Lost in Mass Production

Ever since the dawn of the human race, man has watched the heavens. Man has watched the birds, the stars, the clouds, the skies. And man has yearned and dreamed of flight. From Icarus to da Vinci, the power of flight has been present in mythology as well as the scientific and technological motivations of the human mind.

And a little over one hundred years ago, man achieved that dream. Man, having conquered the earth’s surface, had taken his first step towards conquering the air. And in 60 short years, man furthered his conquest of the deep sea, rapidly advanced his aircraft, and beyond; he went right through the atmosphere and into space, landing a man on the Moon.

Now, as I walked through the airports, I noticed something tragic. No one notices that anymore. When I fly, I can’t stop gazing out the window. I mean, I constantly just think about it. Flight. So new, yet taken for granted. People, caught up in the hustle and bustle of American and generally modern life, flying to and fro as it were nothing.

I admit, it kind of hurts the experience, to see it so cheapened by the food court-mall corporate parasite that leeches off travelers.

I think that this problem, the way everyone is so caught up in material-driven lives, is permeating throughout too many walks and aspects of life.

I want to travel from inn to inn on horseback, trading my assistance on the land or town for a warm meal and bed.

I also want a lightsaber, but that’s not really on topic.

I’ll read this in the morning and see what I need to change/add/delete.

Cheers.

The Ballad of Pandas Wang

Movement I

 

Ash-grey skies and fallow trees,

winds abound and sunlight absent.

The Shack, chameleon outpost,

rests upon the banks of -

The River sings a lullaby to the railroad

as the crest of yonder Hammer Hill

holds its own against Carolina

and her rolling mountains; bastion.

The Firepit offers ashes to the wind

and tall oaks stand firm, unwavering.

The Path meanders, gravel on gravel.

The Residence, humble in demeanor,

sits atop this haven, this sanctuary.

Hammer Hill, forever and forever

peaceful, except -

 

Movement II

 

Crack! -

Splintering bamboo, wince.

Footsteps of fighters upon rocks.

They strike again.

Parry- Crack! Sidestep, slash- Thwack!

One dances back.

Twirling, advance, attack!

Parry, lunge, no – feint!

Contact!

Pain, stumbling, laughter.

Bows and handshakes.

Round two

- Crack!

 

Movement III

 

Weary warriors of the Wang,

alliteration aside,

they trudge up the path,

jokes abound.

Car doors, open, close, ignition.

Gnarls Barkley, Muse and piracy.

Music of champions.

They drive unto the land of Caesar,

for the food of champions.

Riding in silence, thoughts alight.

Inspiration, falsetto musing.

Rubber meets asphalt,

their minds imagine

a near life experience.

Hot n’ Ready fulfillment.

Sexual innuendo, mom jokes.

 

 

Movement IV

 

The Firepit;

Darkness and flames,

a touch of Eden.

Plastic chairs and stumps.

Contemplation,

gaze into the firelight.

Nostalgia, reminiscing.

The good old nights.

Dr. Pepper, more laughter.

Relaxation, discussion.

Fit for kings, fit for Wangers.

Starlight above and earth beneath,

Monasteries aren’t this serene.

Thoughts of a Dying Psychologist

My lyrical interpretive dance for Ms. Moon’s AP Psych. class. Also known as BS.

 

 

Hysteria, dementia, paranoia,

he jerks-behaviorism.

Stumbling, blocking, crashing.

Newspaper stands fall before him.

The present on the pavement.

Chaining alliteration,

Alzheimer’s atrocious amnesia

he is up!

Modeling his punishment,

his reward is the most negatively

positive-

I’m certain of it!-

reinforcement.

His classical conditioning,

lifetimes of classrooms

offering nothing.

Retrieval is useless in oblivion.

Flailing about, he is extinction.

Bystanders, observational learning.

Stumbling, bumbling

Into the street, he shouts

incoherence, tip-of-the-tongue

warnings from repressed memories

of lives not lived.

Spontaneous recovery.

He remembers.

Car accident.

The Candlerbury Tales

And with them there walked

though he seldom talked-

as no one dared even look

upon one whom God forsook,

a Man with a tunic worn,

He had arrived late, in the morn.

His demeanor was reserved,

and his blade was curved.

But no knight was the man,

his sword wrought in a far-off land.

Excommunicated, was he,

convicted of heresy.

Why he traveled to Canterbury Abbey

Knew naught we.

Perhaps he sought the Lord,

as with Satan he’d struck a chord.

I talked with him little,

as I trudged in the middle,

and he in the back.

 

 

When he did speak,

our party’s curiosity would peak.

He was a scholar, through and through,

but for us, his ideas were quite new.

He spoke of death, he spoke of strife,

of suffering and life.

The man cared naught for the law,

and said “death is the road to awe.”

He strove to better humanity,

but the Church had denounced it as vanity,

of faithless men good in deed,

God has no need.

He sought purpose, said he,

to understand the world was key.

A wanderer, I would say,

his eyes always seemed far away.

A Near-Life Experience

Rubber meets asphalt;

the road curves, flashes

blurred.

The three are calm

their eyes hold no

fear.

Were it their fate

to die

their last feeling:

anticipation.

Death is their road to awe.

What brings fear

to their

hearts;

to be lost.

Lost

to history,

to existence.

Their fears

are the fears of man.

Of men.

If they are to die,

if with their last

gasp,

they find that

God

is nowhere to be found,

then only history

grants them immortality.

The three

are not

different

than all of

humanity.

Immortality

is their

triumph and their doom.

They are to be legends.

They are anything but

ordinary.

They are lions.

They seek immortality

of the soul.

Men seek immortality

of body.

Rubber meets asphalt

and the wheels

hold traction.

They live on.

Their eyes and minds

return

to daydreams.

And still they do not fear

death, for death

is the road to awe.

Lord of the Rings

Lament of the Ents

 

Long forgotten, sheperds, treeherders.

The Ents, the treepeople, who dwell in Fangorn.

Long have they searched for the womenfolk of the Ent,

the Entwives, lost forever.

Entwives, seen no more. In love, were they, with flowers and earth.

But now, they are gone . No Entings, no children.

Ents, oldest of the old, mightiest of all.

They, the ancient ones, not easily roused.

Yet long ago, the Enemy, in Mordor, mocked the might Ent.

For He created a beast, the fell Troll, so evil was He.

Yet the Ents care not for war, nor for the troubles of Men.

They tend to the forest, to the trees.

 

———————————–

Memories

 

 

Two hobbits,
alone in the
white light of the moon.
Friends forever, are they.
They wander, and talk of old times.
Of past battles, parties, and friends.
They look up and see their memories
passing by, unto the fields long past the Western Sea.
They stare, awed to silence.
Then one turns, a tear in his eye,
and whispers, “why?”
“Why do good memories fade,
while the bad ones linger?
Why are we here, while our friends lie buried?
Why do we go to war when we could have peace?
Why, o Why does time wear away all that really matters?
Why?”

 

Boo Radley

Boo Radley, the lonely recluse.

Boo Radley, the misunderstood outcast.

The king in pauper’s clothing.

Sitting in his dusty home,

He watches the innocent play.

Angry at the world,

For the treatment of others.

He never emerges,

He sits and watches.

Yet, when Scout and Jem

Are in peril,

He rushes out

to save their lives.

He returns to the house,

never to be seen again

by the curious kids,

his only friends.

The Call

Shells fall around us,

Thundering artillery

Brightens the endless night,

If only for a moment.

Seemingly at random,

The Earth erupts,

Showering down around us like hail.

We are numb,

Having been here so long.

So in silence we sit,

Awaiting the call to death.

As we wait in the atrium of Hell,

We snack on mold-ridden bread.

A rat makes a run for it,

Interrupting our vigil.

The crack of a pistol…

And all is silent again.

Then, at last, the whistle blows.

The call.

We push ourselves up,

Dust off, and prepare

To go over the top.

Doritos: A Work Unfinished

His breath smelled of Doritos and chocolate. His 10 o’clock shadow graced him with an aura almost of a hardened rustler from one of those old Westerns from so long ago. He wore a deep green cloak of a teflon weave. Where in the day, it would merge with foliage, in environments as this one, it only added to the dark mystery in which he hid. It also proved invaluable in hiding items he’d prefer remain unseen and as such, he owed the cloak his life many times over. Underneath his ever-reliable cloak, he wore a leather jerkin and a thermal undershirt he had found on some long past adventure. He sometimes wore chain mail, but he didn’t anticipate any need for it on this particular night. The edge of his boots stuck out slightly from the darkened table. They resembled an artist’s failed attempt; half of the soles were bound together with duct-tape and years of use in a myriad of environments had given them a dull gray-brown hue, as well as an odor of swamp-water.

The Baron and the Villain

By Luke Farmer and Brittain Sluder

 

Gashes, cuts, and bruises were medals to the Baron. The Baron struggled to hold his footing with precious blood seeping from his legs, and building up over his faint shadow. There fate had set him; face to face with his final opponent on long bridge, wide enough to fit seven men shoulder to shoulder. He thought the scenery dramatic, and his impeding death was exciting and reassuring of his purpose.

His opponent dressed himself in sleek black robes, accented with a darker silk. His outfit was

handsome, and so unique that he had no need for any other medals adorned on his chest. His skin was fare and clean, with no visible scares like the once deep cut under the Baron’s left eye. This man dressed in black stood with great poise, and a sort of evil confidence like a teen might have when fighting a child of five summers.

By the looks of the Baron, one would assume he surpassed his opponent in years, but looks as they both had cruelly learned, can be deceiving. They were both born under the same year, but the Baron’s path had withered him. His outfit was nothing gallant, and represented a makeshift ranking rather than a well fitted imperial branch.

The villain approached, and made sure to do so with patiently coercion steps. Each clank that was the villain’s step, was confident, and evenly paced out from its predecessor. The Baron nonchalantly cast his sword off the bridge while simultaneously spitting a wad of blood to follow his blade down to its demise.

The Baron fell to one knee right as the villain reached a comfortable distance. He braced his fall with his left hand, sliding his right into his torn lapel, clutching to his gut. The Baron proudly straightened himself, but still could not stand. The tattered and torn hero looked the villain in the eyes.

It was the villain who spoke first.

“You give yourself freely?”

When no response came, the villain smirked and spoke again,

“Do you know we kept the dogs alive? Most animals are easily maintained. You and the rest of your filth provide a bountiful supply of food for them.”

At that the Baron’s expression grew furious, defiant, and heroic. His voice, deadly quiet:

“So I am nothing more than a beast to you!?”

The Baron grunted slightly as he attempted to level his shoulders. He managed a grim smile, and spoke a name the villain had not heard for a long time. It was his first name, a uniquely beautiful, yet common name among mankind. The villain unknowingly let his expression reflect his deepest essence. He looked scared at the sound of that name.

“I remember when we were brothers, you and I. When we’d sit across from one another and talk of destiny and dreams, do you remember that?”

The Baron coughed blood onto the floor again, his spirit was leaving his frame, but his voice was steadfast, and mighty.

“Is this the destiny you foresaw for our glorious little crew, is this the film you wanted?”

A wave of tragedy fell across the weary rebel’s face. His strong poise was like a mighty wave that suddenly crashed into the solid cliff side. He bit his bottom lip, his eyes glazed over.

Silence.

The hum of lights became a roar compared to the deep silence between the two, even the Baron’s panting had ceased.

A dull sentence escaped the Baron’s lips. He spoke softly, his eyes down, and though it was not what he said, his words summoned his doom and his triumph.

“I remember…her name was…”

The villain reacted in a flash, sending his blade at blinding speed towards the Baron’s neck. It wasn’t out of hate, but fear, as if that name the Baron nearly mentioned held some omnipotent spell over Armageddon.

But the Baron knew this was how it would end. He raised his eyes to meet the villain’s. “Forgive me, brother.”

The Baron’s head bounced, impressively, over the edge of the bridge, and his second knee hit the ground. His arms flung down, and from his lapel, something caught the villain’s eye. The Baron held a detonator, and had been for some time now.

The villain came to know several hundred memories in those few seconds. One tear hit the bridge, just before it was all engulfed in flame.

Latin IV: The Fall of Troy

I haven’t found out if I placed yet.

Some say that the gods decide the fate of mortals, that the Fates rule our destinies. They say that all that is done is the will of the gods. But I tell you this, the gods abandoned men long ago. Below is my account of what occurred at Troy in the waning days of the war. You may hear tales of glory, of gods and heroes, but I assure you, what befell the Greeks and Trojans at Troy was an evil entirely beyond the power of any gods or men to halt.

 

It is unknown how long the blight was with the Trojans, as no Greek had entered Troy until it was rampant. All that we survivors know is that the day Patroclus fell, we noticed that many of the Trojan soldiers seemed to be filled with a bloodlust, roaring and fighting with no regard to hazard nor friend. This allowed Patroclus, disguised as Achilles, to engage the distracted Hector in battle. I was not present at that time, for I was nearer to Ajax the Greater, but they say he slew Patroclus, and upon seeing his foe’s face, despaired. But, at that time, the great horns of Troy sounded and Hector led his men in a full run towards the gates of Troy. The men said it was fear of Achilles’ wrath that saw the Prince of Troy flee, though I know better now.

That night, screams echoed o’er the walls of Troy. We Greeks stood vigilant, wary of the fell noise that assaulted our rest.

When morning came, no Trojans came forth. No army to meet us. Only silence.

And then, just as the men began to murmur in confusion, the gates opened…..and three riders rode out to meet us. I remember well the stillness of that morning, the brilliant blue of the sky, and the one chance to avoid the fate that we unknowingly chose. I, along with Agamemnon, Menelaus, and both Ajax and Greater and Lesser, rode out to meet Hector, Paris, and a young Trojan noble named Aeneas. None of the three looked in good health; all looked worn, weary, and grim.

Our conversation was short. Hector spoke of a blight that had begun to overtake the city and warned us that if there was no ceasefire, it would eventually spread outside Troy and into our own army. Both Ajax’s scoffed and taunted the Prince, who gave them no more attention than he might a grain of sand. Menelaus began to say something, his face suspicious, but his brother laughed. “Prince of Troy, run back to your walls. Do not try to frighten the sons of Mycenae and Sparta with your fear-mongering. Go, Hector of Troy, and await the doom that approaches.” At this, Hector sighed heavily and with a nod to his companions, turned to leave.

“Hector.”

The prince of Troy halted, bid his companions continue, and turned to face Achilles. Achilles’ face was calm, but his eyes were cold and ablaze with fury. As Achilles demanded Hector dismount and fight, I rode back towards the army with the others. But I was distracted by shouting drifting down to us from the gates of Troy that had opened to allow Paris and his companion into the city. We turned our horses and looked on, as did Achilles, for Hector had taken off upon his steed and was racing towards the commotion. What happened next will forever be ingrained in my memory.

 

Hector running towards us, Paris and Aeneas on his heels, and at least a score of men not far behind. Achilles drawing his sword and the Ajax’s stepping forward to back him against what they saw as a cowardly attack. Some of the pursuers fall….with Trojan arrows in their backs.

 

Hector skidded to a halt and called, “Here is your plight, king of Mycenae!” They turned, Aeneas and Hector with swords drawn and Paris with bow in hand. The remaining soldiers ran on, a couple falling to Paris’ arrows. They kept coming. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Menelaus and Agamemnon turn and ride towards our lines.

I had barely drawn my sword when they were upon us. At least a dozen of them, all bloodied and some without weapons. They threw themselves upon us like savages, clawing, bludgeoning and biting. They fought with a mindless ferocity, the likes of which I’d never seen. I threw up my shield, hoping to hold off the demons. I retreated, slashing at any that neared me. I saw one clinging to Ajax the Greater’s leg as he impaled a crazed soldier on his spear. Ajax the Lesser abruptly turned and ran. As I fell back, I saw Achilles standing nearly back-to-back with Hector. My memory always slows to a near halt when I remember that…iconic image. Trojan and Greek, each side’s best, fighting alongside one another. Then my memory plays faster to catch up.

 

Paris falling under the onslaught.. The last soldiers falling around Aeneas, Hector and Achilles. Seeing Agamemnon scrambling on all fours as the Greeks surge forward to aid their kings and comrades. Then an impact, the ground rushing towards me, and blackness.

 

I didn’t die that day. No, the gods saw fit to punish me further. Hector and Aeneas made it back to the gates, while Achilles, myself, Ajax the Lesser, and Menelaus had reached the safety of Greek lines. Paris of Troy had been slain and Ajax the Greater, wounded. Later that day, an envoy from Troy delivered Menelaus’ prize: Helen. Though she had loved Paris, she would later tell me that Hector persuaded her to rejoin her husband and that, with Paris dead, she had no reason to stay in Troy.

That night, we met in Agamemnon’s tent to discuss further action. The king of Mycenae, a wild glint in his eye brought about by the potential fall of Troy, decreed that we were to build the weapon of my design and assault the city as they fought each other. I, however, insisted that if Hector was right and the blight could be spread to our men, that perhaps we should consider returning home. Though Menelaus was assuaged and sided with me, Achilles and Agamemnon had to resolved their own disputes. And so we stayed.

Weeks later, our assault was to begin at last. We marched on Troy. At the head was the battle-tower the men called the “Trojan Horse”-they did so because of both Troy’s connection to horses and the wet horse hides that shielded it from fire. I was to lead the assault on Troy, with Achilles and his Myrmidons to follow. No archers lined the walls. No defenses. No Hector.

When our tower reached the wall, and the Greeks poured out onto the battlements, devastation met our eyes. Bodies littered the streets. As we moved through the city, we met no one, saw no living man, woman, or child. The temple had been barricaded, but overrun. Inside we found the half-eaten bodies of Priam, Hecuba, and many soldiers. No Hector.

Ajax the Lesser ventured off into the city for loot, but he soon returned, bloody and weakened. As he fell to the ground, a man rounded the corner behind him and headed for the temple steps where we stood. Time froze. Hector’s face, inhuman and bloody, stared at the Greek soldiers before him. Then he, followed by the horde that rounded the corner a moment later, broke into a frenzied rush.

I don’t know how long we lasted….five minutes. Maybe. Moments later, it seemed, I was running for the walls alongside my surviving men. We ran into the Menelaus and Agamemnon as we fled, and they fled with us.

 

The last images I remember were of Achilles sweeping aside the infected Trojans as if they were grains of sand, of Achilles beheading the former prince of Troy. Achilles faltering as a fallen infected ripped into his heel. Achilles-the unbeatable Achilles-falling to a knee and with a roar of defiance, being overtaken by a mass of bodies that piled upon him like beasts.

 

It took many days and many hundreds of lives to clear the city. We found Ajax the Lesser, laying where he’d fallen, as well as Ajax the Greater, who, being wounded, could not survive the waves of men. We recovered the body of Achilles, who lay beside the headless and battered Hector.

Circling the city, I discovered a small door that had been barricaded from the outside. Some Trojans, it seemed, had lived to see another day. As for us remaining Greeks, we sailed for home, weary of war and turmoil. But neither the gods nor the weather seemed to favor us, as I would not see Ithaca for ten long years.

So sing your songs of glory, tale the glorious story of Achilles and the fall of Troy and its prince. But I tell you, what happened there, what befell us all on the shores of Anatolia, there was no glory, there were no heroes. Only the blight.

-Taken from a journal of Odysseus, circa 1270 B.C.E.

Latin III: The Fate of Servius

I can’t remember how I placed in the state.

 

Servius Antonius Bonifactus

 

I tell this story not about my experience so much as about that of my companion and friend, Servius Antonius Bonifactus, and our leader, Belisarius. One a general, one merely a captain, but both were patriots, heroes, and mentors. And so I dedicate this account of the last great fall of Rome to them.

 

The walls seemed to echo with battle cries of gladiators long past, and the sand held onto my tentative footsteps as if to never let my presence be forgotten. The air was still. My hand slowly found its way to the cold stone as if to hold my body upright. I was actually walking into the Flavian Amphitheater, the fabled arena that represented Roman power, engineering prowess, and culture. To think that I was walking upon the same ground that so many thousands of warriors had traversed, that Emperors had traversed….it was humbling. I wondered if Nero had stood at the edge of the arena floor and gazed up into seats and sun in awe as I was.

I could recall it well, the first time we laid eyes on Rome. It was but two months ago, yet so much had happened since that day. I remembered that we had been marching for most of the day, when the generals told us to keep a sharp eye, as we were nearing Rome. The men had exchanged excited whispers; we were marching on the city of legend, the city that had for so long been the bastion of civilization. We were an army set out to recapture the Holy Grail.

Though the Western Empire had fallen nearly a century before we were but a glint in our mothers’ eyes, citizens in the Eastern Empire still retained the notion that they were Roman. I can vividly see Belisarius’ face as Rome came into view: the admiration, the determination, the loyalty. He, too, saw Rome as the true heart of the Roman Empire. He knew, like Bonifactus did, like I did, that without Rome, the Empire could never truly regain its former glory. We knew that it would be doomed to be a shadow of its former self as long as Rome was in barbarian hands. And it was that knowledge that drove us.

“Amazing, is it not?” I resisted my natural urge to jump in surprise as Servius stepped up to the edge alongside me. I did not answer, but merely nodded. He took a step and entered the arena. Treading slowly, Servius made his way to the center of the ring, turning around as he did so, as if mesmerized by it. As he reached the center, he stopped and drew his sword. I couldn’t help but notice the man’s aura, his presence. Something about him was awe-inspiring. Perhaps that was how he had been noticed by Belisarius.

The day that we entered Rome was a glorious one. The sky was a deep, pure blue and the fields of grain blew lightly with the wind’s gentle touch. Belisarius at the head, we marched into Rome with the Ostrogoths at our feet. To think, they had mocked us from behind their walls. We were Greeks among Trojans that day.

I remember the flower petals that the citizens let fly our their windows as we made out way through the streets, swirling around us as if in dance. I remember the soldiers’ eyes as we passed by the mythical Pantheon and our dumbfounded expressions as we entered the Forum. Oh, how glorious the city must have been in its prime!

“Come, friend, we’re up for patrol,” said Servius as he approached me from the sunlit stadium. As we turned to leave, we both glanced back at the proud structure, wreathed in the morning light.

That was years ago, before Belisarius was recalled. Before Totila came to power and rallied the Ostrogoths. Now we stood on the walls of Rome, desperately trying to rally the defenders. Most of the Belisarius’ grand army had left with their commander to battle Persians in the East. The rest had fallen to disease. There were, however, still a strong number of soldiers and recruits. The men were nervous, having been at peace for nearly five years. We had reclaimed Rome in 536, and had held her the entire time with relative peace. Until now.

By this time, Servius was now the highest ranking officer in Rome, essentially heading the remnants of the glorious Byzantine army until Belisarius’ return-upon the latter’s request, no less. On the morning of the battle, my friend approached me as I was praying. “Our defenses will never last.”

I closed my eyes slowly and looked up at the crucifix above us. “I know.” He put a hand on my shoulder. I stood and looked at him. “We can’t just surrender the city, Servius. This is Rome.”

He smiled grimly. “I know. We will fight.” He paused. “But I will not sacrifice our entire army for pride.” He turned and gestured towards the door. “Come, and let me share with you my plan.”

Slowly the red sun arose, giving the crisp morning a blood-red hue. Fitting. The men gathered at the Pantheon steps as Servius, myself, and his other top officers took the floor.

General Bonifactus looked out on the crowd and began. “Soldiers of Rome……five years ago we first set our eyes upon this fair city, this beacon of civilization. When we saw her, she was the prisoner of barbarians, the slave of savages. The Germanic hordes responsible for toppling the Western Empire had taken our glorious capital as their own. And what happened when Belisarius and the Eastern Roman Empire came to call? They fell…..They fell.” He paused to left his words sink in. Starting with renewed vigor, he rose his voice, “And what became of their so-called empire? It fell. We are mightier than they! But what of this barbarian horde that now marches upon our city? It is strong, and it is led by a powerful man. This….Totila. But where was Totila when Belisarius conquered Naples? When he conquered Rome? He was nowhere to be seen. He has yet to witness the might of the Roman cataphracts.” He strode about on the steps. “My comrades, allow me to be frank; we are far outnumbered and in dire need of supplies. I fear that we shall not be able to hold this city. But do not fear, my countrymen! Nay, I beg you not to despair.” His voice quieted. “Remember, my friends, that this city is the single-most important symbol of Roman power, of Byzantine power. If we cannot hold our most prized city, how can we survive?” My general paused and looked out amongst his army. “I ask you not as a soldier, but as a fellow Roman, to fight.” The image fades amid the roar of the men.

Servius and his army fought harder for every inch of Rome than any men I have ever seen. But still the enemy kept pouring through. And one by one, Romans fell. Towards the end of the battle, Servius sent me away despite my protests. I was to lead the army and any citizens that wished to come out of Rome. I was to lead the retreat. I held the future of the Roman people in my hands, he said. I was Aeneas.

The last group to leave the city as it fell caught up with us months later and informed us of Servius’ last stand. They told us how Bonifactus and his men had fought for every inch of the city, how their numbers had dwindled until they were surrounded and overwhelmed. They told us how Bonifactus had perished fighting off the hordes of barbarians as the last families fled the city.

They were Greeks among Trojans that day.

Latin II: The Destiny of Numerius

My horrible sequel, maybe got 12th in either state or nation?

 

Numerius Antonius Bonifactus was dead. His body lay there, on the battlefield outside Alba Longa, blood still oozing from his wounds and onto the hands of Marcus, who now cradled his body. Marcus sobbed hysterically, his mind whirling with thoughts of regret over his treatment of his savior. A shadow fell across him and Numerius. He turned to look, already knowing what it was, and his eyes locked onto the sword moments before everything went black.

Numerius, or rather, his spirit, watched in anguish as Marcus fell. He reached out as if to catch him, only to remember he himself was dead. Holding back a strangled sob, he turned to Mercury, who stood a little ways back with a pitying look on his face.

“Why?” Mercury did not reply. “Why is he dead? I-I tried to save him….I tried..” Numerius stumbled back and sat down, where he buried his face in his hands. He had tried to lead a good life, tried to serve the gods as best he could. He had renounced violence and pledged himself to peace. Even after he was dragged into the military, he had detested violence and had only killed when he had to. Why..how..could he have let Marcus die? He should have saved Marcus, not die on him. Numerius shivered. He had failed. Not just Marcus, but in life. He hadn’t even been able to serve the gods as he wished, much less save Marcus. Marcus had tormented him for many months, scoffing at his pacifism. Then, moments ago, when Marcus still lived, Numerius heard him cry out and ran to his side, only to be cut down, giving his life for his tormentor’s. Marcus, at that point, saw how foolish he was and swore to change his ways. It was then, as he cradled Numerius’s body, that he met his end.

He looked up as Mercury spoke, “Nay, it is not your fault, young Numerius, you did as much as you could. As much as any man could have. You died saving his life. And I believe that deed shall not go unrewarded.” Numerius was not comforted and slowly got to his feet. “I shall not go to either the Realm of Soldiers, nor Elysium. I have failed as a servant of the gods and a soldier. I shall not be rewarded.”

Mercury began to reply, but Numerius, forgetting who he spoke to, cut him off. “I do not deserve that honor. All my life I wanted to be alone with my service and my writings. It was my fault when I allowed myself to be persuaded into joining Hostilius’s crusade of arrogance.” Mercury, being the mortal-fond messenger god he was, did not say anything, but merely took Numerius by the arm and the world changed.

They were in Rome, and there sat Numerius, scribbling hastily on a piece of parchment. Mercury released Numerius and stepped back, allowing Numerius to take it in. “That…thats me! Before the war…” Numerius walked across the grayish scape into his past. He looked over his own shoulder to see what he was writing.

“A pax romana. What an ideal it is.” He turned back to Mercury,”That was my dream, mine and Decimus’s dream.” Mercury smiled sadly. Numerius’s heart sank.

“Alas, that he too had to perish…” Behind him, his past self shivered and a tear slid down his cheek and he turned around as if expecting to see someone. Numerius’s eyes went wide. “I remember that. I felt as though I had lost my best friend. I did not know what had happened….O Mercury, why have you shown me this?”

Mercury seemed to think for a moment and said, “Because the dream of a pax romana is an ideal shared by many gods. Including Jupiter. You have pleased the gods, Numerius, you saved Marcus’s soul, and the story of his redemption will affect all those that knew you. By the time it ends, you will have changed many a life for better.” Numerius shook his head, almost disbelievingly, “No, I let him die, If I had not allowed myself to be cut down, he would not have died.”

Mercury stepped forward, turning Numerius to face him. “If you had not died and turned his heart, he would not have been redeemed and would have the chance you gave him. The chance to go to Elysium.” He took Numerius’s hand again. “You did not fail him, Numerius, you saved him.” However, Mercury looked into the man’s heart and saw he was still not convinced. Once more, the god took the man by the arm and whisked him away.

 

This time, they landed in a temple, where stood a man teaching. “Thats Cornicen, one of my comrades…Why are we here?” Mercury merely stared back. Numerius frowned and though, “Well, he was always unsure of his path, unsure of his call, he..” He trailed off as Mercury smiled slightly.

“Cornicen saw you save Marus. After his service ends, he’ll remember your example and dedicate himself to service. He shall eventually come to lead the priests of Apollo. So said the Fates.” Numerius looked with awed disbelief at the man he saw before him, so confident, so sure of himself. That wasn’t the Cornicen he remembered at all. At that moment, as Cornicen’s eyes met him and went slightly wide, when Cornicen shook his head as if he didn’t believe what he had seen before turning back to his students, at that moment, Numerius believed Mercury. He felt the bitter-sweet feeling of relief mixed with regret and humility welling up within him. Slowly, yet with newfound confidence, he turned to Mercury and said, “Thank you, my Lord Mercury. You…you have saved me.” Mercury smiled and once more took him arm. With one last look at Cornicen, he was again in a different place.

It was dark. And it was cold. Those were Numerius’s first thoughts as he landed on the shore of the River Styx. “This is where we part, Numerius Bonifactus. May you find peace at last.” And with that, Mercury was gone, off to pick up another fallen soldier.

Numerius sighed remorsefully slightly to himself. Soon, Marcus would be joining him, along with Decimus. As much as he mourned their death, he was glad to have some company in Hades. “You coming?” He looked up as the ferryman looked at him. “Yes, here are the coins.” Numerius climbed aboard and handed his coins to the ferryman, taking a seat near the front. Numerius noticed that many faces across from him belonged to Alba Longa soldiers. Neither side said anything, only noted each other with wary respect.

Moments later, they were across and the company stepped off the ferry and onto the shore, where they stood rather confused, staring up at the massive Gates of Hades, where the three-headed guardian sat, looking down at them.

Numerius was the first to move. With a timid step, then another, he made his way past the hound and up to the Gates. As he reached them, they swung open, revealing Tartarus. With a deep breath and a much lighter heart than he had when Mercury had come for him, Numerius Antonius Bonifactus, the pacifist-soldier of Rome, stepped into Hell.

Latin I: The Fate of Numerius

First contest entry, 2nd in state (?) and 5th in nation.

Numerius Antonius Bonifatus, son of Oceanus, grandson of Marcellus, scribbled hastily on the parchment, the flickering candle next to his arm providing just enough light to write. Once, during the waning hours of daylight, he copied texts of the mythical gods of Rome. Now, on campaign, he kept a journal, starting with his basic history.

My father, Oceanus, was a carpenter in the port city of Anacona. When I was but a lad of seven, I was sent off to Rome to become a priest of Jupiter. This occurred during the last days of the reign of Numa Pompilius, who was well-known for his religious policies. For many years, I had studied and worked at becoming the most knowledgeable priest of Jupiter in all of Rome. I dedicated fifteen long years to it.

However, in the year that Tullus Hostilius ascended the throne, war sprung up and the religious ways of old were forgotten. Hostilius, unlike his predecessor, was fond of war and eagerly sought out battle. This was how I came into being a soldier. At twenty two, I was physically able to fight well, not to mention well-known by way of my father, who had become one of the King’s main architects in boat-building. I was recruited heavily by the military, but I repeatedly refused to join, being a pacifist and against war. However, due to much persuasion on the part of my father, who had been swayed to the side of the King, and many empty promises of wealth by the recruiters, I at last gave in to their constant badgering. So it is on the campaign that I find myself now, trudging day in and day out. I have become quite skilled with a sword, and decent with a spear, however, I have yet to kill anyone. That is something I hope to avoid altogether.

The days grew together and before long Numerius knew not what time if day it was, but only if it was lunchtime or morning, but never the actual time. Unless it was raining, whereas he knew naught even that much, only the misery in which he trudged his way. The first time he killed a man, he wept.

Today was an evil day. I know now the horrors of war and battle. For it was today that I first killed another living soul. I didn’t wish to. I had to, for the man was going to slay Decimus, who is my only friend. He too had wished to become a servant of the gods. He wished for a pax romana, a peace within Rome to continue as it had under the reign of the good Numa Pompilius.

But, now, even though I killed the other to save his life, he has now perished and crossed the river of the underworld. How I regret listening to my father. How I wish I had become a priest, served Jupiter to my end…

But still, Numerius, the one who wished for nothing more than to lead a peaceful life in the service of Jupiter, found he wished more and more to die rather than to kill.

Today brought with it great evil. Today, I felled my tenth man. He tried to gut me, but I parried and cut a gash in his chest. I saw the light extinguished in his eyes, I felt his soul escaping as he fell. Even now, I shudder to remember. Of only I had stayed in Rome, where I would be safe from such evils. Where I could have served my beloved Jupiter in peace…pax. What a word it is, indeed.

Because of his pacifist attitude, the other men taunted him, tried to pick fights with him, and called him coward. This deeply troubled Numerius.

My heart cries out with anguish, and with pity. Though I try and teach them the way of pacifism, still they still mock me. I have nearly lost my nerve and I fear what they may attempt in the future. How I rue the day I enlisted! I wish death would soon find me, and alas, I fear the day it does. I sense that day draws closer as we draw nearer to Alba Longa.

Numerius held together, though utterly depressed, for many a week, slaying his share of men. It was because of this that he eventually grew numb to everything, living for nothing else but the faint hope that he would one day return home to his temple.

I recollect not what day or even what month it is. All the knowledge I possess is that we are to soon assault Alba Longa, our goal, the climax of the hell in which I have lived for the past few months. I have now been forgotten by my comrades, save for one, Marcus, who even now, taunts me to no end. I pity his soul and hope that he finds peace. The officers say that we are to reach Alba Longa in two days time. I pray only that is the last time I must wield the sword…

Numerius spent most of the next two days praying that the end was indeed in sight, and that soon, he would be able to return to his beloved Rome and temple. On the morn of battle, he wrote his last entry.

Today is the day during which my fate shall be decided. If I survive the coming battle, I shall never again shall I bear arms against another soul. Forever, I shall be at peace. This I vow.

Numerius marched to the field of battle alongside his comrades, including Marcus, who even to the last moment, whispered insults through his teeth. Numerius’ only reaction was to smile pityingly at the man, the smile that a flower might give a weed that has choked it of life. Moments later, the Romans met with the enemy, clashing blades ringing out. Numerius fought defensively, and very well too. He was able to get by with only knocking out one man and injuring another. He never even killed one, which made him slightly happier, though he was still injuring another.

It was a bit later during the battle, when he saw Marcus, he who had been so cruel, laying upon the ground, one hand clutching his stomach, another raised, sword in hand, trying feebly to fend off the enemy. In his plight, he cried out and Numerius’ heart was turned. Running to his comrade’s aid, even when he would’ve received none had their places been switched, he raised aloft his sword and shouted the name Jupiter to the heavens. The enemy, hearing this, abruptly turned and ran through the young man. Numerius Antonius Bonifatus, the pacifist soldier, the one who had wished for naught but peace, gasped and fell to his knees. His sword falling to the ground, he gazed into the horrified eyes of Marcus, who had been so cruel. It was then and there that Marcus had a revelation and changed his ways for good. Rising up in dismay, he cut down Numerius’ killer and dropped down beside Numerius, cradling his dying body. It was also then, that Numerius realized that that was his purpose, that he had been sent by Jupiter to save the soul of Marcus.