A Storm for the Ages.

            A storm blew in from the west, off the mountains of the Spine. The valley below welcomed it with open arms as the growing season had been fatally dry. Few crops had sprouted, and the harvest was bare. Not many had eaten well, and those who did were either very skilled with the bow, the tongue, or the sword.

            Thunder cracked the sky, waking Reoedin from a restless sleep. Nightmares had haunted his dreams of late, a bad omen he knew. Rain started beating on the grass roof of the forge, putting a smile on the blacksmith’s lips. He walked to the door in not but his trousers, opening it to feel the wetness of the shower. He stuck his hand out, cupping it to hold the water. He could not help but to chuckle as he splashed it onto his face, rubbing it into his grizzled beard. It had been far too long.

            “Illyena,” he whispered as he shook his daughter’s slumbering body. “Come. It seems the Gods have answered your prayers.” She rubbed her eyes, not realizing what he had said to her. Monstrous arms grabbed her up and held her tight. She laid her head against his massive chest as he brought her to the door. When she heard the rain, her head shot up looking for the source, not believing her ears. The six year old grinned from ear to ear, giggling as well. They laughed together, embracing the blessing they had received. When the rains started in the valley, they did not let up for many months. They were going to be ok. The young one hugged her father as he held her.

            Looking to the Spine, he noticed the mountain pass begin to glow with a faint light; at first only one, but it was followed by many more. His joyful mood turned to one of curiosity and worry. It seemed a large caravan of people passing through, perhaps one of the Missionary groups or… Suddenly, he knew exactly who it was. It was a mass of Eihmn soldiers, a cruel and ruthless bunch. They took what they wanted and put what they did not to waste. The only explanation that Reoedin could find for such a large party being in the area was conscription. Luckily enough for him, he was getting too old to be a soldier, nearing his forty-second year, but he knew that the draft was always a violent and saddening event.

            With a sigh, he shut the door and sat in a chair near the warm coals of the forge, his now sleeping daughter in his lap. Despite the rain, the following days would be tough and difficult to bear. He’d been down this road before, and it was certainly not something he wanted to endure again.

            He was just eighteen at the time. His mother wept as his father hugged him and shook his hand, tears welling up in his eyes. It was going to be him; they all knew. Rumor had spread like wildfire of those who were to be chosen the moment the soldiers had come down off the mountain. Reoedin’s father tried to be strong, crying only when none were looking. Of course, he never let on to that until Reoedin returned from war after sixteen long years.

            When the soldiers finally came, they came in force and brutality. They burst into the doors and attempted to subdue him by any means. He went down calmly, without a fight. They picked him up and lead him to the streets, a crowded, caged wagon in front of them. They pushed him to his knees, down onto the trodden dirt, and a dark-haired soldier in an unscathed breastplate of decorative armor – a lieutenant he assumed – put a sword to his throat. The steel was cold as it nicked the skin of his neck. The lieutenant’s face was thin, he’d almost seem gaunt if not for the muscles that protruded from the breaks in his armor. His teeth were yellow as he spoke. “Reoedin, son of Feorin,” there was now a host of bystanders about him, watching. “Hereby you have now been formally conscripted into the King’s Army. May you fight well and live long enough to see your mission done.” The lieutenant’s voice seemed almost sarcastic, as if he honestly couldn’t care less than he did. He lowered the sword and approached Reoedin with contempt. When he was within arm’s reach, the Lieutenant reached down and backhanded him across the face with a gauntlet of engraved steel. The world around him went black.

            His time as a soldier was even worse than that first day. He’d stood by as he watched men kill, rape, and pillage not only the enemy, but innocents as well. Man, woman, child: none were safe. Nothing would be so sweet to him as getting away from all of that. But what could he do? If he’d deserted, they would have found him. They always found deserters, and then they and their families were put to death. He couldn’t do that, not to his parents.

            And so, he had served out his term. The wars, the things he’d seen, things he’d done; they changed him, hardened him. When he returned home, he was not the same man. He shut out those whom he had loved, and those who tried to help him. Until one woman came along; Illyena’s mother and namesake. She was fairly tall for a woman, still shorter than him by a hand or two, and more beautiful than all the wonders of the world. Her hair was the red of wine, her eyes the blue of the ocean lit by the moon’s light. Smooth as silk, her skin was almost flawless. She might well have been the epitome of what is perfection. She was the one thing that brought him back to what he had been before the horrors. If only she had survived the birth…

            Reoedin found himself sobbing. The girl was still asleep in his arms as he wiped the tears from his cheeks. He’d done all he could for that child, but it was not enough. It likely never would be.

            The door burst open and Reoedin instinctively jumped to his feet, knocking the chair to the ground and gripping the girl firmly. Now hugging him closely, the girl was awake and afraid. “Gods be damned,” he cursed in relief; it was only his apprentice. “I thought you were a soldier, Ara’Mon.”

            “You’ve heard then?” Ara’Mon was not handsome by any means, with a bulbous nose, missing teeth, and several chins, nor was he very tall. He was however, strong as an ox, and even more skilful with the hammer than Reoedin had ever hoped to be. Eventually, that boy would work for kings. That is, if Reoedin had anything to say about it. His breaths were ragged and shallow; he’d obviously come a long way very quickly.

            “Catch your breath, boy. Heard what?” Reoedin questioned him, and he took a few deep breaths. Maybe the soldiers weren’t just looking for more recruits. Perhaps their plots were far more sinister.

            “The soldiers… They’re here for conscripts,” the boy brushed his hair back with a big hand.

            Reoedin laughed, picking up the chair setting the girl gently in it. He stroked her hair, whispering words of comfort, putting her back to sleep. The boy looked shocked at his leisurely attitude. “Oh, I already knew they were here to take some of the men. That’s what they always come… But that’s not all, is it?” The look in poor Ara’Mon’s eyes was one of sheer sadness and horror.

            “They’ve come for you, Reoedin,” tears actually started falling from his eyes. Reoedin’s heart thumped, desperately trying to escape from his chest. “Yours is the only name on the soldiers’ tongues, master. Rumor is they’re here to sack the town otherwise.”

            “What?” Reoedin asked incredulously. He was now truly fearful. “But I…” A scream in the distance made them both freeze. What was he to do? Run or fight, those seemed to be the only options, and with a little girl at his side, he couldn’t very well fight. The thunderous clatter of hooves in the distant night drew closer. He hadn’t much time to prepare. “Run and hide, Ara’Mon. Go to the forest and wait near the Drasil tree. It’s fairly well hidden, but don’t get too close. Like as not they’ll be looking to cut the tree down as well. The Royal City’s never been very fond of our traditions,” he ordered the boy as he packed a bag with a few linens, some bread, and cheese for what may be a long journey ahead of them. Ara’Mon just stood and stared at Reoedin. “Go, boy. Go!” He clapped his hands together as the sound of soldiers barking orders became present. Illyena let out a shudder of breath as the boy took off. She was scared. There was shouting, and screams, and her father was darting about frantically. She began to cry. The poor girl, she had no idea…

            Reoedin donned a leather tunic, his wool cloak, and attached his personally crafted sword around his waist, slinging a bow and quiver across his back. The little girl dressed as he did so, still weeping, but doing her best. Tipping the cot over as he tried to move it, Reoedin quickly tore up the floorboards to get to the locked chest hidden below. He fumbled for the key around his neck, amongst the protective runes he wore. Trying to unlock it, he realized he actually didn’t know what was inside. The chest was given to him by his father years ago, but he was told not to open it until such a time as he knew he needed to. Was now that time? Not waiting for an answer, he worked the lid ajar. Inside, smothered in linens and silks, a tarnished metal sphere lay, inscribed with runes and ancient languages. It shocked him. He studied it, and tried to unlock its secrets before more screams, shouting, and the crash of buildings collapsing jolted him back to the situation at hand. He placed the sphere into a pouch tied at his waist.

As he fastened the cloak around Illyena, he could not keep from tearing up. “Shh, shh, sweet girl. We’re ok,” She just looked at him with all the innocence of the world. He held her to his chest and kissed her on the head. “We’ve got to go now.” Nodding, Illyena sniffled and pulled her cloak tight around her, ready to follow her father into the darkness. Reoedin drew his sword, ready to take on what may come.

            Stepping out of his door brought a close encounter with an arrow. He dropped to the ground bringing the girl with him. They all but crawled to the alley way, getting up only when the streets themselves were out of their view. Fire lit the entire village, and Reoedin could only guess how many homes had been destroyed thus far; how many lives had been taken.

            It had been perhaps an hour since the raid began, and already the streets, alleyways, and gutters were slick with blood. The scent of fire and death were thick in the air, a most sickening combination. An unprepared people, untrained in the skills of war was an easy thing to defeat in very little time, and the sounds of war were finally beginning to die down when the two happened upon the first street crossing.

            They were just behind the market square, in the area where the vendors would store their goods, normally roofed by wooden beams. Hundreds of bodies now hung from those beams, they’re bloody corpses haunting the scene. It was difficult for Reoedin to bear; he could not imagine what the girl would be going through if he had not covered her eyes. “Illyena, I need you to keep your eyes closed, ok?” She nodded ok, and he could feel her eyelids flexing beneath his hand. After sheathing his sword, he hoisted her in his arms, putting her face into the crook of his neck, holding her head in place. His feet hesitated with the first step into the pool of blood that was the street. He moved slowly and quietly, praying the Gods would let them go unnoticed, at least in this place. Beneath his feet, beneath the blood that reached above his ankles, the ground was uneven from what he hoped were not bodies or their parts. His feet were sucked into the mud, making each step a chore, as if it weren’t difficult enough already.

            Reoedin tripped, barely catching himself with a knee and a hand submerged in the puddle. The girl, understandably startled, tried to look up, before being denied by Reoedin’s massive, blood-soaked hand. None had seen or heard them when they reached the other side, and Reoedin did not put his daughter down for several streets. When he finally did, his hand stuck to her hair, and the girls quiet, endless weeping did not let up at the sight of the blood.

            It was not long after that they encountered another of the dreads of war. The father-daughter pair cut through a small, shack of a house to find a shaggy soldier raping a young girl who was completely unconscious. Reoedin, entirely sickened by what he saw, put his sword straight through the soldiers back. He threw the man’s body to the side, and checked on the girl. Dead. He hadn’t noticed the coloring of her lips at first, but she had probably been dead for quite some time. Who knows how many had gotten to her before she was strangled…

            They walked along the abandoned streets and alleyways, avoiding the soldiers’ patrols. The city quieted to near silence, dulling down to only the omnipotent roar of the fire blazing across the town and a few lieutenants snarling orders. Closer to the edges of the village now, a whimper broke the calm. Reoedin tried desperately to locate the source of the noise, fearing it might give away their position. When he found it, his heart dropped. Ara’Mon, the poor boy, had hardly seen his sixteenth year. He was propped against the wall of a simple stone structure, a beautifully ornate shield attached to one hand, and a sword nearby the other. Three arrows pierced his chest, and a girl about his age lay limp across his lap, her throat open wide. Life had not yet left him, but his breaths were wheezy, short, and sporadic. Reoedin had seen wounds like this. Nothing could be done for the comatose boy. He was growing weary with the grief of this trivial little town.

             What was the point of all this? The Lower Houses that ruled the mainland under the King in the Royal City Eimha were already on the edge of a knife with the King; did he really want to push for war? Ever increasing taxes, conscriptions, imprisonment without trial, all in a time of great peril – these were far too much for a people to endure. Eimha had, perhaps, the numbers to defeat one, possibly two, of the nations under its control, but they were all true allies to each other. If one was attacked, the other eight would rush to its defense; Royal Decree or no. Reoedin knew the King, or at least knew who the King had been. He was certainly not stupid, he may have had poor council in the past, but he knew where to draw the line.

And yet, rumor had been spreading of a darkness overcoming the King’s good sense, and of a powerful object, one of a magical nature, being located in the east. Of course, that was folly. Magic hadn’t existed for centuries; the King wouldn’t base an all out war on false hopes. Would he? Perhaps they’re not false hopes at all, Reoedin wondered, reaching into the pouch at his side to pull out the runic orb. “Gods, help me,” he plead. The flashing image of a colossal deciduous tree permeated his thoughts, almost in answer. He sighed and reached for the child’s hand, to lead her to the Drasil. She was not yet old enough to see it, according to the ancient scripts, but the volatility of the situation demanded it. It seemed as good a place as any to gather their thoughts and formulate a plan, hidden deep within the forests of the mountain. Perhaps the only place…

A sword slashed through the air at Reoedin, and he had just enough time to put his own up before the man wielding the weapon could cut him down. “Run,” he shouted at the girl through gritted teeth. Illyena fell to the ground, still sobbing, as she fled the fight to hide.

Their swords were fairly well locked together. The soldier on the other side, a younger man with a nearly bald head and patchy beard stubble, was strong and skilled with the blade. It would be a tough duel. For a few seconds that passed like hours, Reoedin stared into the soldier’s grey eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of what his next move would be. Apparently, it was up to him to take the next step.

With a burst of power from his arms, shaped by years as a blacksmith and a soldier, Reoedin parried his opponent’s sword to the left, and bounced back to take up a high guard. It was something he learned in his travels, and it worked well enough to confuse the other man. The soldier, with all the speed of a rat, darted at him, his sword drawn back and to his left. Agilely, the man danced to Reoedin’s other side, catching him slightly off guard. Reoedin brought his own weapon down, deflecting the blow with just enough room to keep his side intact. Spinning with his sword, he slashed at the villain’s legs, catching him in the area behind the knee before he’d had time to turn himself around. He hit the ground hard, with a thud and a deep roar of pain.

Reoedin watched the motionless swordsman for a moment. He did not move. Eyeing him apprehensively, Reoedin approached with caution. Questioning him would probably be a useless effort, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. Well, it wouldn’t hurt Reoedin, at any rate.

Holding his sword at the ready, he kicked the soldier over only to find he had fallen on his own steel. Not a very good swordsman after all. To die by your own blade was an embarrassing thing, but it certainly made it easier for Reoedin. Easier, but far less productive.

A sensation of panic took him when he couldn’t find his daughter anywhere in sight. “Illyena,” he shouted, more worried than he had been at any point during the quarrel. He cried her name again, searching behind barrels and crates and doorways. After calling for her several times over, she came to him from across the alleyway. He took her hand, sword still drawn, and led her out of the village, to the northern forests, and toward what he hoped was safety amongst the tree of his Gods.

Hours passed as they hiked the way to the Drasil. Reds, yellows, and oranges filled the sky as the sun crept up to the horizon. The path would have taken them near the great tree before dawn, but Reoedin was not keen on the risk that posed. So they trekked. Rather, Reoedin trekked, carrying Illyena in his arms as she slept. Of course, she surely deserved it. She should never have had to go through what happened tonight.

The grove was wholly still when they reached it, and that brought Reoedin’s mind to ease. He was still wary, however, when they came up on the tree.

An Interesting Night

Rain pattered against the windows on the fourth floor of an unfinished high-rise. The wide casements of the apartment were normally enough to let in the glow of the city, but the weather was just murky enough to leave the room light-less. It didn’t really matter, though. Roark preferred the dark. He stood over his desk, inspecting the architectural sketches he had sprawled about. They were good, but it was very unlikely the artist would go very far. Clark Rosen lacked ambition. He had talent, sure enough, but he wasn’t persistent enough to get anywhere. It almost pissed Roark off. He liked the kid, tried to help him at every turn, but he never sought any sort of aspiration.

            There was a thunk at his door and Roark’s head shot up. He eyed the door warily, waiting, silent as the night. Pat, pat, pat. No noise but the rain falling from the sky. After a few minutes of a racing heart and wide open eyes, he allowed himself to relax. The threats couldn’t be serious; people just didn’t go around killing other people these days. A nervous laugh was all he could muster. He knew it was forced, and that terrified him. Where was that fool guard he’d hired? Across the desk, the drawings were blown to the floor by the chilled breeze of an open window.

            “What the hell,” Roark spun around to face the aperture, but barely had time to notice the cable wrap around his neck in a sort of noose before he was pulled straight out into the rain. On the way up toward the roof, toward the crane that was dragging him, he choked, trying to get the death sentence off of his neck. It was in vain. With a jolt, Roark suddenly felt weightless and the cable loosened, still wrapped around his neck. He was falling.

            With tears in his eyes, he screamed as loud as a man could. The cable grew taut, digging deep into the skin, strangling him and breaking his neck. The last thing he saw was the figure in his apartment watching him plummet to the street below. His feet twitched.

*******

It was cold, it was dark, and it was raining. It was downright miserable. Nobody deserved to walk home in this crappy weather.

Normally, the rain wasn’t a problem for Clark. He loved it. Normally. This day was far from usual, though. In fact, it was absolutely terrible. His boss had damn near fired him, his car was impounded, and it was freezing cold to boot. He’d probably get home tonight to find a foreclosure notice and an industrial lock on the door to his cozy little attic of an apartment. He decided to take the long way home, despite the weather.

The paved roads slowly rolled past him, along with the occasional car. It was late and he desperately wanted to sleep, but he certainly didn’t want to go home. Not right now. So, he walked for a few hours, contemplating his next moves in the world of business, the world of reality.

Clark walked along streets, through alleys, and around the parks. There was no set destination; he just walked. In the distance, an unfinished apartment building rose into view. The rain had finally stopped and the skies cleared up, revealing a bright moon that lit up the streets. Oddly enough, a load seemed to be lifted off of Clark’s shoulders. It was almost as if the rain had carried his troubles with it.

Something was hanging awfully low from the construction crane of the apartment building. Instinctively, Clark approached with curiosity. Perhaps it was the taciturnity of the night. Either way, he ended up right underneath whatever it was. Cocking an eye and craning his neck, he looked up, trying to figure it out. It almost looked like a manikin. Someone pulling a prank on a friend? That was an awful lot of work to go through… Something wet and warm dripped into his eye and down his face. He shook his head and wiped his cheek. Hands came away red and he reflexively did a double-take of the thing hanging from the cable.

“Jesus!” Clark shouted and jumped back; he couldn’t take his eyes off his hands. “Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!” Heart thumping, he found it hard to breathe. He felt sick. Snap. He looked up just in time to watch the headless body of the man above hit the sidewalk and splatter him. The severed head followed: his employer, Jason Roark. Knees hitting the pavement, Clark blacked out, smacking the sidewalk hard.

Waking up in a puddle of blood, some of it his own, Clark groaned and stood up. What was happening? Why was it happening? His legs gave out and he sat right back down. For the better part of an hour he stared at the body before him, question after question building up in his head. Who would want to kill his boss? Certainly, he had quite the collection of business enemies, but would they really resort to murder? His head was spinning.

Emergency vehicle sirens blared in the distance, growing nearer. Peculiarly, those sounds gave no comfort to Clark, but he waited anyway. He called 911 six times, and every time, he got a busy signal. The police didn’t come. An ambulance didn’t show up. He was completely and utterly creeped out. What was happening?

Clark combed a hand through his long, blond hair. He still desperately wanted to be sick. And to go home. Oh, how he wanted to be asleep. Composing himself, he rose, taking in deep breaths and rubbing his Mediterranean nose. He wanted answers. He needed them.

Police sirens sounded for a couple of hours, but they never got any closer. It gave to him the impression that they’d never show up. No cars came by and no lights came on in the apartments above. No one seemed to notice that the mangled corpse of a man lay in a pool of its own blood right in front of their homes. Was the whole world naïve to this man’s death?

Walking to the building for the sake of leaning against something, sources of heat began to pelt his face. Pieces of red-hot ash were floating through the air, scorching what they touched. Clark looked up to the sky to see the glow of the city on the clouds. Only, there were no clouds and that glow was far too orange to have originated from the metropolitan. There was an enormous fire just a few blocks away. Suddenly, the lack of police attention made sense.

It was probably about one in the morning, Clark judged, and he was getting restless. He called the police a couple more times since noticing the fire. Deciding to throw his phone against the building after the next call, he finally reached an operator.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” The woman’s voice sounded exhausted. They must have been pretty busy.

“Hi, yeah. There’s a dead man here, and I’m just not really sure what to do,” Clark said, his own voice weary. He was actually surprised that it never trembled.

“Sir, I need you to stay calm,” she seemed to be trying to soothe him, almost babying him. “What is your location?”

“I honestly don’t know; the unfinished high-rise,” he spoke, unsure.

“Sir, I need you to calm down and get a hold of your surroundings,” she was trying baby him. “Which high-rise?”

“I’m perfectly calm, lady. Just hold on a second, I’m gonna check the street signs,” he walked to the end of the sidewalk. “East 23^rd Street and Ryerson. Like I said, it’s the high rise. I don’t know the address.” The line was quiet for what felt like an eternity, though he knew only a few seconds had passed.

“Alright, sir, we don’t have any officers available at the moment. As soon as one gets free, I will send him your way. What is your name and address?” He told her. “Thank you. Please, remain at the scene.”

“Yeah, sure,” he hung up the phone. No freakin’ problem… Clark took a deep breath and shattered his cell against the brick of the apartments.

It was hours yet before a cruiser drove by. Dawn was breaking and the fire looked to still be raging on as the officer got out of his car. Walking over to the body, he said, “Sweet Jesus! That’s quite the mess you got here!” He chuckled. Was this really something to laugh over? He asked Clark some questions and took some notes.

“Well, it looks like a suicide to me. Poor bastard couldn’t handle the business he was dealin’,” the officer poked at the body with his foot.

“A suicide? How the hell do you gather that this was suicide? He was decapitated!” Clark was yelling and added, “Cut that out, would ya?” The officer stopped prodding his boss’s corpse.

“Look, kid, I been in the business a long time. Seen a lotta bodies. Trust me, this one’s suicide,” he eyed the crane above. “The guy made a bad deal, his business was down the toilet, so he decided to climb the crane, make a noose and jump. I never seen somethin’ so elaborate, but hey.”

“Look, guy, I’ve known this man for five years. Whatever was happening, he wouldn’t kill himself. It doesn’t make any sense,” Clark was getting angry. The officer frowned and let out a long sigh, scratching his chin. He studied Clark for a few minutes.

“Go home, kid. Get some rest. You look dead tired.” He was absolutely right. Clark was so tired he was beginning to slouch, his body was shivering from exhaust, and he couldn’t keep from yawning. The officer got into his car and started talking over the radio. Clark didn’t care in the least bit what he was saying to the guys on the other end of the CB, he just wanted to go home. So he did.

When he got to the apartment, it was about seven o’clock and there was no lock or notice on the door. His hands floundered with the keys. Once the door was open, he stumbled to his bed, slumping over, barely able to get a blanket over his body before he passed out from sheer fatigue. Thank God it was Saturday.

Waking up was a challenge. The sun was long past its zenith and the scent of smoke was strong on his clothes. Funny, he hadn’t even noticed the smell the night before. He sat up in the bed and rubbed his eyes to life, a headache brewing in the back of his head. Sitting on the makeshift table next to the bed was the TV remote; the first thing he grabbed before hitting the shower. He turned on the news and cranked the volume up enough to hear over the water.

All Clark heard was news about the fire; it was still roaring across the city, buildings going up like haystacks. Deaths were mentioned, but none of them had anything remotely to do with his boss. It wasn’t a front page report. When he got out, towel wrapped around his waist, he caught a glimpse of the story scrolling by in the text at the bottom of the screen. …businessman Jason Roark was found dead of an apparent suicide Friday night in front of his apartment complex. He was 57 years old.

Clark had had just about enough of this suicide nonsense. Roark Architectural was prospering as a business. Stocks were at their highest point since the eighties and they were raking in the proverbial dough. There was also the fact that Roark had never made a bad deal in his life. He and Clark were close friends and Clark knew that Roark had no reason for killing himself. Roark was one of the greats; he gave business lectures at MIT, Harvard, Stanford, and Oxford, and he was always one of Time Magazine’s top 100 business leaders of the world. Economic luck seemed to follow him like the pollen on a bee’s legs. Suicide simply did not make sense.

Answers. Clark needed answers, and one way or another he was going to get them. Roark did seem rather jumpy the day before, so maybe he was threatened. Clark was going to find out.

The decision to investigate his boss’s death on his own was not made lightly, though. He sat on a chair in what he called a library for the better of the afternoon. Slowly, the sun set as he contemplated what to do, trying to consider every option. One choice came up over and over again. The only choice he could make. He’d need to do the detective work on his own, taking upon himself the dangers, the consequences, and the responsibility of solving this murder. “What the hell am I getting myself into?”

Pocketing his foldable combat knife, Clark pulled the locked briefcase out from underneath his bed. Inside was a Colt 1911 handgun. He let out a long, trembling breath before sheathing the pistol in his shoulder holster, throwing the leather jacket he pulled out of the closet over his shoulders. Without another thought, he set off on his quest.

When he arrived at his boss’s high-rise, the body had been removed and the sidewalk was mostly cleaned up. He could see the blood stains on the concrete and crane cable still hung low. Clark made his way up the stairs to the fourth floor loft Jason Roark had rented out. On the door was a giant police sticker, effectively sealing the room to anyone without someone noticing. Clark slipped out his knife to cut the seal before he noticed the fire escape would lead him outside to the windows. He decided to try that first. Putting the knife back into his pocket, he made his way to the door.

Thunder sounded from afar and lightning struck in the distance as Clark climbed his way along the wide siding of the building. Below him, the streets were quiet and undisturbed. On the other side, the one with all the windows, the facing grew much thinner. It was wet from the sporadic rainfall of the last few days. He could barely fit the tips of his feet on the ledge, and he had to hug the wall tight. The windows were in full view now, and they looked to be unlocked. Clark shimmied over, grabbing at the lip of one of the casements. His foot slipped but he saved himself by gripping the edge of the pane. Gradually, he pulled himself up and opened up the window. Easy enough.

Inside, the apartment smelled stale. Rays of light from the city outside illuminated the dust floating around. Despite the fluorescence from without, the room was dark and gloomy. Papers were scattered across the hardwood flooring and cabinets were tossed to the ground, drawers spread about. In the corner, a table was upturned, the lamp it bore shattered on the rug beneath. Articles of clothing littered the floor along with a coating of dust. The room smelled of smoke.

Clark stood, still in the same position he was in when he climbed in through the window. This was far scarier than anything he had done before; the ransacked room terrified him. If the official story was suicide, it had to have happened after the police investigated the area. These guys knew just exactly what they were doing. And it was entirely possible whoever did this was still there. Clark pulled out his gun.

Hidden in the layer of dust and ash, he noticed footprints. Obviously not his own, he recognized that they belonged to a pair of combat boots. Unless a SWAT team was here, Clark was quite confident police normally wore dress shoes, not boots intended for war. Clark squatted down to take a closer look. The tracks were muddied and still wet, indicating two things. The first was that whoever the prints belonged to had come from outside, through the window. If it had been an officer, the tracks wouldn’t have been mud; their shoes would have dried out on the way up the stairs. Two, the person was here very recently. Clark put his own foot next to the track. Three, it was probably a woman. The print was very small compared to his. Four, the tracks didn’t lead back to the window. Clark’s heart thumped in his throat as he cocked his pistol.

He vigilantly inspected the rest of the room, suspicious of every sound. Thunder clapped, lightning flashed, and Clark jumped out of his skin. Rain splashed on the windows as he tried to calm himself down. What am I doing? He crept along in a crouch, inspecting everything he came across. Trying hard to read the labels on the bins and folders of the filing cabinets, Clark searched for some sort of motive. He counted the number of drawers and the number of inserts available. One of them was missing. His heart was racing again, excited at his finding. It was impossible to see a connection between the missing files and the ones still present.

The office was a surprisingly large nook in the side of the apartment. It was destroyed as well. The computer monitor was on its face and the shattered glass was strewed along the floor. Broken plastic from the computer dirtied the ground and the hard drives were cut out. There was a crumpled bit of newspaper under the desk chair that Clark grabbed at. Coming up, he smacked his head on the oak, knocking the monitor off of the desk. The noise was loud enough to make Clark sit perfectly still, quiet as a mouse. He hardly breathed. Minutes passed without a sign of disturbance. Relieved, he allowed himself to open the news clipping. It crunched and crackled as he unfolded it, making him flinch.

Jason Roark and the President of Venezuela were pictured in the editorial with the caption; CEO of Roark Architectural, Jason Roark, shakes hands with Venezuelan President, Hugo Chavez, after big architectural rebuilding deal. Clark had never heard of this deal. Why would his boss keep it a secret? The headline read, “Roark Backs Out of Rebuild Deal Amid Allegations of Venezuelan Atrocities.” He had heard of the Venezuelan leader assassinating his own people and implementing extreme Socialist policies. The economy there crumpled. The article implicated that Chavez was none too happy about not receiving the “magnificent palace” he was promised. That was an interesting clue.

Clark gently folded the piece of newspaper and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. Thump. A noise in the other room. Clark flattened himself against the wall and peered out of the doorway. He saw nothing, heard nothing. He raised his weapon and went out into the main room. Sweeping the area, he proceeded to the bedroom on the other side. The door was cracked open, and he could see a sliver of light through the slit. Clark pushed the door open, ready to fire at whatever was on the other side. Nothing. The lamp on the dark oak nightstand flickered a moment, shining over the bed. On the mattress sat a cabinet drawer full of files, hard drives, and a leather-bound journal. What the-, he heard scratching to his right, behind the door of the closet. He took four deep breaths before kicking it open.

“What are you doing here,” he shouted at a woman crouching on the floor, his hands surprisingly steady. Dark red hair flowed to her shoulders, hardly rippling from the air off the door. She sat there for a moment without moving a muscle. Turning her face just enough for Clark to catch a glimpse of a beautiful blue eye, Clark almost gasped in awe before the woman jumped at him, kicking the gun right out of his hands. Before he recognized what was happening, he received a hard blow to the chest, knocking the wind out of him. The woman pushed him to the bed, climbing on top of him, and held him down with remarkably strong hands.

“None of your business, kid,” her full lips produced a voice that was soft and musical, hardly breathy in spite of the exuberant performance. She smiled an honest smile, and Clark was simply stunned. Gathering his wits, he tossed her off of him with an effort and ran for the door. His face met the ground as the woman swiped his legs out from under him. “But I’ll leave you a present,” she kicked him in the back of the head with the heel of a boot, sending him into a dazed state. His vision was blurry, but he could see her take her own jacket off and leave it on the table before slipping out of the same window he came in from. Clark groaned before drifting out of consciousness.

Clark woke moments later, the headache that had been brewing all day had finally arrived in full force. Sighing and rubbing his temples, Clark stood up and walked to the kitchen sink for a glass of water; the jacket could wait. He filled a cup and stuck it in the freezer while he searched for a bottle of Tylenol. The water barely had time to chill before he washed down the pain relievers with a single gulp. This night was getting more interesting by the second.

The jacket was made of a suede-like material, matte black in color. Checking the pockets, Clark came across what he thought was a treasure-trove of information and clues. There was what looked like a business card, written in Spanish, in one of the front pockets. He was able to discern the name of Hugo Chavez from the text. Interesting. Taking the paper, he also discovered an architectural drawing; one he saw in Roark’s office almost every day. The one of Chavez’s mansion. Why she had the plan, only God could tell. Fishing around a little more, he worked his hands into a hidden pouch on the inside. There was definitely something in there, he just couldn’t pull it out. He cut it open with the knife he had brought from home. His hands pulled out an ID card, the woman’s face pictured in the corner. Roslyn. That was her name. On the bottom was the name of a business, a business Clark knew all too well. Faremont Industries. The company was one of Roark Architectural’s biggest rivals, and they were known for entering into some very shady deals. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the ID was a fake, meant only to deceive someone for a quick second. There were so many questions. The plot was thickening to such a degree he felt useless, he… He was done for now. He weaved his way back out of the window, still carrying everything he had found, and down to the street.

Clark’s feet were on the ground for all but two seconds before a fist met his gut and he was gagged, a thick burlap sack thrown over his head. A door opened up and he was thrown to the ground, his nose bloodying. Someone kicked him while he was down before he was picked up and stuffed into a small room, forced to kneel. It felt like it dropped, and he realized he was in an elevator. “Going up?” a gruff voice questioned in sarcasm. Clark wasn’t in the mood.

Ding… Ding… Ding… The elevator ticked off the floors as it sped to the top. That made the most sense, didn’t? They were taking him to the top to execute him. People shouldn’t ask all of these questions, they shouldn’t snoop around so much. He thought about how he’d like to die. At that moment, he felt like death by firing squad would be a nice way to go. Clark just prayed that they would kill him quickly.

Clicking off the final floor, the elevator jolted to a stop. Cold, wet air rushed in as the doors slid open and he was pushed out, splashing in a puddle of rainwater. He was dragged by his collar a little ways farther onto the rooftop. One of the thugs knocked him over, throwing him hard to the ground. A hand clutched his neck and removed the bag from his head. Clark was blinded for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the bright construction lights shining on him like the lamp in an interrogation room. First, he noticed the man who seemed to be trying to choke him. His thick, dark hands were tight around Clark’s neck, a pair of brown eyes in a bearded face watching him intently. As his hands suggested, the goon was muscular and tall. The other was nowhere in sight.

Through the beams of fluorescence, Clark witnessed a pair of figures emerging slowly, their faces hidden by the glare. Who were these people? Faces still obscured, he was able to make out a man in a suit and a woman; jacketless. He chuckled to himself in the face of death. Clark enjoyed the little things in life. And in death. The burly henchman shook Clark’s neck. “What are you laughin’ at?”

Clark choked at the squeeze the man gave him. He shut up. Finally in view, Clark noticed the man had a scar across his right cheek. He was young, with short, dark hair, and he sported a pair of eyeglasses. As for the woman… God, she was beautiful. Clark still had her jacket in hand. She walked up to him slowly, taking it out of his grip. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem, Roslyn,” her eyes widened slightly as he said the name, and the tiniest inkling of a smile curved her red lips. She walked away, the man glaring at her. Another look at the man told Clark exactly who he was. The sharp suit, the tight-cut hair, the square glasses. That man was Thomas Schultz: CEO of Faremont Industries. “You sunuva…” The crony smacked him across the back of the head, sealing his lips.

“What,” Schultz asked, wickedness curling his smile, “didn’t you expect this?” Clark could honestly say he did.

“Not at all,” he spat through clenched teeth, sarcasm tainting his voice. Oddly, Roslyn gave Clark a look that seemed to warn him to watch his tongue. This confused him. “Would you mind killing me quickly?”

“Kill you?” He looked incredulous, baring his teeth in a smirk. “You’ve made it this far, don’t you want to hear my evil plan first?”

“Can’t say as I do,” Clark wasn't interested anymore. “But I suppose you’re going to tell me anyway.”

The young CEO slapped him with a fist, cutting his lip. He spat out blood. Roslyn gave him another look. What did I say? She was something else, an enigma.

“Yes. I am,” Schultz wasn’t at all enjoying the smart comments. “So sit down, and shut up. You’ve heard of your boss’s deal with Chavez?”

Clark didn’t speak.

“First, Roark stole the contract from us. Then, when the bastard backed out, he made it impossible for anyone else to pick up the work,” he was growling now. “That palace would have made the engineers billionaires, their names known the world over.”

“Known as supporters of mass atrocities,” Clark corrected him.

“I don’t discriminate,” he spread his hands as if providing an example. “After that, Roark went on the record and told the entirety of the world that ‘Faremont Industries was dealing with terrorists and Communist dictators.’ We were trying to recover a lost opportunity. Needless to say, our stocks tumbled.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Clark put in just before he was beat again.

“Fine,” Schultz mumbled through pursed lips. “Our stocks went to virtual nonexistence. And then there was the total slap to the face, when he offered to buy the company. My father would have spat in his eye. Alas, different times call for different measures.”

“Oh, and murder’s the equivalent of spitting in someone’s eye? Are you out of your goddamn mind?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Business is tough,” he continued, with insults of Clark’s boss. The red-haired beauty stared at him, as if trying to convey a message. Clark raised an eyebrow, and she seductively walked over to where he was forced on the ground. Roslyn swayed past the enormous crony, rubbing his arm as she passed. The grip around Clark’s trachea loosened. Thinking quickly, he broke free, turning around to snap the man’s arm like a carrot. He never expected it to be so easy. The woman spun and kicked the screaming man in the stomach, causing him to keel over. She kneed him in the forehead, knocking him out cold.

The doors to the elevator opened and four angry brutes shuffled out, taking Schultz’s orders to “kill the bastards” with glee. Bullets whizzed past the pair as they dived for cover behind a bundle of steel bars. The pang of ammunition on steel was almost deafening. A gun suddenly appeared in Roslyn’s hand, and she fired at the band of bad guys. She ducked back behind the beams as a slew of bullets flew by.

“Ok, what’s going on? Who are you?” Clark shouted over the sounds of gun fire. She gave him a questioning look, an eyebrow raised.

“Really? You want to do that now?” The woman pulled out another handgun and handed it to him.

“Uh, thanks. I left mine in my other pants,” he didn’t mean to make a joke, but it mattered not. She was having none of it. Clark popped up and fired off a couple of rounds, hitting a man in the leg. At least ten more guys had clambered out of the elevator. Over the crackling of guns, Clark could hear Schultz screaming.

“Fifty-thousand dollars to the man who brings me the head of that…” an explosion rocked the rooftop, showering bits of shrapnel over them all and misting them with water. One of those idiots had fired too close to a gas line. Both Clark and Roslyn took the opportunity of distraction to incapacitate more cronies. He took out two, while Roslyn managed to kill five of them. Above, the crane creaked and moaned as it rotated, bringing the arm around to pick up something. Clark noticed the cable wrap bundling the building beams they were using for cover.

“Oh.”

“What is it?”

“Just a big problem,” Clark said. The hook from the crane was dragging along the concrete of the roof. Schultz was operating the machine. Jumping to action, Clark hefted the hook over his shoulder and headed for the crane, trying to intertwine it through the columns, walls, and scaffolding.

It was tall. Really tall. There was a ladder which climbed all the way to the arm. Despite the chill of the rain, he was pouring with sweat and his heart was thumping. At least, he thought he was sweating. The climb to the top was arduous, the weight of the cable weighing him down. As Schultz got nearer, Clark’s focus grew more intense. Soon, the sound of gunshots, the rain, and the crane’s groaning were near inaudible; muted vibrations.

He could see Schultz scowl at him, having reached the arm so close. The man let off all of the controls, and the platform lurched. Clark tripped, falling over the edge. He just managed to get the hook around a bar, saving himself from a fall. Pulling himself up, his face was met by the shoe of a desperate and enraged fellow. He toppled onto the platform.

“You should have left this alone,” Schultz cried, his blazer was flapping in the wind. Clark rushed him, trying to tackle him into a long fall. The suited maniac slid out of the way, a snake in the grass. “You’re persistent! But that won’t save you!”

Clark tried for Schultz again, but was tripped. He fell to the platform, drifting toward the lip. A smile on his lip, Schultz kicked him in the belly. Clark coughed up some blood, disoriented. Pain filled his thoughts. Lightning struck nearby, thunder following with a boom. Schultz leaned over to look at Clark’s face. Moments trickled by and Schultz started to say something. Clark didn’t give him the chance. He took the cable and twisted it around Schultz’s neck, hooking it at the end, then threw him off of the platform. The momentum was so great it carried him off as well.

Roslyn fired a few rounds at random, trying her best to hold off the gorillas, before ducking back into the protection of the steel rods. Clark had gone to the crane, some sort of plan in his head. She’d lost sight of him after he’d reached the scaffolding at the top. Ears ringing from the sounds of war, she was slipping in and out of a daze. The number of bullets being sent her way had dramatically decreased. She hadn’t even thought to count how many were left. Probably not very many, she’d fought off a lot of them. Her head shot out from the side and she shot two more rounds, slaying the final two.

Wary, she surveyed the surrounding workplace, searching for any signs of movement. Nothing. Satisfied, she holstered her pistol. This was definitely not what she had signed up for. No one was supposed to die.

She looked up to the crane, hoping to catch a glimpse of Clark, or Schultz, something to give her a sign. There was no hint at anybody’s victory. Roslyn figured Clark could handle the battle he had chosen on his own, but she grew worried. Where were these feelings for the guy coming from? She hardly knew him, and he’d hardly talked to her. Why was she so interested? Sure he was cute, but… Back to the business at hand. She’d help. That was her decision.

Running as fast as she could, she shot for the ladder to the stage above. It seemed to get farther away, the harder she ran. She stopped a minute to catch her breath. Looking up, she saw to figure struggling above. They were awfully close to the edge. One wrong step and… One of those shadows fell, the crane’s cable wrapped around him. She held her breath. The other one followed and she gasped. She couldn’t move – she could do nothing anyway – as they plummeted to the earth. Both bodies disappeared behind a wall. She had no desire to go to them; she was terrified of what she would find.

Clark’s stomach churned as he tumbled through the air. This really was the end. Was he ready? Well, no. Is anyone ever? He never saw his life flash before his eyes.

As he dropped, he caught a glimpse of Roslyn, standing totally still. He’d never get to know her. He reached out a hand, as if reaching for something lost. It was a harrowing thought. Clark felt something in his outstretched hand; something he hadn’t even thought to notice. It was the cable from the crane. His heart fluttered and he tried to grab it. It wasn’t likely that he’s stop before hitting the ground, but it was worth a shot. Wasn’t it? Hands clawing for the lifeline, he was never able to grip it. She was gone from his view now, his feet rubbing the line. Something caught and his foot was yanked, cracking something. He howled in agony, but thankful his fall was stopped. Upside down, he could make out the body of Thomas Schultz below him, neck broken. It was only fitting.

The crane lowered him to the ground. Clark couldn’t see who was operating it, but he had a feeling it was that gorgeous woman. He’d kiss her when he got down.

The ground was hard as he hit it, and wet. Laying in the puddles, his body trembled. Not from chill. Not even from fear. Just from sheer gratitude of life. He laughed, sitting up. This was one crazy night…

Roslyn was strolling toward him, nonchalant as ever. He stood, putting on a brave face.

“How you feeling?” she asked.

“Oh, you know. Broken leg, almost died, dead boss. Never been better, I’m afraid,” Clark grimaced as a spike of pain shot through his leg. “So, how ‘bout that information you promised me?”

“Promised? I did nothing of the sort,” her face was totally innocent. “Fine. Roark hired me for protection, and to keep his files from falling into, well, their hands. We’re old friends. Er… Were.”

“You didn’t do a very good job of keeping him alive,” Clark jested.

“I was… Preoccupied. Besides, I did a perfectly good job of…” she gasped as Clark clutched her and kissed. She didn’t seem to mind in the least bit.

A Speech I Wrote from the Campaign of my Presidential Candidate, Paul Gaddy (Government Class)

            I’m here today to present to you an opportunity which to pass up would be madness; an opportunity for a greater liberty. To introduce to you the only candidate currently fit for the office of President of the United States.  A man who was born to a poor factory worker in Concord, New Hampshire and whose family spent his entire childhood and primary education struggling to stay out of poverty. After high school, he worked whatever jobs he could find; as a coal miner in Pennsylvania, a laborer for a small landscaping company, and even as a fisherman off the coast of Alaska.

Struggling to make ends meet and seeking a better life for himself, the U.S. Army seemed to call his name in 1992. For eight years, he fought for the man standing next to him. It was that attitude, exactly, that would lead to his being named a war hero. When the eight years were up, he decided to go to college and earned a Masters Degree in Electrical Engineering; graduating with accolades. After just a few years working under GE, this man began his own engineering firm, employing, generously, hundreds of people.

He met a beautiful and good-natured soul which would quickly become his wife. In 2003, his first child, a boy, was born and just three years later, a girl. Unfortunately, the woman of his life passed away just 2 years after their youngest child was born.

He ran for mayor of Concord in 2001, and won for two straight terms. He set his eyes next on the gubernatorial bid. With the people at his side, he arose victorious. For a single term he governed nobly; balancing the budget, eliminating the debt, and creating a miraculous surplus. And now he asks you for your support in his bid for president.

            He is, as any advocate for a free people, an ardent supporter of the second amendment and of gun rights. We believe all individuals, in order to ensure a society of liberty, should have access to weapons and heavy enough weaponry to keep the government in fear of an uprising from its people. Surely, some people are not fit to utilize such dangerous tools; like the mentally unstable and violent felons. But weaponry and the second amendment are entirely necessary to keep our government in check, and to safeguard the others. One amendment to ensure them all.

            Education, in our view, is also a necessity to guarantee a free people, but not in the least bit the way the system is set up today. We need to move on from this archaic form of education, developed in the sixteenth century by the Germans. One of the most basic of reforms comes under the guise of school choice. This will help the poor and minorities move out of run down schools, to attend the best schools they can reach, and to close the gap of economic inequality. We must also move funding of primary education away from the fed, to more local means. When the fed is in control of the monetary supplication, states and schools must do what the fed says. This leads to disastrous policies like No Child Left Behind and Common Core. Federal control of education is precisely what has led America to the educational decay it has fallen into. And when it comes to higher education, we must stop promoting a college education as the only and highest means to an end. Not everyone should go to college, not everyone is fit for it. The more people that have a college education, the less its worth. Today, a bachelor’s degree no longer exemplifies the behavior of a successful and driven employee. Employers do not actively seek four year graduates: they’re everywhere! We must change the mentality that a man without a degree is an unsuccessful one.

            Immigration. Our position is one that takes on an entirely different perspective. Surely, violent criminals and known terrorists should not be welcomed to our country with open arms. That would be madness. With that in mind, though, we would have our borders open. Immigration from both skilled and unskilled immigrants is entirely beneficial to a free market. For smaller businesses, it’s a way to move up with cheap labor. But not only do the businesses benefit, so do the workers. Legal, fluid immigration is a means of upward mobility for immigrants who would otherwise be stuck in poverty. Easy immigration would make the U.S. a bastion for the great minds of the world. The U.S. would move amongst the most technologically advanced countries in the world.

            When it comes to the environment, the federal government should not be involved in regulation. At the very most, environmental protection should be left in the hands of the states. The federal government does not know what is best for every region, every state. Strict blanket regulations constrict businesses, both small and large, and needlessly prevent individuals from taking advantage of their liberties. The federal government also has horrible reflexes. When crises arise, it tends to react too slowly, or too sweepingly, inefficiently, with a “one size fits all” frame of mind. They don’t have a grasp of what is really needed, on the ground, right there, right then. Not to even mention the fact, which I’ll do anyway, that these types of federal environmental restrictions and regulations stifle innovation and progress. How do we expect to move toward cleaner, more efficient energy sources if we can’t go forward? What we really need is to find a balance between the quality of human existence, the lives of our families, and the protection of our environment. After all, if we’re not here to enjoy and utilize it, can we even count the environment as existing? We don’t need the federal government to shove down our throats environmental awareness. The free-market will demand it as it has in the past, and continues to do today.

            We also believe that a non-interventionist foreign policy is the best thing for a freer world and a safer America. As Thomas Jefferson once said about an American motto, “Peace, commerce, and honest friendship with all nations; entangling alliances with none.” We should remove all restrictions from trade. We must repeal embargoes and sanctions on all nations, regardless of their ideologies and the horrendous acts they've committed. Those are perpetrated by their governments, not the people. And we know from studies, experience, and plain common sense that restrictions on trade hurts the people in these countries. Not their leaders or government. In regards to war, we absolutely need a strong military. That much is a given. But we cannot continue to spend money we don’t have on a military that is twenty-five times stronger than the next strongest military in the world. We need to move within our means. We would also have war declared by Congress and no other. Period. And when that war does occur, we go for nothing less than unconditional surrender. If the offender has not done something so bad that any and every means necessary to win should not be used, then we should not be at war.

            And so, without further gilding of the lily, and with no more ado, ladies and gentlemen: Paul Gaddy.

More Stuff Written for School. I'm sorry, yeesh. Its a Villanelle...

Shouting out with bloodshot eyes,

Let your thoughts be known.

So unwise, so unwise.

Let all the others realize,

Your fears for they are shown.

Shouting out with bloodshot eyes.

Scream it to the darkened skies,

Your fearless cover has been blown.

So unwise, so unwise.

Witness the premature rise

Of the revolution you have sown,

Shouting out with bloodshot eyes.

Watch as your anaemic ties

Are thoughtlessly torn down.

So unwise, so unwise.

Suffer as your bloodline dies

Stripped of your crown

Shouting out with bloodshot eyes.

So unwise, so unwise.

A Paper I Wrote for my English Class... I Was Supposed to Write About My Life.

I sit, staring at the computer screen with cold, hard determination. Through my mind, ideas are forming and coming forward, only to be repressed by the wall known as “writer’s block.” Frantically, I search the recesses of my psyche for an idea, some event in my life to write about. Something, anything, but it is all for naught. Minutes go by, turning to hours. Hours, to days. Sooner than flesh is burned on an open flame, the day the assignment that has plagued me is due grows hauntingly close. I can do nothing.

            Still at the computer, still begging my wits, “Mr. Grobachev, tear down this wall,” a cold sweat begins to form on my brow. I have taken to locking myself in the study, thinking by the dim, golden light of a candle. “Distraught” is an understatement in the description of my state of mind. The clock slowly counts down with a ticking that reminds of the impending doom, every second. Alas, I feel both hopeless and helpless. With a sigh, I slowly move to close the screen of the laptop.

            As I somberly leave behind an unfinished, unstarted work of possible genius, I am thrust to the ground with the intense flow of a fantastic concept. I trip over myself and the chair as I rush back to my seat, and rip open the mouth of the Toshiba on my desk. Word is already up. I begin typing with such a fierce intensity my fingers begin to bleed. At least, it feels that way. Before me, the tiniest inkling of a thought begins to unfold. It seems the happiest day of my life.

            Despite days and days of incessant absence of ideas, I prevailed with an inspiration of unexpected creativity. I decided to write about the very thing I was doing, or rather, failing to do, even though my life is chock full of uneventful life events. 

An excellent paragraph from John Stuart Mill's essay "On Liberty":

       "The object of this Essay is to assert one very simple principle, as entitled to govern absolutely the dealings of society with the individual in the way of compulsion and control, whether the means used be physical force in the form of legal penalties, or the moral coercion of public opinion. That principle is, that the sole end for which mankind are warranted, individually or collectively in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their number, is self-protection. That the only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not a sufficient warrant. He cannot rightfully be compelled to do or forbear because it will be better for him to do so, because it will make happier, because, in the opinion of others, to do so would be wise, or even right. These are good reasons for remonstrating with him, or reasoning with him, or persuading him, or entreating him, but not for compelling him, or visiting him with any evil, in case he do otherwise. To justify that, the conduct from which it is desired to deter him must be calculated to produce evil to someone else. The only part of the conduct of any one, for which he is amenable to society, is that which concerns others. In the part which merely concerns himself, his independence is, of right, absolute. Over himself, over his own body and mind, the individual is sovereign." 

       Ahh, the sweet smell of actual freedom. It almost overcomes the stink that has become the "Land of Liberty"...

Just Some Thoughts, Nothing Solid...

       This is a Public Service Announcement that goes out to every man, woman, child, and entity in America and/or any other country you may decide you are in at the moment.

       Now that Zimmerman's been acquitted, can we please move on to much, much more important matters? I mean honestly, this case doesn't even compare to the magnitude of the other things going on in our country at the moment. 

       For instance, why is no one paying attention to the case of Dzhokar Tsarnaev? I guess we've got Rolling Stone on that, right? No? Yeah, you're probably right... 

       There's also the fact that Obamacare is such an obvious and disgusting failure that even some of it's avid Democratic supporters are jumping ship on it. 

       What about NDAA and the Patriot act still not having been shut down? Indefinite detention for practically anyone? Come on, you can't be a fan of that. 

       Then we've got the whole NSA situation. "I'm not doing anything wrong, so why should I worry?" The question should be more like, "I'm not doing anything wrong, so why am I being spied on?" 

       The IRS is targeting specific groups because of ideology. Does the Third Reich ring any bells? That should be one of the scariest things that has ever happened, especially in America. That is a road I am positive no one wants to travel down...

       How about Benghazi? Sure, not as big a case as some might pump it up to be, and also not for those same reasons, but its still a lot more important than a single man being killed. (And I do say man when referring to Trayvon Martin. He was not a child as the MSM try to portray him.) Why do we still have military operations going on in countries we have no business being in? Why don't we have enough protection for our people over there, too?

       The fact that Obama has no idea what is happening in his administration. That's certainly questionable...

       The other fact that we, as Americans, still care about the "Royal Baby"... Didn't we fight a war over not caring about their stupid monarchical government family?

       This kind of turned into a "Things I'm Kind of Pissed Off About Right Now" rant, but hey! There's still good reason for it. More and more American's seem like that dog from UP! Yelling, "Squirrel!" every time the clock ticks to the next second... Just some thoughts, nothing solid.