Zane....I am Zane

I used to be a being that I cannot describe to you, beautiful are the words on your tongue and yet that cannot begin to describe that form. The very idea was sewn into it through the making. And it was made for me, make no doubt about that. The form with its wings, and perfect body, elegance mixed with ability, was made for me. To always feel so light and airy rarely ever touching the ground, I only looked among the mortal beings. But I suppose that form was taken from me, and now I am here. Funny thing actually, I don't know where here is. It's a dank dark place, the earth smells damp and humid, full of earth worms. And I don't feel its normal comforting pulse, yes the earth has a pulse. And it has a voice. It's dark and deep, but light and feminine at the same time.It surprises me sometimes when I heard it, even though I have an uncanny connection with the earth despite my wings.The earth, the mother of all I suppose you could say. I love the earth, and I love the sky much more. If you have never flown, flown with wind and sky and stars, among all the rest of the flying creatures.It is like standing on a high cliff, and looking down, and feeling your heart plummet to an endless bottom before finding its way in the dark. All the while your body seems so far detached, as you find your way. Flying in itself is no special thing, but when you fly the entire world changes beneath you, and the surge of power pumping through your veins can keep you aloft for an almost indefinite period of time. You could say I am a earth creature, but you are wrong, I as much as the birds, love the air, and wish to be master of it. Even though I am not, no one is the master of the air. There are some who would borrow power there, steal and lie and cheat to command a small portion of a great empire, but they are not masters of the wind. I want to be out of here, it's dark. I can navigate fine in the dark, but it feels oppressive here, and makes me anxious to leave. I don't know how long I've been here, and I don't' particularly care, time is of no matter. I have endless time, it seems as if it is something, that while not to be frittered away, can be used with leisure. But I am concerned about leaving this place, it isn't somewhere I would want to stay. I doubt you would stay either if it were humid, and dark, and you felt your heart pound against your chest uncomfortable in your own skin. No. My eyes shut to block it out, the darkness, if it makes sense, blocking out darkness with darkness. Where to find the exit though to this place I do not know. I came here without my knowing or control, and yet to stay here is in my control I think to keep myself calmer, hating this space. I feel odd right now. It's kind of like flying, not knowing where you are, and detached from your body. Though I feel no joy by it, only slight fear. Because I really don't know where to go, and I lost sight of the ground to which I will need to return eventually. I feel an uncomfortable twinge, and then another, cringing I lay down. The surface of this place is comfortable, almost surprisingly so, and I shut my eyes, drifting off to sleep. I don't think I sleep very long, but I feel different when I wake up. I feel out of my own skin, and uncomfortable fabric rub up against the surface. I don't know why I would be wearing fabric.I can't see my own paws, and I can't feel the tips of my ears, and I can't move my tail. I can't smell as much either. It still smells damp, but it isn't as bad. The humidity still eats away at me though. I close my eyes trying to shake the feeling, where did my ears and tail go, why am I on two legs. I feel my heart race, my different heart. And I try to growl in frustration but it sounds like a pup rasping and not a wolf growling. I can't whimper, but I feel air come in and out of my throat in heavy breaths. I try to gulp in air at an even rate, wondering what was happening to me. And why I had been turned into a human, and if I would ever change back. It was odd, but being in this form had good qualities. Like the fact that I had thumbs now, and I could talk. My other speech had been rusty in wolf form, with so many other things I could use to communicate, but now I spoke. It felt weird, my tongue moving to accompany words. I feel the world reconfigure around me, and it's almost disorienting. The world was busy, it felt busy. So many sights and sounds, but peaceful enough I guessed. I saw a steep drop, and I realized I was near a canyon, I heard words behind me and whirled. More humans. They were in a group. There was one who acted like the leader. He motioned for me to join them. And wanting to fit in stumbled over trying out my new legs. There were people there. It was a group, one family, one couple, three loners. I was a loner. There was another person next to me in the back, I didn't know why she was here. So I asked her "What are you doing here?" I guess it came out as kind of weird or like I was demanding something because she looked at me funny. Well I didn't know how she was looking at me, but she sounded amused, and a little angry "What's it to you?" I thought about the words for a little bit, trying to come up with a good answer. I didn't know her, but I did want to know why she was here, because she wasn't taking any pictures and stayed at the back of the group, even though she could keep up with the front. I still had trouble walking like this so I had to stay at the back. After thinking about it I answered "I don't know, you just don't seem like you want to be here, that's all." I tried to be friendly, not to be mean, or questioning, or demanding. She seemed really sensitive. Like a perfect pool of water. It would come back to near perfect again, but never completely still, and it was incredibly easy to disturb it. I wondered if she was a water element, like how I was before, but I shook the thought, she wasn't. I knew. I just knew. She answered, a laugh, we kept moving "I don't this whole trip isn't for me." I feel confused, she seems to be talking about more than this trip. But what is it about this trip that makes it so important it be hers. She sounds selfish when she puts it like that and I don't think she's selfish. She's just a little mad. "Oh." I say, not really understanding, trying to sound like I do. She pauses, then looks at me, it's really weird, I don't usually make eye contact as it is considered a challenge, and no one challenges me. But hers isn't uncomfortable, it's almost friendly when she says "Oh right, my name is Maire, but just call me Man." It's really weird nickname, probably with a story behind it, probably with a whole story behind it that I don't know. And I want her to tell me, and tell me why this is such a big deal for her, and tell me all of her stories. But instead she says to me "So what's your name?" I hesitate, but I know I have to answer so I say "Zane" I like that name "I am Zane." And she laughs but it's light hearted and airy, and she isn't being mean or cruel "I heard you the first time." She pauses as if she's feeling my name on her tongue "Zane."

A Rambling of Thoughts

Don't lock everything away with a padlock, for not all of it can be contained in such a way.

A voice rang out, it was an odd voice, I have definitely heard it before. The words are clear, the words it seems I've heard them before. It goes out again, ringing, ringing, ringing "Naen, did you hear me?" I think it was my teacher, she never liked me It was a feeling I got as soon as I walked into the room. She looked at me like I was trouble, as if I would bring misfortune upon her, bad news, I suppose that's what I was, what I would bring. Misfortune and trouble. I sighed, and I felt a rap go through the table, and I looked up, my teacher looked at me sternly, at least that's how she tried to look. More than ever she just looked angry. I could understand why. I could understand why she was angry, it's not like I tried very hard in her class. I didn't offer to read what she told me to read, I didn't try and write about anything worth writing about, things that I didn't want to tell anyone. Well not her anyway. She wasn't my best friend, or even a squirrel that I found in the park whom I could pour my worries out to. I need to to clear my head, and forget for a while though. And she was saying "Naen!" The entire class was looking, they were looking, they watched as if this was how things always were, how they would be for the entire year. Probably how it would end up. My friend sat next to me, tenser than anything. She was practically about to punch the teacher, her hands were balled up into fists. I didn't even know why she was my friend. It seemed she had always been my friend. The teacher talked again, and I stayed in my fantasy world, it wasn't a nice place, but I didn't want to have to face my teacher. She sighed, she wasn't wearing a bun like you might expect, for she always looked rather sever, with a nice shirt with buttons, and a skirt or possibly some dress pants, maybe jeans, always nice impecibly kept, and a pair of glasses even though she was near sighted and didn't need them. She kept her hair down, and she always looked older or younger than she really was. "I told you to write about your thoughts on something important to you. This is to start off a new unit so please try on this assignment." She felt like a stereotype, I always thought of how steryotypical she was. But she smiled, and said "I know you much be thinking a lot, so now would be a good time to tell us some of those thoughts." It seemed clipped, almost like she was forcing herself to be nice. But it felt good, so instead of arguing like my friend thought I would, I nodded my head, and rested my hands on my keyboard. I tried to think, about something I could write. I could write about animals, and red wolves, or even the military. But that felt...it felt like something so me that it was stupid. I didn't want to write about those things. I didn't need to tell them anything they couldn't read from any other social misfit. I hesitated, one what I could write, lifting my hands off the keyboard for a moment. But then I just wrote down my thoughts. I started, and wherever my mind took me I wrote, and it felt good. I would have to edit it to make it school appropriate of course, there was some language, but I realized just how angry I sounded. It was less like an idea and more like a rant. I realized this while I was writing, but I didn't stop. I didn't care what the teacher thought. I had all 100s in this class, and I could handle it if this teacher gave me a bad grade I couldn't care less, not when I was writing. While I writing I knew my friend was looking at me worriedly, but not talking to me. I had a determined air around me. I sighed, not exactly holding my breath or anything else, but not concious of my breathing or anything else around me. My teacher came up to me, and I think she smiled and said I was doing well, real words...real words for the first time in forever in this class. And these are the words that I wrote on my paper

I wonder, if there is anything really worth dying for. People say they would die for liberty...but do we ever really have it, people say they would die for their families, but are not their families prepared to die for them, and yet too there is the argument that one would die for their country. But is not your country only you, and losing you could not possibly make your country stronger. Only weaken the links. And what country would really ask for your death. It is like sending them to a camp of prisons that we so desperately fight. Is that honestly what we want? Is this sense of false pride that we so desperately grasp to?I don't think so. The world seems so centered on death though, if you think of it. Even Lincon's speech about the last full measure of devotion implies that death is the ultimate price to pay. But I don't think it is. Death is a small price compared to the price it makes the living pay. Whether it leaves you saddles with debt, or emotional grief, often times both. It is really despicable how we do this to ourselves and others. And even then people will ask, would you take a bullet for me? As if the most important thing is their lives. Or some would say they would die together. But that is entirely pointless. I have nothing against poetry, but is it not tragically poetic in a way that makes it seem like there is no higher thought process. I could tell you about this higher though process, but I would rather you think it out. Did you see what I did? I'm not sure what I am doing. Because for those who realize and understand it is infuriating to live in a world with people so fixated on these things. They see only these things, and the surroundings. Not that they pay the surroundings any attention. Sometimes it feels as if no one is out there with this thought. And I guess it could just be me. But I want people to see this thought so they can understand if not agree. That is a higher thought process. Is it not? It is a rhetorical question. I feel as if all of them are answering. It is not the words here though that matter. It is the thoughts that others have on these thoughts. For does not one word provoke a multitude of words, stringing together, not in perfect order as they jostle for space? Well how about you give my idea some space. Whether your mind is a shelf, or a room, or even a messy desk, make some room for everything. I have found that the mind is amazing like that. Stretching and changing to fit whatever you want in it. I want everything here. I want to have everything, but I don't really have to be unhappy with what I have. I guess it is impossible to have both, but remember I want to. See what I did there? Right now I feel....I get lost from here. I don't want to talk about my feelings, I want to talk about my thoughts. Do you understand the difference? Emotions come from thoughts. Everything important really important is in the brain. Other things have everything else, but if my brain makes me unique....then, well. I can't say exactly. Hmph, I feel like a ranter, like one of those raving mad lunatics that just goes on and on about nothing, and everything at once . I wonder if I went to an asylum and went on like this if they would accept me no questions asked. I know I would, I would defenitaly. No questions asked. None at all.

That's what I wrote...I got a 100 and my teacher talked to me after class. The conversation didn't seem all that important though. I remember though, I was surprised when I saw the note as it got discreetly handed back to every student. My friend had gotten a 100 too, but when she saw mine she said that none could really compare. And I knew it was real. That she wasn't just being an amazing friend.

A Knife In the Wrong Place

There was a boy, he wasn't particularly anything. He was average, and he was walking home..alone, and in this he wasn't average. He carried with him a switchblade, and he stood and walked like he wasn't going anywhere in particular, even if he was meandering to his house. At least no one approached him, he trudged along, he was aware of a scuffle of shoes behind him. He hadn't expected any trouble, he certainly never looked for it. He carried the blade for show, he didn't even live in the wrong part of town. His was perfectly normal, and he was almost as normal as his house.
Except he heard the scuffle of shoes, and carried a switchblade, and wondered aloud "I wonder who is behind me. I know they're there."
The movement of shoes didn't stop, didn't intensify, only kept going, as if they were going their own way on a predetermined path. The boy threw his head back to see who it was who thought they would give him a scare. No one was there, he shrugged. Taking a different route he kept walking everywhere in his neighborhood except his house. He knew that something was following him. The boy finally reached a circle of houses, he whirled seeing a figure, a girl, slightly older than him. The other one, was pale, and looked to be in her teens, she held a sort of posture that showed such an easy elegance that you couldn't help but feel ugly and misshapen in front of him.
It wasn't as if the pale girl wasn't floating exactly, but she certainly didn't seem grounded. At least not in the same sense as anyone the boy had seen so far. The boy was nervous, and unsure, he called out "Who are you?" He didn't feel much worry, but he hadn't seen her before, didn't know her, and didn't know what she knew, and what she might do.
The other laughed, speeding forward, it seemed as if she was walking, but she crossed the distance of about a hundred yards as if in a breath. As if it was a single stride, a leap taken in a sprint. The boy's skin prickled, at the energy in the air, there was energy in the air, there was something else, something he didn't know as well, and he tried, tried desperately not focus on it.
There were many things about the girl that the first didn't notice at first, her black eyes tinged with red, her spiky hair, and most of all he noticed that the girl who approached had no weapons.
The boy drew his blade, flicking it up and towards the neck. The other one didn't seem bothered by the blow, in fact it seemed as if the gashing wound on the neck that should have her on the ground caused her only mild irritation. Instead fangs gleamed and she whispered "Oh such a waste of blood. Looks like you'll have to repay me."
It was almost unnoticeable, but the boy felt the color drain from his face. They say the dead look peaceful, and I suppose it could be true, but the boy didn't quite die that day, because he wasn't meant to.
The next day someone noticed none of the spilled blood, or that the average boy had attained a different aura. The few who knew, and learned didn't stay fully alive for long.

Whether from above, below, or next to you they lurk, so be careful on the streets at dusk.

I Want To Look At The Truth (best blog post this six weeks)

"You can't tell her that." Someone growled under their breath, it was someone I recognized, but I'm not sure who they were. It was a deep voice, I know I should know who the person was. I wracked my brain, but I didn't remember. I was only four. I was suppose to have a good memory, I remembered most things well enough; but I couldn't remember what I had for breakfast yesterday morning; and I don't remember what I ate for dinner that night. (italics and bold mean it is her memory)What I do remember is my friend Kayla got a phone call and looked very white, and then told me we could watch a movie before bed. We watched my favorite movie of all time, and then she told me to go to sleep, but I stayed up, and she didn't leave as soon as she thought I was asleep like usual. Which was weird, because that never happened.
I don't remember falling asleep, but I do remember that Kayla was still there, which would be fun but strange. So when I woke up I asked her "Kayla, why aren't my mom and daddy home from their date?" They said they were going to something that started with a c, but I forgot, so I just called it a date.
She sighed and then said "They haven't gotten home yet." She made it sound like they would never get home, but, they said they would never leave me, that if I waited for them they would find me, so I knew that they would come home. If Kayla was staying then it would be okay, because we always did something fun. But when we were sitting, and playing...I forget what game it was, but when I heard loud sirens go off outside I knocked over all the pieces, and Kayla only got up, and told me to stay by her. There were lots of police cars, I know they're police cars because Kayla told me once, and another car, it was a really pretty silvery color, and was much bigger than the police cars, although it wasn't a truck. I didn't remember the car, but I knew I should remember the man who walked out. He was someone important, someone my parents both knew, he always came over, why couldn't I remember his name?
I was interrupted from remembering when I heard another shout "You won't tell her lies!" It was the man whose name I couldn't remember. There was an answering shout, but I didn't hear it, I was back in my memories.
Police men got out, and everybody went into the kitchen. That's where I was now, standing outside the kitchen, listening, while Kayla let me. Which was odd, and the man who I couldn't see. I couldn't hear though, not in the clear way.
I tried to remember who the man was, but my  memory was hazy, his name was something like...Miri, Manr, Mysten, that sounded odd and wrong, but I think that's what it was. That's what it was, I think.
He was a friend of my parent's, but he was something to me too, my parents told me once, but it was when I was little, I don't remember. I remember what he looked like, he had longer than my dad's brown hair, and yellow eyes, and he lived in a community, a tight community my mother always said something along those lines. Kayla was part of it too, but my parents were not.
Something, something that my mother always felt bad about, and my father never lingered on. At least that's what I understood.
I heard another shout "There's only half a chance!"
"So what would you have me do?! Abandon my responsibility?! It was so important to them!" Mysten, I think that's his name, I'm almost sure, shouted back.
Only half a chance of what?
I heard loud stomps, and finally entered the room, Kayla was standing there, red in the face, with an anger I had never quite seen, and the man was there, he had slightly long brown hair, with green eyes, and he was pacing.
Kayla turned to me, and looked at him, it seemed as if there was something going on, something I couldn't catch, something I could see, but couldn't hear.
She put me up on one of the chairs and asked "Sorry we've been ignoring you. Things are a little crazy. I could tell you the story, or I could answer your questions. What do you want to know?"
I already knew, I wanted what everybody wanted, what people search for the entire lives, but never get, but I didn't know that then. So I asked the only thing I knew how to ask for "Tell me the truth."

Sweet Simplicity

Dear Diary,

What do most people write about in a diary? Ever since I got this empty clean paged beautiful book I have been dying to write in it, but what do I write?

I could tell you about my day, I could tell you about how it was Briaa's lucky number day. She's so superstitious! She's an amazing person, but she has a lucky number, and is a reader of every card, always gets her fortune told, and has today's horoscopes constantly with her. Some people think it’s funny, how she tells everyone everything, but some people admire her speaking her mind.

I couldn't tell you what we learned in LA today though; I find that a horrid subject, my teacher told me "Just write what you think about the subject." Why would I want to think about something so meaningless? I suppose writing isn't all that bad, but what is it with this pointless thinking? I could summarize my thoughts in a perfect short summary and yet my teacher doesn't seem to think that's enough. We wrote one paragraph, my teacher said it should be easy, yet the topic was so hard 'Write about your opinion on a children's story that you were told as a child.' All children's stories are dumb.

I don't really like science either; it's like an impractical and finicky version of math.

I could tell you all about my History class, and my math class, and lunch. I don't think that it is very interesting though.

Oh well.
I'll try and write more tomorrow, this is much better than LA, even though it is writing. 

-C Ya, 

Lilly

Dear Lilly,

I loved hearing about your day today, hopefully I will be hearing more from you. It has been so tiresome feeling my empty pages, and I hope that you fill them up. Even if I can't see your world, hearing you write and talk about it is refreshing. I think though that there are some stories I could tell you that you would find interesting, and I must disagree, Science is very precise, and LA does have meaning. Maybe we can discuss this more later.

Sincerely,

                  Diary

A flower is a flower, no matter how many petals it has. To live life as a flower though, I believe would be rather dull. Don't you?

The Wound That Never Heals

Scars. Scars. Scars are what make us or break us, scars are reminder of past faults, faults of ourselves or faults of others, but either way...you can never truly forget. Some people try and cover up their scars, they try to forget about them, but, some of us can't. I have a scar across my eye, it was given to me by Maeve, the Queen of our realm. The realm of the fae.
I smirked and gave a morbid laugh, life here was not the safe haven as some imagined it. Persecuted in other kingdoms for their heritage, and then forced into little better than slavery here, unless you are lucky, unless you are born here, and born as free as you will get in this contorted world. I want to laugh again, but why would I push it? Most are not allowed to breath without our Queen's permission.
We are a race greater than any other, our powers outstrip them, and our rule is fierceness to behold, the way we cut each others throats while holding daggers to their back. I barely bothered to engage in such politics, nor did I try to win the Queen's favor. Opening trouble is to walk beside death, and I had done that enough.
Now all this could change though, I have a chance, maybe it will be another form of slavery, but at least these bonds will be visible to only few. Loyalty by choice, how very interesting. All the same, and army was rising, for the court of ice and stone that Maeve held. Mab, her younger sister, bestowed by the same power of biting cold, and slightly less powerful dared raise a hand against her sister, and she was probably doomed down the same path.
They are both fools, but right now the world must move on, and it will, because that is how the world is, it one of the few things we share with humans. I snicker, humans, in the land beside ours, calling themselves conquerors for killing a few fae with so little power, fae who help plants grow, and try to coax rain into falling.
Scars, scars from them as well. I sigh, will the list of those who gave me scars go on?
One from Maeve who fears my power, and forced me to obey her will.
Five from the humans who thought they could enslave me.
Two from my friends who tried to kill me on the battlefield courtesy of Maeve.
One from my father who feared the humans who would burn him and me alike.
Three from the one who was suppose to love me.
The list goes on and on, and they are still there. Some of them got infected at first, but most simply scar. I sigh, now a chance, I want them gone, but I want them there. I want to remember, but I want a clean slate.
We rarely get what we want though.
I sigh, they are all so ugly. Some on my back, A few on my face. A couple on my arms. Maybe one or two on my chest.
Mab, she goes by the title Queen of Ice, a title still belonging to her living sister. Though she promises a land built on kinship, I sigh, how can we be family, for Maeve has created something different, friendship after loyalty. Whereas Mab wouldn't allow that friendship, saying it makes us weak, blood is thicker than water I believe the phrase is. Both are right, and both bear scars.
Where I fall is important to them, but not important to me.
Either way I will get more scars.

The Beauty of a Wall

I grinned at my friend, the joke was okay, but I thought that he was a little more mature than that. He wrapped his arm around me in a friendly manner, gushing loudly "Awww come on Tessa that was funny, don't I get a laugh?"
Rance is always making something out of nothing, he's a great artist, but sometimes I worry that he's going to explode with all of that inside him. I roll my eyes at him saying sarcastically "No you don't."
He sighs before pointing a finger at me "Someday Tessa Laena Renolf, I will make you laugh so hard that you won't be able to retaliate when I say I told you so."
I shake my head, like that day would ever come "Now Robert that is a truly laughable thought."
He gave me a dirty look when I said his real name. It's not a bad name, but I guess he likes Rance better, and he makes sure everybody knows it. That is like a Rance Rule and it's on the top on the list, has been since preschool. I asked him why once and he evaded the question, I let it drop, everyone has secrets that they don't tell anyone. Some

might call me a horrible friend for not caring, but I know that it wouldn't make me any less of a friend if I respected his choice.

We headed to Art 2 class, Rance prefers to work with pastels, oils, and ink, but personally I like to sketch with pencils and maybe color in with colored pencils if   I think the drawing is good enough. Our Art teacher is more lenient than some people like, every unit we learn about either a period of art, a style of art, or a piece of art. Then at the end of that unit we turn in a piece that either would be created in that time period, or is that style of art, or uses the style time period or focus of that piece of art. This being said and it being the third week in our three week unit all of us were finished (usually finished by end of first week) everybody practiced their own art or chatted with their friends. I put up a thick sheet of paper and secured it to my easle, Rance pulled up a drawing vibrant with hues of blue, yellow, and green. He glanced at my blank sheet before asking " What are you going to draw?"

I hesitated I have an idea, so I simply answer " I'm not sure yet." I debate for a short period of time between a alternate depiction of a Robert Frost poem or a book that had writing that couldn't be read. 

I began the sketch, outlining a line, then making it rough, but strong, and only the tops of trees peeped over the top, those were at the top of the paper. At the bottom I finished sketching the base before drawing grass all around with nothing else. Then I added detail.

The finish of the pencil work was plain to see, and the bell almost rung, everyone began cleaning up, and I stowed away the sketch into my portfolio to finish coloring later. Rance was almost finished, his ocean coming out with a simple elegance and beauty splotched in bright color. 

He snuck a peek at what I had drawn before questioning " Why did you choose to draw that?"

I only shrugged.

A Rebel's Rebellion

People always tell me, when I'm here, that I did the right thing, that I made the right choice. I sighed internally, this was stupid. One side, another side, even another side, there were hundreds, and yet I still couldn't choose. So instead of choosing a side, I chose family. I chose the side that my father fought for, that my mother fought for, that my sisters fought for, and that my brother shied away from. And now I can't change, I can't be with my brother, he spat on our blood, and then spilled it across the stones.
I wondered for a moment if I really had made the right choice, and done the right thing. Everybody here said so, and yet everyone else said that I should have chosen them. I swatted through the dense overgrowth, they sent me on this mission, a mission that could end the bloodshed. I sighed, but it would have to succeed, and if it didn't then it would lead to even more animosity, hatred, torture, death, and bloodlust.
Maybe I should just join the large party, at least then I wouldn't feel torn up. A temporary truce though wouldn't last long, and it was probably better this way. A choice. A choice. A choice given to me ten years ago before I could possibly understand.
I neared the building, and none of their traps caught me, I almost snorted, their dogs didn't catch me either. A choice. A choice. A choice now, but it wasn't the right thing, and I couldn't make a choice.
(flashback)
"What are you guys doing?" A deep voice commanded, our commander was a rough, large, and powerful man, and they said he had been in his first battle at the age of seven instead of the normal fourteen.
I was standing off to the sidelines, the commander's voice had woken me from my slumber and I stood, and watched, wanting to know as well.
"We're going to get tattoos." One of them stated proudly, they were so young, only fourteen, and still glowing at surviving their first battle, when we had lost so many. I knew of course what they meant, and so did the commander.
"Good. Be prompt tomorrow, training will not decrease." They all know though that it will for them. It will for them and never for me.
The next morning on all of their arms, both of them, was a tattoo, a symbol, our Rebellion's symbol, it stood out, and they weren't the only ones. Most of this Rebellion have them. A show. A permanent piece. And the other Rebellions have them too. Some of the main forces have them, but it's frowned upon there. I know one rebellion requires that you get the symbol tattooed on your arm.
They realize that I'm staring at it, and they grin, it'll probably get infected.
I hope it doesn't. We don't need another in the sick bed, and losing your arm....
(end of flashback)
I stopped dead in my tracks, all I have to do, is one assassination. One little death and I am a hero for my Rebellion. One death and we take the claim. One killing, to end thousands. The words rolled around in my head, and I knew though there was no way to bribe myself into doing it. I wasn't a rebel, I wasn't a patriot, I wasn't any of those things.
Which is why my report said that assassination was impossible and would lead to negative effects upon our rebellion.
That is why.
This world hasn't ended yet.

This is the symbol

The quote is:

"Freedom is the ability of choice, not necessarily choosing freedom, but making your choice.

Letting Go

The earth shuddered under me, and I saw him back away, I hissed. I felt the quake build and build and build. The ground underneath him rumbled in anger. He shook in fear and for a moment I felt satisfaction, so that he might know a fraction of what I felt when he shattered the last remnants of my heart. The same as everyone who learned about my gift. Shying away, running away, leaving me. He gazed toward me, and the emotion I saw there stopped the crust from destrying him then and there, he pleaded in his voice that still sent shivers up my spine "Please, Mora, Please I was wrong!" The last word came out as a strangled scream.

I felt my anger return, he was wrong, and now he would suffer, suffer as I had suffered. I tried to unleash the wrath of the earth that connected everything, but for once, and it was almost a blessed relief, when it didn't obey. He held a look of gratitude and fear, fear that had once been love. I gazed at him, and maybe he saw something in my eyes change, because his hands, raised in surrender, lowered, and his beautiful green gaze held my brown one.

My heart raced, and I waited for a slow grin to spread across his feautures, but it never did. If my heart could sink furthur it would have, I remembered all the time that I wished for him, because he held my heart, and I couldn't tell if I could ever grasp his. Then he shattered it and the remnants scattered on the pits of my soul as I fed off anger. Gazing at him now, he only spoke with a slow monotone or distant voice " Thank You." 

The words held no promise, no glimmer of hope, and my eyes fell, I didn't know whether to feel ashamed, or furious still. Taking a deep breath I felt it hitch in my throat, there was nothing left of what we once had, the minutes stretched on, and I found myself no longer breathing.

It was gone. He was gone. Those love swept eyes of his were gone.

So I released the breath, and knew that my love, my anger, my hate, and shackles ro revenge was gone as well.

My brown eyes met his green ones once more, expecting to see him gone or this be the last time, instead I saw a glimmer of the future.

And I didn't smile, somehow beyond smiling, instead I simply replied solemnly " I'm sorry." 

He only accepted it with a dip of his head before strolling off the field as if nothing had happened even though between us a forest of invaders had been cleared for a strong native oak.

This is covering a subject that many of us face in our lives. When someone hurts us, it is customary or impulse to retaliate, though occassionaly this is limited. While this is a simple lesson to learn, and slmost impossible to do all the time (We all make our share of mistakes, and there are times when people simply cross the line), I believe it important to incorporate in our daily lives.

While it may seem extreme in these paragraphs it is true, most of the time letting go, and allowing something new to grow is better than revenge.