A loud crack, followed by the screech of rubber sliding across pavement resonated across the highway. Ahead, I saw a silver sedan drifting sideways, tires spinning and tearing themselves to shreds with their own force. The car slammed into the side of a yellow hatchback, sending them both into an irrecoverable spin. Car parts—bits of plastic, glass, and metal were thrown from the wreck, leaving a trail of carnage in it’s wake. I pressed on the brake pedal, slowing my advance towards the now lifeless heaps of metal, but as I did, they too slowed. I jerked the wheel to the side, narrowly avoiding a stray tire that had been ripped from one of the vehicles. I straightened myself out, keeping both hands on the wheel. Sweat from my panic had already accumulated on my hands, reducing my grip on the steering wheel. I swerved to avoid the overturned hatchback, which had left a trail of sparks from grinding the roof against the pavement at speed. The sedan was my next obstacle. It had not slowed in the time between the initial incident and now, and was now tumbling down the road at an incredible speed. The sedan then hit a bump in the ground, sending it flying through the air, releasing stray parts that may have once been considered essential to the operation of the vehicle. The vehicle landed with a resounding crash, standing on end for a moment in the middle of the road. I took this moment of relative calm to blitz past the flipping vehicle and gun it to safety ahead of the accident. My foot came down hard on the accelerator and I could feel a sudden lurch as my car pushed forward. The engine banged, filling the cabin with a loud noise and letting loose the fury of the couple hundred horses that it metaphorically contained. Moments after getting ahead of the crash, I came to a stop at the shoulder of the road. All was quiet save the weakened honk of a damaged car alarm. I let out a sigh of relief, the jumped out of my car to help the unfortunate drivers.

The bronze sword of Jacques’ father still hung above the fireplace, sparkling from the light of the flames. It had been twelve years since the sword was given to Jacques by his father, just moments before he passed away. The sword had been the one that his father had used in the war of Flinthold just before Jacques’s birth. His father had been an officer who served in the war, holding many secrets for the government, many of which had died with him. Jacques had never truly known his father; he had always been away, occupied by his work for the ministry.

Jacques sat in his chair, gazing upon the glistening bronze weapon, deep in thought. He thought of the sword, and how he had made many quite similar to this during his work as a blacksmith. He hated his job, and the only reason he hadn’t abandoned it was so he could care for his mother. But his mother was gone now; she was taken by the flu just days ago. He had no reason to stay; he could leave right now and take up a career as an adventurer, but he had no reason to leave either. The world is a dangerous place, filled with creatures and beasts that could single-handedly wipe out an entire battalion of soldiers armed with the finest swords and the sturdiest armor. Adventuring is not a game of strong or weak, but of luck instead. So he stayed, choosing not to risk his life for nothing.

Rising from the chair, Jacques shuffled over to the sword. The sword had been no different from other swords of that time; it was a short, but wide, blade of polished bronze and a lacquered strip of leather that wrapped around the handle. Jacques lifted the sword from its stand and returned to his chair.

He waved the sword around through the air, attempting to replicate how he envisioned his father in battle. He chuckled and lowered the weapon, but kept his tight grip on the handle. His father had always told him, “a bright future laid in the palms of your hands, all you need to do is look.” Jacques chuckled again, but louder this time. He had never been able to understand that phrase, since he first heard it he had believed that his father said it to sound stoic. Jacques, now silent, delved deep into thought, trying to spot a hidden meaning in his father’s motto, or if there even is one.

After some time, Jacques’s eyes began to shift towards the hilt of his father’s sword, which was held tight in his grasp. He lifted the grip to his eyes and began to examine the leather that concealed the bronze of the handle, spare the pommel and crossguard. Carefully, Jacques removed the six iron tacks that held the leather in place and began to peel the leather from the handle. The leather had first held in place, from many years of remaining held down, but eventually loosened up enough to reveal the edge of a small piece of parchment.

Jacques’s heart began beating furiously; not once had he thought that his father’s saying was meant to be taken in the literal sense. Although hesitant, Jacques continued to unravel the leather holding down the note, and ever so carefully, he removed the slip of paper. He unfolded the paper and smoothed out the creases, preparing himself one final time for what he is about to read.

His father’s sloppy handwriting was scrawled on the note, with his words fighting for the limited space on the paper. The writing on the aging paper alluded to a military cache just north that had been long abandoned by the military, even before the war in which his father fought. The note mentioned that the cave that held the cache would most likely have found and raided by the time the note was read, but told that what was important there couldn’t be stolen or decay beyond use. At the bottom of the slip, Jacques’s father’s signature occupied a small clearing of words. Jacques sat there for a time, unsure whether this was a dream or real.

Finally coming to his senses, Jacques knew what his future held. He reattached the leather onto the sword’s grip, and placed the note in his pocket. Getting up from his seat, he scampered over to the sword’s display and grabbed the scabbard. Sliding the sword into the scabbard, Jacques was overpowered by a rush of adrenaline. He was leaving the safety of town to pursue his father’s legacy, which may not even exist anymore.

A plane pushes through a storm.

Fighting to stabilize its wings.

The craft is jostled by the wind.

Barely holding itself in the sky.

Thunder rumbles in the distance.

The pilot struggles to maintain his flight.

The pilot had not anticipated the dangers of this flight.

He had never known there would be a storm.

He had only known he had to fly cargo across a great distance.

The pilot had confidence in the plane’s wings.

Though now, he doubts it will stay in the sky.

The plane was rattling from the force of the wind.

But the pilot has no choice but to fly through the wind.

There was no place near where he could end his flight.

The pilot looked around, and couldn’t even see sky.

His plane had been engulfed by the fury of the storm.

The pilot steered up, putting stress on the wings.

He rose high and breached the clouds after a short distance.

All he could see below him were clouds, spanning a great distance.

He had escaped the storm’s wrath, avoiding it’s wind.

He peered out the window to examine the wings.

He gasped as he saw they were barely fit for flight.

He realized this meant that he couldn’t descend back into the storm.

If he made one wrong move he could fall out of the sky.

But he was a pilot, a master of the sky.

He knew that he could reach the runway in the distance.

He decided to continue flying his route above the raging storm.

Up here he was safe from the dangerous wind.

In relative safety above the clouds, the pilot continued the flight.

The plane flew onward, barely catching enough lift from its dilapidated wings.

The plane was damaged by the storm, with panels that had been torn from the wings.

Against all odds, the plane remained in the sky.

Even after an hour above the clouds, the weakened plane steadily continued its flight.

Even in its battered state, nothing could stop the plane from flying the remaining distance.

After some time, the pilot could see past the clouds, he had reached the edge of the storm.

As the dark clouds disappeared, the pilot could feel the decrease in wind.

The wind had been his enemy, clawing at his plane’s wings.

The remainder of the clouds cleared and the storm dissipates, opening up to a clear sky.

The pilot caught a glimpse of an airfield in the distance and released a great sigh, for he had completed his flight.