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Ares on Broadway
War isn’t just made. It’s created. It can be between two, or two million. It can be a war for good, or a war for evil. It can start before the beginning, or after the end. There are those who know not what amercement war brings, and in such cases take those damages of their enemy and use it against them for their own selfish needs. Like the famous American colonel who rides out with pride in front of his men, the enemy galloping towards he and his pack. Faster and faster they charge at each other, and in the midst of all this commotion, the brave colonel fires the first shot of the battle. It hits the other leading colonel right in the forehead. A glorious accomplishment, but little does that feebleminded American colonel know what he has done. No matter how he looks at it, he has killed another human being. Then he kills another, and another. Hundreds or even thousands more he kills. He lives the rest of life without seeking forgiveness. He dies, and he sees the face of his Savior. It’s too late for him to apologize now.
Out in the vast emptiness of the universe is the town of Richmind. At times it was a happy, peaceful, and majestic town, and at other times it was weak and full of mourning. At times it was a proud town full of life and love, and still at times the town was full of anger and hatred. Whatever the people in Richmind were thinking, was the kind of town it was. For in Richmind there existed only four emotions: happiness, sadness, love, and hatred. And the foolish townspeople were too ignorant to even comprehend to even these emotions. All they did was mimic. The townspeople were so dull that even nature was affected. The sun hadn’t shown in years. Little did they know that the worst emotion was yet to come.
In the middle of this town was Richmind Theatre, which similar to the “Broadway” you and I are familiar with. It was where the most exquisite members of the town went and foolishly paraded in to see a play. Some saw themselves as so important and wealthy that they went to an entire montage of plays. The play may have been about happiness and music, or sadness and devastation. Even yet it could have been about love and romance, and still it could have been about the hatred of one person towards another, or many more. Whatever the writer of the play was thinking was what the play entailed.
Ian Reilly was this particular writer, who wrote all of the plays that appeared at the theatre. Whatever he was thinking, he wrote down. Sometimes he was a happy loving man, but most of the time he was bitter and hateful. Even though there were only four emotions, everyone in Richmind still had a very distinct personality. He became this way because he was ashamed of something. No one knew what, all that was known, was that he was ashamed. He bitterly tried to hide his feelings by writing plays about happiness and love, but everyone still knew.
One cold and harsh afternoon, he was thinking about the deed he had done. About his brother Alvin. Where could he have gone? He was thinking more angry thoughts than ever before. His eyes were turning blood red. All these thoughts of killing, and hurting other people were swarming around in his mind like a nest of hornets. The fighting, the arguing, the killing.
“What is this thought of madness entering my mind?” he screamed at himself. He fell to the floor, twisting and hurling himself around on floor, with all these thoughts in his head, none of which made any sense. Then he stopped, lying flat on his back, his eyes perfectly still. He saw the ultimate image of this emotion. The dead. All of the dead lying there with bullets in their heads and knives in their chests. It all made sense to him now. What he saw was the revelation of war.
“Writing a play of this nature would be inhumane,” Ian said to himself. “On the other hand, the revelation of what is called ‘war’ could benefit mankind. Making them aware of what damages it brings. Yes. And there must be a moral lesson.” Ian meant well, but he didn’t know what it would cause.
The play was called “Let The Brave Behold.” It was about the brave soldiers who went and fought for what they thought was right, and their enemy was fighting for what you and I consider wrong. The play starts with the lights at a dim state, and all was completely silent. The stage was massive in size, 40 feet by 60 feet at least. A young boy ran out on stage with a newspaper yelling “Extra! Extra! President assassinated! Committee votes war!” Obviously they called what we would call “Congress” the Committee. Then a second set of curtains open on stage.
There sat a large wooden table, with about sixteen men dressed in suits sitting there.
“Are you guys sure we should just go to war? This could’ve just been some crazy psychopath who didn’t like the president,” said one of the men. “It doesn’t necessarily mean that whole country wanted to pick a fight.” This man was the wisest, but no one listened.
“Do you even realize what’s descending here?” said the man at the head of the table. “This was a physical attack on our leader! On our country! Do you want us to just pretend it’s no big deal?”
“But what does fighting solve?” he yelled. “What would a war tell them?”
“It would tell them not to screw with us ever again,” the other man said. “But seeing as it is the leader’s job to take all suggestions to consideration, we shall vote on it.” They made the wrong choice. The country in the play went to war. Yes, of course all of the blood and gore in the play wasn’t real. Still, it gave people thoughts. Thoughts of pure murder and abomination.
It wasn’t easy for Ian to forget about a suggestion he made that was denied. It was about twenty-five years ago. He was about fourteen years old. His dad, Alvin Reilly Sr. was a police officer, and ever since Ian was seven, he wanted to be just like his father. As the years progressed, Ian learned more and more about strategies and how to “catch the bad guy.” It was a cold January night in 1982. It was the biannual “Bring Your Son or Daughter to Work Day.” Ian and his father were winding down for the day talking about a crazy thing that happened the previous week.
Suddenly, a series of gunshots were fired right outside the door. There were gangsters running around all over the place outside the Richmind Police Station.
“Son!” Ian’s dad cried. “Get behind that counter and stay there!” Apparently there were some drug dealers that got in a fight outside in an alley near the station.
“Dad!” he shouted. “Don’t go behind the alley! There’s bound to be a million of ‘em!” His dad crept a few inches into the alley. Then another gangster came up behind him outside the alley. He threw Alvin Sr. against a wall, and shot him in the chest four times. Ian sat there in the station, looking out the window to see if his dad would get up, but he didn’t.
The play was a hit. Every night over and over again the play was performed at Richmind Theatre. Slowly and very slowly, the thought of war crept into the innocent minds among the people. Soon the behaviors of the people were afflicted, and war and hatred flowed out amongst the people. It had already begun, and it was almost too late to stop it. As the creator of the play, Ian was the only one who could put an end to it.
On a bleak and foggy morning, Ian woke up to the sound of gunfire. He walked across his escue bedroom and peered out his window lattice, and what he saw, was precisely what he had envisioned. War. War surrounding the entire town straight across the Hystarian Bay. It was all around, and no living being could escape it. And the dead. All of the dead with bullets in their heads and knives in their chests, just as he had envisioned.
The door was busted down with a loud BANG! Soldiers with highly powered artillery machine guns rushed, destroying everything in the room, and they just...left. Nothing else happened. They were being like the colonel I mentioned. They went out of their way to destroy anything that was of an enemy, or perhaps even the enemy in general, just to get even because another alliance wasn't doing what they wanted them to do.
"This is not what I wanted to happen," Ian whimpered fighting tears in his eyes. "What was it that made me do this?" he yelled. Then, he was staring into space and trembling from head to toe, as if he had discovered something. He conquered all of these thoughts of plays with happiness and love, and looked behind the curtain of his mind. There was Alvin lying dead on the floor, knife wounds in his chest with blood and flesh pouring out of his body. Then Ian saw himself, dragging Alvin's body into a ditch and submerged him, and all was forgotten. Then he was back to himself again.
"I killed him," he whispered to himself. He was completely delusional, and he felt sick. He started stumbling around his bedroom, coughing up a whole mess of dross all over the room. He took a knife and started scuttling holes in his walls like he was ready to kill someone else. He was so completely out of his mind that he did not watch what he was doing, and fell out of his window onto the hard ground below. He took a good look around at what was happening. Bullets flying by and just barely missing him.
“Ian!” someone yelled. He desperately looked all around him trying to find out who yelled his name.
“Ian! Get over here!” the voice yelled again. Ian found him. It looked like some sort of general or colonel, like you would find in any battle. He had no idea who that person was, but he had to get coverage somewhere. So he started sprinting over, still coughing up dross all over the ground. Under all this clamorous confusion, he saw bullets zooming past and grenades flying through the air. A man was crawling at his feet with his arm cut off.
“Help me!” he wailed in tears. “For the love of God help me! Save me from the evil clutches of Ares and the underworld of Pluto!” he wailed. Then someone about twenty feet away shot him in the head. He had to make an absolute run for it. He found the person who was calling him, and dove towards the bunker they were standing in. He landed face down right in front of the person.
“I know you started this Ian,” he said. “You wrote that play. Do you see what’s happening here?” He was serious. He then pointed his pistol right at Ian’s head.
“You need to spread the word of peace! If you don’t stop this, we’ll have a war that will not incinerate until there is no one else left. Richmind will be nothing but a flat wasteland with nothing but foggy welkin on every corner of this universe! You must stop this now!”
“Now wait a second,” Ian said. “How can you be immune to these thoughts of war? You’re just like everyone else.”
“Some of us are still fighting for good,” the man said.
He understood what the man meant by this. Anyone who was fighting for good was immune, and what is good is peace. “War is all everyone else is thinking about. How are we going to desist it?”
“Spread the word by any means necessary,” the person said. “Right now, the whole village is the stage, and everyone in it are the actors. You’re going to have to play the head role, and act out to the entire village the end of your play, where the war is ended.” Ian knew what he had to do. He ran farther down the “hallway” to a ladder and climbed up to the roof of the bunker. He walked out onto the edge, and with all bravery in his heart and soul, he started to speak.
“Alas, doest thou not see what damages this emotion brings?” he spoke with a loud uproar. “There was a time long ago, when ultimate peace was a reality. In the time of our ancestors, Adam and Eve. Hast thou forgotten the peace that was possessed?” The battle slowly but affectively started to come to a halt. “The time where the lion could sleep with the lamb, and all lived in peace. Together, we can accomplish this state of peace among our people, and discover the emotion that is peace.” All had stopped by this time. All the townspeople started to influx back into the village, and they started to repair all of the battle’s damages. And the sun began to shine over Richmind once again.