown eyes. From beside the green glass of the lenses on opposing side stretched dark brown leather strapping the goggles over his temple and behind his head. His short Mohican avoided the straps, the brown of the leather blending into the short sides of his hair. On the left lens there was a smaller lens, clear glass, some sort of magnification piece. He stared down into gaping hole in the petite girl’s chest. The girl, only sixteen with plaited auburn hair and emerald eyes glowing with pain, had had the flesh and the muscle burned clear from her chest. Frazzled ribs and blackened lungs were visible through the fissure. The brown haired man stood still, staring unaffected by the atrocious injury before him.

“She’s done for” He sighed turning to his assistant, a pale red haired girl. “Are you sure?” She questioned, too afraid to look at the injury itself. “If you would look then you would know. Even if I could reconstruct the muscle and skin of her chest the lungs are sure to God not going to survive more than a week” He was disappointed in himself, what he was capable of, and the emotion echoed in his tone. The girl with the gaping chest all the while sat, silent, listening, knowing what was to come. The doctor in the bronze goggles slipped them up onto his brow and turned to a pallet on his right. Laying on it was a syringe on black liquid and beside that was a mouth prop. “I’m not going to lie, this will hurt, but I doubt it can be much worse than what you’re already going through” He told the young girl restrained to the operating bed.

He took the mouth prop and forced it into her mouth to stop her from biting of her own tongue and executing more pain than she was already going through. Then he took hold of the syringe in his hands in leather gloves the same shade as that of his goggles. “I can’t watch” The red headed nurse said, running and hiding behind a large chrome gear which was key to the progression of the clock on the old hospital buildings outer wall. The man sighed, two leathery fingers creating an opening by pushing the left lung aside a little. The entire heart came into view, blackened as the lungs were. Using his left hand the man pushed the syringe into the left ventricle of the heart and slowly the black liquid within it was drained into the girl’s blood stream.

In a palpitation all the pain in her eyes was gone. All life drifted from them and the powerful gritting from her jaw was softened and her jaw hung down. The doctor retracted the syringe from her heart and removed his hands from within her chest. He closed his eyes, resting his bloody leather fingers on her eyelids and closing them in time with his. “Why?” He asked, aimed at the cowering nurse. “Why can’t this bloodshed end? We’re trapped in an impossible war, we get a hundred more dead each day, hundreds more injured, and eighty percent are innocent people trapped between one side and another” He screamed this with anger overtaking him, his face red and his eyes watering.

The doctor felt a nip on his toe, even through the thick boots that protruded up past his shins half covering the brown fabric pants that were held over his shoulder by suspenders of leather the same as upon his gloves and goggles. He looked down as he jumped back instinctively to find a clockwork copper machine that resembled a small scorpion. “There is no rest” He cried, slamming his foot down upon the bot. The metal exploded into fifty so pieces under the thrust of his foot. The scorpion was no longer of harm in having already administered its poison but why allow it prolonged mechanical life. The man fell to his chair, a russet brown wooden chair supported by a gold coloured metal that stood upon three metal wheels. He flicked his toe and slid backwards towards his desk and stopped directly before it, spinning to face it directly. From the second draw down on the right hand side of the desk he revealed an antidote of green liquid in a syringe and quickly administered it.

“Dana” The man addressed the nurse. “I can’t stand by any more, I'm sick of this constant onslaught of sick, of attacks on us even in here” On that note he stared to the ruins of the scorpion. "No matter how small they are" He groaned sliding open another draw and taking from it a small copper machine. The woman with orange hair now rose into sight from hiding. “A gun!” She exclaimed, “And what do you expect to do with that?” The man’s heart sunk, because he knew all he would do would cause more injury, send more people here. But behind that he knew what his plan was, he knew what he wanted and that he wouldn’t use it unless it was in a moment of pure desperation. “I think I can fix this Dana” He sighed pushing the pistol into a holster at his waist. “And what if you can’t?” Dana pleaded. “What if I can?” He left her to consider that, sliding from his surgery into the hallway.

~S

The Siege: Part Three

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This time we did not form one single, impenetrable unit, we merely attacked. I gave the order and my sixteen brave friends sprinted behind me through the moist, bloodstained courtyard and hurdled over the many lifeless lumps that littered the ground. I had my eyes on the large wooden gate that protected the houses and homes of the inhabitants of Hungate Castle; however my hopes dropped even lower as I came closer to see that it had been smashed through and ten red dressed soldiers blocked the entrance to perhaps double the amount of green. I transferred all the rage from on top of the wall into my run and my trusty blade and as I was almost upon the men I leaped into the frosty air. Proceeding forward seemed to take longer than it should have, but this was all the more time to get my attack honed. I pulled my sword back in the air and jabbed a random man inbetween the neck and the shoulder. But if he screamed, I would not have realised because I landed on a not-too-happy enemy soldier.

“What the”- he blurted out as I slammed into his back and forced us both to the cold, dirty floor. I pressed my shield to the back of his head and pushed his screaming face into the ground. I broke his feeble neck. Just then my attack team arrived with a thunderous clatter all around me. Green troops that had been caught by surprise succumbed to the power of my soldiers blades and landed either side of me. I stood up, and ran again. Hacked at my right where I slashed open a back and smashed the persons spine in two, no time to stop. Two men had their backs to me; they were fighting two of the defending red soldiers at the base of the demolished gate. My eyes narrowed and I slowed down, I cut the left mans leg off at the knee to which he toppled, and I beheaded the other. Amazed glares came before thankful nods from the two defending soldiers; one patted me on my shield, a symbolic gesture. I turned around to see the ground covered in green soldiers bleeding and some crying, fourteen of my sixteen soldiers were still standing, a minor victory, I thought.

I pushed forward with my men, who had been joined by the ten defending the broken gate, into the civilian district of the castle. We all lowered our heads briefly as we seen houses burning, and children lying dead in the street, slaughtered. I was sure I seen a tear stroll down the dirty cheek of the comrade next to me. We progressed past the houses towards the screams of battle. Before us was a prestigious set of white stairs that went up to the keep. Exactly one-hundred and one steps ascended a small hill and held up a large marble building that displayed a beautiful array of different columns on the outside. A raging battle was taking place on the stairs, and my men were ready for it. I gave them all a brief look and then jogged up the stairs missing out two every time. As I ran, I studied the battle; these were not mere enemy soldiers. These were skilled warriors that Rulf had sent to attack; they must have been from the deep end of his army. They looked powerful by just studying them, however I did not back down, and neither did my men. One of the enemy knights stepped down three steps and squared up to me as I stopped. My eyes were dragged from his helmet to meet a rusty broadsword hanging from his hands. It was almost the length of my body. He raised it up without warning and let it drop towards me, the large chunk of sharpened metal getting ever faster trying to destroy my body. I only just had time to squeeze my shield in front of it, but even then the blow knocked me down and I fell five steps. Bruised, I slowly stood up to see my attacker advancing towards me.

“Go around him!” I shouted to my troops, to which they obeyed, but they were clever about it, one of them strayed too close so the knight took a large sweep at him to which the man ducked. This was my opportunity. Disregarding my sturdy shield, I moved as quick as lightning and jumped onto his back. Using all of my force and weight, I pulled him down to the stairs where we toppled together for an unknown number of steps. I ended up on top of his steel-armoured body with my sword clutched in my right hand and my left on his face. He had misplaced his death-bringing broadsword, but this did not stop him doing damage, he punched my right arm with the force of ten men so it went numb and I toppled to the left, where he tried to take advantage and grab my throat. However I moved my sword in towards my body and it pierced his think armour and ripped through flesh. I heard a loud grunt through the shiny helmet and I felt warm blood flow down my wrist. Are you dead? I mutely questioned him. No, he physically replied, he lifted me up into the air and threw me onto the stairs where I landed on my back. Pain shot through me from the blow. I noticed, as I landed my gaze back upon him, that my sword was still sticking from the right-side of his stomach, he seemed unaware of it. Ignoring the pain as he lunged at me, I kicked out at the pommel of my blade, forcing it to the left, a crunching sound followed by metal hitting metal came from the persons’ torso. I kicked the blade so it tore diagonally upwards through muscle and ribs and it clanged against the inside of the knights’ armour. He fell on his face and stayed motionless. I too stayed still for a few seconds to catch my breath, they better not all be as tough as this one, I thought. Standing up, I pushed the heavy body over and yanked my sword from the armoured man. It was covered in a deep red blood that contained all the memories of that man that I had just slain. I disregarded the thought and turned around to see three gaunt-looking red soldiers remaining, and many bodies entangled on the red-stained stairs. So many. These two words bounced around my mind continuously and I pondered a question. What is the point in all this death? Step by step I took, towards the three remaining troops of my command. But the battle was not over. Inside the keep was King Rulf, leading his powerful attacking group through the halls of our Kings home, and if there was one main thing that stood out from the rest of the nagging emotions that were rebelling against my own conscience; it was that I was going to stop that devil in disguise, even if it took every ounce of my own depleted life. 

>G

Goodbye.

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The wheat crop had grown long this year, the heat of summer sun tied with the light rains giving it a perfect welcome as it crept from below the soils. The field seemed larger when the crop had towered so high. The daytime sky was clear and as blue as the Mediterranean oceans, or what I had imagined them to have looked like when having the image read to me. A light cloud hovered over every hour or so but there was little more moisture in the air than what came with that. The trees shone a light emerald around the field and the grasses below a shining darkness by comparison. The heat caressed my bare body, as it always did on these days as I plunged into the pond in the centre of the crop. Why it was there we had never decided with its bulrushes surrounding its edges, a pit only as deep as my forearm was long.
The water flushed over me, clear water, grey rocks on the bed glimmering under the liquid. I feel the water fill my ears, my nose, and with my eyes open I watch the sky. The blue is darker when viewed from within here. The water stings my eyes, but I refrain from blinking and potentially locking it within my sockets until they open again. The pond was perfectly circular, if my frame was twice as large I could touch the sides when completely outstretched, but I rest in the centre. Small fish begin to peck at my skin, but I stare onwards, still.
I imagine I’d like to be a fish; the dense water over my body relaxes me. Of course, the circumstances would differ; air is to me as water would be to a fish. But all the same, I imagine I would like to be a fish. The sun glares on, the water magnifying it, my skin hotter below the surface. I remember the first time I had lay in this pool, hiding, escaping the world as it was. I had felt as if I was invisible to the outside, I was away from everything. And I was, to an extent.
I had been running, hiding, through our families fields, through the tall crop. And I had came to this; A pond. I dived in, skinning my chest as I plunged to the bottom, and there I rested flat against the water until my father had caught me and scalded me. I made a snorkel from hollowed bamboo the second time I’d came, the first my having to surface for air had given my position away. Since then, when I had ran, and hidden, this was where I came to relax, to be relieved of the outside world. I was hidden in a clearing of trees, through a field of long crop and in a pool of water. Today I had left my “snorkel” behind as my brother had come with me. I was to be leaving soon and I wanted him to know the hiding place that I used when father was stressed.
I surface moving the top half of my body until I was at a ninety degree angle upon myself. “And that. That is how I escape it.” I tell my brother, him having stared for a minute at my lifeless body submerged in water. “I will miss you brother.” He replies his tone was stern for him, tense even. “And I you, but I must leave, if you could come with me then you would be free too, but I imagine that we’d both me subject to more pain there than here.”I inform him, my hand now on his shoulder as I’ve steadied myself to standing.
“You don’t have to go though, neither of us do.” He insists now, his stern tone lost.
“I wish that were true, but with mother gone and father as he is, I must.” I look to my feet, avoiding his gaze, knowing this pains him more than it does me.
“Then you shall promise, that you WILL return.” He whispers, a tear falling from his cheek to his worn boot.
“I promise.” I whisper in return knowing that I’ve broken the promise. Knowing that for it he will hate me. For tomorrow I leave, and I do not return, as long as money reaches my brother it will not be in vain, but I will not return.
I pull my brother towards me, stepping backwards as I do. His toes reach the side of the pond and I push him to his knees, myself now by his side. His hand hit the water hard. “Goodbye.” I sigh, fighting away the tears, the pain. And in silence I walk away, hearing him sink into the water, listening to the sound of him hiding from everything he fears.
I was carted to the city the next hour, and from there I was shipped across the sea. I was paid to carry the flag into war. The flag of my country; unarmed and ahead of the first line. And there, as I strode my head high, I would be shot.

~S

J - Jap

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“Kuwabara, kuwabara,” muttered Taro Himura as another white flash split the sullen sky. Across from him, the American lit up a cigarette, staring uninterestedly through the dust-clad window. The American's name was Brian but he preferred to be referred to as Bri.

“D'you want one?” Bri offered a cigarette to Taro, brown-end first.

“No, thank you,” replied Taro in perfect English, even though being offered a cigarette, by an American no less, was a rarity. Bri took a long drag on the cigarette, then removed it from his mouth to ask a question: “How's life?” Taro cast his eyes from the American and laughed quietly.
“Life is as it can be here, although I am grateful for small mercies such as yourself,” Taro smiled. Bri returned it briefly before taking another drag.

“Not meaning in any way to be rude, but why am I here?” Taro asked. His question was initially met with silence.

Looking thoughtfully up at the ceiling with those blue eyes, the American replied: “The same reason all you Japs are here, I suppose. But even I don't fully understand that reason.” The room had been filled with a light grey haze, but Bri continued regardless, “We just do what we're told to do, no questions asked.”
“Forgive me,” Taro said apologetically. “I mean, why am I here? In this room?”
“You ain't in trouble if that's what you're thinking,” Bri met Taro's eyes for a brief moment, the lightning flashing through the dusty windowpane and illuminating Bri's eyes. “I just wanted to talk. Ain't no harm in that is there? I mean you're just an old man, and you won't be causing trouble, will you?” Taro was taken slightly aback, and he shifted uncomfortably on the wooden chair, adjusting his walking stick. The thunder, following in the wake of the dry, imperfect shaft of light, resounded in the room.

“It may seem that way, but... what is the phrase you use? Do not judge a book by its cover.”
Stubbing out his cigarette on the round table that sat between them, Bri leant forward and asked, “Now why would you say that?” fixing Taro with those cornflower eyes. Taro was not intimidated or not to be intimidated, although the American's demeanour did not seem threatening.
“I used to be a soldier.” No longer than Taro uttered the word 'soldier' Bri had begun to laugh.
“Now that, I did not know old man!” Bri rose from his seat and went to the cabinet behind him. He took out a bottle of Tennessee whisky and two glasses and set them on the table, pouring a copious amount in each glass. Bri pushed one of the glasses to Taro, which slid unaided before him. “Now this is gonna be good,” Bri gestured with the bottleneck, before placing the bottle onto the table. Bri's chuckling ended, and he gestured for Taro to talk.

“Yes, I was a soldier,” a glint of defiance showing in his eyes, “a long time ago. There is a story which was passed down in my family, of the byakkotai warriors, or the 'white tigers'. They fought against the Emperor for a freer Japan. I am descended from one of those warriors, and I am proud to be.”

“But I thought all you Japs loved your Emperor? Your boys are dying out in the Pacific for him as we speak,” Bri cut in, surprised.
“I will tell you the reason soon enough.” Coldness entered Taro's eyes for a moment, then he continued. “I was a young man seeking adventure at the turn of the century. I looked to join the army – believe it or not, I used to be quite fit.”
“I was a member of the Imperial Army in 1904. We were then given orders to mobilise, because the Russians had started moving East towards us. I wasn't shipped out until early 1905, to a place called Mukden. It is now called Shenyang.” Bri downed the whisky, putting the glass forcefully onto the table. He stopped drinking for a moment and leaned forward, apparently interested.

An explosion of light accompanied Bri's words: “What happened at Mukden?” The thunder burst from the sky like an angel's scream. Uncharacteristically of Taro he took the whisky, downed it, and slammed it onto the table.

A sudden harshness accompanied his words: “It was not a battle. It was a massacre. Scores of men died that day, and for what? An incompetent Tsar and a bloodstained Emperor.” Taro shuddered at the thought of the violence – cannons heralding death, vast choirs of soldiers destroying the other, thousands of still-warm dead littering the ground with thousands more marked and yet to be claimed. “No... That is not valiant. That is not honourable. We defeated the Russians by surrounding them.” Taro smiled a bitter smile. “Throughout the campaign my comrades switched the 'o' and 'a' in my name, and called me Tora on account of my battle prowess. But when I saw those same comrades dying, screaming, clutching at bloody stumps and crying for their mothers, the Tiger lost its appetite.”

Bri seemed to be in deep contemplation: “The codeword for the attack on Pearl Harbour...”
“Yes. Tora Tora Tora. Tiger Tiger Tiger.” Taro sighed, resting on his walking stick. “I had no desire to be a soldier anymore. All spirit was knocked out of me at Mukden. I moved to America, and led a quiet life. I told no-one about it, and simply meted out a living by doing honest work. Of course, me and my wife were the first to be hit by the Depression, being a racial minority of course...” His eyebrow furrowed as he spat the words: “A Jap.” At this point, Bri downed his whisky, unstoppered the bottle and poured another pair. Surprisingly for the old man Taro downed the other glass he was given. Taro stared into the table, as if willing answers from the gnarled wood as the lightning illuminated his pained face. “My wife... she simply gave up. She died terribly young for these days, but I guess that cannot be helped.” The thunder growled outside. Hoisting himself up on his walking stick, he said: “I suppose this Jap should be returning to his quarters.” Taro turned and made for the door.
“Taro.” The Japanese man stopped his shuffling. “Stay here tonight. Take my bed. I'll sleep on the floor.” Bri had stood up, pleading Taro with his eyes.

“Sorry. But this old, worn-out soldier does not need your pity.” Tora opened the door and stepped into the inclamence.

>-S->

Self indulgent B*****d

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I can take the occasional joke from people I don’t know
I can take all the insults you want to throw
You wanna get drunk and text me that shit
Each word of that text was like being hit

You think your God’s gift and all girls should just fall
Well that’s a load of shit; I don’t buy it at all
Once I would’ve just let it fall to my feet
Thinking I need a man to make me complete

 I am not that type of girl, only here to serve you
I am gonna see the world, there’s so much more I can do
I’m not perfect and I will never conform
I wanna get somewhere I never underperform
 

So take all your crap, I’m closing the door
I don’t need all that shit from you anymore
Get drunk and go for those girls and be one in her millions
But one day look me up I’ll be earning billions
   

Dreamy.

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His feet pad on the sand, his large grey-black boots hammering the compact grains with each step. The ocean waters collide with his feet as the white wash crashes onto the shore. The man’s eyes are locked onto his feet, his head bowed as he walks heavily. Still in doing this his dark red-maroon eyes are hidden by his brown hair hanging by his face. He sighs. The man is tall, muscular, well built. He wears dark blue jeans and a tight black tee, nothing much else other than those, underwear and boots. The sun sets over the sea as the man walks. The sky a deep orange, the sea a deep blue, the man silhouetted against the skyline. His head is heavy, his eyes tired, his legs weak. The man could continue walking for hours, as he has for the hours before. But he decides against it when coming close to a small beach village.
The man trods towards a beach hut, a man in tattered clothes stood outside, this being easily visible as a visitors hut by the colour of the sticks, being painted red rather than the natural brown of the other huts. “I’d like to stay the night” The man sighs, his eyes moving up to those of the tribesman. “30 caruca.” The tribesman nodded, his long braided hair shuffling on his head. The man in the boots handed over the coins, no hesitation at all, already knowing the cost of huts on this island that he’d walked upon for so long. “I am Cammir, enjoy your stay” The sharing of names was important to the tribesmen of this island. “I am Tiger, thank you” The weary man replied, walking into the hut through the palm leaf door. Tiger listened as the man began to stroll home, he’d have waited all night for a passerby to take homage in the hut if he’d had too, the money from this being all he’d get. Tiger kneeled onto the palm leaf bed on the floor. His palms and fingers pressed together tight as he prayed, warding off all evil in God’s name. Once done Tiger lay down on the leaves, pulling another set of leaves tied together over himself as a cover. With nothing but money and clothes on his person there was little else for him to prepare before sleeping and thus the tired, tired man lay down for the night, the weak light from the sun on his face through the gaps in the wooden twigs. His eyes were tight shut. “Goodnight darling” he muttered to an entity that was not there. His body relaxing as sleep consumed him.
His fingers entwined with hers, their palms pressing up against each other. There was a warm connection between them that wasn’t present between themselves and any other persons. They were subject to something special and they could tell, and everybody else could tell; simply from the way that their hands fit into each other, from the way they touched. They walked side by side across the beaches, their hands always together. The beaches were the same. They never changed. But the two had little care of where they were, as they walked together. Always together.
Tiger's eyes dragged themselves open, wincing as the light thrashed his retina. He sighed, rolling from his side and onto his back, staring up at the dream charms hanging from the roof of the hut. “Cammir, could you come in please?” He asked, knowing that the man was stood outside. Cammir walked in gladly, assured that nothing out of the ordinary was going to happen. “The charms, wh-” Tiger begun only to be interrupted, “The charms, they give good dreams, they give perfection”. “Thank you, Cammir” Tiger said, paying the man for his information as would be expected. The tribesman then left the hut and standing once again outside the hut, giving Tiger his privacy. Tiger pondered over this perfection, his past was amazing, but was it perfect. The world was invisible to him, all he saw was her and all that he had ever known was her. Is that perfection, love, true love. He pondered this for hours, unsure what to make of the theory that was “perfection”. What was he to know of perfection, how was he to experience such a thing before coming to the pearl gates of heaven. He hated the idea of perfection, despite that at the time all that was, was perfection to him. He had learnt since then, his knowledge and experience having expanded higher than that of his younger self, his views on the world had changed. His view on perfection. ~S

Time's Weight

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Time does not wait. Time has no weight. That is unless you count the way in which it weighs upon me. And how heavily it weighs. Time doesn't creep, nor crawl. Yet creep up on me it does, and so too does it crawl, when least I want it to. Time imparts wisdom, yet...

Even a fool may appear wise, if silent he stays.

Silent I am not, yet neither am I entirely foolish. The middle-ground is safe ground, it does not necessitate daring or risk, nor does it lead to ruin. Does that make me a coward? It makes me something, of that I am sure. Change is what's needed, as...

If nothing ever changed, there would be no butterflies.

But change is difficult. Change requires risk and can lead to ruin. Change must be handled with wisdom, then. Appearing wise is not enough; staying silent is not enough. True wisdom is needed. Time imparts wisdom, so we must wait on time. But time does not wait, time weighs. Weighs heavily upon me.

~J.L.

I - Iridescence

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The first thing I always notice about a person's face is the colour of their eyes. I have held the opinion for a long time that the eyes are the most attractive physical aspect of a person, and that much can be told from them. The owner may speak falsely, but they never lie. I can remember the colour of many people's eyes – I have a good memory of them. And I never forget a truly stunning pair of irises, from either a male or female. It's the part of the face I like to observe the most, especially concerning the latter. It is rare that I forget someone's eye colour.

Eye colour: light brown/honey

Further observation: a pure, scintillant colour which appears to glow like a distant star. The colour within them appears to be perpetual, mysterious. Reflect a carefree, friendly personality without any observable taint.

Eye colour: dark blue

Further observation: irises are flecked with even deeper tints of blue, in a pattern not unlike lightning. The depth of the colour is indiscernible... yet the colour remains. Reflect a powerful, determined personality yearning for freedom.

Eye colour: light blue

Further observation: a pale, azure colour not broken by any pattern. Reminiscent of a clear, cloudless sky. Reflect a laid-back, yet devoted personality impacted by an inner feeling of halcyon.

Eye colour: light blue

Further observation: a lucent blue colour comparable to cornflowers. Spiderwebbed by lines of pale yellow. Reflect a hard-working, intelligent personality which observes and knows more than people think.

Eye colour: dark brown
Further observation: the levels of melanin in these eyes is beyond anything I have formerly seen. Dark, smouldering eyes the colour of dying embers amongst firewood. Reflects a caring, intense personality which is ever loyal.

Eye colour: hazel

Further observation: fascinating, predominantly brown eyes. Sparse explosions of green which look like ivy spreading across a tree – the pattern is uniquely articulate. Reflects a amiable, complex personality who lives for their aspirations.

Eye colour: hazel

Further observation: it is occasionally difficult to pinpoint the exact colour. They are darker at times, yet the small flashes of green are ever present. Reflects a-

>-S->

H - Hamartia

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When you woke you were out of bed. Standing up. You had never before been so calm. It was not at all strange to you. Nor were you concerned that it was dark. You were not scared. More intrigued. You had never seen anything like this before. You have no visual memories. Your eyes were missing then. But you got them back. And now you used those eyes to look upon it. It looked so neat. So thin. It was taller than you. Taller than 'Mummy'. Taller than 'Daddy'. You knew this because they were there with it. 'Mummy' and 'Daddy' said nothing. You assumed they were like you. No theory to how it was possible. The small heart in your small chest beated slowly. No anxiety at all. You wondered how anyone could be so tall. You had never saw anyone like it before. You saw a suit and tie. Clad entirely in black. Impossibly long legs. Impossibly long arms. You could not see its face. You concluded it was something to do with his hat. You felt a spike of jealousy. It had more arms than you. You should have more. It stood watching you. It stretched out its left hand. It stood far away but his arm was long enough to reach you. You touched its finger which was more of a blade, long and sharp. A bit of blood came out. A umbral manifestation and the flashbacks started.

It seemed to be that it had followed you throughout the entirety of your painfully short life. It was as if you were a observer to your own eulogy. For as it were, you had assumed the guise of it. You were present at your own birth, your blind eyes and scrabbling hands reaching out to that same perpetual abyss. Like a unrepentant futility-filled denizen of that same unrelenting vacuum.

A little later now – you were in the family room. You watched yourself sit by the fire, holding a book upside-down. What are you doing? Asked 'Mummy'. I'm reading, you replied. With that a single tear crawled down her face. 'Mummy' didn't realise the tear was swiped before it hit the ground like some precious garnet.

Years. Those people had given your eyes back to you. You would have thanked them, but you had no idea of gratefulness, of sympathy, of love. These things did not exist to you, in parallel to spirits refusing to apparate before the living. But you did. With malicious intent... You remember vividly the first thing you saw -not 'Mummy' or 'Daddy'- but yourself as you were now, looking on a bygone self. It was as if you knew – you did not register or fear your presence. You just knew, and acknowledged it.

Thus the tautology came to a close. Your form had not shifted. You looked upon little you, so out of touch with the world. The two people who had protected you, tried to issue you some kind of emotion were gone. Their forms cast away like mere chaff. They begged you to give yourself your eyes back. You had agreed but there was never a truly pure covenant with you. It was delightfully ironic to think they did not provide to you what their autistic child could never provide – specifics, details, intricacies. That was their sin – and once last life was to be stolen in penance. They let you in... and you will take them out. You try to resist, but you can't stop yourself. The process of self-elimination had never seen such an artistic method. You extend your arm. Your small form seemed ever smaller by your spectral size. Your small form, intrigued, also reached forward. “NO!”

>-S->

The king's death.

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I could recall the day that he died better than I could ever recall any other. It was gallant, brave, heroic. I can remember his last words the pain of them audible through the tone of his voice. The croaking as he said them told us that he knew they were his last and such as he knew it we did too. But I couldn’t have saved him if I tried; none of us had that strength, that ability, that stupidity. If we had tried to save him then we all would’ve died, then he wouldn’t have fallen as a protector, a hero in our broken hearts.
His jaw had trembled as he opened his mouth, “I’m going to save you all” He begun, as a true hero, “I’m going to hold them, and if it takes everything I have, I’m going to stop them” He finished. The three of us did nothing but stare for a second, terrified, shocked even. In the wake of death he stood tall, he stood strong. I stayed quiet, but my cousin could not, “You’re not strong enough to hold them back” for a second he paused “Hell. None of us can stop them” He choked, knowing that in truth he couldn’t stop the king protecting the last of his kingdom. The kings last words echoed within my mind for the rest of that night.
“I wasn’t appointed my role because I had the body of a soldier, I got where I was because I have the heart of a warrior, and because I care” He turned away from us, not wanting our pity. He did have the heart of a warrior. As me and my brother fled to safety in the barracks my cousin stayed, watching our king halt the horde of invaders. My cousin said the king was dead before he killed half of them; but even then his lifeless body continued until every last one had fallen before he stopped.
My cousin came and informed us when the king had passed away; it had been around an hour of him fighting. We mourned him, there was nothing more that we could do. We burnt his corpse at the top of the tower, and let his ashes blow into his kingdom. We knew that it wasn’t really over, the hordes would come again soon, and now there were only three of us. We missed him.

~S

Night of the wolf.

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“It’s the night of the wolf” A bearded man proclaimed, his gaze strict on the moon. His dark hair was lost in the night, a stern grin crossed his face but we could all sense the tension and concern of the eldest. To my left stood the youngest, his fear was just as easily visible, he edged closer to me as his eyes darted from shadow to shadow. His light hair was easily seen in the black unlike the eldest’s hair, mine, and my age brother’s hair, all of ours identically dark. My age brother was identical to me, his hair short and black, his frame tall and wide built. He had showed no worry; an aggressive man had sprouted from the once wary child that he was. In the clearing of the trees we stood together, close enough to be safe, far enough to be alert.
Since stepping into the forest there had been no night in which we weren’t wary of whom or what may be surrounding us, staying in clearings as a final tight push of protection. We had already lost one, Father, he gave himself for us, and the night of the wolves took him as we slept. But we had little time to mourn, we had to get through, the sooner we were to reach the king’s city the better. I stared into the black abyss. “Tonight is my night. Brothers you should sleep” I whispered, not wanting to alert evil. They agreed in silence, settling into the torn linen which housed us through night. Brothers made no sounds when settling, there was too much at risk for a wish goodnight or a good luck. They lay and were taken by sleep, held in a suspended silence until the sun would rise.
The abyss had darkened, an unusual shade of black, if there ever could be one. I frowned, unsettled but holding myself confident. If I were to show true fear the night wolves would taste it in the air and know of our presence, we weren’t enough to be able to have them obtain that knowledge and so we had to lay low, surprise them if they came near. Not even eldest had seen a night wolf in his life, Father took the night of the wolves, him having known most about them, “one day” he said, he said that one day he would teach us. Such a day will never come, but I hold no hard feelings to that. I watch, searching for movement or figures in order to understand what we’re up against, for now there was nothing but my senses were on full alert.
It was reaching the end of the wolves’ night when I first heard one, my hand tightening its grip on the hilt of a silver short sword hanging from my belt. It was to the south, about 300 strides, probably a little less. I crouched lower to the ground when it howled a second time, the noise closer, heavier. I soon saw a silhouette 30 strides back from the clearing, a patch darker than the shadow. My sword slid from its sheath and I readied myself for battle. But that was no wolf, the figure was shaped like a man, if not somewhat more muscular than the normal man. My sword was lowered, but I kept myself on guard as it entered the clearing. The man was covered in hair, his large muscular frame turning out to be more bone than muscle. He staggered, as if his frame wasn’t birthed to stand on two feet. It was hostile, and it wasn’t until its claws had fed into my shoulder that his features became clear that it was revealed as a wolf. But a wolf, standing on two legs, with a broad upper frame, my head couldn’t understand it.
I threw myself back north, the beast’s claws slipping out from my flesh, and then I flung myself at it swinging my blade upwards into its stomach. It had little time to retaliate, my release from its claws somewhat shocking the monster. A second later when its senses had returned to their highest the monster swung at me with its right hand, the back of its paws hitting me, pushing me down and dislodging the blade. It turned to look south, I tried to attack but as I did it fled, the beast running not in fear but anticipation. My eyes were hazy, vision blurring. I grasped my shoulder tight and was pulled onto the floor, waking my brothers. As sleep took my body I heard the night wolf howl.

~S

In the factory.

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His eyes were red and aching, he'd grown ill, tired of his regime. There was only so much he could take before his body would push back and tell him no more. He looked at his finger tips, the dye had stained them, the dye had infact stained up to his wrists. He took a strip of new cream cloth and with both hands pushed it down into the bubbling dye. As he pulled the cloth back out, droplets of dirty red dye falling from it, he wondered if he'd ever escape...
He wondered whether he would ever get out of the factory. He'd been here since he was young, he'd lost track of the days, months, the years, but he imagined it must have been a good 8 or 9 years ago. He was one of the more clever children in the factory, most lacking the ability to read, to write, to count. Most didn't even know there was anything outside of the factory, but he knew. He'd seen it once, on one of his first days. That was when he decided he wanted to be free, and from that day he pondered upon how his freedom would be won.
When he talked to the other children, when he talked about the outside, they stayed silent, they knew nothing about it. They were brought to the factory soon after birth and so they knew little different. They never had the capacity to question their being within the factory, because that was all they had ever seen. But going back to that one child, even his hair stained red with dye, he knew. He was 7, whether he remembers his age or not, and a man in a suit came to the factory. The boy hadn't met quota, was being punished in the offices. As the cane cracked upon his already bruised knuckles two large doors we're swung open, the first direct sunlight the boy had ever been subject to lit up the office. A man, of obvious importance strolled in, a large, well built man, on either side of himself. But the boy didn't care about the man.
His eyes were locked on the outside, the greens, the blues, colours he'd never seen, natural light, animals, a narrow dirt track leading to the doors, a large brown animal with wood attached too it and a man sat on the wood. His mind was blown. There were no blacks, no metal, no clanging. Birds sang, he didn't know what birds where but he could hear it. It was the heaven that he had once heard about. All his hopes and dreams were there.
The boy looked down to his knuckles, no longer bruised, or so he thought, the dye making it impossible to tell the colour of his skin. He stared at the pile of cloth to his left, it was mammoth, 90% of his daily quota, if he pushed himself he could do it. He did it every other day. But he wondered, what if he didn't. He'd get caned again, in the room with the doors, the doors to the outside. He could see the outside again. So the boy didn't dye the cloth, he sat staring at the pile until the brutish floor supervisor came over and took hold of his wrist, dragging him into the offices. He didn't resist, a cunning smile stretching over his face.
The office was identical to how it had been all those years ago, the only change being the man in the chairs age. The boy looked to his right as he kneeled on the floor, the doors still there, a hole in one letting through a bright light. The boy could wait no more. He stood tall, and with an explosion of energy which he had never before experienced he ran towards the doors, his body pushed them open, swinging to each side. From there the boy ran, not stopping until he was deep in the trees, no sight of the factory, the supervisor. The colours swallowed the child, the wind caressed him. The noises, the smells, the feeling of everything. The boy was in heaven, his freedom finally won.

~S

G - Garotte

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When I was young, relationships with other people were simple. I had my family, my peers and my friends. My friends were simply that - all were equal in my eyes. But after primary school and moving through adolescence, I realised that there were different degrees of friendship. There were those people who I would perhaps give a brief nod to in the corridor, and others with whom I would spend the whole of my school days if possible. Concerning some, it was as if the world had turned on its head. Some who I had been close to would not receive even a prolonged glance in their direction, although sometimes something stirred within to speak to them; I don't know why, maybe for fear of them forgetting me or not wanting to bother talking to me again.

However, as I noticed this, something was confirmed of which I had had a suspicion for a while. There were not just degrees, but there were different groups. In my life, there was and still are several. These groups are often united by their uniform interests in each other and other subjects; occasionally they stray from another group because they dislike a person in said group. I like to think of myself as a 'drifter'; alas, it is not always the case. I guess that some of my previous loyalty to my friends' attentions has made me believe that. There are some people whose friendships I neglect, and I feel bad because I don't spend enough time with them.

But, on the other side, there are always people in these groups who will say things about other friends which I disagree with. Things which, I'll be honest, sometimes make me rather angry or annoyed. The problem is, however, is that if I speak against them, then they will think I have betrayed their trust which usually is not the case. This makes me feel like my opinions are restricted, and my moral obligations to my friends mean that I cannot express myself fully.

I guess as a side-note I probably should mention interests which go beyond friendship. So far, there have been few who I have had these feelings for, and even less of those who I have succeeded in making my feelings known. Like many immersed in infatuation, it can be difficult to break away from 'that person'. And yes, I cannot say that these feelings do not influence my behaviours towards others. But we're all human, which is why I write this: we all make mistakes, but there is a fine line between that which happens as a result of mishap, and that which has its wheels deliberately set in motion. But I digress.

This is why I have called this piece of writing Garotte; speaking freely is no longer allowed. And thus the noose tightens.

>-S->

Cat.

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I wake in the sun.
It warms my back, and I stretch.
Stretch.
I feel the sun in my face, in my hair. It's warm.
I jump down from the window ledge, and as my feet hit the ground I properly wake.
Before that, the doziness of sunlight.
I pad across the tiles in search of food. I'm hungry, in that lazy, not-bothered fashion. 
My nose twitches. 
The sun still plays across my back - long fingers of light moving across room - and it feel it rubbing against my shoulders, a blanket of comfort.
I find no food in this room, so I move back towards the window ledge in the kitchen.
The tiles are a stark, cool contrast against the heat of the sun.
Once again I curl up, my ears settling against my head, my whiskers twitching in pre-sleep anticipation.
My tail flicks idly and I shut my eyes, imprints of the sun performing for the backs of my eyelids. 
The sun warms my fur,
And I sleep.
~H

A Higher Power

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The firmament shook as the hearts therein lost faith. What was once united fissioned, and the Earth's conciliatory counterpart vanished without trace. The substratum of creation tore as beings extraneous fought for control. Watching from within was he who had stood through all ages. From time immemorial had he surveyed existence, relating all he saw to a higher power. And he watched now, as the greedy forces wreaked havoc in their tumultuous scrap for ownership. And it was of this matter that he spoke to the higher power, requesting relief. For he was a watcher only, and could not interfere. The higher power had brought all into existence, the greedy forces in a moment of folly, as well as those of balance in an attempt to rectify the wrong resulting from his lack of judgement. A higher power though he was, perfection was not his nature, and as such, mistakes were still within his power to perform, unwittingly or otherwise. The watcher knew this, had seen this, and had counselled against this. But he was a watcher only, and could not interfere. The higher power listened to that which the watcher brought before him, and reflected upon it.
The watcher, having performed his duty, returned to within.
The ecumenical powers, of which the watcher was one, remained vigilant, eager to be aware despite their inability to act. Through the cosmos the avaricious entities rushed, consuming those hearts that despaired. Still, for each that was consumed, another was recovered as those that were created second, of whose power was harmony, spoke to the anguished hearts.
Yet the firmament continued to shake, and that which was torn asunder could never be fully restored. The watcher understood this, had seen it before. The higher power had been told, and he acted not.
So it was that the worlds created slowly lost faith, for no matter how valorous the attempt to restore balance, disharmony would inevitably win out.
The firmament shook, and crumbled, as the hearts therein lost faith. What was once united had fissioned, and that which had fissioned ruptured. The torn substratum of creation split further, as the ravenous powers overcame the accordant. Watching from within was he who had stood through all ages. And for the first, he wept, powerless as all that he loved sank into the mire of insatiable craving.
The higher power, once so elevated, once so revered by all, turned upon himself. He was no longer elevated, no longer revered. From the highest heights had he fallen, and to the deepest depths he fell, never to return.


~J.L.

The Siege: Part Two

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The giant wall I stood upon shook violently as the men ran at our home. Just as I pushed a ladder that rested against the wall, it tumbled away into the sea of humans, sending a man who was halfway up flying. I turn and parry the sword of a green dressed man behind me, follow up by kicking him in the knee so he loses his footing and thrust my blade through his chest. He screams and lands on the ground dead. I get a sour taste in my mouth as I know I’ll hear his screams in my next sleep.

Looking right towards the ballista I see my men engaged in fierce battle. They seem an equal fight for the enemy, which is bad due to the sheer amount of men they have, we needed to get off the wall. I begin to call out to them but I get cut off by a tall archer beside me, “Missile!” he shouted too late. A huge rock the size of ten men flew through the thick air and exploded in the middle of the wall. Shards of stone flew in every direction as I dived backwards to avoid the blast. Even more men screamed when the initial explosion receded, shouting out for aid because their legs were trapped or they needed help to retrieve someone. Standing up and wincing as my torso pained me I looked forwards at the damage. Most of the top of the sturdy wall was still standing but I could already see it cracking away at the pressure point. The boulder must have tore a hole in the lower half of the wall so there is nothing to hold up the top. I raced forward and shouted “Get off the wall!” at the top of my dry voice to which several of my respectful men obeyed. But still just less than half on my entire battalion were on the other side of the damage to the wall. “Run!” I commanded as two men seemingly jogged over to me. Mere seconds after, another six sprinted across. Suddenly the tremor returned as a second rock pelted into the already crippled wall and penetrated it; launching right out the other side and slowly rolling into the courtyard amongst the debris of our home’s first line of defence. A large chunk of the wall in front of me descended into the pit of attackers who were smashing chunks of it the wall away with bettering rams. Upon the wall as it fell were seven of my men, there eyes staring at me as they fell, longing just to be by my side, and feeling cheated by death as it stole their souls in such an easy way. This left a small proportion of my troops trapped on the other side of the now gaping hole in our wall. Roughly twenty; still fighting off enemy troops who seemed to have aimed their attacks to that side.

“Let’s go rescue our men!” I ordered and my twenty strong followed me down the staircase. As I stepped into the courtyard I noticed three things: A metallic taste in the air which I presumed was the thick stench of blood. Villagers fleeing as the enemy dogs poured into the courtyard via the hole in the wall. And more importantly, a large congregation of red and green soldiers mixed together, slashing, stabbing and shouting. “We need to go through them.” I stated as I turned to face my men. Continuing through the shocking looks I received from one or two I said, “We’ll move through as one impenetrable circle. All facing outwards with our shields in front of us. Agreed?” My men exchanged glances of determination, terror and violence.

“Let’s do it” confirmed a ginger-haired soldier, no more than nineteen years of age. War is a cruel act, I thought.

“Excellent” I exclaimed and turned to face the disarray of fighting men. “On me!” I added and trotted towards the bloodshed.

I pressed against a sturdy man on my left as the scared-looking fighter on my right pressed against me. Pushing our shield arms out-front we aggressively drove through the main body of the attacking group. Green garbed men bounced off our shields as we formed one single body. I occasionally stabbed my sword underneath my shield or over it at the men who refused to budge, I wounded one in the thigh, he fell to the floor and got trampled by our leather boots. Shifting my gaze to my right at the man, I noticed his posture was inefficient; he was unable to defend from high attacks. I was about to tell him when what I thought came true and a blood-stained spear rose above his seemingly useless shield and pushed through a gap in his chain mail above his shoulder. One single scream emanated from him, it was a sanity destroying scream that made every bone in every man shudder. He dropped to the ground and I had no choice to fill in the gap in our now flawed group. Another four men fell before we made it through the pack of fighting which seemed never ending, each one having their life torn from them by a soldier who was one of thousands of puppets controlled by the twisted King Rulf.

We continued up a different, yet identical set of stairs back onto the wall to rescue our men but when we got there, my emotions flipped upside down. Bodies. Everywhere. Mostly men dressed in the red tunics of Hungate. Over half of my soldiers had been slain. Rage aggressively pushed aside reason, emotion and any consideration for my being as I push my way backwards through my appalled men. I turned. “These men did not deserve to die.” I stated. “Each soldier fought for this grand castle and its worthy inhabitants, and in my eyes, each is worth a place next to the Great Lords throne. But now it is up to us. We are going to crush these desecrators into the ground that we walk on; we will grind them into the very depths of Hell with our swords and shields. Let us go face the devil.” I concluded. Turning my back on awed stares from my men, I descended the stairs into the fiery pits of Satan’s glorious bloodshed.

 

>G

Green Sky, Blue Grass.

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Emma smiled. Her eyes sought a light she could not see, and her brain whirred with a hyper-capacity beyond normality. To the outsider, it would seem as if Emma was in seventh heaven, or some variety of it. To the outsider, they would see a tall, slim girl with a halo of dark hair and large blue eyes slightly glazed over, laughing at some unknown joke.

Emma’s laughter was a shield. Emma was on one side of the shield, and the rest of the world was on the other. In Emma’s version of the world, everything was white and gold and transparent. She saw only the truth as it was told. She believed only what she heard and could tell was true. The other side of the shield was false, like an ultimate reality Emma would never be able to reach.

A group of lanky teenagers wandered past where Emma knelt on the ground, by the flowers. Emma tilted her head, but didn’t look up at them; instead she seemed to focus on the ground. On the green, green grass. A colour she didn’t understand. She heard their idle chatter, felt their normality and envied it. She envied the fact that they had friends and could exchange pleasantries on the colour of the sky – blue or grey or black with impending thunder – or how they had done their hair.

Emma felt their footfalls pass, and looked up, under a fringe of black hair. She seemed to watch the sky. Birds swooped and looped and pirouetted gracefully in arcs and Catherine-wheels; the trees danced and serenaded passers-by with their branches; the wind toyed with people’s hair, lifting it and brushing it across their foreheads – Emma could see none of this.

Emma smiled. Her brain began its vigorous sprinting once again. To the outsider, she would appear to be a graceful, kneeling girl, watching the insects play with the flowers. To the outsider, she would seem happy, or at least, content.

Untrue, it was all untrue. To Emma, the sky might as well be green. The grass might as well be blue. Emma was blind, and her world was white and gold and transparent. To Emma, everything was not as it should be.

~H

F - Frumentarius

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3. October 165 CE: Entry 702

I am at the end of civilisation. Nothing but the dismal knolls of this barbaric land enclose the recently commissioned settlement of Luguvalium; the timber is plentiful here, yet the ground is as untamed as its inhabitants. Our cohort is already displeased with the place. Though I know they are courageous, their morale has decreased due to the rumours passed back from the Wall. Rumours of the painted ones pulling our soldiers from their posts, and butchering them like savages.

Regrettably, dealing with them is part of my task. I have been assigned to the Luguvalium cohort of this Legion, which is based at Eboracum. We have one vexillatio posted here, comprised of roughly a century and fifty auxilia. I am told that we have held a fort here for 31 years; however, the former fort had become weak and required rebuilding. No difficult task for us of course; part of a legionary's training is building a palisade, among other things.

Legatus Regulus Gurges came to visit today. The last time I had seen the man was back in Eboracum, in the same circumstances; still surrounded by his Praetorian Guard, dressed in his tired centurion armour and glorious plumed helmet, undercut with the scarlet tunic. The man was a Praetorian himself as was required by a legatus; he had even served as one of the Emperor Hadrian's bodyguards. He had reminded me of my mission, but dealing with these militaristic tribes is impossible. It appears that all legionaries are to be killed on sight, which would mean a disguise. What an affront to my honour. Even if I were to disguise myself like a common spy, I have it on good word that the guerilla groups are watching our camp built atop this hill. The natives can disappear and reappear like spectres. This place is nothing like our pure-blood state; the sun never appears to us here, rendering our tunics insufficient for these climes.

I had to inform the Legatus of the loss of one of our vexillarii, Aelius Structus along with some of our recruit legionaries as they were ambushed by a party of tribals. The tribals were repelled and many came back alive. Though our losses were few, the Legatus was furious. Apparently the centurion bore the brunt of the Legatus' almost divine wrath, of which I had not encountered but heard much about.

It appears at first glance that nothing can be done about these primitive Britons. But the Roman army always finds a way; the liberti can testify to that.

Taken from the diary of Ignatius Corvus, frumentarius with the legion Legio VI Victrix

Vocabulary:

CE – synonymous with AD (Anno Domini)

Luguvalium – name of a Roman fort; now known as Carlisle. The fort was built atop Stanwix Hill, but present-day Carlisle Castle was built on the site of the Norman castle established by William Rufus in 1092.

'The Wall' – the famous Hadrian's Wall, built along the Anglo-Scottish border.

'Painted ones' – the local tribes would often coat themselves in a pigment named woad to intimidate enemies in battle.

Cohort – a group of men separate from the rest of the Legion.

Eboracum – present-day York.

Vexillatio – refers to part of a Legion broken off from the main force as a vanguard or garrison.

Century – a 100 legionaries.

Auxilia – simple warriors; fought in much less compact formations than the centuries.

Legionary – a member of a legion. Elite infantry.

Legatus – often anglicised to Legate. Equivalent of a modern-day general, and the highest rank of command obtainable in a Legion. Legatuses must have obtained Praetorian rank in order to become one.

Centurion – the commanding officer of a century. Notable for their plumed helmets.

Praetorian Guard – highly prestiged infantry commonly used as bodyguards, frumentarii, torturers and other roles.

Vexillarius – (pl vexillarii) standard bearer.

Liberti – freed slaves. Often enslaved as a result of the conquest of their tribe.

Frumentarius – The Early Imperial secret service. Many were also of Praetorian rank. Sometimes acted as an ambassador to conquered (or soon to be conquered) tribes.

Legio VI Victrix – The Victorious Sixth Legion. Posted in present-day York at this time.

>-S->

E - End

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“Keep your fucking mouth shut.”
I had grabbed the sentry as he was passing by. Such a secluded location seemingly allowed no chance of an intruder. Intelligent, I thought, but not intelligent enough. My gloved hand was held tight over the sentry's mouth, though not too tightly as to incur lack of consciousness. I held a combat knife to his back, the slightly curved blade delicately close to lacerating a nerve in his spinal column. I imagined the steel must feel like an icicle in these inclement conditions.
“Do you know the best thing about snow? It muffles your screams.”

I flipped him round to face me, the knife now curled around his throbbing carotid artery. He was shaking violently.

“Even try to cause something I'll disagree with, and I'll cut your spine and leave you to die paralysed in the snow. Understand?”
The sentry nodded fearfully. I removed my hand from his face, still keeping the knife firmly at his neck.

“How did you-”
“Silence. I'll be asking the questions.” I glanced down his uniform; he'd pissed himself. I couldn't restrain a smile but I hid it as a grimace. “Hand me your blade.” Struggling against the force I applied to his neck, he pulled the knife from his chest strap. I snatched and threw it into the blizzard. Impatiently, I pulled the MP-443 from his holster. Backing away, I told him: “Give me your rifle.” Slowly, he slung the AK-74M from his back and threw it on the ground. Cautiously, I edged towards the weapon and grabbed it swiftly. I removed its magazine and hurled it into the snow. By this time I could see that the blizzard was easing up. Excellent. At this point I brandished a black, leather-bound suitcase I had brought with me, the only weapon apart from my combat knife.

“Get changed into these,” I ordered. The sentry's eyes widened at this peculiar demand.

“But-”

“Now!”

The sentry was now dressed in civilian clothes. Clothes which were inadequate for the weather, but distinguished him both from snow and friend alike. For reasons unknown to him, he had been ordered to return to base by his captor. He had soiled himself in his uniform; he was at least spared that embarrassment from his comrades. He carefully descended the snow-bound slope of the hill leading from the mountain-face. He decided his superiors must be told. He looked towards the ridge where he knew a sniper was posted. He wondered if the sniper could see him. Then he heard the call: “Freeze!” and seen the soldiers aiming AK-74Ms at him, closing in.

“Get down on the ground!”

I had watched the entire event from the vantage point atop the hill. It was all I needed to know.

16 minutes later, I had mirrored my captive's behaviour. I had tread the snow down to the facility; I had been caught by the garrison posted there. I was now in the middle of a compound yard, with 8 soldiers scattered unevenly around guarding me. My objective was behind the officer interrogating me; a circular titanium cover sank into the ground. I scanned left and right. At least 6 soldiers to the left judging by the steaming of their breath. 3 to the right. One either side of me.

Begin.

MP-443 right.

Draw from holster.

Semi-automatic pistol.

Hold to hostage.

1 bullet one life.

Officer goes down.

16/17.

1 bullet one life.

Soldier left.

15/17.

Confusion ahead of me.

Grenade on jacket.

Pull pin.

Push forward.

1 grenade four lives.

Three hostiles.

2 o'clock.

Retrieve AK-74M.

Fully automatic assault rifle.

17 bullets three lives.

13/30.

Eight hostiles.

9 o'clock.

Find cover.

Storage crate.

Hostile gunfire.

Strafe sideways.

13 bullets-

Click.

0/30.

MP-443.

5 bullets three lives.

10/30.

Diversion.

Left into building.

End.

I was now deep in the bowels of the nuclear beast. I kept moving despite the angered shouts behind me, my steps resonating louder than I would have liked; except there was nothing but the siren and the fiery glare of red light.

I found myself in the control centre, in the computerised cortex of this juggernaut. It appeared everyone had abandoned their stations – yet...

ICBM LAUNCH: 0:00

LAUNCHING

I had failed. For the first time I had failed. All I could do was auscult to the hissing of the hydraulics. Feel the fall. And observe oblivion.

>-S->