Tom Cantwell here, announcing my plans to hand over control of the class to Jack. Jack will take over next year as the teacher of Creative Writing, American Lit, and English 9A and B. Jack has displayed excellent leadership capabilities and awe-inspiring charisma. Good luck Jack!

                     -Tom Cantwell

Brightly lit bedrooms

apart yet all connected

whispers in the night

silent conversations burn

gaps need not fill to be closed

Ideas fly by

Never seeing the sunlight

The pen remains still

Tom here, telling you all that Jack has won! Great job Jack! Keep up the hard work. You’re the greatest, if my name isn’t Tom Cantwell!

    Black plumes of smoke could be seen rising to the sky. The Footsoldier watched them, their diagonal patterns leading down to a spot no more than five hundred meters away. Despite the rain he could hear footsteps, loud and numerous in the space ahead of the front line. He kept pace with the march, thankful yet nervous to have been placed in the vanguard. From his position he could see a nearby property where only a windmill stood. The house had been burnt down, and continued to smolder despite the drizzle. He could only stare at the rubble for so long.

“Hold!” Came the order from the front line. The Footsoldier sank slightly into the mud when he stopped, weighted down by the chainmail over top his leather clothes. As if he had been outrunning it, the stench of five thousand men passed over him. He coughed only for a moment before taking notice that the footsteps he had heard ahead stopped as well. He cursed himself for not being able to see past the men in front of him. “Men!” The captain shouted, “You have all prepared for this moment! Trained so you may fight what lies ahead. The Emberswords have taken our homes! Our kinsmen! Our lands! Let them take no more, and may their fires be forever extinguished!” With that, the Footsoldier and all the men around him cried out, and the footsoldier could see the men in the lines ahead begin to charge. When the wave of absence made it to him, he drew his sword and rushed ahead into the fight.

Within moments he collided shield-first into an enemy soldier, who fell on his back. The Footsoldier drove his sword through the emblem on the man’s armor before he had a chance to pick himself up. He gathered himself, looking for anyone coming towards him. He saw men burning. He saw his fellow soldiers locked in combat with Embersword soldiers. He locked eyes with another enemy. The man had dispatched one of his comrades, not quite dead before the enemy charged. The Footsoldier was thrown violently to the ground, losing his breath and sword. With fading vision he watched the enemy soldier raise his weapon, only to be cut short by a shining broadsword erupting from his chest. Stood over the Footsoldier was a knight, clad in steel plate armor engraved with a closed fist on the chest. The Footsoldier let his head fall back into the mud, an unfamiliar blackness clouding his sight.

He remembered his family. His wife. His child. A son, nearly old enough to work on the field he tended. The Farmer was content with his life. He remembered the plume of smoke that appeared in the sky, the trail whose root seemed to approach his home with every hour. He remembered the banner, an orange sun over burning red hills. Telling his family to wait inside the house. He remembered the six soldiers that followed, and the furnace. They told him to hand over his food. They knew he didn’t have enough for them. He was helpless to watch the soldiers take unlit torches from their belts and hold them to holes in the sides of the furnace. The soldiers threw the torches onto the straw roof of his home, stopping for a moment to admire the flames engulf the building.

Before they could turn their attention back to the road, a shining broadsword took them by surprise. The first two men fell before the other four knew what had happened to them. In their place, a knight. A fist was engraved onto his armor, and the Farmer knew it to be the mark of the Stonehands. The Farmer scurried behind the knight and grabbed a weapon from the hands of a corpse. Before the knight could speak, the four soldiers ran forward, swords in hand. The knight made only one swing. His sword met three, unguarded in their charge. The last stopped, looked upon his fallen allies, and ran. The Farmer dropped his weapon, his attention drawn entirely on his blazing home, lighting the surrounding area in spite of the setting sun. The knight spoke, “Cowards kill the weak, but you may avenge them yet. Join us, and fight with the Stonehand Legion.” Despite his survival, the Farmer died that night. The Footsoldier had taken his place.

The Footsoldier woke, gasping and coughing bitter mud away from his lips. He rose, slowly and sorely. The field which had once been alive with battle was now silent, save the remnants of his allies who were busy finishing their work. They stabbed at bodies, carried off the wounded, and remarked upon their victory. Among them was a knight carrying a broadsword colored deep red. He looked to the sky, blackened as if the ungodly furnaces had made it so. The Footsoldier wondered if its hue could ever change.

Hereby announcing my plans to shut down my wordpress site!