Fond du Lac Area Writers

Love it, John. Today, I’m feeling like the cynic, but I’m hoping someone will prove me wrong.

Here’s a drabble (100 word story) I wrote a few years ago that I hope you’ll enjoy. Drabbles are a great way to learn to write concisely.

The Doctor

My sister answered my 3 a.m. phone call. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Your ex-husband’s been injured. You might want to see him.”

She didn’t want to make the trip; there were too many hurtful memories between them.

I will never forgive myself for calling.

By the time the police found her it was too late. Her husband was arrested. He had exacerbated his internal injuries when he struck her dead with his crutch and he was sent to the hospital.

As his physician, I took over. I may have hastened his demise just a little.

THE HOUSE ON THE LEDGE

They had only been married a couple of months when he was transferred to another town.

Since he was working 12 -14 hours a day, it was left up to his wife to house hunt. After searching for 2 weeks she finally found a house she said she liked. She described it as being at the top of a steep ledge overlooking the ocean. It was abandoned and in need of a lot of TLC, but the price was right and the views breathtaking.

She begged him to look at it that night after he got off work. He suggested that they wait until the weekend so they could look at it during the daytime but she was convinced that it would be sold by then. He asked how they would be able to see anything in the dark but she claimed that there was electricity. In an abandoned house, he wondered, but dismissed the thought. Perhaps the Realtor had made temporary arrangements for electricity.

His wife explained that she had a key to the back door. The front door was jammed somehow and couldn’t be opened. The grounds were enclosed by a fence and unruly under and overgrowth so it could only be accessed by boat until the front door was fixed.

They rented a boat and as they approached the property he observed there were several feet of steep and precarious stone steps they would have to navigate. He commented that he hoped she had brought a flashlight.

It would soon be dark. The longer they climbed, the more treacherous and slippery the moss covered broken stairs became and the darker it got. The flashlight helped somewhat but not enough and he lost his footing several times. He worried they would roll down the ledge and into the ocean. They could easily be killed on the way down by the sharp rocks.

She, apparently, was having no trouble at all and he realized she had been on those stairs before and knew her way around them a little too well. He was only at the halfway point when suddenly the light from the flashlight vanished. “Oh darn,” came her voice from far above him. “The batteries must be dead.”

He stood still, trying to get his bearings when he heard the sound of a heavy gate opening and closing. “I’m cold. I’ll wait for you inside,” she shouted down to him. Within moments he heard the back door being unlocked and then the unmistakable sound of it being relocked as she closed the door behind her. He knew then, she neither expected nor wanted to see him alive again.

He also suspected the front door worked just fine and there was a car waiting for her on the street.

Since she would probably make it back to the apartment before he could, he returned the boat and took a cab to the airport where he boarded the next plane to — anywhere that she wasn’t.

Excerpt from Sleuth & Scribe Book 3: The Bed & Breakfast

As Tim became an adult, he understood he didn’t have the wherewithal or desire to own and control a utopia himself. However, he was not about to give up on his dream. Recently, a group of men who had read his books had approached him about donating his money to Ned Williams, a political figure they had groomed to take over the country. Tim was assured his utopia would be realized through Williams.

“What do I get in return?”

“You get to see the fruition of a life long dream.”

Tim wasn’t sure that was enough. “I want to meet this guy, first.”

Ned reminded Tim of a robot. He spoke and acted without emotion.

“So you want to make this country a purely socialist panacea? How do you intend to do that?” asked Tim.

“Actually, we want to go much further than that. We want world socialism, eventually but we’ll begin with the US. We’ll start with the kindergarten through college students first. The schools are already teaching a socialist agenda and we will ramp up that indoctrination. This demographic is easiest to convince because they already believe capitalism is heartless. Also young people, just out of school, tend to be poor and the idea of sharing the wealth appeals to them.”

“What about their parents? How will you reach them?’

“We already have the majority of people under 35 on our side. It’s the people over 35 that will be the hardest to reach. This is the age group most business owners and wealthy people fall into. We all know business owners and the greedy rich lack compassion. We hope we won’t need to take them over by force. We will start by ‘nudging’ them with covert threats. If that doesn’t work, we’ll simply apply executive order to take over and control entire industries. We can do it so stealthily and quickly, they won’t even know what hit them.

And, of course, we don’t have to worry about the elderly. They love their Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid. All socialistic programs.

And, we won’t have any problem with financing all of this. Of course, there are people like you who are sympathetic to the cause and willing to donate. There are always the taxpayers. They’ll object to the increase in taxes, but there is really not much they can do about it. We’ll just take the money under the guise of fees or programs that serve a dual purpose of getting more of their money for their own good and of controlling them at the same time. And then there are the organizations we control. People donate to them because they help the poor, the ill, the elderly, and the environment. All good causes but also a front for our agenda of collapsing the present economy to make way for our system.”

Tim interrupted. “Who is this ‘we’ you keep referring to?”

“I have a group of like-minded people who will be helping me to put all of this in place. I have promised them positions as my czars. Some people will say our ideas are radical. But in the end, we’ll convince them. Gradually, we will introduce them to new ideas, by manipulating the facts, until they accept what seemed implausible.”

“You seem pretty sure you are going to win.”

Ned laughed. “Very sure.”

Being aware of the many “fixed” elections in recent years, Tim didn’t feel the need to pursue that line of questioning any further.

“So what’s in it for me?” he asked.

Ned knew he had Tim where he wanted him. He sat back, relaxed, and smiled. Everybody could be bought. You just had to figure out what it took for them to sell their souls. He was pretty sure he had Tim pegged but first he had to appeal to Tim’s vanity.

“I’ve read all of your papers and books on your plans for a socialistic Utopia. I was very impressed with how well thought out they were. We share many of the same goals. Your vision is compatible with mine. I’m capable of helping you to realize everything you want to accomplish but on a much grander scale. I’m also prepared to offer you a position as one of my czars.”

Tim’s eyes lit up and Ned knew he had scored a hit.

“I’ll have my lawyer and my accountant work out all of the details, with transferring funds and writing up a contract.”

When Ned stood, so did Tim. They shook hands and Ned said, “The future of our country and indeed, the entire world depends on visionaries like us. The time is never been better or more advantageous for us to take our positions in this new world we have so carefully planned. Welcome aboard.”

Flickertail, Paint, and the Owl

Flickertail the llama and Paint the horse met an owl who was highly respected for his wisdom.

“I have written many best selling books,” he bragged. “Several have been made into movies and I am very wealthy as a result. What have you done with your lives?”

“We help our friends however they need us to help them. Sometimes we find treasured items they have lost. Sometimes we help to rebuild their confidence. Sometimes we are just good companions.”

“Do you give them money?”

“We have no money and no need for it but we share whatever we have.”

The owl nodded. “That is good, but you need to do more. You need to work even harder so that you have more to give.”

“Do you share everything you have?”

“I share all of my wisdom, through my books and my movies.”

“But do you share all your money that you earned from your successful books and movies?”

“It is enough that I share my talent.”

“Let me see if I have this right,” said Flickertail. “You expect us to share everything we have and then to work harder so that we have even more to share. You, however, get to keep most of the fruits of your labor. Does that sound fair to you?”

“You don’t seem to understand. My books and movies tell people how they should live so that life is better for everyone.”

“But those standards don’t seem to apply to you. With all due respect, I think that makes you a hypocrite,” Flickertail argued.

“The capitalistic system we live under is not good for the people. It encourages greed,” countered the owl.

“How very odd that you want to tear down the system that has made you what you are,” said Paint.

just some random philosophical musings(more to come)

I am a good example of an American but I won’t say I’m the perfect example, if such a thing exists. I owe my ancestry to Germany and Eastern Europe and yet I have a first name pulled from Hebrew, specifically one of the old testament kings of Judah, and I live in a city whose name is French, located at the foot of a lake (convenient then that the name translates as “foot of the lake”) with an Indian name, located in a state that also has an Indian name (I suppose I should say “Native American “ but I’ve never been a big fan of being politically correct.)

I’m also a patriot, or at least I consider myself one, but I’m not a follower. That’s part of the appeal of America I suppose, that we don’t all have to agree and somehow despite our problems, the country we all live in seems to always do okay, or at the very least somehow always manages to recover from any damage the not so good leaders have done, that we don’t march lockstep into oblivion following some force fed political Dogma.

But I think I’ve deviated from my original point a little bit, America is made up of those people who aren’t blind, deaf followers of what we’re told to think or believe. Our families all come from somewhere else and came here looking for something better who knows, maybe coming here to avoid that kind of thing, oppressive governments or just leaving behind a life that didn’t give them what they needed. Despite the problems this country has had in one form or another over the years we’ve always worked through them, in large part to those immigrants in my family tree, or more accurately those like them, though I would like to think my family did their part to make this country strong.

That’s my point, it’s not a government or military that makes a country strong but the people who put that government in place and are willing to do what they need to protect it and others. I have that in my family tree as well, and as such I can’t help but think of myself as a patriot because of that and an American not so much because of my blood but that the fact I’ve never known differently and while I am aware of America’s problems there’s still no other country I would want to call home.

How much does one person change the course of history? I don’t speak of the “great generals”, and many of them would place credit on the shoulders of their men, those who won their victories for them. But I speak of men like that, a man who in the heat of battle refused to break and run and whose courage served to set an example for those around him and who like him refused to do what was easy. For every Arthur Wellesley are the thousands of nameless redcoats who history forgot for every Alexander, the faceless, unknown soldiers who marched with him to the end of the
world and won his battles, they too deserve recognition, lest we forget that those commanders would be nothing without someone to command.
I also ask about men and women who never saw a battlefield but still did what was right regardless of societal pressure or popular opinion, those who refused to bow to what was convenient or easy but instead did what was right and necessary. I hold that it not just those who made history that deserve recognition but those they inspired to follow. For them there are those who did not seek fame or recognition, merely the realization they had done what was right and what was noble. It is too easy to forget that the men and women who made history did not always seek glory and recognition but still found it. It is these and the everyday people who seek nothing that truly made the history of the world and shaped the world we live in.

A Hunter’s Moon
By Glenn Henning
Listen…listen, do you hear?
To most it’s just the wind blowing through fall’s colored leaves.
Some hang on bent and twisted limbs; others fall and tumble to the ground.
Listen…listen, can you hear?
The calling, it’s the cry from a hollow’s witch or a scream of some tortured soul.
Truth be told, it’s the wail of the vixen fox.
She has come most all week in search of her mate.
The dog-fox fate at the jaws of my “terror’s” and now his blood red fur hang on a hook above my hearth
The mournful sound comes in vain but thy self and my “terror’s” can hear them.
As I gather up my leads and pull my charges close, I say a prayer and ask
“Test my dog’s mettle against this bewildering track”
“Let thy shot be true to be quick and just”
“But what has to be said, I beg, put an end to her lost trail and bring peace instead”
Now, listen…listen, can you hear, now can you see, it hangs high, shines down on thy self.
Only For me, I know too well the call of the Hunter’s Moon.

The cleaned up versions of a couple pieces

A hard life and a stormy night
It was a dark and stormy night, late in November 1427, though it is many years later as I write this, in a far calmer moment, the terror of those nights far from my thoughts. That weather was nothing new for that part of the North Sea wracked by storms so horrific that they seemed to be spawned by the very breath of Hell but we learned that much later. Such weather was a death sentence to anyone caught in it, as was the case with us, the pirate crew struggling against the howling wind and sheets of rain. The captain’s orders were harsh and guttural in his native German and more so now as we all struggled to hear each other over the weather. We all heard the mast start to crack and scattered about the deck in an almost blind panic, trying to avoid death. I have never known such fear before or since. I was 16, no more than a boy and I was terrified, frozen in place but for my shaking hands. I was too afraid to scream, to call out, too afraid but shiver in the rain that poured down and soaked us all.
I hardly noticed the cold or the water flooding the deck, made worse by the mast toppling into the sea. We all heard the heavy splash of wood rope and sail and it shook us from our paralysis of terror. The captain took a moment to calm his nerves and untangle himself from the ropes that had him pinned to the deck of his ship, the after effects of the broken mast. He showed no fear, though I suspect it was all an act for our benefit. The driving rain soaked him further and he pulled the hood on his cloak back into place. He wasn’t an old man, just shy of 40, but he was already too old for this kind of work, and we had followed him into this, almost certain death, we were certain of our own deaths that night and our emotions kept shifting between two extremes, defiance and the drive to live and total despondency as I was feeling. Piracy had been the only way we could make a living, having been born poor in small towns along the Baltic. But it was also slowly killing us and we longed for an end to the eternity of back breaking labor, constant cold, sickness and slow starvation, hoping for the one fat prize that we could retire off of, but such things were not to be and we would die tonight but when we realized that we swore not to let the sea take us without a fight.
Our vessel had lost her one mast and she was slowly being torn apart. We were already bailing out the water like madmen, not that it would make any difference. The Captain froze in almost total panic for a few brief moments trying to consider his options. Simply put there weren’t any. The ship was at this point was a barely seaworthy leaking tub that would soon be at the bottom of the North Sea and without another to capture or a port nearby he had a hard decision to make and came to the only available conclusion.
He gave the order to abandon ship. He would save who he could though he had no idea how far away land was or even where we were. A life lived at sea; making a living stealing from others who did the same came with a high price. Possibly his life and the lives of we who followed him but he wasn’t about to die easily. So the captain climbed into one of the overcrowded boats with us just as his ship took another wave over the bow and with another horrifying crack broke into two pieces that were quickly swallowed up by the raging sea. We heard him mumble an apology of sorts to the stricken vessel that had served him so well over the years and we left ourselves to Fate.
It was not so kind to us. The horrific storm we were caught in truly was a death sentence but not for us, the long journey to shores of England was not an easy and it was almost another day before the storm broke and I cannot count the times we almost died then fear did not leave us. And in the end we all, save the captain managed to survive. A wave washed over us and swept the captain away, there one moment, gone the next, we did not see him die but knew him to be dead. We were small, a toy boat floating in a child’s bath and we felt it every moment. We pushed past fear though we felt that at every moment too. And somehow we survived, half mad with fear and desperation we drifted into some small fishing village on the south coast of England cackling like madmen and barely alive but glad to be so. But we had survived and all swore to find a safer profession. England was to be our new home.
It would be several days before the captain washed ashore, amazingly hardly touched by the ravages of time, wind and waves. But without a doubt he would never make it home, his actions had saved his crew but in the end it was too late for him. It had not been an easy life for him and it had not been an easy death. The sea had claimed another man for its own. But even the sea could not stop the constant tide of men like him and men like us, who tore their way through the shipping lanes of the Baltic and North Seas. In the end the death of one man would do nothing, the sea had no power to shape its own history and that alone was a victory, a small one perhaps, but a victory to all pirates everywhere.

Silver and Steel
“Wot! You th’nk you can steal from me?” a rough cockney accent suddenly rose over the background conversation of the crowded tavern and a knife appeared from under the owner’s jacket. Given the violent nature of pirates such a thing was inevitable. but greed was not the primary reason for these men to become pirates. Understandably on those rare occasions they acquired some wealth from it they weren’t willing to give it up. Especially not the wealth this bunch had earned stealing the treasures of India. “Ye useless…” The Irish pirate being accused made no attempt to deny it but just shrugged it off and walked away not looking for a fight. He would just have to find another corner of Madagascar where he could drink in peace.
“Oi! I weren’t done talkin’ t’ya you cm’back’ere!”
“I didn’t steal from ya!” the Irish pirate dropped his hands to his sides, in position to draw a weapon of his own if he had to.
“Roight ya di’nt!” The cockney accented pirate tipped the table he was sitting at forward and charged and everyone else scattered heading to the far corners of the wood and thatch hut that served as an informal gathering place. They weren’t quite sure how this was going to turn out but wanted to stay out of the way. The Irishman had time to sidestep whirl around and draw his own knife all in one movement that surprised everyone including him. The Englishman was far heavier but that made the Irishman far faster and able to avoid every wild knife cut. A crowd had gathered around the 2 fighters and bets about the winner were quickly placed, that was just part of the life. The Englishman landed a cut and the Irish pirate grunted out “Sassenach!” for the briefest of moments he let his guard down and for the first time in this little scuffle lost his temper. He made a series of wild swings of his own and drove his much bigger opponent to the door after landing a couple of minor cuts of his own.
As for the rest of the pirates their blood was up now. “C’mon Johnny! Cut him!” That voice was English. The Welshman next to him had no love for England and so knocked the offending pirate to the floor with one good hit. The tavern erupted in violence as everybody picked their sides, Most of the pirates weren’t Britons in any way but few just decided to jump in anyway smashing bottles giving the glass razor sharp edges and pulling their own blades as needed, screaming battle cries in their native languages or simply inarticulate rage. The local Malagasy couldn’t afford to take sides and pushed their way through the crowd on the edge of blind panic their cries motivated by fear. They escaped just in time before the situation became even more out of control.
The brawl soon crossed ethnic lines and spilled out into the street surprising a newly arrived crew with predictable results, they reacted on instinct pulling the weapons they always carried, another part of the life. The fight divided again into a crew versus crew, the original cause having been forgotten in the past few minutes.
The Irishman and Englishman who had started this were still at it, both bleeding from multiple superficial wounds. “Ya stinkin’ Irish I know ya stole from me!”
“Ye’re still on that!? Dallarán!!”
The English pirate was totally baffled by the Gaelic insult but recognized as being an insult none the less and it pushed him further over the edge. The fact that they weren’t part of the same crew added fuel to the fire. There was no stopping men who were fighting for no good reason. The Irishman’s captain, himself a Dutchman walked up having heard the scuffle that had turned into a full scale brawl the clank of steel on steel and breaking furniture was unmistakable. He shook his head, pulled a pair of pistols from his belt thumbed the hammers back klik klik! And aimed them skyward. The sudden double crack of the pistols understandably got everyone’s attention and the captain unleashed a brief moment of rage on his own. “Idioten! Wel wat beters te doen dahn vechten onder elkaar! The Irishman didn’t understand a word of the sudden outburst but everyone did when he switched to badly accented English. “Sa’ls on’d’horizon boyz. D’nt look gud. Ships flyin’ Eest In’d’ia com’pny col’rs.”
Their own feuds and injuries forgotten the pirates scrambled or limped to their ships realizing what was about to happen. They would have to run rather than fight. A minor loss, they knew they could reclaim this piece of Madagascar when it was over. As for the Irishman, he passed the Englishman and slipped a handful of rupees into his pocket. It wasn’t stolen but a peace offering, He had enough enemies and didn’t need another one. His life was hard enough.

The Good Old Days
inspired by this image
http://samwisetheawesome.deviantart.com/gallery/891295?offset=48#/art/Yarrr-128518018?_sid=6bfd13d2

Portsmouth England 1730
Ye wanna know me story do ye? I sailed with the best there ever was Bartholomew “Black Bart” Roberts. Cost me an eye it did. Naw it didn’t I were born blind in that eye, weren’t no good with much cause of it but I was a fighter growin’ up poor like I did. I was a prize fighter before I found meself press ganged on a vessel of his majesty’s royal navy, A pox on the king and his court. I weren’t no good at that neither. Weren’t no good at the top of the crow’s nest nor firin’o the guns, need two good eyes for that. Hated it with a passion, captain were a tyrant, I jumped ship somewhere can’t rightly recall where, found meself signing aboard with Captain Roberts in the year of our Lord 1720
Good times those were, cruising through the Caribbean, up and down the coast of Africa taking prizes at will, sweet freedom, all them fine ladies. African or Spainard, what have ye, didn’t much matter to me, I liked ‘em all hard to keep yer thoughts from that with nothin’ but sweaty stinky men around, ye start to long fer somethin’ little more pretty.
Those days didn’t cost me an eye did cause me that scar you see across me face. I could fight, still can but there were others could fight too. Almost killed me, that one. Had me mates at me back, only reason I’m still here talkin to ye. Strange enough was a pretty lately started that one too. Can’t rightly recall where that one was neither. Couldn’t hold me rum I s’pose and I only heard ‘bout it later. Said somethin’ stupid to a pretty lady, her man didn’t much like it slashed me face with his cutlass. We were both stone drunk I didn’t even feel it and I cut him with me own cutlass. Tried to anyway…
Took 4 of me mates to pull him off me and he backed off. Saved me life. and I owe ‘em a lot fer it . I had me fill of it though by the beginning of ’22 too far from home fer too long so I wasn’t with the captain or me mates when they died. Had me some money, still living off it these 8 years later. Been thinkin’ about joining up with another crew but in the end decided it’s not worth it, the Royal navy, a pox on them too, had their way with all the pirates out there. Ain’t none left worthy of the name. All dead now, Blackbeard, captain Roberts, Calico Jack all the others worth sailin’ with.
Still no point cryin over it. Let’s just raise a glass to the good old days. The good old days of smoke and thunder, of the seagull crying, to the rivers of gold and silver and oceans of rum. Aye to the good old days.

A warrior of Renown
inspired by this image
http://samwisetheawesome.deviantart.com/gallery/?q=tattoo+barbarian#/art/Tattoo-Barbarian-260382861?_sid=174ad9a8

Gaul 57 BC
Orgetorix the Gaul, of the Helvetii tribe, stood atop a hill watching the column of Roman soldiers on the path below. He was preparing himself for the coming battle. There were many among the Helvetii named Orgetorix but he was determined to prove himself an individual, as a warrior of renown. This was not tribal skirmish, some border dispute but a war for the Gallic Soul. This was a matter of survival and defeat would mean death, if not of a people than their way of life. He was already wearing the blue paint of a warrior and had not much more preparing to do. He needed his sword shield and heavy bronze helmet He had no amore armor than that and needed no more than that. His fanaticism and total lack of fear would carry him through battle.
He had no fear of these “Romans” or their war chief “ Julius Caesar” He and the Gauls had their own leader Vercingitorix and they would always stand behind him no matter what. Win or lose they had no choice but to fight and if need be they would die rather than submit to Roman law and power. At least then in the end they could keep their Gallic Souls. Souls that were unbroken and did as they willed without anyone telling them how to live, their chiefs were in power so long as they were worthy. They would not bow to anyone but the worthy, the Romans were not worthy, only marching on the Gallic territories as invaders ever hungry for more and more land. They would find men willing to fight and die for it.
They did not have the organized lines and formations of the Romans but they had individual courage. That won battles, men who were unafraid of death and violence and would fight for their homes. Orgetorix was one of them, he stood atop that hill with clenched fists and he decided on one final act to boost his courage even further. He lifted his face to the sky roared out his rage and turned downward to shout a challenge to the approaching Roman army knowing full well they would not understand him. He didn’t need them to understand him just fear him.
He turned and marched back down the hill, there toward whatever would await him in battle whether it was death or his chance to become a warrior of renown.

Here is just a section from a horror short I never finished…

The knife plunged deep into Mary’s stomach with one swift, precise motion, time dragged as she felt herself slip away, fully aware that her killer was savoring every second. The dark blood crept outwards absorbed by the lush, white carpet fibers of her upscale, otherwise colorless, Milanese apartment appearing stark and unsettling to even the most desensitized onlooker. She gurgled and spat blood as she convulsed, the killer’s hand holding her down by the shoulder, her arms weakened and her body numbed as the last remnants of her life ebbed away and the final memory of her soaking further into the floor.

The killer stood and withdrew the wide-bladed knife still covered with a sheen of blood which slowly retracted to reveal the equally red reflection of the sun setting through the window, the look of rage and anger on his face also retracted, like the blood on the knife, revealing, not the natural beauty of this totally abhorrent image of normality but a mournful sense of disappointment.

The escalation in his killings for the last few weeks were from the result of this same feeling, his thirst, unquenched, changes will need to be made, quality over quantity. He left the apartment silently as he had entered and fled in the twilight, unnoticed, and forsaken by the society who knew only too well of his actions, those certainly did not go unnoticed.

Kagawa Tsuneyo called himself a “Broken Blade”. With the death of his master he had gone the way of the Ronin, a wandering swordsman of sorts. Despite this fact and the fact that he no longer had any battles to fight he still kept his Katana, the hilt emerged from the plain leather belt holding his simple robes together. He kept his short, he was no longer a Samurai, simply a man looking to make a living by his wits and his steel, with everything he owned on his belt or in the small bundle on his back.
He walked down a narrow path in between 2 stands of snow covered pine trees. Something about this didn’t feel right, while most would see only beauty in the falling snow he saw something else entirely.
White was the color of death, all around him, carried by the cold wind, he could smell smoke, a terrible thought entered his mind, the village up ahead had burned or was burning now.
An arrow hit the ground just inches in front of his split toed boot and he was ready to fight his way out in the space of a single breath. His breathing slowed, he dropped his pack and his right hand clamped down on his sword hilt, his muscles tensed up and his feet moved into a defensive posture without a thought. One thought replaced all others he might be able to stop these bandits right here, ensure that no one else suffered.
He had never been the best Samurai, they were meant to be fearless. They were supposed to throw themselves into battle against any odds, but he had always feared death, he knew it would come but like all men, he always hoped for another day. If this day was to be his last, at least it would end for a good cause.
“Not what we hoped for but…” the rest of the bandit party appeared behind the archer, a half dozen men armed with Yaris, and another 3 with bows and knives. Tsuneyo didn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t stand for extortion or threats, even implied ones. He drew his Katana before the bandits could demand he hand it over and charged. He dodged another arrow that whistled past his shoulder and cut the archer down, then the next. He wheeled around to block the next Yari thrust.
Tsuneyo chopped down cutting cleanly through the wooden shaft and his next cut dropped the bandit into the snow. He moved on to the next, turning away another of the long spears and taking its owner’s legs out from under him, a pool of red spreading against the white. This caught their leader’s attention and he stepped out of the trees.
“A richer prize than I could have imagined.” He stated calmly and drew his own sword, waving his men away with his free hand.
Tsuneyo knew him, they had served the same lord once. How far they both had fallen. He had a flash of insight- the rest of the bandits were the common soldiers who had once served under him and still did, now fighting for no one but themselves, seeing the rest of the world as their enemies and abandoning honor for reasons only they knew.
“Kurohiko Arisa” Tsuneyo noted and shifted, readying his blade to block the incoming attack.
The Samurai turned bandit gave him a grin, tightened his grip and charged.
For a moment the Ronin felt a flash of fear, his new enemy had always been a better swordsman, if only by a little.
Both men were experts, neither landed a hit in the dozen strikes each of them made. “You should have identified yourself my friend. You would have been in no danger. You made peace between us impossible when you killed my men. A pity- we are samurai, the peasants and rice farmers were meant to serve us they still do in a way…”
focused on fighting instead of banter, giving as good as he received, the clash of steel on steel echoing through the cold winter air as the snow fell from the pines, pushed aside by the wind.
The next pass was the last. Kurohiko whipped his Katana around in a powerful 2 handed strike, putting his full weight into the swing, the Ronin blocked it with his own sword and the blade snapped, spiraling off into the dirt. The bandit exploited the gap and sliced deep into his enemy’s chest.
Tsuneyo’s hand went to his chest and it came away sticky with his blood. He looked to his hand and then to his broken sword. His enemy grinned and wound up for one last strike, The Ronin moved faster than anyone would have thought possible.
One move later and the Ronin’s broken sword came up in front of his face covered in fresh blood. Kurohiro looked down, saw the cut had gone through an artery, and his Katana fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. He opened his mouth to speak but there was no sound.
“Remember, even a broken blade can still cut.” Tsuneyo choked out through a mouthful of blood and collapsed, content in his knowledge that his enemy died with him, without their leader the survivors would scatter. He had given his life for a good cause, a smile froze on his face as the falling snow covered him

We all thought they were just a legend, and extinct if they ever existed at all…

That’s what did this to me, and to everyone else…

Don’t look at me like that- I swear I’m not crazy!

This nation is growing ever hungrier for oil, and so I was one of a group of men sent into the far north to find it, a survey crew sent where the legends told us not to go and that was only the beginning of our suffering.

It’s cold up there in those untamed places where man was never meant to be, and there are dangers beyond anything any of us could have imagined. We knew about the Razor Cats and the snowstorms that could strip a man’s flesh off his bones but old, half forgotten legends were the furthest thing from our minds.

We were out there to work, looking for oil among the scattered stones and snowfields and we had no idea what was coming.

We were forced to stay inside our tents and vehicles when the worst storm we’d ever seen swept over the camp, more than a foot of snow fell in the space of less than a half hour and we headed back outside to dig ourselves out…

She was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, but also the most terrible.

“You were warned not to come here…” she never raised her voice but somehow it reminded me of the rumble of a distant train, or a storm coming in off the sea.

“Why do not heed our words?”

It was only then that we noticed- she was inhumanly tall, long white hair fell against her back, but left her ears uncovered, revealing that they were pointed.

We all had the same terrible realization- we were speaking to a legend and it was ANGRY at our intrusion where we were never meant to be.

Fear does one of two things to a man, the desire to run and hide, or the opposite, stand and fight. Some idiot chose the latter option and fired.

He got off one shot and ice plugged up the shotgun barrel. He tried again and it exploded in his hands, and with a start like that it could only get worse…

DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT! I TOLD YOU I’M NOT CRAZY! I’M TELLING YOU THE TRUTH!

Those same legends tell us that iron is poison to these creatures but that hardly matters when you can’t even get close enough to use it. I saw a man’s blood freeze, and shatter inside his veins, I saw one of the others choke to death on his own lungs. Rifles burst in men’s hands, or have the metal freeze to their skin.

I’ve blocked out most of it, I saw things no human being was ever meant to see, and I was the only one left alive at the end of it. Blood on the snow, blood on the stones, blood everywhere except in the bodies of living men. A destroyed camp and dead men already being picked over by the Scavenger Birds.

I don’t know why, but she let me live- maybe because she needed someone to tell the story and let it be a warning never to return to THEIR land.

I didn’t sleep for days, I was so haunted by what I had just witnessed but I used my nightmare induced insomnia, driving for days on end before exhaustion finally had its own way. I nearly drove into a river before finally allowing myself to rest and now, weeks later I make it back to be accused of lying and worse yet, locked in an asylum tied to a chair, poked and prodded by you people- so called Doctors…

What are you doing? I don’t need another injection… I just need someone to believe me…

NONONO! DON’T CLOSE THE DOOR! I’M TELLING YOU THE TRUTH!

Are the locks really necessary? Where am I going to go?

Here’s a literay experiment I recently performed that might be of use to
anyone who’s suffering writer’s, or in this
case, poet’s block. While it isn’t a bold new technique, it is sufficiently different
to get you up and creating. The idea is to take words at random (not even your own) and arrange them into what is known as a found poem. Found because
you took them out of a text, such as a newspaper article to form your verse. Which might be at complete odds as far as meaning goes with the original source material. Often called blackout or erasure poems because all but the chosen words are blacked out with a
marker, it can leave some startling images to form an abstract take on what was a fact based article. The article I did a surgical excise of thoughts on was the front page piece about the Sturgeon Spectacular in the February 10,
2021 Action Advertiser. Which resulted in this.

Mardi Gras Already?

Get a feeling,
a recipe for winter.
Dive into words
before you
call it a
parade.
Keep pace
with men
who flee
spear
wielding
tradition.
Run the
gamut
across
one dark
city.

All words, except the title of course, came from the text of the above named Action Advertiser article. The images generated the title. Voila! My first found poem. Stuck? Can’t write. Just reach for the nearest newspaper, magazine or evenphotocopy a couple pages from a book, then grab a marker and let your
creativity run wild.