Ascensionism

Flash Fiction 🗡️

A civilized man castrates himself from his own instinct. At 37, when I chose to be neurotic after a lifetime of numbing, I found neurosis to be the self-cure giving me purpose, awakening all my chakras and bullshit like that. No really. I swear it worked, and I’m not so crazy that it landed me behind bars or in an asylum or anything; I’m just crazy enough to keep all my wits still mostly about me and be able to traverse living among the sad sacks - instinctless, dickless, and soulless. I learned it was never complicated; you are who you are. Don’t keep yourself waiting. I took my second chance and slayed that bitch. You can too. I worry sometimes I’ll unravel out of control, but then I remember that control is a myth. We’ll never obtain it, control that is. Anything that feels like control is a grand illusion, so I diverge here because down is up, and up is crazy.

“How many times Marlo? How many times are we going to have this same fight about the swords? The damn swords. You agree to my face, but behind my back, another sword.” Kaley had a point about my broken promises.

“Can’t I have this one thing? If you’d let me get a he-shed like I asked, you wouldn’t have to ever see a sword again.” I already knew why she wouldn’t let me get one, but this was us grasping at eroding straws that barely held our paper-thin relationship in place. Never make your foundation on straw or sand, I know, but neither of us could afford the good stuff.

“I’d let you if we had money. Get a real job, a good-paying job, and then you can collect the stupid swords, Marlo! We’re going to live under a bridge because of you, lose our home. We will work until we drop dead. Never have savings.”

It was right after one of these usual spats, which always left me feeling pathetically low, that I realized my greatest error underpinning everything. The swords weren’t the problem. Obviously, I‘d been obsessively drawn to them for a good reason, even if a mystery to me at the time; no, the problem was my lack of structure and use of those resplendently seraphic tools. I’d been looking at everything all wrong ever since I purchased that first breathtaking sword. I fell in love with that first sword and consequently swords of all kinds (pretty non-discriminatory over here, although I do have my favorites), and so a pattern of search-admiration-purchase-display naturally formed. How small-minded, but we all start somewhere. I had been merely acting as a hobbyist collector for the last three years, but I began noticing unusual, undeniable synchronicities ramping up.

The swords came to me in dreams, wakeful visions, and ads—a beautiful plague haunting my hours with a call only I could recognize as fate. The swords wanted more from me, more of me, with them. It wasn’t enough to just oogle them and research or invent their lurid backstories as some detached collector; I needed to become the swordsman for them, for me.

Whenever Kaley was out, I’d take them out of their casings, close my eyes, and move with them. The movements were contained and stiff at first; I always kept my eyes closed because I knew it’d be best to let the spirit of that sword guide me, you know? I don’t have a fucking clue about how to hold or swing a sword, and I couldn’t afford no lessons, and I had no patience to learn on YouTube. Somehow, I knew the more I leaned into trusting the swords, the better I’d get.

It was a disaster at first, mostly. But then I’d be surprised by my own skillful moves quietly mixed into those blundering movements - a promise that I was on the right track here. I just hadn’t been able to figure out how to fully flow yet, how to 100% trust. The furniture started to get ripped up in some spots, and I’d break a couple of porcelain coffee cups Kaley loved, shattering them from the force of the hit. I didn’t mean to. I should have put it away before startin’, but I’d get hit into a trance as soon as she left the house. New fights about the mess and missing cups ensued.

I didn’t give up, nothing could stop me as I was pumped up full of purpose and endorphins from the swordwork. I leveled up like nothing - really, I did, within a couple weeks, there was no more damaged furniture or anything and I was making all kinds of moves I don’t know the names of but they’d have been named for how bad ass they were. It’s crazy, but what isn’t crazy?

You know what's crazier? The fact that we don’t have swordmen anymore. I know, obviously, we have guns and instant everything now, but in human history, swords were at the forefront of skill, mastery, art, and strength. Swords packed every important value that we should pay attention to, and the warriors who mastered swords were god-like.

[TLDR: Sword history]

[[Ancient Greek Mycenaean Warriors were men of the sword who evolved into Greek infantry soldiers called Hoplite, with spears and swords fighting in phalanx formations. Then, the Persian Immortal elite soldiers reinforced their empire’s incredible might through their unmatched swordsmanship skills. The Romans’ Legionary thrust the gladius sword, spawning Gladiators who fought for survival and showmanship. The Viking Warriors explored and raided with the skill of the Ulfberht sword and axes. Knights, being Medieval European warriors serving feudal lords, were known for their code of chivalry and skill with longswords. Saracen Warriors mastered agile use of curved scimitar swords during the Crusades. Japan’s warrior class, the Samurai, practiced martial arts and bushido with a focus on swords like the katana. Mongol Warriors used saber swords for close combat as skilled horsemen. During the Renaissance, Landsknecht were German mercenaries skilled with large two-handed swords, the zweihanders. Musketeers trained in musketry and swordsmanship. Swashbucklers were all the rage as brave adventurers and duelists with rapier-style swords and flamboyant combat techniques during the Renaissance and Baroque European era. Pirates raided seafarers with short and broad swords in close combat. Cossack Eastern European horsemen used sabers in addition to firearms with renowned speed and ferocity. Shashka Fighters, known for using the shashka saber-like sword during horseback or foot combat, were warriors of the Caucasus region. And at our last stop of sword history, we have modern fencers who practice safe, regulated duels in a dying sport.]]

Swords are now decoration that make women lose their minds and ask for divorce.

It was sad when Kaley moved out, it really was, in theory that is. I couldn’t feel or think of anything outside of mastering the swords. Ironically enough, I stopped buying new swords, the source of our marital woes, but it was after the fact and the damage was done and all. I had an epiphany after all our fighting, as stated earlier, and the conclusion I came to was to live by the swords in my possession. I want to harness their energies and learn how to wield them like the masters of the past, and shape myself into a pinnacle of martial discipline. To let the swords guide n’ shape me into a pinnacle of martial discipline and chivalric justice.

I was meant to be a swordsman, and not only that, to erect the ghost of true honorability in a society of numb-nuts.

Those minutes after the last of Kaley’s stuff had been cleared out and I was left there alone with my sword collection, giddiness saturated me. Closing my eyes, I gripped my Windlass Greek Hoplite Sword and let myself lean full in, 100% fully in, as I took a swing. When I opened my eyes back up, I’ll admit the scene stirred up a bit of shock and horror in me, but that was quickly quieted away as a synchronicity, Source-message, floated into my periphery. I waded past the tufts of sliced-up couch, shreds of unopened mail, and torn, sagging wallpaper to get a closer look. Kaley had left behind one of her god-awful wall art pieces, if you can even call it art, of the ‘live, laugh, love’ variety. Our specific eye-sore was a 40-inch tall, 30-inch wide ‘12 Rules For Living’ canvas with all words scratched to oblivion except for the following:

“Live” “Outside” “Nature” “Is” “Your” “Path” “to” “Honor”.

In that order.

I knew what I had to do. That night, I slept in my backyard with only my swords to comfort me. All day, the next day, I got in and out of flow, practicing my sword work and breaking to grab a quick bite from inside the house. After a couple of days like this passed, my skills elevated exponentially because every moment I held a sword, I did so with the utmost trust and devotion. I started to fling my sword into our mango tree and perfectly skewer those suckers. That’s when I knew I was ready. After practicing with every single one of my 113 swords, my Claymore seemed to glow and twinkle with promise of fierce loyalty and legendary adventure.

With my Claymore in hand, I would never look back or back down. I took up my mantle, walked out of the house, and into a new life with my sword.

⚔️

Authors Note: Prompt of “swords” by my nephew. We drew a sword on procreate, mine is pictured. He likes drawing too and is much better than me at it. After our drawing prompt, I turned it into this story. Check out Marlo’s hair progression as he embraces sword life.

After this check out Ryan’s story about swords https://open.substack.com/pub/ryanhight/p/1-vs-1-on-the-edge-of-a-cliff?utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web