Yes, this is a blog

All are born into violence. All birthed by pain and bloodshed, by war.  The woman peered out of her window. Outside there were fires on the ridges and rain-soaked battalions marching in their light. She turned and set her eyes on her room, on the bed of hay and walls of stone. Swollen and stretched with new life, she sat in exhaustion. Her mind spun with fear and hope; of the battle outside and the baby inside of her. She whispered words of life to her unborn, and as she did she felt a pain sharp like a spear and saw a puddle below her. She cried out in the night.  At once the man leapt from his table, hearing the woman’s scream. He ran to her door and when he opened it his face went white as a dead man. Before him laid the woman, drenched in sweat, writhing in agony. She called to him and he knelt at her bed. He smoothed out her hair and wiped her brow with his sleeve. Again she screamed, feeling the infant forcing its way out of her. She gnashed her teeth and pushed from...

The hollow is vast and yawning. I walk through the darkness into stripes of pale light cast on the floor by the moon, full and craggy. The windows stretch tall and rectangular, observing the twinkling lights of the city below. Incandescent jewels in a dirty maze of concrete. I do not see them, only my transparent reflection. A glass of liquor is in my hand. It is some ungodly hour. A reasonable man would be asleep by now, but I am restless. What am I doing? I am hiding. Hiding from the city and its lights and its people.  I walk to my mantelpiece, adorned with priceless trophies that I own but did not earn. I see their picture and pick it up once more. Father. Mother. You wrestle inside me. The familiar rage trembles just beneath my skin. It settles in my stomach and gives way to a gush of adolescent insecurity. If you were here, would I still be doing what I'm doing? Would I still be who I am? No. Now is not the time for questions. It is the time to act.  I go deeper into...

They rode back into the village by torchlight. It was dark and cold and they would have been frightened had it not been for the leader, whose torch was out in front of them, as it always was. Once the last rider passed through the gate the leader turned to face them. He motioned his hand for them stop and began to speak; his voice like that of a tire slowly treading a gravel road. With few words he told them to quietly return to their quarters, taking with them the dead men wrapped in cloth.  The leader confined alone to a small chamber near where his men were resting. He sat at his table and by candlelight read aloud the list of the men’s names, marking in ink the ones who had fallen. He reminded himself of his responsibility; he prepared for daylight when he would have to go to the villagers and tell them that their sons were dead, and that they were dead because of him. For it was not by his hand that they fell, but by his word. For a moment he faltered, for a moment he buried...

Among the stalks and fronds there is the face of a man. His visage haggard and gaunt, he rises and parts the bushes. He has on him a dirty army green parka and leather leggings zipped over his pants and under his hiking boots. A large, stuffed rucksack is on his back and a bolt-action rifle is slung over one of his shoulders. He walks the terrain, thick and untouched by the brands of civilization. He is far away from it, as far as he can take himself. No home; no trappings of the multitude to surround him. He is alone in the wild except for a burly, long-haired dog and his thoughts. Thoughts detached and reminiscent, swaying from destitute to tranquil. It is autumn now and the nights are growing colder. He searches for a suitable alcove to set up camp, combing the land with his sunken eyes. A cave perhaps or the base of a protective tree; he doesn't know. The land is a mystery to him. Even now he is still lost. He settles for a bald and flat clearing, surrounded by bushes high en...