DEATH IS ETERNAL #415

3,500 words

This will probably be the shortest DEATH IS ETERNAL introduction ever, as I don’t have much to say. No, that’s incorrect. I do have a lot to say; I don’t have time, though. I don’t have time because yesterday (Aug. 19, 2024) was my birthday, and instead of writing, I did nothing. So now, I have to write both the short story and the WRITING section. Being lazy has a price, and I’m paying it now.

Contents

1. THE SIEGE OF OSTEND

2. Writing: job

3. Bye!

4. Life (from August 19 to September 1, 2024)

5. Reviews #311, #312, #313, and #314: LOIS LANE: ENEMY OF THE PEOPLE by Greg Rucka, Mike Perkins, and others, THE BAT-MAN: FIRST KNIGHT by Dan Jurgens, Mike Perkins, Mike Spicer, and others, ALAN SCOTT: THE GREEN LANTERN by Tim Sheridan, Cian Tormey, Jordi Tarragona, and others, and INSIDE OUT 2

6. The end

1. THE SIEGE OF OSTEND

Ostend, Flanders

The air was thick with salt, blood, and the groans of the dying. For three years, the city of Ostend had been under siege, a bloody stalemate that saw the Flemish port as the theatre of one of the most brutal conflicts of the war. Under Archduke Albert’s command, the Spanish sought to crush the rebellion of the Protestant United Provinces by capturing this last bastion on the Flemish coast. The defenders, a mix of Dutch, English, and French soldiers, held firm against the might of Spain, determined to resist at all costs.

Evening

The sun began to set, casting long shadows over the trenches surrounding Ostend like a noose. Captain Willem van der Meer, a Dutch officer, stood on the walls, his eyes scanning the horizon. The once-proud city had been reduced to rubble, its streets filled with craters from constant bombardment, and its buildings little more than skeletal remains. Yet, the flag of the United Provinces still fluttered atop the highest tower, a symbol of defiance that gave the weary soldiers a shred of hope.

Willem’s gaze drifted to the Spanish lines, where smoke from their cannons curled into the twilight sky. He could see the enemy soldiers moving like ants, digging new trenches and preparing for yet another assault. For a moment, his thoughts wandered to his family, who were far away in Amsterdam. His wife and two children were safe, but their faces haunted his dreams. He had not seen them in over two years, and the letters he received were few and far between. He wondered if they even remembered him.

“Captain,” a voice called from behind him.

Willem turned to see Sergeant Jacob de Vries, a grizzled veteran with a face etched by scars and a permanent scowl. Jacob had been with him since the beginning, a loyal soldier who had saved his life more times than he could count.

“What is it, Jacob?” Willem asked, his voice heavy with fatigue.

“The men are ready for tonight’s raid,” Jacob replied. “But they’re on edge. They know the Spanish are planning something big.”

Willem nodded, his mind already turning to the night’s mission. The defenders of Ostend had resorted to nightly raids on the Spanish lines, desperate to disrupt their preparations and buy themselves more time. It was a dangerous game, but one they had to play. The siege continued, and more reinforcements from the United Provinces and England arrived, bolstering their ranks and keeping the city from falling.

“Tell the men to be ready,” Willem said, gripping his sword hilt. “We strike at midnight.”

As Jacob left to relay the orders, Willem remained on the wall, his thoughts troubled. He had seen too much death and suffering, and he knew this siege could not last forever. But surrender was not an option. The Spanish would show no mercy to the defenders or the civilians who still clung to life within the city’s battered walls. It was fight or die.

Midnight

The night was dark, the moon obscured by clouds that promised rain. The defenders moved silently through the ruined streets, their footsteps muffled by the mud and debris. Willem led the way, his heart pounding as they approached the Spanish lines. The enemy had grown complacent, their confidence bolstered by the belief that Ostend’s fall was inevitable. But Willem knew that a cornered animal was the most dangerous, and tonight they would strike with all the fury of the damned.

They reached the edge of the Spanish trenches, where the earth had been torn apart by months of digging and shelling. Willem raised his hand, signalling the men to halt. He could hear the faint murmurs of the Spanish soldiers, unaware of the danger lurking in the darkness.

“Now,” Willem whispered, and the defenders surged forward.

Chaos erupted as they descended on the Spanish trenches, swords and daggers flashing in the dim light. The element of surprise was theirs, and the Spanish were caught off guard; many were cut down before they could even reach for their weapons. Willem fought with the ferocity of a man possessed, his sword cutting through flesh and bone as he carved a path through the enemy ranks.

But the Spanish were not easily cowed. The shouts of the dying alerted the nearby troops, and soon, the defenders found themselves outnumbered and surrounded. The night became a blur of blood and steel, the cries of the wounded mixing with the clash of swords and the thunder of muskets.

Willem fought alongside Jacob, the two men covering each other as they tried to hold their ground. But it was a losing battle. The Spanish reinforcements were overwhelming, and the defenders began to fall one by one.

“Captain, we have to retreat!” Jacob shouted, his voice barely audible over the din of battle.

Willem knew he was right, but every instinct screamed at him to keep fighting. To retreat was to admit defeat, and he could not bear the thought of facing the men who had placed their trust in him, knowing that he had failed them. But the choice was not his to make.

A Spanish officer appeared before him, a tall man with a scarred face and a gleaming sword. Their eyes met, and Willem knew that this was the end. The officer lunged at him, and Willem parried the blow, but he was too slow. The Spaniard’s sword sliced through his side, and Willem staggered back, blood pouring from the wound.

“Captain!” Jacob shouted, but there was no time to react. The Spanish officer raised his sword for the killing blow, but before he could strike, a shot rang out, and the man crumpled to the ground.

Willem looked up to see Jacob holding a smoking pistol, his face a mask of grim determination. But there was no time to thank him. The Spanish were closing in, and the defenders were being cut down one by one.

“Retreat!” Willem ordered, his voice weak from the pain. “Fall back to the city!”

The surviving defenders broke away from the fight, fleeing toward the city walls. Willem struggled to keep up, his vision blurring as the blood loss took its toll. But he knew he could not stop. Not yet.

They reached the relative safety of the city, and the gates were slammed shut behind them. The Spanish did not pursue, content to leave the defenders to their wounds and despair. Willem collapsed against the wall, gasping for breath as Jacob knelt beside him.

“We made it,” Jacob said, his voice heavy with relief.

Willem nodded, but the pain in his side was unbearable. He knew he was dying. The thought should have terrified him, but he felt a strange sense of peace instead. He had done his duty. He had fought for his country, for his family, for the men who had followed him into hell. And now, his time had come.

“Tell my wife…” Willem began, but the words caught in his throat. He had so much to say but no time to say it. Instead, he took Jacob’s hand, gripping it with the last of his strength. “Fight… until the end.”

Jacob nodded, tears filling his eyes as he watched the life drain from Willem’s face. The captain’s hand fell limp, and with it, Ostend’s last spark of defiance was extinguished.

Dawn

The city was silent, the air thick with the stench of death. The Spanish bombardment resumed at dawn, and the defenders, leaderless and broken, prepared for what they knew would be the final assault. The Siege of Ostend would soon end, but the memory of its horrors would linger for generations.

The end

2. Writing: job

Photo by MEDIA PROFILE on Unsplash

Writing is often romanticized as an ethereal, almost mystical act, something that comes naturally to those blessed with an abundance of talent. Yet, the reality of the writing life is far more grounded, more gruelling, and far less reliant on raw ability than one might assume. The act of writing is, at its core, a job—one that requires not just talent but an unwavering commitment to the craft.

The notion that talent alone can carry a writer to success is a comforting one, but it’s also misleading. Talent, while valuable, is only a tiny part of the equation. The greater, more formidable part is the work itself: the daily grind of putting words on the page, the perseverance to continue writing even when inspiration is nowhere to be found. This is the true essence of the writing life, one that demands not just passion but discipline, too.

Writing, like any other job, requires a schedule, a routine, a commitment to showing up every day, even when the words don’t come easily. This is where many aspiring writers falter, believing that writing should be an act of divine inspiration rather than a discipline. They wait for the perfect moment, the perfect idea, the perfect sentence, only to find that these moments are few and far between. In reality, writing often involves pushing through the imperfect, the mundane, and the frustrating to arrive at something that resembles art eventually.

This persistence is what separates the writer from the author. The transition from writer to author—defined here as the journey from unpublished to published—is not merely a matter of talent but of sheer, dogged determination. The world is filled with talented individuals who never make it past the starting line because they fail to put in the necessary work. They write when they feel like it, when the muse strikes, but fail to treat writing as a job, one that requires daily effort and relentless pursuit.

Moreover, the road from writer to author is fraught with rejection, self-doubt, and the often harsh realities of the publishing world. Writing constantly and sending your work out into the world does not guarantee success, but it is a prerequisite. The act of writing is, in many ways, an act of faith—a belief that, despite the odds, despite the countless rejections, your voice is worth hearing.

Yet, even with this understanding, there is no guarantee that writing will lead to traditional success. The publishing landscape is complex, competitive, and often unpredictable. For many, the path to publication is long and winding, filled with setbacks and moments of despair. But those who succeed are often those who view writing not just as a passion but as a profession—one that demands the same level of dedication and persistence as any other career.

In the end, writing is about showing up. It’s about sitting at the desk every day, putting in the work, and sending that work out into the world, time and time again. It’s about understanding that talent, while important, is not enough on its own. The writer who treats writing as a job—who writes constantly, revises relentlessly and perseveres through rejection—is the one who is most likely to make the transition from writer to author.

The road is long, and the work is hard, but for those who are willing to treat writing as the full-time job that it is, the rewards—whether they come in the form of publication, personal satisfaction, or something else entirely—are well worth the effort.

3. Bye!

Here’s where we say our farewell to the free subscribers. If you want to read the rest of DEATH IS ETERNAL, consider becoming a paying subscriber. If you already are a paying subscriber, first of all, thank you very, very much! And second, I’ll see you on the other side of the paywall.