The Words of Puppets, Fall Beneath Thy Blade

The man walking down the heavily embroidered decorum of the Imperial Court, bore no identifying marks symbolizing his house. His armor was worn with the age, and tarnish of countless battles. His gait was that of a man accustomed to hardened leather of a saddle, and the weight of armor. His sword dripped with the blood of the two skewered guards lying in pools of their own lifeblood, their glazed eyes staring up in death. The tattered remnants of a cloak rustled in the stirring of an unseen breeze. His body shook with a plague with no cure, with no known cure. His eyes were those of one trapped, or cornered. Their irises dark red in contrast to the light blue pupil. Sprouting from his shoulders are two powerful tendons stretching, and expanding into the feathery apparatuses trailing limply behind him. Their once powerful, and majestic feathers ripped and bloody fell like death from the heavens.

His mind was riddled with the voice of one not entirely sane, his mind bearing the plague of one not of flesh but of the mind. His intelligence melting with each passing rotation around the sun’s fulcrum. His armor rattled, and shook like the ringing sound of a bell tolling the dead. His hushed, heavy breathing dragged on like a animal choking on his own saliva. The body continued to die, while the mind existed. It’s only thoughts that of kill, kill, kill the betrayer. His conscious had passed from the prison of his shell. Leaving an empty, hollow mollusk in it’s place with minor primal awareness and instinctual demands upon the prison of it’s existence. The trail of blood, ruining the bright red sheen of the carpet, and the intricately lain designs within the carpeting, It’s tiny, woven cotton tufts forming dragons amongst a fiery grass.

The large, heavy door shook upon their bolts sealing them with the precision of a expert mason. It’s thick stones hiding the cowering artificial ruler, a puppet. His spiritual teaching falling on deaf ears as his mind fell into the pits of insanity. His body was thin and frail, his face that of a weasel. His breath stank of the thick aroma of spices. His eyes, within their sockets were dull, unintelligent. Merely two pieces of marble from an vintage set. He hid behind a large, golden throne. A gift from tamed savages, crushed beneath the might of a Holy Crusade. His tiny teeth chewed on his fingernails, ripping them from the fleshy particles connecting them to their fingering appendages. Blood trailed from the thickly, clenched fist of his other hand. His sharp, animal nails digging into the tender flesh of his palm.

His words fell like poison upon the populace, and his ‘potions’ created plaguing hallucinations. The wall rocked, beneath the inhumanly strength pounding against it. The wall would only last so long before crumbling, and this the puppet religious Pope knew. His holy kingdom, divine in the eyes of God had succumbed the to the evils of the flesh, avarice and intercourse. His holy body carried countless unholy plagues, and his hair was thick with maggots chewing unperturbed amongst the tender roots of hair. The ancient, wizened soldier fell the wall like countless other mighty nations that succumbed to the death that hung like an addicting presence over the ancient forged steel. It’s edge rang like a herd of stampeding bulls.

The ancient man, cowering in his corner beheld a poisoned dagger. Cursed by the evils of the flesh, and sealed with his own life water. The wings of the soldier stirred amongst their broken, crumbled tendons. The few remaining feathers had snagged on the heavy, sharp edges of the debris. The puppet lifted his hand in accordance of the strings pulled by his master marionette. The hand fell like an toppling redwood, and struck through the armor. The puppet’s breath faded, it’s easy rhythm collapsing from the large steel protruding from his midsection. The two sides of the balance crumbled, the wings interlocking with the stained robes. The chiseled face of love amidst that of avarice. The balance could never be changed, the events would be catastrophic, an ending of the world. The two limp forms remained in a interlocking embrace amidst their death. Their bodies symbolizing the good and evil within the soul of each bipedal intellectual organism.


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The Old Man and A Glass of Lemonade

It was a warm and sunny autumn, a time of Halloween and festivities. Everyone, including the children prepared for the event. Each person working on their part they would contribute to the festival. Among the busily working children at Shady Oak’s Middle School was myself, William Trump. I wasn’t a popular kid or a well-liked child. I hid my face behind overly large glasses, and dirty, long brown hair. You could see myself bent over a piece of my work, working just as hard as any child. But I was alone, I had few friends.

“Hey, William,” Charles, one of the few who could almost be considered a friend of mine, sat down across from me at the work bench. I grunted a “Hey.” in response, but paid Charles no more attention than one would pay an annoying sibling. Charles shrugged, and pulled out his project. It was a large brown piece of paper, with faint outlines of shapes on it. “So, what you doing for your project, Wil?”

I stopped my working, and brushed a stray hair from in front of my glasses, that were too big and slid down my face. I pushed the stubborn glasses back up and on to the bridge of my nose. I looked down at my work in front of me. From Charles position, the scraps of paper hid it from view. But to myself, I didn’t know what I was drawing. On my large piece of cardboard paper was the drawing of an old, broken down house with boarded up windows. The Milburn’s house, yes that was it. “Here.” I slid Charles my piece of cardboard, sliding the paper over the smooth wood like butter.

“Nicely done, Wil. So what’re you doing for Halloween?” Charles said, before he could stop his tongue. It carried away sometimes, and got him into trouble. I looked at him lost for a moment, and grabbed my project. I stuffed it messily into my bag, and ran outside. My teacher, Mrs. Shroom asking me to stop and what was wrong. I ignored her, and kept going. I ran out through the door of the school. Stopping, and angrily berating himself for forgetting his jacket. The cold autumn chill nipped at him on his bare skin, beginning to form goose bumps. The leaves fluttered to the ground, messing up the janitor’s early raking.

I ran, not bothering to look back. I ran until his lungs burned, and screamed for oxygen. I continued to run, until his legs felt like rubber and ached with each stride. I stopped beside a large oak. It’s gnarly branches, bare of their leaves formed a safe haven where I could rest. I flung my book bag down on the hard ground, and sat down roughly. I buried his tear-rimmed eyes in my hands, and cried. It wasn’t fair, why did my parents have to have been killed in that accident. Why couldn’t they have listened to me, and stayed at home with me. But no, they had to go to the party. I remember clearly what my father had said that night before he’d died,

“Son, I know you don’t want us to leave you alone. But you’re getting to be a big boy now, and we aren’t going to be around all the time. Dry up those tears, and give me a hug.” My father helped me wipe away the tears. “Remember son, we’ll always be in your heart if you miss us.” That was my mother speaking, giving me a hug and light kiss on the forehead.

I felt my forehead, which had grown hot with his sobs. Faintly he could still feel the touch of his mother’s soft lips. The faint smell of my mother’s perfume, and the mark her lipstick branded. I remembered, smiling about how I’d later mischievously had rubbed it off. I looked up at the sound of a car approaching by. In the window, I could see the faint image of a old, grey face. The hair was as white as snow, and his face was smiling. The car stopped, a black sedan with tinted windows. It screeched slightly as the old brakes hidden behind the shiny whitewash tires brought the car to a slow stop.

The old man, his face alight behind the wrinkles. Showing a younger side, that you wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. His old joints creaked when he moved, and his arthritic hands shook as he reached down. His old hand felt like rough leather in my smooth, sweaty palm. I grabbed his hand eagerly, like a drowning person reaches for a life raft. His rough, bark-like hand anchored my mind back to the present. I smiled, pushing my glasses back up on to the bridge of my nose.

“What’s the matter child? No, don’t tell me here. Wait until we get back to my place and have something to wet our throat’s. Would your parents mind?” The old man asked eagerly, getting ahead of himself. He’d almost forgotten to ask the boy about whether or not his parent’s would mind. It’d been so long though, since he’d had any company.

“They won’t mind.” I lied, the fib coming easily now after so many rehearsals. I didn’t want to tell the stranger the truth, but he seemed like a nice, old man. Maybe I’d get some cookies. I followed the old man, back into the sedan. I opened the big door, remembering to jog back and get my book bag. I climbed into the old car, sitting down on the old leather seat. I slid backwards in the big seat, but quickly buckled the seat. The old man looked over and smiled, and I couldn’t help it. I smiled back. He started the car. It started slowly, almost stubbornly. The engine revved for a minute, and the car started smoothly forward.

We drove for an hour, or maybe it was a few minutes. I couldn’t tell. The car bounced over the potholes, and cracks in the old road. The trees passed lazily by, and the birds chirped happily in the trees. I rested my head in my palm, and stared at the scenery while the old man continued to drive us to our unknown destination. Finally the car turned on to a long gravel road that snaked it’s way back into the woods. The car rocked slightly in the change of terrain, but the tires moved again when they found traction.

The road, took us back deeper into the heart of the woods. I saw an deer, stare at us lazily and unafraid as it chewed the grass poking out of it’s mouth. I laughed at that, but stopped quickly so the laugh turned into a sort of hiccup. I looked over my left shoulder to see what the old man was doing. He was staring in a dreamy sort of way ahead of us. I panicked slightly, but I told my jitters to calm down. I smoothed my rumpled clothing, and played with the zipper on my book bag. I zoned out, lost in the outside world and it’s beauty.

“We’re here.” The old man replied, his voice full of emotion. I think you’d call it love, and I caught a slight hint of hatred. I looked up, to see something I never imagined. The house in my drawing, But it wasn’t boarded up, or even slightly rundown as I imagined it to be. The man stopped the car, and removed the key from the ignition. I pulled the big handle on the inside of the door, and opened it. I stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. The old man was already up to the door, holding it open. I jogged over, and stepped through the threshold. The house was decorated like one straight out of the 60’s. Including the large television box with the small monitor.

I stepped on to the old rug, which rustled beneath my feet stirring up the dust bunnies. I sneezed slightly into my sleeve. I began to explore, and taking the silence from the old man as encouragement. I examined everything within the house, not touching anything as if it were toxic. I saw things and pictures of places I couldn’t even begin to believe. I saw the Eiffel Tower in a black and white photo with a picture of a man standing with a woman, both smiling and waving at the camera. I saw vacuum cleaners that wouldn’t even suck up enough dirt worth the electricity bill increase they were sure to have brought about. I returned to the downstairs to find the old man sitting in a large, reading chair with two cups of lemonade.

He motioned to the other stair placed facing his, and he lifted the glass of lemonade and placed it on the counter next to the chair. The old man’s movements were precise and quick despite his age. I sat down, sighing as I sank into the soft, cushioning of the chair. The old man returned to his seat, and crossed his fingers. Obviously waiting for me to try the lemonade. Was it poisoned, I wondered. I stared hard at the cup, watching every little bead of water that sweated trail down the side making a path through the foggy, cold exterior. I lifted the cup to my lips, and sipped it at first. But as the lemonade awakened my taste buds with the effect of an volcano erupting or an avalanche shaking the earth, I tilted the glass more and then more. I couldn’t get enough of the liquid, and I sighed when I felt no more fall into my mouth. I returned the cup, calmly and gentlemanlike to the counter. The old man sighed happily, contented.

Now, where should I begin?” The old man sighed, and scratched the bald plate that was taking over where his hair used to be.

“Begin what?” I asked eagerly, enthusiastic. I began to ponder over what he wanted to tell, it must be a story. Yes, a story.

“I know,” The old man began clearing his throat. It sounded like a rake being dragged through a large pile of gravel. “This story is true, in all accounts. I could probably scrounge up the people in the story if you’re really interested.” This received an eager nod from me.

“Alright then, well the year was 1937. Yes quite awhile ago. It was a warm, sunny autumn day in the month of August. The leaves had begun to change hues, and the trees had begun to prepare for their winter slumber. The school year had begun, and Fredrick was like any other normal teenager. Eager to stir up trouble, and do dangerous things. Some of them he would later regret to do. Allow me to tell you what he did that he would have to pay for….”

Fredrick walked the halls of Shady Oak’s Middle School. He was a handsome boy, around the age of thirteen. Just hitting the years of puberty, and his voice had begun to deepen. He was the coolest guy on the basketball, baseball, and football team. He was a real athlete. One of a kind. One of his friends, Harry. Who would play an important role later in the story, no don’t ask questions boy. Harry stopped Fred, that was his nickname, and asked him what he was doing later that evening. Fred replied to Harry that he wasn’t doing anything. Harry asked Fred if he’d like to try something dangerous tonight. Fred, his testosterone pounding in his eardrums replied dumbly, Yes.

Later that night, Fred arrived at the destination stated on the note handed to him from Harry. He looked up, and there it was. The Milburn’s House, dark and mysterious in the flashing strokes of lightning that lit up the sky like Chinese fireworks. The rain pounded on the hood of his jacket, and he zipped up his jacket tighter against the cold. He heard the sound of sneakers pounding on the concrete, and turned to see Harry running towards him carrying a flashlight that bobbed with each stride.

“Hey, Harry.” Fred stated trying to remember why he agreed to this in the first place, but knowing he couldn’t back out now. He was too far in, and he didn’t want to ruin his perfect reputation back at school.

“Hey, Fred.” Harry replied smiling, and pulling out a cigarette. He lit it, and puffed a few. He offered it to Fred, but he refused. Fred was an athlete and knew how important his lungs were. Harry cursed when the wind snuffed his cigarette, and he tossed it on the ground and grounded it out with the heel of his shoe.

“What are we doing here?”

“You’re going to go in there and bring something out?”

“What?!!!?” Fred screamed, his anger boiling in his throat.

“Come on, you ain’t a panzy is ya?” Harry asked, his failure in grammar class apparent.

“No, I’m not. But I’m not going in there!”

“Fine, I’ll tell everyone you’re a panzy.” Harry replied tauntingly, staying out of the reach of Fred’s hitting range.

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Fred replied, gulping nervously.

“Ok then, get to it.”

Fred walked up the worn out path that led to the Melburn’s place, walking over the broken cobblestones. The house was built based on colonial ages, including the overhanging balcony. Fred jumped at the sound of the thunder roaring in the sky, but grudged on when he heard Harry snicker. Fred, opened the door to the house and stepped in. Harry watched him from his hidden spot behind the bushes in the street. He even heard the sound of the door closing. He waited, listening to the minutes tick by on his Casio watch. He waited, and he waited. Scared, he ran home and alerted the authorities. The authorities searched the house the next day, but there was no sign of Fred.”

I stared at the old man, not completely believing a word of his story, until I saw the glint in his eyes. That one of mischievous deeds of a younger child, a young teen. “You’re….hhhhiii-m.” I stuttered, my mouth not quite working properly, and the cushion seemed to big at that time. I stirred in my seat, my mind screaming Leave now, run away. But my body wouldn’t budge, my curiosity had won over my fear.

“How?” I asked, simply.

“That’s another story, child.” The old man replied, that look boring into mine. I flinched backwards, but held my ground mentally.

“Tell me.” I demanded.

“It’s getting late, and it’s time for you to leave before your parents worry.” The old man replied, and I turned to look at the time.

“What parents?” I replied turning back around to find an empty reading chair. I was left alone in the house, with a mindful of questions and just a glass of lemonade. I grabbed the glass, and downed it. The intoxicating liquid tasting wonderful in my throat. I ran out of the front door, and up the driveway back towards town. I looked back once at the end of the drive, to see that same old man looking at me. But then I saw that nervous child, afraid but not afraid. I turned, and ran down the streetlight lit road.

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The Story Around the Fire


The day was cold, and dark clouds rumbled their fury. Rain pounded the roof, and lightning danced through the sky. It didn't disrupt the joyous singing and dancing commencing within the great hall of Herot. I sat lazily upon my throne, encrusted with jewels that shone in dazzling arrays of colors when the fire reflected off them. I scratched a callused hand through my scraggly beard before returning it to it's greedy touch on the gold encrusted goblet. The goblet's surface was smooth and textured, hinting at the soft almost airy touch of the craftsman's fingers as he worked on his masterpiece.

I lifted the goblet to my mouth and the hungry throat that awaited it there. Almost seeming to demand it's thirst to be fed by the heavy, syrupy drink. It fell down my throat, tingling the sensitive passageway on it's way down. I shivered despite the heavy fur cloak that rested upon my shoulders; but, not from the cold seeping through the tiny cracks ,hidden in the mason's masterwork, only to be forced back out by the fires scorning flames. No, I shivered from the warm, heated filling that the mead awoke on it's passage. I replaced the goblet beside my plate on the smooth, masterful carved piece of wood that served as my table, and belched contentedly. I turned to the other throne placed adjacently beside mine. There I saw the comforting, loving eyes of my love. My wife, Welthow. I smiled, and cupped my callused hand, worn with the swordsman's grip, over her smooth, soft hand. She returned my warming smile, and placed her hand comfortingly in mine and squeezed gently.

I arose quietly and dignified from my throne, gifted with the love of God. I raised a hand in a signal for quiet. The loud, joyous conversations around each comforting fire began to dim slowly. The fires of my people danced before the flickering flames, as I gazed throughout my great hall. Herot, the pride of my people and my rule. "Hail, Hrothgar!" It started as a single voice among hundreds, but grew in volume as each voice added it's to the chorus. The chanting, full of love and respect, reverberated throughout the hall.

"Quiet my people, allow your gracious and humble king a chance to speak before you all." My voice coming through my cracked lips, seemed less commanding than in the vibrant days of my youth. As if my great sails, once so proudly blowing in the wind, have slowed and begun to tear. The chanting began to slowly quiet, somewhere it must've started again. I stirred restlessly within my fur cloak, which seemed to hot all of a sudden. I fiddled with the gold collar about my neck, the gold was warm to the touch but not scornful. The sign of my rule, and my power as a king. "Thank you for coming to this feast, every last one of you. That includes you troublemakers, as well. (There was some snickering at that.) We, my people, have gathered in this great hall today to celebrate another victory. (Loud cheers erupted, but quieted at the look hinting there was more for me to say.) Today we won, through our courage and spirit. Many warriors we lost today, but none will be forgotten in our hearts. Continue with your feasts, but remember. Without friend's sacrifices, the world isn't worth living in." I raised my goblet, and rose it in a cheer. Drowning the addicting liquid like a cow chews cud. The warm liquid tasted like heaven to my throat, parched from the long speech.

Speaking, once so easy that the words flowed from my lips like a river through it's bed or a talented musician plucks the strings of his instrument from memory and practice. But, now the words dam at the tip of my tongue and lay there out of my reach. Hour passed by, with the happy conversations beginning to die down as men settled down within their blankets near the cozy, sleepy flames of the fires. I retired with my beautiful Welthow to our chambers, and the warm blankets of sleep that awaited my tired eyes. But, as we lay nestled together beneath the warm, thick, fur blankets warm and content I couldn't sleep. I reached out, and rested a toned, muscled arm over her. I listened awhile to the slow and rhythmic breathing of her as she nested among the warmth of sleep. I turned my tired eyes, and gazed at the roof. Though I was looking at the ceiling, I saw through to the stars almost as if the ceiling were made of transparent glass.

The storm had long ago during the festivities and joyous partying. I chuckled quietly within my mind at the thought of the angry storm blackening the sky and raging it's fury over the ocean where none were aware of it. The stars formed constellations of gods, and other holy entities. Some of them, long since forgotten from the days of Earth when she was young. A lazy cloud straggled by, a smudge upon the midnight canvas. The wind whistled a tune of it's creation, and something else. Almost like a slow, steady moan. As if something were in eternal pain with no cure. I was lost among the stars, and paid no heed.

I heard not, the sound of the crunching as the silent creature walked slowly and with a purpose through the marsh. It's head ringing with the sounds of laughter and singing. It's body ugly, and covered in slime. Cursed forever to be alone, and unable to understand why. It hated, and hated. It cared nothing for any other emotion. The men and their laughter, it brings me pain. They must pay, and learn. Echoed through it's mind like an old record with no switch for 'off'.

I heard not the sound of the door, as it was torn from it's hinges. Like a small stick, though it must've weighed hundreds of pounds. I heard not the sound of it's slimy feet, as they squished across the floor and trailed slime. I smelt not the ugly stench of the marshes, and the deeper scent of hatred. I saw not, the faces of my men, my loyal followers as they were torn to shreds by the monster's claws. I saw nor smelt not the sight of blood smeared upon the wall or the smell of blood as it rushed from incurable wounds. I knew nothing of it, until morning arose. What a beautiful morning as well, full of the smell of spring and pollen. I stretched, eager to begin the day. Unaware of the quiet, of the hush of the great hall. I walked into a hall of silence, not of laughter. When I saw the look of my people, and the blood smeared on the wall. The empty blankets, where once great warriors slept. I broke down, and cried.

I stared around the fire, at the faces of the young. Their was a mixture of feelings among them. Some had anger flaring in their eyes. Others were afraid and hid their tears of fright. I smiled behind my snowy beard, long and thinning with age. I began to stand to leave. "What about the monster?" I smiled, and patted the child's head. Sighing, and with a mischievous smile I simply replied. "That my child, is a story for another time."


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Pardon the grammatical mistakes, these are old stories.