The Sacrifice

     I wait patiently for my chance. The room is cold, dark, but not lonely. In it are filled with things like me. However, we cannot communicate. After all, we are only inanimate objects. Occasionally the door will open, stabbing the darkness with a crack of light that I can feel on my surface. Someone will enter, take what they need, and charge out. I wait patiently.

     Is today my day? Someone has begun walking toward me, their expression determined, coarse. He hefts me up, tests my weight. If I had a breath, I would have held it as I anxiously awaited his verdict. Without a word, he turns and walks out, holding me in his arm. I am ready. But my charge is not, it seems. I am given to a boy, barely in his adolescence. Yet… his courage is strong, his determination fierce. We begin training.

     Years later. We have both been battered and struck, yet we have emerged stronger, harder, and just as determined. As he tends to me, I can feel his fear, his nervous worry. I have felt it before, but never as strong. I take this as a warning and prepare myself mentally. But I trust my boy. He has developed well in these years and is no longer a boy to anyone but me. Instead, to the world he is a man with a quest, a purpose far stronger than what most citizens are given in their whole lives. He has been given his task, and I shall help him in any way I can.

     The battle has begun. I can feel the death around me. My boy is injured, but by no means hurt. He continues forward, slaying those that try to strike against me. Wait, what’s happening? His fear is unlike anything I have felt before. I can feel multiple attacks, is he surrounded? He has no chance to make an attack, hiding behind me is all he can do.

     I vowed to help him, and that is what I shall do.

     I weaken the bonds holding my aging metals together, allowing the swords around me to penetrate through my steel shell, trapping them in my cold grip. He sees his advantage and tosses me aside, disarming his foes and giving him the split-second window to charge and slice.

     As I lay here dying, I can feel his foes vanquished. I am irreparable, but my boy is safe. Forever a Shield, I vowed to protect him. And that is what I did.

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As a child, I often entertained the idea of inanimate objects having a consciousness and inner monologue. I'm sure others did the same. Stuffed animals and dolls were common, but I often extended my imagination to other things. With the mind of a child, how was I to know the remote didn't have feelings? After all, it only worked some of the time, therefore, it must be moody. Even silly, simple things like refrigerators shouldn't be slammed - how were YOU to know you weren't causing pain?

Now that science has turned my playthings into plastic and my refrigerators back to soulless preservation tanks, I like to be reminded every once in a while that anything can have a "soul." It just depends on what you choose to love. Sure, that beloved vehicle you've owned for the last ten years may just be a bulky box of metals and other materials, but all the love you've put into the car doesn't just disappear. It turns into something. That's why cars have names, and why books have life. Writers pour their life's essence into their creations, and when you read, that pours into you, filling you with the unmistakable feeling of something that can only be called "living."

The Cycle

The street simmers slowly at noon.

Scattered crowds, summer smiles. An

Explosion

Destroys the calm, drawing all eyes.

A child, caught in the center, cries.

She’s whole, unharmed.

Except

A small part of her heart

That now knows

The sorrow of permanence.

Plastic flesh scatters the ground,

But she’ll forget that sight.

For now she weeps,

But she’ll forget the day

She lost her friend to a passing branch.

Mother scoops the mourner into her arms.

 Nurse, nanny, and napkin.

She coos promises.

“Hush, love,” she says.

But no angel’s song can sooth this pain.

The rest disperse back into cringing crowds,

Mindless of her misery

 Save a young saint

Who offers his own balloon.

“Don’t cry,” he asks only in return.

And she doesn’t.

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I'm running on many social networks right now, but I've decided to start posting here again. I want to start putting my work out there, whether they be stories, poems, or just some musings on the world. Twitter can only hold so much. Everything over 140 characters can go here, I suppose. Maybe this'll be a new motivation.

Good luck, me. x3

Books

I have been an avid reader ever since I could read, which, according to my mother, was around two years of age. My favorite genres, authors, and books-of-all-time have changed throughout the years of course, but I've gathered much information throughout the years. As I reflect on my life of what has become my life, I want to share something.

I speculated about my favorite part of the book. Is it the beginning, where your excitement for the adventures before you swells and reaches a peak? Perhaps it's the middle, where anything can, and most likely will, happen. Maybe it's the climax, where authors wrap their arms around you and hold you tight until you read the word they want. My favorite part, however, is the ending. The ending can create a best-seller or destroy a once-cherished writer. It turns stories into legends, sifts through the pile of "eh" until it finds a wow.

I recently re-finished a series, the Obsidian Trilogy, which falls into the generally-general category of fantasy. Most fantasy books are hard to tell apart, especially from a non-fantasy fan. And as I read, I often wondered, "Why is this my third time reading the series?" The series was well-written, yes, but why did it stand out so much that I put aside books that I have been waiting to read even just once in order to re-re-read it? Then I came to the ending of the third books. And when I finished, my heart ached, soared, fell, leaped, cheered, and sighed. It tied everything together and left the reader satisfied. It was then that I realized why I liked the series.

I finished a book today, actually. The ending was surprising, and turned the book from something to get over with to something to appreciate. That, however, reveals its flaw. If the book is only mediocre until its end, then it might not be given its chance to be recognized. Still, the ending of the book, usually, makes it all worthwhile.

I just noticed now that I have started all my paragraphs with "I," which includes this one. Normally, I would not do such a thing, but this kind of reflection lures one into writing in such a way.

Well, farewell for now. This is The Shawnster, ending the post with a paragraph that does not start with "I."

Time

Today, as I watched the night go by, I thought about something. But before I get to that, let me reflect on something.

I, as an average human being, can change anything I choose. People, the things I touch, my environment, or anything else I choose. Especially now, in this time where a message can transverse the globe in a second, I can influence someone or some place thousands and thousands of miles away.

And all of these things I can do for better or worse. I can make a person's day better with a smile, even if I have never met them, or I could deface a store building with a can and ruin a day as well as a wall. I could post an insightful blog post or spread a terrifying, but false, rumor on the Internet.

With my confidence, influence, and technology, I can do and affect anything I choose.

Except time.

Even now, as I type these words, time moves on at the same rate, no matter what. If I run, if I just sit and thing, if I smile and talk or scowl and glare, time moves exactly the same. There is nothing I can do to slow it down or speed it up, save for a personal psychological point of view. But that's just perspective.

Eventually, time will claim us all. And there is nothing I can do.

I find that terrifying.