When I meet death, I will fight her with a glass sword. So I wrote. Never once did I suspect that death would not come for me at all.
A young man with a glass sword in his hand stood before me. Someone had read my words and failed to understand their meaning.
He attacked and the sword was as affective as it was meant to be. Reason had stepped a side letting the blade strike me.
The hope his sword embodied escaped as the pieces crashed downward. There would be no hero’s return, his life now gone.