Les Misérables du Tristan

Three years ago, my parents moved my baby sister and I out of our lovely two-story home in Woodinville, Washington and brought us to sunny Atherton, California.  At first, I hated it, but after three years of living there I learned to love the warm weather and wonderful coastal cities.  Then, out of nowhere, my folks dropped another bomb and this time a much bigger one. We were moving to France and ultimately England. At first it didn’t seem real. I thought of it as a joke, but then things became very real, very fast.  From then on, I was scared.  The day we first arrived in France, my life was over. I was depressed. I hated the place we lived, but, in the end, it made me a stronger and more capable person.   

The plane bumped and jittered as it first touched down on the barren tarmac. The fasten seatbelt sign dinged off and the cabin came alive with groggy bodies. I dimly walked through the airport and stepped out into the cold to be received by the waiting car.  I rolled down my window and felt the cold air on my face, but I was too absorbed inside myself to even notice the amazing city around me. I overlooked the hustle and bustle of evening life, the rich aroma of coffee that wafted out of an open café door, the foreign language all the people spoke with such elegance. Even the historic buildings and snow-capped Alps were all invisible to me. Instead of sitting in awe of these marvels, I rolled up the window and fell asleep content to wallow in my misery for a while longer.  Even my dreams seemed to taunt me with visions of home and memories of times past.  I awoke sometime later in yet another strange and mysterious world.  The car was stopped in an icy driveway; Moonlight splashed on the ground giving it a milky appearance. The ice seemed to be alive constantly drifting in and out of shadow, as if it where a living breathing being.  I opened the car door and the cold almost knocked me over, as if I’d hit a brick wall. It made my skin tingle, almost like pin pricks.  I took a step and almost fell flat on my face as I skidded my way towards a drab looking house where I was to live for the next six months

It appeared as a simple two-story log house to me, but inside it was a luxurious French chalet with furs and fine furniture. Still, my eyes saw it, but none of it existed. I couldn’t accept that. Yet, for no real reason at all, I hated that place.  Even though so many amazingly exquisite objects surrounded me, from the furry cow hide covering the gray slate floor, to the plush leather couch that looked like it would envelope me if I sat on it.  Still, I shunned them for the simple fact that they were not home. A wooden spiral staircase wound its way upward. The wood looked worn and polished my many feet.  None of it mattered; none of it was really there; none of it was home.  As my room, I chose a small loft nestled above the kitchen. It was tucked away up in the rafters and I felt as if I could escape from all the drama up there. In one corner, was a small bed draped with a red duvet, but it only reminded me of how much I missed my own warm bed.  In another corner was a desk made of a hard and rustic looking wood with strange patterns winding their way over its surface.  I solemnly unpacked my meager possessions and placed them gingerly on the desk; my laptop, a major league baseball, a camera and a large hunting knife my uncle had given me. These five things were my little piece of home.  There was a skylight in the slanted roof that was covered by snow, so from up here the outside world didn’t exist.  I liked that. It made me feel as if no one could touch me; as if I could hide from the sadness.  Overcome with jetlag and homesickness I climbed in bed and drifted off into a troubled sleep.

I opened my eyes and was greeted by a brilliant blue sky, and sun had melted away last nights dusting of snow. I rose and began carefully climbing down the ladder made of soft pine to the kitchen.  The stone floor was cold to the touch and sent a shiver up my spine.  No one else was awake, so I made myself some breakfast, sat down and let my mind wonder wherever it would go. The fresh French pastries my dad had bought on the way from the airport were delicious, but I didn’t dare acknowledge that.  As the sun appeared over the snow-covered mountains, I decided to go for a walk.  I grabbed my coat and stepped outside into a world of frost and icicles. The reflections from the sunlight blinded me at first and made my eyes sting. The bitter cold made my chest hurt with each inhalation and the clouds made by my breath froze onto things.  Though I was surrounded by boundless icy wonder, it still took me months to realize it was there.

April came, four months since we first landed.  I finally came to terms with my new reality. Running through the crystalline forest everyday helped me feel better about myself, as exercise always does.  I began spending a lot of time taking pictures of the small, yet, beautiful winter birds. Their colors were amazingly contrasted against the wintery background. There were so many species that I had never seen before and I loved cataloging them, finding their foreign names, and learning their songs.  I learned things about myself I never knew before. I learned how to deal with tremendous amounts of change; through my solitary 6-mile runs in the forest that started out as an escape, I discovered running as a gift to help me cope with stress and encourage me to be more independent.  Most of all I learned ways of being resilient when times get tough.  I learned I was capable of anything, if I set my mind to it.  I still was bitterly homesick, but I Skyped my friends Isaiah and Jeremy and they brought me the news from back home. 

A part of me was afraid that if we went back home all my friends would have forgotten me; that they’d throw aside past memories. I overcame the depression that was consuming me with my running and pursuit of being out in nature. I started to appreciate were we lived and what my new home had to offer. Yes, my parents moved me across the world. Yes, I missed my friends bitterly.  But my eyes had finally opened and I was willing to see and enjoy the world around me and ultimately became a stronger person because of these things.  I remember watching the first drops of water drip off an icicle and feeling warm for the first time in months.  

Two Silhouettes

Two silhouettes where in front of me, I didn’t want them there, for they where the wall holding me back from my desires.  Shining beams of light highlighted the room behind them in a wintery crispness.  The light bounce of the gleaming silver handle, hitting my face and embellishing it in warm light. The things in front of me wouldn’t let me have my desires, and therefore they where my enemies

Desires

I want a Chevy impala

I want a black Chevy impala

I want it so bad I’d murder for it

I hunger for it

A shiny one with a loud engine

I want to drive it down Main Street with AC/DC playing

I want to drive it across the country and take my friends along

For the ride

I want to smell the old leather and think of ages past

I want to work on the engine, rebuild it with my own hands, feel the slime of the oil

I want to love that car

I want that to be the car I always remember

Watcher, a short story.

Watchers

Snow fell softly covering the tracks he so dearly needed to follow.  He cursed quietly to himself for not heeding the warnings sooner.  The snow began to fall slightly harder muffling his footsteps and giving the forest a sense of muted white, as if all color was gone from the world.  Suddenly, there lying in the path of the footprints was a body of a man.  A sheen of ice coated the dead man’s face giving him an almost angelic appearance. The dark tattered clothes of the corpse were covered in a dusting of snow.  He knelt down and gently brushed the layer of ice off the dead mans face. “I’m sorry” he sobbed; “I could have saved you.” He sat there looking down at the body, as if he had nothing left to live for. There was a small voice in the back of his mind whispering to him that something was amiss.  He stood up slowly and turned.

There, resting against a tree was a feather. It was not an ordinary feather though. Every time he moved or took his eyes away it changed colors, shifting from a wintery blue to a blood-like crimson.  He leaned over to pick it up.  Something stopped him; it was as if a higher power was urging him to leave it where it was.  Instead of heeding the warnings, as he normally would have, he threw them to the back of his mind and gracefully scooped up the feather.  He held it with the tenderness of a man who had lost much.

He glimpsed something else shimmering beneath the snow. The man bent down, as he reached for it, the feather, as if of its own accord, floated out of his hand, and buried its quill in the snow.  He reached over to pick it up. The second his fingers touched, the feather dissolved into the snow.  With a cry of anguish the man began digging frantically in the hopes he would find it.  Suddenly he felt something, but his hopes where dashed, for he had only uncovered a sheet of ice. Sobbing he covered his face with his hands, content to wallow in his defeat.  A scratching sound, almost as if a cat where sharpening its claws, interrupted his grief.  He looked around but saw nothing.  Prepared to descend back into his failure, he glanced down and there it was scrawled in the ice. 

He grew tense and looked up at the stars, then collapsed on the ground, motionless.  His body was never discovered.

Chapter 1

Ferrin sat up with a snap drenched in cold sweat. After a moment of horrific panic, he calmed down.  The dreams had been worse then usual this past week, as if the demons that haunted him had been angered by something. He in vain tried to drift back to sleep, but restlessness urged him to start his day early.  He rose up and dawned his many layers of clothing so as not to freeze the moment he stepped outside.  Ferrin was not a big man but he had a wiry strength about him that people often underestimated.  Strapping on a peculiar looking sword, he stepped out into the predawn twilight; the sound of snow crunching under his boots was the only thing to break the silence.  He glanced up at the flag flying from the battlements. It was rippling vigorously in the biting wind, so it was a strain to depict the black snake silhouetted by a wintery blue, the lord of the castle’s coat of arms.

Ferrin stalked over and began quietly tapping on the barracks door, slowly with much grumbling the rest of the ranger corps staggered awake. “Saddle your horses,” whispered Ferrin. “ We must be away before the guards get back to there posts, Gillian’s orders.”  His commands where quickly obeyed as he went to get his own horse. His horse’s name was Vapor and had been gifted to Ferrin when he was a mere colt. He was a large gray Destriar, though he could outrun the fastest sprinter. 

Ferrin saddled his horse and went to meet the rest of the corps by the East gate.  The gate swung open on well-oiled hinges, Ferrin drew up his color in an attempt to keep the biting wind away.   They silently led their horses across the clearing headed for the near by forest.  With an unsaid command they saddled up and at a brisk trot disappeared into the falling snow.  By the time the sentry’s had changed posts, the falling snow had already erased all traces of there leaving.

Ferrin pushed them at a brisk pace until midday, snow continued to fall, no one spoke for fear of breaking the velvety silence. After a short brake to water the horses, they rode on, the trees started to become more numerous and of a different kind. The mountains, that until now had closed them in, began to shrink and turn into rolling hills covered in snow. One of the younger rangers, a mere boy named Brom, remarked quietly, “My whole life and I’ve never left these mountains until now.” Some of the men chuckled in response. Brom unfazed asked. “Where are we headed?”

“To the highlands.” Replied Ferrin.

The hooded figure next to Ferrin seemed to suddenly snap awake at these words, “What? You do know what that means, don’t you?”

“Yes I do,” replied Ferrin calmly, “and I know that you do as well Seth.”   

Seth gave Ferrin a searing glare and stormed off into the gathering darkness. 

“Where’s he going?” exclaimed Brom.

“Leave him be,” Muttered Ferrin. “He’ll be back.”

Seth galloped through the trees, the forest seemed to be suffocating and the only thought in his mind was to find somewhere clear. He began to panic as the trees became almost impenetrable.  Suddenly he burst into a glen. Beams of moonlight reflected off ice coated trees. The grass was covered in a layer of frost, giving it a crystalline appearance and making each blade a knife made of ice, as though the world was frozen in time, isolated form everything else. Nothing moved. Nothing broke the eerie silence.

Seth dismounted and tied his horse to one of the trees at the edge of the glen.  He noticed how every tree was identical as if the stark white bark and skeletal branches had been sculpted from stone.

“I’m tired of Ferrin leading us on suicide missions!” growled Seth to himself.

“He has no regard for anyone but himself. I’ve been in the ranger corps for decades and who gets the head spot? Oh no, not the veteran who single handedly saved the corps. No they give it to the lordling with the fancy sword. Who is Ferrin? He never did anything. So why on earth is he calling the shots?”

Seth sat in the middle of the glen, slowly letting his rage subside.  He turned to get his horse, but there was nothing there. Where his horse had been, only frost remained! Seth stood for a moment motionless. He heard a sound barely audible at the edge of his hearing. He whirled around, dagger in hand! With a sound like braking glass, the skeletal trees parted and out of the abyss beyond, stepped a pale figure.  It had a likeness to a man, but its body was made out of milky white branches.  It turned to face Seth. When their eyes met, somehow Seth knew those eyes where the last thing he would ever see. They were a brilliant green, but they burned with a darkness so ancient that all beauty was lost.  As much as he wanted to, Seth couldn’t remove his gaze. His body froze, like a cornered mouse unable to escape. He noticed all the frost around this creature had melted away, the exposed greenery was like an explosion of color in the ice.

“Close your eyes Seth” he said to himself. “Close your eyes and all this will be gone, you’ll wake up in the glen.”  

He closed his eyes and a sound like a thousand whispers greeted his ears. When he opened them again the creature was right up against him. He could feel warmth emitting from it though it brought him no relief. The frost at his feet melted soaking through his woolen boots. The whispering grew louder deadening all other sounds.  The creature reached out and latched onto Seth with an iron like grip. 

“Where is he?”  Shrieked the creature. The voice seemed to come from ever direction, and it slithered like a spider on silk.  

“Wh, who?”  Seth stammered.  

The creature’s eyes rolled back in its head and in a voice murky with power recited, “He who leads through a shadow, he who smiles through a frown, he who does evil in the name of good.”  

“I know no such man!”  Cried Seth.   “What is his name?”  The creature lifted up its free hand and placed it on Seth’s head.  “What are you doing screamed Seth?  Stop!”  He was suddenly overwhelmed with images and emotions of Ferrin.  The images stopped.  Without removing its hand the creature locked eyes with him. 

“Thank you it rasped, but I no longer have use of you.”  And with careless ease it crushed Seth’s skull. 

His red, steaming blood splashed on the grass, melting away their razor sharp edges.  When Ferrin and the rest of the corps came looking for him, all they found where frosty blades stained red.

A short story by, Tristan G. Maritin

Man The Killer Angel

The Killer Angels was breathtaking. The book had a way of making me feel as if I had been there observing the battle of Gettysburg. The author described every detail of the men he was depicting.  I could envision their tattered clothes and was able to peek into their fears and joys and what each person thought was wrong or right, to the point where I cared for them and hoped they wouldn’t be killed in this battlefield of paper.  The Killer Angels depicts the fateful battle of Gettysburg where the union won a pivotal victory and was a key turning point in the war.  Lee and the Confederate army had invaded Pennsylvania and the army of the Potomac, with General Mead as its commander, was there to stop him.  It depicts the battle of Gettysburg day by day, from different peoples views and somehow the author, Shaara. manages to stay neutral in this book of conflict.  This book describes Gettysburg at a personal level reciting important event’s from many people’s points of view and imparting a feeling of glory all the while.

Michael Shaara was a gifted person. He had personal connections to this battle, as his great grandfather had been a member of the 42^nd Georgia division of the Confederate army. Also, he had two very different views growing up, his mother being very southern and his father a New Yorker.  Michael Shaara said that he wanted to know more about the battle of Gettysburg. Not just battle strategy’s and what happened, but how the men felt, what the trees looked like, were there clouds in the sky, and he wanted to share this with others. 

The introduction of The Killer Angels was written in first person though the rest of the book was written in third, which allowed the author to tell this story from many different characters points of view. His consistent amount of detail suggests that he possessed an enormous knowledge regarding this event. 

All in all, The Killer Angles is a fantastic book.  I loved the detail to which he went to describe events, how he made things have an almost foreboding aura about them and then, he wrote of glory on the battlefield.  My only compliant is that I had to pay very close attention as to which side a character was on, and unless you have an amazing knowledge of the Civil War you will too.  Overall, I would give this book a 4 out of 5 and recommend it to anyone who likes American history and the Civil War or, if you, like me are fascinated by Robert E Lee.