Aiden | Teen Ink


February 2, 2014
By AnarchistHeartland ELITE, Washington, District Of Columbia
AnarchistHeartland ELITE, Washington, District Of Columbia
177 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
" Art is beauty everlasting "

Twas not the congregation of men ready and willing to do my behalf that empowered me, but merely the sight of them, all fixed with the same emotions that had ran through desolate valleys in my heart since I had lost my brother when I was but a mere child. They knew all too well the same anger, the kind of anger that could cause a man to grip firm the glass of whiskey from which he drank in such sheer bemusement. Engrossed in such draining thoughts that would take their toll on even the most committed and assiduous of us all. Lost in such deep prospect of losing everything that we had fought for, believed in. It was not rather the eloquence in which I spoke my words that drove them to such great lengths of loyalty, but rather the complexity of emotions that followed those words. We had been enslaved for so many a generation that we began to lose sight of what we had truly wanted and had aspired to create amongst the people. The people full knew the extent of our wars, but knew little of what ran through the heads and hearts of those engaged on those front lines. We had been enslaved. not by a dictator of some fashion, or by a government corrupt in it's ruling ideal, but by the very same poison we had hoped to consume ourselves. Power, power that could elevate a man's social status from the streets lined of beggars and charlatans, to the ruling elites of our time. The bankers, politicians, lobbyists, spokesmen and authorities that knew well to keep our heads down, our mouths and ears shut, and our eyes blinded by the red bandana of envy, rage and jealousy, that caused us to misdirect our anger and heartache for so long a time.

As I gather round these men, the sound of empty bellies, rumbling like great thunder, for perhaps some crusts of bread to feed upon in lackluster fashion. Or perhaps some water, murky and old perhaps, but to the mouths of men weary with constant war, this water may as well have come from pristine springs found only in the oasis of pure thought and harmonious nature. I gazed upon their eyes, sullen with such grave injustice of never knowing a full night's rest since the war began not months before. I gazed upon their hands, worn and damaged, from the toils of hard labor to which promise of reward was there, but delivery in physical form came not. And I looked upon the feet of these people, their boots shredded and of ill condition, as if they had marched a thousand miles unnervingly, so that they may be of such teary-eyed delight when they find a better life, a better home, a better future.

Has it been my approximation of power that has cost us much in way of progress and victory? Battles won we have known, but yet the war lingers on. My men who have stood by me since the beginning, not once of suspicion or doubt, ready to die by my side so that I may live and carry out this dream, this hope and final man's dying ambition, to see a better future and happiness for his people is one that fills a broken heart with a persevering happiness that keeps my brittle bones moving steady.

I wake up to the sweet sounds of laughter in my head, a distant echo of children laughing, playing amongst wilderness and under blue skies untainted by a single cloud, and my face lights up with a smile, as I laugh the way I used to, remembering my brother Aiden, so young, so happy and full of life, ignorant of the troubles of the world at large, not even at age of a teenager, but with a sense of glee that life was full of good fortune and love, that the rest of the world had missed when maturity came knocking and the harsh, laborious times of adulthood came to be. Stricken with disease, he had passed away, under the slight shimmering light sneaking in adrift a curtain that otherwise shielded the penetrating light from his dark and quiet tear slid down my cheeks and followed in unision by more, as if my whole body could not contain the contradiction. The pain of losing my only family left....and the smile that was left wide and spacious across his face as his eyes closed and hands that has grasped mine turned cold...

My dream is over, I wake up in the hayloft with my journal on my chest, and tears again on my face, but not as tears of sorrow, but of glee, remembering why all this blood is shed, why all this love must follow through. I fight for my brother, who knew nothing of this impending war for power amongst the people, for the last sanctity of love and hope that so many of us had long since forgotten.

Aiden....I have never forgotten...I have never stopped...I will always remember...and I will continue the fight.

The author's comments:
A shorty story I came up with one night about a man who is spurned on to fight in memory of his deceased brother

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