Dual Destiny

long days did he toil

to forge steel that would not foil

for the seers had foretold

the coming of the prophecies of old

that the seas possessed would boil

and the flaming heavens would embroil

the mortal lands of Earth

in the final battle of rebirth

shall the Malevolent retake her throne

or will the Righteous hold the crown alone

with Destiny’s honeyed words he held no accord

his calling was the savagery of the sword

two Queens beckon him to their ranks

a temporal champion that on the banks

of the River Time will lead her horde

in struggle for the right to lord

over all within Sullis’ gaze

in his hands he holds the world’s fate in a haze

at whose feet shall he lay his blade

and whose trust shall be betrayed

when the final trumpet blare

filled with anguish splits the air

a hero will be born

or souls will cower beneath fresh scorn

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An Uneventful Narrative-I,III

ACT ONE, SCENE THREE

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House,

A Cluttered Room

A human form thrashes beneath tangled blankets; a thin blade of light cuts across the room. The form under the blankets settles until a piercing alarm spews a symphony of discordant sounds from the nightstand adjacent the bed. The blankets are thrown into the air; a hand shoots out and attempts to smash the alarm into submission.

BOY(exhaustion and disgust tinge each word): Lord, give me strength because I swear to all that is holy if that thing doesn’t shut the fu…

His obscenity is cut short when SIERRA pushes through the ajar door.

SIERRA: Man, I thought you didn’t believe in God?

The alarm’s deafening shrieks persist. SIERRA crosses the room and pulls its cord from the wall.

BOY(collapses face first onto his pillow; his voice now muffled): I don’t. But, Josh doesn’t know that.

SIERRA(a puzzled look washes over her face): Josh? Hold up, did you name the alarm clock?

BOY: It’s loud, annoying, and doesn’t know when to shut up. I thought Uncle Josh was the perfect namesake.

SIERRA(moving to the closet to the right of the bed): Piety and familial animosities aside, you need to get ready for school.

SIERRA slides open the closet and makes her way back to the BOY’s door.

SIERRA( over her shoulder as she leaves the room): Get dressed so you can get something in your stomach before we go.

The BOY stays face down on his bed for a moment, wrestling with the pros and cons of leaving the house that day.

BOY(rising from his bed and stalking over to the closet): Once more into the breach.( The BOY is shuffling through clothes when a thought occurs) Into? Or is it unto? Is it even breach? Great, so it’s gonna’ be one of those(he drags this word out) days. Can’t freaking wait.

The BOY decides on a pair of dark, faded jeans and a scarlet thermal. He leaves the room; not bothering to straighten out the mess he has made of the closet. The BOY casts one final look towards his disheveled room, heaves a sigh, and proceeds to the bathroom. The shower whines to life and the light fades.

Missed Mentor

in my darkest times, you were my light

and led me back to the right path

because I would always seem to lose my way

even though you told me a thousand times

and showed me a thousand more

that you would always be there

i look at your gravestone now

and wonder to myself

how will you keep that vow

The Diary of Alden Warner-Entry IV

July 7, 1776

     It is the most glorious of things that begs me to put pen to paper this day. Independence is the word flooding the streets of the colonies. July 4th of 1176 marked the unanimous declaration, by the thirteen colonies represented at the Continental Congress, of independence from the grasp of British tyranny. The self-evident truths of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness that are written of in this Declaration gracefully materialise the sentiments and convictions of the American people. Listed for the world to see are the continued and varied usurpations and injuries inflicted upon these colonies by the despotic King George.The suspension of legislatures, the denial of trials by jury, revolutions of charters, and in our time of peace establishing a military presence meant to subjugate and eviscerate the free society on which we stand.

     With this Declaration we have, in one preeminent move, grabbed the reins and made ourselves masters of our own destiny. This, however, is only the beginning. The beginning of a battle that will be fought in both the mental and physical realms. If we are to prevail and drive out the British forces that pervade our home, then what comes next? The future of this nation rests in the hands of those bold enough to seize it. The framework must be laid, countless hours of debate and deliberation will be spent, and many lives will be lost before we can stand as a true Nation. So, I ask, who is ready to work towards that brighter tomorrow?

An Uneventful Narrative-I,II

ACT ONE, SCENE TWO

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An Empty Field,

Lone Oak Tree

A gawky teen with coffee brown hair sways placidly on a creaking rope swing hanging from a thick oak branch. He lets his feet drag; a plume of dust whirls around him. The BOY’s breath, argent in the frigid air, stands out against the sable night sky. The BOY raises his head to face the sky above. A lone star shimmers down on him and the moon resides within an alcove of heavy clouds the color of brushed steel.

BOY(barely a whisper): What was it for?

The BOY explodes to his feet in a sudden burst of emotion.

BOY(shouting at the sky): What was it all for, huh!?

He keeps his gaze skyward, his eyes fixed on the solitary star. Tears swell in his eyes and he swipes at them furiously with his sleeve.

BOY: I just… just want to know why. Is that too much to ask?

The BOY takes a moment to gather himself; straightens his jacket and takes another swipe at his eyes. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and kicks at the dirt, unsure of what to say or do. A flare of wind sweeps through the field and the BOY tosses his hood up against the cold. A deep sigh escapes him and he once again glares into the star’s distant visage.

BOY:(reclaiming his seat on the swing): It’s never made sense, ya’ know? I see all these people doing things; meaning something. They matter, right? And, then there’s me. Seventeen years and what have they amounted to? (laughing to himself in spite of it all) It’s funny, isn’t it? I’m sitting out here freezing my ass off in the middle of the night and for what? To scream at the damn sky? God? The Universe?

The BOY extracts a hand from his pocket and gnaws at his knuckles.

BOY(still biting at his knuckles): I guess everyone thinks they’re special; that they have a higher calling. Then reality hits ‘em with a one-two and they get themselves a cushy desk job or some minimum wager behind a counter. (his face grows grim) Or they could end up dead in a club bathroom OD’d on crap they bought off the dude in the parking lot for twenty bucks.

The BOY lets his words fill the emptiness around him and he drops his face between his knees.

BOY(muffled and somber): I wonder which one I’ll be?

The BOY’s voice tapers off into the wind; a rustling comes from behind the tree. A girl, SIERRA, dressed in clothes as black as the night stands a few steps from the swing. Her hair, auburn to the BOY’s brown, flutters in the growing winds.

SIERRA: What the hell are you doing?

She pulls her phone out for emphasis and lowers it towards the BOY.  The clock reads 1:27.

SIERRA: Mom and Dad would kill you if they knew you were all the way out here right now, you know that right?

The wind has not let up and SIERRA trembles in the cold. She steps in front of the BOY and talks down to the back of his head; he still has it nestled between his knees.

SIERRA: Hey, are you even listening? I thought we talked about these little late night excursions and how they weren’t the best thing for your health?

SIERRA reaches for the BOY’s hood but recoils when she hears the sobbing.

SIERRA: Woah, dude what, uh(her voice falters) what’s wrong? Come on you can talk to me, you know that.

SIERRA kneels beside the BOY and slings an arm over his shoulders.

BOY(voice breaking; ready to fall apart at any moment): Do you ever feel lost, like nothing makes sense anymore?

SIERRA takes a moment to think the question over.

SIERRA(delicately): I don’t think anyone has life figured out. And, if they tell you they do, then you know they’re full of it.

SIERRA sees that her words have done little to affect her brother’s spirit.

SIERRA: Life isn’t something you can just figure out and then have everything magically fall into place. You have to work your problems out and even then, even if you do everything you could possibly think of to make things go right, sometimes they don’t. But what’s important is that you try.

SIERRA lowers herself to the ground and stares at the moon, now emerged from the clouds and shining brightly.

BOY(raising his head to look at SIERRA): But what if you don’t even know what your problems are? What if everything should be fine, everything is fine, but you still have this goddamn…(he struggles to find the words) This goddamn blankness inside. What then?

SIERRA shudders at her brother’s words but steels herself as she stands.

SIERRA(extending a hand): You could start by going home and getting a decent night’s sleep for once?

The BOY assesses her hand before taking it. SIERRA pulls him to his feet and they set off away from the oak; her arm around him. The swing rocks in the breeze and the light fades to the sound of crunching footsteps and the whistle of the wind.

Dragonfly

a golden dragonfly flitted crossed my yard

on argent wings as melodic as a bard

he came to rest among the sunset honeysuckle

and in that moment my lips parted in a chuckle

to see such a delicate sprite

that can dance and shimmer in midday’s light

arrest its wings and ground its soul

here together atop this emerald knoll

overlooking cerulean streams

and a verdant orchard that teems

with cardinal fruits ripe for plunder

this afternoon has me filled with wonder

i have seen nature’s beauty unmarred

ever since that dragonfly flitted crossed my yard

The Diary of Alden Warner-Entry III

June 26, 1776

     “The sacred rights of mankind are not to be rummaged for among old parchments or musty records. They are written, as with a sunbeam, in the whole volume of human nature, by the hand of the divinity itself; and can never be erased or obscured by mortal power.” In the days since being introduced to the work, I have found it fabulously hard to put down The Farmer Refuted. It is lines like the one written above that send the chills throughout my body. The power infused within his each word it truly breathtaking. This Alexander Hamilton is a man I must meet, his conviction and passion with which he writes on America are an inspiration to all who read him. The future of my education has only been made sweeter by the prospect of sharing a campus with someone with whom I have the utmost respect and admiration.

     My mother and sister went out this morning for church, I was not much up for it and decided it more prudent to stay in. The Anglican faith is something I do not dislike necessarily, it is rather that I have never seen the reasoning behind any religion’s practices. While I do see how it can comfort and guide those in need, religion has never appealed to me the way it has to my family and fellow countrymen.

     While surveying my family’s home, a towering Dutch styled manor of red and gray stone, I came upon a reminder of years gone by. Carved into a post along the back porch was “Alden” and beneath that the number seven was scratched in. Ten years, an entire decade has passed since I had put that there. It is strange how in the monotony of our day to day lives, the seemingly perpetual cycle of daily agendas, we somehow lose sight of the march of time. As we toil away at our work, whether it be in the city or the countryside, we turn a blind eye to the progression of time and become lost in that infernal mindset of normalcy and complacency that has so plagued the people of this world for generations. In the ten years that have elapsed since I took my penknife to that post, have I truly changed? Have I grown from a blithe child to a conscious man that understands the importance of the time he lives in? I ask these questions because I fear that the same must be asked of these thirteen colonies of America. Are we grown and autarkic, or are we an ignorant child unaware of the echo that our actions will send through time?

Troubled Times

i wandered beneath an elm

and gazed into the sable sky

wondering aloud who was at the helm

of a world as strange as this

where fathers cry

and mothers dehisce

because those that took control

were never meant for the role

A Monster In The Night-Part I

Blood dripped from his fingers. It was grotesquely brilliant when it caught the pale slivers of moonlight. Susan stifled a scream; smothering her terror before it could escape her trembling throat. From her refuge beneath the bed, she could not see him clearly, his visage obscured by the oppressive darkness that enshrouded the room. The only color that populated the scene was the ruby liquid that ran from his hands and pooled on the floor.

The man paused at the foot of the bed, turning a blade over in his hand. There was a disturbed, methodical quality in the way he would turn and flick the steel through the air, leaving a splatter of blood across the wall. It was as if he was a painter and the wall was his canvas. A sky of crimson stars now adorned Susan’s bedroom wall.
Her heart was battering her chest, desperately pleading to break free from its hollow cage. Fear had wrapped its frigid claws around Susan’s soul and beckoned her to the edge.

“Oh, little bird,” the man cooed, “where have you gone?”

The Diary of Alden Warner-Entry II

June 17, 1776

     I took a trip into the city today with Cyrus and, as could be expected, we did not leave without exchanging words with a group of Tories. Cyrus, more impassioned and contentious than I could ever be, found it fit to educate those poor ignorant gentlemen on the nuances of political theory.

     The shouting didn’t start until one of our royalist companions saw fit to, in the most austere of manner, condemn the “savagery” of Colonial opposition to England’s, as they called them, “sufficiently just and deserved disciplinary actions taken to curb the obstreperous children of her colonies.” Cyrus has followed the flow of political thought through writings and resolutions far longer than I, and bespoke this knowledge in his fervid response. He started with a lesson in the importance of governmental responsibility: “The right of parliament to legislate for us cannot be accounted for upon any reasonable grounds. The constitution of Great Britain is very properly called a limited monarchy, the people having reserved to themselves a share in the legislature, as a check upon the regal authority, to prevent its degenerating into despotism and tyranny.” The right of Britain’s citizens to protect their inherent freedoms, their liberty, by partaking in their own governance should be a privilege awarded to all of His Majesty’s subjects. So, why is it, he asked, these American colonies should be left impuissant in all matters concerning the laws and acts that govern the lives and welfare of those that reside here?  Cyrus’s sermon lasted well-nigh an hour before those insolent fops scuttled away to whatever dank pit they hauled themselves from.

     Our excursion eventually brought us to City Hall Park, the center of yet another British attempt at pulling down the colonies’ calls for liberty. The battle that took place, the Battle of Golden Hill, over the erection of these “Liberty Poles” should have given pause to any man or woman that cherishes their freedom from a despotic regime. Golden Hill and Boston evince the iron fist with which Britain intends to beat the spirit of egalitarianism out of these colonies.

     We spoke of various topics on our trip through the city; my intentions of King’s College, my father’s presence at the Congress, and our favorite writers. He revealed to me that, much to my surprise, much of his argument from earlier in the day had been comprised of another man’s words. Hamilton, he told me, a perspicacious student of my intended school had published a pamphlet entitled The Farmer Refuted in early 1775. Hamilton’s polished and imperious prose, his galvanizing disputation, is what drove Cyrus to hold him in such high approbation. The words that Cyrus spoke, that Hamilton wrote, bid me turn towards the future and wonder if all of this vociferation of liberty and freedom will ever yield any fruits, or will this American garden be forever marred by the poisons of its British begetter?