Eyes of Revenge

Orbonne’s fist was wet from his enemy’s blood. Barga laid on the ground, laughing maniacally. Orbonne had been chasing him across the continent, from town to town, city to city. The man who killed her parents. He was a thief, a brigand, dirty and ragged. He stunk of sour sweat and shit, and now, blood. She pounded her fist across his chin again and again, half his teeth knocked out, his smile crooked all the same. The thunder rolled outside, cracks of lightning lighting the room intermittently. The raindrops fell harder than a battering rams upon the ground

“I’m not done…” he coughed, throwing her off him. Barga scrambled to his feet, arms long like spider limbs, skin and bone. His hair was dark brown and stringy, covered in oil.

“Dammit you bastard, why won’t you die?” Orbonne yelled.

“I don’t die. That’s the fun part.” Barga laughed. He clenched his fists, eyes bulged out, almost as if to pop.

She couldn’t believe her eyes. His bruises faded, lacerations healed, the blood seeped into the wounds and closed. He chuckled more and more. “No, that’s impossible!”

“Impossible? No. Just unbelievable.” he said. Barga’s voice slithered like a snake, his breath smelled of rotten fruit and excrement.

“You bastard. You won’t win, you can’t, I won’t let you!”

“Then lets go, little girl. Lets see what you’re made of, lets see if you’ll die like your parents, like a pathetic coward, too afraid to finish the job.”

Orbonne clenched her fists and bared her teeth. I can’t give up, i can’t. He may be able to heal, but he can’t go without breath, she thought. She dashed in, striking him twice under the ribs as he laughed. Barga shot his elbows down, knocking her wrists. He brought his fists down on either side, boxing her ears. She staggered back, growling in pain. Her ears rang, vision fogged as she saw him charge. Barga threw her to the ground, striking her in the nose twice causing it to bleed profusely. She caught his hands, he forced it into her face slowly, and her instincts triggered. She quickly opened her mouth, biting down with her jaw with all her might, cutting through his fingerflesh. He roared and screamed, rolling off her, onto his back. she seized the opportunity, shooting onto him. “Heal this!” she yelled. Orbonne threw her hands into his eyes, ripping them out of the socket. she jumped off quickly, throwing them out the broken window of the shack.

“What the hell, you bitch!” Barga rolled on the ground, writhing in pain. He clenched his fists rightly, veins popping from his forehead. Nothing happened, no matter how hard he tried, how intensely he breathed, his eyes did not return. Now to finish it. Orbonne jumped on him once more, gripping his neck with all her might. He swung for her face, pummeling her with strikes again and again. Her face stung and consciousness weakened, but she did not give up.

His arms tired, his breathing slowed until he could not hit her anymore. His arms lay flat on the ground as his lungs gave out. She continued for another half-minute it seemed, until she was sure. Thunder rumbled and lightning cracked, illuminating Barga’s dead body as she finished the job.

“Die, you son of a bitch,” she breathed heavily, seeing her task done. She had gotten her revenge. Orbonne looked down to her hands, covered in his blood. Did I really do the right thing? She looked out to the pouring rain for guidance. As his body laid lifeless, she knew.

You’re god damn right.

Colourful Nightmare

Joe entered the building he saw the freak of a criminal enter. There was no back up within ten miles, and this was the closest he had come to the colour killer, ever. A fright of a man, if one could call him that. Dressed with pants with stripes of all colours, several layers on his torso in neon green, pink, red, blue, yellow and all others. He wore a big red cover on his nose, and dyed the ring of hair around his white-painted bald head red. He was a clown. A living nightmare of many, and somehow was almost impossible to find. Joe Mandana found him in the act, running into this seemingly abandoned warehouse downtown in the middle of the night.

He entered to find something he did not expect. The door slammed violently behind him, and he heard nothing but eerie carnival music, with old-fashioned tones and bells. He came to a brightly coloured red-and-yellow room, with five open doors, numbered one to five in big rounded blue lettering, and a final closed door with a star around it, door closed.

Ha, ha, ha…

He heard the delighted cackle of the colour killer. A laugh he had heard at every crime scene played over and over, a laugh he feared. The light flickered overhead, blacking out in random intervals. His skin crawled, goosebumps all over. He looked behind him time and time again expecting the killer to be there with his signature weapon, a curved jagged knife, and a wide yellowed smile that could scare any child, adolescent, or adult into tears.

Pick a door...any door...complete them all to win! ha, ha, ha…

Joe had to press on. He chose 2, his favourite number.

Your favourite, Joe! I knew it was your favourite! Ha, ha, ha…

His legs shook, his hands trembled with his gun barely ready. He came to a bright green hall, covered in blood. He walked through, lights flashing on and off. His shoes squished on the crimson flow as he sauntered, come to a target range.

Guns, Joe! Shooting! Your favourite! Ha, ha, ha…

The killer’s wretched voice rang out, and a track began to run left to right, he expected targets to appear. They did, but not normal targets...heads. Painted with a bullseye between the eyes. He could not fail, they’re already dead, they’re already dead, he thought. He shot true, his hands steadied and fired bullets, one round per head, right on the target’s centre.

Great job, Joe! I’m so proud! Only four left! Ha, ha, ha…

Joe quickly ran from the range, almost slipping on the blood on his way back. This time, he chose number four.

Four? I don’t like the number four. But it’s important before getting to five! Ha, ha, ha…

Another hallway, ran the same length, this time covered in shit. The smell was absolutely putrid, he almost threw his stomach contents all over the hall. He had to press on. In the next room, he found a massive body, a man of five hundred pounds, with a puncture in his belly. A ticking sound came from beside it, a large black box, with a keyhole and timer marked ‘1:00’, started counting down immediately. 59...58...57.

Search for the key, Joe! Time is of the essence! Ha, ha, ha…

Joe stuck his hand into the man’s bloody torso, wringing his hand around rapidly as the timer counted down. He stuck his other hand in, searching for something solid. He searched high and low, he was up to his shoulder when he finally found a key in the man’s throat, Joe should have started with the mouth. He ripped the key out, guts all over his arms. He hated this game. He knew he had to play it, or it was all over. Before the timer hit 0, he shoved the key in and turned it, stopping the bomb. Joe whipped his arms around in a panic, trying to get the flesh off his skin. He lurched forward, puking all over the dead man’s leg. Joe turned and ran to his next objective.

The flashing lights got on his nerves, he roared angrily before turning to number 1.

We’re number one! We’re number one! Ha, ha, ha!

The blood-curdling laugh surged through his mind and felt poisoned by the thought as carnival music played over and over. The next hall was blank. Nothing there at all. The room was a simple task, hitting the pressure plate with a hammer, ring the bell. Joe grabbed the hammer with his big arms, swung down with all his might. Before it arrived, a man’s head rose from the ground, and a scream followed. The scream was silenced by the hammer’s impact, and blood sprayed from the head. It was his partner...Robert. No, what have I done? “Damn you, you bastard!” He dropped to his knees. holding the pieces of skull in his bloody hands. Adrenaline filled his veins, he knew he had to press on. He would mourn for his friend after his mission was over.

Hahaha! That was great! This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time, Joe! Ha, ha, ha…

He went for the number three. He ran through the hall, paying little attention to the surroundings. In the room, he found a stack of papers beside a lock.

Better find the combo, joe! You don’t unlock the code, everyone in room five dies! Ha, ha, ha…

He searched and searched, it was his documents, on the colour killer. He found a circled number, 15. There were ‘ha’s listed all over the place, over undetermined evidence, misread fingerprints, mistaken suspects. He was taunting Joe. The evil laugh echoed, over and over through the halls, through Joe’s very soul. Joe found another, 35. He continued to check behind him, fearing the killer would slice his throat at any time. Eviscerate, disembowel, as bad as his previous victims. The worst part was, the bastard was having fun. The final was circled, 23. Joe entered the combo, and the chest opened. It was a dart gun. What, what is this? Joe picked it up, running to the final room. It was splayed with blood, and five people sat at the end of the room, behind glass.

His wife, his sister, his daughter, his brother, his father. They were tied to chairs, each with a target on the glass in front of them. Joe took out his real gun, firing it at the top of the glass. No effect, it was bulletproof.

Then he came. He was there. The vile, rotten smile, the bulging green eyes, the colourful pants, the bright vest, jacket, and shirt.

“Hahaha! Hello, Joe!” He smiled widely. There were tears in all eyes watching him, except his. The killer had an insane happiness to them. “Now for the final game before we talk! Pick one, only one, and shoot their target with the dart! That one better be your favourite, oh yes! That’s an important point! Don’t shoot it at your least favourite, pick only one, Joe! You only have one dart!”

“Let my family go, you sick bastard!” Joe yelled.

“Now now, my good man! Have a little fun, shoot one, or you’ll cause more pain than you need!” He said with a gleeful jig to go with the carnival music playing.

Joe raised the dart gun, jittering wildly. Who do I choose? I have to...my daughter, I have to choose her, Joe thought. He aimed it at his daughter, shooting her target. He cried for all of them, his family, his friends.

“Oh my, the expected choice! But the right one, Joe! Don’t you worry, I’m giving her a tranquilizer!” The insane clown injected Joe’s daughter’s neck, and she fell asleep. “I hope you’ve enjoyed this event! This one is my favourite!” He smiled, pulling out a jagged, curved knife. He went, one by one, slitting the throat of each, their muffled screams called from beyond the glass accompanied by splattering of blood from their necks.

Joe bashed on the glass as hard as he could, shot his gun, nothing. He was helpless as his family died.

“Hehehe! Joe, better get to the final door, will you get your revenge? Will I have a bit of fun? Only time will tell!” The colourful, sick clown danced a jig as he walked off the stage through a door. Joe bared his teeth, clenching his fists harder than ever before. He slowly backed off, I will avenge you, he said to them, running toward the star door, now open. The light flickered inside, every part of him shook as the laugh got louder and louder.

Ha, ha, ha...Ha, ha, ha!

The clown’s laugh was maniacal and horrid, Joe held his gun out, analyzing every nook and cranny. He entered a final room with eight sides, eight doors. No, not again.

Where am I, Joe? Which door will I come from, which one of us will win? Stay tuned!

The clowns voice faded, the music faded. Joe heard nothing except the rapid beat of his heart and quickened breaths. He spun around, time and time again, gun pointed at each door, whichever he could see. He wouldn’t let the damned killer sneak up on him now.

A slick rush of pain shot across his throat, his torso began to feel wet as the stench of blood filled his nostrils. He felt weak, powerless.

“Ha, ha, ha...looks like I win again, Joe...have a nice sleep!” The clowns laugh came from beside his ear, growing in volume and insanity as Joe fell to the ground.

Ha, ha, ha...Ha, ha, ha! HA, HA, HA!

The Dark

Jared’s new ship, the venarian swept through space at breakneck speeds, moving from one colony to the next. He was a spare part merchant scavenging for materials on dead planets long abandoned selling parts to whoever would buy. Times were tough, and those brave enough to traverse the dead rocks filled with various native beasts were lucky enough to enjoy the spoils.

Jared stared out the Grand front window of the cockpit, where his son snuck up behind, wondering what was in their view.

“Daddy, what’s that?” His son Michael asked. He was the age of eight, barely four feet tall with hair fire red as Jared’s was. His point led to a massive circle of total darkness, with a bright fire swirling around it’s side, seeping into the middle.

“That’s a black hole, son. It’s sucked a star into it’s pull.” Black holes were eerily beautiful, total black nothingness, crushing all that came within its grasp.

“Why does it do that? It looks like nothing’s even there.” Michael said curiously.

“That’s because it’s centre is so dense, it pulls everything toward it, using it’s gravity. Isn’t that neat?” Jared looked back to see his son confused. “What I mean is, it’s something so heavy that nothing exists around it.” Michael’s head tilted.

The space around it seemed warped, bent and twisted. Relativity rang true near it, time passing years by the minute. He loved gazing into them, it was fascinating, he wished to get slightly closer. He stared into the dark, hypnotized by it’s allure. The bright star swinging round slowly, moving into it’s mighty centre, disappearing. The space bent so wildly that it dragged around it it seemed. Jared couldn’t look away.

Abyss, grand sphere of a single point, a singularity. Bending all to it’s will, time, space, energy, the wills of men. Many have flown into it and disappeared, theorized to have been crushed, or ascended to a higher dimension. Where gravity travels, where time has no meaning, all there is are gods and energies. The essence of gods sat within, Jared knew it. He was set into a trance, unable to move his hands, his limbs, his eyes. All he could see now was the black. Muffled yells and tugging on his shirt came from the periphery, Michael could be heard but not seen, only one thing could be viewed by Jared forever more, as the venarian passed beyond the horizon into the truth beyond.

           The dark.

Blood and Shadow

Round and round they circled, long blades swirling overhead under the moonlight. Ash crept low to the ground in armor black, while Mal, armor of crimson stood tall and mighty. Brothers, one born of shadow, the other of blood. The two fought constantly, training one another to be stronger, to be better, but hatred ran deep within the souls of both.

“You are foolish, brother.” Ash said in a hallowed voice. “You defy orders, and for what? Improvements?” He snarled, running in, crashing his blade against the other, high then low, left then right, swishing round with the sound of scraping metal before backing off once more.

“I make improvements. I set traps for your foolish victims, those blasted rebels, and you dare question my methods?” Mal replied gruffly. He outstretched his hand, leading a crimson mist from his brother’s chest to his fingertips. “Hah, you fool. What can you do against me? Your soul is weak.”

Ash laughed, barely standing as his life was being taken at a glacial pace. “Fool. You see what’s in front of you, nothing more!” Ash yelled, disappearing into nothing.

The light around Mal faded slowly, hair standing up on the back of his neck. “Where are you, you coward!” he yelled.

“Here.” Ash’s voice came from behind, as he moved like lightning, slicing Mal’s back to spill first blood.

Mal grunted in pain, gripping his back. He outstretched his hands, the mist gathered from his brother absorbed into it, closing the wound. “You bolster with confidence, yet you know nothing of my power, brother.”

“So you think!” Ash yelled as he backed into the dark forest, disappearing once more.

The sound of blade slicing through steel rang throughout the clearing, Mal’s screams followed as Ash shot from shadow to shadow, slicing his brother with innumerable strokes.

Mal dropped to the ground, bleeding profusely upon the lush grass. “Ha ha...seems you’re not totally incompetent. Fool!” Mal jumped up, catching his brother’s helm as he passed, draining the life force directly from his soul. Ash felt his energy stolen, slowly losing consciousness and all thought became impossible.

With his last ounce of strength, Ash stabbed his sword through his brother’s chest through a weakened spot, as his life was drained from his body. It was too late for him, for either of them. No power could save Mal from his mortal wound, not even the stolen life of his brother. Each collapsed, one bleeding to death, the other, now an empty shell.

“Well...played…” Mal croaked. “Gods...help...us…”

Heaven or Hell

I think I’m God.

I sat in my heavens, watching over the land. I brought light to all those that needed it, all those that deserved it. Fred, who opened the door for everyone. Sherry, who offered money to the homeless. Terry, who was polite to all that he meets. So many kind people, with dark, dark sides.

Sometimes I question what I did, Why I helped these people. they seemed so kind, so lovely, so polite, and yet, they were so dark.

Fred, you silly thing. He seemed like such a modest man, opening doors, yet he coveted every woman that passed. He has assaulted many, silently, in the dark of night, in the alleyways of night. Why would be deserve light, any forgiveness at all? Because he attended church, feels bad for what he does? I felt he did not deserve the forgiveness he desired, so I lured him into more darkness, more evil, so that he may burn with the rest.

Sherry, you fool of a woman. You offered money to them, but you stole from your company, you stole from your parents, jabbed them for money, yet giving nothing. Just because the homeless needed it does not bring forgiveness. I am those homeless people, watching you daily in your ways.

Terry, you horrid beast of a man. You were polite to all, yes. You said please and thank you, you asked questions nicely, you gave answers in the light of day. Yet when you arrived home, hated your family, yelled, abused and destroyed their lives. Did you believe I would save you from your sins? Did you think I would save your soul, shed light and forgive all that you really are, because you were sorry? No, I pushed you to more, so that you burn with them in the home I now reside.

Once I thought I was god, me, Lucifer, the lord of light. No, my friends. I do not believe I am God any longer.

I think I’m Satan.

Soldier of Fortune

          Splashing waters and buffeting winds beat against the side of the weakened steel boat he sat upon. His friends all looked to him with fear in their eyes as they cut through the waters toward the beach before them. He grew nervous as he readjusted his helmet feverishly as his hands shook as fast as the gunfire ahead. His helmet laid too large for his head. His uniform was too loose. His gun was awkward to hold. He was a simple man from his home country, no special talents, no special gifts. Socially inept as could be, a stutter plagued his speech and silence was his best conversation topic. Why did he even come here?

           He joined to fight for his fortune.

Bullets cut through the waters and boats, lighting flesh afire with sharp pains of war. All men ducked down swiftly to avoid the rain of death from above. The man looked to his friends again, fear encompassing their expressions before dead bodies of fellow men. The sounds of hell on high passed over with a guise of dorniers, raining judgement upon them from inexplicable forces. Propellers sang the lullabies of the reaper like the white noise before the tunnel’s light. Only true fortitude could face the evil before him - to resist and absorb the lightning war shot against them. To redirect the destruction of innocent homes with the fires of courageous heroes set to free the beliefs of innocent men, women and children. This man’s fortune came from his victory, what he wanted from the beginning.

CRASH

The steeled ram of the boat crashed upon the sand of the paradise-turned hell. The fires of betrayal burned bright from each tower, barricade and length of barbed wire strewn across the land. Nothing accompanied the man’s thoughts but the sounds of shells, casings and mines. A soldier found fear as his morning sun - always existing, day-by-day. His fear brought him what he desired most - what he needed most - courage. The fire in his eyes blew through the air as the grit of teeth, sounding as the sand whisked across the beach before him. His heavy boots carried on to the paradise that once was, knowing he was a tool of a cause he knew too well. A tool of his superior from whom he was hopefully paid.

He and his brothers ran forth, jumping over barricades and barbed wire blocks, past each bullet as if dodging every drop in a torrential downpour. Miraculous chance and luck carried them to their first wall. A thick bricked layer protecting them from the towers holding the fiery eyes of devils, searching for fools who backhanded their cause and sought to dismantle it. Piercing rounds could be heard reflecting off their backs as they sat, breath escaped through the branches of adrenalized lungs they carried. Panicked looks were exchanged before they hauled up from the wall to strike back against the eyes of the tower. Courageous yells bellowed from his allies as they fired the rounds of almighty will over the wall. Casings crashed upon the ground as bullets whisked through the air toward the covered barriers in the distance hiding the regretful soldiers of the lightning war. His fortune gained from this risk far outweighed the deaths he witnessed.

Silence filled the surrounding area. As he looked left and right, he was alone. His friends had fallen beside him in their fight. Their shineless eyes laid motionless as crimson rivers flowed from their wounds to stain their uniforms. He looked back toward the waters seeing boats massacred by the propelled death machines, fearful screams emerging from the steeled hulls cutting toward the sands. Courageous roars followed, more and more feet running onto the granular battlefield of their redemption. Surrender was not an option. As the bodies of his allies piled, his fortune did not increase, his cut did not grow, he thought, it remained static.

The lives of great men falling to their knees as steeled monsters split through their bodies and explosive tirades emerging from mines beneath them. Casualties grew as they advanced upon the beach. His widened eyes dilated with fear as he knew his fate would be the same.

Why was he here?

Why did he choose to come?

Why risk everything?

His fortune.

           He fought for his fortune, he thought. “Do not forget your reward for this battle.”, the man repeated over and over in his head. More men traversed the beach, less falling than before. They even passed the wall he sat behind. He knew he had to continue.

His heart rate blew past normal limits as adrenaline coursed through his veins. His weapon gripped with the strength of a titan, teeth clenched, eyes narrowed. Deep, intense breaths amped up his courage to traverse his wall. His awkward personality was masked by a hero’s vigor. The morale of the men around him called him to honour. A fire burned within his heart for the fortune he desired.

Up he leapt, crawling over the brick wall now covered in bullet wounds. He rose to see two towers in front of him, surrounded with bodies of his friends, his brothers. Two men in each tower, with long rifles. An assault began with him, as allies ran beside him in his charge. Running in unpredictable lines, he dodged the rain of fire coming from the reaper’s towers. He fired his weapon to bust the handle of the door, knocking it open with his unfitted boot. He entered the huge metal beast with two others, shooting the enemies within with vengeant lead. The dead enemy uniforms showed betrayal of the nations. The three traversed the stairs, bullets coming down from the roof as the enemies knew they had been compromised. Each ally he ran with fell to the violent rounds of the guns above. The man ran forth, emanating courage like an inferno. He fired his weapon, destroying the two enemies atop the tower. One rose again before he could react, drawing forth with a sharpened knife that penetrated his flesh torso. With his final strike, the soldier fell to the ground in agony from the bullet.

Feeling his life escape from the bladed wound, the man fell to the ground, feeling the light come upon him to bring him home. He could not go - his mission was not over. He defied the light one last time. His muscles pulsed with agony as he rose slowly to his feet once more.

His helmet was too large, it helped clear his mind.

His uniform was loose, giving him more freedom.

His weapon was awkward, to suit the man who wielded it.

Weapon raised, heroic power on high brought him strength - he fired his last death notes toward the second tower, death’s reapers still upon the top. With exquisite accuracy, bullets penetrated their uniforms as they shook to the ground in defeat. He basked in victory as the towers blistering this hell now stood defeated. His friends and brothers could now traverse the beach freely, to continue to mission they started to free the helpless. His mind grew weak as blood filtered onto the steel floor of the tower’s peak. He knew he was one of the ten thousand men on the day of tides, the turning of the war. One of ten thousand men who gave their lives, with thousands upon thousands more in the days to come. One of ten thousand heroes.

It did not matter to him whether he laid upon the beach of Juno, Gold, Sword, Utah or Omaha.

It did not matter to him which country he hailed from, or what his name was.

It did not matter to him whether the war was fought with guns, blades, or arrows.

His fortune was now his.

          His wife and child stood before him. Ethereal bodies smiling at him as he bled rivers of life for them. His fortune was their survival. His sacrifice meant life for the ones he loves - and millions of others.

          His life, he thinks, is nothing compared to the victory this day provides.

This man does not fight for wealth, or glory, or any extraneous ephemera.

This man fights for freedom of belief, for truth, against oppression, against evil.

This man is the most valuable resource a country can hold.

He is a true soldier of fortune.

Final Words

"The date is January 6th, 2095. You stand convicted of spreading false knowledge and belief to the masses. Your sentence is death by the electric chair. Do you have any last words?” The Judge said, standing before the man in the chair.

“Yes, your honour. I wish to apologize for what I’ve done. I apologize first and foremost for the evil things I have done this past year. I have evaded taxes, insulted friends, yelled at family. I have sat in my cell, moping to myself, not recognizing the crimes I have committed against humanity. Why didn’t I see my folly before? Why didn’t I see my foolish ways? Was it because of the history of my work? The changes in laws? I beg you, your honour, look at the past, look at what we’ve become. We live in a society where a man such as I, as foolish as I am for breaking the laws, is convicted of a more severe crime in the eyes of the state than murder, rape, perjury, and many others. How could I do this to all of you, you ask? It is an important question, a necessary question that I ask myself every day. I sit in my home waiting for my daughters to come home. They come to me asking about our world and what is at the end. ‘What’s off the end of the world, daddy?’ They would ask me. It is a crime to go against the beliefs of the state, so I committed this crime day by day. I told them, no girls, the world isn’t flat. We did land on the moon. Vaccines are good for you. Yet, our society has been so paralyzed by fear, so cynical of science and real facts that they can’t see the truth. Our world is round. We did land on the moon. God dammit, vaccines saved millions of lives, and now we live in an age where diseases like measles, polio, and so many more are rampant, ravaging communities and populations in the country. We lose thousands and thousands a year to these diseases. Why? Because no one is vaccinated. Because we don’t believe in doctors, antibiotics or painkillers. Because ‘natural’ things are better. Want to know what else is natural? Cyanide. Opium. Multiple poisons that kill in seconds. We don’t understand the consequences of what we do anymore. No one sees the pain, the death and the sorrow we cause by not believing in fact, in evidence. Those are my last words, your honour. Asking you, all of you, to believe in evidence. You once asked me if I felt sorry for putting these vile thoughts of science in children’s minds..do I? Sure, I apologize for trying to educate everyone on the importance of reality, evidence and truth. Gave mercy on all your souls.”
    The judge stood at beside him on the table, nodding to the guard who would flip the electrocution switch. He furrowed his brow, showing no sign of kindness. “May god have mercy on yours, heathen.”

Revenge of the Past

Jindo Folikara kicked open the door of the majestic building that was Virkan Jikari’s home. It was filled with ornate statues, various ceremonial blades and weapons from his time of reign. Virkan had since retired, but his acts remained at large. The rain poured like a tsunami upon the land, unstoppable, but Jindo remained steadfast in his plight.

“Fifteen years...fifteen years I waited for this day.” Jindo said in his gruff voice.

Virkan’s eastern home was delicate like a flower, but powerful like a bull. Painted with crimsons and violets, with accents of gold and silver slashed along the ceilings. Murals of Virkan’s work  were on every wall, statues of him and his equipment lined the halls of his massive home.

“My family will rest after I take my vengeance.” Jindo wore his white linen cloth robe, with a loincloth beneath it. His blade, Kirkaaiden, the mythical blade of the west, sat sheathed on his left hip. His hand stayed with the hilt, not leaving it for anything, ready to unleash his might upon the devil of the east.

He carefully walked through the home, seeing no one. Jindo trailed for fifteen years to become the most powerful swordsman in the land. Only one man stood in his way - the undefeated champion, the one who killed Jindo’s family. He would have vengeance, taking life and the title from Virkan. A large man, broad as a tree and thick-headed the same. Jindo had never forgiven him. His rage seethed and grew over the time he trained, being his motivation, his notion to live. His purpose was justice.

Where was everyone? He thought. He heard a woman’s laugh, and a child’s pattering footsteps. Jindo slowly approached, hand-on-hilt. His long flowing black hair blew in the wind that came through the house, his eyes narrowed, teeth clenched.

He came to a large room, seeming to be a reading and writing room. A monster does not read or write. He saw a tall slender woman with a narrow wrinkled face, and a young girl, roughly four years old, running in from the vegetable patch behind the home, soaked with rain. The woman looked up, shocked at the intruder.

“Who are you?” She said suspiciously. The young child clinged to her leg with an iron grip, seeing the large man in front.

“I am Jindo Folikara. Where is Virkan Jikari?” Jindo commanded.

“He was my husband, I am his wife, Sakina. This is our daughter, Hikari.”

“Where is he?” He asked again, in a more serious tone, preparing to draw his blade, heightening his senses to listen for any possible interference or assassins.

“My husband is dead.” She said, with a sullen look. “He died of old age two months ago. We are all that is left, we live here alone.”

“Dead? Dead?” He roared, the little girl hid further behind her mothers leg. Jindo was enraged. A man massacres a society, including Jindo’s family, and leaves free as a bird into the hands of death at old age. Impossible! How could this be? A man such as he does not deserve mercy.

Jindo drew his blade slowly. He needed more. He needed his vengeance, and he would have it. Dead or not, Virkan would pay.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“It’s as they say, madam...blood must have blood.”

Jindo’s blade sliced through their bodies clean as through water. Their screams were quick, then quieted. The wood of the floor was stained crimson from Jindo’s revenge. He had no purpose now, he wished to join his family. He knelt to the ground, accepting his defeat. Seppuku was the honourable option, and he took it. Digging his blade through, his last thought was of his wife and daughter, hoping they did not hate him for the vengeance he took.

Change of Fate

Chris sat at his bus stop, on his way to work - his bus was early, so he had some time to wait. Why not strike up a conversation? “Hey, I’m glad it’s sunny today, aren’t you?” He said to the large black-robed person beside him.

“No, I prefer the clouds.”

“What? Why’s that? Afraid of the light?”

“You could say that.”

“‘Cmon bud, no need to be glum. Are you on your way to work?

“I’m always at work. I’m at work now.”

“Are you between jobs? I have a friend that could set you up. What kind of work do you do?”
“I deal with dead people.”

“Oh! A mortician? A funeral director? I have a brother in the morgue, actually! Also an old high-school friend who works at a funeral home. They might be hiring, do you want me to check? I think I’ll do that now!”

“No, I don’t want those jobs. I have one.”

“Oh! What kind of job is that, then?”

“I take souls to the afterlife when they’re ready, sometimes when they aren’t.”

“Are you a religious man? Say, what’s your name?”

“Death.”

“That’s a little morbid. No worries, though. I got some time here and I’m enjoying our chat. Do you have any family?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad. Especially with thanksgiving coming up. It’s cold outside, but we have a well-heated home. I have a car, but I take the bus for the environment. Have to do my part, y’know?”

“Yes, I understand that.”

“Whaddya say? Want to come to my family’s for thanksgiving? We get a lovely pot roast, a turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, my wife has the best recipes!”

“That does sound good.”

“I know, right? We’d love to have you over, you seem like a hard-working, lovely gent. My kids love visitors! Plus, that’s a mighty swave robe! What’s that thing in your hand there?”

“A scythe.”

“Ooh, pointy! Seems really cool. That’d cut a turkey with no effort at all! Say, this is all making me hungry.”

“Me too.”

“Hey, cheer up, bud. I know we get down sometimes, we might have a tough job, here or there, but it’s for the greater good, you know? I don’t know exactly what you do, but you help people make it where they need to go, am I right?”
“Yes, I suppose you are right.”

“My bus is coming up here. It’s the 7, takes me to my office. I work at Unicef! It’s great work, I just love it. Hey, if you’re interested in coming to my thanksgiving, come on over! We live at 45 brickenwand lane, up by 23rd. It’s at six on sunday, don’t be late, you hear? I’d love to have you there!”

“I’ll be there.”

Chris was about to step forward to the bus.
“Chris, wait a moment.” Death knew his purpose, but in meeting Chris, decided to alter fate.
Chris stopped, turning around. “What’s up, my robed friend?”

A motorcycle sped into the curb behind the bus, flying forward at crushing speed, barely missing Chris, who looked behind him, shocked.

“Oh, nothing. Have a good day at work. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

“Jeepers, that was close. That’s fantastic! Have a lovely day!” Chris said, smiling, getting on the bus.

“You too, Chris.”