R. Roland Finch | Updates

Simple CuRes | Trolls, Gnolls, & Pipols

R. Roland Finch — Sun, 22 Mar 2026 18:01:44 -0400

One day, Bub, Babi, and Ber sat at the breakfast table having dinner…

“There nothing in life like six-week rotted holehog,” Bub said. Drool streamed from one corner of his mouth. His clublike fingers clenched the torso of an animal best described as part boar and part walrus, accessorized with four pairs of enormous tusks and extra whiskers.

Bub smiled at Ber, his toddler in training. “You want take bite, Ber? Holehog yummy.”

Ber wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “No no! No hog.”

“What you want, then?”

Babi groaned. “Bub, can you stop talking like that? You sound like an idiot!”

“Bub do what Bub want. Speak in Old Troll my cultural right. Stop oppressing Bub.”

The cave walls shook as Babi growled in exasperation. “Whatever.”

Bub dangled the holehog carcass in front of Ber. “What you say, buddy? Eat? Please?”

“No. Only tinny.” Ber pointed to a crude jar resting on a large stone cabinet.

Bub scowled disapprovingly. “No candy. Cabbage rot stomach. Turn Ber into pipol.”

“Pi-po?”

“That right, son. Pipol. Fresh Brussel sprout cave troll candy. But if troll eat too much, turn into pipol. Can never change back. Sometimes, amateurish pipol make passable internet troll or toll booth operator. That it.”

Ber nodded, staring wide-eyed at his dad. He was so enthralled that the wormberry jam in his hand soon coated opposite sides of his face and the top of his head.

The author would like to note that the berries in question are acquired from the worm’s posterior end. A byproduct of soil digestion, if you will. The troll palate is quite… distinct.

Bub took a deep breath and spoke in the most professorial Old Troll accent he could muster. “It magic. See, troll special creature. Better than pipol. If troll eat good troll diet, do proper troll occupation, remember troll culture and history, then live good long life as magnificient troll. But, if eat too much rotten meat and live like animal, then troll become gnoll. And if sit around think too much, make simple thing too complex, and eat too much vegetable because too lazy to hunt, then end up as pipol.”

Ber giggled every time his dad said the word ‘pipol.’ Babi sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Mom think she know better, but Ber listen Dad. Truth is, troll become what troll behave. Act like animal, become dog-monster. Eat cabbage like stinky elf, become weak-puny pipol. This also why pipols like dogs so much. They closer cousins than like to admit. Pipols not so smart, after all. Like this dumb author pipol. He put picture for this story of cavemen pipols. Totally not trolls! They are pipols.”

Ber’s infectious giggling soon swept the entire room up in laughter. Even the slightly offended author, who has since corrected the photo in question.

What’s the Point?

Other than having a little fun, the simple point is this:

Culture isn’t inherited or adopted—it’s cultivated and must be sustained. Like Bub said, “Troll is what troll behave.” If we as Americans feel our culture is waning, then we should work diligently and with great focus to develop and strengthen it. We can set the foundation for renewal through our daily actions, through informing ourselves and our families, and through deep convictions rooted in our American cultural traditions.

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Simple CuRes | Introductions

R. Roland Finch — Sun, 08 Mar 2026 22:32:25 -0400

Hello, Dear Readers.

This is the first entry in the new Simple CuRes series, a spiritual offshoot of The CuRe All Letters with Cultural Restorationism (CuRe) at its heart. These pieces will be short and lighthearted. This initial one, especially, is meant to offer readers a quick sample.

To that end, the author would like to jump in and introduce you to three cave trolls: Bub, Babi, and Ber.

Bub, Babi, and Ber are trolls that live in a cave. Obviously. More importantly, they are a family.

Bub, the grumpy dad, has had a busy year so far. That’s thanks in part to Ber, who just turned ten years old. The naïve human reader might think, “Ten isn’t such a bad age.” Not so for cave trolls. In fact, ten is the “Terrible Twos” of cave troll toddlerdom. It’s difficult to imagine a more inconsiderate roommate.

Babi, the sweet, caring, loving mom—who, the reader will note, is not looming over the author in a threatening manner—has just taken a new job at the bridge down the road. Not so long ago, a cave troll collecting tolls was unthinkable. She and Bub have come a long way over the years.

Tonight, as we come upon the scene, we find this typical cave troll family nestled in the dank chill of their well-cluttered den…

Bub grumbled, “What a month. Dryer breaks. Bub fix dryer. Washer breaks. Cost half Bub’s spare teeth. Now comptooter breaks. Internet trolling gone. No teeth. No side hustle. Work makes Bub so angry his nose runs. Nothing ever goes right for Bub. Not even Bub’s name. People always call Bub as Bob!”

Author’s Note: Bub asked me to highlight that cave trolls are quite entrepreneurial, despite the claims of a to-remain-unnamed hack goblin “financial expert” that their economic engine is a purely smash-n-grab affair. Even so, Bub admits, the closest thing cave trolls have to a standard currency is teeth. Not their own teeth, of course, says Bub. Human mostly. There’s a whole turf war involving tooth fairies he could explain, but his angry nose is dripping out of control. Let’s get back to him now.

“Babi. What you think?” Bub glowered. The ensuing long silence sucked the breath out of the room.

Babi set her phone down and looked up at Bub. “What did you say?”

“Bub ask Babi what she think about what Bub say.”

“Why are you talking like that? Weirdo.” Babi puffed out her cheeks in a cave troll laugh. “You look down. What’s wrong?”

Bub ragefully forced air through his nostrils, coating the cave floor with fresh mucus. “Bub will talk how Bub wants. Besides, no one listen to Bub. Everything going wrong.”

“Whatever. You sound stupid. And instead of moping, you should be grateful.”

“For what? I’m a skinny, hairless, toothless, aggravated assaultless middle-aged troll with no comptooter!” Bub’s ears twitched and he paused, grinning from ear to ear. “The cavetick.”

As if to answer him, the cave walls trembled. The earth shuddered as though punched in the stomach by a titan. Then, silence. Then more rumbling. It grew louder and more violent. A scream pierced the cold, heavy air.

Ber, the five-foot tall toddler, burst into their midst, shouting, “Dada! Daddy! Mama! Mommy! Sittin’! Hi, Daddy!”

For a moment, Bub remembered what was truly important, thus forgoing if not forgetting his worries.

And now we must leave our cave troll trio until the next occasion….

What's the Point?

We humans can learn much from Bub, Babi, and Ber. Family is at the heart of American Cultural Restorationism (CuRe)—and of everything.

This is not to say that each of our families will be particularly blessed or that all of our children will achieve great things. Some families may be unable to have biological children. Some families may have no children at all for any number of reasons. Some families are broken and will not heal.

Though flawed, family is the best and perhaps only means by which American culture, Western civilization, and the Christian faith have been and will be sustained.

Family is the spine, nervous system, and beating heart of our culture and country. We should always remember that and guard against any attacks on or degradation of the institution of the family or our cultural pillars. Failing to do so will destroy us faster than any external threat.

Final thought: Family should not be confused with deep friendship, comradery, or other forms of “love.” Family is separate and sacred. Modern Americans often are so consumed by the search for belonging that we lose sight of purpose. That being, in part, “Why are we here in the first place?” The author hopes that Bub, Babi, and Ber—through the Simple CuRes series—will remind us all what we should hold most dear.

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2025 -> 2026: Reflections, Intentions, and Directions

R. Roland Finch — Sat, 10 Jan 2026 20:59:55 -0500

Thank you to all Instagram and Facebook followers, mailing list subscribers, and supporters! We just hit 300 on Instagram and it is appreciated.

Reflections

2025 was an eventful and lesson-filled inaugural year for Finch Fries.

Light’s Shadow, my debut novel and first in the Raiders of Light series, released in early December 2024. I had written it feverishly while “newbing” through newborn care. A time when sleepless nights and the blessing of paternity leave prompted me to—at long last—climb the hill of writing a novel. The dream. Mere months later, the realities of indie publishing had slapped the realization into me that, once summitted, said hill had hidden not a mountain but a mountain range.

In my day job, I’ve had success. And I expect to be successful in this business, whether by sales numbers, readership, or impact. Eventually. Slowly. But even when insulated by low expectations, I am sometimes stung by the corrosive silence and utter void of digital media. It can be soul draining.

So, I changed course and focused on the Finch Fries brand—transformed my mission from publishing books to loftier aspirations of penning an American myth, restoring American Culture, and building something for the future. Importantly, this shift has allowed the mission to be shared and helped by my family.

Reenergized, we homed in on the goals of launching Finch Fries Press and building context around the Raiders of Light series. We think we succeeded with the release of over 80,000 words of free content on finchfriespress.com!

The Early Days Collection, The Shatterbond Saga: Sample Chapters, and The CuRe All Letters are all complete and free to access. In addition, we published sixteen blog posts across a wide variety of subjects.

Finally, we helped author J.M. Woolverton publish the Old Hat, New Hat book set, which is inspired by the Berenstain children’s classic but aimed at an adult audience.

And we have so much more planned and in progress…

Intentions

Below are the Finch Fries priorities for 2026, in descending order:

Raiders of Light, Book 2
Children’s book (working title: Manny’s Manataxi)
Finch Fries Productions / Dollar Menu (a Patreon or similar with audio content and smaller and/or serialized writing projects)
- Simple CuRes. Continuing in the spirit of The CuRe All Letters, this content will be grounded in cultural restorationism, current events, and matters critical to America.
- Infinite Inventory. A lighthearted fantasy adventure with a Quixotic flair.
- Several short story ideas.
Finch Fries Blog (this will continue with the structure outlined here)

Directions

For existing content, please navigate the site as follows:

Buy Light’s Shadow!

Read The Shatterbond Saga: Sample Chapters. In this spiritual precursor to Light’s Shadow, the reader follows a young soldier as he returns home only to be thrust into a hidden world of ancient powers, dark secrets, and a past he never knew he had. As danger closes in, he is forced to question everything—his identity, his guardians, and his destiny. The truth waiting for him may change the fate of nations.

Read The CuRe All Letters. In this journey for truth and understanding—through history, philosophy, and story—R. Roland Finch examines American Culture and how it can be restored so that our society can move forward in unity...

Finch Fries: Vision and Mission | American Cultural Restoration (CuRe)
The CuRe All Letters | Preface & Nos. 1-15

Read The Early Days Collection. Experience a nostalgic journey from boyhood to adulthood through the edited writings of R. Roland Finch.

College Collection

“Still” | Short story. A tender journey about life's hard choices and their cost.
“The Aluminum Star” | Short story. When silly, petty revenge leads to farfetched outcomes.
“The Book” | Flash fiction. The past screams as it dies in flame.

Middle Collection

“The Canterbury Tales: The Squire's Tale - Third Part” | Short story. A fast-paced fantasy adventure.
“The Love of the Game” | Flash fiction. Memories of childhood football.
“The Voice” | Play. Silly, deadpan absurdity.
“The Price of Revenge” | Flash fiction. A man's revenge leads to darkness.
“A King’s Treasure” | Fairytale. A high-stakes game reveals human nature.

Early Collection

“Last of the Legends” | Partial novel. Earliest spiritual precursor to The Shatterbond Saga and Light’s Shadow.
“The Forgotten Hero” | Short story. Campy, Indiana Jones inspired horror.
“Mitrahnya” | Flash fiction. Set in the same world as “The Forgotten Hero.”
“The Game” | Flash fiction. A brief story inspired by the videogame Lunar: Silver Star Story.

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College Years (2006-2009) | The Aluminum Star

R. Roland Finch — Thu, 11 Sep 2025 22:47:21 -0400

Originally Written: Sep 2007

Edited: Sep 11 2025

Kyle Patton sat stalk still, his internal barometer feeling the intense pressure building in the interrogation chamber. A grin spread across the face of one of his two captors as a bead of sweat crawled down his brow, his senses screaming at him to wipe it away. As he reached to end the miserable tickling sensation, he found himself drawn to a pair of blue eyes. A fatal mistake. Menacing, penetrating, cerulean spheres of judgment bored into his mind, his subconscious now the plaything of the beautiful and seductive woman before him. Her lackey snickered derisively in the corner of the room. He, like Kyle, knew the game was up. Soon the secret would be out, and the entire plan foiled.

Then, defiance. Rage. From somewhere deep within him, a shout erupted. He remembered his training and regained his sanity. Rank, name, and serial number—that was all she would get from him.

“Is there anything you wish to tell me?” asked the woman in heavily accented English.

“Yes, actually. You can go to hell.”

“Excuse me!” A shrill, girlish voice destroyed Kyle’s daydream. “What did you just say, Mr. Patton?”

The interrogation room blurred into a slightly less intimidating image, and Kyle blushed as he remembered where he was. He chanced to take a sweeping glance across the room and saw his fourteen coworkers suffering much in the same way as himself. Some looked toward him with concern, others with glee. The solid white walls of the mock prison compressed the heat and odor of warm bodies, making breathing a laborious and repulsive chore. Kyle swallowed his embarrassment, lifting the corners of his mouth into a sheepish grin.

“Sorry, Lucretia. I was, um... I was daydreaming. Really sorry. What were you saying again?”

He cringed at the thought she might actually answer him, then grew disgusted he had asked in the first place. Lucretia’s thin, pale lips grew even more taut than usual. Daggers leapt from her eyes. The very likeness of Medusa approached, claws bared, ready to reach out and throttle him. Silence loomed for an hourlong minute. When Lucretia cleared her throat and returned her gaze to the papers spread out on the desk before her, Kyle heaved a sigh of relief.

“Mr. Patton. Kyle. I’ve asked you to please call me Lukie. We’re all friends here. I’m only two years older than most of you. Now, as I was saying before the interruption…” She paused for effect, and the room sank into an unearthly level of silence. “As Resident Assistants, it is your obligation to allow incoming undergraduates the opportunity to feel at home in an unfamiliar and frightening environment. My duty as Residence Hall Director is to direct the affairs of the residence hall…”

Oh, really? thought Kyle. Please stop talking. Please.

Despite his wishes, Lucretia’s voice droned on. The hot, sleepy air made his head fuzzy. Struggle as he might, Kyle eventually succumbed to the overwhelming and seductive wiles of his own imagination.

He was back in the interrogation room when— “Sorry, man.”

Kyle’s brain remained stuck in neutral for a moment before he mumbled, “No problem.”

A fellow RA named Stan had bumped into his knee while walking past, rousing him from semiconsciousness. The meeting’s end had saved him from the embarrassment of another, perhaps fatal, outburst. He rose from his seat and turned to file out with the rest, heart sinking when Lucretia called his name. Shoulders stooped, he approached her desk.

“Did you need me for something, Lukie?”

“Thank you for using my preferred name, Kyle. However, we must talk. I will not stand to be disrespected by anyone who reports to me, Mr. Patton.” Her thin frame shook as she spoke, black curled hair appearing more serpentine all the while. “One more incident like the one tonight, and I will have to find myself someone more capable of filling the Resident Assistant position. And from now on, I want things done my way or not at all. Have you anything to say on your own behalf?”

Kyle wanted to ask how someone could be so inane and utterly autocratic, but he decided against it. He replied instead with an apology and an unspoken declaration of war. Once dismissed, he turned on his heel and strode away like a lion. Mind aglow with pent up hatred, he moved through the narrow hallways swiftly, coldly. Lucretia had crushed the career of more than one RA already. He needed to move clandestinely to crush his enemy first.

Lucretia Morbury. His nemesis. The grudge between them had grown out of a single incident: the undoing of Amanda Livingston. Poor Mandy. A day of infamy.

***

That night, Kyle had been hoping to stop by Amanda’s room. To buy himself time, he had already fudged marks next to the two remaining floors on his checklist.

“I’ll check twice tomorrow night,” he reasoned. Using a less-trafficked stairwell, he descended one floor to the third. At the first hallway intersection, he turned right and almost yelped.

Only twenty feet away, directly in front of Amanda’s room, stood terror itself. Lucretia, prowling the hallways for more victims. Plans derailed, he had chosen the next best course of action: he retreated. Rapidly. And stupidly. Instead of fleeing back to the stairwell, he had gone down a different hallway that curved away from Lucretia’s view. Raw animal instinct. Fight or flight. Seek concealment. He scolded himself. Coward.

Thanking his good graces that Lucretia’s attention was directed at something other than him, he moved cautiously but quickly. A hanging dread caused him to constantly look back while he hurried down the grey-carpeted path. Turning just in time, he barely missed slamming into Amanda, who was carefully pinning colorful messages to a bulletin board. Her petite frame shook with laughter when she saw him nearly fall flat on the floor in his swerving attempt to avoid a crash.

“Have a nice trip? Doesn’t the Army require dexterity or something?” she quipped, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“You mean agility, right?” Kyle slid in close to her and examined a strand of auburn hair. “You sure you’re not blonde underneath here somewhere, Mandy?”

She punched his arm. “Jerk. Not funny.” She laughed. “What are you up to?”

“Everyone’s favorite Gorgon was down by your room, so I changed course and headed this way.”

“You mean Lukie? Not very nice, Kyle. So, basically, you ran away.”

“Lukie. So gross. No, I strategically withdrew.”

“Sounds an awful lot like running away to me.”

“Alright. You win this one. Just don’t get used to it. Won’t last. Anyhow… While I was pretending to be French and planning my resistance, you tried to tackle me.” Mandy sent two more quick jabs his way, and he half-heartedly dodged them. He pulled her in snugly. “You should be nicer to me, Mands.”

She made no effort to get away. “Why?”

“Because I’m such a nice guy.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

“Never told a lie in my life.”

“Too bad, I really like liars.”

“Did I ever tell you I’m compulsive?”

Mandy giggled. “No, you didn’t. But I guess that means you win, doesn’t it?”

“You’re admitting to me winning? That’s a first.”

“Don’t think I didn’t let you. Besides, I know how to shut you up.” On tiptoes, she kissed him.

A squeaky and forced cough shattered the moment. Lucretia’s normally taut lips crinkled into a rarely used, ugly smile and her eyes gleamed jealously. “Shirking your Resident Assistant obligations, I see. I most certainly do not approve of this kind of behavior.”

Kyle spoke first. “Sorry, Lukie. It’s my fault. I was on rounds and I—“

She interrupted him. “I’m afraid it’s no use, Kyle. I have already uncovered another atrocious little secret in Amanda’s room.” She held up a bottle of Bailey’s Irish whiskey.

Mandy turned scarlet. “What were you doing in my room?”

Lucretia’s smile grew wider and even more nauseating. “I wished to converse with you about the new room key policy. When I knocked at your door and you didn’t answer, I took the liberty of trying the knob. Imagine my horror as I look into your room and instead of you, I find this. Such a shock! You were a wonderful Resident Assistant. A pity, really.”

Kyle could only listen, his mind swarming with a million stinging utterances never meant to be let out.

Mandy’s voice quivered. “That was a present from my grandma, Lucretia! She gave it to me when she was here a week ago, and I took it because it was a present. It’s not open. I left it on the shelf where she put it. If you can’t let me keep it, dump it out. But you can’t fire me for this!”

“Ahem. I’m sorry, Amanda. As your friend, I expected more. If you were just another resident, I would consider that option viable. But unfortunately, you are a Resident Assistant. Examples must be set and rules upheld.”

Lucretia’s voice emanated a frigid mirth. Her smile was gone. “If you had come to my little get together last weekend, your grandmother could have learned directly from me that her gift was inappropriate for a Resident Assistant to possess. I suggest you begin searching for a new place of work and residence. But I’m not heartless. I can give you one week, which is putting my neck on the line a little. See, I do want to help you.” And then she slithered away, her venomous bite delivered.

Kyle could only stand stiffly, his eyes wide and heart racing. She couldn’t be serious! He watched as tears welled in Mandy’s eyes.

“I need this job! What am I supposed to do, Kyle?”

He could only wrap his arms around her and tell the truth. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

***

A sharp ding brought Kyle back to the present with a snap. Once off the elevator, he felt the tightness in his body fade slightly. The fifth floor of McAllen Hall represented at least some haven from the tyranny of Lucretia and her lackeys. Not that it was a great place to live. Not at all. His room sat almost directly across from the fifth-floor restroom. Ah, the aroma! Still, it was home. Better than the windowless sauna he had been sitting in only moments before.

Outside the door, he was greeted by his friend and counsel, Charles “Charlie” Blake. Charlie stood leaning against the wall, swiping the arm of his ROTC uniform across his forehead.

“Damn it’s hot in this place. Hey, Patty, what the hell you RAs need meetings for anyway? Is learning to babysit freshmen really that hard?” His loud voice carried through the entire wing.

Made paranoid by the staff meeting, Kyle quickly silenced him. Swiftly opening his door, he beckoned his friend inside and slammed it. He simultaneously threw his backpack on the floor and himself into his recliner.

He barely whispered. “Dude, keep it down in the hallways. Someone might be listening. I can’t afford to lose this job, Charlie.”

His friend uttered as many sounds of disgust and expletives as he could manage in ten seconds, and then he started to laugh. “What the hell are you talking about, man? Listen to yourself for Christ’s sake. It’s damned ridiculous.”

Kyle glared, flipping the bird to him. “Laugh all you want. Lucretia and her little stooge, Trevor Hinckley… They always find out about everything that happens in here, sooner or later. Plus, I’m on her bad side right now. She freaks me out. Especially since Mandy got axed. Dude, shut up.”

Charlie had been laughing the entire time Kyle was speaking, only stopping now. He smacked his lips and lifted his eyebrows.

“Well, I actually just came by to see if you wanted to play some Halo or watch a movie or something.”

Kyle’s patience diminished just a little more. “Well, I could. If my Xbox hadn’t decided to die. Again.”

“No games, no movies, too much homework, ROTC, and a bitchy boss. Sucks to be you. Want to have a smoke then?”

“I can’t. I’m on call. Stuck in the building tonight,” muttered Kyle.

Charlie sighed. “Well, I guess I’ll head out then. See you later, Patton.”

Kyle clenched his fists. He knew he should just let it go, but his frustration got the better of him. “Hold on. Take a look at this. See what you think.” He handed Charlie a sheet of paper and a key. “Oh, and Charlie… Room 106.”

“Operation Perseus. You serious? I mean, I’m sorry about all that with Mandy. But it wasn’t your fault, Patton.”

“Charlie, it has to be done. If you won’t help, I can always find someone else.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I could, but you’re the best. Besides, she has a thing for you.”

“Don’t they all?”

“If you say so. Are you in or out?”

Charlie sighed. “I suppose. Your crazy ass is going to get my dumb ass in hot water. And you’ll just laugh.”

“Yep, that’s about the sum of it. And Charlie...”

“Yeah?”

“Green is for ganja.”

“Copy.”

“Good luck, Charlie.”

“Okay, we’ll see what I can do, General.” And he left the room.

***

Charlie checked his watch. “What’s taking him so long? Oh no! Not now.”

A fire drill—another hassle for the on-call RAs. Kyle thought of taking his homework with him but quickly decided it was a useless idea. He locked the door as he left his room, checked the hallways for stragglers, and then took the stairwell down with the rest of the students.

Five other RAs, Lucretia, and Trevor Hinckley had gathered near the benches that sat in front of McAllen Hall. Kyle spotted Aaron Wainwright, a fellow RA and enemy of Lucretia. “Hey Aaron, any idea what’s going on?” The alarm had already stopped blaring.

Aaron rolled his eyes. “Not really. It’s either an off-schedule drill or someone pulled it. Either way, someone is an idiot. I was on a Skype call with my fiancée. I’m annoyed.”

Unnoticed, Lucretia and Trevor had slithered close. “Incorrect,” intoned Lucretia. “There are no such things as idiots, only idiotic actions.”

“I agree with Lukie,” whined Trevor. “Stereotyping never does any good.” He flashed a toothy grin at Lucretia, who returned it by scrunching her nose.

Kyle’s blood boiled. He felt cold waves of hatred emanate from Aaron, who had also lost friends from McAllen because of Trevor and Lucretia. Aaron’s tall, broad figure loomed over the toadies. Like the rumblings of a volcano before it belches flame and ash, he exhibited the signs of imminent catastrophe.

Just then, Charlie arrived. He was beaming. His sudden appearance distracted everyone long enough that the tension on both sides dissolved. Enamored, Lucretia let her eyes linger on him. Aaron quickly distanced himself, muttering apologies laced with sarcasm and loathing.

Charlie slung his arm around Kyle’s shoulder. “I need to borrow this guy for a minute, Lukie. I’ll give him right back.” Charlie flashed a charming smile and pulled Kyle out of earshot. A fire truck’s lights blinked in the distance as it approached, responding to the alarm.

“So, buddy, about that little project you set me on,” he said in hushed tones, pulling Kyle out of earshot. “I got it all worked out. The Gun needs to be here in about an hour. Maybe forty-five minutes. Don’t forget.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course, brother man. I’ve got you. Watch me work.”

“I owe you.”

“Damn right.” Then, chuckling, he smoothly slipped between Lucretia and Trevor. “Wanna hang out, Lukie? Trevor can wrap things up with the fire department. Right, babe?”

Lucretia, stunned at first, quickly regained her senses. As she walked away with Charlie back into McAllen Hall, she squeaked out instructions and never once looked back. “Everyone can go back inside! But not you, Trevor. Please talk with the fire department. They’re here, by the way. Thanks!”

Trevor, who to Kyle seemed terribly lonely and shaken in his life’s purpose, gazed longingly after them as though considering whether to stalk Lucretia from the shadows like Gollum did Frodo and the One Ring.

Smirking, Kyle flipped open his cell phone. “Hey, Linus. Remember the thing we talked about? Well, can you be at McAllen Hall in about an hour? Yeah? Thanks, man. See you. Bye.” With a click, he sealed the fate of hundreds. If he succeeded, sadly, most of them would never know.

***

A week later, Kyle, Charlie and Linus “The Gun” Gunn sat together at their favorite drinking spot in quiet celebration.

“V-day! The look on Miss Morbury’s face when she dragged her ass through McAllen’s front doors,” Charlie rejoiced. “Mission accomplished, General.”

“For sure. But you have to tell me, Charlie. How did you get into her room?” prodded Linus.

Charlie grinned. “Fire alarm. A bit of improvisation.”

Linus grinned at Charlie. “The General didn’t know at all?”

Charlie shook his head and whistled. “Nope. After that, it was divide and conquer. Got her away from Hinckley and convinced her I wanted to be more than friends. Desperation, Patton, sheer desperation. She would’ve done anything I asked. Never knew what hit her.”

Kyle and Linus laughed.

“Another successful mission. I’m glad I could help, Patton. I’m just sorry this didn’t happen before the whole Amanda thing,” said Linus.

“Me too, Linus. Me too. Thank you, though. Couldn’t have pulled it off without that badge of yours.”

“Yeah, well. Your dad got me into the academy. Anyway, I got to go. Until next time, Patton. Later, Chuckles. See you boys around.” His deep blue police uniform blended into the darkness as he strode toward his unmarked cruiser.

“See you around, Gunn.”

The momentary quiet was broken when Charlie slapped his knee. “Anyway. Back to my moment of glory, damn it! Green is for ganja. Ha! Tricky bastard, Patton. But you’ve got nothing on me. After I pulled the alarm, I snuck the container into her room.” Kyle rolled his eyes and smiled. He had listened to his friend’s retelling of events three times already.

“While you were out here with Trevor, me and Spooky Lukie went to her room. A little conversation, a lot of charm. I hinted we could have some fun. Lighten the mood by lighting up some weed. It hit her hard. She was all giggles. Totally oblivious. Meanwhile, I’m over here puffing on tobacco when Gunn showed up. And the rest is history.”

“Beautiful. Thank you, brother. Hmmm, maybe there’s something to this whole Don Juan thing after all.”

“You know it. Apparently, her bosses didn’t like it much that one of their RHDs got busted smoking pot. I bet they were even more disappointed when they found out she kept her stash in her room.”

“Probably so.” Kyle drew in a deep breath. “Ah, the smell of freedom!”

“I guess The Gun let her off with just a report.” He made air quotes. “He’s so by the book. But at least she won’t bother you anymore.”

“Yeah.” Kyle’s conscience, somewhat in spite of himself, was relieved by this last bit of news. His plan had been a complete success. Humiliating Lucretia further had no value to him. He would always miss his on-the-clock interludes with Mandy. But, after all, he could still see her every day. She had begged her way into being an RA in a different dorm. Vengeance, love, and glory.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a small metal object and tossed it to Charlie.

“What the hell is that?”

“The aluminum star. For being a dirty bastard above and beyond the call of duty.” Grinning, he handed Charlie a wooden pipe and a tobacco pouch.

He shuffled slowly to gaze upon the moonlit lake. Standing silhouetted, arms behind his back, Kyle slipped into the boots of General George S. Patton. The sundered battlefield rested before him. The place where his men had fought and won—sacrificing for each other and for him, their commander. Sighing, he basked in the glory of his conquest then smoothly reentered reality.

Liberty, he mused, is truly a lovely lady.

He pursed his lips and smoke rings floated softly into the night air like gossamer. “Now for Mister Hinckley.”

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Middle Years (2002-2005) | The Canterbury Tales: The Squire's Tale - Third Part

R. Roland Finch — Fri, 05 Sep 2025 17:36:32 -0400

Robert Finch

Nov 30, 2003

Mrs. Johnson

Period 5

And the third part begins with the son of Algarsyf and Theodora, widowed emperor and deceased empress of Tartary, who is on a quest to discover the meaning of a vision his father saw in the magic mirror.

Dismounting from his horse, Dendala methodically gathered the clothes and other things he would need during his stay. When he finally had everything, he reached up to his steed's ear and turned a small pin. Slowly, the horse faded until it had completely vanished. Tossing a worn cloak over himself, he began picking his way across the muddy ground.

As he walked, Dendala paid little mind to his surroundings. It seemed he had seen a million border towns while campaigning with his father; and this one appeared far from extraordinary. His mind was focused more upon the road behind him than the road ahead. He had come here at the vehement behest of his father, and he had done so respectfully and nearly without question. For Algarsyf, though, nearly was not good enough. Recently, the old man had become increasingly paranoid. It seemed his past victories were no longer enough to satisfy him. Now, he insisted on removing all opposition from his path. Dendala remembered the night of his departure all too well.

***

"Do you not respect me? Are you even a bit grateful for all I have done for you?" Algarsyf asked sternly. His stone hard face showed little emotion aside from what his eyes held.

"Yes, Father, I do and I am. That is why I question this command," said Dendala, trembling. "I simply believe that you have begun to put too much worth in what the mirror foretells, and too little in what your people desire.”

"You are mine to command! I have cared for you and held you under the protective wing of my estate. Do not dare to question my authority over you, or my people." The aging man stepped forward to stand nearer his kneeling son. "You will take only small weapons. They are easier to conceal. I will loan you Aramis for this small ordeal. I think you will find flying to be quite enjoyable.” His tone had become quiet again, but it was far from kind.

"I refuse to do this, Father. Flying on the brass horse, Aramis, is a small boy's dream. It was mine long ago, but not any longer.” Rising up, Dendala stared into his father's eyes for a small moment before turning to stalk away. As he reached the stairs, his ears caught the old man's call. He stopped momentarily and spoke without turning to face Algarsyf. "Since Mother died, you have been obsessed with power. I will not feed the evil that festers inside your soul."

Algarsyf ambled closer, replying, "Your mother understood the power of the mirror. She also understood my hope of gifting you with a grand empire, free of all opposition, which you could rule as you saw fit. It was her dying wish for me to pass my title to you. Do not cause me to forsake that hope." He paused a moment before adding, "And this mission has nothing to do with war or opposition. The mirror said something of great importance is in that village, and that you are the only one I can send if I wish to find it. " Dendala nearly vomited from the reek of falsity wafting from Algarsyf’s words.

"How can I know that this is true, Father? Lately, you have not been yourself. Let the mirror be the judge. Let me see what it foretells.”

"You dare to question my integrity as well? It is just as...”

"Just as what?"

“It is not important! As emperor of this realm and as your father, I command you. Now go!" His voice was hard and cold.

"Very well. I shall do as you wish." A smile began to inch its way onto Algarsyf's face, and Dendala felt the need to stifle it. "But, before I go, know this, Father. I want neither your throne nor your treasures. My desire is for something far greater. I follow this order in the hope that I might find it, and that your eyes may be opened to it as well." Then, Dendala turned for one last look and a small bow before leaving the room, and his emperor, behind him.

***

He was jolted out of his reminiscing when a gatekeeper suddenly popped out from behind the wooden fence that surrounded the town.

"Hello, traveler," he said with a toothless grin. "We don't get many passing through here. May I ask what business you might have?"

Dendala smiled softly, trying not to make too much of an impression. "I am here for a short rest and to have a bite, and perhaps to sample some ale as well. My travels brought me here, nothing more."

"Very well. You may pass. There are two inns in this little eyesore, my lord. I recommend The Green Troll. Good ale and a fine meal. Tell the innkeeper I sent you. Maerin's his name. Mine’s Owain. Oh, good day and fair travels to you, kind sir." With another quick smile and a nod of appreciation, Dendala was on his way.

Dendala scoffed. The green troll on the sign before him made it plainly obvious he had found the inn. It wasn't much to look at from the outside, but as he entered, Dendala immediately noticed the cheerful atmosphere that permeated the place. Not so surprising to him, there were a half dozen men in the tavern, all sampling Maerin's ale. “Perhaps sampling all of it,” he chuckled to himself.

As he approached the innkeeper, he noticed right away the man's immense girth. It almost made him laugh. His uncle Cambalo had always said: ''Never trust a frail innkeeper, my boy. It may sound absurd, but by my father's name, it's true!"

Maerin greeted him with a heavy handshake and a silly grin.

"The gatekeeper, Owain, told me you run a fine establishment here. I could use a room, a meal, and some nice cold ale. If you've got a bath, I could use one of those, too," said Dendala, trying to hide his accent.

As if reading his mind, the innkeeper said, "I can't say I've heard anyone speak quite like that before, though it does sound familiar for some reason. Where you from, traveler. The west?"

Sweat began to bead on Dendala's forehead. "I'm not really from anywhere. Not anymore, at least. I've been wandering all of Tartary since I was of an early age. My parents were killed during one of the royals' wars and, until five or six years ago, I traveled with my uncle. He was killed by one of the emperor’s soldiers."

Dendala worried that he had layered his charms and lies too thickly. But, he reasoned, Maerin would have a lot to think through before he could spread the word to someone else. And, with hope, it would take his mind away from accents and the like.

"I see. We've gotten a few here like you before. It is said that Algarsyf was always a fair and just man, and we all believed it true. In past years, though, the rumors coming from Tsarev have been a little dark." He spoke more quietly with every word until Dendala had to lean in to hear him. "I can tell you this, though, boy. If you hold a grudge against the emperor, you had best be on your way. Many here would lose their head for the empire and split a head to protect it.”

Dendala shook his head. "No, my friend. I hold no grudge. I have qualms with no one, so be at ease. I simply wish to stay the night, and then I'll be on my way. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough." Maerin nodded. "Follow me, young man. I'll show you to my finest room." Plopping a sweaty hand on Dendala's shoulder, the innkeeper led him down the hall.

***

Several hours later, after a meal, a bath, and a good drink or two, Dendala returned to his room. Sitting in the beautifully carved rocking chair that was, according to Maerin, one of a kind, he began to toy with the ring tied around his neck. His aunt, Canace, had given him two gifts just before her death, telling him earnestly to keep them secret. He had, and his secrecy had served him well. The ring had been a helpful tool on countless occasions.

Canace's other present was a young falcon. At first, he had thought this strange, as falconry was never one of his talents. That was only until he learned the power of the ring. Whosoever put it on their finger instantly knew the healing powers of plants and herbs the world over and could speak to all the creatures of the earth. Canace claimed the falcon was the great-grandchild of a couple she had helped reconcile after teaching the male falcon a lesson in fidelity.

Inspired by her story, Dendala had named the bird Arden.

The two had been nearly the same age when brought together, for birds age more quickly than do men. Their friendship had grown strong, despite them being animal and human. It remained so. The bird was probably somewhere near; he never strayed far from Dendala's side, no matter the circumstance. He was possibly the only creature under heaven, beast and man alike, that Dendala thought of as trustworthy.

More important than all of that, the ring was the one thing his father did not know about—his one, small advantage. He began to wonder if perhaps Canace had seen the seeds of corruption the mirror was planting in his father's heart. Now that he pondered it more carefully, he realized that she had often hinted thus. It didn't matter, though. He had to find whatever it was the mirror wished him to find before his father was completely consumed by his greed for power.

A sudden crash and his door being knocked completely off its hinges startled him beyond belief. Before he could reach to unsheathe the dagger hanging at his waist, he found himself facing two spearheads. The men wielding them were trained soldiers, something rarely seen on the southern border. It took Dendala a moment to recognize the insignia pinned to their right breasts. A pendant made of gold and molded in the shape of a hand—the symbol of the Questioners. Theirs was an organization rarely spoken of even within the palace walls. They were said to be spies and assassins working directly under the emperor that had been doing so since before Cambiuskan's reign. Few believed they existed, and fewer still desired to know differently. If the Questioners did exist—and from where Dendala sat there was little doubt—then he most certainly had reason for fear.

There were three men standing before him. The two with spears seemed to be taking orders from the one behind them. The leader, who was distinguishable by the slightly darker color of his uniform, stepped forward.

The captain wore a smug grin. "Dendala Kertima?"

Dendala nodded. "By decree of Algarsyf Kertima, Emperor of Tsarev, Divine Ruler of All Tartary, you are hereby sentenced to death."

The prince’s fear and dread exploded into rage as the Questioner uttered the decree, and he bellowed, "You truly expected that I would believe that? Are you some kind of finely dressed brigand?" His voice was hoarse and he shook with anger. "I am the crown prince. I am heir to the throne. You have no authority here."

The man reached inside his uniform and revealed a piece of folded parchment.

"This little document and this here," he pointed to a wax seal and a signature that were unmistakably his father's, "are enough authority for me, my lord." His men snickered and he turned to face one of them. "Tie him up and gag him. No one here will question the doings of imperial soldiers."

Still caught in disbelief, Dendala could not will his body or mind to action. Only when one of the men grabbed his wrists to tie them did he realize what was happening. He knew he had to fight. If he did not, then he would most certainly die.

Opportunity! The man lowered his guard for only a moment as he began to wrap the rope around Dendala’s arms.

Seizing the advantage, Dendala grabbed hold of the man and put a dagger to his throat. The soldier with the spear lunged forward, aiming for Dendala's head. Quickly, the young lord shoved his hostage into the other attacker and rolled to the floor. Picking up his would-be killer’s spear, he slew them both with one rage-fueled thrust.

In the confusion, the commander had unsheathed his sword. Quickly and elegantly, he moved forward to strike. Drawing another dagger from his belt, Dendala quickly threw it. The knife found its mark, and the Questioner was dead before he hit the ground. Taking no time for thought, Dendala then gathered all his possessions, tied them in a bundle, and rushed out of the room.

As Maerin was nowhere in sight, the prince decided to lay aside a few coins where he was sure they would be found by the innkeeper only. He then left hastily. Calling for Aramis as he plodded through the mud, Dendala rushed to the town gate. Not stopping to speak to anyone, he dashed through the rotting frame and towards the spot where he had left the brass horse. Immediately, he could see Aramis. The moonlight cast a faint light across the brass mane and back of the synthetic beast, creating a surreal sheen that seemed to mock nature. Throwing his leg across the stallion, Dendala hurriedly manipulated the pin in Aramis' ear. With a blast, the two of them were flying towards Tsarev.

***

As he rushed through the royal court and palisades, Dendala was met by Arden. Perching atop the young man's shoulder, the falcon began to speak. "You had me worried, my friend. Rumor had it that you had been killed while pursuing a band of thieves in the far south. Your father has already begun preparing for your funeral."

Dendala stopped dead. "So, it's true. My father truly has forsaken me," he whispered to himself.

"What was that? What did you just say?" asked the falcon.

Dendala was buried in thought. "Nothing. It is of no importance." I only left the palace two nights before. How could rumor spread unless he counted on me being dead? Fool! There is no time. I must speak with him. "Arden, I must speak with my father. Do you know where he is?"

Arden spoke softly. "Yes, he is in his chamber, as is custom.”

"Thank you, Arden. I must hurry. I finally know what must be done." Then, he rushed on towards his father's bedchamber, intending to end an era of tyranny.

When he passed through the large doors, he found his father staring intently into the magic mirror. The shock or disgust that should have crossed his face when he saw Dendala was not there. Instead, there was a serene look of complete contentment. The mirror was giving Algarsyf that which he desired—a taste of the fruits of power. Dendala knew, however, that the shock would come when Algarsyf found the object of his lust whisked away—when he found the mirror destroyed.

"Father, give me the mirror!" Dendala demanded. "I will no longer allow it to corrupt you."

Algarsyf noticed him now. He blinked, appearing drowsy, as if awakened from a long sleep. "So, you have returned. My forsaken prodigal son. The mirror foretold that I would be free of all opposition if I sent you there. I do not know why prophecy failed me, but I assure you, I will not fail myself. Your rebellious heart must be stifled, and you destroyed. Just as your aunt and uncle were... just as your mother was." He clapped his hands and two royal guards appeared. "Kill him."

The men approached simultaneously. They moved with a sleek and deadly grace. As Dendala cautiously engaged them, he whispered to Arden, "Get the mirror, my friend. It must be destroyed. I can handle these two."

The falcon swooped around the room, momentarily drawing attention from the two soldiers and Algarsyf. Sensing providence, Dendala rushed at one of his enemies and backhanded him. Then, before the man could regain his balance, Dendala knocked him to the ground and slit his throat with a dagger he produced from his boot. As the other soldier moved languidly toward him, he took the time to unsheathe a fourth and final dagger from a strap around his arm. Not considering that the other man was unarmed, Dendala lunged at him with a fierce onslaught. The guard dodged all but one blow and then unleashed an attack of his own.

While Dendala’s fight continued, Arden was at work removing the mirror from Algarsyf’s grasp. After a series of swoops and bloodying attacks, the raptor was able to grab the mirror out of the emperor's hand. Flying towards Dendala, he made sure to brush the battling soldier as he passed. The distraction proved to be fatal for the enemy, as the young prince quickly slid beneath his defenses and buried both daggers in his heart. The corpse fell to the floor, staining the bedchamber’s white carpet crimson.

Catching the mirror from the bird's talons, Dendala moved to the balcony.

Algarsyf rushed up behind him screaming.

Quickening his pace, Dendala reached the balcony a few steps ahead of his father.

Algarsyf grabbed his son from behind, clawing for the mirror, fighting savagely.

Freeing himself from the old man's grasp, Dendala tossed the mirror over the side.

Without warning, Algarsyf leapt over the ledge after the mirror and fell to his death, leaving Dendala powerless to save him. It had happened so suddenly that he never even called out.

Shoulders slumped, still in disbelief at how utterly the mirror had consumed his father—destroyed his very being—he began to weep bitterly and with great sorrow.

Arden approached him from behind and perched on the rail beside him. "I am sorry about your father, Dendala, I truly am. Still, my friend, you should know this. It was not the mirror that corrupted him."

"If it did not, then what did? It was a treacherous thing that needed destroying. Its evil surely caused my father's death," he sobbed.

"No! That is not true, my friend. The mirror simply held power. It was neither a wicked nor righteous being. But its enormous power brought out the very worst corruption that your father's heart held," explained the falcon. "It cannot create evil. It can only magnify its potency."

"What does any of that mean then? Are you telling me that my father was always this way? How dare you!" he screamed. "Leave me be! Just leave me be, Arden!"

Without a word, the falcon swooped off into the distance, leaving Dendala alone on the balcony.

***

One week later, his nation still in the throes of mourning and himself a newly ascended emperor, Dendala found himself sitting alone in his bedchamber. As he scanned the room, a glint of silver and a sparkle caught his eye. Moving nearer to it, he found himself facing the mirror. "But it was destroyed."

"It cannot be destroyed with simple force. It is of magic more powerful than has been seen in thousands of years," said a voice. From seemingly nowhere, Arden appeared and landed beside his friend. "Look into it. I believe it will help you."

Turning his eyes away, Dendala shook his head. "I cannot. It is pure evil. I cannot look into this cursed thing. Take it away, Arden."

"You are afraid, my friend. Do not be. I told you, what evil you saw in your father was already there. The mirror simply brought it to the surface. And at your father's will, I might add. You must be strong, Dendala. The mirror can show you many things, but you must always approach it carefully. Your father's death was unfortunate. But whether you will admit it or not, it was his fault, not the mirror's."

"Even if that is true, and the mirror is not evil, what good will it do to look into it? It can only foretell the future. My father is dead."

"Wrong, my friend. It also carries with it the power to show the past. And to reveal the heart of any friend or foe, living or deceased.”

Dendala considered the words in silence, then grunted. "Very well. I will have you for dinner if this is a trick." With great reluctance, he turned his gaze to the mirror. His father's image appeared before him.

"F... father?"

"Dendala, my son. I am sorry. I let the mirror become my sole purpose in life. I let it control my every action. Forgive me,'' said Algarsyf’s image.

"Father, I do forgive you. It is the mirror that I despise."

"My son, it is not the mirror that is evil. I was at fault. It was I who misused its power. I am sorry for all I cannot tell you now. My heart is filled with regret." He bowed his head in shame, never raising his eyes to meet his son’s. "It seems my time is limited, Dendala. Farewell, my son."

"Farewell, Father. May death bring you peace."

The image slowly faded, and as it did, a star crossed the heavens.

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Early Years (1999-2001) | Last of the Legends

R. Roland Finch — Mon, 01 Sep 2025 20:46:35 -0400

Last of the Legends manuscript

Written Ca. 2000-2001

Note: Edited mainly for syntax and flow of ideas. The manuscript was 99% as-is, excepting my terrible grammar back then. There were also some oddities when I pasted this text in from Word, so please bear with on that point.

Prologue | The Lion

Once, long ago, a boy wished to seek the answers to his questions. He “wished to know the truth,” and unfortunately, he found that which he sought.

"Why in the world did I have to be blessed with children?" asked Reyna jokingly.

"Well, if you really want to know my opinion, it's your guyses’ fault. If you know what I mean," commented Jeta.

“Who asked you? And it's not guyses, it's just guys. But if you want my humble opinion, I think you should go outside before you get yourself into trouble," said Seta.

Jeta hurried up to his room, and a few minutes later rushed out the door of their coastal hut.

Their small family lived in a tiny coastal village, but unlike most of the settlements in the Barran District, the people there were not fishermen for the most part. This was not always the case though. At one time, the people of Ren were the most skilled Nauticas to ever grace the sea, but that of course was before the Long War or, as it is called now, the War of the Seven Islands. Times were hard, but the people of Ren had become incredibly skilled farmers. To young Jeta that way of life held no value. He wanted to travel and see the world, because he thought fairy tales could come true, and that all questions could be answered.

It was a beautiful morning. The sun had just risen, and a soft ocean wind was blowing. Ren was slowly coming to life. The sun’s illuminating rays were permeating every dark corner of the small village, which was comprised of nine huts grouped closely together in a small circle. No two huts in the village were exactly alike, because the people who lived in them built them to their own tastes. In the exact center of the village, there was a well, and it was here that Jeta met Lanin, his best friend, every day. Though they did not look or act like it, the people of Ren were the last remnants of a once bustling port town, but now there were only a few men in Ren who knew how to navigate a boat, and some were even afraid of the water.

This was the Ren of Jeta's childhood and, even though he loved it, he knew he would one day leave his home.

***

I wonder what I should do to him this morning. Jeta thought of mischief as he exited his hut. Slowly and quietly, he walked up behind Lanin, who was sitting on the edge of the well with his back towards Jeta. Maybe I'll push him in the well. He drew even closer to Lanin.

"Just a few more steps," Jeta whispered to himself. He was almost directly behind Lanin now.

"Hey, Lanin!" screamed Jeta. Lanin, who was still half asleep, was so startled that he almost fell in the well. "What ya tryin' to do, kill me?" yelped Lanin. “You almost made me fall in the well."

Jeta looked mockingly at his short, fat, dark-haired friend. "Well, what do you think I was tryin' to do?”

Lanin got up and took a run at Jeta. "I'm gonna make you pay, just for trying that," he said furiously.

Jeta, jumping out of the way just in time, hopped back to where he had been standing in front of the well, “You're too slow to even come close to hitting me, so you might as well give up.”

“Oh yeah? We'll see who's slow," huffed Lanin, already tired, as he ran at Jeta again. Just as Lanin was about to hit Jeta, he jumped out of the way, and Lanin fell in the well.

“Heh heh," laughed Jeta. "I told you, didn't I? You're just too slow." He reached down into the pool-like well, and helped Lanin climb out. “And very heavy too."

"I've gotta go change, Jeta. I'll be back out in a few minutes," said Lanin as he walked to his house. “But don't think for a minute that I won't get you back. Maybe not today, but-"

"Will you shut up and go change!"

Lanin walked into his hut muttering to himself.

"Jeta! Jeta, come here for a minute," Jeta heard his mother calling.

He ran up to his front door and walked in very slowly. “What'd ya want?" he asked.

"Have you been teasing poor Lanin again?" questioned Reyna, looking directly at Jeta.

"No, of course not. You know I'd never do that to Lanin, don't you?”

Reyna shook her head disapprovingly. “Go outside, and behave yourself this time."

Many days were spent this way, and Jeta loved every moment of it because he enjoyed making Lanin angry. He thought it was funny. Although they usually fought, they both found that they liked listening to stories about the past. About things that had shaped the world they lived in now. Stories about The War of the Seven Islands, and of the hero, known as the Lion.

As the days drew to a close, Lanin and Jeta would go to the village elder's house to listen to stories. Lanin, who was fond of legends and myths, and especially of poetry, enjoyed it much more than his mischievous friend. Although Jeta did not enjoy poetry there was one poem he remembered his entire life:

Eyes that shimmer, eyes that gleam / eyes more beautiful than the sun / eyes that very often seem / to pierce your heart and soul / eyes that captivate the mind / eyes so fierce and yet so kind / eyes of sadness / eyes of fear / eyes that seem make death draw near / eyes that place you into trance / even from a moment's glance / eyes of experience / eyes of pain / eyes of one who has been crying / eyes of one so strong, now sick and dying / the eyes of a hero these are you see / the sad eyes of The Lion say, “remember me, remember me.”

Of course. Jeta thought it was all entirely true as it was written. The Lion was a great hero, and his legacy’s influence on Jeta would lead the boy down a path in life that only he would trod. He would walk it very much alone...

Chapter 1 | Run

The sky was dark, the stars did not shine, and the sea was restless.

"What's happening, Kilk?" asked Seta.

“I have a very bad feeling, Seta. The same feeling I had then," answered Kilk, the village elder.

"Please don't say that, Kilk. Are you sure?" Seta leaned forward anxiously in his chair.

"The air has the same stagnant feeling, the earth cries out in agony, the sea screams with fear. It has to be."

At that very moment, out of the sky came a crimson light, and with it came terror. The wind blew with an intense heat, and the earth began to shake. The clouds covering the sky were enveloped in red, and all at once the entire world seemed to scream out in terror and pain.

“Kilk, we must go. Our comrades need us now more than ever!"

"Yes, but you have a family, what will you do?"

"My friend, I only wish I knew. But now is not the time to think. We must act quickly, or he will never be stopped."

"At least say goodbye to them, Seta."

"Yes, I must get my Blade and tell my wife to get out of here with Jeta." Seta exited Kilk's hut and ran to his own home, where his wife and son were waiting for him. "It has happened, Reyna. I must leave you. This time likely forever."

"I have feared this day. Has he escaped?"

"Yes. Now I must speak to Jeta."

Jeta ran to his father. "What's going on? Where are you going? I'm afraid. Why won't you be coming back?" Jeta began to sob.

"I'm goin' to fight the bad guys, just like in the stories. I can't tell you any more than what I already have. Always remember to do what your heart tells you is right. Never live or fight for anyone but yourself, because if you do, you'll end up dead."

Jeta hugged his father and then sprinted to his parents’ room. When he returned, he held a sword. It was shining with a majestic, yet terrifying blue light. "Here you go, Dad. Promise me I'll see you later, okay?"

"Jeta, I promise I'll always be with you. I swear it on my sword, Azurlite."

Being a young boy, Jeta did not know what his father meant when he had said: ''I'll be with you always. " Seta knew he would never return and so did Reyna. The reason he left I cannot yet tell, but someday Jeta would know the answers to the questions he had asked his father. He did not know, however, that this day would mark the beginning of an entire life of loneliness, and the rest of the world did not know how much it would suffer because of that life. In the blink of an eye Jeta's fate had been sealed, forever...

"We must leave this place, Jeta. We will never return here together. You and I must get away from here now."

"But why?" cried Jeta. "I thought dad and Kilk were going to save us."

"Yes, they are, but they can only hold the enemy back for a short time."

"Why is it important for us to get away? I mean… I mean what about everyone else?"

"You, my son, are the only one who matters now. Remember what your father said?" Reyna asked harshly.

"Aren't you being a little cold hearted?" screamed Jeta fiercely.

''Now that he's free, he'll come after you. And, if he finds you-" Reyna was interrupted by a loud noise.

"He has come. We must move quickly!" whispered Reyna. Just as the words had left Reyna's lips, there came the sound of large claws pounding the earth with tremendous weight. "Do not fear my son, it is only a Jerystal. A being that is one of his many servants." Reyna spoke confidently. "He does not stand a chance against us. You always wished to be a hero, Jeta. Now's your chance. Here. Take this sword. You don't need a shield. Let's go!"

The two ran towards the place where they had heard the noise. They came upon the foul creature in almost an instant. Jeta was amazed at its incredible size. Its body was like that of a scorpion and its head like that of a snake. "Are you sure we can beat this thing, Mom?'' asked Jeta. He was trembling with fear.

"Of course. It was created almost perfectly, but it does have one flaw," explained Reyna. “If you can manage to sneak underneath it and pierce his abdomen, he will die within seconds. Got it, Jeta?"

Before Jeta could respond, Reyna jumped in front of the creature and unsheathed a small rapier. "Jeta, get underneath him. I will try my best to get his attention. Once you’re beneath him, do as I’ve told you." Reyna spoke in a commanding voice Jeta had never heard before.

As the creature reared up to sting, Jeta ran underneath it and thrusted his sword with all of his might into the belly of the servant of evil. The creature began to fall, caught unaware by the sudden attack. Jeta dove away from the falling beast just in time. Getting up, he turned his back on the Jerystal and saw his mother lying on the ground, motionless.

"Mom! Mom, wake up. Come on, we've got to get out of here now," Jeta screamed frantically.

"Jeta, my son, has it been defeated?"

"Of course. You think I'd actually let myself get beaten?"

''No time for self-praise now, Jeta. Soon, there will be more just like this one. Let’s go."

They slowly began to walk, but Reyna soon fell behind Jeta.

"Are you all right, Mom?" They walked a little further.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just very fatigued," answered Reyna in a feeble voice. "There is no time to waste. We should leave this place as soon as possible." With great effort, Reyna struggled to the entrance of the village. As they were about to leave Ren, they heard four more noises of the same nature as the first one made by the Jerystal. "Jeta, I will hold them back. You must run, Jeta. Run! Run away! Run away and never look back!"

"But…” Jeta began to cry but wiped his tears away. “Goodbye, Mom. I'll wait for you in Hapsel." Jeta turned and ran as fast as he could, already longing for the home he had desired so much to leave.

He left his home that day, but under much different circumstances than he had expected. He had lost his father and mother in the same day. He would wait in Hapsel for his mother as he promised. A foolish mistake on his part. But you cannot blame him. He was young and naive. Whether it was fate or just misfortune, Jeta's journey had begun…

Chapter 2 | Malank

The road from Ren to Hapsel was long, and it was nearing nightfall...

Weary and exhausted, Jeta sat down in the grass next to an old and wind-beaten palm tree. "I can finally relax," Jeta said with a sigh of relief.

"Better not be too sure 'bout that," said a faint but clear voice.

Quickly rising from his resting place, Jeta turned and looked around.

"I'm over here, kid." This time, the voice was louder.

"Where are you?" bellowed Jeta in a hoarse voice.

"I'm right behind ya."

Jeta whirled around and saw a man clad in armor.

"The name's Malank. Seta told me ta find ya."

"I don't believe you. You’re probably another one of those Jerstalim things.”

"Ya don't hafta worry 'bout that. I definitely ain't a Jerystal,” said Malank, as he tried to ease the tension.

"How can I trust anyone that just suddenly appears out of nowhere?"

"I don't think ya have any choice but ta trust me. At least 'till we get outta here and yer safe in Hapsel. Is that alright with ya, Jeta?"

Surprised the stranger knew his name, Jeta decided Malank was telling the truth. "I guess I can trust you," Jeta uttered hesitantly. "But only until we get to Hapsel. Then I've got to wait for my mom."

With a sorrowful expression on his face, Malank solemnly answered, "Sure, kid."

"We should keep movin'. I think we kin make Hapsel by sundown tomorrow. Ya think ya kin go on?" asked Malank, still trying to earn Jeta's trust.

"Alright, I think I can," answered Jeta as he stood up. They begin to walk down the road. Neither one of them sure what to say next.

Jeta was contemplating whether to trust Malank. Wondering how he knew his name and if he really knew his father. Malank walked along as if deep in thought, a pained look on his face. Everything was silent. Not one living creature stirred. There wasn't even the usual light sea breeze moving through the trees. The only noise was the sound of the two travelers’ feet quietly hitting the sandy road.

Jeta broke the speechless moment with a single word: "Why?”

"Why what?"

"Why did all of this happen to me? Why was I saved and everyone else in my village left to be destroyed? Why did my dad have to go away? I have so many unanswered questions."

"Everyone is like that. We all have unanswered questions. That's jest how it is, Jeta."

"Kilk and Dad both said the same thing. They also said there were those who searched for the answers to their questions and-“

Malank interrupted Jeta, "And there are those who live their lives without ever knowing or ever desiring to know. Usually, these people live insecure, unhappy lives."

"How did you do that? You repeated what my father said word for word. Are you a mind reader or something?" asked Jeta, baffled.

"Definitely not a mind reader. I told ya before that I knew Seta."

"What do you mean you knew him?"

"I jest haven't seen him for a while, that's all."

"But you also said that he sent you to find me."

"Geez, yer a smart kid. I'll tell you the truth, but first you have to promise to forgive me. Because what I tell you won't be easy to accept at first."

"I promise, Malank. I promise."

"Okay, well… you see, Seta died today. I was by his side. I want you to know that."

Jeta started to cry bitterly. "But l... he said he'd be with me forever."

"Jeta, he will be with you forever in your-" Malank tried to console Jeta, whose face was twisted in rage.

"I know what you're going to say! He'll be with me forever, in my heart! Right?! That isn't good enough for me, Malank! I'll never accept it! He promised!" His mind clouded over with anger and grief, Jeta could do nothing but sit and cry.

“It's all right, Jeta, everything will be fine in time," said Malank, still trying to comfort him.

''No, it won't! Nothing will ever be the same."

"Yer right, Jeta. Nothin' will ever be the same. Just make sure ya learn from what happened today."

Jeta's tears slowly stopped falling, and his anger began to subside. He was gradually overwhelmed by a great feeling of remorse for the things he had said. "Sorry, Malank. I shouldn't have let go of myself like that. I'll be fine."

"It's alright."

"I'm really tired," yawned Jeta.

"So am I," said Malank, sitting down next to Jeta. Malank took off his cape and gave it to him. "It ain't much, but if ya roll it up ya can use it fer a pillow."

Jeta lay down, and after a few minutes, his heavy eyelids closed as he fell into a deep sleep.

That night, Jeta learned an important lesson. He discovered that life is hard and that often things aren't what they seem. The next day, he would reach Hapsel, but where he would go after that he had no idea. In the coming days, he would often remember the conversation he had with Malank. He would never forget the night he learned of Seta's death. There was, however, one part missing from Malank's story. He had not told Jeta of Reyna's death. He thought it would be easier for Jeta to handle his mother's death if he could first accept his father's passing. Malank was wrong…

Chapter 3 | The Journey to Hapsel

Hapsel, the City of Eternal Light...

When Jeta awakened, he was stiff and sore, and the flaming red sun was beating down upon him. It was a beautiful morning, there was a light ocean breeze, and the faint sound of small breakers lapping the beach was intoxicating.

"Sure is hot," murmured Jeta in a raspy voice. "Hey, Malank." Sitting up, he looked around, but Malank was nowhere in sight. Rising from his resting place in the sand, Jeta called out for him. "Where are you? Come on. I thought-" He paused, listening carefully.

Detecting whispers coming from the small grove of palm trees not far from the road, he almost immediately concluded it was Malank. "Malank, is that you in there?'' No answer came. "Alright, I'll see for myself."

Taking off his boots, he quietly paced toward the trees, trying to hear what was being spoken. Still incapable of hearing, he became frustrated. Moving ever nearer to the thicket and becoming more reckless with each step, he crouched next to some small shrubs near the trees. Peering through them, he saw two people. Neither of them was Malank.

They were both wearing armor colored crimson and pitch black. They had shields made of gold with the icon of an eagle engraved upon them. Their swords were sheathed, but from the shape of the scabbards, Jeta could easily discern that they were broadswords. These soldiers were most definitely not from the small district of Barran.

"Hey, Lakas, what do you suppose that ol' hag is doin'?"

"Ziran, I really couldn't tell ya, but I don' think we'll ever hafta worry 'bout that if we don't get ourselves outta this hellhole."

"Yeah. If that stupid idiot of a captain woulda known where he was goin' we wouldn't be here right now."

"Well, I suppose we should follow the road… see where it's gonna take us."

"I sure hope the people here are friendly. If there is anyone on earth that could stand to live in a place like this. It's way too hot fer me."

Jeta slowly backed away until he was far enough away not to be seen or heard. He breathed deeply and let his guard down.

"Doncha worry 'bout them, Jeta. They're just two lost knights wanderin' around a place they never seen before."

Startled, Jeta spun around and without looking drew his sword, slashing at the voice’s source. Malank dodged easily, a smirk on his face.

"Why are you always sneaking up on me like that? You scared me half to death!"

"Sorry. I guess it's jest a bad habit o' mine,” replied Malank calmly. "I didn' expect ya ta start hackin' and slashin' with that sword though."

Grabbing the small rapier from Jeta’s hand, Malank held it up against the dazzling sunlight. "A nice weapon fer a kid. Light, tough. It was yer dad's once." After studying it for a few moments, he gave it back to Jeta. "But fightin' isn't the best way ta live yer life. 'Specially when yer young."

Malank stopped talking for a moment, thinking about their desperate situation. "When we git ta Hapsel, then ya might need ta pretect yerself. Jest ta make sure ya don't git hurt, I'll teach ya a few tricks with that sword."

Thrilled by being able to show off his swordsmanship, Jeta was immediately ready to do battle. Sword in hand, he leapt at Malank, slashing at his ribcage.

"Good, Jeta. Real good. Lucky I got this breastplate on, otherwise I'd be hurtin' right now."

Encouraged by these words of praise, Jeta became even more aggressive, swinging his weapon vigorously and often failing to hit his target. Malank patiently waited for the perfect moment to strike. He knew just how to handle the reckless child.

"Come on, Jeta. Ya aren't tired yet, are ya? If ya really want ta be a hero, then ya gotta hack away with everything ya got. Ya just hafta hit the mark sometime, right?''

Already tired but determined to prove himself a warrior, Jeta simplemindedly followed Malank's advice. Erupting in an abrupt, rapid onslaught of attacks, Jeta quickly exhausted himself. Weary and fatigued, he carelessly lowered his guard, trying to catch his breath.

"Can we rest a bit?"

Malank moved closer to Jeta slowly and cautiously, the gleam of battle in his eyes.

''No. Ya can't be takin' breaks in the middle of a battle, Jeta. Ta fight ya hafta think like a warrior. Show no mercy. Don't let yer emotions blind ya from the struggle."

Overcome with fear, Jeta began to tremble. "Why are you being so serious?"

Seemingly aggravated by the naivete of the question, Malank replied in a cold, cruel, and menacing tone. "Serious! Don't ask me why I'm bein' serious! Ya think wars are jest fer fun? Ya think people fight 'em for the amusement of later generations! So they kin sit around an' tell stories to their kids and turn 'em into a bunch 'o dreamers like you?!” He spat.

“Fightin' isn't something ta be taken lightly! If ya think it's jest a big joke, you'll die, Jeta! You will die!!"

Taken aback by the unexpected and unforeseen change in Malank's normally calm and dignified personality, Jeta was not only confused but also terrified. "W..w..w..what did I do? If l did something wrong, I'm sorry."

Regaining his composure, Malank let out a long sigh. "Ya didn't do anything wrong, kid. I was jest testing ya ta see how much ya could take."

Jeta was still frightened and very tired but now filled with a sense of pride. "So, what do you think, are we safe to go to Hapsel?"

''Nope. Ya wouldn't last five minutes in that place by yerself. Before we go anywhere, I'm gonna teach ya a little trick. Come here."

Without asking a single question, Jeta did as he was told.

"Watch very carefully, Jeta, 'cause yer gonna do this next. Hand me yer sword.

"Don't you have one, Malank?" asked Jeta as he handed him the rapier.

"O' course I do, but I don't like showin' it off a lot. My sword only leaves its sheath when there ain't no avoidin' a fight. Ya understand what I'm sayin'?"

There was absolute silence while Jeta pondered the question. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I know what you mean."

Malank nodded his head. "Good. Now that ya understand what I'm sayin', I'll teach ya that trick I was talkin' about. Are ya ready?"

Weak from fatigue, Jeta forced himself to continue. "Of course. I can't quit just because I'm tired. Besides, if l were to stop now, I'd probably be asleep before I closed my eyes.”

Impressed by the boy's iron will, Malank smiled with satisfaction. "Hahaha. Well, I don't see any reason to push ya too hard today. Just take it easy. We'll continue our little lesson later. For now, ya kin rest a bit."

The day seemed to last forever. The sun was directly above them and with each passing hour its intensity increased. The heat was stifling. Jeta felt lucky when he found a spot completely sheltered from its searching rays. Overjoyed by his discovery, he decided to take immediate and full advantage of it. He lay down slowly and with great pain, for his fatigue had subsided and soreness had set in. He had no sooner than lay his head down when his eyelids began to close. He did not even make an effort to resist it and was sleeping within moments.

***

Jeta's sleep was disturbed. But it was not a noise that awakened him. Instead, it was the unusual lack of nature’s sounds that he had grown so used to hearing which caused him to feel uneasy. Lying on his back, he gazed up at the sky and the setting sun. It seemed to him as if many colors began to pour out from vaults of the heavens before his eyes. The sky looked as though it was bursting, unable to restrain the splendor it had attempted so arduously to conceal. The beauty was breathtaking. Even though he had grown up on this island, he had never seen anything as gorgeous as what he was witnessing now. The sun seemed to try holding onto the edge of the earth as long as it could before it vanished from sight completely and passed into the eternal abyss.

Remembering what had happened earlier that day, he decided the first thing he was going to do was find Malank. Getting up very listlessly and with much discomfort, he tried rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Scanning the area quickly, he took brief glances at any place Malank could be. He finally spotted him reclining against an old tree.

“It seems even the venerable Malank sleeps once in a while," Jeta remarked to himself while he moved slowly towards the sleeping warrior. "Malank. Hey, Malank! Wake up."

"What's wrong? Can't ya sleep anymore?'' asked Malank.

"I thought it seemed sort of quiet. I mean, we're out in the open and all. It just seems to me that there would be a few animals around. I thought I'd wake ya up and see what you thought." Jeta explained himself, not trying to hide the fact that he had become completely dependent upon Malank.

"Listen ta me, kid. Ya better git yer head down an' shut yer mouth," Malank suddenly commanded in an almost whisper. "I'm sorry I didn't come an' git ya, but I thought maybe ya might need the rest. This stillness jest ain't normal."

Not questioning the abrupt order, the young boy knelt down, hidden by the trees and undergrowth. "What happened. Did you hear something?"

Malank shook his head. "No, I didn't hear anything at all. It's jest that this silence likes ta follow us around. Remember last night before I told ya about Seta. Remember how quiet it was. I don't know about you, but I'm gonna leave this little place and git ta Hapsel as quick as I kin."

Jeta was astonished and at the same time very alarmed. He had not once seen Malank show any signs of fear, nor had he expected him to. He thought that the warrior was immortal. "Are you afraid? I thought that you were supposed to have fought along with my father and Kilk."

"Boy, if only ya knew what it's like ta fight against that guy. With every moment he gets closer to us. Yet he never fights anyone directly. I guess he has no need to. But if his servants don't find ya soon, then he might come and look fer ya personally. I know I can fight off his followers, every single one of 'em. But if it came down ta a fight between me an' him-"

Jeta interrupted the distraught fighter mid-sentence, "Who is he? That guy everyone is afraid of… What happened? Did he kill Dad?"

Leaping up from his spot under the tree, Malank turned to face Jeta. "I'll explain all that when we git to Hapsel, but right now isn't the time. Get up now! We're gonna git there tonight no matter what it takes."

Quickly, Jeta rose and started walking down the road, striding away from Malank. "Come on! I thought you wanted to get out of this place as fast as you could." Jeta turned toward Malank, who had not moved. "What's wrong with you? You said not even a minute ago that we were going to make Hapsel before dawn tomorrow. Why are you so afraid?"

"Doncha be so careless! And I told ya once this isn't the time or the place ta be talkin' about it!" Malank was almost shouting now. "How many times do I hafta tell ya that? How dense can ya be, Jeta?"

"You know, Malank, you really confuse me sometimes. One minute you're scared to death of something, and the next thing you're yelling at me. Come on! Let's go right now! I promise I won't ask you about it again. At least until we're safe in Hapsel and are able to talk. If you don't start walking now, whatever you're afraid of will find us before we get there!" Jeta was close to losing his temper.

Malank nodded. "Yer right, kid. I'm bein' a fool. This whole thing has me spooked. Let's get movin' 'right now."

Before he had even finished speaking, he was running. He ran with such speed that Jeta could barely keep up. Soon the boy's lungs were burning, and it became hard for him to breathe. His whole body ached. The pain grew with every stride. He would not stop, though. Even when the pain became almost unbearable, he did not give up. This seemed to continue for hours, and he was not certain now if he could keep going on and still live. He was about to give up when Malank stopped. Then, he saw the reason why. Towering above them was a huge city, which had gone unnoticed by Jeta until the sudden halt.

"Malank, is that Hapsel?" Jeta stammered as he gazed in awe upon what was known to many of the people who dwelled there as The City of Eternal Light.

Malank even found himself somewhat awe stricken. "Sure is, kid. I didn't remember Light’s Lady bein’ this immense. She musta grown since the last time I saw her. Ha!" Then he turned towards Jeta who was now standing next to him. "I know you're tired, but I want ya ta be really careful. Don't trust anyone, not me or even yerself."

"What do you mean by ‘don't even trust yourself’?"

"You'll see. Before we leave this place, you'll know exactly what I mean. This place…" Malank sighed. "This place is called the City of Eternal Light, but the hearts of the people have become as black as coal."

"I see. Malank, why is it called the City of Eternal Light?"

"During the War of the Seven Islands, the hero called The Lion placed a jewel at the top of a colossal tower named The Pillar on Which the Sun Rests. Whether he had seized this jewel from one of the many kingdoms he conquered or if he had ordered it to be made by an unknown artisan is still not known to this day. Anyway, during the war, Hapsel became a refuge for many different people from numerous places. Because it’s close to the ocean and sailing here was easy, sure. But also because it was the home of the Lion's lover, Nina of Cleff.”

“The entire time Nina lived here, it was always well guarded from enemy attack—and from traitors and spies within the city's walls as well. The more people there were, the stronger the city became. Many of the refugees from Tillan were blacksmiths or carpenters. If ya know anything about ancient Tillan craftsmanship, then ya kin see how important this was. The soldier's weapons were improved, and the city walls became virtually impenetrable. The war kept dragging on and soon the populace began improving the city.”

“In the year 2037, they built a tower as a symbol of freedom, and so the Tower of Light, as it was later called, had been completed. As a ceremonial mark of their great achievement, they had Nina and the Lion place the glowin’ gem at the very highest section of the tower. It wore the jewel as if it were its crown, and it is said by many Nauticas that the brilliant light it emitted could be seen glowin’ at any time from far out at sea. It was as if the light was eternal. But something happened that made it stop shining, and no one living today knows the reason. Maybe out of hope, the folks livin’ here kept callin’ it the City of Eternal Light.”

Now that he could breathe normally again, Jeta had become drowsy and wanted nothing more than a place to lay down and rest. "That was a good story and thanks for answering my question, but can we find a place to sleep?" Jeta yawned.

Malank turned and looked towards the city. "I sure hope so, Jeta. The last time I was here I stayed at Essib's Inn. I wonder if he's still alive." Then he walked off toward the city gates pursued by Jeta, whose legs barely allowed him to move at all.

The beginning had ended. Although it did not seem possible to Jeta that things could get any worse, Malank knew better. He had yet to make known to Jeta the death of his mother, and he could still think of no easy way to tell him. Jeta, on the other hand, was anxious to have his questions answered and to see his mother again. Perhaps, they each thought, Hapsel would be the best place for both of them, warrior and dreamer alike, to find what they craved more than anything. The one thing that could answer all of their questions and clarify all of their answers. The truth.

Chapter 4 | A New Enemy

Hapsel would prove dangerous for Jeta, in more than one way. While still a place of refuge that continued to thrive long after the war ended, its government had become corrupt and many of its people wicked.

Hapsel’s front gate was the only way in, save for the very large port for which it was famous. The gate was very elaborate and heavily adorned with jewels and murals. It had been constructed during the war to keep out all invaders, but after the conflict was over, it was decorated with the city's finest treasures. For years it had served as a symbol of peace and prosperity.

They were near the gates now and their hopes rose when they saw that they were open. "lf Essib's still living, then we'll at least have a place ta sleep fer tonight," said Malank. "But if he's not, then I really don't know what we're gonna do. I never did like cities, jest too many people."

Then they walked into Hapsel together, both anxious to find shelter.

Once they were inside the walls of the city, Jeta realized how enormous it was in proportion to Ren. There were buildings everywhere. The roads were made of flagstone that was as smooth as glass and sparkled like diamonds. Two of the paths circled around the city and met on the other side, near the harbor. The third led to an expansive flight of stairs which ascended to the base of the Tower of Light.

Up until the moment Jeta had seen the tower, the story Malank had told him meant nothing. Now, he stared open mouthed. The foundation on which the tower had been constructed was made of the greenest of emeralds. It was, to him, unbelievably tall, and this stunned him more than anything he had ever seen before.

"How'd they make it so big? It looks like you could touch the moon from the top,” Jeta inquired, his eyes locked on the tower.

"That thing up there was built during Hapsel's golden age. All of the techniques used then have long been forgotten," said Malank to an awestricken Jeta. "A truly flawless masterpiece." Then he turned on his heels and walked slowly down the left-hand road. Every now and then, he would turn his head from side to side as if he were searching for something.

"Hey, Malank. What kind of place does this Essib guy live in anyway?"

But Malank kept on walking, taking no notice of the boy, who soon grew impatient. "Malank, do you even know where you're going?"

Malank spoke quietly but with anger in his voice. "As a matter of fact, no. I don't have a clue where I am, but let me tell ya one thing 'bout this place. It ain't real pleasant here during the day, but at night things are a whole lot safer if yer real quiet. Jest listen fer any strange noises or people, and quit askin' so many questions!"

To Jeta, this seemed to go on for hours, but Malank eventually found what he was looking for. It was nothing like Jeta had expected it to be. There was a very large sign in front of the inn which was lit by three wax candles. The inn had two floors and from the outside it looked to be a very comfy place.

While Jeta stood looking at the inn, Malank silently slipped inside. He slammed the door shut, chuckling to himself as it closed with a crash. As if awakened from a dream, suddenly Jeta realized what had just taken place and quickly ran to the door, jerking it open with all of his strength.

"I thought that you were gonna leave me out there, Malank!"

Malank was talking with the proprietor, who was dressed in a white apron made of linen. He was shorter than Malank and he had a much more slender build. His hair was grey, and his skin was so loose on his body that every bone in his arms and his face was clearly visible. When Jeta burst into the room, both of them gazed upon him, but neither of them spoke.

The old man turned to look at Malank. "Is this the boy you told me about?"

"Yep, sure is. So, whaddya think?" asked Malank.

The man hobbled from behind the counter and stood upright with Malank's help. He croaked, "You're name is Jeta, I presume?''

Jeta found it difficult to say anything. Just looking at the scrawny old man made him feel uneasy. "Yeah, I'm Jeta. You must be Essib. Pleased ta meet ya."

The old man nodded his head and after a few moments of silence, he replied. "Yes, I'm Essib. I run this place with the help of my brother and his two sons." Then he staggered to the nearest barstool and leaned against it. "That's much better. Now we can talk. You're Seta's boy?"

"Yes.”

"Come here." Essib motioned for Jeta to come closer. Taking short, hesitant steps, Jeta eventually reached the end of the bar. Then he reluctantly sat down on the stool next to him.

"What do you want?" mumbled Jeta, almost speaking to himself.

Essib did not answer his question but stood staring at him, examining him.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Still, Essib did not speak and Jeta was very agitated.

"Why aren't you saying anything?! Are you just going to stare at me all night long or do you want to talk?”

"He is not like the knights. He doesn't even resemble him.”

"Who is ‘him’? Why won't anyone say his name?”

“Malank, why didn't you tell the boy about that?''

Malank took a step back, moving away from Essib. "Well, I thought you could tell him yerself. I mean, uh... I was thinkin’ ya probably haven't told any good stories in a long time. And besides, I've never been good at telling bedtime stories to infants." He shot Jeta a mischievous look.

Essib shook his head. "You know, Malank, you haven't changed at all. You are one of the Six and you still are as irresponsible as ever. I thought that after one hundred and fifty-three years, you might have learned how to be tactful. I guess some people never change."

"Will you stop lecturing me and explain what's happenin’ in the world, so that I can tell him what I need to tell him?" pressed Malank impatiently.

Essib held up his left hand, signaling for Malank to hush. "Shut up and listen, both of you. I'm gonna explain why you're here in just a minute, Jeta. But first I need to let you know who 'he' is-" This time, instead of the boy, it was Malank who interrupted him.

"While you were babblin' on, the kid fell asleep. Got a spare room he can use fer tonight?"

"Yes, I've got a vacant room he can use," whispered Essib. "You'll have to carry him. Just follow me." And then he hobbled over to the stairs leading to the second floor. "I'm not as sure-footed as I once was, but I think I can make it up these stairs without too much trouble. The trip down is what I'm worried about."

Up the stairs Essib went, as quietly as he could manage. Occasionally, he would stagger a little and catch himself on the rail, but he made it to the top. "Haven't been up here in a while."

"Would you please hurry up? He's starting to get heavy. It’s hard enough work having to carry this dead weight up the stairs, but following a decrepit old man is even worse.”

"Quit your complaining. I thought you were one of the venerable Naiju, not a whimpering little newborn."

"What would an old geezer like you know about the Naiju?"

Essib stood up straight and tall. "Put the boy in the room on my left, the one right here," he said, pointing to a door on the right-hand side of the hallway. "Watch your mouth, or you’ll find out what an aged cripple like me can do to a Naiju in his prime."

Malank then stumbled into the room and tossed his heavy burden on the soft bed. Then he quietly left the room, walking soundlessly on the balls of his feet. Soon afterwards, he closed the door behind him without making even the smallest sound.

***

Jeta was awakened by Malank early in the morning the next day. When he asked Malank why he had been jarred out of bed so soon, all Malank would say was, "Let Essib tell ya why.” So Jeta clumsily tottered down the stairway to the first floor of the inn, where he expected to find old man Essib. To Jeta's surprise, he wasn't there.

"Well, Malank, since the old man's not here, I think I'll just sleep for a few more hours. Whaddya say?"

Malank rolled his eyes. "At least you got to sleep. I had to stay up all night and listen to the old geezer lecture me. All he ever does is nag me about how irresponsible I am. I mean, come on, I'm 153 years old. You'd think after all that time that he'd start to respect me a little, but no."

"Tell me, why should I respect someone like you? I don't care if you're a Naiju or not. You could be as good as he was, and I still wouldn't respect you anymore than I do now. Who cares if you’re 153 years old? I've been living now for almost 700 years. I've probably seen more than any of the Six Naiju put together." Essib spoke in the loudest voice he could muster. Slowly, he stood up from behind the counter, his old bones and tendons cracking and popping as he straightened his legs and arms.

Hobbling as he went, Essib moved around the counter and sat on the same barstool he had the day before. "Well, as I was saying yesterday… Oh, you both might want to sit down so as you can make yourselves comfortable. It's a long story, the one I'm about to tell you."

Jeta slumped down on a stool near where he had been standing, still tired and sore from fighting Malank and running the previous day. Malank remained standing and didn't seem tired at all from a distance, but if Jeta had gotten a little closer he would have seen the bags under the warrior's eyes and noticed his vain effort to hide the occasional yawn.

"Alright, I'm ready to hear whatever it was you wanted to tell me,” said Jeta enthusiastically.

With that, Essib began. "As you may already know, there was a hero who rose up out of the turmoil caused by the War of the Seven Islands. After he commanded his outnumbered troops to several victories, his courageous fighting and bravery became well known. At the Battle of Lintas, he rushed enemy lines alone, driving them back singlehandedly. One of his soldiers shouted out during the victory celebration: ‘Our commander fights like a lion!’ Thereafter, he was called the Lion by his men and by the people.”

“Within five years of his mysterious appearance, the war had ended, and peace reigned. The Lion was lost in obscurity after the war. The rumors are that he was imprisoned for reasons unknown. He swore vengeance on those that had thrown him away like he was scum after the war was over. He had saved them all from seemingly inevitable disaster, but now that the battlefield was empty, he was useless to them. He was trash. According to the tales, he was imprisoned in Polthar.”

Malank snorted and rolled his eyes. “Rumors, my hind end! It’s all true, and until a few days ago he remained a prisoner in Polthar. Now that he’s escaped and is after you, Jeta, we hafta-"

Jeta exclaimed, "I've always looked up to the Lion! How can he be evil?"

Essib glared at Malank warningly. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

Then, turning to Jeta, he spoke somberly. "I don't know, I don't think he is truly evil. Maybe he simply desires recognition. Perhaps he felt that bringing an end to the war would make him beloved by all. It could be that all he ever wanted was acknowledgement and respect." As he spoke, Jeta saw in his eyes a flame from long ago that was being rekindled. But the light died out before it had a chance to grow.

With shining eyes, Essib continued the story. "I'm sure you remember that red light that covered the sky a few days back, eh?"

Jeta remembered it vividly. The sky painted crimson red, his fight with the Jerystal, the night he learned of his father's death, and how Malank had comforted him. He yearned to tell Essib everything that had happened, but the only word that left his lips was, "Yeah."

Malank, who had moved close to Jeta without him noticing, patted him on the back. "You alright, kid?"

Jeta was suddenly awakened from his daze, and for a few moments he could remember nothing. He started thinking of all that had happened over the course of the last three days, and when he did, another question came to mind. "Who are the Six?"

Malank cleared his throat. "The Six Naiju, one from each district-"

The word district brought another question to Jeta’s mind, and he blurted it out. "Why do we have Districts?"

Essib, sensing Malank’s frustration, answered. ''Not even the most learned scholars know the answer to that question, Jeta. We have no way of knowing why, but we do know that they have been called districts for at least 1,400 years."

"Will ya both please be quiet, because I really want ta explain ta the kid who the Naiju are and all that stuff."

The boy and the old man both stopped talking and looked at Malank.

“Thank ya,” Malank said after taking a deep breath. "The Six Naiju are warriors who are trained ta be the best swordsmen and wisest tacticians. Our order has survived for over two millenniums, mostly because we’re completely invisible ta the outside world. We don’t know who the first Naiju were or why they were trained. Today’s Naiju have several scrolls we think are at least 3,000 years old. We couldn’t read ‘em all, but there are three, more recently written than the others, that we’ve translated. They were written in the year 1174, so the information on ‘em is nearly 1,400 years old. They say there was a monarch who ruled the entire Land of Seven Islands. We don’t know how, but he divided our islands into seven military districts. We think he appointed a governor in each district. The Naiju might’ve been formed to lead a rebellion against this ruler, but we don’t know. That’s all I know, but I’m a terrible student, kid. Maybe the other Naiju know more than me.”

Malank then rubbed his eyes and walked out of Essib’s Inn, saying, “I’m tired. Let’s talk more later.”

The rest of the day, Malank spoke very little to anyone. Essib cautioned Jeta to be patient and not push the Naiju for more information, so he wiled away the time in his room.

The Lion’s story bothered Jeta. He couldn't fathom the possibility of his hero being evil. Maybe Essib was correct in believing that fame, recognition, or simple acknowledgement was his only true motive for ending the war, but Jeta believed that there had to be more behind the hero than met the eye. He spent most of the day on his bed, thinking about the Lion and the Naiju. The one thing that escaped his mind was the true reason he had made the journey to Hapsel: his mother.

***

It was nearing dusk when Malank finally worked up the courage to tell Jeta about Reyna's death. He searched the entire building for Jeta. He looked in the storage room, the room Jeta had slept in the night before, and even outside. When he asked Essib if he had seen Jeta all the old man would say was, "The last time I saw him he was sitting on the floor there."

The other guests claimed not to have seen him, and Malank was getting very worried by his absence. He decided to try his luck and look around the city for him. He left the inn in a great hurry and almost ran to the city gate, but when he got there, he saw no sign of the boy. Then he ran through the city asking everyone he met if they had seen Jeta, but no one he asked knew where he was nor did they have the foggiest idea where he might be. The last place he looked was the Tower of Light, but he was greatly discouraged and miserable when he did not find Jeta.

It was dark outside when he again returned to Essib's place. He walked in the door tired and sullen with a grievous expression on his face. "Essib, I couldn't find him, I looked everywhere and I still couldn't find him."

Author’s Note:

This is the end of the surviving manuscript to the best of the author’s knowledge. Since I wrote this almost 25 years ago, finding additional pages is unlikely. I hope you enjoyed it! In other versions, Jeta and Reyna escaped together to the town of Swiftwater, where they met the evil Rictas Mizer, a rich man obsessed with his appearance as reflected by a magical mirror. Caught in his own illusion, Mizer is convinced he is handsome and desirable, when in fact he is a fat, disgusting slob. In yet another version, after informing Jeta of Reyna’s death, Malank offers his life to the boy. In a fit of rage and grief, Jeta takes Malank’s life. In short, my twelve-year-old self had a vivid imagination and no real sense of where this plot was going. However, this story simmered in my brain until I finally wrote Light’s Shadow in 2023. As always, thank you for reading!

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Travel Memories | Belize: Crocs and Rocks, Caves and Waves

R. Roland Finch — Sun, 22 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Looking Back: Green Dragon Tours & Jungle Dome

Back in 2015, a random conversation with a coworker piqued my interest in visiting Belize and Tikal in nearby Guatemala. As a solo traveler used to booking everything myself, I splurged and took the more laid-back option of using a service. I found Green Dragon Tours and the Belize Jungle Dome, which both were (perhaps still are) operated by Andy Hunt and Simone Angel.

I wrote a review on TripAdvisor that provides a decent, albeit dated, summary.

But this post is not about the Jungle Dome. It’s about my fondest memories of Belize.

Crocs and Rocks

On one of my last days in Belize, a driver and caretaker of the Jungle Dome compound, David, drove me a few miles from Belmopan to tube down the Belize River. He had been offering night spearfishing throughout my stay, which I declined. I think my rationale for turning him down was built on two things: (1) healthy nervousness regarding Fer-de-lance snakes; and (2) David constantly mentioning the “harmless” freshwater crocs in the Belize River.

“Harmless” and “crocodile” are not commonly associated, in the author’s experience. Regardless, I tubed the Belize River and nothing happened. But years later, in 2025, I read an article about an uptick in the number of crocodile attacks due to human encroachment and so on. The usual stories…

Since 2014, increasing every year, a few attacks and about one death occur. So, not entirely harmless crocs.

As for rocks, limestone hills dot the landscape nearly everywhere in Belize. And it was this limestone that helped the Mayan civilization build its mighty temple complexes and cities, like Tikal, as well as paved roads. Tangentially, the horse balls tree strikes me as something distantly related to “rocks.”

Caves and Waves

The combination of limestone and water created many caves and sinkholes. One famous example is the Actun Tunichil Muknal (ATM) cave, in which ancient Mayans performed ritual sacrifice (first using clay vats of water and eventually humans, as the drought grew worse and they more desperate).

While cameras had recently been banned at the time, experiencing the ATM cave firsthand was absolutely worth it. Wading inside through chest deep water, seeing the reflection of light dancing like spirits on the cave ceiling, and peering at human remains all felt like living out the Indiana Jones dreams of my childhood. It was a little touristy, sure, but not too much so.

Belize is also home to the Belize Barrier Reef, which is second only to the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. This apparently makes for some great scuba diving, which I unfortunately did not partake in.

However, having never at that point in my life sped on a boat through the cerulean waters of the Caribbean, the boat ride from near San Pedro airport to my resort on Ambergris Caye was an amazing experience. Snorkeling over the reef was pretty cool, too.

The End

Belize surprised me by being an accessible blend of adventure and relaxation. It’s a place where, if you venture around even a little, the local life and culture grab you. I wouldn’t recommend staying in Belize City or San Ignacio for different reasons. My summary line is: I always avoid big cities for the same reasons (unless the city is the destination). Busy, noisy, congested. Meh.

Like most places: If you find a way to enjoy the real Belize, it will reward you.

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Flitting Finch & Inspired By | Entropy Overclocked: Infinite Impossibility

R. Roland Finch — Sun, 22 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Note: I have been thinking about this piece for a while and it seemed appropriate for Easter Sunday. Also, these concepts are at the heart of Raiders of Light.

Humanity defies entropy. We organize. We build. We live. All the while knowing defeat is imminent.

Systems degrade. Monoliths crumble. Life succumbs. We watch helplessly as friends and family pass on. We lament as civilizations implode and cultures vanish. We scour the stars for answers when we realize that Mother Nature will, like us, eventually die. All possible futures are endless variations of one inevitable end: Life must expire.

Faced with futility and unfairness, our human nature wills us to either grasp for hope or drown in despair. To fight, flee, or surrender.

Based on science, history, and all things observable, nihilism in its various manifestations (hedonism, paganism, humanitarianism, utilitarianism, feudalism, socialism, and corruption) appears perfectly rational—perhaps even natural. But for Christians, Easter Sunday is a wonderful and observable reminder that none of these things is natural. Neither the isms, nor the despair, decay, and death.

Creation’s greatest battle is not waged between light and dark, nature and man, or nature’s laws (e.g., entropy and syntropy). Without interplay between these fundamental components, there is no forward motion and no life. Instead, Creation’s greatest battle is waged in people’s minds, hearts, and souls.

In Christ’s death and resurrection, God has allowed us to peer beyond the illusory deception we inhabit. To see that Lucifer has subverted Creation’s operation—to clearly witness that there is nothing natural about disaster, rot, suffering, and death.

He encourages us to live confidently that his intent for us remains the same now as it ever was. We should never despair. Hope never left us—we merely forgot.

In this twisted usurpation of reality with its overclocked entropy, where even the renewing powers of light and life will be overcome given enough time, Christ reminds us to live according to our created nature, corrupted though it may be, and have confidence that nothing is in vain.

On Easter, God tells us our entire paradigm is incorrect. All things are possible for he is all things. He remains at the heart of Creation—untouched by the Deceiver’s conjuring—infinite and unchanging, a paradox our minds cannot solve.

In defeating death, he unmasked infinite impossibility as a lie. A lie that humanity simply made the choice to believe and, ironically, to place faith in.

And should we believe our eyes, ears, minds, and hearts, we will discover the true nature of everything: Infinite possibility and ordered balance are Creation’s true nature. Mankind’s only choice is whether to stay in the illusion or be freed from it.

Happy Easter!

Finch Fries

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The CuRe All Letters | No. 13: Think Like a Gamer

R. Roland Finch — Sun, 2 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Dear America,

While I recognize that We the People are not all Christians, it is my firm belief that every American should understand these concepts regardless.

In earlier letters, I mentioned that mankind has always been involved in a spiritual war between good and evil. I also posed a vital question: What is the value proposition of killing God? This is my attempt to answer and explain.

On Equality and Equity: Life, Death, and Rebirth

We are all born equal under God. And life in this corrupted reality culminates in the cold equity of a certain death.

Yet we have hope in the oldest truth: If God said it, then it is so. Trust this and live with God eternally or reject it and live without God eternally. What could be more fair?

We are all born equal under God. But death from this fallen realm and our inevitable rebirth will separate us.

The poetry in God granting mankind equality and Satan forcing equity upon us seems relevant in our times, especially when we consider the endless dissatisfaction of those seeking to forcibly ensure we are all the same.

We are born equal under God, but we are not identical. Under God, there is freedom as well as hierarchy and order. Heaven is equally available to all mankind, but our position within God’s kingdom will not be equitable. God does not demand uniformity—the Devil does that.

In short, my argument is that part of the value proposition of killing God is control. Understanding and accepting this reality is key to everything, including restoring American Culture and improving the function of the American System.

On the Natural Order: And God Said

The natural order of creation in the physical realm is God > Mankind > Nature. God created mankind to hold dominion over nature and to steward it. The Heavenly Host (e.g., angels) are powerful spiritual beings who serve God as intercessors in the physical realm, but they were not given authority here. The war in Heaven—the great spiritual conflict of which mankind is in a way collateral damage—is the first instance of a created being asking the question: “Did God really say…?”

In subverting God’s will and inserting himself between God and mankind in the intended hierarchy, Lucifer fashioned a false duality in which humans not only question and twist what God said but also doubt his existence in the first. We have all heard people ask, “Where is the evidence of this magic man? Do we need this fabled being in the sky? Reason (or science) alone can explain everything.” The mastery in Satan’s deception is that he has never directly revealed himself to us. In effect—by convincing us our destiny is to supplant God and manifest Utopia via our collective will, intellect, and evolution—he allows us to do his work for him.

As a Christian in this Postmodern era, I have spent my life quietly believing but always asking the question: How can what God said fit within the constructs of modern science?

This is a dangerous game that many Christians play, and I would urge them all to stop it. After roughly 35 years of attempting to bend what God said to fit “the science,” I have come to accept that it cannot be done. Further, it is my belief that “scientific disciplines” have been positioned since at least the 19th century to assassinate God by convincing us his words cannot be true. Through a twisted interpretation of facts, our modern-day priestly class (i.e., the intelligentsia) has created an illusory world in which God never existed. How can we view this as anything but Luciferian Will playing out in grand fashion on a global scale to great effect?

Many readers will regard what I am saying as science denial, but I disagree. Science is not inherently adversarial to God—if anything, the opposite is true. Science is, in its broadest sense, the pursuit of knowledge. Consider this: How much further could science have advanced in the last two hundred years had we not wasted them trying to rethink the world’s knowledge into a Godless paradigm?

And you might reply, “How can anyone believe this crap? How can anything your God said possibly be true?”

Well, seeing the truth becomes much easier if you enter the mindset of a child. Try it out. Think like a gamer.

You’re playing the most amazing game ever. A truly living, breathing experience. Your character stats and skills are perfectly balanced for the content. It’s literally the only game you’ll ever need, and you can play forever. There’s no fatigue, no hunger, no strife, no death, and even no potty breaks (“Mom, bathroom!” screamed Eric Cartman) in this perfectly tuned masterpiece.

The catch? Someone built a mod. It’s illegal, but you’re curious even so. Shady yet enticing.

You ask the Developer (hereafter, ironically, The Dev), and he says if you install the mod there’s no way back. You do it anyway.

The game reboots and you load into the modded version. It sucks. It’s terrible. And you’re stuck here.

The Dev says, “I found a way to get you out, but you’re not gonna like it. The mod cut this entire world off from the server, so you’ll have to play until you die to re-jigger things. Oh yeah… death is a thing now. That’s new. In fact, that’s what the mod’s creator wanted. He meant it as a slap in the face to me, but he’s an amateur. The core of this world is still the same. It’ll feel familiar to you even though the mod corrupted a lot of core systems. You’ll get hungry, tired, and feel pain now. Resources are scarce and the animals will try to eat you. I’m sorry, but I warned you. I promise not to leave you hanging though. Just trust me and follow my instructions the best you can. You’ve probably already started to forget some things, but I hard coded the most important rules into your character’s local data just in case. Hang in there.”

In the context of this game world, does anything that God has said seem impossible?

Creation. God said he created everything in six days. God said the world is only a few thousand years old.

The universe, rocks, and so on—physical objects and their behavior within the natural law that function as mankind’s primary point of reference for timescales (e.g., carbon dating)—could have easily been created in a single day by The Dev. But, to add depth and story to his world, he painstakingly tweaked configuration settings for (and applied attributes to) the stars, planets, Earth, etc., to give a certain “age” to them. After all, how boring would it have been for players if everything seemed shiny, new, and static? Without a dash of mystery and continuous change, no one would want to log in.

Going further, The Dev then tuned natural law and the universe for life to thrive and his players to feel challenged but sufficiently capable. A masterclass in design.
The Forbidden Fruit. God said not to eat fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. He said eating it would bring death.

In a sense, God warned Adam and Eve that eating the fruit would make Lucifer’s twisted wish known to them. And, by making it known, bring it into being. Like the installation of the illegal mod, their/our Fall was irrevocable. When we made the choice to question and test God, we truly did gain the knowledge of good and evil—bringing instant spiritual death and dooming our physical selves to expire.
The Flood, Noah’s Ark, and the Rainbow. Abraham and Isaac. Lot’s wife. Moses. The Prophets. Christ. All of it.

In the context of our fictional videogame world, which part of Scripture seems impossible, infeasible, or even unlikely? To me, none. Like The Dev, God can do whatever he wants. If he wasn’t so fond of us, I imagine he’d probably just wipe out everything and start over.

My point is (as someone who very much enjoys Answers in Genesis, John Lennox, and Stephen Mayer): When God speaks, I think the best course is to believe what he says and figure out how the facts fit. If the facts available and our ability to interpret them fail us in a moment or an era, we can always rely on faith. To do anything else is to disrupt the hierarchy of Creation and—with God removed—open ourselves to intellectual dishonesty and the alluring force of Neopagan ideologies.

In summary, my argument is that part of the value proposition of killing God is to place ourselves (mankind/humanity) foremost in Creation. Why would we do this, you ask? To be free of him. Whether because we view him as an obstacle, as oppressive, as callous, or whatever, mankind has been duped by Satan into thinking that if we ignore God’s existence, we can be the masters of our own fate. In giving into that lie, we tragically allow Satan to win.

On Neopagan Ideologies: Fear, Sacrifice, and Control

What ideologies do I consider to be Neopagan?

Uniformitarianism (i.e., geologic “long time”). Evolution (i.e., as the source of life and all genetic diversity). Climate change (i.e., as a doomsday event). Communism (i.e., government as the source of equality, human rights, charity, etc.).

My belief is that paganism is the invariable consequence of forgetting about or “killing” God. When God is removed from the figurative equation—whether because we find his rules constraining or cannot abide all the suffering in the world—we are essentially left with a man versus nature paradigm. In this scenario, there are only two possible orderings: Mankind > Nature or Nature > Mankind.

If nature is predominant, humanity always invents “lower-case gods” that explain natural phenomena and attribute mankind’s genesis to these gods. Perhaps it reveals something about the human intellect that pagan beliefs share so much in common throughout time and across cultures. Here are two easy examples:

Evolution. The Babylonians, Polynesians, Evolutionists, and others share a perspective that humans “came about” from mud, sea foam, or pond scum—the Primordial Soup, as it were. In these cases, it is clear that nature itself has become a god that mankind must overcome. Nothing seems more farfetched to me than humanity as the source and sustainer of its own freedom, equality, and virtue.
Climate Change. Mayan civilization was ravaged by drought. At first, they sacrificed vats of water to their gods to bring rain. As things worsened, they began sacrificing people. Over time, these human sacrifices progressed from the least valuable members of society to the most. I pose a question to you, the reader: How is this any different than we in the modern era who sacrifice our economic wellbeing, lifestyles, and social structures to the threat of a “global extinction event” driven by global warming?

When humanity turns its massive intellect away from God, the result is always one group using their vast knowledge and “correct” interpretation of facts to control everyone else. Science is leveraged as a tool to enforce a biased agenda rather than a vehicle to explore Creation and search for truth.

Hence, what supposedly started as a mission to “free humanity from the yoke of an oppressive and callous god” and to “uplift all mankind to a Utopian state through intellect” metastasizes into one powerful faction roleplaying as the false gods they concocted. Perceiving themselves as having moved beyond the ignorance of their forebears, they reach the conclusion that there are no gods other than themselves.

But unlike the pagan gods, the Christian God is not a “god of the gaps.” The entire story is his. There is only one main character, and we are merely bit characters in the tale. Returning to an earlier point, if we view the world in a biblical timeframe, then there is no god of climate change that we must fear. The timescale of a biblical worldview makes climate shifts much less scary and, to my understanding, aligns more with the empirical evidence. In short, the world does not end the way we want. God decides.

On Unity and Purpose: Healing the American Culture

Throughout history, Lucifer’s war with God has racked humanity. In our time, the concepts of Christendom and the West have been all but erased. Instead of those things, we speak of the Free World—a much more arbitrary idea. Who is to say we are freer or, even if we are, that we have the right to thumb our collective noses at the rest of the world or force our sociopolitical model on everyone else? It is foolish and flimsy. A house of cards.

What united Christendom and the West was our collective choice to believe what God said. So, I can only conclude that part of the value proposition of killing God is that the enemies of Christendom and the West desire disunity and discord among us. I do not think it requires a big brain to imagine why that might be so.

Yet, while I believe God is a stabilizing force that reduces panic, fear, anger, and despondency—while I am fully convinced that (through faith, virtue, and love) a Godly society is one of heightened equality, freedom, and prosperity for all citizens—I am not saying that all Americans must or even should become Christians.

What I am saying is:

For non-Christians and Postmodernists, soften your views that Christians are anti-science, superstitious, irrational, and bigoted idiots. The Church is full of sinners, as it should be. We are all fallen and imperfect. But the tendency in American Culture has long been to attack, belittle, and treat Christians as though we are stupid and obsolete. It would go a long way toward healing our society and restoring the function of the American System if non-Christians and Postmodernists approached discussions with us as though we are intellectual equals. Our beliefs are no less suited to the modern era and to scientific study than yours.
For Christians, understand that we are no better than anyone else as a collective. That is not the point of our beliefs. The point is that we trust what God has said and behave in ways that show that trust. Educate yourselves, have tough discussions, and don’t be afraid to be confrontational. Turning the other cheek does not mean “always be as non-confrontational as possible to prove you are more moral.” Rather, I think it means in part that we must have the grace to see value in views we absolutely disagree with. For example, atheists inhabit a reality in which mankind overcomes subservience to natural law through intellect and might. I think Christians can agree with this to the extent that we believe mankind can and should lift itself up via the agency granted us by God.

Let me put it this way: Would God have exposed believers to pagan ideologies in Babylon, Egypt, Greece, Rome, etc., if there was no value in the beliefs and interpretations of those civilizations? I do not believe he would. There is value in diversity of ideas and thought patterns, and our Christian beliefs should be the great unifier of that diversity. Together, so long as we keep God in his proper place in Creation’s hierarchy, we can assimilate the world’s ideas into a grand tapestry of intellect and faith created by all of God’s children.
For everyone, jumping to violence or vile rhetoric as a first response is shallow and damning, as is catty passive aggressiveness and conceit. There is value in most views, and the American System was built intentionally to draw out the most valuable elements from all of us and piece them together into a high functioning government and society.

Simply, We the People must pull ourselves out of the trap we have fallen into of saying that everything “they” believe is quaint, obsolete, and wrong. Basically, we need to map things “they” say to things “we” believe in. Condescension in any direction—that is, riding a moral high horse and slashing blindly at everyone we consider “lesser than”—will only perpetuate the toxic culture war or, worse, fan the flames of civil war.

To restore our culture, we all must be firm in rebuking, repudiating, and confronting each other when the inhabitants of one reality—CuRe/Christian or Postmodern/Non-Christian—cross the line and begin outright attacking the inhabitants of the other. To be blunt, everyone’s shit stinks, Christians and non-Christians/Postmodernists alike. We should stop pretending “theirs” does and “ours” doesn’t and instead work together to rediscover what we have in common. In so doing, we will refine the American Culture and allow it to once again fuel the American System. If we do not, all will be lost with or without war, cultural or kinetic.

See you next time, America.

Finch Fries

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The CuRe All Letters | No. 7: The Witch’s Illusion: Revisiting the Scene

R. Roland Finch — Fri, 12 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Dear America,

In order that We the People never again fall prey to a figurative foul witch as described in my previous letter, I think it is wise that we revisit the scene of the crime and examine how she managed to get us into her clutches in the first place. Since we were all under her spell, we should help each other remember the sequence of events that led to our near demise…

For the sake of creative expression, let’s assume “you” in the story that follows is We the People collectively. Yet another mask!

That first day, you had fought with your wife. Why? Something about how you were making your money and how to raise the children.

“What difference does it make how the money is made?” you screamed. “You’re all well fed because of me. Get off my back!”

In reality, your wife shook you to your core. You knew she was right, but you walked away regardless. Into town for a breather to sort yourself out.

That’s when she found you in the street, asking for help. A pretty girl. Totally different from your wife, but maybe that was a good… Wait, what were you thinking?

Shaking it off, you realized it would be rude not to lend assistance. A new friend.

Fast forward. She seduced you. Begged for your protection. Her house was deep in the woods. Not so deep, you wondered if this was a come-on. It was. And then you arrived at her place. She fed you, sexed you, and made you feel wonderful.

Well, looking back, all of it felt a little off. Right? Something was wrong, but you couldn’t place it.

By the time you figured it out, things had progressed too far. From there, everything degraded rapidly. She clouded your senses, and you began to think this strange reality was not so bad—maybe even normal.

What’s that, you say? The stench wafting your way from the corner of the room? That was just some old rot she needed a carpenter to fix. “Actually, no,” she whispered. “It’s just your imagination. Let’s have fun.”

And you did. Then she drugged you, disrupting your body’s systems. Your arms no longer moved easily. Your fingers were thick and clumsy. Your legs were heavy. Your vision blurry. But that was your body’s fault, she insisted. Give her a chance, and she could perfect you. The perfect slave, suiting her purposes.

And her purposes, you ask? To kill you? Heavens no. She wanted you to love her. She wanted to own your heart, your soul. When she knew you couldn’t resist her, she attacked.

First, she stole your voice, so you could not call out.

Your weapons were her next target. If you suddenly regained consciousness, those just wouldn’t do. For some reason, though, she couldn’t pry the sword from your right hand no matter how deep the illusion drew you in. You never let go even when the blade cut your fingers.

She relented. The weapons could wait. Instead, she weakened your heart, both physically and spiritually. She convinced you that your home and your family were not so great or special. She showed you a better way to live. One with fewer obligations, at least on the surface. Your mind was hers. And your body? Just in case, she conjured a simple heart worm, a creature sure to keep her victim compliant.

The witch knew well after so many failed attempts at finding a lasting mate that some insurance was necessary. This way, even if you woke up, you would be too weak to fight.

Somehow, though, you resisted even this. She could not fail again!

And she has failed many times before. The corpses lay scattered in her house even now. Back then, you could smell them, hear the flies, and maybe catch glimpses, couldn’t you? But the witch’s illusion was so enrapturing…

Thoroughly satisfied that you could no longer harm her, she began to rifle through your belongings. She knew, of course, that it always helps a predator to know everything about their prey. Again, just in case.

Seeing your sorry state in its fullness, she judged you guilty. The sentence?

“A choice,” she crooned (or “croned”). “Live with me forever. Your new body will never want. I will care for you. Love you. Make love to you. And certainly more. Just love me.” She paused, realizing that if she pressed too hard, your mind might sense the illusion. But she decided the risk was worth the reward—went further. “Forget your wife. She never existed anyway. Well, it was never great. Just let her go.” She paused again, a wicked grin crossing her face. (The author saw it all, by the way. Gruesome.) “Be rid of her forever. Love me. Only me. Kill her.”

Something in you rose up when she said this. You knew it was wrong, but for you the difference between right and wrong wasn’t clear anymore. Sensing your inner turmoil and fearing it, she told you, “Please don’t resist me. You know this is all for your own good. After all, when you were free, you abused everything. You hurt yourself and others. So, follow my rules. Okay, baby? If you do, all the hurt will go away. Your belly will always be full, and your needs satisfied. I’ll treat you like the god you are. Just kill that evil woman and prove you love me.”

And that’s when the Man in the Blue Suit found you…

So, America, what is this story really about? Let’s review.

In the following bullets, let’s assume “they” are the Great Evil seeking to subvert the American System and American Culture for the sake of wealth, power, and control. They exist on both sides of the political aisle. They know no allegiance other than self. They are behind the mob. Ironically, they also wear the mask of We the People. But they are not for Us and they loathe being of Us.

Anyway, let’s juxtapose the Witch’s Attack and the American Story:

The Fight. The Civil War shook us to our bedrock. Perhaps We never really recovered, and the cracks in Our society’s foundation borne of those days are simply widening as time passes. If so, Our end truly was in Our beginning. Either way, the 1860s left Us changed.
The Curiosity and Seduction. We began to wonder if maybe Our way of life was wrong. As the cliché goes, “The grass is always greener.” Caught by Modernism, We began to look towards Europe for the first time in a long time, against the advice of Washington and our better senses.
The Appeal to Stomach and Sex. Then, with the 16th amendment, Federal Reserve Act, New Deal, and the Great Society, the government came to own Our “stomachs.” Next was sex. What more needs to be said?
The Body Poisoned, Altered. By the end of the 1960s, We were contented, drugged, and tingling with sex. Wait, is this the witch’s illusion or something else? Something is wrong. But it feels good, so it must be right.

Our economy, Our government, Our schools, Our family, Our culture. All of Our systems by this point had been rewired, retooled, and repurposed. Our governmental body and economic limbs no longer worked as they should. All the while, their mouthpieces told us the original design of Our systems was flawed. Our Declaration. Our Constitution. Especially Our Bill of Rights. And, most especially, God himself.

Fix those things, and all would be well. Communism? That’s just a distraction and a lever for them. After all, every Communist is a Capitalist peddling their ideology for money and influence.
The Attack Begins. Then, as with the witch, they decided We were ready for Our end. When was this? Who can really say?

My answer? A question: When did their attacks begin on the remainder of the Bill of Rights? They, who stoke the mob, know that if any amendment in the Bill of Rights falls, the whole thing collapses. As with Scripture, the American System is an all or nothing proposition.
The Warrior Disarmed. What evidence is there, you say, that they would prefer we were disarmed?

Relentlessly in the media, the refrain is that We the People cannot be trusted with firearms. “The Second Amendment was never meant to… blank, blank, and blank. We need more controls!” This is all untrue of the amendment’s meaning if you put it in context.

But, to me, what is true—were safety and security the sole value targets we were aiming for—is that taking away guns could help. The criminals. To wit, the man in the story would not have cut his fingers had he let the witch take his sword away. Conversely, had he given up his sword, and had he suddenly awakened and needed it to fight off, say, a witch...

This is the great debate. That said, consider this: Does killing the Second Amendment solve the frustration, the anger, and the unrest of the mob? No. To solve these problems, We must stop feeding the mob’s anger and help the individuals within the mob experience self-actualization and accomplishment, safety and financial stability, and the confidence and hope that comes with those things. The witch—I mean, they—do not have a good track record throughout history in this regard. They like profit without work, so someone must work without profit.
The Heart Weakened. We often overlook the third amendment. But I like to think of it as placing protections around the home—the hearth, or heart, of the family and civilization. They may not seek to quarter soldiers in our homes, but let’s put things in a modern context. Do any of We the People really feel fully safe (much less have feelings of privacy and sanctity) in our own homes? It’s bad enough that churches, schools, and the digital world are preyed upon, but We have literally no sacrosanct space left on Earth. If any American is okay with this, I wonder if it is because, this way, they feel cared for.
The Belongings Searched. Again, to keep Us safe and cared for (tailored ads and everything else, anyone?), they know everything about Us. Our data can be saved, searched, analyzed, leveraged, altered, etc. I do not know the specific pieces of legislation or administrative edicts that enabled it, but the surveillance state is fully out of hand, increasingly so for decades.

We should not by default ask ourselves, “Do I have anything to hide?” I remember hearing people answering this question often during my childhood. “Hell no, I don’t have anything to hide. Let ‘em look!”

Letting ourselves play out a scene in which that question was taken seriously at all is what led us here.
The Judgement Passed. Lawfare, anyone? No? The ultimate pissing contest, where the contestants face off on raised platforms directly above the spectators.
The Unreasonable Price of “Freedom.” Lawfare, anyone? Oh, we did this already…

Time to mix things up!

When the Man in the Blue Suit found We the People, they had Us dead to rights. It was only a matter of time before the Bill of Rights disintegrated. The Gordian Knot burning. The dominoes tumbling. You get it.

But then he appeared.

Who is he, though, really? Is he Donald Trump? Well, I think sometimes Trump has been. Because I believe that the Man in the Blue Suit is really the American in the Blue Suit, a vocation that any of Us can inherit. And it is a special one.

I believe the Blue Suit is bestowed upon those with a deep love of this country. The American Culture, the American System, and We the People. And the deepest hopes of We the People—given up to God for Our State, Our Family, Our Countrymen—are how the Blue Suit is summoned. At times, when seeing the buffoonery or ruthlessness of the person wearing it, We may ask, “Why that person? There are so many who are better.”

With the Blue Suit, I believe God chooses the right person for the moment. Catalyst for change. Herald of a paradigm shift. Guiding light or repulsive blight?

The Blue Suit does not come to its wearers because they asked for it or because we asked for them. Often, neither we nor they will understand why it came to them, but We the People must all be ready when the moment comes. To fight for ourselves and our future. To build a better future. Florence Kelley wore the Blue Suit. Kennedy did. Earhart did. Reagan. Tubman. Washington. Parks. King. And so many throughout history of equal and lesser renown, most of whom we never knew wore the Blue Suit at all.

It might be corny, but in a sense, We are all real life superheroes waiting to be handed the mask, bestowed the costume.

Because of all those Americans who have worn the Blue Suit, the illusion we lived under for so long has been shattered, and now we have a real chance. We can flee the rotted cabin in the woods and return to our wife and family. We can live in peace. And, God willing, they—the witch of the flickering illusion—will leave We the People alone to heal the damage they have done. For, if the witch again comes, we will stand at the door sword in hand.

Finch Fries

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The CuRe All Letters | No. 3: A People in Exodus: Vocation and Providence

R. Roland Finch — Tue, 19 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Dear America,

What is our job as We the People? What is our role in society?

Answering these questions requires an understanding of our Founders’ worldview, which was built on top of Protestant principles and shaped by our geographical and political distance from the Old World. Given that all Protestant theology owes a great deal to Martin Luther, an examination of his views on the concept of vocation offers great insight into what the words “We the People” meant to our American ancestors.

First, Context

As we begin, let’s very quickly address the notion that the theological and philosophical principles of a 16th century German monk have no relevance in today’s world. I would argue that—if our goal is to preserve the American republic—examination of Luther’s views holds immense value. As much, certainly, as exploration of other texts that are CANON in the modern Academy. For example, two deeply ideological works that essentially represent the Yin to the Founders’ Yang: Marx’s Communist Manifesto and Foucault’s The Order of Things.

In theology, philosophy, history, and literature, context is king. Remember that Luther was reacting to ancient and entrenched feudal power and class structures. His protestation was basically that the Roman Catholic church had added to and subverted Scripture/Truth for the sake of money, power, and control. Absolutely, the European monarchs felt Luther was wagging his finger at them also, since the class structure at the time placed them alongside the Pope as those born “closest to Heaven,” elevated from birth to lead the (in almost literal descending order) Priestly, Warrior, and Peasant classes.

Tangentially, my belief is that European societies never fully shed this feudal mindset. Ergo, Modernist and Postmodernist mental frameworks in ways assume a feudal structure and not the one Luther outlined. I would also guess that this condition is most prominent in countries where the Catholic church’s grip was most firm (e.g., Spain, France, Austria, Italy) and imprinted heavily wherever those governments colonized (e.g., the Philippines). In other words, the further north in Europe one travels, the less evident this effect would theoretically be—or perhaps the more proximal to old Prussia and Sweden one travels, with England and the Netherlands as “blurrier” focal points. In this respect, America’s geography was hugely important, because it freed us to establish a society minimally tethered to pre-Reformation power structures and thought patterns.

My point is this: If Christians and others of different viewpoints can educate ourselves about Lyell, Darwin, Freud, Marx, Nietzche, Foucault, and so many others, then I think it’s not only fair but obligatory for We the People to review alternative viewpoints. Education and truth seeking is how we will CuRe our cultural ills.

“Luther On Vocation”

To make this as painless as possible for the reader, here are a few bullets summarizing key points from Gustaf Wingren’s book, Luther on Vocation:

Mankind simultaneously exists in two kingdoms or realms, the spiritual/eternal and the physical/temporal.
- The spiritual realm—Kingdom of Christ, the right hand of God—is where Christians’ souls (born dead and revived by the Holy Spirit) both exist now (i.e., redeemed in Christ) and are seeking to go (i.e., guided and shielded from the damning effect of the Law by faith in the Gospel). Although Christians are imperfect and cannot uphold the Law, we are made perfect in Christ, therefore saved.
  
  Note: I would not mention this concept were it not so central to our Founding Documents and were theology and philosophy not the best ways to gain insight into governmental systems.
- The physical realm—earthly kingdom, the left hand of God—is where all mankind resides. In this realm, order (spiritual, political/economic, social) is maintained through governing structures (religion, civil authority/law, and the family). On earth, the vocation or calling of all Christians is to—in each sphere of life—live in faith, love, and service to God and all people. In this way, God works through our labors to ensure we have what we need in this world. In a word, Providence.
  
  To use an Exodus analogy, Christians are a people wandering the desert, faithful God will bring us to the Promised Land despite our obvious shortcomings.
Vocations are the various roles we play in society as we journey through the temporal realm. Or, as Luther described them, they are the “masks that God wears” to work through us as we faithfully fulfill our various purposes on earth. Christians have vocations in all four areas outlined below:
- Vocations within each of the Three Estates. To Luther, these “estates” were overlapping, interconnected spheres of life where we have distinct roles to play. Coincidentally, the American notion of a separation of Church and State has its roots here, and less so in the two kingdoms.
  
  Here is a brief AI-generated summary of each estate:
  - Church (ecclesia). This estate is concerned with the spiritual life of believers, focused on the proclamation of the Word of God and the administration of the sacraments.
  - State (politia). This estate deals with civil order, maintaining justice, and providing for the common good through law and governance.
  - Family (oeconomia). This estate encompasses family life, including marriage, parenting, and the economic activities necessary for supporting the family.
- Vocations within the Common Order. This includes the public forum and life, our “day job,” and so on.

With the backdrop of the above explanation unfurled, several critical points must now be made. Before that, please listen to this announcement from our flight crew: All cynics onboard, please let me get through the next few paragraphs. I will circle back to you.

First point. Where they took hold, Luther’s ideas on vocation flattened social and religious structures (but not economic class structures). The thriving king is the same as the subsisting serf, both equal under God’s Law and equally damned by it, only able to be saved by faith in Christ. This new mindset not only paved the way for a burgeoning middle class and greater class mobility in Western society generally, but also for the rethinking of political structures, rule of law, liberty and equality, and national identity. This dramatic cultural shift culminated in our Founding Documents, all of which are infused with a deeply held belief—the product of a cultural unity and shared faith that perhaps only existed for a few moments—in unalienable, God-given rights and the shared vocation of We the People. Today, the fire’s source gone out, part of our vocation truly is to keep the Light of Liberty aflame.

Second point. The strong emphasis that Luther’s principles of vocation place on individual responsibility and accountability is the only way to ensure a high functioning democratic/republican form of government. It also ensures that predatory capitalism and socialism are held in check. If every person faithfully executes their God-given roles (vocations), society will flourish as We the People labor to provide for ourselves and care for one another as God wills.

Third point. To reiterate, Luther viewed all vocational spheres as overlapping and inseparable. However, for what I believe are mostly obvious and valid reasons, the Founders constructed a wall between Church and State.

Fourth. Within the American system, We the People have a clear vocation within the affairs of State that comprises both leadership and followership, even if we are not ourselves representatives or otherwise active participants in the governmental system. This includes military service and, unfortunately, the paying of taxes. “Give unto Caesar.”

The Vocation of We the People

Now for the cynics. I know theology is not for everyone, so let me frame things a little differently.

My day job partly consists of, broadly speaking, absorbing high-level inputs (e.g., strategic plans, desired business outcomes, and value targets) and proposing what work should/could be executed (i.e., shaped initiatives with clear value propositions). This would be one of my vocations under the Common Order, according to Luther. Said day job having made me a realist, I think I can help with the cynicism problem.

We cannot let perfection be the enemy of good. A common expression, right? In business, this translates to something like, “A decent ACME screwdriver in hand when I need it is better than a bespoke SCREWIT 360 electric drill delivered two weeks late.”

But in affairs of the State, and really all four spheres, I think the expression has deeper meaning that we should never ignore even in our most cynical moments. That is, do not as your first option tear apart the entire machine simply because the engine sometimes runs imperfectly. Did we use the wrong grade of fuel (i.e., are the ideas of the people out of sync with the system, or has the culture degraded significantly enough that the figurative engine sputters)? Did we improperly or inadequately maintain the machine? Have we damaged it through misuse or alterations?

Being cynical myself, I find the famous Nietzschean lament and warning extraordinarily relevant. Let me explain.

Everyone remembers the following passage:

The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. “Whither is God?” he cried; “I will tell you … God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.” — The Gay Science §125

However, Nietzsche’s point is not the almost celebratory one most Modernists and Postmodernists take away. In fact, he is saying that we have succeeded in killing God, and there is going to be an untold cultural reckoning that we do not understand and cannot fully predict. In a future CuRe All letter, I plan to focus more on the value proposition of killing God and why anyone might want to do so. For now, I will redirect the question towards American government: What is the real value in destroying and/or remaking our system? Why do it?

Is our system so inherently flawed (or are We the People so inherently unworthy) that it needs to be remade (or that we need to be reeducated)? America has darkness in its past, much of it propagated by those labeling themselves Christian. The slave trade, Reconstruction and carpet bagging, Jim Crow Laws, women’s suffrage, and so on. For those who are not Christian, please be clear on one point: Christians are not inherently or necessarily more moral than anyone else, whether they be Pagan, atheist, alternative theist, or whatever. Christians should strive to be moral—and those who have faith will serve God through their vocations—but even the best people err. None of this means our governmental systems or We the People are hopelessly broken, evil, or should expect Karmic retribution. That is silly. We must collectively strive to move the culture forward. Setting this tone and expectation is a large part of what CuRe aims to achieve.

Is our system based on ideas that are not suited to the modern world? Whether you are Christian and believe all ideas come from God (via human intellect or divine revelation) or you simply assign great value to humanity’s ability to “make do for itself” in the earthly realm—two truths that actually complement one another—I think most people would agree there is abundant truth and knowledge in the world that we should seek out and many good ideas we should consider. Stoicism, Buddhism, Taoism, Confucianism, Socialism, Capitalism, and all manner of “isms” have produced ideas of worth that could be incorporated into our American system without damaging it, if we: (1) understand our system thoroughly, including its foundations and Founders’ intent, as well as its current operation and/or dysfunction; (2) take care to elect leaders and vote for laws that ensure changes are made carefully; and (3) are willing to accept when things do not work and undo them—governance should serve We the People, not the people we temporarily appointed to govern.

And this brings me back to the main question: What is the vocation of We the People?

In the Church. This will mean something different to non-Christians, but I believe that an honest and fact-balanced (rather than fact-based) search for objective Truth is—even if our view of Truth differs—a very good place to start and a proper fulfillment of our vocation.

In the Family. Provide and care for one another and fulfill your role within the household. Educate and keep one another accountable. Help with chores and so on.

In the Common Order. Do your job well, no matter how little worth you think it has. Value people. Be a decent and forthright human being. Try to practice the Golden Rule—practice etiquette and exhibit self-respect.

In the State. Understand our governmental systems, including the meaning of the Founding Documents as intended in context. Collaborate to set the direction for the country through education, discussion, and public life. Vote for leaders and laws that move the culture forward towards Truth. Offer your followership to elected leaders while also holding them accountable to American principles and the direction we want to go and goals we want to achieve.

I think the most important aspect of our vocation as We the People is simply grace, for others and ourselves. We must be willing to try new things and take risks, but not out of spite for the wrongs (perceived or real) of those that came before. We must be willing to admit when we make mistakes or ideas simply fail.

A passage attributed to the Stoic philosopher Epictetus comes to mind: "To accuse others for one's own misfortune is a sign of want of education. To accuse oneself shows that one's education has begun. To accuse neither oneself nor others shows that one's education is complete."

Try things, assess, adjust, and move on… while keeping our ultimate goals in mind.

That said, the law and government exist for a reason. When people subvert their vocations for the sake of wealth, power, and control—whether this is the parent who abuses a child, the church that teaches falsely, the business owner who hires an illegal immigrant worker, or the official who takes bribes to ignore shady dealings—the law, implemented and enforced in good faith, maintains social order. It must, or society cannot function.

Conclusion

Luther’s principles of vocation highlight a key question that we should always be asking ourselves as Americans: Are we acting in service to our government or are we in conflict with it? If we intend to conflict with it, we need to ensure the value proposition we are pursuing is real.

For example, I truly empathize with those who are experiencing gender dysphoria. I also question the cultural causes behind statistics like the following: “From 2017 to 2021, there was a nearly threefold increase in diagnoses of gender dysphoria among children and adolescents in the U.S., from 15,172 in 2017 to 42,167 in 2021.” [Brightpath Behavioral Health. “Gender Dysphoria Statistics in the United States.” Dec 3, 2024. https://www.brightpathbh.com/gender-dysphoria-statistics]

Notice, I am not attacking anyone with this condition. I am questioning the culture that has suddenly made trans rights a crusade without asking what the endgame is. Perhaps for the everyday person on the left, this quest is simply the right thing to do from their point of view. For those who suffer from gender dysphoria, I am sure widespread recognition and acceptance is a relief.

But, based on what I see from leaders on the left, the issue of increased gender dysphoria among American youth is being used as a lever to redefine and undermine traditional definitions of our vocations within the Family, State, Church, and Common Order. On the political right, my concern is that—while many have positive intentions—any shift in approach will go too far. Meaning, we need to avoid a reality wherein those who are experiencing gender dysphoria never receive any meaningful help. It seems wrong to me that our present best course of action is so invasive—physiologically, psychologically, and hormonally/chemically.

Whether instigated by the left or right, efforts to redefine or reshape our cultural and governmental foundations should be carried out with great care, if they are done at all. Even when those things are morally right and ethically preferred, we should not do them at the utter expense of one group, especially when the primary benefactors are, ironically, the people “providing help” rather than those they purport to help. That is the truth.

There are numerous other examples—some of them core to MAGA, like immigration and AI—that Americans should be cautious of and closely examine. That is part of our vocation as We the People.

We the People may stumble, but if we fulfill our various vocations in faith, love, and service, we will not fall. In some distant future, the government of these United States might crumble. But We the People were here before it, and we will remain long after it. Until then, our mission—which we collectively achieve through our vocations—is to seek truth, to participate in government as diligent citizens, to protect and lift up our families, and to live life well in all aspects. These are truths that are embodied in the Declaration of Independence and codified into law via the Constitution and Bill of Rights.

There is no part of me that understands how any American could disagree, unless they simply do not have the best interests of our nation and We the People as their highest priority. Whatever that means to you, the reader, I do not think more needs to be said.

Until next time, America…

Finch Fries

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Flitting Finch – Travel Memories | Busan: Jangsan Landmines

R. Roland Finch — Sun, 3 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Until 2017, I kept travel logs of my trips. Occasionally, I plan to pull from those for my blog posts. This one is from a trip to Busan, South Korea, I took in 2014 to visit a friend of mine (who I am renaming for privacy).

July 10, 2014

This day, a Thursday, I was set to check out of the hotel and move to Anne’s apartment, where I would spend the next four days. I woke up early again, this time to watch the Netherlands and Argentina play their semifinal match. It wasn’t very exciting, and I was very sleepy. But I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I started packing my things.

My day began with more adventure. First, I was carrying a suitcase and backpack through the subway, and I got stuck at the first gate. I had an ahjumma (an old Korean lady) standing behind me hitting me in the ass trying to push me through. In the end, I had to back up and use the handicap gate to get through, and I turned to catch her smirking at me. I just smiled back and went on my way.

Upon exiting the subway at Jangsan—using exit 5, per Anne’s instructions—I found myself confused. Her directions did not align with anything I was seeing. Apparently sick, drunk people are not to be trusted. I wandered around for a solid 20 minutes before finally figuring out that she had meant to tell me exit 11. After a bit more journeying, I entered her apartment and found it to be a fairly cozy flat.

That afternoon, after getting settled and rehydrated from the previous night’s drunkenness, I decided to take a walk to Jangsan Park, which is about two miles up the road from Anne’s apartment. My legs were tired, so I had decided not to summit Mt. Jangsan, which is a nice hike of about four miles. Unfortunately, I could not stop myself from “seeing just a little more of the trail,” and within two hours found myself at a fork in the road branching off to the peak. It was a sunny, hot day, and I was drenched with sweat by the time I reached this point. I had long ago consumed my last bit of water, but I decided to press on anyway. This would be, I knew, my one chance to see the top.

Onwards and upwards! Maybe 300 meters in, the path forked again, with no indication of which path was the correct one. I stayed on what looked like the more traveled path and kept going. A little further on, the path forked again, with one branch staying on a straighter, more level plane, and the other leading off to the right along a small ridge that looked like it went more directly to the summit. Being tired, I decided to try the latter.

After proceeding about 100 meters, I began to see strange signs and concertina wire. I kept walking. Another 100 meters on, I saw on my right-hand side a sign that looked like an infantryman’s boot stepping on an exploding landmine. Disconcerting. But the path looked well-trodden, so I continued. Perhaps 50 meters further, I began to see landmine warning signs on my left-hand side as well, and voices emanated from the trees. This was spooky, so I stood still and tried to listen to what they were saying.

I couldn’t hear it. I remained planted, and a few seconds later, the sound of chirping birds and running water burst out—loud and unnaturally close to my position. Then, a recording of a woman’s voice began to play, and I was then truly worried. It said, “You are not allowed in this area. Please turn back now. Although the area has been cleared of landmines, it is possible that some remain.”

That was the only warning I needed. I left that path quickly and on shaky legs. When I reached the fork in the road where I had taken this branch, I just stood and breathed for a second.

The rest of the hike was uneventful. Light rain began to fall as I reached the top, and I scanned the city below and quickly descended the mountain. Once again, I saw concertina wire and landmine signs on the way back, but I saw no other path this time and continued on. The signs soon disappeared, and I met two old men hiking up the path I was now descending.

By the time I had made it back to Anne’s apartment, my shirt and shorts were completely soaked, so I tossed them in the washer and ran a load of laundry. I showered, dressed, and headed downstairs to the convenience mart for water and beer. My jittery nerves and aching legs made the beer taste heaven-sent.

That evening, I had a Korean staple food: kimbap. Kimbap is a rice roll wrapped in seaweed, with meat and vegetables on the inside. It’s very tasty and simple, kind of like a Korean sandwich. The rest of the evening, Anne and I sat and drank, talked (read: argued, most likely about tattoos or some other stupid thing), and listened to music.

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The CuRe All Letters | Preface: One Plus Many Realities

R. Roland Finch — Sat, 2 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I remember distinctly a conversation I had nearly 20 years ago with a friend of mine—if she reads this, perhaps she will also remember. At the heart of our conversation was a question she posed: What is America? What is American culture?

In broad brush strokes, I would paint her politically left-wing and myself right-wing. While neither of us are zealots and both are reasonably intelligent people, we never could bridge the divide between us. For many years, I lamented this and wondered how two people in the same nation could exist in such starkly different realities.

I am convinced my life has uniquely equipped me to find those answers, and I would like to share what I have found with the reader, because I think there is great value in talking this out. I will focus on four main areas, dedicating a section to each:

Race and Racism
Economic Class
Relationships
Religion vs Academia

In each section, I will begin by sharing my personal experiences. Then, I will juxtapose two possible ways of responding to each set of circumstances, one based on the American Cultural Restorationist view (grounded in objective truth and God; hereafter abbreviated as CuRe) and one based generally on Postmodernism (grounded in contemporary power structures). In order to be fair to both points of view, I am going to present them both as well-intentioned and optimistic. While I admit this binary treatment is overly reductive, I believe Americans largely exist in one of these two realities today.

Context-Building

Before building my argument, I want to provide the reader with some clarifying information.

Cultural Restorationism (CuRe) is essentially meant to be a framework that wraps around, restores, and reinforces in a modern context the original American systems established at our nation’s founding. My perspective is that these systems were created to contain and utilize the ongoing, inevitable clash between realities that occurs when an exclusive/absolutist belief system like Christianity—you have faith or do not, are saved or are not—cohabitates with inclusive/relativist ones like Postmodernism. Further, our systems were built in a world where the Christian reality was nearly universal within our borders, so the systems themselves favor that reality. I believe this is also the source of American Exceptionalism. Like Christians, who are “in but not of the world,” Americans are set apart.

Therefore, in the context of this essay: (1) the term CuRe will be used to represent a single reality that is separate from all others; and (2) the term Postmodern will be used to collect “the other” realities. My rationale is that any Postmodern reality is created atop the power structures, norms, and linguistic/syntactical constructs prevalent in any era or moment.

So far in American history, the “One Plus Many” realities represented by CuRe and Postmodernism have coexisted within one country. My question is whether they can continue doing so or if something has changed. Simply, there seems to be a hardening of “the other” realities into an exclusive, quasi-religious paradigm that may be wholly incompatible with the traditional Christian one in the United States. I believe this is something other than Socialism/Social Liberalism and more akin to Marxism/Communism (read: more ideological and less secularized)—a phenomenon perhaps heretofore unnamed.

For America to survive culturally, we must learn more about the One Plus Many realities and give definition to each. We must sit down and converse. Educate each other. Find a way through together.

Let’s get started!

Race and Racism

I was born in 1987 to parents who are "White" and "Asian." While mixed marriages might be all the rage now, that was not true back in 1986 in certain parts of the United States. Frankly, it was still not true in some of those same parts in the 2000s. Neither were the products of such relationships (i.e., the children—i.e., me and my brother).

Often when discussing racism, people focus on slurs. Note that my ethnicity is English, Danish, German, and Filipino. In my life, I have been called a jalapeño (how utterly stupid), a wetback, a gringo, and a Jap. I have been confused for a Hawaiian by whites and called a haole by Hawaiians. Whatever. In other parts of the world, I’ve been called worse and somehow survived. After all, labels aside, we are all just shades of brown regardless of where we come from. The snarky, resentful part of me said just now: “Right. A bunch of turds.”

The part about racism that most people will not talk about are the contradicting emotions it produces in those that suffer it (even those who are merely innocent witnesses). All at once, you feel indignant and ashamed, superior and inferior, motivated and depressed... Racism is a thing that rips and tears.

For me, other than with family, I simply felt alone. I belonged nowhere. Yet, a lack of ties means you can go anywhere and do anything. My reaction was to get back at my offenders by “dwarfing their pathetic infinitesimal shitty lives with my own great one.” I admit, the spite still bubbles up.

But the point I am really trying to make is that the CuRe reaction to these circumstances is grounded in a Biblical view that simply says: “This is a fallen world. Race is a twisted human construct. While racism is real, it does not define me. So, as did Martin Luther King Jr., we must appeal to people’s better natures—pray and teach. As the people’s heart changes, so will our laws and the ways we behave.” Naively optimistic or not, I believe this is one reality.

Meanwhile, the Postmodernist reality is different. I believe this view can be articulated as follows: “Inequality and inequity are real. The current dominant group is subjugating these other groups. The treatment is unfair, unjust, and unethical. Until these problems are solved, society cannot reach greater heights. I want to help make things right. Dr. King inspired me with his great words, and I am going to change the power structures and stamp out oppression. If I rally the people, we can change the laws and ensure controls are in place until everyone learns to behave in a more just and ethical way.”

Economic Class

My parents were part of what I like to call the Factory Class. Meaning, their rung on the socioeconomic ladder fell between “hand-to-mouthing” and “rainy day funded.” As a result, when it came to college and my career, what they were able to provide me with was the best K-12 education they could afford, the best advice and support they could offer, and mostly non-monetary help (which I am very grateful for).

But no one gave me anything. No grants. No handouts. No hands up. No special programs. Nothing. I didn’t want any of that anyway. It would have cheapened anything I accomplished. All I wanted was a fair chance to test my abilities and resolve. Let the chips fall.

Still, I understand how—even in a very class-mobile society like the United States—people can feel trapped. Stuck.

The CuRe response to this is, I think: “I have to do the most with what I have. God provides what each person needs in this life. I can’t take it with me anyway. Even if I never have much, I can make sure my children have a chance for more. The freedom and the ability to grab ahold of the dreams I never could. And that’s enough. As long as everyone has a fair chance.”

The Postmodern response is different: “I am going to climb the class ladder and be more, do more. I am going to help all of the people I left behind who cannot help themselves. I will use my good fortune to change the system and open up opportunities for people like me. If enough people stand up, then we can force them to give us a seat at the table and finally have a fair chance.”

Relationships

At 22, I married a Chinese national who I think can accurately be described as someone whose spiritual needs were fulfilled by the State (big, huge, enormous capital S). There were many things wrong with that relationship, but I am not one to speak ill of the… just kidding, but you get the picture. It ended, and everything worked out for the better.

But not without much pain and learning on my part! For three years, I was torn between my One and the Plus Many realities. Love is a powerful force. Almost overwhelmingly so for an intense young idiot. Still, I was a principled idiot and ultimately found straddling those realities impossible. I could only compartmentalize myself so much—I had to choose. I walked. While I did not feel very blessed at the time, God has seen me through.

My learnings, framed as the CuRe point of view, are: “Relationships cannot work in one direction. There is no ‘perfect union’ when there is no mutual compromise. Marriage is meant to be two people going out into the world as one. While there are natural gender and relationship roles defined by God, if people use these as levers for their own advantage, everything will fall apart. A house divided cannot stand. A soul cannot be torn up and split across many realities. It can only exist in one.”

Conversely, my perception of the Postmodern perspective is: “If I lose sight of myself in this relationship, then I lose everything. I must maintain my sense of self. I love my partner, but I also must care for myself. If I don’t, I’ll lose self-respect. My partner and I must define what it means to be a family in and for our family, because all families are different. We cannot do that if one or both of us gives up their identity. We are two people who have partnered to live this life together. I must be strong for my partner and for myself.”

Religion vs Academia

When I was 12 years old, my parents moved the family to Fort Wayne, Indiana, so my dad could answer his calling to become an ordained Lutheran minister. I know in following his faith that he pushed through much skepticism, derision, and difficulty—perhaps much of it from me. Other than that, I will not speak for him but for myself.

My perspective on his experience is: Religious organizations are probably more political and ridiculous than any large institutions other than universities, which makes sense because the universities mostly began as seminaries in the United States. It left a bad taste in my mouth. Call it secondhand contempt.

But that does not mean that God, faith, religion, or even the religious organizations (or the universities) themselves are inherently bad or non-value. I would argue the opposite. It is because religious organizations and universities are so inordinately culturally valuable that they are so disgustingly leveraged by people vying for power and control.

Churches and universities are both necessary in a high-functioning culture. As a degree holder, I am convinced that the education I received has helped me think more critically, speak more carefully and precisely, and analyze and understand differing viewpoints more fully. But I also think the aggressive Postmodern agenda of the vast majority of universities in the United States is increasingly untenable for people with a certain worldview.

So, as with religious organizations, I also have a bad taste in my mouth regarding the university system. Firsthand disdain, in this case.

In summarizing my experiences and beliefs, a person living in the CuRe reality might say: “Human organizations are all flawed, but God works through those institutions and the people in them. Churches and universities were established to serve the soul, enrich the mind, strengthen the body, and ensure that our progeny are equipped to understand and preserve the function of our Republic, as well as (if not primarily and especially) govern and live according to God’s will. We should expose people to a wide array of ideas and explain those in context of objective truth, so the educated person can learn to critically examine new concepts and experiences.”

On the other hand, someone living in a Postmodern reality likely would posit that: “Churches and universities are vehicles of power. The prevailing power structures of the day and the holders of power determine how much power those institutions have and what they preach and teach. While neither evil nor good, churches allow the powerful to enact and enforce their will on people via dictates and dogma, which is something we must guard against. Therefore, we will use the university system as a buffer to ensure the rights and will of the people remain free. To do that, we must provide them with tools and mental frameworks so they are able to recognize oppression and combat it. This is how we achieve a more perfect society.”

Conclusion

To reiterate, I am not sure if the “One Plus Many” realities that I have described as CuRe and Postmodernism can truly coexist. In the context of the United States, I believe these realities have become so divergent and exclusive that we are essentially two countries mixed up across geographies within a single set of borders.

Yet, in the examples I offered, I also see commonality and hope for compromise.

My position is that we, both CuRe and Postmodern, should begin speaking to each other as though we are members of foreign nations making first contact and seeking peaceful relations. We should give each other the grace we would a foreigner who simply does not have the context to understand and react to events the same way we do. Whether we inhabit different realities or not, we are still countrymen. Still citizens of a great nation with a singular governmental system.

For my part as someone living the “CuRe-life,” I do not view my Postmodern friends as crazy or unintelligent or their ideas as bad or wrong. Having spent my entire adult life in a liberal college town, I would have no friends at all if I did. But the way those individuals who are living in a Postmodern reality perceive and interpret events and information is not something I agree with in a lot of cases.

In fact, I would argue that a dark early prototype of Postmodern thinking—i.e., the belief that power determines “truth,” making it a relative construct, and that “might makes right”—subverted Christianity and most scientific knowledge for the sake of wealth and control. And this iron grip was not broken until the Reformation. Today, I am not sure that the popular Postmodernist religion, using that term broadly, is any better than the Catholic church and complicit governments pre-1517.

I feel like we have come to a place where there is no room for disagreement or discussion, and I am sending this figurative note in a bottle out to sea vainly hoping to start a dialog. I believe the American system was founded to help us overcome the difficulty of existing in “One Plus Many” realities—the American Revolution and Civil War reflect this—but we must find the answer together.

First, though, we must want to find an answer. Ergo, I conclude like many others that we are at a crisis moment as a nation (in the original sense of that term as a turning point or decision moment):

Do we put aside the culture war and talk to each other to seek a new path forward together?
Do we physically fight it out until one reality wins or wait it out until one disappears?
Do we let the culture war continue until our systems fail?

While I do not know the answer, my conclusion is that we need to ensure we as Americans make a deliberate choice and a real effort to follow through, else we find the choice made for us and all our realities in shambles.

In making and following through on that decision, we will determine what it really means to be American and what American culture really is. Speaking philosophically, perhaps we will conclude that the original vision of America no longer exists even if the United States does.

Regardless, whatever answer we find together will be the answer to my friend’s questions from two decades ago: What is America? What is American culture?

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Finch Fries: Vision and Mission | American Cultural Restorationism (CuRe)

R. Roland Finch — Fri, 1 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Whether or not social unrest leads to another American civil war, we generations—shaped and scarred by the culture war of the past century—already inhabit the rubble of a once thriving civilization.

Thus, Finch Fries Press is founded on cultural restorationism, rather than political conservatism, progressivism, or some derivative. Evoking the great reformer Martin Luther, we seek to—through examination of the past and present and exploration of future possibilities—reestablish what it means to be American. For the sake of future generations, we cannot “allow post-Civil War Reconstruction to occur a second time” (no more kicking the figurative can down the road).

Together with you, we are seeking a common vision of a vibrant future that builds on our singular past. And though we may be few, we must remember that the most impactful movements in history were driven by a handful of people.

We believe in:

Free and open public discourse where the goal is not to convince or control but to understand

All topics must be open for discussion. For too long in America, we have effectively, if not actually, forbidden talking about core elements of ourselves and our civilization (some obvious examples include religion and politics).
All discussions must be “safe.” Until we can openly discuss our points of view without fear of reprisal or rage, we can never heal as a society.
Words are words. Throughout our history and especially in the last 40 years, we have spent an inordinate and unacceptable amount of time trying to control what people can say, how they can say it, and so on. We believe in letting people speak naturally within the appropriate bounds dictated by etiquette, which also needs to be restored—substance matters more than style.

Objective truth (i.e., God) and its innate ability to bring power to heel and unify a civilization through shared understanding, sound governance, and stable norms. All ideas are valid, but all must serve truth.

Extending from this, we also believe:

At the heart of Christianity lies the tenant: “Salvation comes via faith alone through grace alone.” Religious institutions are, like governments, corruptible. God is not.
At the heart of our founding documents and governmental systems lies Christian thought and beliefs. There is no state religion, but there is a clear religious mindset and intent in the state’s design.
There is a clear, single meaning intended by the authors of the Declaration of Independence, Constitution, and Bill of Rights. If this is not true, our systems cannot continue to function, because those seeking power will always leverage these documents in their favor, usually at the expense of the People.

Entertainment and education, not pandering and indoctrination

Like all people, we have beliefs and biases that certainly inform what projects we work on and that sometimes bleed into our endeavors, but the journey of story and character is at the heart of this enterprise.
America has a rich culture and storied history that we should be proud of and seek to know about. While we are imperfect and parts of our past and present are filled with darkness, this nation has truly been a beacon of truth, faith, fairness, and freedom.

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Flitting Finch | Socrates and AI

R. Roland Finch — Sun, 6 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Technology is a disruptive force. As a child of the 1990s, the internet grew up with me perhaps more than I did with it. For context, consider that personal computers reached ubiquity in American public schools only a few years before I entered kindergarten in 1992.

I have many memories of the early internet. The old AOL and Netscape discs, the iconic screeching of a dial-up modem, and the terrible design principles of early websites all stick in my memory. When I was eight or nine years old, I recall searching for “SNES” (Super Nintendo Entertainment System, or so I thought) only to open a page with a Clip Art-quality, flashing sign that read: Suzie’s Nasty Erotic Sexhouse.

Okay… My dad and uncle got a laugh out of that one.

As I reflect on my high school and college careers, it’s fully understandable to me why teachers voiced concerns about students overutilizing the internet for research papers. I think all of us who came up during those years remember the mantra of many instructors, “If you use Wikipedia, read the cited articles. Do not cite Wikipedia or you will fail.” In short, do not trust everything you read.

At the time, though, their trepidation was an unwarranted nuisance to me. My feeling was and is that if you’re a lazy student, the internet will enable said laziness and offer many figurative holes for you to fall into. But if you’re diligent, it’s a hugely useful tool and can help you produce a better product in less time. For the people slightly younger than me, perhaps a more relevant focal point for this same debate is search engines (i.e., the downfalls of “just Googling it”).

Since the advent of ChatGPT in 2022, the conversation has shifted to the impacts of generative artificial intelligence (GenAI) engines running on top of Large Language Models (LLMs). As anecdotal evidence of this shift, I would like to call out the number of fear-mongering headlines conveying something like, “AI Will Kill All of the Jobs – No One Is Safe!”

Let’s put things in perspective, though. People expressing deep concern about technology’s impact on learning and a functioning society is a (very) longstanding one.

In Plato’s Phaedrus, Socrates laments the pitfalls inherent in written language: "For this invention will produce forgetfulness in the minds of those who learn to use it, because they will not practice their memory. Their trust in writing, produced by external characters which are no part of themselves, will discourage the use of their own memory within them. You have invented an elixir not of memory, but of reminding; and you offer your pupils the appearance of wisdom, not true wisdom, for they will read many things without instruction and will therefore seem [275b] to know many things, when they are for the most part ignorant and hard to get along with, since they are not wise, but only appear wise.”

At face value, Socrates’ point might seem silly, but I certainly empathize with him. Reading as a medium has clear disadvantages when compared to oral tradition. Yet, I doubt any of us would lament the existence of written language (even though the reader might lament reading this article).

America and the world have survived the arrival of radio, television, computers, the internet, search engines…

Still, I ask myself: Does GenAI represent the same type of shift and the same type of problems?

In a way, yes. LLMs and GenAI are cousins of search engines and autocomplete features included in software services like Google’s suite. AI models are simply intaking inputs—data, information, images, files—and a prompt submitted by the user, then generating the most likely-to-fit content as output.

In industrial settings, a well-trained / tailored AI model offers immense efficiency gains. But, like Socrates (or Plato) did with writing, I have some reservations about this new technology.

Unlike the mediums listed earlier (e.g., writing, radio), AI models synthesize inputs and create something new. For me, this crosses a line because a student or an entry level worker no longer needs to ingest material, formulate an argument, develop said argument, etc.

How can young people truly learn to learn? What is the pathway for them to develop their ability to think critically and exercise their “discernment muscles”? How do they enter the workforce and grow within a business? What stops them from slightly tailoring the AI outputs to beat a detector algorithm?

More pointedly, will overreliance on AI further erode the fundamentals and foundation of learning and critical thinking in our society, reducing our ability to produce high functioning citizens of this culture and constitutional republic?

I think so… Especially absent appropriate guardrails, monitors, and controls. I really do. American society needs to view AI models as not just an industrial disruptor but a cultural one. I fear the cost of not doing so will be much greater than corporate profit and loss statements. I also fear working with a new generation who know nothing other than what ChatGPT tells them about our company’s operation.

But what I fear most is that AI seems poised to close off the entry pathways for many young people looking to enter the workforce. The implications of this deeply concern me. Creative solutions must be implemented quickly, or another generation will stumble in their early careers like many Millennials and Zoomers did.

You, the wise reader, might say: “AI could help students learn, because they don’t have to waste time reading all of the source material to gain an understanding.”

Or you might argue: “Memorization and oral tradition didn’t vanish because of writing. Radio, television, and the internet are all part of our day-to-day lives. Also, Finch, back in the day there were students who tried to hide lazy citations or pass papers off as their own.”

And I would reply to you with a very skeptical, “Sure. But this technology is different. This is a mind with no sense of critical thought and no discernment. AI is the epitome of garbage in, garbage out.”

In closing, I would like to offer a few simple guidelines that I hope someone smarter than me already has in mind and is implementing around the proper use of AI:

Do not be lazy. Know thoroughly the inputs you are handing to the AI model!
Do not trust without verifying. AI can “lie.” It can get things wrong. It can reach the wrong conclusions.
Do not treat AI as static. Give the AI model feedback! Current AI models are not sentient, but they can be “trained” even by basic users through simple discussion (i.e., Why did you give me that? Does that follow the logic or language structure I told you to use?).
Do not accept AI output as delivered. AI-generated content can be a huge accelerator, but in most cases (especially in academia), it should be used as a baseline or starting point in developing your own material.

Can you think of any other important guidelines for the proper use of AI? Do you also worry about the potential degrading impact this could have on our culture and society?

I would love to discuss with anyone willing, so please reach out via email, social media, or Discord!

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Flitting Finch | Fantastic Fourth: Family and Faith

R. Roland Finch — Sat, 5 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

In my 20s and early 30s, I would never have written and published this. But sports fans know: If you play it safe for long enough, you lose anyway…

Yesterday’s July Fourth celebrations, as they often do, stirred me to ruminate. My reflection is that we Americans share a great deal in common with one another, regardless of where or when we were born. Or we did up to a point in our history. Perhaps both things are true.

Like many Americans, my ancestors were not all born in this country. But they did come here legally, with dignity, and with a sense of providence. Simply, they shared a belief that in this place we call America, with enough sweat and blood, God would provide.

In a way, I am sitting in the back of the figurative classroom ashamed. As both the inheritor and product of my forebears’ hard work, I know they all were tougher than I am and sacrificed more than I have. They did not sit and wait for the future to come to them. They found it, chased it, built it, protected it, and passed it forward. I am proud that my family served in nearly every major American conflict from 1630 until Iraq, when I chose not to.

“They” were better than “us” in the ways that matter most. Individually and collectively. So, in this era in which the tendency is to denigrate and disparage those who came before and to pray to our new gods for a future with no connection to our “backward” past, I am seeking a better answer by examining my own past.

One group of my American ancestors journeyed here from England in the 1630s. They were probably landed gentry who exchanged their birthright to afford passage across the Atlantic. They were also outcasts. One hundred years prior, Henry VIII had established the Church of England in a political powerplay that, regardless of his motives, destabilized the balance of power in the British Isles and Continental Europe. Puritans or not, my people were Englishmen who saw the brewing civil war of the 1640s looming as the public’s disgust with Charles I deepened. And whether for patriotic or personal reasons, they departed for these shores with the certainty that God would see them through, whatever the outcome.

One group of my American ancestors journeyed here from Germany in the 1880s. They came from Westphalia and Pomerania, fleeing the inevitable outcomes heralded by Otto von Bismarck and the rise of the Prussian state. The complexities of the post-Enlightenment religious landscape in Germany certainly suggests they came for reasons of faith as well. Three hundred and fifty years after the Reformation, the politics borne out of the interplay between Pietism (a reaction to Lutheran theology, like many of the Protestant variants) and Modernism (e.g., Marx) had left little room for anything else. So, they left their homeland to build a different future.

One group of my American ancestors journeyed here from Denmark circa 1914. They were siblings, two brothers and a sister. The latter was my great grandmother, Nora. Certainly, the bullishness of the unified German state that Bismarck laid the foundation for was a major cause of them coming to America. An irony of Nora’s life is that she did not like Germans but lived among a huge German diaspora in the rural Midwest. She became a Methodist to avoid them, and then her son (my grandfather) married a woman of German descent. Life is strange, and God has a sense of humor.

My American mother journeyed here from the Philippines in 1986. That year, the People Power Revolution deposed Ferdinand Marcos. Even though that was not the reason she left, it absolutely highlights the political instability of a country that has, in my opinion, struggled to find an identity after centuries of colonial rule by the Indonesians, Spaniards, and Americans. The Philippines is a nation split between Catholicism and Islam, and in ways it’s poetic that Christianity circumnavigated the globe just to encounter an old adversary in Southeast Asia. I would not say my mom immigrated for religious freedom like my European ancestors, but she certainly took the leap to America with faith in her heart.

While my family has diverse roots, we have a common understanding that we are American—not English, German, Danish, or Filipino. “We” left those places and people behind to create and be part of something new, as did my wife when she immigrated from the Philippines in 2018.

Building the future was neither easy nor assured. I reiterate my belief that faith in God and a distinctly American sense of providence not only led Americans to success but demanded they remain steadfast and continue advancing. Our losses are nuisances, setbacks and delays. Our wins are mere steps towards our ultimate goal.

In the 1630s, surviving the boat ride from England to America was a minor miracle. But those that survived carried on and gained a foothold in a harsh land.

During both World Wars, German immigrants were not fondly regarded and many Anglicized their names. Yet, when called upon, they served their country on the battlefield and behind the plow.

And then for so many people, after overcoming those challenges, the Great Depression destroyed any scrap of familial wealth. One of my great grandfathers chose moonshining as his answer. If indeed he gave in to despair—I cannot really say—he was not alone in that era.

My point: Succeeding in America was never easy or perfect. There have been times that we have failed enormously as a nation. But the failure never kept us from striving to achieve our purpose. The sting of loss is temporary. The angry tears of being ignored and pushed aside will dry. The shock and fog of watching a plan fall to pieces will lift. We get up, we learn, and we try again.

Still, if the only measures of our society were past glories, present socioeconomic success, and familial ties, we would be just like any other country. For most of our history, we have believed the opposite. America is Separate. Exceptional. Unique.

Instead, my argument is that personal wealth and freedom are the inevitable consequence of a governmental structure with God at its center and belief in God built into its systems. The separation of church and state protects religion from interference and meddling as much as it does government, both within rational limits. Moreover, no system or process functions without people, and our Founding Fathers were exemplary in the precedents they established and the care they took in operationalizing the governmental systems they invented.

In short, this republic—the longest lived on the planet, disregarding all the chatter about America being a young nation—has proven itself worth preserving. It is our duty to learn how it works and keep it functioning well. Blaming our leaders for being poor when they come from the people is a little… oblivious.

Especially among those my age and younger, I fear we have irrevocably lost this. Many regard America as just another country in a big world. A failed state. A bad experiment. A young nation and a dumb people fully ignorant of the world. Blah blah blah.

I fully reject all of that.

Our cure-all can be found in the answer to two questions: (1) What do we want to accomplish as a nation?; and (2) What do we need in order to accomplish it?

Serving as a beacon for the disenfranchised causes in the world and sanctioning everyone who does not agree is not working. Perhaps we should again aspire to be a beacon of faith in God and give ourselves over to divine providence. That worked well for the first 200 years, and the Postmodern alternative has proven a poor substitute in the last 49.

I have spent my entire adult life shying away from this idea and these words, because in the circles I have inhabited, expressing these types of beliefs marks you as a backward, science-rejecting, irrational idiot. I do not think I am those.

But, as I stated at the start of this post, play it safe long enough and you always lose. For the future of the country and the children who will inherit it, I pray enough people are committed to similar ideals.

Time will tell. Either way, God will see us through. That has not changed since the 1630s (or the beginning of time).

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Inspired By | Abzuball

R. Roland Finch — Sun, 15 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I love competition, especially sports. All kinds of sports. I don’t think I’ve ever found a sport I didn’t enjoy at least a little bit. When I set out to write Light’s Shadow, I knew the Darktouched would need some kind of athletic contest at the heart of their culture. So, I created Abzuball.

Those readers who have played Final Fantasy X (FFX) will of course see some similarities to Blitzball. For those who have not played FFX, imagine a mashup of soccer, water polo, and ice hockey played within a sphere of water.

Deep down, I always wanted to create my own version of Blitzball. But that was just the beginning.

In the United States, team sports like football, basketball, and baseball tend to be where we focus. Ice hockey, tennis and soccer sit prominently in a second tier below these three. Then there’s lacrosse and rugby and so on…

I wanted something different. Polo came to mind (something quintessentially American, albeit a century or more ago). And then I found the ancient Central Asian game of Kok Boru, in which “two teams of horseback riders compete to carry a headless goat carcass (or a mold) and place it into the opposing team's goal, which are usually large pits or ‘kazans’.”

How cool is that?

I was also reminded of a game from my childhood that was invented by my third grade PE teacher (or so he claimed). I believe he named it after himself, calling it Warner Ball. Players on opposing teams—all wearing flag football belts—would basically play Capture the Flag, as gaming enthusiasts know it.

Simply, team members would attempt to run into the opposing team’s end of the field, dash into a marked circular area to steal one of two game balls, and then run the ball back to their own goal without their flag being pulled by the opposing team. Basic teamwork like defending the goals and passing the ball down the field were of course fair tactics.

Coincidentally, the Massively Multiplayer Online Roleplaying Game (MMORPG) and global sensation World of Warcraft (obscure reference for the fans... I am evoking a certain South Park episode) featured some great Capture the Flag action in Warsong Gulch.

Anyway, inspired by the above concepts, I came up with Abzuball—a blend of ancient and modern that I think reflects the world of the Darktouched well.

Do you also enjoy sports and competition (even the online variety)? What others would you like to see reflected in the Raiders of Light series? Feel free to reach out and let me know!

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Flitting Finch | Half Baked Take - Science Fantasy: Mind, Body, and… Soul?

R. Roland Finch — Mon, 9 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Writing about science fiction in this politically charged era is extremely challenging. Why is that, though? Stories centered on technological possibility, alien cultures, exploration, discovery, and interplanetary conflict should be immune from controversy, right? Alas, it is not so.

But again, I ask myself, why?

I believe the reason is, more so than other genres, sci-fi functions not only as a vision of the future but also a mirror reflecting current power and belief structures (hereafter, “the Paradigm”… how very Postmodern of me). Sci-fi invariably describes, regardless of whether technological development leads to Utopia or Inferno, how the seeds of tomorrow’s problems (and their solutions) are sown today. By humanity, of course. Viewed this way, the sci-fi writer emerges as a strange combination of historian, philosopher, science enthusiast, and prophet.

For example, here is an easy prediction: The advancement of artificial intelligence (AI) and quantum computing—and the social, political, and economic impact they are having and could have—are going to be a focal point of the sci-fi genre for the next decade or more.

On its own, there is nothing controversial in this statement. It is almost certainly true. But there’s no story here. We have mind (science and technology) and body (a world with people and governments), but no soul (no self, no meaning… no point).

So, let’s contemplate the following future. Hard cold science and mathematics have forced a gradual acceptance among the intellectual and ruling classes that Original Darwinism and Uniformitarianism do not fit the evidence. Replacing them are things you might expect (e.g., Neo Darwinism and Refined Unitarianism) as well as things you might not (e.g., due to a political groundswell of traditionalism, theories of Intelligent Design are now considered scientifically viable and accepted). In this future, mankind has advanced AI to such an extent that we have the technology to make interplanetary travel and colonization a reality.

Humanity, a majority of us having long since moved on from the Nietzschean proclamation that “God is dead,” races into space to seek evidence of the event that allowed life to exist. Then, based on carefully constructed input data sets and coaching, a highly trusted AI model maps a course through the universe that it claims leads to the hypothetical source of life. This could be what made the Primordial Soup or it could be God. Who knows?

Future people ask themselves questions that “evolve” from significant ones being asked today:

How did the information (essentially, code) written into the DNA of all life on Earth get there?
Where did the human sense of self, which is unique to us, come from?

Is that future controversial? I think it is. Explaining why is the difficult part, but it is an interesting thought exercise (to me, at least).

If you think the above future is improbable, consider how the Enlightenment thinkers would feel regarding the state of things—of people and their predispositions—in 2025. Prior to the 19th century, the world’s greatest scientific minds viewed science itself as an examination of Creation and the one who created it. Having grown up in the aftermath of the Reformation, Counter Reformation, etc.—movements that not only shifted the role of the Roman Catholic faith in the West but also cracked the foundation of ancient power structures and enabled the rise of new empires—these thinkers inherited conditions favorable to scientific and technological advancement. These pioneers, who essentially codified modern science and its methods, regarded faith not as a constraint but a boon.

And now consider how controversial their ideas must have been in context. Arguably, and logically, this is the era in which science fiction was truly born as a genre. [Note: The Verae Historiae ("True Histories") by Lucian of Samosata, written in the 2nd century AD, is widely considered the earliest example of science fiction. But the genre itself was established much later.]

My point is that well-constructed science fiction, like science itself, will always exist in controversy. This is because it attempts to predict, explain, and imply meaning about the present and future. In a sense, technology is secondary… it becomes, perhaps poetically, merely a vehicle. A plot device.

Sci-fi attempts to, through descriptions of technological possibilities and their impacts on the current Paradigm, predict what the world will look like after the next Paradigm shift. Simply put, writers/people develop theories and projections in-context (contemporary thought patterns, political climate, etc.).

Looking at philosophical eras for a moment, from the Reformation to the Enlightenment to the Modern Era and into the Postmodern Era, each represents at least one major shift in the Paradigm that led to an explosion of ideas and technology. More importantly, each era marked sharp differences in how thinkers viewed science, technology and their role in then-unwritten history. The Industrial Age supercharged the imagination of authors like Poe, Shelley, Verne, and Wells. And, while these writers’ ideas certainly influenced and inspired future generations, it seems evident that later sci-fi icons like Burroughs and then Azimov, Heinlein, and Clarke drew more from their own context and the Paradigm of their times than anything else—even the technology. Certainly, Orwell and others like him did.

These writers challenged the accepted norms of their times. It was Azimov who said, “Never let your sense of morals prevent you from doing what is right.” I tend to agree in general terms. My longhand translation is: Do not let presupposed truths driven by the Paradigm keep you from thinking critically and taking action. This is, of course, easier said than done. Inherently, suggesting there are flaws in the current Paradigm and that these flaws will eventually lead to catastrophe will not please those most vested in said Paradigm. Hence the controversy surrounding science fiction.

My opinion is that a good sci-fi story must incorporate three elements: mind, body, and soul. I’ll grant that I need to work on the definitions for these and other concepts presented in this article, and that is why this is only a “half-baked take.”

That said, the final element of “soul”—in my opinion the most necessary—can be dangerous when considered a threat by defenders of the current Paradigm, whatever that is. For example, challenging the position that “God is dead” is an activity that unquestionably does not fit within or adjacent to the current Paradigm. Doing so often leads to people being ostracized and/or relegated to the realm of quaint, albeit far from harmless, practitioners of broken myth and backward superstition. In summary, there is a wall between science and faith—we can’t climb over it, we can’t question why it’s there, and most of the time we can’t even acknowledge its existence.

Whatever, man.

After all, we should not pretend that the current foundations of the academic worldview and belief system is absent this concept of soul. With an origin story steeped in the near-mythology of the Big Bang and Darwinism, a tragedy unfolds as humanity’s self-created demise abruptly manifests, known only by a pariah of some kind. Do we rush in to save ourselves? Or do we merely narrowly escape? 2012, anyone? Yeah, me neither. [Aside: Truth be told, even though these stories are based on a Paradigm that I frequently disagree with, I find them entertaining all the same. BS, but enjoyable BS.]

And so, knowingly running the risk of being regarded as a crackpot, I am of course drawn to challenging the Paradigm on principle. Because, following my own thought process to its conclusion, an author of meaningful sci-fi must challenge the current Paradigm. (Or maybe I just like to argue.)

In conclusion, one of my goals as a “science fantasy” author is to challenge the current Paradigm. I think this is what makes the genre entertaining. Whether we examine how AI could evolve from being, essentially, a mind without a soul—i.e., it is simply a machine/code that has no sense of self—or we pursue the answer to life in the stars or under the ocean, sci-fi authors will plant the seeds of possibility in the minds of tomorrow’s achievers. Dreams move us forward, even if they prove to be totally unrealistic.

The Paradigm shift we create together will, as in past eras, absolutely be both progressive and regressive. As an example, the generalized and binary view that the Dark Ages broke the figurative fever of superstitious beliefs and ushered in an era of enlightened thought and reason… is wrong. Utterly wrong. Did some things move forward? Definitely. Did some go the other direction? Indubitably.

So, I say, bring on the new Paradigm. If I can inspire even a little part of it, I think that’s a lofty enough goal.

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Segment: Flitting Finch (and Bumbling, Stumbling) | Stoic Impostor & Impostor Stoic

R. Roland Finch — Fri, 30 May 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Note: This is a reminder to the reader that “Bumbling, Stumbling” is the bucket of blog posts centered around authoring, self-publishing, and marketing.

*Small rant incoming*

There was a certain trend that really gained momentum in the 1990s and has accelerated in the decades since. I think it’s now more of a cultural norm in the United States, and that’s even more unfortunate in my view.

What is it? The celebration of “nerd culture.”

Were this a polite conversation (I hope it is), you might then say, “Why is that?”

Of course, it’s not because I have anything against nerds. That would be silly. The reason is: In the era of my childhood, as our society began to both codify and deeply emphasize subcultural groups (to the point where, today, every noun and most adjectives have a club), “nerds” gained exclusive rights to “nerd things” and even to intelligence itself.

This is the bane of a high-functioning society.

If nerds own nerd things, then everyone else (athletes, skaters, gearheads, whatever) can only borrow them. And, for some mystifying reason, they (everyone else) have to feign shame when doing so.

Further, if everyone else can only borrow nerd things, there’s an implicit suggestion and expectation that when it comes to the use of these nerd things, everyone else is “lesser than” (not as smart, not as rational, not as cranially evolved…).

What probably originated as a noble cause to engender a sense of belonging in people quickly devolved into many subcultural groups expecting far less of themselves, including nerds. Example: Great athletes don’t have to be great thinkers. In fact, they probably won’t be. Even shouldn’t be. And great thinkers probably won’t be the next superstar baller. In other words, pick a lane, stay in it, and don’t get your hopes too high.

Big load of BS. Chicken, even.

*Small rant leaving*

What does this have to do with writing? In the same era the above trend developed, so did two others: (1) A focus on self-psychoanalysis coupled with the prolific use of psychology terms; and (2) The improved accessibility of content creation and publishing.

Pertinent to Item 1 above, a psychology term that has come into common use during my lifetime is “impostor syndrome.” For the sake of discussion, I am going to use it synonymously with “self-doubt.”

We all have feelings of self-doubt. We all feel like impostors or charlatans sometimes. I did as an athlete, student, gamer, raid leader, and project/program/portfolio manager. I still do in my roles now. However, I feel like the publishing industry—and maybe especially the self-publishing branch of it—puts an enormous multiplier on self doubt. Based on anecdotal evidence, I’m not alone in this.

There are a lot of reasons why. In part, I believe the subcultural emphasis I ranted about at the top of the page represents one of the main ones. The entire industry is tailored to subsubsubsubsub-genres where, at the bottom layers of this genre stratification, published works are basically just waving a subcultural emblem and pandering to obscure tastes (honestly, in some cases, fetishes).

Most indie authors end up shoveling page count into one of these tiny boxes to sell their product. It can be lucrative—and maybe a lot of these writers love it—but it feels like this model will absolutely be prohibitive of great works with potentially broad cultural impact being discovered… unless they are promoted by someone with clout. [Note: I’m not arrogant enough to be suggesting it’s prohibiting me from doing this. Not my point.]

No doubt, these same problems manifest in different ways in the traditional publishing space (which I haven’t bothered dabbling in), but newcomers to the industry could easily fall into the trap of thinking self-publishing is immune. Being able to “publish what you want” and “have full creative control” is great, but this is still a business.

And, since this post is already long, I won’t even touch on the strange science of selecting keywords or the echo chamber that is social media.

In the end, the upthrust here is that following the yellow brick road of writing, editing, and formatting a novel quickly becomes a sweaty meandering trek through the forest of publishing and marketing that is guided by a cookie crumb trail of sometimes abnormal norms. So, you had better bring a map or plan a careful course and be prepared for detours. Thankfully, there are some really helpful resources on YouTube for newcomers to the self-publishing space.

All of these challenges on their own would make anyone feel like an impostor, but once you’re published there’s still the eternal problem for writers: Finding an audience.

Unless, and even if, you pass through the above forest like a gentle breeze… Finding an audience can be a little scary, uncomfortable, and painful. Simply, it’s hard to do. This business is tough in ways, and it can fan the fires of self-doubt and impostor-ness.

That said, if you are going to be an impostor, I argue you should be a stoic impostor.

Stoics (Marcus Aurelius being the most famous) essentially believe in living life through reason (logic), discerning what the right thing is (wisdom), doing the right thing (courage), etc. This is all underpinned by a simple tenant of “controlling what one is able to control.”

I found Stoicism because of SAP. I should put that on a T-shirt. IYKYK (if you know you know)

Anyway, learning the lesson of controlling what you can control is essential in publishing.

Put out a good product consistently—know what good means to you and your audience.

Don’t react emotionally to criticism whether positive or negative—discern what’s valuable, take that away, and leave the rest.

Keep your vision—if you believe strongly in it, don’t let anyone dissuade you from realizing it.

Be a stoic impostor.

Final thoughts.

No one does anything perfectly, not even being a stoic impostor. Sometimes, you’ll be an impostor stoic. You won’t always be able to be rational, you might feel like quitting, you might take harsh and invalid criticism (or no feedback at all) to heart despite knowing you should not…

In that moment, take a step back and gain some perspective. What is really happening? What are the true reasons behind the things that are happening? What are the motivations of the different actors? What truly impacts you versus only feeling like it does?

Remember: Slow is fast.

It’s easy to fall back on statements like “fake it ‘til you make it,” but a healthier view would be: Very few people (by percentage) take this road or travel this far on it. Also, the road conditions and the weather are always changing, so the skills and equipment you will need to travel it are relatively uncommon, timebound, and will have to be learned hands-on in context.

Be a stoic impostor and control what you can. Don’t worry about anyone noticing if your disguise slips, because they won’t notice if you keep your cool. Equip yourself for the road ahead and expect your plans to break down. Remember where you’re going. And by the end of our journey, the road having been traveled together in Chaucer-like fashion, we will all be stoic storytellers instead.

Image sourced from a design by the T-Shirt Factory

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Segment: Flitting Finch | I, Accidental Gaming Apologist

R. Roland Finch — Wed, 28 May 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Disclaimer: Writing this month’s blog posts was like pulling teeth, and this piece somehow ended up with me playing the part of a video game apologist. Point: It may not be for everyone, and that’s okay.

I have claimed that Escape is one of the main functions of fairy-stories, and since I do not disapprove of them, it is plain that I do not accept the tone of scorn or pity with which “Escape” is now so often used: a tone for which the uses of the word outside literary criticism give no warrant at all. In what the misusers are fond of calling Real Life, Escape is evidently as a rule very practical, and may even be heroic.

- J.R.R. Tolkien

As a millennial who is pushing 40, I still lug around some guilt for the large amount of time in my life spent playing video games. While gaming arguably became ubiquitous in the 90s, I think it was (and still is) viewed by my parents’ generation as mostly a waste of time. And in the final balance, weighed against skills and knowledge left unlearned, that’s probably true.

However, I’ve also always thought that time is only wasted if you let it be. Some of my fondest memories are of sitting with friends or family playing Super Mario Kart or scouring the world of A Link to the Past or Donkey Kong Country for secrets. This split-screen era of gaming (where everyone sat in the same room and actually interacted) really brought people together. And, thankfully, we seem to have entered a period of “Split-Screen Revivalism.” This is apparent not only in the Nintendoverse but also evidenced by titles like It Takes Two and Split Fiction by developer Hazelight Studios. Even my non-gamer wife has had fun with these adventures.

In the 2000s, as online gaming grew up, experiences like Halo 2, the various Call of Duty: Modern Warfare clones, and the non-shooter Massively Multiplayer Online (MMO) markets—World of Warcraft, for example—leveled up the casual social interaction to professional levels of teamwork and coordination in virtual environments. And now, we have eSports like Rocket League.

The skills gamers develop and refine daily apply well to industry, military, etc. This is true not only of the team aspects of MMOs like voice communication and organization in a non-co-located setting (akin to virtual workplaces in some ways), but also specific applications of hand-eye coordination, manual dexterity, reaction time, rapid decision making, etc.

So, is gaming a waste of time? We can argue all day about whether this digital world a lot of us grew up in is for the better, but I don’t think we can disagree with the notion that every generation from mine forward will have to contend with it unless the whole thing collapses. C’est la vie.

That all said, my favorite games mostly fall into two types regardless of genre: (1) narrative-heavy games with big worlds and great music; and (2) intricate games with sprawling maps that encourage exploration and completionism.

Examples of the first kind range from Final Fantasy to Uncharted to (while perhaps not an exemplar of amazing storytelling) Halo.

Examples of the second kind range from Guacamelee to Dark Souls to Zelda.

In rare cases, you get the best of both worlds. I believe titles like God of War (the PS4 reboot and sequel, Ragnarok), Horizon: Zero Dawn, and even the online-only Final Fantasy XIV fall into this space for me.

These games all offer experiences that I think are on par with and truly blend together the experience of reading a well-written novel, watching a blockbuster film or marathon-worthy show, and listening to a beautiful musical performance. Plus, with RPGs like Final Fantasy, there’s inventory and money to manage, light mathematics to deal with, an immense amount of detail to commit to memory, and a splash of melodrama—just another day at the (real life) office.

Engaging characters acting out a gripping story against the backdrop of a sprawling world and a complex plot full of ancient mysteries, political intrigue, and world saving stakes? Count me in.

Back to the Tolkien quote: Gaming is escapism at its best. And I truly believe it can be very good for the mind and soul (noting that, like all things, it is not all good for all people).

As I close, I’m remembering sitting with my dad and uncle playing Dragon Warrior (the moniker for Dragon Quest in the US back then), Duck Hunt, Super Mario Bros., and Super Mario RPG. That was the beginning of my escapist journey, really. Then enter solo treks through Lufia I and II, Breath of Fire I-IV, Suikoden I and II, Xenogears (shout out to Xenoblade), and a whole lot more. Every one of these fueled my imagination and gave my soul a playground, in a sense.

In summary, gaming is a great pastime. No one can convince me otherwise. Do I think it needs to be balanced with real-world relationships and experiences? Of course. But that was true prior to the advent of video games as well. Sound body, sound mind.

I think, no matter what you do (even escaping into a silly place like Toad Town), as long as you’re learning, growing, and living fully… Do it wholeheartedly. Stomp on Goombas, chop off Sephiroth’s one wing with your impossibly big sword, pretend until you convince even yourself that you like MMORPG dailies, and save the day. Cheers.

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