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Below is the opening of my novel The Blizzard and The Sieve.

 

The ritual of redemptive violence was the wheel upon which humanity was broken. If they were given another chance, it’s unlikely that they would live any other way. Condemned by their nature, they took it upon themselves to account for all the indignities and injustices that plagued their waking lives and haunted their innermost thoughts. Clever as they were, humans learned how to carve meaning and morals out of the void, which waited for them with open arms and maw. Over time, they became so preoccupied with why they were alive that they forgot how to live. 

Few things better affirmed their existence and reminded them that they were in fact still alive than an instinctual compulsion to witness someone else’s suffering. They glorified it, made a spectacle of revenge and were consumed by both until nothing remained save for a garden of ash and bones. Yet, one of these tender wretches dared to crawl out of a pit of their own making, and in doing so, if this tribunal sees fit, cultivated fertile ground for a fresh start.