Giving Futuristic Fiction a Shot....

It doesn't take a genius to see that our society is changing--and changing fast. Things which were unthinkable a mere twenty years ago are widely accepted today. Between the transgender movement, assisted suicide, polyamory, and rigid political correctness, right and wrong, truth and lie, are being blurred and confused. So I have written this:

Madhouse

Six years. Six years of my life wasted. I stare in helpless fury at the screen. How could they do this to me after so long?
I see you are puzzled. Let me explain. My name is Tyler Mcdermott. I am an Undecided and am two months shy of seventeen. I live with my parent. Zee is a cat, officially one since I was four. I know little of my other parent, save that he was a transaphobic speciest and left us because my parent's life choices.
The government provided care to permit my parent to work, so I lived in the Care Facility until I started school. Then I lived at home and spent most of my time at the After School Center. I began gaming a little late, but excelled and soon overtook many of my peers. I entered the world of Alphadomine at ten years old. I chose a female wolf avatar. My supervisors thought it indicated my preference, but I am not ready to make that choice. Alphadomine is more beautiful and complex than you can imagine if you have never played it. I have established and guarded my territory against everything from hurricanes to zombies for years, rebuilding when need be. I had mates, children--a whole pack. I saw my daughter torn to shreds by the Blades and exacted a terrible revenge. I lost two thirds of my pack to famine two winters ago, but we have recovered and revived. Then here, now, on the verge of my greatest victory, when I would have taken the Scarrow Caves, I check Alphadomine one morning to find this message:
Alphadomine Users:
We apologize, but this game will no longer be available. Our programming center has
been closed until further notice. We cannot preserve data, but if you wish to be alerted
when the game becomes available again, please join our email list.
Former users will be given a discount when the game is again available.

What do I want with discounts? I've lost six years worth of data! I've messaged them twice--they know full well what I think of their offer--but they have not gotten back to me.





Hi. I'm Glen. I love skydiving, muscle cars, dancing, Jesus, my girlfriend, Dara, and barbeques. My church is Blaze Central. If you've never been there, you should. It's pretty awesome--basically a combination of all my favorite things (yes, we did go skydiving with the youth group last summer--for free, thanks to the marvel of fundraising!).
I was hurt by a church two years ago and swore that I would never set foot in one again, but Blaze was different. My last church--the church my grandparents attended--literally kicked one of their leaders out when he came out as gay. It also had this lady who would censor the church's e-library for anything that disagreed with her painfully narrow beliefs. It even banned women from the pastorate. Blaze, on the other hand, has equal numbers of men and women in all areas. We have a transgender worship leader, three gay men on the board, not to mention seven lesbians. Jesus came to make our lives more abundant and Blaze seeks the same. There can be no real happy life when you have to fight and deny who you really are. Here, we support all life choices as exhibitions of our freedom in Jesus.
In my last church, I was told to fight who I was and to try to become whatever the pastor wanted me to be. Every Sunday, I left church in a deeper state of depression and self-loathing. Until I met Dara, my self-esteen was lower than the Marianas Trench. You could almost say she redeemed me. She showed me myself in a whole new light and slowly helped me to see myself, not as some kind of wretched, damned sinner, but as a strong, smart, exceptionally talented man. Oh, she just walked by and told me not to forget that I'm also as hot as they come. I have spent far too long trying to be some kind of saint. God doesn't expect us to be perfect. It's my job to be the best me I can be, and I don't mind saying that I'm doing a bloody good job of it.
In my new church, preaching is reserved for those who come out to the midweek study. Sunday morning is better spent in worship than lecture. We had a worship band which has won dozens of awards. They can out do most secular bands on the stage. We also frequently view inspirational films in the service, and coffee, pop, cookies, and popcorn are supplied by the church. You really should come visit--it's basically one big party.




My first name is Jay, but on duty, I am Officer Ahmed. I used to believe in justice, but I've given up on it. Last month, I brought in two house-breakers, an ecstasy dealer, a woman who drowned her child, and a street preacher. The last one is the only one they sent to jail. It's not that I have religious sympathies.  I was taught  from my childhood that the greatest evil is religious intolerance and the greatest good, tolerance and unity most easily found under agnosticism. I fancied that I would be a champion of tolerance as a police officer, but that is not what happened. I have come to see the meaning of "tolerance": it means the guilty must go free and the innocent should live in fear of saying a wrong word. An ill-placed word can send a man to jail longer than a carefully placed bullet. I often wonder if we have become too thin-skinned. One of my fellow officers lost his job for repeatedly referring to and addressing a person who was, by all that eyes or ears may tell, a man, as male after he claimed to be a woman. I know another who has maintained her post, with no more than a bit of counselling after drunkenly beating her fiance with a baseball bat.
But I am not qualified to critique the morals of my fellow officers. I had a wife and two children. They left me when I would not stop using Cannabis. What can I say? It's not like I'm addicted--weed doesn't work that way. I needed to relax. I couldn't detach my mind from my work when I came home. I started smoking it for my family--I didn't want to take to drink. I had seen what that does to families. I just wanted to be calm--to forget that I had helped to break up a mob that was molesting a handful of teenaged girls, to forget that I had been called to the scene where  an elderly couple were found at the bottom of a pond after being murdered five months earlier. My neighbor used it often, so I started using it. My wife said that was when they started to lose me. She says we had our last meaningful conversation four years ago--one week before  I started the cannabis. It's been a while. I could quit. But I don't have a reason to. I've given up on most things. I live from day to day. I pay my bills, I do my job, I eat, I sleep. I haven't the will to live or the desire to die. I just don't care any more.


I'd give you my name, but then I'd have to kill you. (Jk, you take things WAY too seriously, man.) I'm definitely what you'd call famous. I sing and that is absolutely all the hints I'm giving about who I am. I made more money yesterday than most people make in their entire lifetime. I've lost track of how many girlfriends I have. I'm a bit of a promoter of open relationships, you might say.  I am literally on the top of the world. Life can't get better.
Am I happy? What kind of a question is that? Were you even listening to me back there?
Okay. Look, life gets us all down sometimes. Yes, I do sometimes think a single, private relationship, with no cheating or side-relationships would be nice. But I've got an image to maintain. I don't even like getting smashed. I do that 'cause it's expected too. But morality and fame are mutually exclusive--unless it's infamy you're after. I wasn't raised this way, you see. My parents had morals--my mom even had religion. I honestly wanted to live by those morals as a kid. But my parents were also poor. So I ditched everything they taught me and look at me now! The moral of this story, kids, is: Don't listen to your parents if you want to go anywhere in life. It's a different world today than the one they grew up in. Right and wrong aren't what they used to be.



I'm a tree. I became one to save them. This was their world before mankind came to be, and, if we are to save this planet, we must assimilate. Leave me alone. Trees can't talk.



I'm Phoenix--Phoenix Alexandra Butts. Yes, you heard that right. Everything has always been against me. I'm an ugly girl--and an even worse boy, so there's no use in that. They say looks aren't everything, but I get no points for intelligence, wit, talent or, really, anything. I was screwed up from day one--genetically, chemically programmed towards depression and self-hate. But tomorrow everything will be better. Tomorrow, I will die.
People used to kill themselves--back when no one understood, back when, if you failed, they would treat you like a criminal. But times have changed. People understand. If you wish to die, there are people who will help. Once, suicide meant slit wrists, ropes, drowning, poisoning and pain. Now, it is but now you need but make an appointment. I had two consultations with my psychiatrist to confirm that the route I had requested was indeed the best for my case. Then it was merely a case of choosing a day. Tomorrow, I turn twenty. It seemed a good day. I'm a bit scared of needles, so they have promised I can inhale it through a mask.



I am a business man. My card is simple enough:
Evan Moore
Sweet Satisfaction Inc.

I have sixteen young women in my employ here in the city, not to mention those on my private luxury island resort. I also have seven young men. I work in the sex industry, and I am a CEO of a corporation, which, though not as large as some, offers an impressive selection. We are one of the first to offer online purchase with delivery.
I take pride in my business. Why should I not?



Welcome. You've come to the wrong side of the tracks, I am afraid. My name is Jamie. I have no job because there is no work. My grandfather owned an oil company. By all rights, I should be heir to a fortune, but that before the crash. Oil is worth less than nothing. My father was arrested and fined to the point of bankruptcy for damage to the environment.
And now I live here. This is the re-forested zone of the city. It's the only place we can live. They wanted a clean city. There are no slum or red light districts. So we live in the trees. Hunting is illegal here, so we have no choice but to steal. Sometimes, I get lucky. Some people leave food out for the animals, and I get it.
The government used to pay for shelters and food for people like me, but that was before the money ran out. Now every tax dollar goes to paying interest on our national debt and studies in green energy. I've heard people say that it will be beneficial to the earth if people like us just die off. Fewer people means smaller carbon footprints, I guess. I understand perfectly. They think this tree is more important than me. They can think what they want. We will have our revenge. Their precious forests can burn for all I care.



My name is Elissa Lewis. I am a married woman. I have three children. I am a stay-at-home mom. I know. You didn't think those existed anymore. I am such because I want to be. My husband, Xavier is six foot three, with all the lean build of his Masai ancestors. He will turn thirty-one on April third this year. He loves to read books written hundreds of years ago and has never played a video game in his life. He is the best father ever. I have been married to him for seven years and never once seen him lose his temper. I love him more today than I did when we exchanged our vows. I love him more this year than I did last year. I doubt there was ever a happier couple.
My husband is also serving his third jail term. He was arrested just over a month ago. He will be in jail for two years this time unless he can get parole next February. This is four times as long as his last two terms. The charge, as always, is hate-speech and spiritual violence. The crime? Xavier is a pastor and evangelist. He goes out on the streets to preach and share the gospel of Jesus Christ. My grandfather was a pastor. He used to preach on the streets, but the laws were different back then. There are still no laws against preaching on the streets, but if you offend someone, then you are in trouble. The gospel always offends--no one likes to hear about sin and judgement. But if you offend the wrong people, then you are charged with hate speech. Hate speech has been illegal for years, but five years ago, another law was added to the criminal code. It forbids spiritual violence. Spiritual violence used to mean abusing a person to force a conversion, but now all you need to do to get charged is tell someone that their religion is wrong. Self-esteem is our world's greatest idol, and to damage it is the crime of all crimes. The gospel leaves no room for self-love, and Xavier refused to dumb the gospel down. I am proud of him. He stood strong in the face of a society that hates God, no matter the consequences. But my children are asking when daddy is coming home. They are too young to understand.

Chapter 3

The army moved out mid-morning the next day. No one had yet unpacked, so there was little work to ready the soldiers. The mixture of good and poor soldiers, young and old, men and women, and experienced and inexperienced made Kalen wonder if Taldyr had simply closed his eyes and picked names at random from a bowl. To his distress, Kalen saw his father take Taldyr aside for a few moments. He was watching them when Syriel appeared.
"Kalen!" She caught him in a tight, sisterly hug. "I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry."
"It isn't your fault," Kalen could feel her trembling with suppressed tears. "We'll see each other again--the king doesn't command my fate. And the battle isn't hopeless. You never know; perhaps we will save Syxel yet!"
"You're just quoting my father. I know despair when I see it, and I've seen it in many men's eyes today," She leaned back and looked him in the eye, "And I see it in yours too. If the king makes me his wife, I will poison him for this. And I am not joking. What kind of man would kill a woman's father and best friend to get her?"
"Don't worry--hasn't your father told you? My father is going to be your guardian."
"He's set me a guardian? Don't you know what that means? He knows he's going to die. And don't tell me it's just a precaution--I know my father better than that. He would never arrange a guardian unless he had given up hope. And he never gives up hope."
"But he said it's only a precaution. He said we may yet survive this."
"And yet he set a guardian. He didn't set one when they went out to face that force near Daishen--when the odds were against us ten to one."
"Six to one--and we took them by surprise."
"Yes--and they're talking twenty to one odds with this mission. Our army may be good, but what is two hundred and seventy warriors--I might add not our best warriors--against over seven thousand?"
"The odds aren't anywhere near that bad. The Syxelite army will be there too."
"At its strongest, Syxel had an army of three thousand. They've been fighting Fellyre for years and losing. I wouldn't look for more than a thousand from them--a thousand weary and battle-scarred men. The odds are still seven to one, and you won't be able to pull off a surprise attack. The forest around Syxel is sparse. They would see your approach a mile off and pick you off with archers. Have you read the king's orders? The man knows nothing of war. He expects you simply to charge into the enemy ranks--with your numbers and only half the army even on horseback."
"Half will be on foot?"
"Yes--the king seems to more concerned about wasting horses than men's lives. He cares more about his personal interests than about the survival of his city. I've always despised him, but he has only grown worse with age. I swear he's going mad."
"Syriel." Syriel turned at her father's voice. "It's time. The army has begun to move out. Come, Kalen. There's a horse for you." Kalen quickly left Taldyr with his daughter. He hated extended farewells; they made him cry, which was embarrassing enough for a boy but mortifying for a man and soldier. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw father and daughter embrace before Taldyr left to take his place at the head of the army.
Kalen mounted quickly and, painfully conscious of how inappropriate it was for one of his age and lack of experience, took his place immediately behind Taldyr, at the head of the long procession. They rode forward slowly, heads high, paying little heed to the weeping and waving people. They stopped at the gate, where the king sat in a high chair on the shoulders of four strong young men and surrounded by an impressive guard. Taldyr turned his horse to face the army and the crowd, beckoning Kalen to follow.
"My people! Friends and family, I present to you one who has distinguished himself in such a way that the king has called for his promotion. Let me present Captain Kalen, commander of the hundred who I now name "the Dar-eth-Kryston"." The condemned, the words of the ancient tongue so often used in reference to unjust trials. A murmur ran through the crowd, and, when it died, Taldyr continued. "He has distinguished himself by loyalty and love--shown in defiance to the king's order. It is for friendship he is condemned, even as I am condemned for being a father." The king was fuming, but Taldyr rode slowly forward, putting many men between him and the king. "This battle is folly--it was arranged solely that the king may rid himself of all that stood between him and my daughter. I challenge you all: Do not tolerate this injustice. King Dyestan has shown himself unfit to rule."
"How dare you! Traitor!" The king bellowed. "You would condemn the war--you would deny Syxel our aid by these mad ravings! This battle is for the sake of Syxel and all the free world. We will not turn back for this fool's ridiculous claims."
Taldyr turned his horse sharply. "I do not turn back from war, but if I am to die, I will bring you down with me rather than risk my daughter falling into your hands. Good day, King." He rode out the gate without another word. Kalen and the army streamed after him at a fast canter. The foot soldiers practically ran.
Outside, they regrouped and continued all on foot, leading the horses with their weapons and supplies tied to the saddles. If they took the ancient way, they could hope to make it to Syxel in three days, but Taldyr took a slower route, keeping to the outskirts of the forest.
The journey was miserable. The men were restless and irritable, and Taldyr pressed on in a silent fury. He had always been a serious man--especially since his wife's death, according to Kalen's father--but Kalen had never seen him like this. And it frightened him. Taldyr, the calm, strong commander, who again and again had lead the troops to victory with his strong mind and unwavering trust in Ithien, was fighting to keep himself under control. For the first day Kalen took no notice. After all, he had just been parted from his daughter, likely forever, and just publicly challenged the king, but the second and third day, it began to worry Kalen. He never spoke a word except to give orders and barely slept or ate.
Kalen tried to accustom himself to his new position in the army, only to quickly discover that the men still only saw him as an inexperienced child. He decided not to assert his authority and slipped back into his old position, letting Taldyr maintain command through his two lower-ranking officers, Aethen and Dallanis. Kalen had met Aethan before on several occasions and respected him for his even-tempered patience and skill at maintaining the peace between the men, but Dallanis was a different matter. She was a tall, lean woman of close to forty with more muscle than an average man and a voice and temper to match. Over all, she was possibly the mot intimidating woman Kalen had ever met, and she resented having a mere boy set as her superior, regardless of the circumstances. More understandably, she resented having been chosen for this doomed mission.
On the third evening, Kalen was pacing around the camp, keeping his watch, when he overheard voices. He thought nothing of it at first--the soldiers were always talking and playing various games late into the night. Then he heard something that stopped him in his tracks.
"This is all the Commander's fault." Kalen leaned closer, staying in the shadows. He could see eight or nine figures seated around a fire.
"No--this is the king's fault--and Fellyre's. Taldyr is only following orders. Or are you suggesting that he should have simply given his daughter over to that beast of a king?" One younger man demanded.
"Is that such a ridiculous suggestion?" The first man--Kalen strained with no success to see his face--began, but his words were met by snorts of disbelief from the others. "You all took the loyalty oath when you joined the amy. Would someone care to list the four Great Loyalties in order of importance?"
"Sure," Dallanis replied. What was she doing there? "From greatest to least: Loyalty to Ithien, Loyalty to King and Commander, Loyalty to your fellow soldiers, and Loyalty to family."
"And am I the only one present who thinks our good Taldyr has those loyalties a little out of order?
The young man who had spoken earlier stood. "The Commander may or may not be in the right, but he is our commander, and this whole meeting goes against the second Loyalty."
"And did Taldyr not dishonor that Loyalty when he publicly disgraced the king before the gates of Elni?"
The young man shook his head. "I will not be party to seditious talk." He said coldly and turned and left. Kalen made a mental note to find that man tomorrow and do what he could to reward him for his loyalty.
"I could also point out that he has disregarded the third Loyalty."
"How so?" Aethan demanded. Aethan? Him too?
"Don't pretend to be ignorant. You know as well as I do that he chose each of us individually. He is under a death sentence from the king--and a shame it is--but he chose to drag us all down with him. Now, tell me, is it really disloyal to disobey such a commander?"
"But he had orders--he needed to bring men. He had the choose someone." Another man replied, but Kalen could hear the edge of doubt in his voice.
"Really? Who has seen these orders? You, Dallanis? Aethan? We all heard what he said to the king. "I'll bring you down with me." Are those the words of a fully sane man?"
"You suggest he's mad? I've never heard such a foolish idea!" Dallaris said with a scornful laugh. "One need but look at him to see he is as sane as they come. I have served under that man ten years. He would never do something without a good reason."
"Yes--and if this is what you called us out to speak of, your wasting your breath and our time." Aethan put in.
"No--Taldyr's sanity has nothing to do with this. The madness of this mission, however, has everything to do with it. I suggest," He lowered his tone and Kalen could not hear him, but he heard Dallanis react.
"Desertion! You're mad! We'd be flogged within an inch of our lives if we were lucky."
"We will only be flogged if we make it known that we deserted," Aethan put in thoughtfully.
"An easy enough thing to hide if we are the only survivors."
Kalen quickly retreated into the shadows. He had heard enough and the watch would change any minute. He would report the situation to Taldy first thing in the morning.

A Christmas Story I wrote in Grade 11

            December 24, 1554:  It seemed like it would be an ordinary enough Christmas. Father was shut up in his study with a messenger from Sir Robert Lombard, finalizing his purchase of a fine black gelding for my brother, Thomas, before Christmas began and work was banned. Mother was busy supervising the decorating of the house, dictating which doors could have kissing boughs, and which doors absolutely could not.  The cooks had been busy for days preparing for the Christmas feasting to begin. Thomas, Cecily, Stephen, baby Isabel, and myself, Susanna, dutifully bore the torment of the delicious smells of mince pies, roasting boar, and, cruellest of all, the aroma of a Christmas pie baking. It was impossible to focus on a game of backgammon surrounded by those smells tempting us to break our fast. Twelve hours until Christmas morning, when we could eat again. Myself, I was looking eagerly forward to the next day for another reason; Nicholas Daunce and his family would be at the feast and mass tomorrow. He had been courting me for several months, and, though my mother had hoped that I would marry his elder brother, who had the greater part of the inheritance, my father was willing to give his consent to our marriage.

            Though we were very excited to have Thomas back from grammar school, he had proved insufferable upon his arrival. Despite being four years younger than me at twelve, he acted as if he were my elder brother. Our parents had had a total of nine children, but my eldest sister, Alice, was already married, and they had lost two children between me and Thomas, and between him and eight-year-old Cecily, John had died at two years old. After that, Stephen, four, and Isabel, two, had both been born healthy. But enough about us; this supposed be an account of the Christmas that changed my life.

            We rose early on Christmas morning, and, after about an hour of getting dressed in our finest, we ate a meal of manchet, a fine white bread, with beef and beer for the adults and I, while the rest of the children drank milk. We then left in our carriage for the cathedral for the first mass of the day. I was disappointed that I could not locate Nicholas at any of the three masses held that day. I saw his family, but they told me he was taking mass at a chapel elsewhere. I wondered greatly at that; where would he be taking mass without his family? They assured me that he would be at the feast at our estate that afternoon, so I resigned myself to wait.

            When the time for the feast came, I waited near the doorway for him. I couldn’t help noticing the kissing bough over the door; maybe… I felt myself blush a little thinking of it. As people slowly arrived, I watched the mistletoe berries disappear from the bough as kisses were stolen from pretty serving girls and guests alike. By the time the Daunce family arrived, there were none left, to my disappointment. I wanted to run forward and embrace him, but I chose to make him pay for my disappointment. I greeted him coldly with a stiff, formal curtsy, and forced myself not to laugh at his confused expression. I turned away from him as if I had found something better to do, and left him standing in the entrance way. Just as I had expected, he came over to me in the main room to ask me to sit with him.

            “Why should I sit with you?” I replied icily, “You did not sit with me this morning at mass.”

            “Hey, that’s unfair, Susanna. I was in Gravesend. I could hardly have ridden all the way to London in time for mass this morning.”

            “I suppose I will forgive you this time—if I can have you for every dance tonight.” He laughed and heartily agreed to my conditions.

             That evening, on a break after one dance, Nicholas asked me to come on a walk with him in the gardens. I went, heart pounding, hardly daring to hope that today would be the day that he would ask me to marry him. Once we were far enough to be neither seen nor heard from the house, he released my hand and walked a few paces away. Twice he turned to me and began to speak, but rather turned back to pacing. I’d never before seen him so obviously agitated.

            “Susanna, if I were to—Susanna, I love you very much, and I desperately hope you love me as much, so I believe I can trust you with a secret—”

            “Of course you can!”

            “Yes, but this is a bit different. If this secret were to get out, I would be killed. Your knowing of it could put you in danger.” Nicholas turned again, and returned to his pacing for a few moments. Finally, he went down on one knee before me, grasping my hand. “My love, I did not go to any mass this morning—nor have I taken mass for more than a month. I have found a new Church—a true church. A Church made of people, not wood, stone, silver, or gold—a church ruled, not by a fallen, sinful man, like the pope, but rather by Christ himself!”

            “Stop, Nicholas! You cannot talk like this—calling the Holy Father himself sinful! You’re speaking heresy” I lowered my voice to a hiss, “Don’t be a fool. We all know there is only one Holy Mother Church. People are taken by the Inquisition every day for saying less than what you just said. Just stop it—stop it before I have to confess having listened to heresies. You know what that would mean for you. I don’t want to hurt you, Nicholas, but I cannot be expected to risk my soul for your safety.”

            “But that exactly what I’m talking about! There’s no more need for confession—I’ve already made my confession to God, and I’ll never need to confess again! I’ve been reading the Scriptures, and I’ve found that many of the church’s core teachings disagree with them. In fact, God’s Word says that church leaders should marry, that forgiveness comes through faith, not penance or any other work, and it make no mention of the Assumption of Mary, let alone her being crowned Queen of Heaven, and it even says that every Christian is a saint, not just those who’ve been canonized. And it even indicates that Mary was a normal sinful woman, had several children after Christ, and—”

            “No!” I interrupted him, “You can’t talk like that, not about the Blessed Virgin! That’s blasphemy!” I turned to leave, but he caught my hand.

            “Let go!” I pulled away. “And I would strongly advise you to leave London tonight, because I’m going to confession first thing tomorrow morning.” I tried to speak coldly, but my voice shook.

            “Do what you wish, Susanna, but please except this gift from me.” Nicholas put a small black leather bound book in my hand. “This is half of the Holy Scriptures—in English. Please read it, my love. And please, don’t turn it in to the priest. Surely it can be no crime against God to possess a copy of His Word.”

            “Just go away!” I half screamed, but I took the book anyways. Nicholas offered to walk me back to the house. I refused, and he went to the stables instead, took his horse, and rode away. I felt so cold and empty inside. There was my future, my lover, leaving forever, and tomorrow I would have to expose him as a heretic, deserving of death. I hated him, but not enough to stop loving him.

            I did not sleep that night. I cried a lot. I couldn’t stop thinking over all the wonderful times Nicholas and I had shared—the first time he gave me a ride home from mass; the afternoon we had spent riding together, and had stayed out so late; the family had been thoroughly scandalized; and then there was the day he had kissed me. I could almost feel his arms around me again, see his sea green eyes, and hear his voice whispering his love in my ear. Oh, why him? Of all people who could turn on the Holy Mother Church, why did it have to be Nicholas? Suddenly another thought came to me Who did this to him? Who filled his head with this heresy? Anger washed over me. I may not have been able to bring myself to hate Nicholas, but I could hate the one who converted him. That murderer. This was all his fault. And now I would have to report my Nicholas to the priest. It could not be wrong to pray that they do not catch him; maybe he could recant and return to the church without facing the Inquisition. I knelt before the crucifix on one wall of my room, and implored the Blessed Virgin for his safety. Still, I could not sleep. Out of sheer curiosity, I open the Book Nicholas had given me. I started at random somewhere near the middle of the Book and read “There is none righteous, no not one: there is none that understandeth, there is none that seeketh after God. They have all gone out of ye way; they are all made unprofitable. There is none that doeth good, no not one.” A faint sound outside my window nearly made me jump out of my skin. I quickly tucked the Book away under several things in my night table, and snatched up my rosary, praying silently for forgiveness for looking at a forbidden book.  I lay wide awake in bed clutching my rosary all the rest of the night.

            The next morning, I could hardly eat at all. The jester Mother and Father had hired for the Christmas season could not make me smile. Someone asked if I was sick, and I, seeing a chance to get away, said I was and asked to leave the table. I went straight to the church. I paced up and down in front of the door for a while, trying to make up my mind—would it be a sin to not betray Nicholas? Why, I could be saving his life! But no, I’d be hiding him from the church—perhaps there was still hope for his soul if he were to face the Inquisition. Perhaps he would see his error. On that thought, I walked into the church before I could change my mind. Father Ambrose met me. I told him I wanted to confess, and he led me to the confessional.

            “What do you wish to confess, my child?” He asked through the grating.

            “I have—I mean, I…I know a heretic!” I blurted out. There was a long moment of silence. I could feel my heart pounding. I had heard stories of friends of heretics, even informers, who were arrested simply for listening to their friend. What if they searched my rooms? The Book. Maybe I should tell about it? No! They’d arrest me for sure!

            Finally, Father Ambrose broke the silence. “This is grave indeed, my child. Pray give the details. Who was this heretic, and how did you learn of his heretical beliefs?”

            “His name is” I swallowed hard, “Nicholas Daunce, the eldest son of Sir Gerard Daunce of Shropshire. Yesterday, he took me aside into the garden. I anticipated a proposal, as he has been courting me for some time, but to my horror, he began telling me that he had left the Holy Mother Church, and finally fell to blaspheming against the pope, the saints, and the Blessed Virgin herself.”

            “And how did you receive his words?”

            “I was horrified, of course, and implored him to return to the church. When he refused, I told him to leave.”

            “My child, reasoning with heretics is unadvisable and best left to the Inquisitors. You should have called for help and immediately turned him over to the church. None the less, your confusion at the time is understandable, and you do well to tell me this now. I shall not report you, and I shall pray for you to be forgiven. Forget this matter, and leave it to the church. You may leave, my child, unless you have more to confess.”

            I instantly pictured the little Book lying hidden in my night table, but I quickly suppressed that thought, and replied, “No, there is nothing else, Father.”

            It was two days until I heard word of Nicholas again. He had been caught in Reading the very day I had confessed to the priest and betrayed him—not betrayed, just done my duty to the church, I corrected myself. They had, apparently transferred him to Newgate Prison so he, as a nobleman, could stand trial before some of the higher ranking officials of the Church. I recalled all the horrible tales I had heard of Newgate—oh, my poor Nicholas! Was there nothing I could do? If only I could get permission to visit him—but what if he did not want to see me? I wouldn’t blame him if he hated me. After all, this was all my fault. But if I hadn’t, surely someone else would have turned him in eventually; after all, if he had a bit of common sense, he’d recant and everything would be all right again. But no, they recanted so rarely—most were so obsessed with this new faith of theirs that nothing could make them change their minds. Maybe if I were to go talk to him I could convince him otherwise—he had always been open minded and willing to listen to other people’s thoughts on matters; that was probably why he believed whoever gave him that book. Suddenly I felt a strong urge to find that Book, throw it into the fire place, and burn it to ashes. I wanted to take out all my anger on it, as if it were what was condemning Nicholas. I dug it out of my drawer and sat there for a few moments, just staring at the plain black leather cover. It looked so pathetic; it had obviously been bound by a rather poor man, probably with some leftover shoe leather. Somehow, I couldn’t burn it, at least not now. I tucked it away again, and went down stairs.

            With my father’s permission, I had our coach driver take me to the prison. Gaining permission to see Nicholas was easier that I expected. I had feared a search and possibly even to get questioned, but the guard just got up and led me to a cell, unlocked it, let me and locked it behind me, telling me to yell for him when I was done. Perhaps that was because of the coin I gave him.

            Nicholas quickly rose to his feet with a clank of chains when I entered. He swept a low bow and greeted me by name, sweeping up one of my hands with his own bound hand and kissing it lightly, as if nothing had changed since the feast on Christmas Day. I couldn’t help staring at him—he looked so different. His fine clothes were rumpled, torn and dirty, his hair was unkempt and matted with dried blood, and his face was drawn and pale despite his wide smile.

            “My lady, I beg your pardon for appearing before you thus. You see, I was not given adequate warning of your coming today, and, I am afraid, my accommodations here are not quite designed for entertaining guests,” Nicholas began with all his typical exaggerated courtesy.

            “Stop it, Nicholas! How can you joke at a time like this? Don’t you realize that you might be killed? Doesn’t it matter to you that I love you? Can’t you see that I don’t want you to die? You have to prevent this—turn back to the church, Nicholas; it is your only chance to get away. Please, my love, do this for me!” I begged him, tears streaming down my cheeks.

            “Susanna, my sweet Susanna, can’t you see that I am not afraid? I have found Christ—I have no reason to fear death. I know that if they were to kill me this moment, I’d be in paradise instantly!” I drew back; stunned by the arrogance of that assumption—he thought he was good enough to avoid purgatory all together! “My love, it is you I am worried about,” He continued, lowering his voice. “Do you still have the book I gave you? The church cannot save a single soul. Only Christ can do that—all the prayers and penance in the world will not bring you an inch closer to paradise; only repentance and faith in Christ can save you from eternal punishment. You are in far greater danger than I—the Scriptures I gave to you say “Fear ye not them which kill the body, and be not able to kill the soul. But rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body into hell.” I nave nothing to fear from the Lord, who can destroy both body and soul, but you do—turn to Christ, my love!”

            “Nicholas! What is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what they’re going to do to you? We could have been so happy—you could have believed as you pleased, if only you kept quiet about those beliefs. How can you expect me to listen to this? It was because you talked like this that I had to turn you in to the Inquisition. And now they’re going to kill you! Oh, Nicholas, this is all my fault!” I rambled on and on. “I was the one who turned you in! I don’t know why I did it—I love you! I love, love, love you!”

           

            “Susanna,” Nicholas put his hands on my shaking shoulders, “calm down. I love you too; the fact that I’m behind bars hardly can change that. I know you turned me in. I can’t say that what you did was right, but I’ve forgiven you, and God can too, if you will only ask Him.”

            “Stop saying that! I—I  can’t stay any longer.” I staggered back a few steps, and called, “Jailor! I would like to leave now!” I will never forget the look in Nicholas’ eyes as I left the cell; that mixture of grief, pity, and love made me want to cry. I hated to leave him, but I could not stay. He would not change his mind—I could not help him. He even refused comfort; all he wanted was to preach his heresies to me. I managed to hold back my tears until I was alone in my room, then I sobbed my heart out. He would be burned. They always burned heretics. I had seen a burning once, and I could not block the images of the fire devouring human flesh from my mind.
            Why had this happened? Why God, why? Read. I started—had I simply been remembering what Nicholas had said to me, or did I just hear a voice? Surely I had just imagined it. Still, I took out the book and began reading. “Therefore if any man be in Christ he is a new creature. Old things are passed away behold all things are become new…” The more I read the more fascinated I became. This was not the rule book I had always thought the Holy Scriptures to be; rather, it spoke of love and freedom and peace. Some parts puzzled me, like where it said “Ye are temples of the living God”, other parts frightened me, “Satan himself is changed into the fashion of an angel of light. Therefore it is no great thing though his ministers fashion them selves as though they were the ministers of righteousness: whose end shall be according to their deeds.”, and other parts thrilled me, like where it talked about God’s love and mercy, but I kept skimming—what I wanted was to know if it really did disagree with what the church taught. I wanted to go back to the jail—I had so many questions for Nicholas! But if I went to visit him too many times, they would get suspicious. Then, I reached a part which spoke of peace—about Christ leaving peace for His followers, and I began to understand a little bit. Peace was what Nicholas had—that was how he could jest in the face of death. I knew I had no such peace…but he was the heretic and I was the faithful follower of God! It should be the other way around, shouldn’t it? Oh, if only there was a way that I could know the truth!  The church could not be wrong—everyone knew that—but what Nicholas believed seemed so much more real. I needed to talk to someone, but Nicholas was the only person who I trusted enough to reveal my doubts to, and he was going to be killed! Maybe Father Ambrose could help me free myself from these doubts…or maybe he would turn me into the inquisition as a heretic or assign me some horrible penance, or, worse yet, I had heard stories of priests who used girls, threatening to turn them in if they did not comply—I shuddered.
            I scarcely slept that night, and went to the jail again first thing in the morning, though my father admonished me not to. Nicholas was not there; the guards explained that he was on trial today and the next three days. I went home and prayed every prayer for safety I knew for Nicholas. Once the trial was over, I went again to the prison, and was let to visit him, though I had to bribe the guards far more than last time, they finally let me go to see him.
            Nicholas looked terrible when I entered the cell. He was lying on the floor, with his cloak wrapped around him. Fresh blood streaked his face, and his lip was badly swollen. He made a feeble attempt to rise when he saw me, but fell back with a gasp of pain. I quickly knelt down beside him
            “You have one hour,” the guard told me and left, locking the door behind him.
            “Nicholas, what have they done to you?” tears choked my voice as I spoke.
            “They tried a few of the Church’s gentle and loving means of correction on me,” Nicholas replied, rather bitterly. “Please forgive me for not rising, but I was briefly introduced to the rack this morning.”
            “The rack!” I had heard of that horrible torture device—many died on it. Others were left with broken and dislocated limbs. “Nicholas, please end this! Just recant—just say the word; I can’t bear to see you suffer like this!”
            “I cannot and will not recant,” Nicholas whispered through his teeth; I was certain from the way he said it that this was not the first time he had given someone that response. “The verdict has already been passed. They aren’t likely to torture me any more. After all, they say I need to regain my strength in time for the burning next week. I suppose burnings are more interesting when the victim is strong enough to struggle.”
            “Stop it! Don’t you dare mention the burning again to me!” I snapped, and instantly regretted it. He grasped my hand.
            “I’m sorry, Susanna, I’m sorry. I spoke without thinking—I spoke out of pain and anger. Please tell me why you came to visit me.”
            “I’ve been reading it, Nicholas, and I must know if what you believe is true. Can the church be wrong? Think of how old it is, think of how many believe it—think of all that must fall if it is wrong.”
            “I—can’t speak—not without some water!” He gasped, struggling to sit up. I grabbed a cup which was lying nearby and filled it from a stone pitcher. He took the water gratefully and continued. “Think, my love, of what we know of the time when Christ lived. The Jews had been following their false form of worship for centuries, and many, many followed it, yet it was still wrong. Their whole culture was built around it—there was indeed much to lose if it was false, and it was. Just because everyone believes something does not make it right; everyone in the world could believe that they could fly and go jump off a cliff to prove it, but their belief would hardly save their lives when they reached the rocks below. The Bible is truth. If you seek Christ, you will find Him in that Book.”
            “I need some kind of proof, Nicholas. I’m sorry, but I can’t just take your word for this, and if the church is right, I am damning my soul to hell by reading that book!” As I sobbed, Nicholas rather clumsily stroked my hair with his left arm—his right was twisted in such a way that I was certain both his shoulder and elbow were dislocated.
            “Susanna, will you believe in something which gives people courage, even joy in the face of death?”
            “I don’t know—probably.”
            “Then come to my execution, my love. I know it won’t be easy to watch, but please, come and see if Christ gives me the courage to die without fear.”
            “No! You can’t expect me to watch. That would be horrible—I can’t believe you’d ask such a thing! Please, my love, won’t you reconsider? You only have to say the words—you don’t actually have to give up these new beliefs. You cannot let yourself be killed—I cannot let you be killed. I can’t live without you!”
            “Did they put you up to this, Susanna? I didn’t endure their interrogations and tortures to deny my Lord for a chance at a good life,” He replied wearily. “I love you, but I love Christ far more. I’m sorry Susanna, but there is no point in trying to convince me to recant; I’m not going to.”
            “Just stop talking this way. How can you expect me to sit and listen to this? You may be resigned to your fate, but I am not! I’ll leave if you keep this up.”
            “Susanna, you know as well as I do that I have a very short time left to live; how can I not try to make every moment count? All I want is to see you in heaven one day. Is that too much to ask?” He moved a little, and sucked in his breath sharply, clearly suppressing a cry of pain. After several moments, he began again, much more quietly. “I am afraid. Afraid of the fire, but more afraid for you—afraid of you suffering in hell fire. I love you.” His voice was hardly audible, and his eyes were closed, “I love you, God’s truth, I do. I would give almost anything to live out my life with you at my side, but I could never be so unfaithful to my Lord as to deny him to get out of here. God loves you, darling, and His love is far greater than mine. Please think again—how can the Roman Church be the church of Christ? How could Christ, who loves us so much, be commanding His people to torture and kill those for whom He died? How can—” A fit of coughing interrupted him; I offered him the cup of water, but he turned his face away, blood splattering his lips. Finally, he stopped coughing and lay back, eyes closed, breathing heavily. The guard came and told me my visiting time was over. Nicholas gave my hand a weak squeeze, and I rose and left the cell.
I spent the next few hours pacing up and down in my chambers, carrying on a heated argument with myself. I can’t watch his execution—it would kill me!
            This may be my only chance to know for sure who is right.
            No! The church is right—it has to be; after all, it’s been around for far longer than Nicholas’ heretical cult.
            But what if it does disagree with the scriptures? What if Nicholas is right? What if Christ really is a God of love?
            What if he is wrong? Is it a risk worth taking? Look what it cost him!
            That’s exactly the point—how can someone have the courage to face all that for something false? What if it is true and you do not believe it? Is that a risk worth taking?
            I could not sleep that night. I tried in vain to silence the questions war back and forth in my head; doubts and my desperate longing to know the truth battered against the walls of my old faith—the walls I had thought so unbreachable a few short days ago. Late that night, or rather early the next morning, I finally got up, lit my lamp, and opened the Book. I read, desperately looking for something that clearly condemned or condoned the church system, but I soon was distracted from that by some verses about love. Out of curiosity, I decided to count how many times the book mentioned love; I started at the beginning, skimming, and keeping count of how many times it occurred. Finally, after several hours, I came up with the number 176; I probably missed some, but that number rather overwhelmed me—it could not have been more obvious that Christ was indeed a God of love. I found another thing while I was searching—a book near the end called “The First Epistle of St. John”; that book was so full of love that it made my heart ache for the love described therein. I was startled to find a place where it stated outright “God is love”. This could be real. It was so beautiful and wonderful; how could it be evil? Finally, though I knew it would break my heart, I resolved to go to the burning.
            “God? Please forgive me if it is wrong for me to pray directly to You, but if you really are a loving God; if what Nicholas believes is true, then please give me some kind of proof—please, if Nicholas is really Your servant, let him be brave and not fear the fire—and if he is not, then please let him recant before they kill him.” I prayed hesitantly—it felt so weird to address God rather than a saint; I crossed myself many times, hoping I was not sinning in praying like that.
            The next week was both the best and the worst week I had ever had. I spent as much time as I could spare without raising suspicions reading the Book in my room, and the more I read, the more I longed for the God described in it, the Christ who said “Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.” Love, Joy, and Peace were recurring themes in the Book, and they were the three things I would give almost anything for. At the same time, though, my grief for Nicholas, my fear of seeing him burned, and most of all, my guilt for the part I had played in all this tore at me, leaving me sobbing for hours on end. Also, I found I could not bear mass that Sunday. It seemed false, emotionless, and wrong even; I desperately hoped my doubts did not show on my face as Father Ambrose placed the wafer on my tongue. He seemed to pause for a moment longer at me, and my heart stood still, but then he continued down the line, and I could breathe again.
            The dreaded, yet longed for day arrived after a long night of reading, praying, and crying. I managed to hold back my tears as a maid dressed me in the inconspicuous grey dress I had chosen long in advance for the occasion.  My father, who had been very reluctant to consent to my going, insisted that a manservant accompany me in case of trouble. I loathed the presence of the servant at my side as I rode out for the town square; I had to maintain my composure before him, though my heart felt like it would burst if I held in my grief, somehow I did.
            The square was teeming with people of all ages and classes; I pulled my hood forward a bit, hoping no one would recognise me as the daughter of the Earl. I thought for a moment that I caught a glimpse of Nicholas’ youngest sister, Eleanor, standing in the shadow of a building alone, holding a horse’s reigns, but no; there is no way that her family would have let her travel here to witness this horrible event—especially unescorted! I had hardly any time to think about that though, because suddenly a shout rose from the crowd nearest the jail. I turned to see a cart rattling up, surrounded by mounted guards, with Father Ambrose himself leading the procession carrying a tall crucifix. In the cart was my Nicholas; he was on his knees, his hands bound tightly behind him, and his head bowed, whether from weariness, or in prayer, I could not tell. The crowd hurled insults and curses at him and a few threw clods of dirt. It was so horrible; I wanted to somehow protect him; to take him in my arms, wipe away the dirt and blood from his face, and tell him everything would be fine. The cart jolted to a stop a few paces from the stone platform with the stake, and Nicholas raised his head. To my surprise his expression was not one of fear or grief, but calm, happy even, as if he was going to a ball rather than his own death. A guard stepped into the cart, and dragged him to his feet. Nicholas stumbled a few times as he was lead to the stake, and his face was tight with pain; I shuddered, remembering that he had been on the rack. Was he walking on broken legs? They quickly bound him to the stake with a chain around his waist, and steel ring was clasped around his neck to hold him in place. Finally, the executioner stepped aside, and Father Ambrose approached, still bearing the crucifix. Oh, please recant! Oh, God, let him recant; I cannot watch him die like this. I prayed silently.
            “My son,” Father Ambrose began in a pleading tone, “Why do you persist in your folly? Even now, you may be saved from the flames of this world and the next if you but say a few simple words. Denounce your heresy, accept the mass, and throw yourself upon the abundant mercies of the church. Even now you can be set free, if you say but a few simple words.”
            “You ask me to deny my Lord? I would rather die a hundred times! I should be proud to die for the name of the Christ who died for me.” I realised that Nicholas was not looking at the priest, but rather, he was gazing straight at me. “As for your offer for me to be saved from hell fire, that has already happened. It happened the day I placed my trust in Christ Jesus as my Lord and Saviour. I am not afraid of what you might do to this body; I shall have a new body today—one which shall never grow old or suffer. My Lord Himself commanded us to not fear those who can destroy the body, but rather to fear God, who can destroy both body and soul. No, I will not recant; I denounce the Church of Rome as perverted, the pope as a liar, and—” His words were cut short by Father Ambrose striking him hard in the mouth. It startled me, as I had never before seen the soft-spoken priest use violence against anyone.
            “He has refused the mercy of the Church,” Father Ambrose announced coldly, turning to the crowd, “So we now hand him over to the secular authorities, for far be it from the Holy Mother Church to shed blood.” As the priest stepped away from the platform, and the executioner stepped forward, Nicholas began to speak again, though blood dripped down his chin from his broken mouth. He was quoting from the Scriptures—I recognised a few of the verses, like “Do not pray with vain repetitions as the heathen do”, “Those who worship God must worship Him in spirit and in truth”, and “By works of the law shall no flesh be justified in His sight”. Others were unfamiliar, like “The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord”, and “Believe on the Lord Jesus christ, and you shall be saved”. I nearly cried out as the executioner jabbed the torch he bore into one of the faggots piled around Nicholas. The wood caught instantly, and the blaze quickly climbed up, licking his legs and feet; still he pleaded with the crowd. “Today, if you will hear His voice, do not harden your hearts in rebellion! Today is the day of salvation!” The flames wrapped around his chest, and his legs—oh, his legs! I could not bear to look at him, but I could not bear to look away either, even for a second. Finally, when I could scarcely see his face through the flames, he raised both hands into the air and cried out “Death is swallowed up in victory!” His arms remained in the air for a few moments, his face upturned, then they dropped, and I knew it was over. I put a hand over my eyes, and only then realized that tears were streaming down my cheeks.
            So many contradictory emotions crowded my head that I could scarcely think about what I was doing. I only vaguely remember swinging myself up on to the horse and riding away at a mad pace. I rode blindly out over unfamiliar terrain for about an hour before I reigned in my horse and realised that I had been riding astride! But it didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered now. I dropped from my horse to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
            “Oh God, Christ, Oh, Nicholas’s God, I know You’re real now. I don’t know what to do or say! Why God? Why did it have to be Nicholas?” You know why. It was not a voice I heard—more like a thought, but then I understood. It was me; it took Nicholas’s death to convince me. “Oh, Lord, why do you want me? I’m worthless—I’ve followed a false church, and, God, don’t you know that I was the one who turned in Nicholas? I as good as killed him! You don’t want me!” Today is the day of salvation. “Christ, I want it! I want that salvation!” And that day, lying on my face in an unknown wood, I gave my life to Christ.

HOPE: A free verse poem

I am alone

I tread the empty street;

Dark windows watch me

Like a hundred lifeless eyes.

Has it been three years, or a thousand

Since last I saw this site?

This was home.

All are gone.

All are dead.

Does it matter?

No.

Everyone born must die; 

The war taught me that.

I pass a bloodied corpse;

Once I would have shuddered,

Once I would have wept

But now my eyes are dry.

It was not always so,

Not in my first battles;

I mourned my comrades,

Lying lifeless in the trenches.

Nothing moves me now;

My heart died long ago.

I am cold.

Frozen in the frost of war.

Life and death are one to me;

They walk ever hand in hand.

The war is ended,

But who remains?

Who will sing the victory song?

They all have perished;

A hundred thousand unmarked graves,

And many more still unburied—

All that remains of my country.

My past lies shattered at my feet;

I have no future;

The present alone exists.

This is no time for grief,

No time for fear,

No time for pity.

It’s a time to survive.

I warm myself by smoldering house.

A stench of burning flesh—

But it’s warm,

And that is all that matters.

Snow begins to fall;

A white shroud for a murdered land.

One building yet stands;

A church, with shattered windows, 

Yet it offers shelter

The door stands ajar,

Dangling from broken hinges.

An usher slumps lifeless in the doorway.

I step over him;

I do not pity the dead, 

Nor do I fear them.

More corpses lie within;

It is a wedding,

Frozen in time.

The bride and groom lie still

Locked in an eternal embrace.

The wedding party is close at hand:

Dead. All are dead.

I take the heavy altar cloth,

Stained with the parson’s blood,

Some would call this sacrilege,

But the altar cannot freeze to death.

I can.

The cloth is thick and warm.

I curl up in a corner,

Knees drawn up,

And there I rest

Wrapped in red velvet. 

A sudden sound

Stirs me from sleep—

A soft thump,

Deep echoes fill the church.

I quickly rise

And draw my gun.

“Who’s there?”

My voice rings hollow

In the forsaken sanctuary.

Silence answers me.

Ghosts?

The thought stirs no fear in me.

Fear is weakness;

I left it on the battlefield,

Slain together with my humanity.

No phantom can harm me;

Men like I have no souls.

I am alert.

My senses are battle-sharpened.

No sound can escape my ears.

I hear a faint whimpering

A dying animal?

I creep towards it

On hands and knees

Gun ready,

I am back in the trenches,

Crouched behind enemy lines,

Seeking my foe.

Something stirs beneath a pew.

I jerk back.

I kneel,

Look under;

Two blue eyes stare back

Wide with terror.

A child’s eyes, a child’s face,

A child’s had reaching for mine.

 I am hardened, cold, and cruel

Yet I cannot turn away.

The child crawls out;

A little girl.

Her ruffled white dress,

Stained with blood,

Her tangled black curls,

Her dirty, tear-stained face

All speak of last night’s horror.

But her eyes have lost their fear.

I hold out my arms to her;

Why? I do not know.

She comes,

Leaps into my arms,

Clings tightly to my neck.

I take her in my arms.

She is crying.

My eyes are wet.

I thought I had no more tears;

I was wrong.

Sobs. 

Her sobs mingle with mine,

A child’s voice and a man’s

Blend in a lament 

A dirge for a country bathed in blood.

I feel my heart breaking—

The heart I did not know I had.

I stood, lifting the little girl

Around her trembling shoulders,

I wrap the altar cloth.

A single ray of sunlight

Shines through the open door.

I look out into the sunrise,

A fresh wind has scattered the clouds. 

The child clings to me;

I cradle her in my arms.

She is a survivor,

Like me.

I leave the church.

I tread the silent streets again,

Carrying the little girl.

The deep peal of a bell rings out

Loud and clear.

Again and again it sounds,

The winds rushes through the steeple 

Stirring the great church bells.

On I walk,

Leaving the dead city behind

Under the tolling of funeral bells.

I stride boldly out into the rising sun.

The past has perished,

The future awaits me,

And I am ready to face it

Together with this child.

She whispers her name in my ear:

“Hope”.

Chapter 2

Kalen quietly opened the door. "Father?"
"Kalen!" The familiar thump of a walking staff followed his father's voice. He stepped forward into the house and into his father's waiting arms. "What's this? This weak hug? I'm minus one leg, not made of glass." Kalen laughed and squeezed more tightly, though still careful not to knock his father down.
"Come, son, sit and tell me of the battle." He stumped over to the table and carefully sat down. Kalen followed him quickly and pulled up his chair. He gave his father a quick, unelaborate account of the battle, then plunged into his question.
"Father, do you need me tonight? Because Syriel invited me over."
His father looked away for a long moment. "Are you sure that is wise, son?" He asked at length. "I fear for you. You are spending too much time with Syriel."
"What? Why shouldn't I? She's my best friend! What do you have against her?" Kalen demanded angrily.
"It's not that, son. She is a good and kind girl--she visits me often when you are away--but you know the king's threats. I fear his men have been watching you with her. The king is a jealous man and will stop at nothing to have what he wants."
"That's ridiculous! She's five years older than me! Even the king can't imagine that there's something between us."
"He can't, but he does. His men paid me a visit yesterday. He wants you to keep your distance."
"And what if I don't?"
"They didn't say exactly, but I got the basic idea. For now, please tell her that you are not available this afternoon. And do not sit with her at the feast tonight."
"No. I won't avoid her just because the king wants me to. Who is he to tell me who I can and can't be friends with?"
"Son, think carefully. You could put us both in danger by your rashness."
"Rash? Is it rash to be friendly? Syriel is lonely--and I am too. We grew up together--we've been friends as long as I can remember--since she used to watch me when you were at war. I can't just abandon her."
"It's not like you can never see her again. You just need to put a little distance between you--don't leave any room for rumors. Remember that she is a young woman and you are a young man. You are not children any more."
"I know that, but I swear there is nothing between us--we are friends, nothing more, but friends don't turn their backs on each other--especially in tough times, like when an evil king is having his cronies haunt her every footstep." Kalen stopped, catching his father's pained look. "I'm sorry. I know it isn't your fault, father. It just makes me so mad--and I really can't. She's my friend and I'm going to stick by her. I'm not afraid of the king." Liar, his conscience whispered. "Now, if you'll excuse me," He stood up, "I expect Syriel is waiting." He turned to leave, but his father's walking staff barred his way.
"Please, son. Don't go--not yet. You haven't even been home for an hour, after being away for two weeks. Syriel is not the only one who gets lonely when you're away. When the men came back and I didn't see you and you didn't come, I feared the worst. Now please, just stay with your old, crippled father for an afternoon."
Kalen deliberately stepped over the staff. "The army's staying in town for at least a week, father. We'll have lots of time together later. I'll sit with you at the feast tonight!" He called over his shoulder as he left the house.
Kalen kept his promise. The feast found him squeezed in between his father and Syriel, with the king watching his every move from his high seat. He felt his father's hand protectively resting on his shoulder and resisted the urge to brush it off. If it made his father feel like he was safer, he could put up with it--even if it made him feel like a ten year old. He hoped Syriel wouldn't notice, but her raised eyebrow told him that it was too late to hope that. She leaned towards him, but before she spoke, the king stood, raising a goblet.
"I drink this day to the our victory, to our returned victors and heroic fallen." He paused as they all murmured their assent and raised their glasses, then continued. "I express the gratitude and debt that all free people owe you all, and trust your future loyalty to protect us for many years to come. But I regret to say that I have grave news in this time of celebration. Word came this very night that our neighboring city and constant help and support in this long war, Syxel, is now besieged by the armies of Fellyre. Our allies call for aid. We cannot abandon them." Silence fell around the hall as the words sank in. Kalen felt his father's hand clench. There would be no week together. The army was needed. All around, wives and children burst into sobs. Kalen looked at the king and the king met his gaze. An evil smile twisted one corner of the king's mouth, then his eyes moved to Syriel with the same familiar greedy look. She noticed it and glared back until he looked away.
Taldyr stood up abruptly. "We shall make ready, my lord." He said stiffly and turned on his heel and left the hall. Syriel glanced at Kalen then rose and followed her father. Kalen moved to follow, but his father's firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. The feast continued in silence. Kalen's stomach was in knots, but his fifteen-year-old appetite won out and he ate. His father and almost half of the others in attendance did not. There was no dancing or singing, and the king's jovial mood first annoyed then angered the crowd. He laughed and told loud jokes and refilled his goblet again and again until he was barely coherent. When he finally stood--if you could call it standing--everyone took it as leave to go home and left King Dyestan with whispered directions to the servants to escort him home before he did anything foolish--or at least, anything else foolish.
Kalen saw his father home in silence. There was nothing to say, or at least if there was anything to say, neither felt like saying it. Kalen had vague feeling that he owed his father an apology, but he said nothing. His father went straight to his room without a word, and he went outside, hoping to untangle some of what he was feeling.
"Kalen." Kalen jumped at Taldyr's voice so close to his ear. "Come, walk with me." They walked along quietly until they came to the city stables. As they entered the stables, the army commander turned to him. "The king is trying to get me out of the way--and possibly you too."
"But Syxel needs us--the king couldn't possibly have arranged that."
"That's old news--News of the siege came almost two weeks ago. The king had no intention of sending aid. What do you think changed his mind? I can assure you it wasn't loyalty to Syxel. Syxel did not call for aid. They know as well as we do that the Elnite army can do nothing against the full army of Fellyre. The captain of the king's guard gave me these orders," Taldyr held up a rolled paper with a broken seal, "and they are very specific. Read here."
Kalen scanned the page. A third part of the full army of Elni...two ranks, one led by the Commander and the other by Kalen... "But that's madness! I'm fifteen! I've only once even fought in a battle. I'm just a foot soldier! I can't lead a charge! I don't know the first thing about--"
"I know. He also commands that I promote you. He wants to be rid of you, and what better way than to put an inexperienced soldier at the head of a charge? But unless you've severely offended the king in some way I never heard about, this is about Syriel. If you and I are out of the way, she will have no protection." Kalen opened his mouth, but Taldyr continued, "I can't bring her with us. We are likely going to our deaths. I can't bring my daughter to such an end. But I can appoint a guardian. I have the papers here, already written and signed by myself and Dalleth, the Preceptor, naming your father Syriel's guardian if I do not return. Your father needs only to sign it. Ask him for me--tell him this is not a command, but a plea from an old friend."
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Kalen immediately regretted his accusatory tone, but, if Taldyr noticed, he didn't show it.
"I don't think I will get a chance before we must leave. I need to make ready. And I have to choose which of my men I want dead," he added grimly.
"You can't sacrifice a third of the army! Our military is small enough as is. Surely the king will listen to reason. Or maybe it would be best to just give Syriel to him. I hate to think of her being handed over, but even she would see the sense in it."
"You are the second person to advise me to give her up. The first was Syriel herself. But it's too late--even if I could force myself to sacrifice my daughter to save my own skin, the announcement is made and the orders are given.  To rescind those orders, he would have to confess the entire scheme. He could never do that. He would lose face and very possibly the throne too. Please ask your father. I cannot leave Syriel alone in Elni, and I dare not bring her with us. And I fear for her. She blames herself for this; I do not know what she might do if we do not return." Taldyr looked away towards the gate. "I must go now. Please talk to your father for me."
Kalen bowed and turned to leave, but Taldyr stopped him. "Kalen. Listen to me. The king wants us dead, but our lives are not in his hands. The chances are definitely against in this battle, but it is Ithien who takes life as it is he who gives it. We may yet look on our homes again. Do not despair. We are all in Taril's hands here." He gave Kalen's hand a squeeze in his leathery scarred hand. "Ithien be with you."
"And with you too!" Kalen replied as Taldyr continued down the street.
Back at his home, he found his father awake and waiting.
"Father? The commander sent me with a message for you." Kalen said quietly, trying to make out his father's expression in the dim light of the lamp on the table.
"He wants me to take guardianship for his daughter." It wasn't a question.
"Yes. He's optimistic about the mission--he just wants to be sure. It's a precaution, nothing more."
"A precaution. You forget, son, I was a warrior too. I know a hopeless mission when I see one. But you can tell Taldyr I will accept guardianship under one condition. I will protect his child if he will protect mine."
"No! I can't bear a message like that--this is war, father. Taldyr cannot favor me above his other soldiers. It would be a crime--a sin--to play favorites with his men!"
"And yet in every charge, some must be put at the head and some at the tail. It is the commander who chooses the positions, is it not? I do not ask that you be pampered but that he do what he can to spare your life. Syriel is all Taldyr has left and, likewise, you are all I have. I cannot lose you--not so soon, not so young. If you cannot bear such a message, I will talk to Taldyr myself." Kalen gritted his teeth in exasperation but did not protest. He could see plainly why his father would ask this, but still, it was so humiliating! He was a soldier, not a child! He did not need his father to barter for his safety. What if word got out of this deal? The other soldiers would think he had arranged it out of fear.

Thoughts on Salvation

It's strange. The greater an event, the harder it becomes to write about. You want to capture it--to summarize, to let others feel what you felt and see what you saw, but the words evade you.
The day that God conquered my soul is one such day. The day He, by His sovereign power, snatched me from the kingdom of darkness to place me in the kingdom of His Son. I have tried time and again to recapture the glory of that moment. But I fail every time,
So, where plain speech fails me, I turn to prose. I think, perhaps, at last, I have captured a faint glimpse of what God wrought in me that day. But to truly see what He did, I must look at what I was.

I was lost, dead and blind, drowned in sin and the shame it bears. I fled from grace, shifting the blame, hating His love, scorning the cross. I rebelled against His laws, I loved all that He loathes, and hated all He held dear. I found the darkness sweet and strong, a hiding place for evil deeds, and there I sought cold solitude. Fears plagued my heart and I dove deeper, drowning in damnation, clasping at hellfire.  My heart had found its place, settled down in dark self-worship.
Christ called my name in blackest pit. I drew back in fear, cowering in my soul's night. I saw the pierced hand extended, but had no power nor will to take it. I tried to hide, but light poured in. Deadly light, revealing light. My sins laid bare, my soul exposed, I saw my death waiting at the door. Strong hands lifted me--I fought weakly in fear, yet upwards I rose, up to the light.
There, in the light, there stood a cross, darkly stained with blackened blood. A thorny crown lay at my feet, three nails resting on the stones, an ancient hammer in my hand. Then I saw what I had done. Blindly, raging in the dark, I had beaten, pierced and killed Him, crucified the Holy One. Then I saw Him standing there, the risen Christ.
I looked in His eyes and understood. That cross had been reserved for me, the nails smithied for my hands and feet. Yet willingly, He'd born the blame, taken lash, wound, and death, drinking the deathly cup of wrath, the cup waiting for my lips. I saw the scars, the shadow of pain--my knees gave way and down I fell. At his feet, I lay in awe, drowned in my guilt, aghast at His love.
"Forgive, my Lord, forgive!" I cried, "Redeem this devil's child!" But down, He reached, and took my hand; raised me to my feet; named me "beloved", "child of God"--Could I believe my ears? He who I'd killed had died for me. He took my black heart, washed it clean, bore my hell and gave me heaven.
And in His love, I live and breathe. To do His will is liberty, to see His face is glory.
Call me what you will--fanatic, crazed, religious fool--'tis nothing! He was called all that and worse. Give me your scorn, I fear no man, for perfect love has cast out fear. Hate me--He too was hated by men. How can hate harm me when I know such love? Accuse me--no charge shall stand. I am redeemed, I am annointed, purged by Christ's blood, forever holy.

A Rather Longer Story: Chapter 1

Someday, perhaps, this will be a novel. I will be posting a chapter every week for however long it takes.
As it is currently unfinished, feel free to comment any suggestions of what should happen as it goes on.



Kalen ran his thumb along his sword blade. Newly sharpened, newly cleaned, it looked as he had seen it a thousand times, but he knew he would never look at it the same way again. Today, it had shed blood. Of course, that was nothing new for the sword. He stared at his reflection in the blade; it was something new for him, though. Enjoy childhood while you have it, for once you become a man, there is no going back, his father had warned him in years past when he had begged to go with him to battle. He had never fully understood him until now. He was a man now--a warrior. All he had ever wanted to be but all he could think of was those he had killed. He had been taught as long as he could remember that the Fellyrians, with a few rare exceptions, were more beast than man, and yet the pain and fear he had seen in their eyes as he tore his blade out was so, so very human. The last one was the hardest. He had looked so young: beardless, lean, his eyes full of the wonder, fear, and confusion Kalen was sure his own eyes had held--it was that boy's first battle too. Could they really be so very different?
He had promised to tell Syriel every detail of the battle, but now it pained him to even think about it. He could imagine how she would berate him for his cowardice if he told it as he most wanted to. He could not make it sound glorious. They had ambushed and killed some fifty or so warriors and lost only fourteen men. It sounded impressive enough, but the fight itself had been a slaughter. Nearly half of the Fellyrian force was dead before they even drew their weapons. They had been eating their breakfast when they were attacked. Casual conversation and even laughter had betrayed their position and damned them. Kalen could imagine too clearly how they must have felt, what they must have thought, as their killers descended on them.  But Syriel would see it differently--as would all who looked on it from a distance.
Syriel  was his closest friend, and, though she never said so, he knew that he was her only real friend. She had no shortage of men who wanted rather more than her friendship, but, for that same reasons, she had a definate shortage of female friends. She had laughed at the attention her beauty won until almost three years ago when the King of Elni had asked for her hand in marriage. He was a obese man, more than twice her age, with a greedy, cowardly heart, and she despised him. Her father, Taldyr, the army commander, had refused immediately, despite threats and a ominous promise that, if Syriel did not marry the king, she would never find a husband. From that moment on, much to her father's distress, she had set her heart on a glorious warrior's life and death. Taldyr had taught her the use of weapons and armor, but still he refused to let her march with the army. Kalen knew why: That was how Taldyr had lost his wife--she had been beheaded before his eyes in the heat of battle when Syriel was scarcely more than a baby. He refused to speak of the battles to Syriel, causing her to depend entirely on Kalen for such news. Now, at twenty-one she was almost past the age for marrying, and insisted that she was well past any desire for marriage. With her five years his elder and resigned to an unmarried life, and he but newly discovering a desire for marriage, and both of them having lost their mother, they had a good, solid friendship without the slightest risk of ever becoming anything more than friends.
"Kalen?" Taldyr's voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Yes, Captain?"
"Are you well?"
"Yes--yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be? I wasn't hurt--except this and it's nothing." Kalen showed Taldyr the long scratch he had received on the back of the hand from his own mail coat.
"This was your first battle. The first is always the hardest. You go into battle with thoughts and dreams of glory, and find only blood and death."
Kalen paused for a long moment, then spoke, "I feel like a murderer. I killed at least six men. I saw the pain and fear in their eyes and I can only think of the lives I have ended. Perhaps they had wives and children--or parents--waiting and hoping for their safe return. How are they so different from us? Why must we kill them?"
Taldyr looked away. "You are right, Kalen. They are not so very different from us. They are but men like us, with all the same hopes and dreams and fears as any other. If I met one of them alone in the forest, I would not kill him, but this is war. War changes many things. We must fight or let the free world fall to Fellyre. War costs many lives, but to surrender would be a greater evil. Our people would be bought and sold as slaves, and all who worshiped Ithien would die. It is not wrong to grieve for the lives lost in war, both friends and foes, but do not let that grief drive you to condemn those who fight against evil."
"That's the problem. I cannot see those we fight against as evil."
"The Fellyrian people are no more evil in nature than any other men. The evil is Fellyre. The government and religion it seeks to spread would destroy our people."
"So we must kill people we can see to fight that which we can't see?"
"Yes. We fight because we must, Kalen. There is no other way. Zerak is determined to conquer the Selvran Plains, then, doubtless, the mountains and the world." He fell silent for a moment, then continued, "Syriel has asked you to tell her of the battle, I know. What will you tell her?"
"I need tell her nothing if you tell her. You are the commander. You could tell it better than any of us, and she is your daughter. She wants you to tell her. She doesn't understand why you will not talk of the battles."
"But you understand why. Tell her if you want. She does not listen to me any more. All she wants is war. She does not know what it's really like. Tell her, Kalen. Teach her to look on it as you do. Maybe then she will not want it so much."
"I can't change her mind, Captain. You need to let her go to war. Let her see it for herself. That's the only way she'll ever believe it."
"I can't. She's my only family. I cannot risk losing her like I did her mother. Did you know I once had a sister? She and I grew up together after our parents' deaths. We looked out for each other. The king, a young man at that time, wanted her, but she refused him and chose a young man who he despised. The king arranged her husband's death, and she was never the same afterwards. My Ryenna tried to comfort her--they were both with child, so she helped and supported her, but it wasn't enough. Finally, she wandered off into the forest with her unborn child and neither of them were ever seen or heard from again. Then Ryenna died and all I had was Syriel. If she died, I would die. I cannot lose her."
Kalen shook his head, but could think of no reply. He had told Syriel many times: Your father loves you. He just wants to protect you. He's afraid of losing you.  She never listened, and he knew he could not make her.

At noon the next day, the army returned to Elni. There was the usual cheers and embraces, the typical short speech from the king they all disdained, but Kalen heard most clearly the weeping of those who looked for their loved ones and did not find them. Only fourteen men lost. It had sounded impressive--like a cause of celebrating--but now he only heard fourteen men. Fourteen families broken. Fourteen. They were not all actually men--three had been women, and he could see two soldiers standing alone and miserable, knowing their wives were no more, wondering if they could have saved them.
"Kalen!" He turned just in time to welcome Syriel's hug. She held him at arms length the way his mother used to. "You're not even hurt! I knew you'd be a good soldier. Come on, tell me all about it."
"You'll hear about it at the victory feast tonight."
"You know how victory speeches go--we lost so many, we killed so many, we're alive, let's drink. I want detail. Tell me, was it exciting? Did you kill any? What does it feel like to be in the heat of battle?"
"It was exciting in a horrible way. I killed about six. It didn't feel at all like what I expected." He replied abruptly. After a pause, he continued. "Your father was right, Syriel. War is terrible thing. I saw more death yesterday than I ever want to see again."
Syriel was silent for a long moment. "My father told you to tell me that, didn't he?" She said at length. "I wish he would stop it. I'm doing nothing here at home. I'm just sitting around and cooking meals and hoping the King doesn't stop by. I feel like I'm stifling! We used to have fun--remember when we used to hunt together and you would teach me to use swords and bows and I taught you to carve wood? But now, with you away with the army, and the king's men stalking around watching my every move, I'm desperate for a getaway. I'd rather be getting hacked to pieces fighting the enemy than just sit around here and rot. Have you ever considered what will become of me if something happens to my father? There would be nothing to protect me from the king."
"Nothing will happen to your father. He's the best swordsman in the Elni--likely in the whole Selvran Plains. And the king isn't about to take you by force. He's unpleasant enough, but he isn't evil."
"Isn't he? He had my uncle hung for marrying a woman he wanted. And he threatened to remove my father from his command if he refused to hand me over. I wouldn't be surprised if he has a man watching me right now. At first he just disgusted me, but now he frightens me. If my father is out of the way, I know he will take me--unless I am in the army. You know the law. Unless a soldier behaves dishonorably, he cannot be removed from the army against his will. My father thinks the army is a danger to me, but it may prove my only protection."
"Have you told your father this?"
"That I think the army is safer than the city? Or that I'm scared of King Dyestan? He knows I'm scared. And of course, he's promised over and over again that the king will only get to me over his dead body. And as for the army, he won't let me even mention it in the same room as him. He keeps saying that it's completely out of the question." She shook her head. "There's no use talking about it. I know my father isn't going to change his mind and I'm not either. Tell me about the battle. If you don't want to talk about your own fighting, tell me about my father."
"He was amazing--he is the best there is, no doubt about it," Kalen began, relieved by the change of topic. "I saw him fighting four men at once--it was like he had eyes everywhere--he could fight over his shoulder behind his back with more skill than a normal soldier can fight someone standing right in front of him. And he doesn't just stick to his sword and shield--he'll use anything. He brought down the Fellyrian general by choking him with his own cloak. No one could get close enough to give him so much as a scratch. Your father is an amazing man, Syriel."
"I don't doubt it. I only wish he would give me the chance to be like him--to wield a sword shield, or even a cloak in defense of the free cities." She ran one hand through her hair then turned to Kalen with a forced smile. "But you can hardly change that. There's no use complaining. We should do something fun now that you're finally back. Do you think your father can spare you for an evening?"
"Well, I'll ask--is he in the house?"
"Yes--and I'm sure he's waiting for you. You'd better go--he'll be thinking you got killed!"