Back in the day
A/N: Excerpts from a story I wrote back in the good old days when there was actually time to write. Not the best writing, I know. It's my first real short story (which explains the former statement). I've both improved and regressed in writing skills since then. The only reason why I would showcase even parts of this thing is purely based upon sentimentalities. You know, back in the day when this was the cool thing to do and the cool thing to write about. My friend and I have all parted since then; I hear only one of them is going to major in writing in college. Funny how things work out. The other is going into law, one business, the other medicine. I doubt any of us post on writing forums or sites anymore. There's just no time with college applications right around the corner (which begs the question, why am I even doing this?). Anyway, I think that they've always been right: creative writing is far more fun than journalism. It just sucks that I'm horrible at both.
A/N 2: I write like a girl. And it totally shows in my writing and my stories. Sorry.
I gaze up into the empty sky. The rain burns and pierces my skin, yet I feel nothing but the numbness to which I have succumbed. For one single, saccharine moment, time stands still, and I’m lost in it.
Time is a funny thing. I could never understand it no matter how hard I tried or how much I wanted to. It always has its way of working its magic at exactly the wrong moment. There’s no way to beat it and no way to escape it.
Someone once told me that time heals all. Lies. Time doesn’t heal. Time hurts. It numbs the pain only for it to come back and hit you harder than ever before. I hate time.
I walk a little further into the street, tracing the cracks in the sidewalk as I go along. All the bad omens in the world could not make me feel any worse than I already feel. The raindrops continue to beat on my skin, then cascade down to the ground in streaming rivulets. Like a poisonous hemlock, the numbness controls me and I smile insanely. I feel nothing. No pain, no sorrow, not even the slightest pricks of rain. The whole world has lost its meaning. That’s what happens after war, though. After fighting for causes you don’t believe in, after avenging families you’ve never met and countries you’ve never seen, after seeing the dead and dying a little yourself.
I keep my pace, walking steadily. There has always been something soothing about walking in the rain. I keep my eyes on the crowd, observing their feral ways. It has become a habit of mine. I can’t say why I do this-perhaps it’s lack of better things to do, perhaps it’s because I’m looking for something more in humanity. Maybe it’s a bit of both. Whatever it is, I don’t question it. Years of war have taught me that knowing too much can be fatal. I pity the fool who dares to think.
I step into the tavern, a quiet little place in the middle of nowhere. It’s a good place for forgetting, for curing the virulence of life’s dreams. Today the place is lifeless, all but one stool sits unoccupied. Even the greatest of warriors must someday regretfully return to the battlefield to which they are drawn. The emptiness tells me today must be that day. I take my seat next to a man whose shape I can only make out by the dim glow of the hanging torch. Taking a mug, I continue to drown myself in heartaches and be cured of the diseases that have evaded my better knowledge. The man turns to me. He’s a short, pudgy man, balding at the top and swaying drunkenly. With abrupt suddenness, I can feel his body tense and tremble in the feeble trepidation of the weak and worthless. He rushes to the door, his stool crashes to the ground in the midst of his frenzy. I’m still too numb to even flinch. With another sip of whiskey, I push the hood of my battered cloak over heavy, dark tresses, immersing my complexion in the shadows. No one needs to see the eyes. My eyes. The silver in them. They make me different, they cause fear in all who stare, they caused that man to run out of the tavern. They are the cursed mar that separates me from all those who surround me. They are the silver pools of radiance that make me who I am.
My fingers trace the rim of the mug, just before taking another large, audible gulp. It’s hard to imagine - these fingers, these hands, they once held a sword. In another cursed memory of mine, I can see my hands tremor under its weight as the ooze of blood ebbs down its silver blade. I can see the enemy fall before an unmerciful slaying.
...
Mayhem is everywhere-in the silences, in the spaces, with every rapier thrust, with every arrow shot. Men fall faster than the eye can trace. Every moment of inattention and every moment of imperfection makes each man’s moment his last.
A veil of silence falls upon the battlefield. The wind chills, howling the curses of the destruction and of the tormented souls whose fatal death I have wrought. I survey the surroundings: seemingly barren, upturned by a sword soaked with the enemy’s blood. Strange how this is the most peaceful it has been for centuries.
A scream. My mind immediately connects it with Detrius. I look around. No sight of him. I run in vain, searching for my friend, my feet carrying me in the direction of his voice. When I do catch a glimpse of him, I shudder uncontrollably. He stands, surrounded by blood-drenched spawns of evil, their hatred radiating in sickening waves of nausea from their horrid sight. These are who I search. These are the enemy. These are who must die.
Detrius cries in pain as the creatures’ talons scrape into his back, digging deeper and deeper into his skin. I run to his aid, sword poised in the air ready to defend the only friend who was every willing to defend me. I can already see the veins in his neck bursting with pressure from the talons delving in. Blood gushes out, spilling in rills over his scathed body. Detrius turns to me one last time, drowning in a pool of his own lifeforce. He opens his mouth to speak, one last plea for help, only to have a surge of bright red loll out of his mouth in a frothy death.
I cry out, directing the attention of the barbaric monsters to me. The events to come are a blur, in this life or in the next I fail to recall them clearly. Revenge tastes sweeter than ever. Driven by rage, I plunge into the circle, slaying as many enemies as I can, becoming a swirling dance of death and destruction to all who fall before me. The demons moan as their spirits seep through the holes torn into their scaly hide by each rapier thrust. But everything becomes meaningless, each stroke slower, each strike more careless. Each death is just another corpse impaled upon my blade. War is beautiful.
...
Time never leaves room for happy endings. You live, you love, you die. Then you’re gone forever, never to return, to always be damned to Hell, to walk down that path of perdition and meet the perilous fate of no tomorrows. This is war.
And this is life.
A/N 2: I write like a girl. And it totally shows in my writing and my stories. Sorry.
I gaze up into the empty sky. The rain burns and pierces my skin, yet I feel nothing but the numbness to which I have succumbed. For one single, saccharine moment, time stands still, and I’m lost in it.
Time is a funny thing. I could never understand it no matter how hard I tried or how much I wanted to. It always has its way of working its magic at exactly the wrong moment. There’s no way to beat it and no way to escape it.
Someone once told me that time heals all. Lies. Time doesn’t heal. Time hurts. It numbs the pain only for it to come back and hit you harder than ever before. I hate time.
I walk a little further into the street, tracing the cracks in the sidewalk as I go along. All the bad omens in the world could not make me feel any worse than I already feel. The raindrops continue to beat on my skin, then cascade down to the ground in streaming rivulets. Like a poisonous hemlock, the numbness controls me and I smile insanely. I feel nothing. No pain, no sorrow, not even the slightest pricks of rain. The whole world has lost its meaning. That’s what happens after war, though. After fighting for causes you don’t believe in, after avenging families you’ve never met and countries you’ve never seen, after seeing the dead and dying a little yourself.
I keep my pace, walking steadily. There has always been something soothing about walking in the rain. I keep my eyes on the crowd, observing their feral ways. It has become a habit of mine. I can’t say why I do this-perhaps it’s lack of better things to do, perhaps it’s because I’m looking for something more in humanity. Maybe it’s a bit of both. Whatever it is, I don’t question it. Years of war have taught me that knowing too much can be fatal. I pity the fool who dares to think.
I step into the tavern, a quiet little place in the middle of nowhere. It’s a good place for forgetting, for curing the virulence of life’s dreams. Today the place is lifeless, all but one stool sits unoccupied. Even the greatest of warriors must someday regretfully return to the battlefield to which they are drawn. The emptiness tells me today must be that day. I take my seat next to a man whose shape I can only make out by the dim glow of the hanging torch. Taking a mug, I continue to drown myself in heartaches and be cured of the diseases that have evaded my better knowledge. The man turns to me. He’s a short, pudgy man, balding at the top and swaying drunkenly. With abrupt suddenness, I can feel his body tense and tremble in the feeble trepidation of the weak and worthless. He rushes to the door, his stool crashes to the ground in the midst of his frenzy. I’m still too numb to even flinch. With another sip of whiskey, I push the hood of my battered cloak over heavy, dark tresses, immersing my complexion in the shadows. No one needs to see the eyes. My eyes. The silver in them. They make me different, they cause fear in all who stare, they caused that man to run out of the tavern. They are the cursed mar that separates me from all those who surround me. They are the silver pools of radiance that make me who I am.
My fingers trace the rim of the mug, just before taking another large, audible gulp. It’s hard to imagine - these fingers, these hands, they once held a sword. In another cursed memory of mine, I can see my hands tremor under its weight as the ooze of blood ebbs down its silver blade. I can see the enemy fall before an unmerciful slaying.
...
Mayhem is everywhere-in the silences, in the spaces, with every rapier thrust, with every arrow shot. Men fall faster than the eye can trace. Every moment of inattention and every moment of imperfection makes each man’s moment his last.
A veil of silence falls upon the battlefield. The wind chills, howling the curses of the destruction and of the tormented souls whose fatal death I have wrought. I survey the surroundings: seemingly barren, upturned by a sword soaked with the enemy’s blood. Strange how this is the most peaceful it has been for centuries.
A scream. My mind immediately connects it with Detrius. I look around. No sight of him. I run in vain, searching for my friend, my feet carrying me in the direction of his voice. When I do catch a glimpse of him, I shudder uncontrollably. He stands, surrounded by blood-drenched spawns of evil, their hatred radiating in sickening waves of nausea from their horrid sight. These are who I search. These are the enemy. These are who must die.
Detrius cries in pain as the creatures’ talons scrape into his back, digging deeper and deeper into his skin. I run to his aid, sword poised in the air ready to defend the only friend who was every willing to defend me. I can already see the veins in his neck bursting with pressure from the talons delving in. Blood gushes out, spilling in rills over his scathed body. Detrius turns to me one last time, drowning in a pool of his own lifeforce. He opens his mouth to speak, one last plea for help, only to have a surge of bright red loll out of his mouth in a frothy death.
I cry out, directing the attention of the barbaric monsters to me. The events to come are a blur, in this life or in the next I fail to recall them clearly. Revenge tastes sweeter than ever. Driven by rage, I plunge into the circle, slaying as many enemies as I can, becoming a swirling dance of death and destruction to all who fall before me. The demons moan as their spirits seep through the holes torn into their scaly hide by each rapier thrust. But everything becomes meaningless, each stroke slower, each strike more careless. Each death is just another corpse impaled upon my blade. War is beautiful.
...
Time never leaves room for happy endings. You live, you love, you die. Then you’re gone forever, never to return, to always be damned to Hell, to walk down that path of perdition and meet the perilous fate of no tomorrows. This is war.
And this is life.