This is the prologue to a SciFi story in the works. War From All Sides is a story of an interplanetary war between the rich and the poor, those who put up statues in remembrance of their greatness and the forgotten of the galaxy.

Enjoy! And don’t forget to comment and let me know what you think! ^-^

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Most of the stories I am told are twisted in a way that almost forces you to pick a side. People want you to root for the good guys and scowl and the wickedness of the men they consider bad. I’ve been told thousands upon thousands of stories – some take only hours to tell, others I have spent months listening to, to grasp the fullness of their complicated webs.

One story in particular I remember so clearly. The authors of this story were particularly odd – unlike anyone I’d ever seen before. They talked with such ancient wisdom and yet looked far younger than myself. I’ve never seen anything like them before and not since – strangers in a strange town.

There were three of them – a Tusmi, a Traveler, and a Balika – and they all came to me in a heated debate. All of them believed that their side of the story was the correct one – or that the people within their perspective had the right mindset, more like.

Without even a knock they come into my home – the temple, the locals called it – to tell me their story. They sat around my table and looked at me with eager eyes, as if they were sure I held the key to their debate.

I was not so sure.

Regardless, I tell them to go on with their story – it had been a while, and I was starting to grow weak again from the flavorless stories of the locals. They do their best, but depth cannot be fabricated.

The Traveler begins with an explanation – there was a war, three galaxies away that followed a great plague. In spite of many interruptions – mostly from the Tusmi, but occasionally the Balika would break in to fix a grammatical error – he is able to tell me that they had all observed this war from different sides and were convinced their side was in the right.

They were in luck. For weeks I had been craving a story like this. Long and full of ideas to provoke conscious thought.

Little did I know that this would be the longest story I had ever heard, and the only one I’d ever consider writing down to reread. I never did figure out who was right – who could tell? All men are wrong in their own way.

Once the Traveler had finished his introduction the Balika concluded that they reason they had come to me was because they knew I had listened to the stories of countless men, and they wished to present me with theirs’. It would be my job, at the conclusion of each of their accounts, to give my ruling as to who was the most justified in their actions.

Of course, I agreed.

The Tusmi declared that he would start off the story so the other two wouldn’t have to waste their breath. Being a Balika, the woman agreed to wait her turn, and being a Traveler, the other man decided it best to let the Tusmi have what he wanted.

So, he began with a rebel encampment and the leader of their resistance against the governmental institution who had abused them for eons.

After some time the Balika decided it was time for her to pick up her side of the story and show that not all the suits and ties the Tusmi spoke so abysmally of were the same. So, to sway me she recalled the life of a politician and his family, fighting for the rights of the neglected, while also trying to keep his children far from harm in a tumultuous time.

When she had finished her counter argument, the Traveler spoke up – slow and steady, much easier to listen to than the Tusmi and much more expressive than the Balika. He didn’t argue for too long, he just told me that his story fell in a grayer area and that his support was still fully with his small band of mercenaries who’s only goal was to end the bloody war that was destroying planets

For days I listened to them go back and forth between seemingly different worlds, all wrapped up in the same war. For months we would sit in my home and hear the unfamiliar morals, uncanny similarities, and unorthodox ideals.

Never have I heard a story where the line between right and wrong is so critically blurred. It was as if the line was drawn in white chalk, and the trampling of a thousand feet had swept it away until it’s remnants were a vague memory.

Still I listened.

But to this very day I lack a verdict.

Every day since this story has haunted me – tortured me. Hours I lie awake at night arguing with myself and trying to ignore details that may hinder my judgment.

//His child died.//

//Her mother and father left her.//

//He was only a boy.//

Surely there is a black and a white amidst the grey.

One day I will wake up in the morning determined that I have found the answer. But that same night I will go to sleep with a different thought on my mind as to who was right.

It is a minuscule war in the history of galaxies. One that will earn little more than a subsection in a New Galaxies high school text book before it is swept under the rug altogether. And yet… it consumes me.

This record will be passed to the next listener who takes refuge in my home – the Temple of Gild’r – but I would advise him before I pass on to read it with great caution and sound judgment. I had neither and I suffered at its hand.

This book is my dying confession – my one will and testament.

Read and seek the truth.

In all things, listen.

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There you have it, folks! I hope you enjoyed. ^-^

~ Nastassia