Novel Idea, Day 7 and Day 8!

OK, today is election day.  I hope you voted.  That being said, there's a lot of "doom and gloom" out there, from both sides of the aisle, about what is happening to the world.  It's tough to look at it and see truth.  It makes me feel a little bit morose, to be honest.  Sullen, perhaps.  but what else should we do, on a day like today, then write on some interesting themes??

Theme: The world will end tomorrow, and you're the only one who knows it.

Initial thoughts: NOPE, staying out of this particular election.  I can't do it.  it's too....close to home.  But, since there's so much doom and gloom out there, this is a good theme to write about.  What would it be like for the person who knows?  What would they being going through?  Yeah, I can make this happen.  OK.

     It wasn’t the end.  Not yet.  That would be tomorrow.  Therold knew it was so, as he looked out the window over the city stretching out below him.  It was unavoidable now.  The Foreseer told him this day would come, and that, when it did, he would have one choice left to him.  He tried to avert it.  He tried to get around this day for the last twenty years, all for nothing.  He sighed as he turned from the window, his hands on the back of his head, wondering what, if anything, he should do.

     Twenty years.  It really didn’t feel like it was that long, most days.  But here he was, at the pinnacle of society, the one person who could have done something, anything, to stop this day from coming.  And it came anyway.  Tomorrow would bring the utter destruction of all life.  There was no stopping it now.  The door opened, and Kyran, his long-time manservant, appeared. 

     “The Foreseer is here, as you requested, Sir.”

     “Thank you, Kyran.  Show him in, if you would.  Also,” he added, “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off.  Be with your family.  I don’t give you enough time to do that.”

     “Sir?”

     “I’m just fine.  I’m feeling a little more like the man I wish I could be more often,” said Therold.  “Really, go home to your wife and children.  Surprise them with something.”

     “Thank you, Sir,” said Kyran, as he ushered the Foreseer through the door and closed it behind him.

     Therold bowed graciously to the Foreseer, who inclined his head slightly in return.

     “Well, it’s here.”

     “After all you have done to avoid it, it came anyway.”

     “Was there anything I could have done that would have averted it?”

     “No.”

     Therold sighed.  All he wanted to hear was that he was responsible, that it could have been different if he made better choices.  “Then why tell me at all?”

     “Do you not know?” said the Foreseer.  “For twenty years, you’ve been trying to make the world a better place, to do more for those in need, to make sure that life could continue.  Without you, this would have happened eighteen years ago.”

     “But why even let it continue?  Why not just let it end back then, instead of doing all this work for nothing?”

     “Who said it was for nothing?”

     “But we’re still going to die – each and every one of us is going to die, including you!”

     “Yes.”

     “What was the point of it, if I couldn’t stop it from happening?”

     “To try.”

     “That’s not an answer!”

     “It is, if you understand the question.”

     “You do nothing but speak in riddles.  You told me twenty years ago this day would come, and after twenty years of work, your only answer is that it was important to keep trying?”

     “Yes.”

     “WHY???”  Therold nearly shouted, exasperated.

     “Because we are not the end of life,” said the Foreseer.  “There are those who will come after us, some from far away galaxies, from places we cannot imagine.  They will see our ruins, and they will come to know our story.  They will see what became of us, and they will know what not to do.”

     “That doesn’t help me here.”

     “No, but it helps them.  Your influence will be felt centuries after you are gone.”  

Theme: wielding a familiar weapon

Initial thoughts:  This is a tough one.  I think it's common to assume the person likes what he or she does with this weapon.  What if a person didn't enjoy the weapon, though?  What if they hated it?  Why would they hate it?  What could cause that?  What kind of a person would hate the weapon they were familiar with using?  A reluctant warrior?  They would have to be compelled to use the weapon at the highest level.....

  “I hate you,” he said, looking down to his left hand. 

     The blade of his katana dripped with fresh crimson, the blood he spilled once again in the name of someone else.  As always, the battle was brief, over almost before it began, and left the pit of his stomach reeling from the senseless death surrounding him.  He dared not linger, he knew, but the longer he went without paying the penance for his actions, the worse the hunger would be. 

     His knees hit the floor, and he held up the blade, its sinewy, graceful length glinting red in the dim light.  There, amongst the bodies, high up in the office building, he uttered the ritual prayer, handed down to him from on High.  The shaking began almost instantly – a deep tremor that made his surroundings jump, building until he could no longer comprehend what was real and what was only in his imagination.  Then, silence.

     In the quiet, he saw the battle, such as it was.  Every motion a lesson in the efficiency of movement, not an ounce of energy wasted.  He saw all and heard all, from the slight gasp of breath a person took before moving to the faint sound of eyelids that closed for the last time was his to behold.  He watched as he took the lives of all who came at him in that room.  The man with the bad heart took his blade through the gut.  The strong one was cut nearly in half at his midsection.  The one with the machine gun had his sternum pushed through his heart when the pommel of the blade was slammed against his chest.  Those were memorable, at least.  The others were simply the hacking and slashing motions of getting to those three.  It was perfect execution of the Divine.  He braced himself.  The vision pounded in his brain, as it ended, and he knew what would come next.

     Like every other instance, the rest of his battles, fought over hundreds of years, came racing to his mind.  It went backwards, from today, yesterday, the week before that, and on through the ages.  Sometimes, there were many men, and sometimes, there was only one.  Each time, each life he took, the visions came, and they were getting worse.  He watched helplessly as he was bidden to this fate time and again.  It was always the same.  He was at last left to the final vision – the day his life was changed.  The day he wished he could take back.

     He stood on the field of battle, soldiers dying around him, and those who could minister to them trying frantically to save lives.  He never saw the monk, until it was too late.  The little man came up behind him, and he reacted as a warrior would – he simply swung his sword and gutted the man before he even knew what he was doing.  The truth was that the blood-lust was surging in him, and when the monk merely touched him, the rage took over and he acted without thinking. 

     The ground shook, then, too.  He was bathed in a light so bright he was forced to hide his face, and he heard a whisper.
     “You strike down that which I have called.  You curse this earth with your presence, and so you shall be cursed in return.  I have use for you.  Your blade shall be replaced with Mine, and you shall be given a new name.  You will walk this earth until every life you have taken unjustly is repaid to Me.  You will be My weapon.  Behold – I name you VENGEANCE.”

     He thought it was an honor, at first, to be the weapon of God.  For many years, he thought he understood what righteousness was, and so, he went to work for the Church, a private assassin, for when Rome still took part in the politics of the world.  At last, he died, and he came to a new understanding.  The vision of right from the Almighty was not the vision of right for men.  And now, he paid the price, as he’d been paying for so very long. 

     The pain subsided.
     “How much longer will You require me, Lord?” he asked aloud.  He never expected an answer.

     “Until you grow to love the sword again,” came the answer.

A little deep and dark today, I'm afraid, but my mind doesn't always go to nice places.  Please remember, these are stories.  It is fiction.  

Thanks for reading,

Me