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Here is part of a story I wrote last year.

It was midday when 15 year old Ivar Jagarsson awoke in a strange place. The last thing he could recall was playing with his best friend. Wait! What's his name?! What does his face look like?!... What’s my name?... What do I look like?... Ivar had forgotten the playing; all he could think about were the explosions, fire, gunshots, screaming, and death. Yes, lots of death. Ivar began to panic, he couldn't breath. He tried to scream, he failed. He tried again, the air left his lungs in a shout, his blurry vision became clear, and he started to recognize the faces in the dimly lit room. He was at his parents’ friends’ house, on Main Street. He could see his friend, whom he had remembered, Gunnar Eriksson. "Gunnar, what happened?" Ivar asked. Gunnar replied "I don’t know dude, I woke up here just like you." Ivar looked to his neighbors. "Mr. and Mrs. Brickbone, do you know what happened?" Mr. Brickbone looked to his wife and sighed. "Well Ivar, there's apparently been an invasion. The Russians are here and trying to capture this part of the country. They're not in full force yet, so get out while you can" Ivar was stunned. "The Russians? I thought we won the war." Ivar sat in silence for a moment. “Sorry Mr. and Mrs. Brickbone but me and Gunnar got to go." The large man looked concerned. "Alone? I can’t let you do that, it's too dangerous." Ivar quickly retorted "But I have to check on my family, we'll be careful." The Brickbone's knew it would be futile to hold them back, thus he let them go. He gave them something to protect themselves. He gave Ivar a pair of dirks, and he gave Gunnar a tough looking war axe. Ivar thought it was strange that he gave them bladed weapons in a time like this, where guns were available. "These were for our son's but-" he looked out the window toward two gravestones, a tear came to his eye. "Just go, and be safe." The boys did as they were told. The world was in chaos, buildings were on fire, the dead were scattered around. Soldiers were marching in the street, walking over the dead. The sky was black from smoke, yet held an orange glow from the fire. There were car bombs going off, murder was happing right in front of their young innocent eyes. The soldiers were taking down the resistance, no, they were taking down everyone. They were killing soldier and civilian alike. You could see women holding dead men crying, only to be killed like their beloveds with a spray of Russian rounds. The pair of boys ran though alleyways tying to stay safe, always just barely avoiding detection. Conversation was nonexistent. They cane to Ivar’s house, it was dark, and quiet. Bullet holes painted the side of the building, yet there were dead Russians lying around. Slowly they entered; his home seemed nothing but dull and grey to Ivar. His family was nowhere in sight. There had not been a struggle. A thought grazed Ivar’s mind. He hurriedly went outside to the cellar. He threw open one of the double doors and ducked with a shout. His brother Jarl has fired a burst in shock from their fathers V2 Frostshard Assault rifle. “Bro, it’s me, Ivar! I brought Gunnar with me too.” Ivar shouted down the stairs. “Well don’t just stand up there with your thumbs up your asses waiting to get shot, get down here!” Jarl said in a loud, quick, angry whisper along with a frantic motion of the hand. They went down and exchanged greetings. “Well, it’s a good thing you brought him” Jarl said motioning to Gunnar. “His family is dead.” Gunnar fell back, white as a ghost. Shock and emotional pain overwhelmed him. Then Ivar, for the first time since he got home, noticed his 14 year old sister, who ran to Gunnar’s side when he began crying and hyperventilating due to immense sorrow and pain. His sister, Siv, held Gunnar and spoke to him softly, telling him it would be alright. He eventually settled down enough to sit up and was able to talk back. In fact, Siv had always like Gunnar, and had frequently talked to Ivar and her friends about him. Ivar though didn’t think it was weird though, he accepted it. Actually he thought it was kid of cute, because unknown to everyone but he, Gunnar liked her back. A loud noise came from upstairs. Everyone froze. Jarl quickly whispered to Ivar “You have to take these!” Handing Ivar two 1911 pistols and the Frostshard. “What am I supposed to do with these?” Ivar asked dumbly. “Stay safe!” his brother answered sharply. He turned to Gunnar. “Do you think you’re alright to use a gun?” Gunnar looked at him almost in a daze for a second, and then his eyes turned hard. “Yeah” he gruffed back though gritted teeth. Jarl smiled. “Alright then, and this is for you”. He handed Gunnar a semiautomatic 10 gauge shotgun, and a satchel of buckshot. “Be careful, it’s a bit heavy.” He chuckled. “It doesn’t matter“. Gunnar replied. “There’s something I need to say…” Jarl said solemnly. “They came to get Dad, but he ran. They uh...” He seemed to be hesitating to say something. “Killed Mom…” he said in a very quiet voice. ‘What!!??” Ivar said loudly. Everybody cringed. “I dug her a grave, I really don’t want to talk about it right now…” A loud voice came from upstairs, and Ivar knew they should leave. “We have to go now!” Ivar said. “Yeah, you take the guns, our sisters, and head to the high school, they’re reinforcing it.” Ivar was about to say alright, but then he noticed something that Jarl left out. “You’re not coming?” He asked. “No, somebody’s got to hold them off.” Jarl said indicating upstairs. “Don’t worry; I’ll meet you at the school.” Ivar was just about to lead his best friend and sisters into a war zone when Jarl stopped him. “Wait! Take this, it was dads.” He said, handing him a sheathed broadsword. Ivar just nodded, almost unable to speak because he felt like he was leaving his brother behind. The four of them went out the cellar door and went to the edge of the yard. Gunfire erupted from what sounded to be the front porch. Jarl was half snarling, half roaring. “Want me? Come and get me Mother ********!” Then he laughed like a madman. “Lets go” Ivar aid, not wanting to see a dead brother. They made their way out into the street. They could hear the gunfire fading as they moved further from the house. The traveled for several more minutes before reaching the high school. They were about a third of a mile to the door when Ivar realized he had dropped the broadsword about a hundred yards back. He asked Gunnar if he would carry his stuff until he got back from retrieving the sword. He agreed. He jogged back to the sword not wanting to make gunnar suffer the weight of his equipment. He reached down to pick it up hen he heard the squealing of tiers. He saw a sports car on fire headed his way. “Run!” He shouted to the others. He began sprinting sword in hand to the school. He wondered why the person driving the car didn’t just stop and get out. Fear does that to a person, makes them think irrationally. He saw the others make it, and the worse possible thing happened, he tripped and sprained his ankle. He was still a good ways from the school. The car was closing in fast; Ivar did the only thing he could. He put his hands over his head, squeezed is eyes shut, and hoped for the best. When the car just passed Ivar it was only a few feet from him when it exploded. Ivar was thrown into the air and made him flip several times. He hit the ground hard. He lay there motionless. His vision was blurry, clouded by a sea of red. His head was pulsating…..thump…….thump……...thump. He weakly raised his hand to touch the spot on the back of his head that was hurting. He felt something metal, and then he got a rush of pain, like liquid fire running through his veins. It seemed as if his head would explode. Then, he lost consciousness

Ivar awoke in a strange place. He didn’t know where he was. He slowly moved his head and realized that it was bandaged. He noticed light coming from his left, he turned his head and saw that it was a window. He looked at the view and realized where he was. He was in his old English classroom. He had spent many a boring lecture looking out this window. The once spectacularly beautiful sight was now charred and smoking. It made him sick to even look at it. A woman came in and said “Oh, You’re awake!” and then hurried out. Ivar assumed that she was the nurse. She quickly returned with his brother. “You ok?” Jarl asked in a soft tone. “Yeah, but my head is killing me.” Ivar tried to lighten the mood with the joke. “When did you get here?” He asked weakly. “About two days ago, they say you have been out for a week.” Jarl answered. Cutting to the chase Jarl asked “Why do you have the Brickbone’s dirks?” Ivar thought this was a strange question to ask at the moment, but he answered anyway. “We went there before we came home; I don’t know why they gave them to us.” Jarl had a slightly confused expression on his face. “Us?” He asked. “Yeah, they gave Gunnar an axe”. Ivar’s brother pondered over the new information. “Alright little brother, it’s time I’ve told you something. Back in the old-country, where grandma and grandpa were from, they had an elite unit. They were the best of the best. Each person in that unit was given some kind of blade to show their status as a member. This blade was passed down from generation to generation. The Jagarssons were part of it, the Brickbones were art of it and the Erikssons were part of it. That’s why we were such close friends with each of them. You may be wondering why you got two blades when you left the Brickbone’s house. The dirks are a pair so they count as one. That’s because Helga’s family was part of it too. Normally families like ours don’t intermix, but that was an exception.” Ivar seemed to understand what he was being told. “Why didn’t they just keep their blades?” Ivar asked. “Their sons died in a car wreck before either of us was born.” Jarl explained. “But then, where are they? Are they alright?” Ivar asked enthusiastically, hoping to see big old nice Mr. Brickbone walk in the door at that moment. Jarl looked sad and sighed. “They uh, died about ten minutes before I got to their house. It was a bloodbath, there was dead Russians all around the house, then in the living room was about fifty dead Russians and a big dead Olaf Brickbone with a sawn off shotgun in each hand. Helga was dead too, there was a trail of Russians leading to the bedroom and there she was, lying in a corner revolver in hand and dead as a doornail…” Ivar was in great shock. “Wait a minute, I’ll be right back.” Jarl said before he hurried out of the room, but was quickly back with the broadsword in his hand. “I think dad would have wanted you to have it.” Jarl said as he handed the sword to Ivar. For the first time Ivar pulled the blade free from its sheath. Running the length of the blade it had the letters J-A-G-A-R-S-S-O-N. It seemed far away, but he heard his brother say “Bro, were going to have to live up to our family name, the s**t storm is a-coming.

Yeah, everytime I read through it, or retype it for some reason I always end up changing more and more on it. Thanks for reading.