All life is animated by a spark. This spark is the Soul, the medium that allows Life to grow. When it touches the air, the Soul burns like a fire but is not hot like fire. It is warm, and cannot be touched. This Fire was said to have been seized from the Gods by Prometheus, a Titan who once sided with the Gods. Who then betrayed the Gods by granting it, or alternatively returning it back to the Humans.

With this ‘Fire’, came consciousness, the ability to perceive the world around oneself, to interact with the world and to understand the need to survive. With all that life has to offer, being ill fated or prosperous. Coupled with language barriers among all that live, encouraging a kind of ‘Chaos’ to naturally exist, a lack of empathy to encourage survival.

Only Man needed the Fire to be given to him. Everything else already had the Fire, made peace with the world and lived in unison. Chaos and all. Man coming unto himself later on causes Man to be infinitely more chaotic among himself as well as the world around him.

A Murder of Crows

Part I: Terms.

"Ugh! Unhand ME!"

Shouted a man draped in cloth as two metal clad figures drag him out of a storage room of an incomplete fortress. Violently Pulling on the mas as he resisted in vain at their might. Grunting as they ripped their arms in the direction they were walking.

"LET. ME. GO!"

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Tale of creation.

Long ago, before text and theory ever instilled a sense of beginning, before day had ever began to flow, stood 3 great Titans locked in a stand off. One bulked by quantities of white and white like stones; one clad in a mixture of black and smoky stones; the third more decorated with exotic colors and textured. Massive stone giants, with engraved armor and wielding arm sized swords, stood facing, pointing at one another. Beyond their bodies flowed a circuit of energy, a stream generated by the movements of each titan.

Having been at the throat of the other, war locked for an eternity, they remained unwilling to flee. Each taking strikes at another with jagged ancient blades that appeared as if they were part of their massive arms. Swiping at their hard bodies, digging out chunks and spilling clear liquid upon making contact, but none ever took enough that couldn’t restore itself. With no bias towards which is a true enemy, they each attack either one within their reach. Sole intention of becoming the victorious yet never bending the tide of battle.

The Titans knew nothing but their empty conflict.

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Washed Away.

In retrospect, I had never envisioned that I would have met my demise by drowning. I dunno, I just figured i would have died any number of ways to which don’t even involve water… But eh, I guess it is unavoidable. Everyone dies after all; one thing truly democratic in this life. But looking back on it, drowning certainly wasn’t exactly what it seemed like by spectating. Watching it happen to others, fictional or real. There is a whole lot that goes on underneath…

For me, it had to have happened during the dumbest possible time; an accident. I wasn’t murdered, held against my will by another till I drowned. I was boating in a single craft, just trolling. Trying to relax - essentially just get away from everything my life for just a few hours. No cell phone service (unplanned but helped my case), no company (which seemed to had been a bad idea). All I had was a time to which I was going to go back to my life.

It… just didn’t work out that way.

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A new opportune exercise, using an opening line written by Neil Gaiman, and using your own creative ability to finish it. Many stories lie within something so simple.

Check it out - Write as story with Neil Gaiman.

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