The year is 5092 A.D. for those who still believe in the good man; or can remember a time when there were good men; or that there ever even could have been such a thing as a good man. The colonization of other planets has been mastered, but a terrible war has plunged most into a state of utter turmoil. The people live in ruin- choked by their own greed. The universe has been hurled into a medieval state of darkness. Lawlessness and deceit have obscured our sense of ethics and morals. Those who seek virtue are repaid with scorn. Life as we know it... No, we couldn’t begin to dream...


For nearly a century they have held back the onslaught; they have been those who have kept the light alive in the darkness; protectors of peace. And yet, here their fathers, and their father’s fathers lay dead; here, they too would fall; and it would be here, here that their children would one day lie- their pale faces contorted with the sick grimace of one who knows their place is anywhere but where they stand. They persevered because they had too; because somewhere in the back of their collectives they knew that if they failed, there was no hope.
Most didn’t even remember why. They were merely born into it- as if their lives served no purpose but to continue the warfare that had always been. And that was the way this war was fought- neither for glory, nor for any material gain- but because of the persistent knowledge that someday it- as anything- must end. And then and only then, one would be triumphant, and thus the fate of the universe would be determined.
The stage was set, for what was sure to be the greatest story ever recorded. And our ostentatious little thespians did, most certainly, not disappoint.


It was the 97th anniversary of some long forgotten, accursed day, when the two began their bitter feud. There were no festivities, only the menacing thunder in the pale violet sky clapped with passion. As the downpour started, the sky lit up with a glorious crash, and you could see plainly through the night, the agony on each and every face, straining each and every muscle. “CRASH,” and again, the sky lit up like some unnerving landscape portrait- painstakingly detailed, down to the last drop of blood flowing from a felled infantrymen.
He stared from the tower in grief. Watching as his army was slowly driven back. Ah- it would pass. They had been moving back and forth for years, no one gaining ground on the other. He took a sip from a flask he kept under his seat. Yes- they would battle back. As he turned away, his door was thrust open by some nameless general. “Sir,” said the general, with the tone of someone who has stared death in the face, and boldly turned his face in shame, “Sir,” he repeated. “We have a problem.” He half expected to be stricken down at these words, “Their forces... They... They have broken through at the northern wall.” He flinched, but the blow never came. The general heard the emperor sigh.
“I grow weary of this,” he said as if pondering to himself. “I grow weary of this war; I grow weary of the pain; the suffering... I grow weary of this life we lead,” he took a step forward. “Do you know why we fight this war? Don’t bother- of course you don’t. You don’t understand as I do- I who sit up here, and watch! Do you understand what it’s like to watch your children die, and not be able to do anything! I just sit here, that is what I do! I sit here and watch as my people- my children- die before me!” He staggered for a moment and fell into his seat, head in hands, sobbing.
The general felt it his time to retreat to the battlefield. He pondered this for a moment and found an amusing irony to it. His spirits were lifted slightly as he left the tower, but were soon dispersed of as his thoughts once more turned to the wailing of the cannonade and the whizzing of bullets overhead.
The general was born into the war at its previous height in the 80th year. He- just as the rest- was nameless- a mere product bred to pick up the fight where its previous generation left it. As a general, however, he was granted time away from the asylum of war, and able to think freely of something other than the impending task of holding their opposition back. And at this moment his mind was pre-occupied by something in particular. The emperor’s words had had a deep impact on him. “Why are we fighting?” he asked himself. “Do we really hate each other? Are we really that dissimilar as to constitute spending our entire lives trying to kill each other? No, it couldn’t be. I refuse to believe it. I refuse to believe that any difference can be solved this way,” he paused, realizing the full depth of his words, letting them slowly sink in. “But then, if I, a mere general could reason so- why have the rest- my betters and, as well, my subordinates- why have they not come to that conclusion? Why is it, that they still are blind to this truth that becomes so evident to me?”
He queried over this enigma, and as he got up, remorse hung over his head- weighing him down as he once again took up the charge, leading his troops headlong into the darkest depths of hell.


The following day brought to recollections all of the suffering of years past. The scent of rot and gunpowder was deafening. They had succeeded in defending the wall, but had sacrificed a good many lives to do so. Not a shot was fired that day, but it felt to them as though this reprieve was just as trying- if not more so than the battle itself. The soldiers returned to their squalid, mud-stained quarters, and tried to remember better times...
He lit the small oil lamp in the corner, and began to read from a tattered book he’d pocketed in the field. The title burned deep into its front. He gazed at the pages and found solace in the bright pictures. They gave light to the black and white familiarity that consumed his life. Their faces gave him hope for a cease, and for his pains to end.
He watched as the children laughed and played; as they rolled around the grassy knoll- carefree as a bird in the sky. He imagined what it would feel like to be free; to be able to wake up in the morning, and let the fresh scent of the dewy meadow entice his every breath.
He felt himself slip into a dreamlike state... He was walking through a field... He sensed that he’d been there before, although he couldn’t recall when or how. He continued to walk along. He looked down at his feet; he could see the ground rippling as he stepped, like off a lake- as a child sits innocently skipping stones from the bank. He came to a halt and looked up; his eyes met a dazzling light. He was afraid, but couldn’t stand firm. He felt himself being unconsciously drawn to it. He reached out...
He heard a shout and withdrew; he felt the clammy hand of reality reach to him and grasp him in its numb, unfeeling grip. He saw the glorious light recede and fade into the darkness that bound him.
“Are you deaf?” came a voice behind him. He stirred slightly, but still did not move. “I said are you deaf?” evidently irritated at his stupidity. “Hello?” he added, now cursing under his breath.
He broke out of his daze.
“Oh, yes. What do you want?”
“Glad you’ve decided to join us,” he said mockingly. “They seem to be growing restless; we’re expecting fire soon. We need you at the front lines.”
“Yes, all right,” he said, slowly coming back to grips with what was going on around him.
The voice- which he discovered came from his commander-in-chief- led him out of his quarters, and into the faltering light of dusk. He squinted his eyes- scanning the horizon. The stars were out that night- a rare sight. The setting sun left the plains a brilliant shade of golden orange. As he walked he looked up towards heavens, and he found himself consumed with a feeling of... He couldn’t really explain it. It was as though it was the first time he’d ever really realized that there was something else out there than what he was bound to; some alternative. It was as though this were the first time he realized how insignificant he was in the whole scheme of the universe... How insignificant they all were.
The commander’s voice once again broke his thoughts. And he slowly descended back into a frame of mind more befitting someone at war.
“- It’s bloody despicable the way this thing is run ya know? I mean, we’re practically handing them the embankment on a damn silver platter already, and now they want us to shift our regiments?”
He nodded in feigned agreement, eager for silence.
“It’s just insane. We’re spread butter thin as it is. There’s no chance in hell we’re going to hold them if we lose even one more regiment... It’s just insane!”
The commander had turned a vivid scarlet by now. He took a sip from a bottle of gin and regained his composure.
“Here, follow me.”
The commander led him inside where his fellow soldiers sat grumpily. Some sat at tables- playing poker for rations; others staring at the ceiling longingly, with a far-off expression on their faces.
As the two entered time seemed to stand still. Everyone stopped and looked up, half-hoping for it to be some divine messenger, coming to tell them that it was finally over; that everything would be all right. Their expressions reflected their misery and despondency. He sat down and joined a game while the commander went discussing something with a number of the other high-ranking officers.
A pair- he lost again. No matter though; as of late he wasn’t usually hungry anyway. He was persistent in playing, although his thoughts drifted in and out of the game. By a half-hour in, he hadn’t a thing left for himself. He got up indiscreetly, and left the table with vacant eyes. He began pacing back and forth across the room; giddily humming a tune from long ago. Letting his mind go wandering; back to the field- back where life was serene.


A shot flew from the other side. They emerged from their bunker in preparation for battle. Arms loaded, they rushed to the front line and moved swiftly into position. They stood motionless; guns poised- facing forward; watching... waiting, for some- some unavoidable, an at once recognized signal. There came an impulsive shot from some poor, shaking soldier...
And so it began.

The cannons wailed in time with the cracks of the shots; and as they clashed together, a thunderous roar could be heard from all sides; all other sounds blocked out. Line after line; life after life they rode; battle cries; but little ways above their heads, the already fallen hung. Silent, but ever-felt audience, to the great tragedy below.
The senses fleeting from every man; each swinging madly without plan, with only the intent of inflicting pain of whomsoever crossed their path; be he foe or friend alike.
All motives forgotten, all the lessons, notwithstanding the life-long time spent, discovering what could only be seen from within; shattered in moments. Thoughts ran rampant in the chilled nighttime breeze, tormenting the soul; pronouncing their airy magnificence with a melodious tongue; beating it down with a gentle rhythm, calmly radiating amidst the torrent of rage filling every heart, evaporating into the mists of a stony gloom, flames of hate- fanned by passion.
Livid; out of character, he found himself trying to find a grasp back into reality. He felt himself emerging from the world, his being; he was floating, he could see himself... but he couldn’t stop. He stared transfixed. He knew what he was doing, but he didn’t understand it. He was in awe at this... this above-ness. He suddenly seemed to understand something, but he couldn’t say it. He reached for it, but it slipped from his hand; he fell.
He awoke, his first thought, “I’m dead, aren’t I?” He stood up. “So this is what it feels like... odd, I feel the same. But, then perhaps I’m not... though I can’t imagine how I couldn’t be. I suppose this is what comes of war then. Terrible thing it is. Why in the world we persist in it is beyond me.”
He looked up. He shielded his eyes from the sun and saw... nothing. No soldiers... no walls... nothing. He got up onto his feet and wandered around the open field, searching for some sign... something that might serve to explain.
As he moved cautiously along, he caught a glimpse of the sunlight, dancing across something out of the corner of his view. He bent down to pick it up. It was a necklace, neither fanciful nor set with any stone. A pendant of dulled gold, inscribed with some ancient script hung from it forebodingly. He carefully wiped the sand from its face and polished it against his tabard.
As he turned it slowly between his fingers he seemed lost in some invisible beauty flickering somewhere within its depths. He felt a craving to place it around his neck, but some other force held him back. He reluctantly slipped it into his pocket and drudged onward.


He found himself hiking alongside a hastily flowing river. On his left- across the river- lay forest, into a world he’d never yet seen; to his right, the past that lay now behind him. The two were so distant, yet still at that moment, so very close, that it was to him as though he stood in limbo; as though his whole life was to be summed up in the decision that now lay before him.
He took a glance to the right and suddenly felt a pang of guilt somewhere in his unconscious. He turned and strode across the bridge.

Around him he heard the soft cooing of the nighttime owl which mixed with the deafening silence of the confusion surrounding him. He followed an invisible path, laid by his unconscious and beckoning him to follow. Carefully brushing aside leaves and branches, he made his way through this rich jungle-

He’d been here before...

When? Where? He struggled to comprehend, but he felt it... and slowly his mind began to grasp the idea... he could feel it... through every vein it coursed, this, this energy all around him... He’d been here before.
He progressed unthinkingly, some unseen force directing him to some unknown destination. He emerged in a clearing and felt himself gaze upward as the millions of stars unveiled themselves to him in a dazzling display of heavenly brilliance. He was entrance and as he took in the magnitude of what lay above him- so small we are, so insignificant, each light up there, a million lives, so many and yet to each only one... and what do we do with it, waste it on pain and fear; on fleeting possessions and false pride. Nothing truly exists. We only perceive it so to give our lives meaning. But what meaning is this; what life is it we lead, devoid of emotion, where our salvation, the light of love is to be forever eclipsed by the infinite moon of hate?
Immersed in thought, he stumbled forward, eyes locked on the swirling, churning sky; so full of mystery... star light star bright, he though- a child’s rhyme he’d picked up in one of his tattered books, although a long ways away from that place now- wish I may, wish I migh--- he was all of a sudden being jerked upward at the leg, and the world seemed to spin and heave itself upside down on him- he was standing on the sky, watching the reflections on those same stars twinkle in the muddied pools of water, glistening richly above him.


He had by now pulled himself up into a sort of sitting position- or as close as one could get hanging upside down from a tether- wrapping his free foot around the rope and keeping himself upright by holding with one hand, alternating every so often as time would ware one out.
He figured his ankle to have been broken as he was hauled up by the almost unnervingly large trap- what could be so big as to need something like this to catch it?- and he’d dropped his knife in the process as well... he reached instinctively to his holster, no, he thought- waste not precious ammunition; only sixty shots a time, and already twelve gone in battle... no more wasted. So there he “sat”- broken ankled and knifeless; too well taught to shoot himself down. Although at his height (he had come to rest some thirty-odd feet above the ground) it would be pure lunacy to try to cut the rope... it might just as well have been noosed around his neck.
The dampened grass below him shone in the pale moonlight, and as it danced quietly over the trees to the midnight serenade of the crickets (somewhere in the distance a wolf howled) he could see the once lush greenery faded a dull gray with the darkness of the night. His eye passed over the colourless treetops and further to the west...

Smoke.

Could it have been? It might have, or was it just a trick of the li— dark he thought both musedly and bemusedly. It must have been there. He’d seen it- that deep haze, emanating wispily from some shelter, hidden beneath the premature horizon of the forest... But it was gone. Not a trace left behind. No clouds still rising, not yet diffused in the crisp night’s air... nothing. And he almost convinced himself it was just that—then suddenly there it was again... And this time it came with a flickering light that seemed to be approaching with all the certainty of a drunkard beneath the heavy shadow of the underbrush.


Jonah had been lying upon his cot in the state of consciousness between this world, and the realm of dreams. That place where you are aware that you’re awake, but it seems as though you are no longer in and of your body; as though all of you that exists does only so somewhere in the far recesses of your mind, when you feel as though you are, at that moment and time, existent only in spirit; in essence... that period where your entire life is opened to you and flashes right before your very eyes.

He had lay beneath a cypress tree along the coast (this is where I belong, this is my sanctuary), feeling the ocean mists surrounding him as it clapped rhythmically against the base of the shallow escarpment, and- lifting “his” head momentarily- watching the far off fields of tall grass bend and sway with the wind; a divine, deep green continuation of the ocean below; a favourite story clutched open and folded back in his hands. His fingers fumbled awkwardly as he turned the page- he remembered having loved these moments. At last alone with his thoughts, and the deeper-than-words inked across the pages.
This had been a good one he recalled; and although from far before his time, and with many words and sayings meaningless to him, he had enjoyed this far more than his others. The Catcher in the Rye typed neatly across the cover- he supposed that this had a far deeper metaphorical meaning, later to be revealed to him, than what could be found in the literal sense of it.
Old eyes peered through young as they alike scanned its delicate pages, their thoughts intertwined, although older Jonah was sure that his younger counterpart wasn’t aware of it- after all, this was naught but a dream, wasn’t it? But he was aware. He could feel thoughts- once belonging to him- echoing, but without fading, like the broken record you still pull out time and again, even though you know that it’ll never play right anyway.

Sleep.

He knew but couldn’t help it. He was drifting away from the tree, away from the book; his eyes closed, and he was trapped within himself- beneath those two, black, immovable doors, alone and with no further images of long ago.
Vaguely, he heard some muffled noise coming from outside the walls of the room. He felt the pressure behind those doors mounting; and they began to give way. A line of light formed at the edges, and he peered out into the world. Consciousness took hold and he awoke in a cold sweat.
His hand felt wearily along the bedside for a grip and slowly made his lost feet find the ground. He blindly reached for the lamp on the high-table by the bed and grasped it firmly in one hand. He struck one of the matches at its base with the other and gazed as its light suddenly filled every crevice, illuminating even the furthest corners of the room with a dull flickering light.
He tossed the done match into the fireplace as it singed his forefingers a charcoal black. Picking up his coat from ground by the door, still clasping the lamp intently in the other hand to his chest; he opened the door dazedly and staggered out into the night- mumbling to himself, groggily; slurring his words this way and that, chuckling all the way,

“Body meetsa body a’cummin’ trough da rye...”


The dark figure drew closer, and as it did, he noticed it slowly sobering up- no longer did it seem to fall on the trees for balance... he could even hear the thing humming a tune he felt sure he’d heard some time before, although he couldn’t quite put his finger to it,

...A’ coming through the rye...

Echoes, images, like ghostly wisps of smoke began to billow over his eyes, clouding his vision. He was supposed to realize something; something important.

...If a body meet a body...

The haunting shape drew nigh in the trees, the pale light of the torch bobbing; flame flickering in the hollow nighttime breeze. He drew in a deep breath of the sweet autumn (was it autumn? it was last he remembered, although his perception of time, he found, had become vague) air and held it there- preparing for the worst. The closest few leaves of the clearing seemed to jump back in surprise at the unwelcomed visitor that had crept up behind it, shaking away its dewy overcoat.
Before his head had time to stop regain control over the rest of him, his hand instinctively fell to his rifle, then with a sigh (neither of relief, nor of composure, but of the simple sudden realization I need to breath), he was able to relax slightly, and pulled away... for the moment at least.
The figure emerged from the bushes, no longer menacing; almost, nervous... uneasy about something... me. He could see a ragged coat- far too big-, patched up here and there, dragging along among the crimson leaves already fallen; shining in the torch light. He sighed... this time of relief. Just a dirty beggar man... a deserter, wandered away in the night mayhap... and came here... wherever here is. He felt a little better, he believed it. The moon passed behind a cover of cloud, and the figure raised the torch over his head to see him through the infinite depths of the night. And for a moment, he could see his eyes underneath the tangled mess of hair falling over his brow, sympathetic, human... looking up at him in a lurching realization; lost and confused.
As far as he could tell by the dim torch light, they both stood there, neither willing, nor able to be first to break the silence; staring, watching, waiting... disbelieving.

However, the wolves didn’t seem quite so reluctant, and a series of piercing howls cut through the night like a knife.

Another long silence ensued.

“...” he opened his mouth but found nothing there. This, for him would be the first conversation he’d had with another human being in years- only dialogues with the inanimate forest around him; dwelling in his past, relating his life to the ageless firs...
“Well met stranger?” was the first thing that came to his head. He noticed a slight grin creep onto the man’s face-

“Well,” he said with an exhausted, but still bemused chuckle, “Mayhap once I get me down out a’ this tree, at least.”


...Easier said than done. It took maybe a full half-hour to get him down from the trap. Jonah noticed he was bleeding heavily from his ankle but seemed to prefer suffering silently- god knows he knew how that went- and decided not to pass it any mention... yet.
He brought him down slowly, and after his feet (foot, he remembered remarking) were firmly plated on the cold, yet rich, forest soil, he gave him time to sit down on a nearby rock, jutting out from the center of the clearing.
Jonah watched as he lay back and closed his eyes, faces up and towards the heavens. He took in a deep breath of the air, which now to him tasted much sweeter than from his perch in the tree. The cold hand that clenched his lungs in his fist loosened and he drew in another breath of the cool night air.
He got up spry enough for a man with a twisted- or if Jonah was right, a broken- ankle. He hunkered over to a pile of leaves beneath the tree, and bent to pick up something shining silver in the moonlight.
As the glare died out Jonah could see clearly the outline of a knife... A real knife; blade maybe a foot long he reckoned.
The stranger wiped it on his tunic and sheathed it again. He took a step towards Jonah and collapsed on top of his right leg; but he let out no yelp of pain- although a faint look of disappointment crossed his visage.
Jonah rushed over to him, “Here, let me help you... ‘Twould be the least I could do for ya sai.”
“Not at all,” he paused, straining to his feet with determination flaring in his deep green eyes, “Nay, I’ll be fine.”
And with that, he fell flat on his face again... he didn’t get up.


He awoke what might have seemed to him to have been mere seconds; but it had been days. Jonah sat beside the fire egging it on with a sharp metal prod. A lovely aroma greeted his nostrils; it seemed to be emanating from all around him. He tried his best to get up and take a quick look around, but to no avail; he wasn’t quite well yet, and was, as so, stuck with the ever-intriguing view of the green thatch ceiling above.
He opened his mouth, and although he could think coherently enough, all that came out was a lackadaisical, garbled mess of half-words; his tongue dangling limply out the corner of his lips.
“Wh- whe- where?” he managed to get through, as his eyes lolled hither and thither around the room of their own accord.
He saw, no, that wasn’t right; he felt Jonah get up from by the fireplace and walk over to him. He could feel his sour breath on the air, and the energy from the fire consuming the room. His vision seemed small, he felt dizzy and light-headed. Every footstep he took was like a million nails being driven into his head, but he couldn’t feel anything.
“You’re still feverish,” said Jonah, “Now get back to your sleep, if it please ya. Got to regain your strength; you’ve lost much blood ‘l ready” he said it placidly enough, but each word echoed for what seemed like forever in his mind. He felt Jonah turn back to the pot.
“W-W-Wait,” he stuttered using all his strength, when did talking become so hard? It was as though he was now seeing and feeling everything that went into it; every click and every turn of the cogs in his head... and echoing like a stone meeting the bottom of a well... over and over, and over again.
The ceiling began to swirl before his eyes, the yellowing hues mixing green and washing over him in tides; drowning him from within his own head. He choked out something, but it sounded so far away even in his own ears...

And he was out again.

Jonah stood there for a moment afterwards, watching his chest rise and fall in progressively steadier breaths as he lay there unconscious. He wondering about this strange visitor; where had he come from? Why, after such toil in consciousness, did his face take on such a serene look as lay there now, where was he hiding now?
He heaved a heavy sigh of dismay and inconclusiveness, and returned again to the bubbling pot over the fire.


Jonah continued his daily routines over the next week; the only difference being the occasional check up on his slumbering guest, followed by the dazed minutes of reminiscing- they had only recently become so frequent- which he’d shake off midway through; always after the light... yes, the light came first, he was sure. And then, this hazy image of a field, but it wasn’t this he was looking at, it was beyond it... beyond the blue painted sky... where time stood still. He didn’t know how he knew it, he just felt it. It was like something deep in the archives of his mind was suddenly letting out bits and pieces of memories he never knew he’d had. Mayhap they’re his, he thought, mayhap that’s what be so special ‘bout him. ’N mayhap that’s where he goes when he’s gone out. Mayhap he’s looking inside o’ me; showin’ me stuff. Stuff he needs to let out... And this is big.

He began to notice things over time. Just before the visions came he could see- or did he even need to see it anymore?- the strangers eyes moving around beneath his darkened, tired eyelids; wandering around the field that existed only as what his mind told him was a vision; but he knew better... it was as real as either of them; maybe more.

Hi Daniel,

Great story! You really are an excellent writer, young man! I'm glad to see you're still at it!!

Thanks for coming on over here and sharing with us. If you encounter any of the 'friendly' writers from that other site, feel free to invite them here, but please do it privately and not on that open forum over there.

Good to see you, Daniel! It's been awfully quiet around here, and I think it's because everybody knows I'm writing full bore on a biographical novel.

Hope you're well, and that you're having nice spring weather in your part of the world!

Love and Peace,

Alice

Daniel

Your writing has grown immensely over the time I have been reading your postings. To have imagination is relatively common, to be able to share it in such entertaining fashion is a gift and a skill to be honed with loving care. Take great care of your gift and nurture it.

Well written Daniel