Perhaps school is turning my brain to mush, but I wrote an epic out of a snow fort fight...
Yep.
I know.
:-/
However! I cling to the idea that creativity is proof of some remaining brains. Besides, it was fun to write something in the style of the old, unrhymed-iambic-pentameter epics I'm studying in school.
The day dawned dark; the sky was lade with snow.
Sun showed just the gray bald back of his head
Left flurried, self-secure littles preparing
For white, stormy arms. Gray atmosphere seeped
Into the hearts of all. But yet remained
Three warriors. The one, a youth, declared
To two his purpose. His design meant ill
Towards all who loved him, raised him, did him good.
Some land of theirs he stole in secrecy
And sought snow castles thereupon to build
His purpose scofflaw fugitives to hold
In “freedom” but still bent to do his will.
By such he thought to earn a treas’ry vast.
By hard work first, he’d live a slothful life
And toil by breaking backs of other men
Thereby to win himself a vast estate.
To such end joined one of the twain fighters.
Together labored they to build their hall.
Betwixt they swore the fortune they would share
But to his heart, each swore to keep the whole.
That last wise warrior knew a better scheme
Which would reward the good and right a wrong.
He let them build the castle to their will,
Then he would seek to turn the profit good
To such an end he let them labor on
Thinking to make them slaves to their own work
And on their finish, conquering would serve
To punish them, and give their fruit to those
Who lovingly did raise them their whole lives
And gave own labor to raise these two traitors.
By such a scheme he waited through the seconds
And seconds turned to minutes, minutes hours.
Then was time ripe to satisfy their greed
And they began to seek out those in need
Of escape from a dire, and criminal life
By giving righteous “well paid” work of light.
Then did the third, our hero, gladly rise.
And went him forth among them as a spy.
He sought by hard work, constant, to earn trust.
And surely it did work. For such a man
Of character is surely never found,
But is compared to him, who lives in legend.
Thus was it that he came inside their lodge
And knew the secrets, strong and weak thereof.
Beyond this, knew him patience, for i’ faith
He waited hours more for them to part
And leave him master, caretaker and heir
Should aught befall them ‘fore they made return.
So sure their downfall, eminently near
The third of that bold party made his call.
He stood upon the parapet and declared
“I claim this fortress and this castle mine
For use as should be for our benefactors
That they which gave us home and health should be
Returnéd that same gift by warriors three.
If thou standest by me, come and welcome.
Our names be renowned for hospitality.
But if thou durst oppose, gird up thyself.
I will attack thee forthwith as you stand.”
With such, he waited their reply with calm.
But they knew not aught of humility
And threw themselves against the walls to fight.
The warrior threw them back and then rained down
A shower of stones and snow and ice unceased.
The two were so beset, one ran away
Deserting what he had not first begun.
The other stood and used with his strength
A shovel – left from work – became his shield.
Howe’er he stood, he could not win the wall
But stood away from reach of raining stone.
Until by chance he spied him such a tool
As might befit the conquering of a wall.
There lay a pickax where his warrior friend
Had thrown it down as he fled far away.
This he took up and quickly advanced close
And when he reached near enough for his arm
He raised, and threw the pickax on the wall.
It struck its target, and tumbled down inside
Lay the last warrior, slain for his good heart.
So thought the wicked one in triumph glad.
But lo! There stirs our hero living still.
He creeps, bleeding, weak, up to the gate.
There he grasps the handle of that ax
And pulls it from his body carefully.
He staggers, wounded, out, and finds his prey.
The warrior gaggles, frightened, runs away.
He thought him conqueror, and his opponent dead
But the man was living and pursuing.
Then came the wounded man so close in fight
He grasped the wayward warrior by his helm
And thrust him forth into a cloud of white,
He cried “Die now, thou villain! Be dispatched
Into this wild, white, devo’ring abyss.
I end thy black days here, in death of white.”
