Sacrifice

Sacrifice
May 28, 2007

Home in the Valley of Darkness.

Too many problems,
Not a day goes by,
Where I don't wish
People would just...
Get along.
So many people,
So many problems,
Not enough solutions.
What can I say? What can I do?
There's not much you can do
To put things to rights.
Yes, we try, but yes, we fail,
And honestly? I'm a little
Sick.
Sick of people doing things
Just for themselves.
Sick of the selfish nature,
The idea that
'Someone else can handle it'.
Sick of the apathy,
Ignorance,
Hypocrisy.
You can say, 'Let someone else
Handle it, just this once.'
But
Who else will do it?
Would you sacrifice yourself?
Would you die on a cross?
Be shot for justice?
Take a bullet for a stranger?
Would you hate life,
To make another's life better?
Where do we go from here?
Where do we go
From a world of Insanity?
To the other side of Despair?
Honor? Courage?
Outdated concepts?
Too many questions.
Too many problems.
Not enough solutions.

Omelas

It was the day of my thirteenth birthday when they took me.

I remember the weather of that day: Every little detail registered in my mind. The warm sun beating down upon our small village, the clouds in the sky like marshmallows, and the cool wind whipping at our faces. Birds soared, music filled the air, and all was well in the town of Omelas.

Do not let me mislead you, honest reader: We are a peaceful people. Happy, simple, taking joy in the easy pleasure of life. But that day, I did learn the reason why our fair city was indeed so easily pleased.

I was at the docks, with my friends, sailing small paper ships in the clear blue waters of the bay. I was the oldest out of all, so it was not without a small amount of curiousity that my friends looked at me when my father arrived. The thirteenth birthday of a child of Omelas is what some call the ritual of manhood, the passage into adulthood. It is said, in whispers and gossip, that there is a test of faith, a trial of courage. It is also said that the trial is what keeps our village pure: Indeed, many of my friends never returned from their trial. At the time, it was the only worry in my life.

A group of them had come. My father, and a number of the village people. Each looked somber and grey as my father held my hand tightly and led me away from the docks and the ships. I had never seen my father so scared. Sweat was puring down his brow, although the weather was cool and breezy. The villagers followed in a grim procession.

There was always a small shed in the corner of the city; a shack, forbidden to children, 'dangerous to play in,' as they said. It was vine-covered, run down, a curiousity and nothing more. If only had I know what lay within, I would have tugged my little hand out of my father's grip, and run the many miles back to the waters of the bay, and my innocence saved.

The door was opened by the Mayor, with a wide black key he obviously guarded dearly. On oily hinges, a creak, and then a pitch blackness that seemed to suck the light from my day. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, a flight of stairs materialized from the shadows.

My father was silent as he led me down. The others stayed above, with faces set in stone. I could hear weeping, from the women in the town, as if I would not return and they were already mourning me. A candle appeared in my father's hand and he lit it, casting silhouettes on the walls like crouching monsters.

The stairs went down for a long distance. It seemed to me like hours, but I had lost track of time the moment I had stepped into this purgatory. We spoke no word, my father and I. Just the endless taps of feet on stone, and the whistling of wind down the deep tunnels. The candle went out a number of times, which sent my heart into my throat until my father relit it.

I will admit, my friend. I was frightened beyond belief. All throughout my life I had lived without fear. See, Omelas had never heard of rape, of murder, of terror itself. We were a peaceful people in truth. The mayor to the most ridiculed Jester, we were all happy and satisfied with our line of work. Is it odd that I never questioned why? Perhaps it was the livelihood of our Omelas: That no questions be asked, that happiness was all the answer we needed.

Finally, my father halted, and took a deep breath. He was trembling, his grasp weak in my hand. His fear frightened me. A door was set in stone in front of us, a large wood square with no discernable markings, but my father shook as if Hell lay beyond it.

With trepidation, he pushed the door open silently. I could see nothing. There was just darkness. And then, as my father lifted the flame high, I gasped in fear and shock. I thought it was an animal, the way it cowered and screeched.

It was a child, but may just as well have been an animal. The eyes were white, long blind, and the hair was long. It sat on all fours. I couldn't tell whether it was a girl or a boy. I was too scared, too shocked, to even speak. I heard a low, keening moan, until I realized I was making the sound.

Cracks of light shone in from the ceiling, mops and various tools stored in a corner. Some sort of storeroom, it seemed, perhaps underneath one of the mansions in town. A small dish sat in the corner, with the reflection of murky water, and a plate, laden with rats that were polishing off the child's meal.

It looked at me with sudden fascination. "Ehh-haaa... Ehhh..."

It crawled over, and I noticed its legs were covered in sores, and excrement. It reached for my leg, and I pulled back in a terrible fear. "Ehh-haaa... M-M-Moth. Mothherr... mother."

I stared down at it as it grabbed my ankle with a horrible, greasy grip. "Mother! Lett me out. P-please! L-let me out!"

My father, with a look I had never seen on his face before, gave the child a savage kick, which it took with a whimper. It lay there, in the dark shed, surrounded by vermin, covered in feces and sores, an abomination!

What did I feel? I am ashamed to say I felt nothing. Yes, anger came upon me, and pity. Fear, yes, and disgust too. But most of all, I felt despair, hopelessness. Yes, the child was to be pitied, and its condition to be sickened at. But what if the child were to come above ground, to be cleaned and loved and comforted?

That is when I learned the terrible secret of Omelas. All our happiness, our bounty, and our hope, is because of this child-creature's misery. We live in happiness, because to do otherwise is to become this creature. We have bounty, because the child has none. And we love, we love each other, because the child has no one to love it. In other words, we value life, because we have seen death.

Our architecture would not be so lovely. Our songs would not be as joyful. Our tales and jokes and words would not be free, if not for the suffering squallor of the damned child. Our city lives in peace, because we remember the child that suffers beneath it.

And what of me? What of my friends that never returned from their trials? There is one more thing, and this is quite incredible.

Many who return from their trial, I am told, weep, and despair, but come to realize it is for the best. Love cannot be understood without hate, and life can never be lived to the fullest without death. So many do stay in Omelas, to enjoy the peace and prosperity. They are generous, and are gentle, and they are happy. They appreciate life.

But others, like me, do not return home to weep, or rage. Sometimes, we do not go home at all. Silently, we let go of our families, our lives, and slip away, quietly, into the streets of Omelas. Past the mansions, and the beautiful gardens, and the bountiful farmland. We walk alone, until the streetlights are lit, and the roads have been emptied.

We walk, down the alleys of Omelas, between houses where people can be heard enjoying a grand meal. Out the gates of the city, into the mountains. We continue to walk, into the darkness, and we never go back. We enter a world where hatred and death exist, a world where we know we will never enjoy perfect happiness. We may seems as if we do not know where we go; perhaps there is no place for us to go. But each of us holds a purpose, and although we may seem lost, we always know where we are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.



Author's note: This is based on a short story called, 'The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas' by Ursula K. Le Guin. I decided to write the perspective from one of the children... it may be the most poignant story I have written.

7 Sins Saga: Sloth

Sloth
May 2, 2007

She forgot to turn the lights out.

He struggled out with his hand. No way. The switch was a good 2 feet from his grasp. He slumped back down into bed, too lazy to attempt getting up. Warm, snuggly blankets pushed back against his body.

The pillow felt cool under his head, and the springy mattress was worn down to his preferred shape. Leaving the bed was so hard to do, not just during the mornings. Most of the time, sleep was the only escape from his mother's cries for chores, and his 'responsibilities'.

He tucked himself deeper into the quilt. Hopefully, his mom would come in and turn off the light... until then, he pulled the blanket over his head.

Then, suddenly, the lights blew out with a sharp 'snap!'.

He rolled over to check the doorway. No sign of his mother. The broken lightbulb fizzed over his head, then sputtered out. He flipped back, grumbling complaints, unwilling to haul himself out of bed to get a new bulb.

Something sharp poked him in the side. He reached down, feeling something hard and pointed in his side. Pulling it up from under the quilts, he looked at it carefully. Some sort of white bone-like object. Odd.

He reached under the blankets. Something else was there, something cold... really cold! The lights sputtered and blared to life in a shower of sparks, lighting the room in sharp flashes. He shrieked as the sudden, frosty grip of something hidden under the sheets grabbed him. In horror, he looked down. A pair of skeletal hands reached from the tangles of the blankets, wrapping tightly around his armpits.

"Oh, and here I was hoping that you'd pass." A skull-face laid its cold chin on his shoulder. Leaning into his ear, it whispered to him through his screams. "Too bad."

Through the blank sparking of the lights above, he struggled against the apparation. A wayward spark fell gently, almost as if in slow motion, down, down towards his bunched up sheets. As it touched, the bedspread burst into a fiery conflagration.

He screamed as the flames licked his toes. The skeletal figure pressed his cheek to its, crooning softly. "Now, dear. For eternal slumber."