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.

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.

Room of Darkness

Thomas awoke as he felt strong pulses from the world around him. He felt the pain of his connected one. Is it my fault? He thought. At least, he thought he was male. He had heard knocks on his room walls echoing a name, “Thomas”. He assumed it was his, as it was repeated many times, correlated with the knock. He was imprisoned in this room, he knew not for how long.

His I.V. gave him energy, unable to disconnect himself as he knew no other way to eat. What laid outside his room? It was dark, but he knew the surrounding area. He lived for what seemed like an eternity, dragging his hands and feet against each wall, each crevice, attempting to find a way out. He just knew of the I.V. he was connected to helped him live. What was out there? He wondered. The voices outside his walls talked of food, nature, water, countries, trinkets, all forms of things Thomas did not recognize, did not know. He only knew his room of darkness, his thoughts which gave him comfort, his thoughts that proved he was alive.

He felt he existed for a purpose. His purpose was to escape. He knew a way out, but could not get through; he was too weak. What am I supposed to do? Thomas thought.

Any time, I think, the female voice outside his walls said.

The female voice spoke of places, foods, extravagant things. Detailed descriptions would calm him, he could almost picture them in his head. He knew of texture, but not colour; they spoke of yellows, blues, greens, and reds, sometimes even violets and oranges. They intrigued him, he wondered what they would be. He only knew darkness, feelings, textures, and sounds. He dreamed of the outside world, wondering when his home would free him, when he could become a person of the outside as the voices were. Who were they? Where did they come from? Are they god? Thomas would think. He could feel their caress of the wall, he felt their feelings even in the darkness.
    It’s happening! The female yelled.

What was happening? His walls slowly closed in on him, slowly but surely. Then rapidly. He felt pain, squeezed by the walls of his prison. Is this the end? He thought. Surely, it was over. Only his imagination comforted him now, as he felt the room of darkness betrayed him. The exit he predicted showed an opening, he was drawn to it. He ran to it, barely escaping. His eyes opened, barely able to handle what came next. Intense white came after the blackness of night, a light he saw more powerful than anything he had ever experienced; the light of day, colours flew through his eyes, now in agony. He escaped his prison of darkness to view the colours of the world. Whites, greens, greys, blues and yellows and oranges and more. He could not breathe; a swift smack upon his back caused him to split up his breath, breathing air now, not liquid.
    “Congratulations, Mrs. Lown. It’s a boy!”

Thomas wondered what his new purpose would be, now that he had escaped his prison.