With matches in hand, he built a tower of wood inside his fireplace, doused it in firestarter, carefully tucking in newspaper at an opportune place, to catch the wood and kerosene alight. The utopiadic world he witnessed inside his thermometer dropped steadily. Suppressing a shiver, he struck the wooden match, and again, and again, until he finally lit it. Keeping a careful hand, he moved the match towards the paper, setting fire to it.

The firestarter lit up like a candle, but as the light fell, his face fell along with it. He endeavored again, adding in more kindling and kerosene. Making a tent out of the wood atop a large log, he set the newspaper in the center of it. Dousing the entire thing in flammable liquids, he again lit a match, and again lit the paper. Again, his face fell in intervals as the fire refused to catch.

He tried, and tried, and tried. Again, and again, and again, he failed. Soon enough, his constitution wore thin. One last try, and then he would ramp up his efforts. He lit his match, and touched it to the paper. On the return trip of his arm, he managed to singe his finger. Lifting it to his lips, sucked it for a couple seconds, and again, his fire petered out.

Leaving the relative comfort of his home, he went to the brushpile sitting a couple hundred feet from his house. Grabbing whatever looked dry and flammable, along with handfuls of pine needles, went back inside.

After making a fire he was sure would light, he reached for his box of matches, and grabbed for one. Of course, the box was empty. He got up and checked his junk drawer, thinking he had another box inside. Of course, he didn't. Checking any other place he might have a spare book, he finally managed to scrounge up a single paper match. Striking it against the book, the feeble light moved along with his arm, guiding it towards the well-soaked wood and paper.

Unfortunately enough, he moved it a little too fast. In rage and anguish, he threw the dead match into the fireplace. Getting up, he went and hid his head in his hands for a couple minutes. But when he looked up, he face lit up like the rest of his house. The dead match apparently had a tiny little live coal in it, and that touched the perfect place. The room slowly warmed, and the light creeped and crawled into the cracks and corners and crevices.

He stood and basked in his inadvertinent bastion of warmth and light, as he watched the thermometer outside drop below zero.

Sea spray spewed the man lackadaisacally and haphazardly, not caring
where it landed upon the splintered logs that comprised of the man's
raft. He sighed, knowing that help was not forthcoming. He knew that
he would either make it shore, and not have a method of meandering
back home, or he would be eaten by one of the owner's of the fins
swimming around him lazily. The man didn't know what to try, so he
grabbed a splintering warped chuck of wood that had been broken off
of his ship when it had been sunk, and began to paddle, not really
knowing in what direction, or why, for that matter. He resigned to a
manic energy of self-preservation to guide him to whatever safety he
could grounge his hands on.


The ominous and ill-boding fins began circling closer, and the man upon
the raft began to paddle with reserves of energy that his manic
stamina hadn't yet used up. He was focused upon an apparition of the
shore far-off, to the point of barely noticing an echo of
musket-fire. He turned around, and saw that a rescue ship had came,
and was firing upon the sharks that threatened him. The ship had came
right alongside the haphazard raft, and the man was thrown a line. He
was brought up, and quickly put in irons. The Spanish sailors put him below-decks,
and was ferried back to their homeland, for inquisitioning.

The bearded man looked up at his face after washing it, and told himself that today was the day. He would triumph this day, and his age-old enemy would fall.

He donned his faded flannel shirt, and grabbed his perfect axe. The bearded man then traversed the distance between his cabin and his combatant. The forest giant reared out of the ground, surrounded by memories of his fallen brothers and sisters to this ignoble brute. The giant stood, impassive, ready to face whatever fate the bearded man had for him.

"Fie upon thou, ye blackguard! Thee shalt fall, as I have done to thou kin!" The bearded man was elegant in his own standing, and aided that elegancy with his fake old-English accent. He trounced over to his foe, and raised his axe. The forest giant still stood, swaying slightly in the supple zephyrs.

The giant still stood after hours of the bearded brute's onslaught, but was beginning to falter to the ignoble man's frenzy. The axe struck and fell, struck and fell, struck and fell. The bearded man stopped his attack, sitting back to stroke his beard, as he heard the forest giant beginning to crack. The brute fled, as the forest giant swayed and bent, beginning to falter in it's stoick defense.

The old tree fell, and the ignoble lumberjack went back to mutilate his old foe.

It was after him, he was running. The man stumbled and stuppled his way away from the crashing and trashing persona that was attempting to eat him. Trees and shrubs loomed and passed the man as he ran, his supple beard blowing in the supple breezes.

It was after him, and he ran into a pond. Thrashing about, attempting to stay afloat in the inveritable deluge of stationary arboreal liquids. Soon enough realizing that he could stand up, he began the arduous task of keeping his life to himself.

It was after him, and he was starting to believe his life forfeit. Rancid howls ripped through the air as the predator began closing the distance between him and the man. The man chanced a look behind to see what he would, and what he did see made him tap into vaults of internal strength that he didn't know he had.

It was after him, and he could see the end of the forest, and the end of this demonic creature's domain. Myriads of light broke through the dark refuges of the forest, and the man began to believe in hope again. The unearthly howls began anew, and he again tore into internal stores of energy, in order to preserve himself.

It was after him, and he kept running. Safety seemed less of a dream, and more of a reality when he could see the end of the forest. The furry creature was also beginning to turn less from a bad dream into a real life nightmare.

It was after him, and he made it to the relative safety of the bastion outside the forest, to always be haunted by what happened to him in the forested landscapes.

Shouts of rage, battle-cries, and other raucous calls had perturbed the silent countryside for hours, and they were slowly and moral-numbingly decreasing. Blood mingled with the inveritable deluge, to create torpid puddles upon the battleground. Horses tranced and danced across the depressive landscape, with their riders dashing and crashing weapons upon their foes.

The knight flicked his visor up, to survey the landscape. He was the one responsible for this bloodshed, this ignoble battle. He had led his men into battle, he was responsible for them, he was responsible for all of this. He had not needed to do this, but he did, and was now reduced to watching his men fall to the sword of his enemies, with his right arm hanging loosely at his side. Rain pelted his uncovered head as he tore his helmet off, knowing well enough that they had lost the day.

He put his helmet back on, and remounted his horse. Calling for retreat, he rode on, away from the memory of his failure, away from the horror behind, away from the dead and dying men he had commanded to their deaths. The knight bowed his head, and wept.

The man tossed up his hood, for the torrential, torpid deluge had begun. He was leaving behind any trace of his old life, his fallen comrades, his old friends. He could still hear shouts of triumph as the enemies stripped anything of value off of his fellow troops. He had a name before, but he could not remember it. He had a new name now, he was Iliad.

Standing in the muck and mire, alongside the other archers in the company. Waiting and watching the enemy take slow measures, making sure that they had every advantage, as it was raining off and on. He flicked up his hood, as to keep as much of his hair dry as possible. He leaned his bow against his legs, and began to stroke his beard. They didn't have enough men, they didn't have the advantages. They were going to die.

The man called Iliad meandered on, knowing that no one could see him, knowing that no one behind cared. They had died, he had died.

His company was exhausting their inexhumable store of arrows, and it was becoming apparent that their lives were becoming forfeit. Clandestine enemies were beginning to thin his numbers, and he realized, they could not win.

Iliad continued to walk on, trying to put out all the memories that lay behind him. He walked past many people on the road, but none noticed him, none saw him, it was like he didn't exist.

Swordsmen came down in streams, ready to chop off the heads of any that stood in their way. The man tried to hide, but to no avail. They found him, and they ended him.

Iliad walked on, entirely dead, on his eternal iliad.

The trees bowed and swayed, almost as if saluting the glib elves, frolicking and drollicking about the forest. The irrepressible imps came out to dance with them, creating such a myriad of jollillity, that it was hard not to smile at the gaiety pronounced by the glib elves and the irrepressible imps.

Even woodland sprites came out of their holes in the trees to play songs of happiness for the dancing magical beasts. More and more elves began to trickle out of their hiding places, deep in the woodlands, to dance away their woes. The magic stopped, when a troll was awakened by the sprites' music.

Once he found the source of the gaiety, the jollillity faded. Everyone began to panick, until the troll began to do an awkward shuffle. The elves chortled, the imps rolled, and the pixies fell to the ground laughing. Even the troll knew he was acting strange, and just laughed.

The music began anew, with elves, imps, and sprites from across the woodlands dancing with the heavy and awkward troll, trying to teach him how to dance.