The Will of the War

Bathed in the hesitant, dancing glow of the forge, Alec held his current project in his tongs, studying it. He sat, pondering its shape, strength, balance and weight. All these things, he knew, were important when making an item of such gravity as this one; they were important when making anything.

The plain truth of it was, he was just too awake to be working. Sleep was not actually what motivated his work. He was simply so accustomed to the feel of the nights spent in the forge that being this alert unsettled him a little. Of course, this unusual wakefulness could be attributed to the troubling things that had happened that day.

Moonlight crept in from the small window near the ceiling, and invaded the room. It seemed to compete for a little more ground with the warm light of the fires that defined Alec's life. It was the moon (which had just emerged from behind cloud cover) that drew Alec's attention outdoors. He stood up, surprised at first by the lack of that heavy-footed feeling that so often accompanied his usual fatigue. Leaving the metalwork unfinished on the anvil, he stepped out into the moon's territory.

His feet paid no heed to the usual dirt path, which the light from the forge so conveniently lit all the way up to the back door of his house. Instead, they took a right, and lead him off through the sparsely growing birch trees which casually rested on the border of the woods beyond. The trunks of the birches glowed in the moonlight, and Alec was surprised to think that it was almost too bright, if it was possible for something lit by moonlight to be considered bright.

As his troubled mind continued to follow his feet on this minor adventure they were taking, he began to hear the sound of trickling water growing closer. At this point, his mind caught up with his feet, and he realized they had been leading him to the old creek bridge. Now that his head was fully in the present, he also noticed that the sound of the water splashing on the rocks in the creek had been the first he'd heard since he left the forge, save, of course, for his own footsteps. He reached the bridge and, unceremoniously, stopped there, already deep in thought again.


A voice spoke up in his memory, and he recognized it at once as Elder Darion's. They had spoken just after the morning meal, when Alec was delivering some horseshoes to the Elder's stable.

"Alec, I have troubling news," he had said. "It seems the first evidence of the war has reached even our quiet town."

In his head, Alec recoqnized his own voice, replying, "That is troubling, indeed, Elder."

"Yes," agreed Elder Darion. "I had hoped our peaceful village would go unnoticed by the machine of war, but apparently just the opposite has occured." As he said this, the Elder's face grew even darker. "Alec," he hesitated. Alec waited with unhappy anticipation for the Elder to continue.

"General Fortamon has informed me that our King requires our aid in the war effort. We must either gather all our able men and send them to join the ranks, or supply the platoon passing by here with more weaponry. Alec," the Elder continued, "I wouldn't have told you this if I didn't think our village was in danger of losing all its fathers and husbands."

Alec did not respond for quite some time. He found the nearest bale of hay and sat for a moment, thinking about the implications of the General's demand. Finally, noticing that the Elder was watching him and waiting for a response, he got up, grunted something unintelligible, and began a slow walk home.


A breeze picked up in the forest, and blew a few dry leaves over the toes of Alec's old leather boots. The moon had moved slightly, giving light to areas that had been in shadow, and awakening shapes that had been, before, clothed in darkness. So like the war, Alec thought, the moon changes our view of the land. The terrain remains the same, but our peaceful villages and lonely streams become tactical vantages and lines on battle maps.

At this, he began to cry. His whole life he had hated war. His older brother and his father had been taken by one. Of course, they had leapt at the opportunity for adventure, even though they were leaving a family behind. Alec's mother had been so sad the day they left. She had tried to be happy for them, and they had certainly given her enough regurgitated campaigning slogans and morale catch-phrases. What good was their morale against those poisoned arrows? Alec questioned, bitterly.

And now, with the air of inevitability that time often creates, the war had returned. It was, undoubtedly, a different war in some purportedly significant way; perhaps there was a new enemy this time, or maybe the battle was for land instead of riches. It couldn't have mattered less to Alec.

As soom is it had become clear to Alec that he wanted to become a blacksmith (he was barely thirteen at the time), he had promised himself never to make weapons of war. The townsfolk might need an occasional bolt of arrows for hunting, or a knife or two for their kitchens, but Alec swore he would not aid any wars with his skills. Now, as Alec was forced for the first time to test his resolve to this oath, the lives of the men in his village were at stake. What would they say if they found out? He saw the faces of Born, the carpenter; Harran, the town healer; even Elder Darion's. Yes, they would even take the Elder. Of course, they would take him, too.

As Alec stood on the bridge, thinking of his village with all the broken families, of all the homes without fathers and brothers, the tears continued. Then, with the reluctance of a man who loves his friends more than himself, he turned back toward his forge. The autumn night was still young, and there was much work to be done.


Little Tilly woke with a start to the sound of Mother banging on the fence of the sty to rouse the pigs for feeding. Mother always fed the pigs first. Tilly hopped out of bed, bare feet landing on her favorite sheepskin rug, which she had cleverly stolen from the entry hall. Forgetting about washing her face or combing her hair, as her Mother would no doubt nag her to do later, she ran excitedly into her parents' bedroom. In her excited, overly-loud child's voice, she began, "Father, Father! Wake up! It's finally here! Joshua's birthday is..." She stopped when she realized, having just come around the corner into the bedroom, that Father was not in bed. She ran back to her window, and leaned out as far as she dared. "Mother," she almost yelled, "where's Father?"

"Your father must have stayed up all night in his forge again," replied Mother, in an all-too-Motherly tone. "Why don't you go fetch him? I'll be readying breakfast as soon as I'm done feeding the chickens."

Tilly didn't need to be asked twice on such an exciting day. Quick as a cat from water, she was down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door, bounding down the little dirt path to the forge. "Father, Father!" she repeated, as she got closer to the old converted barn. "Father, wake up..." and she was once again cut off. Father was in the forge, like mother had said, but he should have woken up from her yelling. Why did he look so unnatural, slumped across the table like that? Then she saw the blood. She ran to him, screaming wordleslly.


"Definitely suicide," Harran told Elder Darion, once they had moved out of earshot of Tilly's devastated mother. "There was no one around here last night save for Alec, I can only see his footprints- his and poor Tilly's, that is." Harran paused, glancing at little Tilly and Joshua, curled into fetal balls on their mother's lap. "There was also this note," Harran pulled a small folded piece of paper out of his vest. Elder Darion opened it slowly, and read the simple note: 'For the families.'

"Thank you, Harran," said the Elder, on the verge of tears. The only thing left to do now was to sort all the blades and arrowheads and send them off to the General. Every rack on every wall of the forge was filled with swords, boxes of arrowheads, daggers, and the like. One dagger, of course, was not on a rack or in a box. The bloody blade portruding from Alec's lifeless chest would have to be cleaned thoroughly before packing it up with the rest.

Fear and Loathing!!!!

http://fnlcomic.com
This time I actually have a somewhat creative excuse for not posting for a long period of time. I've been working on the webpage for a new webcomic entitled Fear and Loathing. My friend Locke and I are cowriting, and it'll be drawn by the talented fayepm. You *will* read this webcomic (kip does the jedi hand-motion). Seriously though... it's going to be funny.
http://fnlcomic.com

take no offense

Through a throng the music dances-
first playing at an ear, then flying,
true as an arrow, into the heart of another.

Its marionette-hands trounce merrily above-
invisible yet so entrancing. Its fingers
play out a spider's walk, and fragile threads
of tone jerk a head up and down; weave a torsoe.

The crowd long gone, retired to their lives
away from the dulcid tones, the music continues
ever on. It dances for itself, now, each note
or phrase pulling on the next; chiding it to come
and play.

The lyrics change, as if they knew they hadn't any
audience (or thought it hadn't, because I was there).
It fancies a rough tone, I think to myself. These
words would the masses frighten and apall. Now, in
the silent cosm in which music can roam, it curses
to its content, offending no one at all.

fireworks

All I can say about this one is... it's fricking 5:17 AM... and i like it, so we'll see if i still do in the morning when i have some sleep.


Light a fire above the heads
Of all the children watching.
Singe their hair, burn the threads
Of all their bedtime clothing.

They will not upset at all,
For they have been expecting
Fireworks- now they fall,
And each one brightly twinkling.

I Am - Chapter 3

His hands seemed to move on their own, now. He was so excited with his newly discovered power that he could not stop creating. He made planets, moons, asteroids. His hands swiftly and flawlessly formed novae, solar systems, and spiral galaxies . He was creating almost without thought, but he realized that all he saw seemed to be wrought with the talent of a master. His creations were not just beautiful, they were majestic. He continued to make his worlds (for they were worlds, he realized; each so complex, and containing so many things that they seemed each to encompass complete realities in their own microcosms) until he was surrounded by them. He felt as close to his worlds as he had to the darkness, but this feeling was exactly the opposite. He knew these things, and he liked them.

My creations should be unique, he mused. They should all be different, so that no beauty will be diminished by an equal. This idea pleased him greatly, and he promised himself to create only unique things from then on.

He had been so busy creating his quintessentially artistic globes that he did not even notice the next ache, when two orbs began to glow brightly near the center of his self. He finally noticed that he had eyes when he withdrew a little to survey the beauties of his environment.

In the sort of sudden (yet somehow unhurried) manner in which things had seemed to be happening to him so far, he instantly found another feeling, burning coldly from he core of his self. These worlds were wonderous, but they were not alive. He knew, all of a sudden, that he was lonely.

musings

I'm thinking about the book I may make someday.. It would probably have just enough content to fit into a small coffee table book. Being ever the minimalist, I think I shall call my book:

Coffee ('ko-fE, 'kä-):

(tagline)
Something to be drunk while reading this book.

I dunno... just a thought... and now, it's a copyrighted thought! ;)

I Am - Chapter 2

The thing outside seemed to be much less threatening now. His new shining spot of hope had taken that threat away, and he was very glad for it. He began to create more of these. At least, he assumed he was creating them, because he could always feel a little ache right before one appeared. He realized now that the feeling wasn't so bad after all. Perhaps the first one had been the worst, like a muscle that aches when it hasn't been used in a long time. He had no way of knowing this, however, because he didn't have any muscles.

His stars were appearing all around him, keeping him company in the big emptiness, which is what he now knew the thing outside was. When there was nothing to compare himself to in the emptiness, it had covered him like a blanket and he felt claustrophobic. Now that he could find a frame of reference, he realized that he must be floating out in emptiness. There was a void as far as he could see, and even beyond- past all he could imagine.

Suddenly the feeling of suffocation left him, and he became instantly lonely. He felt another ache (strong, like the first time), and his being began to take form. He realized that this ache was a feeling of want. He was reaching for his stars, as if he thought that they would somehow run away. What was he reaching with? He could not tell, but he felt the ache starting to stretch farther away from his self, in two long bands. Then the bands began to split, with five extensions on each one, reaching for every star. I'll call these my hands, he thought. Just then, the ache vanished, like before, and he could see his new arms and hands stretching to the stars. They were glowing, like the rest of his self, with a light brighter even than the stars he was reaching for.

With his new hands, he reached out and felt his stars. They were warm, and he thought that they must be burning with the ache that left him when they were created. He did not feel weaker after creating them, though, and he realized that this must be the power he had sensed in his self from the beginning- the power to create.

legal stuff blah blah blah

It came to me today that I might someday like to make a book of all my short stories and poems, etc. Then, of course, I became paranoid about people taking my work from this page. So, just to clarify, any post or comment made by myself dating from the beginning of this blog to the end of the same is copyright, Kipling L. Coleman. This, of course, encompasses all posts and comments already made by myself, and all the posts and comments I have yet to make.

Now, back to the fun stuff.

I Am - Chapter 1

Everywhere.

It was everywhere.

He could sense it all around him. Somehow, without having to think about it (indeed, he couldn't have if he had tried), he knew it was suffocating him. He began to hate it almost as soon as he became aware of its existence. He knew, deep in the core of his self (which is all he knew he had), that he was alone. Alone, and enveloped by this stuff.

He wanted to run away- to get out. He didn't know where out was. After all, it was everywhere. The only other choice was to go in. He turned in upon himself, doing his best to ignore the choking feeling outside. When he turned in, he felt his first hope. There was a tiny hold. It was his self, and his self had power.

He discovered that he could keep turning in on himself, discovering a smaller, more concrete self within the one he had just grabbed onto. He felt the strength of his foothold on this plane of existence beginning to grow. He kept turning in. For ages, he turned, grasping smaller and smaller holds which seemed to grow bigger when he pulled himself in toward them. He kept at this for so long, that the thing outside became less and less important. After an age of ages, he forgot about outside. At that exact moment, he felt the power of his self solidify into completion.

Before, he had only one sense. It was a kind of vague feeling, or what one might call a premonition. Now, he suddenly became aware of five senses. Even though he saw, felt, heard, smelled, and tasted nothing, he knew they were all there. Could these help him hide from the thing outside? In the next instant, he realized he wouldn't have to.

He felt his self aching, and just as he began to become genuinely annoyed with this new pain he had stumbled upon, it was gone. The ache left his body, and he was blinded by a bright flash. It was only a pinprick, but it was the most beautiful pinprick he had ever seen. In truth, it was the first thing he had ever seen with his new sense of sight. And it was coming from outside.