The Few

Apart from everything your eyes tell the story of an act of betrayal no one could fully know or comprehend. Yet beyond this is the vast emptiness that fills your mind, drowning and wallowing inside. Heart breaking, pain overflowing, tears pouring, no one understands. Cry for help, no ears to heed your plea, friends far away, as though they became strangers the day you became what you are, what you will forever more be. Prevention a possibility, trust never coming easily, mind bending, trying to grasp what has occurred, yet the hurt is unbearable and no one understands. Fighting to breathe, suffocating under the broken wreckage that has become your life, everyone so distant, eyes looking yet never truly seeing. Brokenness is all you know, pain so constant, heart breaking apart, numbness spreading, overwhelming like a disease, smothering and destroying all in it’s path. Just as they did, just as they came and wrecked and destroyed and murdered and mutilated without an afterthought of regret or sorrow. So sick of being ignored, of their arrogance and disdain for something they could never understand. Disappointment and hatred fill their eyes, can’t be what they want you to be, can’t prevent the irrevocable damage that has been wrought upon your soul. Black surrounds and shrouds, choking out all else, blinding and lying, crying and fighting, yet no one cares, no one understands. Clouds and wind, darkness and rain, hail and sleet, sun shines, yet light is overcome and the day becomes night once again. Eyes of sapphire stare, not daring to look up for fear of judgment and hate. They see, they ask, they talk, they assume, they judge… all but a few, those certain few, who take the time to truly understand and accept, to help and comprehend, to love and care, to respect and listen. Slowly the loneliness, the sorrow, the pain, the brokenness, the hatred is repressed, though it will always be there, cowering in the dark corners of you mind and soul. The few are overcoming all, boldly standing beside you all the day, enduring in order to understand. Thank God for the few, for without them I would be lost.

Beneath Rebel Skies

Ice cold rain pours through the musty train cars, packed with hundreds of men, as cattle brought to the slaughter. I shiver, the soldier standing beside me has a hacking cough, can’t stop. He sounds awful, like an old man, yet he cannot be over fourteen. I myself am but sixteen, though I have seen more in my short life than most have seen in fifty years of living. The air is rank with the scent of sweat and blood. My nostrils fill with the smell, though it is not half as bad as some, it makes my stomach swim. The train comes to and abrupt stop, lurching forward and sighs as an old farmer after a hard days work. Shouts and orders can be heard. A lowly Johnny Reb yanks the door open, revealing his bearded face. “Get outta the train, you filthy yankee dogs!” His young voice penetrates the thick air, arousing all prisoners, soon to be granted their fate. The great mass of bodies moves as one, making its way out of the train. Frozen hard ground gives way to a demonic black sky. Lightning strikes, not a mile away. Thunder gives his answer with a resounding crack, which penetrates the wind blown atmosphere. Rain drops hit my tanned skin, as rocks upon a valley floor. The formerly beautiful sound of pouring water fills the air, soaking all that inhabit South Carolina in its unforgiving vengeance. “All right, you maggots, form ranks and prepare to march!” It was the young soldier again, perhaps informing his prisoners that he intended to provide them with everything terrible and evil. The mass of bodies moves a second time, with me somewhere in the middle, smashed and forgotten amidst such numbers. The sky wreaks her havoc upon the war torn ground and its occupants as all stagger towards their God given fate.

Finally arrived at the prison; Johnny Rebs shove us through the gateway, and into the camp. I suppose I simply expected something more, perhaps tents or quarters; yet there was nothing of the sort. Instead, sparse weeds littered the ground, as bones upon and ancient battlefield. Pushing their prisoners through, the Rebels shout orders to each other and let us be for the time being. I, along with many other Yankees, fall to the mire in exhaustion.

I awake the next morning to yells and groans. Morning dew soaks the already muddy ground, making it virtually impossible to navigate, ensnaring many in its boggy grasp. Coughing and hacking prevail through all other sounds, so many of my fellow soldiers sick from wounds or disease, cursing them in battle. Still, no shelters have been erected, no nourishment provided, despite the drenching rain and howling wind. This storm is unceasing, as if God is displeased with all the liquid falls upon. I wrap my uniform closer about my body, hoping it will keep me warm from the elements. Some men attempt to start fires near the wall, despite the pigeons nests atop, with Rebs sticking their noses out, awaiting an excuse to shoot someone. Their attempts are hindered by the weather, yet they continue their effort. I, too deeply desire warmth. I spot three men huddled together, so I join their group, hoping for warmth and companionship. “Dang Johnny Rebs, they wouln’t stick thay own soldas in this God fersakin place.” Willy complained. He was in my regiment, though I never much liked him. “Ah, shut up Willy, I’m tryin ta git some shut eye.” This man I didn’t know, he was mighty tall, I could tell that from looking at him. The third soldier didn’t make a sound, just sat there shivering, his dark eyes observing their gloomy surroundings, as a hawk on the hunt.

“Git up, yank, no time fer sleep at this hea place.” “Ohhh.” I groaned, he had kicked me in the ribs, as if I was a dog that needed discipline. “I said git up!” The Reb made a second attempt to injure me, bringing his foot back; I managed to dodge it. He cursed at me and sauntered of as I tried to adjust my eyes to the bright light. It had stormed for three days straight, never letting up. Yet today it was surprisingly hot. The bright sun hung in the sky, her eyes full and watchful as those below made their way about the earth. I wonder what she thought of our circumstance, if she cared or thought about us at all. Her gaze pierced the cloudless sky and shone upon my darkened skin. I saw the three men I had met two days before near the wall, constructing a lean to out of spare wood for reprieve from the sweltering heat. I moseyed over to them, hoping again for conversation.

Against all odds

Despite what we have nearly all been told of the sudden relapse of Native Americans in the 17 and 1800’s, the reason for the events that led to it are still somewhat unclear. Unlike most historical events, this was not completely understood or recorded as such. Because of this, we have little or no understanding of the Native American people and their heritage. In order to overcome this, certain documents and authors have gone back in time to correct the errors in history, and eventually attempt to right the many wrongs that have been placed upon these people. Once Europeans began immigrating here from a across the Atlantic Ocean, different conflicts arose between the white man and the Indian. For instance, while the Indian lived off the land and used every bit and piece of everything they killed or destroyed, white man killed and destroyed many things, yet used only certain parts of whatever he had mutilated. Although Native Americans and Europeans seemed to get along during the era of Columbus and Squanto, trouble soon arose between the two races. Many of their conflicts are the result of the European’s disregard and disdain for the Native American’s culture and religion, yet the Indians had a hand in creating conflict as well. White man enslaved thousands of Indians, or attempted to, yet soon discovered that this tough race would stand for no such thing. Because the Indians had lived in the same areas of land for thousands of years, they were extremely familiar with the terrain and landmarks that surrounded them. This prevented the Europeans from keeping captive most Indians, thus creating more conflict and friction amongst these two very different races. Because of this, the Indians retaliated in vicious and violent ways. Attacking homesteads, murdering innocent women and children and burning whole towns are just a few examples of how the native people dealt with enslavement and racism. Yet only certain tribes came to such extreme measures. Some attempted to reason with the white men, only to be faced with false treatise and corrupt politicians. One such politician was President Stonewall Jackson, famous for moving the Indians across the country to unwanted bits of land, called reservations. The Trail of Tears is perhaps the most famous example of this. Forcing thousands upon thousands of native Americans in the south to migrate to the north and west, President Jackson in turn betrayed the trust of the Indians, all the while becoming famous among the ‘true’ Americans for this act of falseness and fear. Jackson craved control, as he clearly displayed through his blatant disregard to anything and everything this incredible race stood for. Though Jackson is revered in some places, I believe he will forever be remembered as the President who nearly single handedly destroyed the Native American people. However, this race held much promise and managed to endure throughout this horrible ordeal and continue to produce well grounded progeny, proud of their people and strong in heart. Today, many native Americans live on reservations, scratching together a living, much like the rest of this country. Yet something about these people is different, they hold their heads high, their shoulders upright, copper eyes boldly staring the future in the face, declaring their independence and freedom to all who look upon them.

Vagrants of London

“Til, Til.” Oliver whispered frantically from across the street.

“What?” I replied from my street corner. My misty breath was

caught up with the chilling night air and carried away somewhere

unbeknownst to me. “Get over here!’ Oliver’s usually laughing voice

had become more desperate.

“I’m coming.” Again the icy wind captured my breath and whisked it

away. I knew Oliver was becoming impatient with me, however I was

finding it more difficult to carry out our plan than I had anticipated.

Suddenly a cold gust of bone chilling air blew through Ten downing

Street carrying with it the screams of Dowager’s Orphanage and its

unfortunate occupants. The disturbing sound sent shivers down my

spine, the hairs on my neck stood straight up as a dog’s.

“Tildon, hurry, before we’re caught-or worse.” The unnatural sounds

coming from the orphanage brought an ill omen with it, I was certain.

I sprinted down the street, afraid to flight but ashamed to run. The

Dark revenants of London’s midnight were all but upon me as I

rounded the street corner- and collided with Oliver.


“Are you daft?!” Oliver angrily inquired after gathering himself from

the rancid alley floor and brushed himself off. “I thought you were

an eidolon or something of the sort.” The older boys tone suggested

no empathy, as it rarely did. After he took me off the streets and

rescued me from the harsh life of a vagabond, I quickly became

accustomed to his strange ways.

“I’m sorry”- “Don’t be, just don’t do it again.” His chiding voice

reminded me of the reason we had come here, despite so many

risks.


As we came in sight of the Grande Mistress’s estate I realized the

full gravity of our situation. The great mansion rose up out of the

darkness to stand, imposing upon the lush, green acres on which

occupied. An array of Illuminated glass windows, lighted from

the inside gave the aura of nobility to the entirety of the hall. As if

to spite the bright windows, the rest of the manor stood in caliginous

gloom, the orphic surroundings a preceding to the coming events.



Ch.#2

As we neared the gates of the Dame’s manor, my thoughts strayed

To my former life, perhaps I was better suited to the fate of a street

Rogue. Stop, Tildon, I thought, Oliver didn’t take you off the streets

so you could become a coward in the face of slight danger. I

struggled to keep up with the older boy’s long stride, yet Oliver was

uneasy, even nervous, unusual to say the least. The waxing moon

hung in the darkness, a livid reminder of the task before us. Her

baleful face bright and full against a star glazed sky.

The long walkway leading up to the main gate was decorated with

Marble stones, their glossy surfaces reflecting the sky above.

Suddenly, a tall gate rose from out of the gloom, sinister spikes

Protruding from it’s top, high above my head. Its great mass

Intimidating in the murk of the night. The width must have spanned

Eighty feet, it’s height fifty feet or more. We came to and abrupt stop

Not an arms width from the gate. “That was strange.” Oliver’s

Voice came from a few feet away. I stood in place, dumbly

Gawking up at the enormous columns of solid black steel, rising

Up from the darkness. “Don’t just stand there, help me get over this.”

Oliver’s voice came again, I wondered why I couldn’t see him.

“Oliver, where are you?” I questioned, my voice floating into the

surrounding darkness.

“Over here, on the left side of the gate.” He replied. I carefully

walked to the left side and there was Oliver, making a feeble attempt

to scale our present nemesis. I let out an audible sigh of relief and

boosted Oliver up, despite my present doubts about his ability to

climb up and over the huge steel entryway.
Ch. #3

“Oomph!” Oliver’s frustrated grunt came from the ground at my feet, his bruised body rolled over on its back. I had no trouble envisioning the defeated expression that was no doubt taking occupancy over his young face, in spite of the surrounding gloom.
My older companion rose to his feet, an obscured figure in the encompassing murk of the night. “Help me, Til. We’ve got to find a w-. His words were cut short by the ominous creaking of the opening gate. A horrendous wining sound enveloped us, sending my hands shooting up to my ears with lighting speed. “Aaaaaah!” My voice sounded frail in comparison with that of the gate’s. Suddenly a flying globe of blue light swept through the air before us, then as quickly as it had appeared, vanished from sight. The force of the explosion of light, if it could be called that, had knocked me and Oliver to the cold ground. “Til, g-get up, c-come see this.” Came Oliver’s trembling voice. I rose to my feet, my head burning from the impact of the ground smashing into my skull. Heart pounding, I turned to gaze upon a necropolis of half buried bones, their livid shapes protruding from the sordid ground. I stood stock still, horrified by the scene before me. This time Oliver offered no words of encouragement, instead following my example. A sudden scream pierced the thick air, encircling us in its shrill, alarmed voice. “Meow.” A slight, white cat crossed the stone path immediately in front of me, captivating my attention. It slid in between my feet, purring with pleasure. She seemed to be concealing some unavowed secret behind her wane coat, perhaps- no it couldn’t be so. Yet it was. The feline, which had so alluringly held my attention, was beckoning. Her willowy tale was wagging back and forth, towards the Enchantress’s mansion. “Oliver, are you seeing this?” I questioned, turning toward my equally bewitched companion, who at the moment was gazing at the cat, flitting in and out of my legs. “Yeah, what’s it doing, why is it moving its tale that way?” He replied, his attention still captured. I looked down, the cat lifted its delicate head upwards, her refined features prominent even in the darkness of the night. I was alarmed at the revelation before me. Bright green eyes?stared up at me, a deep intelligence clearly visible underneath the glossy sheen of light that illuminated her sardonic eyes.

Ch# 4 Our new companion seemed to spite everything around her; the impeding gloom that hung as stale breath in the air constantly surrounding, the wisps of steamy fog arising from the ground, curling against age old gravestones. She sauntered up and down the path, in between our legs, in a strange, leisurely manner; her nonchalant attitude soon became a small comfort in light of the situation. The enclosing stone wall encircling the graveyard we were currently walking through gave no reassurance; Oliver and I certain by now we would face a horrific fate at the hands of the lamia we had come to meet. Our escort seemed to be biding her time; I wondered what was going on in that fiendish mind of hers, my own on its edge, waiting expectantly for some demonic figure to emanate out of the eerie obscurity that was our circumstance.

The Old Mariner

He sat bent upon the sturdy rocking chair which now supported his frail body, grey eyes staring ahead into a bleak old age. Light tufts of wind and sunlight danced across his withered face, forcing remnants of his once thick hair to float in the breeze. The familiar scent of salt wafted from the ocean, filling his nostrils with the sweet aroma, though his senses had become dulled with the passing of time. Waves crashed upon the shore and though the old man had heard the sound a thousand times before, his mind echoed in remembrance of it, come back to me, come back, the sea seemed to call. Presently, he glanced up, lifting a gnarled hand for his crooked cane. He carefully stood up, his back never becoming completely straight. Wearily, his feet crossed the porch to stand near the railing, which he had constructed himself, along with the rest of the house. Looking to the west, his eyes met the sunset, glowing brilliantly against the cloud glazed sky, slowly melting into the horizon. Red, pink and orange became one, creating a completely unprecedented color, blinding all who dared gaze upon it. Seagulls called in the distance, beckoning the old man toward the shore, begging him to once more visit it's long forgotten sands...

Introduction

I've been writing for about seven years, this is the first time I've had a blog. I will be posting my fiction writing and possibly some poems and other various works. I hope to someday become an author or journalist, or even a screenwriter. Writing is my passion and has been since I was a child. I'd also like to add, I wrote several of these pieces in 8th grade, and continue to pursue my dream in high school.