The Long Dark.

It was a dark day when they came for them. The screams heard across the nation were heart wrenching. Hopes and dreams shattering in a moment. Looking back, perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it seemed, perhaps it was worse.

The colors of the fall had set in fully. The long days of summer slowly trumpeting their retreat. The summer had been challenging, as most are in the sweet plains of Georgia in recent years. The boys had fought bravely, but still were found licking their wounds from the battles that seemed to never end on those late sunsets in the brutal southern heat. The ground that had been gained over the last few years was slow and tedious, but the future seemed bright.

Then came the Fall.

It seems Fall always bring bad news. I guess it should be expected. The trimming back of the fruitfulness of the harvest. The first hints of beautiful color, sending a foreboding warning that barrenness will soon cover the land. They say hindsight is 20/20, but even now I don’t see how we could have seen it coming. You never expect those dearest to you to fall so far, so fast. When our general suddenly withdrew from battle it was a blow to the morale of all the force, and as expected weak links were quickly exposed. Optimism was rich in many, in spite of the fear that gnawed at the hearts of the faithful, while some quickly drew sabres and cast blame. Who could blame them? I certainly had no idea that the outsiders would take back so much ground so quickly.

But alas, that is how the gods operate. Fickle as they may be, always protective of their beloved and always critical of the outsiders. Fearful that someone might usurp their tedious balance of power. As quickly as they had struck down the general, they set about stripping away all of his glorious works. First one cornerstone and then the next, as they gradually unbuilt the perfectly hewn masterworks of the architect they so despised.

Needless to say, the general had opened the door for this. Otherwise, the people would have revolted against the gods. However, the gods can play in the fields of a man’s heart, so long as man gives him the open door. The general believed in few closed doors.

Following his fall, the winter came quick. Icy polar blasts dropped down from the northern reaches. Darkness swallowing up the day, hour after hour, minute after minute. Fifteen of our men would fall to the cold icy blackness. The screams from that day I’ll never forget. It was as if a child was torn from the arms of mothers, obsequious fathers watching as their babes were cast out and sent to live with other homes, never again to see the lights of the fires of home.  

The darkness was all consuming. All encompassing. It stole your very soul, it’s icy tendrils ripping away at the fortitude of the most well built of places like the violence of time etched in the walls of the pyramids. With the cornerstones of the edifice removed, the buildings cracked and crumbled and questions from the faithful turned to the obsessions of mad men. 

One brief fire illuminated the men with a momentary breath of hope. Or was it hate? Seeing men turn on the shipping out of the wounded, no matter their exorbitant costs, shown a dark light on the desperation of the camp. Survival was becoming the heartbeat, all other motivations found secondary to being free of this weight of darkness.

Seeking semblance of normalcy, some turned to the mindless pursuits of endless bartering proposals with the other tribes, some fell away to more droll calculations of remunerations, and some of the purest of heart even found their eyes wandering to the opportunities of the hurricanes of winter.

The cold was paralyzing. If you stood about thinking too long your breath froze to the strands of your mustache like the persistent leak of thick viscous oil. Stoves went out. Darkness settled. The long winter made every second of every day long and tedious. Never ending. No sun, no hope, no future. No barters were made, no whispers spread, the shadows of the taken lingering large in the empty spaces of the farm. No hope of spring.


33 days until pitchers and catchers report. If you’re an Atlanta Braves fan this winter sucks.

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