Isaac Haack
Poem: A Broken Mind
Story: The Death of an Empire
Poem: Midwest Sunset
Slam Poem: Yukon's Cherry Coke Phobia Experiment
Slam Poem: 13 Steps to Successfully Kidnap Someone
Group Poem: Melting Into Beauty
Screenplay: The Junebugs' Night Out
A BROKEN MIND
The sound of water
over the stones of a distant waterfall
muffle the cacophony of noises
which flood the senses of the beholder
You can make out the sounds
Of birds crying to their to-be lovers
The crash of water on stone
Draws you back to the “beauty”
If only for a moment
you could reach out and touch
A wonderful sense
Of a warm winter’s night
The coldness of water.
That would reassure you that it was real
Such wondrous things are lies
To you
Told from the veil of beauty
By those who are trusted
Those same who attempt to break
The quiet mind
that wonders if such a beautiful
feature of water can be true
And it is
THE DEATH OF AN EMPIRE
The figure of a grizzled man, 65 of age, walks his way through the streets of the city he once loved. He is clad in the traditional armor of a Nakkovian warrior with the exception of a red shoulder-clothe decorated with the crest of the royal family. The figure halts as a man wearing a similar uniform approaches on horseback.
“Captain Morrison, the rebels have barricaded the gates of the palace wall and are taking defensive positions,” reports the man.
“Understood,” Morrison replies as the man turns his horse and returns from where he had come. Aron Morrison quickened his pace as he passed a circular intersection with a crumbling fountain in the middle.
Tralo was once a beautiful city, with fountains and gardens sprinkled upon the city like white rice. But now, most if not all lies in ash, ravaged by decades of war. Now the city burns with the hate of injustice, and the rebels have breached the palace gates.
Morrison lived and worked within the palace walls as chief guardsman for the royal family ever since the conclusion of the Civil War of Nakkovia, and now he marches on the very fortress that he promised to protect.
He makes his way past deserted marketplaces that used to hold the most beautiful of goods. All the way to his temporary tent of operations where four of his Lieutenants, including the horseman, stand over a map of the palace debating their next move.
“Gentlemen,” Morrison says as he enters the tent, allowing the men to salute before continuing, “What is the gravity of our situation?”
It was Lieutenant Clarkson, a younger man but one with a blond beard that is styled into a goatee, who speaks first, “The rebels have breached and barricaded the gates of the palace, we have no way of knowing if any of our men are still alive and fighting in there so I suggest an attitude of urgency.”
Morrison leans over the map of the palace of which he already knows by heart, “There is no sense in rushing into a counteroffensive unprepared. We shall gather our scattered forces and send a feint to the main gates while the majority of our troops enter from the posterior end of the palace walls through the tunnel system.”
It is Lieutenant Yasser, the horsemen who speaks next, “Captain we must insist on acting swiftly, we know not of what is happening within those walls. The Emperor could be in dire danger.”
“No,” Morrison responds in a definite tone, “we have protocols in place for situations such as this. The Emperor is in his bunker and we will not risk a siege upon the palace with insufficient resources. This conversation is over.” Morrison exits the ten and begins to make his way to their second encampment near the palace walls, walking past abandoned vendors and shops, some burning, some already destroyed.
Morrison understands his lieutenants concerns, but he has learned much in his time as a soldier of the Yelgenith faction during the Nakkovian Civil War. Which helped him earn his position within the new empire.
He continues down the way he had come, again passing the burnt or burning buildings along his way. Upon reaching the decrepit fountain that he had passed earlier he takes a left to head east down the main road of Tralo, towards the palace where the rebels have holed themselves in.
He needs to set to work on gathering forces as fast as possible. To tell the truth, Morrison is more worried than he’d like to admit. Like he said, there are protocols in place for a situation just like this one. Yet, he has this guttural feeling that something isn’t right. But he would never let his feelings get the best of him, not again.
No, he will not let his gut get in the way of making the right decision. He only hopes that they would have enough soldiers to take back the palace.
The sun’s final sliver sets behind the dark silhouettes of the Pelk Mountains, plunging Tralo into darkness, aside from the occasional fire built by the surviving townsfolk to keep warm in the cold of night.
Morrison, mounted upon his horse, marches upon the gates of the palace. Even now with all the troops left in Tralo behind him, he still wavers. Did he do the right thing, should they have struck earlier? No, he quickly catches his resolve, he is sure that everything is fine. Besides now it is too late to change his mind now, they march to the palace. He can sense the nervousness of the soldiers behind him. Understandable. The impossible has happened, the capital of one of the strongest militaries in all of Frunemon has been taken by a ragtag group of rebels. These soldier’s very lives have been upturned, their houses burnt, their families broken. It would take years to repair the damage that has been done.
They now stand in the shadow of the ornate wall. The glow of fires can be seen over the edge of the wall, the only clue that any life was left within those walls. Normally, the gate is open, and the sound of music can be heard in the main courtyard of the palace. The air would be filled with the sound of people talking, walking to and fro, pondering different philosophical topics. All stuff that didn’t make any sense to Morrison, but he had to be present as head of security.
Morrison breaks out of his mind cage and yells over the gate, “We demand that you allow us inside, in the name of Emperor Wandalin Faunus, Emperor of the free nations of The Donut Empire, and savior to all those in need.”
No response, even the muffled chattering from inside the walls has stopped. Morrison motions to the soldiers behind him, never breaking eye contact with the top of the wall. The soldiers behind him, who stand on the ground besides the lieutenants, part so as to allow six soldiers who carry a large log, three on each side.
“At your word sir,” one of the soldiers say. Morrison responds with only a singular nod. At this, the soldiers rear back their log and slam it into the door. The phalanx of soldiers present, about fifty in all, flinch at the splintering of wood on wood.
Immediately there is a commotion within the walls, someone starts yelling orders, while archers take positions at the battlements readying their bows. The soldiers heave another thunderous blow onto the gates; the archers temporarily lose balance.
“Arm your shields boys!” Morrison cries.
The phalanx draws their shields and covers their heads as if to protect themselves from a pelting rain, and in a way they were. Morrison brandishes his shield as the archers draw back their first arrows. The first volley came, and he flinches as the arrows struck his shield like hail.
The log holders rear back their tool and once again hammer the now splintering wood of the gate. Now a tiny crack of firelight can be seen between the gates of the palace.
The second volley comes and Morrison can hear the falling of bodies as the arrows find their mark, he also notices from the corner of his eye that his men are beginning to waver.
“Hold steady men,” he cries, trying to reassure his men that this plan will work, it must.
The soldiers prepare to strike the gates once again and they bring down the log like a thunderous storm, and the crack becomes large enough for maybe one man to slip through. Morrison prepares himself for another volley of arrows, another handful of soldiers falling to the cold ground.
But a third volley doesn’t come, he looks up from his protective covering at the battlements and no archers are to be seen. All of a sudden the gates are torn open and the cacophony of metal on metal is made abundantly clear to them.
Without a second thought Morrison takes this opportunity, “Charge men,” he cries, leading the way, on his horse, through the now open gates. His regiment of soldiers, now renewed with hope, charge along behind him.
Now on the other side of the wall, it is revealed that the light coming over the wall was produced by two large bonfires that the rebels had made to keep warm. But now the chaos of battle fills the courtyard full of trees and flowers and all sorts of vegetation.
The diversion must have worked because Lieutenant Yasser’s men were here fighting alongside them. It had seemed to Morrison that they were winning but it was hard to tell, with all the yelling and blood. He rides through the courtyard, striking down rebel after rebel with his longsword. He comes up upon this rebel wielding a battle-ax and as Morrison is preparing to add his body to the growing number that is littered about the courtyard, the rebel swings his mighty ax into the breast of Morrison’s horse, striking it down. Morrison flies forward and does a tuck and roll into a battle stance, brandishing his longsword against the ax wielder.
They exchange multiple blows before Morrison finally achieves victory over his victim. He proceeds to charge up the palace steps, holding his sword in both hands. He strikes down another rebel he meets at the top of the stairs.
“Come men, we take the palace,” he yells back to his men before charging towards the palace doors. He is temporarily delayed by two rebels with which he deals with easily.
Upon entering the palace doors he is met by silence, he pauses. This is strange, why wouldn’t they post at least a guard inside the doors, especially if they were under siege. Morrison’s men arrived behind him as he thought this before realizing what it must mean. He breaks into a run.
“The bunker men, they are after the emperor.” Morrison’s men follow him through the empty hallways of the once lively palace, past the throne room, the food court, down a stairwell or two, and finally Morrison finds the first sign of life he has seen in the castle yet. A guard stands looking in the open doorway of the emergency bunker and Aron Morrison’s heart fills with dread. Was he too late?
He runs forward and kicks the guard in the back, hurtling him into the room, before delivering a killing blow. He meets a second and a third, but they are no match for his fury. He runs past the bodies of dead noblemen, who were allowed to seek refuge in the bunker, to the final perpetrator in the room, who was kneeling in front of a body.
He grabs him by the shoulder and throws him aside to reveal the Emperor, bleeding out before him. Morrison is caught with a sudden wave of grief. He kneels the feet of the emperor’s golden robe and begins to sob.
“I’m sorry sir, I have failed you,” he says through sobs of grief.
“Do not mourn Morrison, for I see now that we have been betrayed, he betrayed us.”
“Who? Who did sire? I shall seek vengeance in your name!” Morrison questions.
“He-He,” was all the emperor said before passing, and all Morrison remembers before being struck from behind and blacking out.
Morrison awoke to the candle-lit bars of a prison cell. He didn’t try to move, he didn’t even try to breathe, but breath came to him. In and out, slowly, for what seemed like forever. Until finally he moved his head to look into the cell next to him. There sat Lieutenant Yasser, or what was left of him. It seemed to Morrison that he might be dead if not for the painful groan that pierced the night every so often.
He looked to the other cell and it appeared to be just another soldier captured by the rebels who seemed to be in much better shape than either of them.
“Soldier, what’s your name son?” Morrison asked, regaining some of his strength.
“My-My name is Paul,” the soldier replied. He looked to be not over the age of thirty, from the looks of him.
“What happened out there, Paul,” he asked.
“I-I don’t know really we were fighting in the courtyard and all of a sudden I was pushed to the ground. I layed there with a man on my back for what seemed like an hour. Finally, when they pulled me up, I was able to see the battlefield, littered with the corpses of many of my brethren with even more as I was, now chained and being led into the dungeons of the castle. I’ve been here ever since,” explained Paul.
“So we have lost,” Morrison sighed and pulled himself to his feet, “this truly is the end then. The palace has fallen, and the empire will follow.”
“W-What are they going to do with us now, captain,” asked paul nervously.
“I know not,” was the lie he told Paul. The truth was Morrison had a pretty good guess what was going to happen to them now. Death, in some manner or form; they wouldn't let them live, not long at least. No further words were exchanged between the three men. The only one that stood was Paul, who paced back and forth from one end of his cell to another. The shadows he casts in the candlelight dance from wall to wall, as if there were something to celebrate. But not now.
Morrison was just about to drift into a dreamless sleep when suddenly he felt the warmth of the morning breeze, thanks to the door down the hall that now stood open. Men came through the door some wore the armor of Nakkovia, presumably prisoners as well who had been captured this morning, along with rebels who wore an assortment of garments.
They came in and took the three men out of their cells, lined them up, and chained them all together, six in total. They exited through the door that the men had come in, merging with other groups of six, perhaps fifty in all. They were led to the front steps of the palace where the rebels had set up a gallows, built to hang six at a time. It was at this moment that Morrison knew their fate was sealed and what he had only considered conjecture at the time was now fact, Tralo had fallen.
Morrison’s group was fifth in the execution line and he watched as his men, his lieutenants, and his friends were hung six by six like animals. He took steps forward, towards his doom, as the bodies were collected from the first group of victims. The second took their place at their respective ropes, but before the executioner could pull the lever of their doom, one of the soldiers shouted,
“Long live the–”
Dead. Along with five others. The bodies were removed and the third group of six stepped onto the wood planks that would be their last.
Another six, dead. The fourth group came and went like the others, perhaps a tear or two, but nonetheless insignificant to the rebels, invaluable to him. How could the people stand this, they should be rioting in the streets, protesting for their freedom. This is what Morrison thought as he walked up the steps behind two other prisoners. Now he stood in front of his noose, and finally he could see the crowd, they weren’t Nakkovians. They were Barghonians, Stuadites, Ereniethens, and Sarmonians. All countries that were conquered by The Donut Empire during the Great War, and they were cheering on the executions, Not a Nakkovian in sight.
So this was the end, he thought as the executioner fitted Morrison’s doom around his neck. The pull of the lever and the cheer of the crowd were all he heard before his neck snapped.
Aron Morrison had witnessed the death of his men, the death of his friends, and now he witnesses the death of an Empire.
MIDWEST SUNSET
Sifting through blades of buffalo grass
which come in waves with the wind as if a sea,
eyes of light illuminate the rainbow prairie
gray, yellow, green, melting into beauty
Beauty unattainable
by a weary passerby
but lavished by the blue of a Jay
melting into beauty
Untouchable skies
stretching to the horizon
of red, purple, orange,
melting into beauty
Stirring in the mixing pot
Of the creator
Beauty achieved
Midwest sunset