Jason Zundel
Untitled
What is a man? Is he lacking the desire to do what he can; Because he fears it so?
Does it matter what he does or wills When he can never fulfill What he wants to show
What will he do? He has his fire and he has his axe He wills to attack.
Good or bad it matters not He wants and he will choose; The world is his beneath his shoes.
Untitled
The Byzantine emperor makes a call to arms “Help us defeat our Muslim foe” From all over Europe, to Constantinople armies swarm
“Jerusalem must be taken.” the Pope decreed The ships are filled with men and swords With the wind they sail, ready to do their noble deeds.
At Constantinople the Crusaders arrive in lines A thousand at a time. They enter unknown lands “Defend our homeland!” the Turks chant in Rhyme
“It’s by the will of God!” The Crusaders scream “God’s will is ours!” the Turks yell The blood of a thousand souls gleam
The bitter fighting comes to an end, and the Crusaders exclaim “Jerusalem is taken from these heathen men!” They drink to victory and tend to the maimed
They stumble over the dead They come to claim their prize They enter the city and bow their heads A prayer to God is said.
A Line in the Dirt
Glen was looking at his hands. As he noticed the perfectly white, long crescents that were the end of his fingernails, he bit his teeth together and felt uneasy. He then swept his shoe over the dirt on the ground to make a blank slate. “This time it’ll be different” he mumbled as he squatted down. As he moved closer and closer to the patch of dirt below him, he became more and more repulsed. After Glen recoiled his hand a few times, he was within mere inches from the patch of soil. There he stayed, rubbing his thumb over the ends of his fingernails and the knobby, wrinkled bit of skin in the middle of his small fingers. Glen bit his lips and winced at the dirty below. “I can do this… I can be normal.” He pinched the soft side of his fingers and began moving closer. Glen’s neck was getting sweaty and he was now visibly shaking. He gulped and recomposed himself. This is where he usually quit, but not today. Yesterday, what he called his “funny feelings” had gotten a harsher scrutiny by his peers than usual. This led him to make a list of goals for today’s attempt. He was going to listen to his parents, and stop with this nonsense. He was going to listen to his classmates, and stop being weird. He would let his finger touch the dirt, and you know what? He would not care. He would not go to the school’s restroom and scrub his hands, trying to get every granule of dirt from beneath his long fingernails. He would not be made fun of. He was going to be a normal kid. Glen eyes squinted as hard as they could, and he slammed his fingers into the dirt. Immediately, those funny feelings came. He could feel every grain of dirt poking his fingers like a needle. The dirt in his fingernails felt like a collection of small moving s insects working itself up into Glen’s nails and into his hands. His hands were now fists, trying to grasp onto the ground so he wouldn’t be fall back. His teeth itched and he was clamping his mouth up and down trying to satisfy them. A jagged metal rolling pin was going up and down his back, and he shook in order to dislodge it. His face felt like it was directly above a stove. Tears rolled down his face. Glen had no idea how long this had going on, but he had enough. He had lost the battle. he removed his hands and reluctantly looked them. Dirt and filth covered all of his hands. It was in the lines between his palms in caked his fingers. However, when he saw the black ridge now at the end of his fingernails, he convulsed. Now he was weeping in frustration and shame. He couldn’t do it; he would never be normal. The funny feelings again won out. Promptly Glen ran to the bathroom. It took 20 minutes of washing and scrubbing to make him feel clean again. The teacher knew his routine and why he was missing, and reluctantly entered the boy’s restroom to take him to class. She found him in the corner, sobbing “I’ll never be normal…”
Untitled
Tsakhia Gyrpodan lay on his stomach, staring at the foreign ground. As he tried to wobble over onto his back, it felt as though an axe had cleaved his back. This was literally the case. The warmth of blood spread out beyond his back and soaked into the furs he was wearing. He tried to dislodge the Slavic axe, but couldn’t even manage to lift his arm. While coughing up blood, he realized he wouldn’t see his son or daughters or homeland again. He was glad he wouldn’t. Dying thousands of miles from home made him feel happy at this grave moment. In youth he was a nomad in the barren steppes of Mongolia. He hunted with a bow on horseback and tended to livestock. His father died helping unite the land to the Great Khan, and for five years were spent keeping his mother and seven siblings fed and safe. This was not something he was happy to do. The Great Khan requested males to join a campaign against the Chinese of the South. Gypodan didn’t care that he was abandoning his kin; he joined so he could break the drudgery of nomadic life. Gypodan’s mare galloped South with thousands of other warriors to the Jurchens. He fought with maddening, unsettling intensity. After quickly coming up with tactics and maneuvers, he would spearhead their execution with a shrill scream. Gypodan was noticed. The year saw him with a larger and larger portion of the Mongol Horde under his control. After returning home, he triumphantly distributed the spoils of war among his people. Gypodan also married and had five children. The eldest was Gypodan’s lone son. As he was preparing to leave on another campaign, his young son asked if he would see Gypodan again. The question made him uncomfortable, and he rode away without answering. The Mongolian steed reached the Khwarezmid Empire in the Middle East. “They raided our caravans and mauled our diplomats!” was reason enough to start a war. Their cities fell, no thanks to Gypodan’s strategies. Those who fought were slaughtered; those who surrendered were either conscripted into the military or used as slaves. Bahadur was now Gypodan’s rank after fifteen years of service. The Great Khan had died and his heir took his place. Gypodan was the Khan’s most trusted general, and was called into service to help lead a campaign into the farthest reaches into the world. His lone son did not come to say goodbye, he was studying to be part of the new administrative roles needed for the fledging empire. As for his daughters, they were married off to his favorite warriors. His wife had died of an illness while he was away. Two years of hard riding were spent getting to this new land. It was frigid and barren and populated by a rugged people with dark hair and light skin. In contrast to the nearer provinces, where a single Mongolian horseman would be enough to force a city to surrender, the people of the Rus insisted on fighting. They paid for it dearly, with the capital of Kiev destroyed and the riches promptly gathered and sent back home. Not every Russian was content under The Horde’s rule. After three years of fighting, there was still resistance among the people, and Gyrpodan was eager to crush it. Riding past a small forest, the Russians ambushed. He took command of his war band, and proceeded slaughtering the ragged resistors. However, his eye caught one young Slav wielding an axe. Time almost slowed as him stagger as saw two arrows fly into his body thick. The Russian caught himself, blood running down him, and raised his axe. Gyrpodan tried maneuvering his horse out of the way but he felt the sharp blow enter his back. This is where Gyrpodan fell off his horse. This is where he came full circle. He was dragged up and could make out his bodyguard trying to get him to safety. He went in and out of consciousness. Tsakhia Gyrpodan’s had seen and conquered every corner of the world, and was more than content. He chuckled to himself as he thought his last thoughts: This beats herding goats in Mongolia.
|