Glory

The ultimate battle. The honor. No greater evil than this beast, the tyrant. He stood ten feet tall, a mighty club in his right hand. Steel sprouted in a cluster from its bulging knots to inflict the utmost pain. In his left hand a gnarled iron blade was held close. Upon an enormous plateau of stone and blood he stood with furs and jewels swinging in the sweltering, salty gale. Green lips peeled back to reveal marble teeth. Evil black tattoos swirled across the scabbed, bald scalp. The goblin king was truly terrifying.

But his valiant foe was not afraid. Gleaming white armor adorned the hero. Spectacular uncovered muscles protruded in all directions. Standing opposite the goblin king, he flourished his sword with elegant expertise.

For hours they had sparred, striking back and forth with fierce blows only to finally arrive here upon the plateau: the ultimate battle.

A mighty roar filled the skies as the king stampeded forward, swinging both arms dangerously from side to side. Air gasped as the weapons passed slickly through it. The hero dove fluidly to the side, rolled upright, and lunged. But there would be no surprising the monster before him.

The ugly black blade struck forward, narrowly missing the hero as he dove again. Twice more the hero had to avoid assaults. The edge of the plateau was fast approaching behind him. Thinking quickly as the goblin king raised both arms for a rain of stabs, the mighty hero sprang between the monster’s legs, slicing upwards along the way.

Furious bellows reverberated around the surrounding peaks as the terrible creature’s tail fell to the rocky terrain. The hero just managed to stumble to his feet, now drenched in coal-black blood, when the flat of the goblin’s blade came hurtling into his chest-plate. Next thing the hero knew, he was on his back many yards away. He could not breathe. He immediately began slashing as the straps tying the armor to him. The plate had been crushed, and was now only constricting. It was no longer of use.

Free of the burden, he hopped up and nimbly balanced on his toes, ready for another strike. Sure enough, the goblin was barreling forward, eyeing the target. The hero’s varnished muscles bulged as he leapt to safety. But the hero was exhausted. He could not keep this up much longer. He would have to make his next attack count.

Sweeping upward, his silver broadsword sliced through the monster’s left arm at the elbow. Blood dampened the hero’s sunny hair. More anguished cries arose as the goblin tyrant raised his stumped armed. Blind rage bled into the alien eyes as he thrust his deadly club at the hero’s throat with the remaining arm. The hero parried the attack, but his sword slipped from his grasp under such force and buried itself in the soil far out of reach.

The goblin king, dropping his club, fell upon the hero with an impossibly powerful arm. A vice grip closed around the hero’s throat. It was now or never. Thrusting his pelvis forward as hard as he could, the hero pushed the goblin king overhead, off the edge and down, down, down to the jagged rocks below.

After reacquiring his sword, the hero brandished it above his head as he called to his armies, signaling triumph. For centuries he would be known as Peace-bringer, Lord of the Free, The White King, Blessed Knight, The Laborer for Rest. He would live in the glory and the honor for all eternity, and would be immortalized as the perfect being: the hero who won the war; the noble soldier who could not be killed.

And so Isaac ran around in his green yard avoiding the flowerbeds. He swung a twisted stick and jumped off the old rickety picnic table. He roared and cheered in the glory of his kill, and was happy. He was happy to be the savior of the world, if only an imaginary one. He had fought gallantly for his new honor and pride.

Meanwhile, his mother was in the house. She stared out of the dusty windows at him, her son, her little hero, with fresh tears in her eyes. And in her shaking hands was a newly opened letter, smudged, reading: “I regret very much to inform you that your husband Isaac Preston Sr., No. 15443 of this Company was killed in action on the night of September 24th. He died honorably…”

Spare Change?

Today I saw a homeless man playing a ukulele like a champ. I gave him several dollars.
Later on, I saw the same man breakdancing like a champ. I gave another few dollars.
I came across him a third time, even later, a couple of miles away. He was singing a duet with a homeless lady-friend. Like champs. I gave them a twenty.

-Will

Lonely Bones

          Death liked to sit at bars. He bought beer, just like everyone else. Of course, it didn't have any effect. But Death liked to pretend that they did. After a rough day, what other way can Death actually unwind? I've heard golfing can be relaxing, but it's so difficult to grab the clubs with those bony hands.
          No, pubs were Death's preferred option. The socializing was His favorite part. All the men scattered throughout the bar were either intrinsically cheerful or excessively prone to violence. Death just ignored the short-tempered ones. Not that it’d matter if He got in a fight with one of them. He couldn’t very well deliver Himself to His own final destination. What an absurd and wild idea!
          Death had a system to His drinking, or rather His non-drinking: He would strike up one random conversation every night, hoping that He might find it worthwhile. There were precious few occasions in which the people actually spoke back and even fewer when the victims of discussion were truly engrossed. Most bar-going humans just stared vacantly at the wall, answering every question with the same monotonous slur. Death didn’t make many long-time acquaintances. He had only truly connected emotionally with a man once. It was a Wednesday.
          As Death opened the door – He didn’t open it; He had no need for doors – a lone figure caught His eye. Bottles lay strewn about the man. Some were tipped over, and some stood tall as if to say... well, to say nothing. It was a bottle. It was inanimate, and couldn’t keep the man company. It couldn’t talk to him.
          That’s why Death decided to toss this lonely drunkard into His nightly conversation. Bones creaked as Death took a seat on the stool aside the unsteadily swaying stranger. The man stared intently at a slightly skewed yet recognizable flower-shaped stain on the counter. Death felt bad distracting the man from his pressing affairs, but He wanted a conversation, and this man had his whole life to stare at stains.
“Uh… what kind of work are you in?” Death inquired, awkwardly itching the back of His neck. It was more of an embarrassed itch, seeing as bones hardly ever itch.

          There was silence from the stain-watcher: the normal reaction. Then, after a moment, he drew his arms tighter around his pile of empties, and turned away, withdrawn. Death noticed the drunk’s forlorn and shy face. It occurred to Death that the man was just as lonely and awkward as He.
          Death left him to his thoughts. So it was that Death sat next to the man in silence, and was comforted. Maybe He wasn’t so alone.

Thief of Feet

One of my earlier pieces. I hope you don't mind it.

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The trees were swaying to and fro,
Their branches bending tight.
They tried quite hard to stay upright,
But this was very odd, you know,
For there was no wind to fight.


“This life is not too exciting.”
A younger sapling said.
“I'd like to move about, instead,
Of bearing bugs, always biting,
And birds, perched upon my head.”


“You're quite daft.” Said another tree,
“You cannot move your roots.
You cannot jump or dance, dumb shute.”
But the small sapling could not see,
All he had to offer was fruit.


The Golden Melon, to be precise.
'Twas considered quite sweet.
Most humans, in fact, crave the treat. 
This food, however, comes with price,
If you choose the melon to eat.


This gave him a terrible thought.
“If I could just catch one,”
He thought, “Boy, I would have some fun.
If word got out of what one sought,
The human would come at a run.”


I bet you wish to find out,
What the gold fruit might do?
It is said that while you chew,
A deep sleep will come about,
And you will snooze 'neath skies of blue.


Now it just so happened that, 
A man came strolling by:
The man was named Eli.
And under the young tree was right where he sat,
Then from his lips rolled a frozen sigh.


“My youth has left me too quick.”
“I can help!” The tree did yell.
Eli did not think all was well.
Did the tree just speak? I must REALLY be sick.
But still he asked, “Please, sir, do tell!”


The tree continued to talk:
“These melons that I hold,
They can give you endless life, I am told.
Reach up here, and take one from its stalk.
Before you eat, make sure it's gold.”


Now, Eli was not too bright.
He fell for the tree's lies.
After eating the fruit, he shut his eyes, 
And was soon snoring into the night.
It was then the tree's plan began to truly fly.


The young tree reached quickly down,
And grabbed at Eli's legs, careful that he might not drop,
The feet that came off with a “pop!”
Then the tree slipped away without a sound,
Oh, how soon he'd dance, skip, run, and hop!


The sapling now has legs, feet and toes.
He can do all they said he could not.
He can weave, and spin, and go to many spots.
He can twirl, and whirl, through many meadows.
And he brags to older trees about the new shoes he bought.


Now, my bad rhyme scheme is done,
And the poem is complete.
So this is the moral that I hope you will meet:
Don't eat the Golden Melon,
Or the trees will steal your feet.

And So It Begins

Well, this is the first post on my new blog. I'll probably just use this as an area for me to send my movie, book, and/or game reviews, and maybe post some of my writing.

I'll mainly use this to showcase funny anecdotes and any other works of mine. I've been working on lots of mediums, so I just hope for more people to see it.

Enjoy My Own Little Exorcism!

-Will