Blood Sky

Tora begot Ablam, Ablam begot Thagar, Thagar begot Temon, Temon begot Lucius, Lucius begot Fangar, Fangar begot Elmis, and Elmis begot Tablan who begot Ebor.  Thus lay the genealogy of Ebor's family.  They were not high-born folk, nor were they poor peasants.  They were a middle-class family who lived in the great city of Thamopolis.  Ebor, like his father's before him was a blacksmith.  He was no common blacksmith though.  For he had Elf blood in his veins.  Elves were known for their natural ability to forge beautiful and even sometimes magical metals.  Ebor was, unfortunately, the least skilled of all his family as a blacksmith.  Nevertheless he worked at it day and night, forging blades and armor that would sell for nothing but the highest price.  Ebor himself had forged King Mormont's current set of armor and blade.  The King's blade was short and broad with a hilt that twisted like tree roots.  The pommel was in the shape of a two sided flower with delicate petals.  Elven runes were etched into the blade and it was forged with spells that kept the blade from dulling.  It was probably Ebor's finest work, though he knew that his father or his father before him could have done better.  Still Ebor was the best smithy in the city, probably in all the land of Aeron.

One day Ebor was working, hammering away at the blade of what would soon be a beautiful exotic looking scimitar.  A man in a cloak with the hood drawn up walked into the workshop.  Ebor thought it was odd that the man wore a heavy cloak, with the hood up no less, because it was very hot out, as most days were during the summer months in Thamopolis.  The man's face was hidden by the hood, his head bowed down towards the ground.  In fact Ebor was not so sure the man even had a face beneath the hood.  Everything about the man was strange and slightly frightening.

"Hello there," said Ebor.

"Greetings, blacksmith," the man said in a raspy, low voice.

"How can I be of service?"

"I wish you to make me a blade."

"What sort of blade, most customers who want a custom blade have a drawing of sorts, some kind of plan."

"I have no drawings, but I will tell you my plan." 

The man stood there and when he said nothing Ebor cleared his throat and asked "What is your plan for the blade?"

"It is to be a double edged broadsword.  I know you infuse the blade with Elvish spells to keep it in perfect condition.  I trust my blade will not dull anymore than the King's blade.  The hilt may be standard, but the ends of the hand guard are to be rounded in a teardrop shape, with the end point facing out.  I want the handle covered in wolf's hair.  The pommel is to be shaped with a wolf's head, two diamonds will sit as eyes.  The whole hilt of the sword must be coated in gold."

"This will be an expensive sword.  My labor alone is not cheap."

"Price is no object.  Tell me, how much will it cost?"

"Twenty gold coins, and ten silvers."

"Very well.  I will be by tomorrow to pick the sword up, before sunset."

"I cannot finish the blade in that time, besides I have other weapons I must finish first, orders that were placed before yours."

"I will return before sunset tomorrow.  You will have the blade finished."

The man walked out and Ebor called after him.  He ran outside and looked all about the street but the cloaked man was nowhere to be seen.  Ebor returned inside and continued his work.  He finished the scimitar that night and though he had another sword that he had to start on the next day, he decided to work on the wolf sword first.  The wolf head pommel alone would take hours to make.  Ebor was not sure he could finish the blade in time, but he had to try.

The sun was setting and the cloaked man entered the smithy.  He dropped a bag of coins on the table and faced Ebor.

"Is it ready?" he asked.

"I finished it not ten minutes ago," Ebor said.  He walked to the sword rack and pulled the wolf sword off and handed it to the cloaked man.

The man grasped the sword and held it in front of him.  His face was still hidden, and Ebor was not sure how the man could even see anything.  The man stared at the blade for a few moments then turned and cut Ebor on the arm.  Ebor gave a shout of pain.

"What did you do that for?"

"I want you to feel what it is like to feel pain at your own hand.  Your hands made this blade, I cut you with it.  You are the reason you are feeling this pain.  You caused this pain.  Every sword you makes causes someone pain somewhere, you should feel some of that pain."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"You forge death."

"I forge swords and armor!"

"You forge war."

"I'm just a smith!"

"You forge evil.  Now you must feel what you forge."

The man raised the sword high above his head and brought is down, cutting Ebor open from shoulder to stomach.  Blood gushed forward and pooled around as Ebor collapsed to the ground.  The cloaked man stuck the sword in Ebor's head and the took his leave.

The sun set red.

Living A Dream

A baby boy was born.  He is a tank.  Strong and agile and into everything, keeping his parents busy.  He gets his first "job" at the age of six opening a lemonade stand on the side of the road outside their house.  He did this every day of every summer for the next four years.  At the age of thirteen he began volunteering at the local library, which he did for three years.  At sixteen he began looking for a job, and soon found one with a lumber company.  He worked there for three years and at nineteen was a manager for the company and in college.  He took summer classes in between semesters and worked the whole time.  Sleep was a thing of the past, but that was okay with him.  He is happy.  By age twenty-six he has graduated with a masters degree and he gets his dream job of being a teacher at the local community college that he once attended.  He is happy.  A reliable car, a reliable job, a nice apartment.  But he is lonely.

Twenty-eight years old he is out with friends having some beers and a burger at a local pub.  The waitress is pretty.  Too pretty for him.  No shot with her he knows that's for sure.  But after a good tip and a quick chit chat with her they are dating a month later.  Her name is Emily.  She is younger than him, only twenty-two, but they don't care.  She's a sweet heart and more than he should have ever deserved.  He loves her dearly.  She loves him too, very obviously.

Another year goes by and he and Emily are now married.  She is twenty-three and he is twenty-nine.  They are so happy together, living in his apartment.  He teaches, and Emily is still a waitress at the pub.  She's a college drop-out.  It wasn't her thing, and she makes good money being a waitress.  She wants to have a family someday anyway.  She has her MRS degree as she jokingly puts it.  She's not ashamed.  Nor is he.  He's happy with her, and she with him.

Emily is now thirty and he is thirty-six.  She is pregnant with twins.  They have a a beautiful boy and a beautiful girl.  They grow up.  The boy becomes a successful business man and the girl becomes nurse.  They both marry into well to do families and live busy lives.  He and Emily live a happy life in their apartment.  He retires at the age of sixty-five.  They are both young enough to still enjoy life going hiking, surfing, even sky-diving.

Two years later.  Emily is sixty-one and he is sixty-seven.  Emily is dying of cancer.  The kids are off in other parts of the country when she passes.  They call him but are too busy to come to the funeral or even visit him.  He understands.  He was once a busy man before he retired.  Now he once again volunteers at the community college in the library there.

One night he meets some friends at the local pub where Emily used to work.  He can't believe it's still there, but then again it is a popular spot.  It's a whole new crowd of people there.  Young people like he and Emily used to be.

Oh, Emily.

He is now seventy-three.  He sits on his balcony and drinks beer every night.  Occasionally he goes out with his friends.  He dials his son's number.  Voicemail as usual.  He leaves the message.  Then he dials his daughter's number.  She answers.  He tells her.  She actually starts to cry.  She says she will be out to visit soon.  He never hears from his son.

A year later he is dying in the local hospital.  His daughter and her husband are by his side.  They do not have any kids.  He is a grandpa by his son, but his son has not called or shown himself.  He is not unhappy, and his lasts thoughts of of his kids, and their rich and fulfilling lives, and of course, of his sweet, sweet Emily.

His son does finally call days later.  He is devastated when he finds out that his father has passed away, and never got to say goodbye.  Never got to say goodbye...because he was too busy living a dream...

This is another short poem by an author no one knows...

Beauty.

Be thankful for this.
Everything matters to us.
All of this is not real.
Underneath the ashes we still.
Thinking we can.
Yonder we cry.

Beauty.