text: Hi im new to reddit but i would like to share some of my stories ive written. If any of my formating is wrong please do inform me. Symphony of Symmetry The soft pitter patter of the rain was contrasted by the baritone clop of boots. It was a sound all of us had grown used to these days. From one place to another we marched. The muted browns of our heavy cloaks offset by the soft reds, quiet yellows, and heavy blacks underneath. Most of us rested our tools on our shoulders, me? I held mine at my side where it belonged. Picking up my pace I could hear my brothers voice carry over the wind. He spoke of a new job. One were we would no longer be cold and hungry, and most importantly, out of this twice damned rain. Settling by his side I asked him of just where we were going. Speaking tersely and quickly he told me it was merely a good day of travel away. I could only scoff at that. Merely a day he says. The ground beneath our feet will have turned to mud and water by then. But at last it was still too good of a job to pass up. So I could only grumble softly to myself as we walked. It was a cold and dreary night fit only for the most desperate and foolish. Unfortunately I guess that includes me, and this half dead band of misfits. As we settled and made camp for the night I could feel the pit in my gut grow deep. I hate being right, and I most definitely hate when my advice is not heeded. The soft whispers of steel through air clashed with the hissing and sharp clanging of metal meeting metal. It was a sound I wish I could have forgotten and moved past. Alas fate has deemed me it’s bitch. And so I drew the tool upon my side and waded into the thick of it. Blade singing as blood was freed from its warm prison, coating the dirt and myself as if it was spilled ink. My tool was one well cared for and despite my misgivings my body remembered the motions well. Bodies fell as if grain before a sickle. But I had grow blind to my own shortcomings, arrogant in my prowess. And as I felt pain blossom from beneath my lungs I could only chuckle wetly. A man once told me that those who killed should be prepared to be killed themselves. I had agreed with him that day. Yet as pins and needles spread from my feet and fingers and my breaths grew shallower and sharper I could only think of my regrets, of the what if’s. Of what I could have done better. But as the tears dried upon my face and the rattle of my breath finally faded I could hear a most beautiful sound. One of duality, of the good and bad, of the right and wrong. Of bright stars and a cold abyss. And it felt so right. Like a missing piece of a whole I did not know was incomplete. And so as I died I knew death. And so as I breathed again I knew life.