Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time...

"Bailey poses exquisitely, a single damp tear trailing down her porcelain face, yet an elegant smile painted upon thin rosy lips."

"The raucous caw of the ashy bird resounded carelessly through the vacant beige sky, the calloused sound reverberating above the scarred flesh of numerous fallen soldiers."

"Smile," the voice coos, "they won't know the difference."


Author's note

Dear Readers,

When I was younger I used to play pretend like any other child would. I would play Warriors or I would play make believe; just about anything that could release the ideas the flowed through me. But I’ve changed because of them.

Kids at school had once questioned me why I acted like an animal. And I was confused. I’d never told anybody about that since elementary school, so where did it come from? I don’t quite know myself. All I knew was that something had spread, and that whatever it was, it needed to stop.

And there have been many things that have influenced me to keep writing. Some of my teachers, my parents, and even a couple of my friends. But this event has by far impacted me the most. Ever since that day I stopped playing make believe. And instead, I started writing. Things could come alive on my paper however I wanted them to, and nobody would have to know. It’s all mine.

So call me selfish. But the reason I share that story with you is because I hope you’ll feel something. Not for me, no. But for yourself. We were all children once, and we all played inside our heads to some extent. Some just daydream now, and some of us read, and some like me; write.

Don’t stop dreaming. Cause we all lived in a fairytale. And some of us, we yearn to stay there. So this is dedicated to those of you who are broken. Who are bruised. Who wish they could still play make believe. I just want to let you know, I wish you all a happily ever after. So don’t stop believing.

Note: Please understand that my opinions will be seen in and throughout this story, though somewhat ‘secretly’. It’s your choice how to interpret my writing and what it means to you.



3. History Remembers Kings, Not Soldiers

The raucous caw of the ashy bird resounded carelessly through the vacant beige sky, the calloused sound reverberating above the scarred flesh of numerous fallen soldiers. Their camouflage garments now doused in a thick sticky scarlet, muddy boots covered in a dusty charcoal. They were nearly unrecognizable, a forgone entity of what was to occur in the near, grim future.

And prior to the bloodshed, a vast wheat field was full of blooming orchids and little creatures that skittered amongst the dirt; beady amber eyes gazing on in the utter naivety of the future. Because now, only an hour following the simplistic peace, piles of broken human bodies lay sprawled upon the earth, their heads lolling to the side as their eyes continued to gaze forward in horror, watching for eternity what had caused them such a haunting death.

Yet, one soldier remained, propping herself as painlessly as possible upon her remaining arm, her other appendage having been torn away barbarically from the socket in battle. And compared to the rest of the people who slumped upon the trees and the ground, she appeared to have the worst of the impact. Burned flesh hanging limply and blood cascading down her body like a cinnabar river.

The birch haired girl had been one of the last cadets to cease her brawl, despite her being of the weakest in her troop. She had not abdicated her position as a warrior for her country, no matter how rancorous they fought her. But even still, after giving it her entire heart and soul, she had lost not just herself, but those she had sworn to protect, and those she had vowed to love.

Her husband would no longer have her good morning kisses, her children would no longer sleep without her fairytales, and her cat would no longer purr without feeling her soft lotioned hands. But she couldn’t help but realize that all the other men and women she had fought with, they had people who would miss them too; so she could only query the difference between her and her fallen comrades.

Rotating her head painfully, she stared at the motionless king behind her, empty glass eyes glaring at her in immense anger as his hand still gripped his unsheathed sword. He had people who would miss him: a queen he could no longer love, a kingdom he could no longer rule, and a prince he could no longer teach. And it was just a painful reminder to herself that she was worth but the dirt that had been kicked up by her own two feet. A painful reminder to herself that she already knew; history remembers kings, not soldiers.

“…and that concludes the lesson for today. Don’t forget to read chapters eight and nine over the weekend, you’ll be quizzed on them Monday!”

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