DEATH IS ETERNAL #421

3,500 words

I barely finished writing DEATH IS ETERNAL #420, and I’m already starting this newsletter. DEATH IS ETERNAL is time-consuming, and sometimes I wonder if all the heavy lifting I do is worth it. But then I see the newsletter published and think, “Yeah, it’s worth it.” However, I’ll probably go lighter in December to recharge my batteries. What does that mean specifically? I’m still unsure. But once I figure it out, you’ll know. But while that doesn’t happen, let’s keep things unchanged.

Contents

1. A KING’S GAMBIT AT MADONNA DELL’OLMO

2. Writing: theme

3. Bye!

4. Life (from September 30 to October 13, 2024)

5. Reviews #335, #336, #337, and #338: ANNA KARENINA by Leo Tolstoy, HOUSES OF THE UNHOLY by Ed Brubaker, Sean Phillips, and Jacob Phillips, BRZRKR: THE LOST BOOK OF B by Keanu Reeves, Matt Kindt, Ron Garney, Bill Crabtree, and others, and DOCTOR MID-NITE by Matt Wagner, John K. Snyder III, and others

6. The end

1. A KING’S GAMBIT AT MADONNA DELL’OLMO

The cold autumn wind swept across the rolling plains near Cuneo, carrying the scent of mud and smoke. On the morning of September 30, 1744, the air felt thick with the anticipation of battle. Charles Emmanuel III, King of Sardinia, stood at the crest of a hill, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon. Beyond the fog, where Madonna dell’Olmo rose like a forgotten sentinel, the French and Spanish armies lay in wait.

The King gripped his reins tighter, knowing this day would be pivotal—not for victory, but for survival. The sky hung heavy as if nature itself prepared for what was to come. Beside him, Major-General Leutrum adjusted his monocular, gazing out at the enemy lines. The man was as calm as he had been at Campo Santo, and Charles Emmanuel took some comfort in his composure.

“We outnumber them still, my King,” Leutrum said softly, his voice barely carrying over the rustling of leaves. “But they have artillery on their side—and Conti.”

Charles Emmanuel nodded but said nothing. The Prince of Conti, leading the French, was a commander who understood the art of war. Conti’s artillery placements would soon roar to life, cutting through Sardinian lines like a hot knife through butter. But the King had more than a battle in mind—he had a plan.

“Today is not about winning a field,” Charles Emmanuel finally spoke. “It’s about keeping what we have.”

Leutrum nodded, understanding the weight of the strategy. The battle would serve only as a distraction. The real war was elsewhere—hidden behind the skirmishes and cannon fire. Supplies, garrison reinforcements, and strikes against enemy lines of communication had already been set into motion. If all went well, Conti’s forces would be bogged down by winter’s approach before they could make any real gains.

Below the hill, the Croat mercenaries on loan from Austria were moving into position. Charles Emmanuel watched as the ragged soldiers formed their lines, their loyalty secured by pay rather than patriotism. The King could only hope they fought as fiercely as their reputation claimed.

Around noon, the first cannon blast echoed across the valley. The Croats charged, their figures small against the sprawling French and Spanish lines. From a distance, they looked like ants, surging toward Madonna dell’Olmo, driven by the false promise of easy conquest.

Conti’s artillery thundered, and the Croats were met with a hail of gunfire. The charge faltered, bodies falling like leaves in the wind. Still, they pressed on. For a brief moment, Charles Emmanuel allowed himself to believe they might breach the enemy lines. But then the Spanish troops pushed back, their pikes and bayonets forming a deadly wall.

The King shifted his gaze to the centre of the battlefield, where his own grenadiers engaged the enemy. Here, too, the advance was sluggish. The French had dug deep trenches, reinforced with barricades that rendered a direct assault nearly impossible. The sound of musket fire and the clash of steel filled the air, but the Sardinian troops gained little ground.

Leutrum approached again, his face grave. “They’re holding fast, Your Majesty.”

Charles Emmanuel sighed. “And yet, they are only men. Men tire. Men bleed. Let them think they have the upper hand.”

He turned to survey the battlefield once more. Beyond the French and Spanish lines, in the hazy distance, his militias were already making their move. Guerrilla forces had been dispatched to harass the enemy’s supply lines and outposts while a small detachment made its way to Cuneo to resupply the fortress and evacuate the wounded.

The King’s plan hinged on timing—on being just quick enough to disrupt the enemy without revealing too much. Every cannon blast, every musket shot, was buying time. Time for the militia to strike where it would hurt most. Time for the fortress of Cuneo to hold just a little longer.

By late afternoon, the centre of the battlefield had become a chaotic mess of smoke and blood. Conti, in his usual composed manner, pushed forward with his infantry, covered by relentless artillery fire. It was a methodical, crushing advance.

But Charles Emmanuel had anticipated this. His men were retreating in an orderly fashion, giving ground while maintaining cohesion. It was not a rout—it was a calculated pullback, designed to lure Conti’s forces deeper, stretching them thin.

A signal from the right flank caught the King’s attention. His cavalry, hidden in the woods for most of the day, began to emerge, striking at the exposed French lines. The sudden assault threw the enemy into disarray, but only momentarily. Conti’s reserves quickly filled the gaps.

Charles Emmanuel watched the battle unfold with a calculated detachment. He had hoped the Croats and grenadiers would have made more headway, but it didn’t matter now. The time had come to end this phase of the battle.

“Order the retreat,” he commanded, his voice firm. “We’ve done enough here.”

Leutrum hesitated but complied. Horns sounded, signalling the withdrawal of Sardinian forces. The soldiers, battle-weary and bloodied, began to pull back, their retreat covered by what remained of the Croats.

Conti, seeing the Sardinians fall back, ordered a cautious advance. But as the sun set over the hills, the French and Spanish commanders realized something unsettling: the Sardinians were leaving, but they had not been broken.

That night, in his tent, Charles Emmanuel received word of the success of his plan. The garrison at Cuneo had been resupplied. The siege works had been damaged, and reports indicated that Conti’s lines of communication had been harassed and partially cut. Winter was approaching fast, and with it, the snow that would soon blanket the alpine passes.

Conti had won the battle, but he would not win the war. The Franco-Spanish forces had bled too much for too little gain. Already, sickness and desertion had begun to take their toll.

As the first drops of rain pattered against the canvas of his tent, Charles Emmanuel allowed himself a rare smile. Victory was not always found on the battlefield—it was found in the quiet hours afterward when the consequences of a day’s work came into view.

Tomorrow, the rain would turn the battlefield into a quagmire, and soon after, the snow would fall. By then, the Franco-Spanish army would be forced to retreat, and Cuneo would remain in Sardinian hands.

The King closed his eyes, listening to the rain. The gamble had paid off.

The end

2. Writing: theme

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

There’s a particular frustration that comes with opening the submission guidelines of a literary magazine, only to find the dreaded word: “theme.” Worse still, when the theme is something absurdly specific, something that feels like it was conceived in a moment of whimsical fancy but now holds the keys to my next possible publication. At first glance, it’s understandable. Themes help narrow the focus, draw in submissions that align with a magazine’s ethos, or create a cohesive issue that readers will find intriguing. But for me, themes like this don’t just narrow focus—they strangle creativity.

Weeks ago, I picked the next magazine on my submission list. This wasn’t a random decision. I’ve been careful about where I send my work, methodically working down a predetermined list driven by a simple rule: submit, submit, submit. The more I send out, the better my chances of getting published. But this magazine wants stories to fit into a very specific theme, and here’s the rub—I haven’t even started writing because the theme feels like a leash. Broad themes, I can handle. In fact, one of my earliest submissions was to a magazine with a broad theme, and it allowed me to explore my ideas freely. Specific themes, though, are like prompts, and I hate prompts.

Prompts make me feel like my imagination is being forced into a box. There’s something unnerving about the way they say, “Write about this,” when all I want to do is write about that. It’s not that I can’t come up with ideas—if anything, my mind buzzes with possibilities—but bending those ideas to fit someone else’s mould feels like betraying my creativity. So why don’t I just skip this submission? Why not move on to the next magazine and find one that doesn’t make me feel like I’m contorting myself into shapes I don’t want to take? It would be the sensible thing to do, right?

Well, here’s where I complicate things. I’m simple in some ways, but in others, I’m a victim of my own rigidity. I’ve made a rule for myself, and once a rule is in place, I follow it. No questions, no deviations. And this rule is clear: follow the list. Skipping a magazine because of its theme would mean breaking that rule. It would mean submitting one less story, which, for me, feels like a missed opportunity. The fewer submissions I make, the fewer chances I have of getting published, and let’s be honest, every submission matters.

But here’s the twist—despite my grumbling, the theme of this particular magazine does speak to me. I’ve been chewing on it for days, and deep down, I know I have a story worth telling. It’s personal, a bit unbelievable, and, like most of my work, drawn from reality. It’s the kind of story that I know will resonate with the editors if I can just force myself to sit down and write it. The conflict, then, is not just between me and the magazine’s theme. It’s between my dislike of prompts, my methodical nature, and my genuine desire to tell this story.

So, here I am, stuck. Paralyzed, really. Because I can’t break my own rule, I want to submit as much as possible, I have a story that could be published, and yet I resent the prompt that’s keeping me from getting it all out. It’s funny how what started as a rant about themed submissions turned into a deeper look at myself. Maybe that’s the real magic of writing—it drags the personal out of you whether you want it or not. Every time I sit down to write, I’m staring into a mirror, whether I want to or not. Writing isn’t a personal exercise? Yeah, right.

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.