{"id":570,"date":"2021-05-15T09:06:35","date_gmt":"2021-05-15T15:06:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/?page_id=570"},"modified":"2026-04-29T15:38:30","modified_gmt":"2026-04-29T21:38:30","slug":"hector-valerious","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/?page_id=570","title":{"rendered":"Short Stories"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<div style=\"height:100px\" aria-hidden=\"true\" class=\"wp-block-spacer\"><\/div>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"aligncenter size-full is-resized\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"1013\" height=\"1043\" src=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/Silence-of-History-Dragon-1.png\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-1015\" style=\"aspect-ratio:0.974124809741248;width:391px;height:auto\" srcset=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/Silence-of-History-Dragon-1.png 1013w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/Silence-of-History-Dragon-1-291x300.png 291w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/Silence-of-History-Dragon-1-995x1024.png 995w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/Silence-of-History-Dragon-1-768x791.png 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 706px) 89vw, (max-width: 767px) 82vw, 740px\" \/><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading has-text-align-left\" style=\"font-size:30px\"><strong>The Silence of History<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">How do you choose what gets remembered forever and what becomes lost to time?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">This is a tale of a dragon&#8211; or rather, three tales of a dragon. After a dragon calamitously attacks his kingdom, King Papirus recieves three differing accounts of the attack. How can he choose which to immortalise in his archive and which to lose to time?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">&#8220;The Silence of History&#8221; is a fable written a style mimicking medieval poetic word choice while staying understandible for the average reader. Fans of Chaucer, Boethius, and Tolkien will see clear parallels.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<div data-wp-interactive=\"core\/file\" class=\"wp-block-file\"><object data-wp-bind--hidden=\"!state.hasPdfPreview\" hidden class=\"wp-block-file__embed\" data=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/The-Silence-of-History-March-2026.pdf\" type=\"application\/pdf\" style=\"width:100%;height:600px\" aria-label=\"Embed of The Silence of History - March 2026.\"><\/object><a id=\"wp-block-file--media-ed70fa50-d12d-4a0d-8180-b9e6c5364ad9\" href=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/The-Silence-of-History-March-2026.pdf\">The Silence of History &#8211; March 2026<\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/The-Silence-of-History-March-2026.pdf\" class=\"wp-block-file__button wp-element-button\" download aria-describedby=\"wp-block-file--media-ed70fa50-d12d-4a0d-8180-b9e6c5364ad9\">Download<\/a><\/div>\n\n\n\n<div style=\"height:100px\" aria-hidden=\"true\" class=\"wp-block-spacer\"><\/div>\n\n\n\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading has-text-align-left\" style=\"font-size:30px\"><strong>What Remains of Edmond Fisk<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">A truly masterful painting is its own world. It draws the reader in, makes them feel the heat and flame of the painter&#8217;s passion. But what if you could go inside the painting? What if you could hide in your own little world?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">What if you could never escape?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">Edmond Fisk finds himself trapped inside the <em>Chambre<\/em>, a small bedchamber with little space and few things to do. With nought but a journal to keep him occupied, he records his daily experiences as he slowly forgets who he once was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-media-text is-stacked-on-mobile\" style=\"grid-template-columns:36% auto\"><figure class=\"wp-block-media-text__media\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"681\" height=\"1024\" src=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/20260429_143853-1-681x1024.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-1106 size-full\" srcset=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/20260429_143853-1-681x1024.jpg 681w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/20260429_143853-1-199x300.jpg 199w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/20260429_143853-1-768x1155.jpg 768w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/20260429_143853-1-1021x1536.jpg 1021w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/20260429_143853-1-1362x2048.jpg 1362w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/20260429_143853-1-scaled.jpg 1702w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 681px) 100vw, 681px\" \/><\/figure><div class=\"wp-block-media-text__content\">\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">This six-thousand-word short story was published in Issue 12 of the Ryga Journal in September 2023. It is my take on the question, &#8220;What if one were eternally trapped, alone, unable to live and unable to die?&#8221;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-buttons is-content-justification-center is-layout-flex wp-container-core-buttons-is-layout-28206b41 wp-block-buttons-is-layout-flex\">\n<div class=\"wp-block-button\"><a class=\"wp-block-button__link has-text-align-center wp-element-button\" href=\"http:\/\/www.rygajournal.ca\/\">Ryga Journal<\/a><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">&#8220;What Remainds of Edmond Fisk&#8221; was also published as a paper chapbook for UBC Okanagan&#8217;s CRWR 472 course on editing and publishing on April 7th, 2026.<\/p>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"aligncenter size-large is-resized\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"1024\" height=\"790\" src=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/20260429_143924-1024x790.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-1111\" style=\"aspect-ratio:1.2962317446961957;width:540px;height:auto\" srcset=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/20260429_143924-1024x790.jpg 1024w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/20260429_143924-300x231.jpg 300w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/20260429_143924-768x592.jpg 768w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/20260429_143924-1536x1185.jpg 1536w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/20260429_143924-2048x1580.jpg 2048w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 706px) 89vw, (max-width: 767px) 82vw, 740px\" \/><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<div style=\"height:65px\" aria-hidden=\"true\" class=\"wp-block-spacer\"><\/div>\n\n\n\n<div data-wp-interactive=\"core\/file\" class=\"wp-block-file\"><object data-wp-bind--hidden=\"!state.hasPdfPreview\" hidden class=\"wp-block-file__embed\" data=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/What-Remains-of-Edmond-Fisk-March-2026.pdf\" type=\"application\/pdf\" style=\"width:100%;height:600px\" aria-label=\"Embed of What Remains of Edmond Fisk - March 2026.\"><\/object><a id=\"wp-block-file--media-7570185e-904a-48b6-a0f0-2810468ee21b\" href=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/What-Remains-of-Edmond-Fisk-March-2026.pdf\">What Remains of Edmond Fisk &#8211; March 2026<\/a><a href=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/What-Remains-of-Edmond-Fisk-March-2026.pdf\" class=\"wp-block-file__button wp-element-button\" download aria-describedby=\"wp-block-file--media-7570185e-904a-48b6-a0f0-2810468ee21b\">Download<\/a><\/div>\n\n\n\n<div style=\"height:100px\" aria-hidden=\"true\" class=\"wp-block-spacer\"><\/div>\n\n\n\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading has-text-align-center\" style=\"font-size:46px\"><strong>Older Short Stories<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">The following stories were written years ago when my writing skills were not as developed. I have posted them here because I feel proud of how far I have come. <\/p>\n\n\n\n<div style=\"height:100px\" aria-hidden=\"true\" class=\"wp-block-spacer\"><\/div>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-image size-large\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"1024\" height=\"350\" src=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/Back-to-the-Mud-Design-4-1024x350.png\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-943\" srcset=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/Back-to-the-Mud-Design-4-1024x350.png 1024w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/Back-to-the-Mud-Design-4-300x102.png 300w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/Back-to-the-Mud-Design-4-768x262.png 768w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/Back-to-the-Mud-Design-4-1536x525.png 1536w, https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/wp-content\/uploads\/2023\/03\/Back-to-the-Mud-Design-4.png 1622w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 706px) 89vw, (max-width: 767px) 82vw, 740px\" \/><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">Everyone deserves a proper burial. Lucious escaped slavery with another man, but that man didn&#8217;t survive. Lucious decides to bury his friend, even though the soldiers are still after him. However, when an old man interrupts his digging, Lucious is forced to face the reality of his situation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">This is a story I wrote for a first-year university creative writing class at UBC Okanagan in February 2023.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-coblocks-accordion\">\n<div class=\"wp-block-coblocks-accordion-item\" style=\"font-size:22px\"><details><summary class=\"wp-block-coblocks-accordion-item__title\">Back to the Mud<\/summary><div class=\"wp-block-coblocks-accordion-item__content\">\n<p>Everyone deserves a proper burial. I didn\u2019t even know the guy. We just escaped together. That was all. We didn\u2019t exchange names, we didn\u2019t get to know each other. People died all the time out there. Back to the mud. It really hurt when you got to know someone and they\u2019re stabbed the next day. Best not to know them at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I dragged the poor bastard\u2019s body to a soft spot in the woods and worked the mud. Everyone deserves a proper burial, even if you don\u2019t know them. I took out my trowel and made slow work through the moss, then the soil. The ground was cold, and my hands colder, but I kept working. I needed to get out of here as soon as possible. The soldiers would be back soon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>We escaped the camp together. We were lucky, I suppose, to escape with our lives. Many others didn\u2019t. We trekked through the woods for days. The roads were too well patrolled. But this meant we didn\u2019t know where we were going. The guy asked me our heading, and I said the capital. I wanted vengeance. It consumed my thoughts, made the hair on my neck stand up, every time I pictured the king\u2019s neck clenched in my grip. I wanted to strangle him like a fish on a dock; his eyes bulging, his mouth opening and closing, gasping for breath, but no sound coming out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>There was a rustle in the trees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I dropped down into the shadows of the shrubs. I held the muddy trowel between my knuckles, ready to fight till my last breath. That\u2019s how you survive in this forest. You gotta be ready to kill before you\u2019re spotted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>An old man stepped into view. He had white hair, a white beard, white robes, and sandals. The only thing not white about him was the cross around his neck, and that was as white as it could get. That meant he was a slaver. But he sure didn\u2019t look like it. Sandals in the forest? Clothes like some biblical hero \u2013 or villain if you ask me. It didn\u2019t matter. This preacher was about to meet his god.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I sprung from the shrubs like a snake. I wanted to dig my trowel right into his chest, or maybe his belly, just to make him suffer. But as I cleared the leaves, he wasn\u2019t there anymore. I stumbled and caught myself before I fell. He was just standing right here. I spun my head around and found him now behind me. How did he move so fast? I charged at him again. When I thought the trowel was gonna sink right into his ribs, I fell through him like he wasn\u2019t there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>This time I did fall on the ground. He could have struck me. I was vulnerable. But he didn\u2019t. He just stood there looking down at me. He smiled. The bastard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cYou look a little lost, Lucius.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>How\u2019d he know my name? \u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>He turned and sat on a log. I took the opportunity to jump to my feet and hold the trowel, ready to defend myself. He kept smiling. \u201cMy name is Azrael. I\u2019m not here to hurt you, so you can put down your trowel.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I didn\u2019t put down my trowel. He must have been trying to trick me. I kept my eyes glued to his hands, in case he were to pull out a weapon from under those robes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cHow do you know my name?\u201d I said to him. \u201cWhy are you here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m here to help you. I can guide you to where you need to be.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>That old man must have really thought he could help me. If anything, he\u2019d just slow me down. I needed to hurry. The soldiers would be back soon. \u201cIf you want to help, then help me dig.\u201d I waited a second for him to get up and help. He didn\u2019t. I bent over and continued shovelling. My eyes never left him though.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cWho\u2019s the poor soul?\u201d the old man asked, pointing at the dead body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cBe damned if I know.\u201d I shrugged and spat some dirt out of my mouth. \u201cWe escaped the slave camp together. The soldiers found us. I got away, and he didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The old man nodded. He pretended to understand what I\u2019d gone through. But he didn\u2019t understand. The slavers took everything from me. I had a home, I had a family. But that Lucius was dead now. Now I was just a slave. An escaped slave, at least. I could still fight. And I would keep fighting until everyone was dead. That\u2019s all I lived for now. Vengeance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>It was then that I heard the roar of a stallion in the distance. They were close.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cHide!\u201d I whispered at the top of my lungs. I sprung back into the shrubs. I didn\u2019t see the old man move, but when I looked back, he wasn\u2019t there anymore. For a man wearing white, he could sure blend in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The soldiers came on their horses. Three of them. They got off and looked down at the body. They said something in their harsh, tuneless language. They might as well have found a dead deer. No, worse than a deer. At least they would have taken a deer home to eat. They just kicked the body and laughed. Bastards.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I could fight them. There were three of them, but I had something they didn\u2019t. Vengeance. That\u2019s what got me out of the camp. That\u2019s why I was still alive. That\u2019s why they were gonna die.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I gripped the trowel in my frozen palm. My knuckles cracked from how hard I clenched it. I was about to strike, but a hand grabbed my shoulder. I turned swiftly around. It was the old man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cGet off me!\u201d I whispered as loud as I dared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cThey haven\u2019t noticed you,\u201d the old man said. \u201cSoon they\u2019ll be gone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cThey killed him. They deserve to die.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cBut you don\u2019t. Peace, I beg you. Let them be gone. You\u2019re not done with the burial. Once you\u2019re done here, then you can get your vengeance.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Everyone deserves a proper burial. I peered up at the soldiers once more. They hung around for a moment, flapping their lips before mounting and riding off. Not once did they notice the hole beside the body. But I didn\u2019t wonder why. Maybe they thought I gave up and moved on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>When I could no longer hear the hooves of their mounts, I crept out of the shrubs. The old man followed and reclaimed his spot on the log. I kept digging the grave, now faster than before. If the soldiers saw the hole, then they knew I wasn\u2019t far away. I needed to finish quickly and carry on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cWhy are you digging him a grave?\u201d the old man said. \u201cYou\u2019re putting yourself in an awful lot of danger for someone who will not be returning the favour.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cEveryone deserves a proper burial. Even slaves. Born from the mud, back to the mud.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cI\u2019ve been to many funerals. This isn\u2019t quite so fancy as some others, but it\u2019s definitely the most touching.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I didn\u2019t look up. I just kept digging. Faster and faster. My hands were ice. \u201cYou said you\u2019re gonna get me where I need to go?\u201d The old man nodded. I spat the dirt from my mouth. \u201cThen take me to the capital. I\u2019m gonna kill the king.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The old man took his sweet time before responding. \u201cWhy are you so angry, Lucius? You just escaped slavery. You should be celebrating!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cNo. The king killed my family. My parents, my wife, and my kids. I\u2019m never gonna see them again\u2026 He needs to pay for that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cAnd he will pay. God has a plan for him, as he does all others. And you need to make peace with that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cGod\u2019s done nothing for me. All I live for now is vengeance. I\u2019m not letting him take that as well.\u201d I looked back down to the grave. Two feet deep. A shallow grave. Maybe not a <em>proper<\/em> burial, but a burial, nonetheless. \u201cAs soon as I bury this guy, I want you to take me to the capital.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cLucius, I am not here to take you to the capital.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I looked up at the old man. He had finally lost his smile. I threw my trowel into the mud with anger and stepped up to him. \u201cYou said you\u2019d bring me there!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cI shall bring you to where you need to be, if you\u2019re willing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cWell, where\u2019s that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The old man didn\u2019t respond. He simply leaned back and his eyes wandered to the grave I\u2019d dug. I followed his eyes and looked behind. The hole was gone, the ground undisturbed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I turned back to the old man. There was nothing in me but fury. \u201cDid you do that!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cI could not have done it, for you never did it in the first place.\u201d He stood and stepped closer until our faces were almost touching. His breath was smooth and slow. Mine was sharp and rasping. \u201cTell me, what is the last thing you remember?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I scoffed and turned away. What a ridiculous question. \u201cI remember digging a hole and you filling it back up!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cFurther back. You escaped the camp and were hunted by the soldiers. What then?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cThen I fought them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cAnd then you ran away?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I looked back in my memory. \u201cNo! Listen to me! I fought them and then\u2026\u201d What happened after that? \u201cThen I fell on the ground. I couldn\u2019t get up\u2026\u201d I remembered the soldiers attacking me. I threw my trowel at one but more kept coming. There was a sharp pain. I fell on the ground. I didn\u2019t have the strength to get back up\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cIt\u2019s a noble thing, what you\u2019re trying to do. To bury a man you don\u2019t even know. Everyone deserves a proper burial, after all.\u201d The old man looked down at the body. His eyes were warm, yet cold as the grave. \u201cBut when you escaped the camp, you escaped alone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cNo. He was with me. I remember\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cDo you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I slowly looked at the body on the ground. Unmoving, cold, lifeless. I recognised it, as one would a long-forgotten acquaintance. I looked back at the old man, but he said nothing. I didn\u2019t understand. I knelt down beside the body and rolled it over to see its face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>It was my face, and it was my body. Back to the mud\u2026<\/p>\n<\/div><\/details><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n<div style=\"height:100px\" aria-hidden=\"true\" class=\"wp-block-spacer\"><\/div>\n\n\n\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading\" style=\"font-size:30px\"><strong>Grandma&#8217;s Teapot<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">Antique tea sets can be really valuable. But when they are your only remaining connection to your late grandma, they take on a new kind of value. One that cannot be expressed in dollars. But when your family takes that away from you, where do you vent your anger?<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">This is a flash-fiction story that I wrote in March 2023. It was a challenge to write a three-hundred-word short story about a character attempting to restrain their anger but ultimately failing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-coblocks-accordion\">\n<div class=\"wp-block-coblocks-accordion-item\" style=\"font-size:22px\"><details><summary class=\"wp-block-coblocks-accordion-item__title\">Grandma&#8217;s Teapot<\/summary><div class=\"wp-block-coblocks-accordion-item__content\">\n<p>I dipped the antique teacup in soapy water and scrubbed it with a sponge. Grandma sure loved collecting these old dishes. I didn\u2019t care for them much, but someone else must have. This teacup alone could sell for fifty bucks. And I had the full set.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I would have cleaned these dishes a long time ago, if not for Katie. I hadn\u2019t seen her for years. But as soon as Grandma died, then Katie appeared. She claimed the whole estate was hers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>You must be careful with old porcelain; it can shatter with even the slightest change of temperature. I rinsed the teacup in warm water and moved on to the teapot. The full set was worth at least four thousand all together. And the teapot was the centerpiece. Without it, the whole set was worthless. So I scrubbed it very gently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Sure, Katie was a full relative, and I was only her stepbrother. But she left years ago and I stayed. I stayed by Grandma\u2019s side until the end. But then Katie showed up with dollar signs in her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>There was a stain on the teapot. I scrubbed it gently. I bet Katie would have just broken it. The stain stayed. I scrubbed harder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I couldn\u2019t believe the estate was now hers. She took the whole inheritance from me. All I got were some old dishes!<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The stain was now gone. But still I scrubbed harder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>I stayed by grandma\u2019s side. I deserved the inheritance. Not Katie!<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The teapot shattered in my hands.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/details><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n<div style=\"height:100px\" aria-hidden=\"true\" class=\"wp-block-spacer\"><\/div>\n\n\n\n<h2 class=\"wp-block-heading\" style=\"font-size:30px\"><strong>The Hill of Freedom<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">A young man climbs the side of the valley. He fights cold winds and burning legs to escape his father. He does not wish to be a peach farmer. He does not wish to live the life his father planned out for him. So he runs away. Is he brave enough to continue living, or continue dying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">This is a story I wrote for my high school English class in 2020. My writing skills have changed dramatically since then, but I am still proud of this work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-coblocks-accordion\">\n<div class=\"wp-block-coblocks-accordion-item\" style=\"font-size:22px\"><details><summary class=\"wp-block-coblocks-accordion-item__title\">The Hill of Freedom<\/summary><div class=\"wp-block-coblocks-accordion-item__content\">\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">The brisk wind carrying the sweet scents of the midnight hour is a comforting smell to me. The scent of blooming flowers and distant creeks are masked by the heavenly aura of the peach farms just before the departing horizon, under the pale grey gleam of the full moon. My aching legs carry my body over the steep hill and waving grass, carrying me closer to nowhere. The enveloping feeling of a freezing midnight swim flows with the wind through my trousers and shirt, making my arms curl closer, offering whatever heat they can. If not for my own life, my only concern would be the regret of leaving, and the pain of returning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">As I climb over the grassy hill, over the wind\u2019s waves in the foliage below my feet, my decision comes closer. Will I return home to where hatred and expectation looms over every action? Or will I continue on, and perhaps not draw breath by the heat of the morning sun? The crest of this hill will prove to me if I am strong enough to continue living, or continue dying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">My grandfather forced his story on my father, and my father to me. I have heard countless tales of centuries of peach farmers living in the warm valley where the peaches grow and contentment is the only happiness. From before I even came to be, my life was already decided, and deviation was met by stoic retribution. The same as centuries of fathers before me, I was to slave away harvesting peaches from the trees. I was to learn the methods of farming developed before memory can recall. Even though new ideas and ingenuity have come and passed, the close-minded stoicism of the valley people keep their inefficient ways intact and unchanged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">I accepted my role in the world as many others did. I suppressed my individuality as my father taught me his laborious routines used to feed his family and keep them too busy for unique thought. Just as he decided when the peaches were ripe for harvest, it was him who gave permission for us to rest after a long day\u2019s work. He was respected, as he could decide who could go hungry, and who was rewarded. Who got pleasure, and who had to work. If I could speak, or if I was silenced. Contentment was the only happiness in the valley, and I thought of nothing but change.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">It was just hours ago that he made it plain to me what I was to him. It was just hours ago that the tyrant drove me to achieve what was my only thought for years. It was just hours ago that my suppressed abhorrence was released to the source of my agony. He drove me toward his desires so hard, that he convinced me to do just the opposite. It was just then that everything made complete sense and I was perplexed beyond imagination.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">I am leaving the valley. There is nothing left for me here anymore. Over the hill of flowing grass and chill wind, I make my way towards the end of my endless path. The piercing cold of the autumn wind penetrates my body and twists my movements. The stories, not just of peach farmers, but of the unknown jeopardy that lies beyond the mellow valley creeps into my mind. The unknown danger pushes others away just as it draws me in. Many ignorant men have climbed this slope before me and have not lived to climb back down. I know those stories well. They grab at my ankles and tug me back in desperation, yet I hobble on. It seems that the numbing gale aims my body home by pushing me back, but I slog against it. The raging wildfire growing from my heart and into my limbs is fueled by the frost and heats up with every draining footstep. My immense anger is so blinding that the pain pushing me back down the hill is only fueling my drive to continue. I may never see the crest of this hill. I may never see the glorious freedom behind it. But seeing the cause of my torture just one more time will kill me just the same.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">One step after another, each an accomplishment toward my goal, each another push away from him. The deep green meadow before my face is gradually replaced by a view of the full moon, never having embraced me so lovingly before. The turf below my boots flattens out as a view of the world beyond the valley opens up before me. An endless world pressed under the grey gleam of the moon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">Mockingly, I turn my head and accept one last sight of the valley before the last bond to my past is finally broken. Acres of towering peach trees and swiveling creeks are impeded by one small spot where several buildings of an ancient village stand. Closer to me, however, just a short distance down the slope, is a dark shadow of who I was. My body, motionless in the swaying grass, laying dead on the hill. The gleam of the moon behind me reveals a shine to my eye. My body, holding in my hand, a knife reflecting a red glint. From behind me comes a voice, deep and strong, that I know all too well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p style=\"font-size:22px\">\u201cWould you like a peach?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div><\/details><\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>The Silence of History How do you choose what gets remembered forever and what becomes lost to time? This is a tale of a dragon&#8211; or rather, three tales of a dragon. After a dragon calamitously attacks his kingdom, King Papirus recieves three differing accounts of the attack. How can he choose which to immortalise &hellip; <\/p>\n<p class=\"link-more\"><a href=\"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/?page_id=570\" class=\"more-link\">Continue reading<span class=\"screen-reader-text\"> &#8220;Short Stories&#8221;<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_coblocks_attr":"ArialTimes New RomanOswaldYrsa,Merriweather,Georgia,Barlow,Cormorant Garamond,Roboto,,Times New Roman,,","_coblocks_dimensions":"","_coblocks_responsive_height":"","_coblocks_accordion_ie_support":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-570","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/570","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=570"}],"version-history":[{"count":18,"href":"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/570\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1122,"href":"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/570\/revisions\/1122"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/banejanzen.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=570"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}