Happy Thanksgiving

I'm not sure how everyone here celebrates the holiday, but I hope a good day somehow finds its way to all. You are all in my thoughts.

: )

Pete - Rebooting of a myth

Hemp: "Modernize, rewrite, or reboot a myth."

----------------------

A Little Exorcise

Tired leaves in October colors follow him into the shack as he swings the heavy door open, inward. Red, gold, and brown drift lazily in the draft he gives life to the small space. He leaves the door open, and more of the late afternoon spills in. The room smells of autumn, musty wood, and old tools.

He loves that smell, and associates it with her.

Too warm in his jacket, too cold without it, he settles on unzipping it, finally. Out of the breeze now, he should be fine, and it feels good; the jacket is a little tight.

Gently, he lays down the rose he’s brought at the open threshold, white petals on dark wood, and steps to the other side of the space, looking out the window at the carefully managed meadow, grass and marble, beyond. The sun is almost down, somewhere behind all that gray sky. Usually he is calm and at peace when he sings to her, but this time the butterflies and numbness in his fingers are almost overpowering. He’s focusing on looking around the inside of the shed, not the tears he’s trying to hold back, as he completes his small ritual. Finally he’s settled near the small window opposite the door. No crying, he’s tool old for that. He starts it, then; His voice hangs in the stillness as he begins the song, filling the space.

Someday
When I’m awfully low
When the world is cold
I will feel a glow,
Just thinking of you
And the way you look
Tonight

He smiles sadly, as he waits. Ms. Mavis had been open-mouth shocked when he’d finally screwed up his courage and sung for her, after all her pestering. However she’d found out about it, she’d forgotten all about the tryout process, and offered him a place in Choral on the spot.

Today, right now, his clear voice and perfect pitch didn’t seem to match how he felt in his own awkward, pudgy body. He wanted to see her very much, but also not so much at all.

He turns, and she’s there, silent and almost smiling in the doorway. She’s looking down at the rose, then back up at him, her expression a mixture of sadness and light. Almost always, it was easy for him to find the smile in her expression, but now he would swear the sadness was much more pronounced.

Like she knows.

“Hey,” he says, glib as ever. Master of dialog. His eyes along her long blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes, and falling to her pale dress. “I’m glad you came, Mary.” Despite his apprehension, this was true.

“I know flowers are never hard to find, here,” he begins, making the little joke, “but I bought that one special for you. I don’t know why, but I’ve always imagined you liked white roses, for some reason. Maybe to match your dress.” A faint smile here, and when she looks at him, he sees it almost reflected, but still mostly sees the sadness.

“I’ve got a lot on my mind today. Tonight, I mean,” he starts meandering. “It might be better if I just talk, and you just listen. At least, for now.” He sees her nod, wistfully. She’s listening, attentive to him, and this gives him a little strength, but it also makes him sad. It would figure she’d be mostly here tonight, of all nights.

“I updated your Facebook site for you,” he begins. “I put some really freaky music on it. I know you’re not into it, but I think it’d make you smile, if you were. And it’s –way- popular. Lots of friend requests.”

He knows this line of conversation is ridiculous, and just stalling, really.

She’s watching him, drifting slowly on dancing shoes, through the threshold and into the small space they’re sharing. She’s swaying slightly, as if she can hear music somewhere and she wants to dance. He knows that’s crazy, but it makes his heart ache.

“I’d sing that song for you, the one on your site now, but it’s pretty hardcore, loud.” He looks around at the cobwebbed rafters, the nailed-shut windowpane. “And this place might not be able to take it, if I cut loose fully.” He sees her eyes widen a little at this, and the sad smile again. “But I can sing more of our song,” he says, as he looks at the floor, a sudden wave shyness and still sad.

You’re lovely
With your smile so warm
And your cheeks so soft
There is nothing for me
But to love you
And the way you look
Tonight.

“People would never believe it, Mary,” he began. “That we were together I mean. For many reasons,” his voice drifted off into a chuckle, as he absently zipped up the jacket again, then noticed what he was doing and zipped it down once more. This time he looked straight into her eyes, and matched her gaze. She was close, now. He could almost feel her, even without touching. “They’d never believe what you’ve done for me, Mary,” a pause. “I hardly believe it.”

He looks away now, taking a step back and turning, looking out the window again. “Remember me telling you about my blog? The one I don’t tell… anyone about. Except you. Well, hardly anyone, anyway.” Another look of worry on his face, now. “I was reading some stuff I’d written, from before we met. I was so stupid, back then. I mean, I’m pretty stupid now, but now at least I talk to people. I can make them laugh, and I’m not afraid to sing in front of people any more. I have friends.” A nervous glance to her, then that lopsided smile. “And I’m in Choral.” He reflected, looking out the dirty window for a few moments. “Most of that is you, Mary.”

A tentative look to her again. She’s by the threshold, holding the rose, turning it over in her gentle hands. The sound of his silence causes her to look up at him, expectantly, maybe. She’s listening. “I have friends,” he repeats, softly. “I didn’t have any before. Well, not really. But I do now.” For some reason, it was starting to hit him now. He was fine, nervous, but fine. But now he was having to blink back the tears, and was barely keeping headway.

He was not going to cry. In front of a girl, much less.

“I thought about bringing them here, to our place, some of them, I mean. So they could meet you. But I have a feeling they might not understand, Mary. They’re good friends and all, but they might not get it.” A stab through his own heart, here. They’re my friends, Mary, and I love you, I am sure of it, but you can’t ever meet them.

His voice is clear in the cool air, his breath showing a bit as he sings the next verse to her. As the words pour out, his sadness is beaten back a little.

With each word
Your tenderness grows
Tearing my fears apart
And that laugh
That wrinkles your nose
It touches my foolish heart

“Melody , she would understand, maybe. She’s an idiot, that way.” A nervous laugh, here. “I think I’ve mentioned her before. You’d hate her, probably. She’s loud, obnoxious. She giggles and smiles all the time, always touching me. She’s totally opposite of you…”

A look of angst now on his young face. Opposite of you? Am I a –total- fuck-up? He thinks to himself. Harshly.

Je-sus Christ.

Mary doesn’t seem mad, at his words, though. Just sad.

She knows. She has to know. She’s smiling now; her head inclined towards him just a bit, gently urging him on. And it hurts so much more. His cheeks are wet.

“Not to say that I mind at all how we are, together. You and I,” he says with a wipe of his face. “I know you’re gentle, and reserved. You say so much through just expressions, through just being here, coming to meet me, Mary,” Casting around for other compliments, they come easily, pouring from him like the song he sings for her.

“I remember meeting you,” he begins. “Just a chance as I was walking. Well, not just a chance, like I told you that one time. I –was- looking for you. I knew about you, of course. And somehow,” he pauses here, lost again for a few heartbeats. “Somehow I knew that while I couldn’t talk to anyone else, I could talk to you.”

She’s near him again, now. Suddenly, that way she had of moving… he might look up, and she’d be closer to him. She is there now. Playful with the rose, white petals tapping gently against her pursed lips, though the sad look is still at the edge of her smile. She keeps batting the flower absently against her lips, as if taping out the moments until he gets to his point, maybe. A heartbeat or sorts.

“Do you remember me telling you about Melody, Mary?” If he didn’t start this now, he wouldn’t.

Would that be so bad? Could he just leave, and not think about this again?

Some big man he’d be, eh? Really brave of him.

No. He couldn’t do that.

“I did try to bring her around, actually,” He confesses. “Once. But you weren’t around. I sang the song, but you didn’t hear it, I guess.”

His admission scared him, a little. Mary didn’t retreat at his words, she wasn’t going to just up and vanish as he spoke to her, and so he continued, stumbling. No rhyme or reason to his words.

“She picked out this jacket for me. We were at the mall, you know, and she said she’d like to see it on me.” His face was warm now, embarrassed and slightly ashamed, sharing such things with someone else, and now sharing them with her, in a way. “She said I needed a new one, that my old one was worn out and tired, and that I was growing.”

A pause, here.

“I used to be just fine, Mary. No problems. Coming here to spend time with you. Knowing you’d be here, that you’d come when I called. You care about me, I know. We share this space, and I can feel how you care about me, really. And I know over the time we’ve spent here, sharing, I’ve grown up, a little…” his eyes down, at this, pushing around a bit of dirt on the floorboards with the tip of his Nike. “At least a little bit. I can talk to people now, like I was saying. I’m not the scared, dorky, kinda-creepy kid I was when we met.” You’ve shown me so much, Mary.” He was looking back at her now. “So much that I had inside of me.”

“I imagine things, you know,” his voice hesitant now, wandering far from what he had planned, baring that last little bit of his soul he’d kept in reserve, from her. “How we might get along if we were to ever be somewhere else together. People seeing us. How we might get along, in a group.” His face is crimson now, almost completely leaving his senses.

“I know that’s crazy, of course. I know you don’t want that or need that. But I still wonder about it, ya know? Especially now that I have these friends, and all.”

Silence for a few moments. He was letting the words sink in; he couldn’t hear anything in the musty wooden place, but the echo of what he’d said still seemed to linger, if only in her expression. Finally, he is plunging on.

“I know you love me, Mary. I don’t ever need to hear it, you know. It’s okay. But I know it, and I know you know I love you. I tell you now and then, but you can –feel- it from me just like I can from you. You just being here proves that to me. You listen to me as I share my heart, work my stupid problems out. Make me feel brave enough to face things.” He was pacing now, worked into what he was saying, letting it all out now. He turned to her, lastly. “Isn’t that what love is, really?”

“I know we’ve never talked about this, but I know about how you’ve touched others, sometimes. How if they gave you rides, or whatever. Way before we met, of course. I know that sometimes you’ve danced with guys. That doesn’t bother me at all.” His head shook, even as he ended the sentence. “I was never mad about that. Not really, anyway. I know this way, the way we’re together, is better.”

He stops pacing, now looks at her. He will let go, right now, he knows it. Instead, he sings, again. That refuge for him. Fighting to hold back the tears, now.

Lovely
Never ever change
Keep that breathless charm
Won’t you please arrange it?
Because I love you
Just the way you look
Tonight

The sound seems to echo, in the space.

“I wish I could touch you, Mary.” The tears were there now, serious, flowing wet warmth over his cheeks, beyond caring.

This was who he was, right now. In this moment, he would give anything to be able to reach out and feel this girl, touch her. Feel that smooth skin.

“I have these memories, of you and I. They haven’t happened, any of them, but I can see them so clearly in my mind, they’re exactly like memories. You and I walking, holding hands. Laughing. Talking. Dancing, even. I know these things never happened, Mary, but I wanted you to know that they were all real to me. As real as you are.” The pain was there now, he could taste it in the back of his throat, he was going to do it, he was there, and he still could not believe it. He closed his eyes, forcing more wet out, and breathed. He thought of Melody, that first time She’s touched his face, and smiled. Right before the first time they’d kissed.

The first time he’d kissed anyone, not his mom or auntie or cousin.

And then, with that thought of how his toes had curled the first time Melody had kissed him, he could do it. He wipes his arm across his face, drying it a little.

“I believed in them –so- hard, Mary. Saw them so clearly. These memories of you and I kept me going through some pretty rough times. When dad comes home, and the screaming starts. I told you how I am a baby, and hide my head under the pillow. I’ve never told anyone that. Not even Melody,” he admitted. “But as I block out the yelling and stuff breaking, if I squeeze the pillow around me hard enough, and think of you hard enough, I can block all that other stuff out. “

He pauses for a bit, just breathing, getting a grip. The continuing.

“Melody’s touching me all the time, laughing with me, Mary.”

That was it. That was really it, boiled down.

A capella.

“I wish I could touch you… I wish, I wish you would let me touch you back…” A few more quiet sobs. He had to try, one last time, although he knew what would happen. Knew in his heart, his soul.

He reached out for her, to stroke the side of her perfect cheek, untouchable cheek. She smiled at him, lovingly, sadly.

And faded away.

Someday
When I’m awfully low
When the world is cold
I will feel a glow,
Just thinking of you
And the way you look
Tonight

He ended their song. He is looking down, a few errant tears darkening the dirty wooden floor as they fall by his feet. He sniffs, moves the tip of his shoe gently over the tiny puddles and streaks them. Alone in the wooden shack, time had passed, and darkness is now on him. A cool October wind blew past monuments, over countless flowers placed with sadness and memory.

“Goodbye, Mary. I love you…”

…

ep.

Myths provide a bit of substance and definition the otherwise formless. In life, we are powerfully moved, so something must be moving us, yes? We naturally impose order on what we see, even if none exists. Something a little disconcerting maybe is that we can grow from this, from what we so adamantly believe we see. “Real” happens in our mind, and in our heart, not so often in the space before our eyes.

An awkward young boy falls in love with the ghost of Resurrection Mary, and grows a bit towards his manhood, learning from his interaction with a specter, putting so much meaning on what he sees and feels.

Mythology is our firm belief in something greater than ourselves; beings of myth love more deeply, dare more boldly and suffer more profoundly than we mortals. As a tribe we use our mythology to understand and grow; these are our cautionary tales, maps describing the path to greatness we might take a few steps upon.

This is who we are.

P.

My sabbatical be over.

Sorry I've been gone for a while, everyone. My life has been busy, but that's not really why I've been absent. The ups and downs and ups of the personal thing have more to do with it than anything else. Then after so many weeks, it seemed like the hill was really high to climb... How the hell woudl I come back after so many missed topics?

Fuck that. Here we go. Slowly but surely catching up. I can't let Hemp be the only one who's written to every topic.

; )

Missed you all.

Pete's Topic - Spring ahead, Fall back

Daylight Savings Time... as this is October, it's coming up soon. The clocks get turned back, and we get a bit of extra time.

There's no topic this week. None of us have completed every assignment; this week take one ( or two ) of the past assignments you haven't done and do them. Take the extra time and spend this next week catching up.

Jack and Hemp, I plan on doing both your topics; I have good ideas for both, and real work done on both. These are the only two I'm missing, and I don't plan on being behind for long. It's unseemly.

You lurkers, you people who have lately fallen by the wayside, knock one out. We have long and short, fiction and nonfiction to choose from. The list of topics is here. I know you can do it... I've seen exceptional work from everyone here.

Write, monkey, write! ; )

Happy birthday

We are a community; we few, we happy few, and we have a few rituals and traditions. Fiction and nonfiction, comment on each other’s stuff, weekly assignments. Honor Hemp.

It is this last point I am writing to today. It’s close enough to his birthday to matter, so I will start a WMW tradition, grab the microphone, and say a few words.

I first met Hemp when Aharon and I got together to check out “Alien v. Predator” in the theater. The movie was awful, but as we dissected the awfulness afterwards in the parking lot and then later at Denny’s, I knew that I’d found a kindred spirit.

Sharp, critical, and he made me laugh.

One of my memories of Hemp and I –
He and I drive downstate together to visit part of the tribe ( Hemp loves that word in this context, by the way ), and down there and back we invariably discuss everything, but a large part of the discussion always seems to be writing… stuff we’re doing sometimes, but more ideas that we both have. TV shows that need to be made, movies we could write.

Poetry that makes Hemp weep openly. He is very sensitive. : )

Anyway, these times down and back are some of my favorite memories of time with him... bouncing ideas off one another in this way, nothing is sacred, and it seems easy to criticize, to develop and get some really good stuff from our heads into some Word doc, for later use. It’s a kind of male bonding that I value lots and lots. It’s not always on the way up or downstate… sometimes it’s at Panera, sometimes it’s at a dimly lit table at this freakshow bar I drag him to now and again. But it’s amazing how we go from “Hi” to being off at the races, idea wise, so easily. Very very cool.

A very close second is the time he and I built a shed, at his parents place. This is a story best heard over alcohol.

My favorite bit of Hemp writing, from here –
Hands down, his Bio piece: “Hating people of the Mediterranean.” It’s something that I always put in a list of links if I’m telling someone about the blog, and in my own opinion so far it captures him the best, so far. He jokes ( or maybe he’s not joking ) about how he feels that no one would read it, for whatever reason. If you haven’t, I definitely recommend it.

Happy birthday, Hemp… Sorry if this embarrasses you.

Okay, no I’m not.

; )


Feel free to chime in, if you have a fav Hemp Memory or Hemp Writing. And if you've had a birthday so far and I've missed it, I won't do so again. So be watchful. And no, Hemp does not hate the people of the Med. He is both rational and grounded.

New members, and using drafts

We have a few new people on board. Most of them are lurking, but at least one is posting...

Say Hi to Jack, everyone. ; )

When you utilize the draft functionality of Blogspot, be mindful of the date on your post. If you write a post and save it as a draft, you are saving that post -with the date-. So if you draft up something on the 6th, then go back two days later and finish it on the 8th and post it to the blog, it will still have the date of the 6th "attached" to it. If people have posted anything since the 6th, your shiny new post won't be at the top.

New posts not being at the top usually is not a problem, as all the posts "at the top" are "new". But if there is more than a few days lag between your draft and when you post it ( and you don't update the date ) then your post might get missed.

And that would Bite. thank you again, Blogspot.

If this doesn't make sense, email me and I'll explain it better : ) If you notice when you post something that it doesn't go to the top, let me know, and I'll fix it.


I mention this because Jack's first post was drafted on the 6th, but posted today. It is not on top, so it seems like it's "missing".

Bleh.

And welcome, Jack. : )

Pete - The Doors

Steph: "I would like you to write a short continuation of Stockton's story, not necessarily in Stockton's style, feel free to make it your own, of course. Perhaps reveal what happened when he opened the door, and where you think the story would go from there."

...


As is often the case with love, the heart can crowd the lines and tables of order that the mind places on the real affairs of life. Young lovers, caught up in the fire of their mutual passion often cast aside reason and pursue the flames of their desire, even though it may be obvious that this path leads to burning, and pain.

The Princess was in every way her father's daughter; equal measures of his barbaric charisma and also the semified expression of this, as well. As with all younger generations, she took more to the nature of the place, being born here, than her parents did.

So in her we have both powerful whim, and reason. Her passion in many ways unbounded, tempered by forethought. Shrewd enough to discover the answer to the doors' riddle, sly enough to gesture a choice.

As the depth of their love grew, she without question saw pain on the distant horizon. Being her father's daughter, she knew well that their love would never be allowed to bear fruit beyond the moment. Each interval of time they spent together was a gift, and with the passing days that gift grew more expensive; not a shade of doubt in her mind that at some point, the price would have to be paid.

Part of her would rage against this inevitability she saw; her father's fiery and barbaric nature broiling inside of her. Fury adding to the passion already stoked by forbiddance and taboo. No love burns as hotly as that which, by circumstance, clearly cannot survive. Reason may not be sufficient enough a mentor to dictate a lesson in avoidance.

But it can provide a plan for what part of the drama they could control; how it would end.

They could not help their love, though they knew it was destined to end in pain. They could not turn off the road once they'd started upon it. They knew every rendezvous was a gift from fate, and that in time fate would come calling. They could however control what would happen after that fateful moment.

The deliberately passionate people of the this kingdom knew risk and danger intimately; they understood from a very early age the definition of consequence. Today in softer times we rationalize our actions and seek to avoid the results, surprising or not. We turn blind eyes to our choices, and the pain they often lead to.

But the princess and her lover were not of this time. They entertained no illusions of living happily ever after.

...


She gestured to the right.

He looked to her and stepped right, according to their pact.

The most powerful calm he'd ever felt washed over him when he realized the fierce sound of the tiger was silence, next to the roar of his passion for her.

The crowd on their feet and agape as the man walked into the onslaught of sinew and fury, hands up and out as his sides as if to proclaim he had power over this choice, that it had been his to make, on purpose.

The splash of blood, the swiftness of the tiger's strike surprised no one but perhaps the king himself, as he watched.

The princess watched, too. She owed that and more to the lover she would see again, in time. She owned the pain.

...

This is the only possible outcome. She could not deceive him, her love. He could not love another after having known the heart of a princess.

Destiny had a place for lovers such as these; the price paid here and now solidifying that futurity. She would take a lover and continue the line of her father, her torment over time at least equal to his last moments.

True love is about rising beyond the boundaries of circumstance; about knowing the terrible price, and paying it, gladly. It

Cupid

So, there was this show in 98-99 called Cupid... Staring the guy who plays Ari from Entourage. It was amazing, from the perspective of its writing. Piven's character claimed to be -the- Cupid, who had been banished to Earth by Zeus without his powers until he made 100 matches. The other main character was his court-appointed psychologist, and every week he worked though making the match and his own issues.

You never found out if he actually -was- Cupid, or just some disturbed but likable guy. It was a set in Chicago, and it was a sweet show.

ABC just renewed the show, in a largely unprecedented move. The character Cupid will be back, in many ways the same show, but in other ways different. Piven won't be back, unfortunately... but much of the show's original flavor and direction will be there.

A hint of where my topic might go... a favorite character, explored somehow. But I'm yapping about all this here because it was such a good show, character-wise and story-wise.

Heh.

bios up

I added the bios we have so far to the "This is who we are" link. As I get more, I'll add them.

Quiet times here, last few days.

Bio Assignment - Pete

I'm in my sort-of-late 30s, while most of my local social circle are in their mid 20s. The more time I spend here, the more it seems clear that you have the kind of life you decide to create around you. I'm working at creating a pretty sweet life.

I have a higher-end nerd job; at other times I’ve lived a life of intrigue and danger ( heh ) but now, not-so-much. I do information architecture and experience design for people with lots of pennies, I also do some work for people with no pennies at all. I am ( slowly but surely ) working towards my doctorate. At the moment, my side thing is spreading the word like fire through digital spaces. If I am able to someday shift this from "side thing" to "main thing", that would be... noteworthy. But I also wouldn't mind doing a few other things.

I'm doing many things in my life out of order, and for the most part do what I want, and what feels right... as opposed to maybe what most other people tell me I should do. So far, this is working out pretty well, though I do stumble now and then.

I live with intensity; "no power in the 'Verse can stop me."

Except me, that is.


...

I found her in our bedroom, straightening a very straightened lamp on a dust-free table. The colonial blue walls we'd painted caught the light of late October very well. She'd always had a very good eye, that way.

"Hey," I said, the word dropping out of my mouth, almost thudding on the carpet. My stomach was on fire. With bees. And lava. My arms and legs were numb.

"Hey," she responded, looking up for a split second, a doe caught in lights. Then turning her attention back to getting the lamp just right on the table. I saw her swallow, and wet her lips.

"If this is a bad time, we can do this later..."

I knew that sounded crazy, the moment the words were out. She laughed, with absolutely no mirth at all.

"A bad time, Peter?" Then she looked at me, her ponytail disappearing behind her head as she met my eyes, and looked at me. Right into me.

And I almost put t off, again. For the thousandth time. Her eyes were green and amazing. The freckles on her cheek noticeable now, for some reason. And she'd called me "Peter". She was the only person who really ever did. Not my mom, or any other person I'd ever loved.

Somehow, I reached out, and took her hand. I found some bizarre reserve of strength to do this thing. The kind of calm that people must feel before the blindfold goes on, and the rifles raise.

I led her into the loft area, which was still unpainted. She planned do do something edgy and festive here, when we got the time.

Ha.

We sat on the couch. I'd paid for it, outright with cash, so it was mine. Huge and green and the most expensive non-car or non-house thing I'd ever bought. It was the center of the room, everything else taking a sort of decor cue from it. However the paint on the walls would have gone, it would have definitely needed to take the couch into account.

It would have been amazing, I'm sure. I'd helped her paint before; she'd had the ideas, I'd been a strong and willing arm with a brush.

We were sitting close, knees more than touching, hands held, not looking at one another. Our heads were down. Over the last two years I'd been in this exact place very often. She being so close I could see her pulse in her neck were I to look. I could hear it. I always touched her at times like this, no matter where we were. In the car, on the bed, or on a couch. It was a conscious effort on my part to let her know I still wanted some contact with her, no matter how things went.

At these times, these trying, stressful moments of emotional agony I also studied the smallest items in my immediate space, ADHD trying desperately to get me off the tracks before the whistling train of choice bore down on me.

Somehow, impossibly, the dogs knew. They came upstairs, heads low, eyes up. Without ceremony or ritual turns they sat at our feet. I remembered then that just beyond them at the top of the stairs was where she left me a cake for my birthday. I was living here by myself while we were separated, in "the largest one bedroom apartment in Harvard", as I used to joke.

The TV stand from Ikea, one we picked out and I built the first weekend she moved back in was just behind me. The rim in the laundry room was colorful and peeking out from an open door; I would have never even thought to bring color into that space, but she did.

The desk I'd bought from Sam's with my cash and my girlfriend's card was in the room a few feet away. I remembered getting it here in her minivan, she and I putting it together in the vacant, unfurnished house before we screwed on it like pornstars, driving another nail into the coffin being meticulously built for my marriage.

Back to her hands, in mine.

They felt natural in mine. They -had- felt natural for more than ten years. All my life that had -really- mattered. Before I met her I'd saved my brother's life once, I'd put my feet on yellow footprints, and I'd helped taken care of my grandfather. But every other real accomplishment I'd ever made that ever meant anything was with her, because of her, or for her.

Back to her eyes. She was crying now. Looking at me silently, tears pouring from her.

A fair weather friend at best, that reserve and determination. It had fled. Instantly, when I heard her cry like that.

The desire to pull her close, to take care of her, to tell her it was going to be alright was powerful beyond the simple tools of words I could use to describe it. If there was one thing I was -exceedingly- good at, one skill I'd been born to, it was taking care of her.

I pulled her close, and she wasn't silent any more. I did it because I knew holding her close was what she wanted, and really what I wanted, and I also knew that if I kept looking at her eyes, I'd lose my resolve. And I knew that whatever tentativeness I might give in my voice, any sort of tiptoe straying from the absolute path of what we knew this conversation was supposed to be about, that would be it. She'd cling to it like a life preserver, and I'd fish her up out of the stormy sea.

We'd spend another year being sweet, but not making love. Another year holding hands, but feeling trapped. Another year together, but apart.

I cried, too. Not the free flowing, sobbing cry she was, but my own silent outpouring.

After a while, we stopped. I reached over and got some tissues for her, an intimate ritual for us as ancient as my calling her by her full name, instead of some shortened version. And we sat there. Our legs wrapped together, our canine kids at our feet, and the clocks not-ticking as October leaves blew off the trees outside our first dream house.

"I can't do this any more," I said, after a very long time.

Another very long time passed.

"I know," she answered. Her voice was very small.

"I love you," I said. And I meant it. More than I ever had, since I'd first told her first, over ten years before that moment.

"I know, Peter," she said. "I know this isn't about that."

My hand come up to her cheek and stroked it, as we both silently brought more tears out.


...


At some point in the late afternoon of October 26th, 2003 I told my wife that I couldn't keep going on the way we were. At some point, we were both rational enough to agree that if things weren't better in 3 months, that we'd go our separate ways. We were driven by so many different things that had brought us to that exact crossroads.

If we'd had any idea what it would be like to divide furniture between us, or to go to our storage unit at different times to remove our own stuff with helpful and somber friends, or what it would feel like to sleep in separate beds whle in the same house, I think both of us would have pushed through. Maybe another year. Maybe for the rest of our lives.

But we didn't.

Three months passed. Three months of soul searching, couples counseling, taking the trash out and walking the dogs and sleeping in the same bed and living together, but apart.

The thing that hurt the most immediately after we had decided was that she wouldn't sleep in the same bed or room as I, despite the fact that we were still plainly deeply in love. She couldn't share a bed with me, knowing we weren't going to be together. It would later turn out that she couldn't share a friendship with me, either. Too painful for her, if we weren't going to be together.

It hurt even more that when I offered her our bedroom and she declined, taking the guest bedroom. I forget what she said exactly, but she made it sound like she was sacrificing for me, doing me a favor by letting me have the big bed.

I know better now, certainly. I'm a bit older, and wiser.

I'd spent a very long time not really knowing who I was. I defined myself by my ability to take care of her, my ability to live up to what she expected of me, and my ability to become the man I know she wanted, and deserved.

This is not a recipe for happiness, certainly.

Growing up, dad had passed away when I was young, and mom had always painted an idyllic picture of their time together, so I thought marriage was pretty accurately portrayed on the Brady Bunch. I thought fighting was bad, and I thought you always gave the other person what they wanted, even went it hurt you, deep down.

I've learned a bit about myself, since then. I've been in a few relationships I could call long-term. I've been in love since then. I have a much more defined sense of who I am as a man, and as someone himself; not as part of a pair.

I imagine I am a better part of a potential pair, for knowing this.

Getting to this point in my life has been brutal, at times; I am glad to be here. I look back and know that I've shaped almost every single aspect of my life, either with my intention or my action. I've chosen paths and roadblocks. I went back south to my family and my friends, the ones I'd been drifting away from since I started working full-time on the marriage thing. I got rid of a lot of my stuff, and lived out of hotels and my car for two years.

I moved back to Hawaii. And back to Chicago.

I haven't used personal credit except for my present car in four years. I have decorated my own place, and liked it, and received compliments.

I have a lot to learn, but I am now the master of my own space in ways I could not bring into descriptive relief while I was married. I believe I am better, although sometimes I feel worse.

I am keeping half an eye out for my partner in crime... maybe I know her now, maybe I'll know her when I see her. But until I figure that out, I'll be just fine, I think.

....


I'm in my sort-of-late 30s, while most of my local social circle are in their mid 20s. The more time I spend here, the more it seems clear that you have the kind of life you decide to create around you. I'm working at creating a pretty sweet life.

I have a higher-end nerd job; at other times I’ve lived a life of intrigue and danger ( heh ) but now, not-so-much. I do information architecture and experience design for people with lots of pennies, I also do some work for people with no pennies at all. I am ( slowly but surely ) working towards my doctorate. At the moment, my side thing is spreading the word like fire through digital spaces. If I am able to someday shift this from "side thing" to "main thing", that would be sweet. But I also wouldn't mind doing a few other things.

I'm doing many things in my life out of order, and for the most part do what I want, and what feels right... as opposed to maybe what most other people tell me I should do. So far, this is working out pretty well, though I do stumble now and then.

I live with intensity; "no power in the 'Verse can stop me."

Except me, that is.

How to write a bio...

... I thought I'd find a few links to some resources, do a little bit of reading, and cobble together a post on bio-writing, in support of Tammy's excellent topic. After ten minutes of poking around on Google, I've come to a few conclusions.

1. If there are good bio-writing articles, I can't find them.

2. There is apparently money to be made writing other people's bios

3. The people making money from writing other's bios are hogging up the first 10 pages of Google's search returns when you enter such things as "how to write a bio" : /

One semi-useful tidbit I found was posted as a sort of teaser by one of these professional bio-writers. They offer it in hopes that you'll recognize superior bio-writing skills, and purchase one of their more targeted templates... such as "Blogger Bio".

Hmmmmmm.

An interesting point... making money at writing definitely doesn't have to mean writing novels and getting them published; you can write articles or templates that have to do with something you enjoy or are good at, then just sell them.

On your blog. Hmmmmm.

: )

Science Fiction in the National Interest

I stumbled upon an interesting article published in a May '07 USA Today that described a group of scifi authors that consults with the Department of Homeland Security.

"We'll play 'What if?' with anything," says Sage Walker, an emergency medicine physician turned sci-fi writer and the only woman in the group. She says the discussions with government officials "tend to be very intense and far-ranging."

Kinda cool.

Monkey Business - Pete

"Firefly" was a show on for a heartbeat a few years ago. It was a cross-genre sci-fi work of genius by "Buffy" and "Angel" creator Joss Whedon. If you haven't seen the DVD-ified episodes, you should get a-hold of them, pronto.

An episode of Firefly ran for an hour, and was broken up into three acts, with a teaser act at the beginning, after which the theme music would play before cutting to a commercial and resuming with the first act. The characters from Firefly are some of my very favorite in all of television.

My monkey "story" is actually a screenplay. Or part of one, rather; it's the teaser act for an episode of Firefly. It's written with the annotation and format common to most screenplays, at least as I understand them.

And I'm sorry, Aharon... I couldn't resist. ; )


...


TEASER

EXT. RUN DOWN TAVERN

The edge of nowhere, a run-down town in the distance, many stars shining overhead. The tavern’s lights are on, and you can hear some music and merrymaking inside. This is a dive bar, on a dive planet.

INT. TAVERN

The place is crowded, the clientele not dressed for a formal dance. ZOE, JAYNE, WASH, SIMON and KAYLEE sitting around a large table, having a drink, decompressing. Many empty bottles around the table. They are clearly HAMMERED. They are drinking, laughing loudly, and blowing off steam. WASH is telling a joke.

WASH
( pantomiming, very much into the joke he's finishing though clearly hammered. )
...The daughter gets off the ship, along side a huge naked man with tribal scars and a bone through is nose. Her father slaps his head and yells at her “You idiot! I said you should marry a –rich- doctor!"

Everyone LAUGHS, a bit too loud and long at the ancient joke. Feeling bold, SIMON tries his hand, improvising. Gathering his focus and wading in…

SIMON
A Captain and a Companion walk…

( a beat )

SIMON
…into a temple…

A Pause as SIMON looks confused; he had the joke, but now he lost it. After a heartbeat they all BURST OUT laughing, definitely –at- him, not with him. SIMON looks lost.

KAYLEE
( recovering for SIMON )
The Captain and Inara ought to make a shiny contact here for future work-

JAYNE
( dismissively )
We need work –now- We ain’t been paid in a fort-night.

No one agrees with JAYNE, but they clearly don’t disagree either. JAYNE’s scowl disappears with another swig of “beer”.

ANGLE ON WASH, as he’s looking OC beyond the table, towards the door of the TAVERN.

WASH
Okay. A smoking monkey walks into a bar…

JAYNE
( laughing, drinking )
Ooooooo I love this joke…

Some YELLING where WASH is looking. CUT TO see ANDREW the ape STANDING in the tavern doorway, looking very much worse for wear, afraid to enter, but held there by desperation. Old brown shirt in tatters, and he has a lit cigarette dangling from a HUGE HAND. Some LOCALS are yelling at him to shoo, to go away.

ZOE sees ANDREW and gets up immediately, for some reason concerned. She moves to ANDREW and kneels, a long look on her face. She GESUTRES to JAYNE to keep the crowd back, and he does with a MENACE and a GROWL, but he’s clearly not liking the look of ANDREW, or ZOE being so close to him.


The crew is SHOCKED when ZOE starts using hand signs with ANDREW, and the ape seems to understand.

ZOE
( nodding, then to the crew )
We’re leaving

ZOE takes ANDREW’S arm around her shoulders and helps him limp out, the rest of the group files out, confused. JAYNE is in a foul mood

JAYNE
This ain’t how that joke’s supposed to go

JAYNE makes a last FEINT at a LOCAL who looks like he might interfere, and the LOCAL backs off.



EXT. night in a pasture, Serenity landed, interior lights on

INT. Serenity cargo hold

KAYLEE
( a bit clearer, now )
How exactly is Zoe talking to a monkey?

SIMON
( focusing, hard, somewhat lucid )
He’s an ape, actually., and it’s a form of sign language. The Alliance had a program years ago where they “elevated” some of the more complex primates with genetic therapy in vitro. Smart as some men, when they matured. They were be trained for various functions-

As he talks, RIVER pokes her head in the crowd, perfectly mimicking ANDREW’S expression and going nose-to-nose with him

ZOE
( cutting in )
Alliance trained ‘em for war. As scouts, to flush out snipers, to look for mines. Heel work they didn’t see fit for a man. Slave labor.

KAYLEE
Oooooh… that’s terrible

SIMON
( continuing )
The program was discontinued. At least that’s what they told us in medical school.

SIMON starts to sign to Andy, apparently knowing the rudiments of the language, and the ape shakes his head “No”.

ZOE
Surely. It wasn’t something they shouted about. Some of the Independents took kindly to them, The Elevated; they never wanted to fight in the first place, and as the Alliance surely didn’t treat them with kindness. We’d look after the ones that straggled, as best we could.

ZOE
( signing, enunciating )
What’s your name? “unit,-name”?

ANDREW
( signs back, looking sad, pointing to his tattered brown coveralls )

ZOE
( nodding )
ANDREW escaped. Ran from the fighting. But where to? Years, since the war…

O.C. BOOK
There’s an Alliance facility up in the hills, here.

CUT TO BOOK , just entering crowd

BOOK
( disdainful )
Very hush hush, Not on any map. Maybe they kept him there, for some reason.

ANDREW
( nodding, yes )

JAYNE
You know the strangest stuff for a Shepherd, Shepherd

SIMON
( signing )
His mate’s still there…

KAYLEE
( shocked, then in Chinese )
Ounnn gin reh my dae yu!? [How could they do that!?] That’s awful!

RIVER is entranced, now signing herself

KAYLEE looks to the others
Well, we gotta go get her

JAYNE
( agitated )
I don’t see the percentage in –that-.

( SIMON signs, questioning, then SIMON, ZOE and RIVER speak at once

SIMON, ZOE, RIVER
Shiny rock.

WASH
( looking to them )
That means there’s gold? In them there hills?

They all nod, in unison, SIMON and ZOE looking at ANDY, RIVER looking at WASH.

JAYNE
Mal’ll never go for this

ZOE
I say he will. Capn’n me both fought along side of Elevated. He’d do right by him.

JAYNE
Maybe he’s lyin’.

WASH
( incredulous )
That’s right. The injured, escaped, talking monkey is lying to us.

JAYNE
He ain’t talking-

SIMON
He’s not a monkey-

ZOE
We help him, and that’s that.

They all look on hapless ANDREW, who looks back, silently.

WASH
( after a beat, as if reciting a joke )
A monkey walks onto the ship, offers us a job…

JAYNE upset
I don’t much like that joke.

END OF TEASER

more changes along the side

You may have noticed that the list on the left is getting kinda long, and will only get longer. I'm redoing the navigation along the side, just putting a link that leads to a page with stuff, as opposed to writing all of it out along the side. The items/links on the left side will be:

The monkey picture : )

Who we are

( will link to a page with a description of, well, who we are. As a group and individually, maybe. )

About the blog

( A little bit about how to bounce around, what to look for, and what we post here. )

Essays by author

( a list of us, and stuff we've done. Pretty much the list you see now to the left )

Essays by topic

( I'll repost the topic description, along with a link list leading to people who submitted )


The archive dropdown and the email address thingy at the bottom will still be there.


A few questions:

We're growing a little, and maybe everyone doesn't know everyone, or maybe spelling out a little bit might be good for people who visit the blog but don't post. I was thinking about putting a bit about each of us, somewhere; a paragraph that introduces each one of us. This might be helpful to associate names with what we're doing. We'd write our own paragraph, of course. Any thoughts on this?

Any thoughts about how things are going, here? Something you'd like to see, or something you think we should do, or not do? Hemp and I have been tweaking things, managing as we get up and running, but if you have any ideas or questions, I'd love to hear them. If not, that's cool. It will be all done off the top of our heads.

; )

Some ideas

Now that our group is getting bigger and we're writing a bit more, maybe a few suggestions are in order...

Tags
When you write a post ( not a comment ) there's a field at the bottom below where you type the post in; it's called "labels for this post". When you write a post, you should at least label it with your name, and what it's about. If it's a project/assignment put the word "item" in there. The tags are what the search functionality keys off of... so what you want the post to be found for in a search should go in the tag list.

Project topics
To keep things a bit orderly, an idea would be to only post the new project assignments on Monday. A week for each topic seems to feel right, I think.

Feedback
Of course no one has to post anything... but most of the time most people do. Read that, and if you have some time, comment on it. Comments help everyone, if only showing that you read what they took the time to write. Mention something that you liked, something that stuck out as odd, or something that you have a question about.

Stuff besides assignments
If there's something on your mind about writing, or about the current project, feel free to post about it. It's not a blog about assignments... it's a community around writing. Share what's on your mind.


More later, probably. : )

14 word stories - Pete

Finding her

Denial. Not looking, I found her. Not wanting, I needed her. Zing wins. Again.

Growing close

Anger. Apart, but together. True for him and for me. Love grows, despite this.

Living together

Bargaining. Now together, but apart. Thinking for each other is painful, and ends it.

The aftermath apart

Depression. Hindsight’s kick to the balls; I hurt, and grow, and love her still.

Phoenix flames

Acceptance. Not looking, I find her. Not wanting, I need her. Zing wins. Again.

...

Five 14 word stories about someone I love, despite everything that’s happened to us. The five periods from meeting her until now are spoken to, in Zach’s format. The “Zing” I refer to is my own personal version of the Spidey Sense. It tingles me when great things are about to happen, relationship-wise in my life.

Welcome, welcome

We have two new members... they have posted comments to the blog, and helped with editing, so it was natural to extend an invitation. I am excited that we're growing into an actual community, of sorts.

I'm not sure if they'll use their first names or some kinda nickname, so I won't name them here. I'll leave it to the two of them to introduce themselves.

Which they should, of course. We all should, now.

: )

Sin Story - Pete

Hole Lotta Fun!

"A Zen Archer never misses his target," Cain quoted, "because he knows there are only three things in the Universe: himself, the arrow, and the target. No where else for the arrow to go but to the target, so he can't miss." His broad shoulders moved under the white polo as he adjusted his stance.

With this he swung the battered putter gingerly, the worn handle bound in electrical tape. He tapped the bright orange ball so that it sped with a quiet thwak down the green. The ball banked off three sideboard bumpers before rolling into the cup, as if drawn there by a magnet.

"So?" Magdalen intoned, trying to hide her disbelief at yet another hole in one. You'd think it would have gotten old by now, but it hadn't. She knelt in her pleated school uniform skirt, placing her own lime green ball on the tee spot. She never changed clothes after school when she came here to 'Hole Lotta Fun!' Mini Golf Emporium for her lessons, and she would be graduating in a month.

After that, what to wear, what to wear?

"So, make this putt." Cain smiled, scratching the back of his head as he watched her line up in silence.

"I can't keep this a secret anymore, Cain. I -hate- mini golf." She focused on the ball and tapped it with the same slightness Cain had demonstrated, but of course with different effect. The ball lodged under the broken, non-spinning windmill. She sighed in frustration, but Cain showed no disappointment at all.

" 'Hate' like, 'Wrath' hate?" He inquired.

"No. Well, I don't think so, anyway," Magdalen answered, grunting, her feet apart on opposite bumpers and her body pitched at an awkward angle. Hooking the putter more than swinging it, she tried to fish the ball out from under the windmill without needing to take a penalty shot.

"Too bad. Sinning one of the Deadlies might be good for you." A wink here. "Though, you're right probably. Wrath seems to be better expressed at people, not pastimes. Besides, this is great training, the best." He watched Magdalen make the strained shot, and smiled sympathetically when the ball passed within an inch of the hole but then onward.

"I dislike it, then. Intensely," she added as she walked past him, taking her putt and sinking the lime green ball with one of those shots where the ball spins around the sides before it comes to rest. She bent and retrieved the ball, which had a worn logo from another mini golf place on it.

"You don't have to like it to benefit from it, Maggie. It's a perfect training tool. It brings focus, precision, patience and discipline together in one neat package." Cain was now gesturing at the trees and sky, and the parking lots beyond with the handle of his putter. "All in the lovely outdoors, for the low price of a dollar a game. Seventy-five cents, with your Frequent Fun discount."

"Hmmmmm," Magdalen answered in a non-committal tone as they walked to the next hole. The Whale hole.

Magdalen hated this hole. Wrath-hated.

Cain stopped before teeing up, his attention on the smartly dressed young executive-or-lawyer just finishing the Whale hole. "Respect," he reminded her, his palm outstretched in a gesture that made her stop before stepping onto the green. Magdalen knew Cain would show respect to the “lawyer”, and not put his orange ball down to the tee spot before the man got his expensive shoes off the green.

Looking closer, though, she watched as Cain regarded the man. She looked to the lawyer, who wasn't paying attention to them, but was now starting on the next hole. Her heart caught a little in her chest. She'd seen Cain like this once before, his ever present smile there, but something different around the eyes.

Was Lawyer Guy next? Next on The List?

"Imagine this," Cain said as he rose from his kneel, drawing her attention back. He was leaning to the side a bit as he surveyed the hole. "I had one just before we met. A lady, soccer mom type who constantly cheated on her husband with garbage men. Once word got out, the neighbors on her cul-de-sac could have put their garbage out any day of the week, there was such a parade of brown trucks down there."

Magdalen believed Cain could do this course blindfolded. Even if Cain didn't work here, which he did most days, she'd never seen him miss a shot. Not once. Here or even at the crappy course across town they sometimes went to for a change of pace.

Cain lined up, then tapped the ball again as he spoke.

Magdalen didn't even watch this time, instead sneaking a glance at Lawyer Guy again. She just heard the plop as the ball went into the whale's mouth, out it's backside in what the designer of this place had to know looked a whale pooping brightly colored golf balls. Then the sound of it going into the hole, of course. Plop!

"Anyway," he continued as the ball had gone on its way, "it wasn't Lust. It turned out she didn't feel particularly lustful at all. Not Gluttony either, or Envy. Sometimes you see this... something else presenting as Lust. True Lust can be tricky to identify."

Cain stepped past the whale, retrieved his ball, and motioned for her to tee up. Magdalen placed the ball, and lined up again. She closed her eyes for a moment, and breathed. She always, always missed this shot; just a little too left or too right, and her ball bounced off the whale's teeth and cost her at least one more shot, if she was lucky. It wasn't even that tough a shot; she made many much more difficult ones each time they played. Infuriating.

She tried to imagine nothing at all existed in the universe except herself, the ball, and the hole. She rocked her hips, adjusted her stance, and swung. With a quiet thwack the ball sped towards the whale's wide grin.

"She was sabotaging herself, it turned out," he finished, as the ball sailed into the center of the whale's mouth. "And hurting her husband. Not just him, either. This was the third time she had wrecked a marriage, because of her self loathing. Her pain was racking up a lot of casualties." Cain watched the ball exit the whale and plop into the hole. He beamed at her.

Magdalen hadn't meant to, but she smiled back. She couldn't help it. The Zen Golfer.

"Over and over she does this, hurting people. Herself, her husbands, the garbage men and their families. It's not one of the Seven Deadlies, but clearly it's sinful. Clearly she's hurting people, and clearly she's not part of The Solution. So," he spread his hands, "she made it onto The List."

Her lime green ball now retrieved and in hand, she brushed the chestnut hair over her shoulders, over the white cotton of her school uniform top and came up to Cain. Her eyes in his now, she asked "How many are on The List now?"

"Three," he answered, returning her look, unafraid of her in any way. He enjoyed her being this close, and thought once again he'd chosen his apprentice well. A bonus that she was nice to look at, too. He looked up at the Lawyer Guy for a moment, squinting into the afternoon sun and bringing that hand up to the back of his head again, as if contemplating as he regarded the man. "Maybe four."

...

"Faith is very important," Cain had told her, months ago, when they'd first connected, when he'd shared with her his sense of purpose. She had originally thought he was trying to pick her up, which would have been fine. Magdalen didn't mind that he was older, or that he worked at a mini-golf course. Or that she had met him while she was with Andy, the current jock she'd been dating.

Cain was clean and strong-looking, and his eyes were so penetrating, his gaze so intense. It didn't weird her out, though. It made her feel like Cain had really -seen- her, in a way hard to figure out. More than anyone else ever had.

"Without faith in what you're doing, in what we're doing, you'll crack up." They were sitting at one of the picnic tables off to the side of the course now, people and families playing around them as he sat on the table, lecturing, and she sat on the bench, listening. "You have to know with absolute certainty," his hands apart in a gesture, here, "just like the sun is going to rise tomorrow, that we're doing the right thing."

His words entranced her, his voice, as well as his sense of purpose. It felt so amazing to be a part of something now, so much bigger than herself. They got up and started another round. She remembered it starting to drizzle, and that she didn't care.

"The Seven Deadly Sins are like beacons, Maggie," he'd explained as they worked their way through the course. "They draw the forces of Karma out there, and they settle the accounts of the people who sin with them. Lust draws a certain type of punishment, as does Greed. And Sloth. The others... well, sometimes it's not easy to tell what will happen to people who sin with them, but something will -always- happen."

The conviction in Cain's voice was always absolutely clear; Magdalen had never heard someone like Cain speak. He wasn't talking about Heaven and Hell, or about clothes, or any of the silly, stupid things her friends or boys her age talked about. Cain always talked about important things, and Magdalen always paid attention.

"The thing is,' Cain confided near the 16th hole, the Pyramids, "If someone is out there causing pain and grief but not doing it through one of the Seven Deadly Sins, they're not punished by Karma." He laughed here. "I know it sounds crazy, Maggie, and I don't know if the Catholic bishop who first came up with the Seven Deadly Sins knew anything, or if he just dreamed them up and happened to be right on target. Who knows. But I know what I've seen, in my work over the years."

Their round finished now, they sat in the "Hole Lotta Fun!" concession area. It was raining then, that day she'd fist heard these words. No one else there but the two of them.

"So, they just get a free pass, then?" She asked, eyes wide. "That's not right," she said indignantly.

"Well, maybe not after they die; I have no idea what happens afterwards. But I know that the universe doesn't settle the scales with them like it does with those who commit one of the Seven Deadly Sins. So..." he said, watching her.

That gaze again, those eyes, like he was caressing her, seeing her soul, and bathing it in a kind of fire that didn't hurt. She answered, somehow, a bit timidly. "So... we help the universe out."

He nodded. "We definitely help the universe out."

"Hmmmmmm," she replied, instantly a bit embarrassed she couldn't add anything to his huge ideas. She blushed.

He just smiled, and touched her hand.

After that moment, he spent the next few months teaching her all he knew.

...

"So why aren't you a priest, Cain?" She brushed the hair out of her eyes, and snuck a glance at Lawyer Guy. "Or a cop, or something. You know, some job where you could really get into what you believe?"

Cain smiled at this, ran his hand through his dark hair in his sort of trademark gesture, and shrugged. "I think that maybe I'd enjoy that, but there're lots of rules you have to follow with those paths, and I think this way I can stay more focused on the work I do, and maybe less time being frustrated by other stuff." He reached out to her with an open hand, looking at her putter, and Magdalen handed it to him.

He drew it up, looking down the length of it carefully as if he was inspecting the finest bow for a Stradivarius cello. His brows knit, and he turned and left for a moment, going back to the rental shack. She turned and watched Lawyer Guy again for another moment, taking many more shots than par on the difficult Rodeo Hole. She wondered if he was also dishonest in other places, in his life. People say the little things in life don't matter at all, like cheating at mini golf doesn't matter. And yet somehow it -was- important, Magdalen thought. It might even be more important than the big stuff. If a guy would cheat at mini golf when he was playing by himself, what else was he capable of?

In a moment, Cain was back with a different putter. He handed it to her.

"Yea, I think maybe I wouldn't have the flexibility in those jobs to adapt to how things are sometimes." He nodded, and she knelt to tee up, the pleats of her uniform skirt falling over her knees. She looked up for a moment, seeing Cain watch Lawyer Guy. Something in her tummy, and just south, tingled. Cain was like a predator, strong and clear of purpose, now having caught a scent.

"For instance," Cain continued after a moment. "As I've said before, killing isn't absolutely necessary. I mean, if the situation can be solved by somehow intervening without killing, then by all means, do it that other way. Brings less attention, and it feels right. Always answer a part of the problem with an equal solution."

"Be flexible?" she asked, standing up, and bouncing her hips back and forth as she smiled. Cain smiled back, and nodded. She knew he watched her when she did that. He watched her hips and her body move. And she liked it.

A lot.

"It's too easy to let the little stuff get in the way of what needs to be done. Better to understand things, see them clearly, and be man enough to do them." Another smile. "Or woman enough."

"Or woman enough," she answered, rocking again unconsciously and taking the shot. Not a hole in one, but it had bounced off the castle's drawbridge, an extremely lucky bounce, into the moat and down to the lower level. Sometimes the universe spoke to you in the softest of voices, and Magdalen was getting very good at hearing it.

"Obviously..." he started, as he teed up his own shot. "...Clarity is important. It's primary to be able to read a situation, and a person. You have to be able to tell if they're sinning one of the Seven Deadlies. We don't work with people who are; the Universe will take care of them. Our job..." he looked up once, then down again at the orange ball and set it in motion with a perfect thwap. Through the castle, out the dragon's mouth, off the opposite bumper, and into the cup.

Cain looked up, smiling. "Our job is to handle the fringe cases. Take care of the Universe in the places where it doesn't seem to be able to take care of itself." There was that twinkle in his eye again. And Magdalen was starting to understand.

People everywhere, her mom, Lawyer Guy, Andy the Jock that she'd just broken up with... they'd spend their whole lives wrestling with the mundane. Getting though life, getting enough money for this or that. Worrying about the lawn, or email, or their coworker who always tried to steal credit. Not her. Not anymore, anyway. She somehow knew in the very center of who she was that if she stayed true to the singular, pure purpose that Cain had outlined for her, revealed to her like a beautiful vista that had always been there, that she'd be just fine.

Everything else in her life would fall into place.

"A man who kills people, one of those serial killers you read about. It turns out he doesn't do it out of Wrath, or Envy. He's not making money off of it, but yet in the end it turns out he was sinning one of the Deadlies. Which one was it, do you think?" Cain's eyes up, alight with the academic exercise. Magdalen was getting much better at this, and at reading these nuances in people. She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, thinking, then it came to her.

"Gluttony. He was eating them, or parts of them, wasn't he?" her smiling beaming. She knew she was right.

"Yes," Cain replied, as they walked up the steps to the Rocket Ship hole. "So, he was off The List."

She turned to him at the top of the steps, halting their progress. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," Cain said with a shrug. "He wasn't on The List. He was sinning Gluttony. Not my problem anymore. Not my job."

Magdalen's brows knit. "But there's no way you just let him go, keep killing people and eating them?" Her eyes a bit wider now, her face framed by straight chestnut hair spilling over the white cotton of her uniform blouse.

"Well, no," he smiled. "I didn't. He wasn't on my List, but I certainly helped the Universe along a bit. I called in an anonymous tip. That was the Frenchie's Mustard Killer, on the TV."

"No!" Magdalen gasped, grinning as she brought her hand up to her mouth. "The guy with three hundred bottles of Frenchie's in his fridge? They caught him because of you?"

"Well, partly, at least."

"I never heard anything about that guy eating his victims in the reports on the TV though...?"

"Well, I didn't pass that part along," Cain reflected. "They'll figure it out, maybe. It's not really important."

She considered that for a moment. "I guess not," she decided. Hmmmmmm. "My turn, new scenario."

Cain set his ball on the tee, and took another glimpse at Lawyer Guy. She followed his eyes. That guy's tie was perfect. His whole demeanor screamed rigid and tight and gotta-be-perfect. "Go ahead, new scenario," Cain said, now looking at his ball again, lining up.

She spoke. "A guy poisons the lawns of a neighborhood, but it's not Envy or Rage, even. What is it?" Her hands were on her hips now, daring him to guess. Cain was very good at this, but maybe she'd slip this one by him. It had been known to happen.

Cain took his shot, the ball slipping through the complicated mesh of rocket fins and fake fire like the obstacles weren't even there. He straightened and thought for a moment. "Greed. He's the lawn guy, and he was making major money."

"Grrrrrr" She said playfully. "How are you right all the time?"

He smiled, and gestured to the Rocket Ship hole. "Just like here. Practice makes perfect. I've had a -lot- of practice, Maggie."

"I see," she replied, stepping up to the hole as he stepped back, sensing him behind her, watching her. She shook her hips, and smiled to herself.

"How about this one," Cain began, his tone now a bit rakish. "Inspired by what you told me about Andy the Ex. A guy who causes pain and suffering by always demanding blowjobs from his girlfriends, but never ever reciprocating. Not Lust though, I'll give you that."

She felt that tingle a bit more, in her center. She was starting to work her way through her own Deadly Sin now. It was starting as an ache between her legs, and she flushed when she realized that Cain probably knew exactly what he was doing to her, with this kind of talk.

Innocent, but not.

"Sloth, of course." She hit the ball, and it rebounded off the spindly fins of the Rocket Ship. Not a surprise, certainly. There were definitely other things in her Universe at the moment, things that were distracting her, but not in a bad way.

"Would you kill him, a guy like that?" Cain asked as if he were wondering what color she'd pick for a new top she might be thinking about buying, at AF.

"Definitely," she said in an assured tone, not missing a beat. "Lazy bastard." They both laughed. "But not really. Sloth's one of the Deadlies, so he's not on The List."

Magdalen recovered with her next shot, putting the ball very near the hole. Her next shot plopped it in, and she moved next to Cain, who was regarding Lawyer Guy as he moved off the hole ahead of them, The Pyramids hole, and onto the one after that, the Wishing Well hole. She stood close to Cain, and he didn't move away. She knew he wouldn't.

"What's his story? Lawyer Guy, I mean," she asked finally.

"I've been watching him for a while," Cain admitted. "And today's the day I make a decision about him. It turns out he violates his client's trust. Sells the information." Magdalen nodded, thoughtfully. "He doesn't seem to do it for money, and so far I can't seem to find any of the other Deadlies."

"Do you follow him?" Maggie asked. She'd been right, about that gleam in Cain's eyes.

"Just here, really. I do some research; amazing what you can learn on the internet or from phone calls if you know how and where to look. But mostly I just watch him when he's here, playing. You can tell so much from a person by watching them play a round of mini golf, you know."

She knew. She watched Lawyer Guy start on the Wishing Well hole, and tried to see past his starched shirt and crisp pants and expensive shoes, feel him out and find the sin he had. Nothing seemed to come to her. Cain tapped her on the shoulder and made his circle gesture with his finger. She turned and headed to the Pyramids hole. They approached together, but she held back as Cain knelt to tee off. A thought occurred to her.

"Do you ever use special clubs when you play? I mean, working here you'd know which ones were the good ones, and maybe you'd keep one behind the counter for yourself."

"Nah, nothing like that," Cain answered in a calm voice.

Thwack as the ball was hit. The soft rustle of a bright orange ball racing across a faded green, some bounces, and the plop of it going into the hole.

"I just take whatever's there, or whatever I get handed, if I'm here in my off time," he reflected. "There was that line in one of the Star Wars movies, when young Kenobi was worried about not getting off a planet they were stranded on. Some plan had just fallen through, but the Master Jedi was calm and confident. " 'A solution will present itself,' he said. And that was that." Again, the eyes sparkled. "I try to be like that; knowing that because I'm helping the Universe out, if I need something, it will be handed to me when I need it most."

Magdalen nodded, thinking about he words. "It's more subtle, that way," she pronounced, and looked to find him smiling at her, again.

"Definitely," he said, imitating her tone when she used the word.

They worked their way through the hole. As they left it and walked to the next, Magdalen spoke.

"How are there only three people on the list?"

"If something falls into my lap, I handle it. But the only place I really look for work to do is when I'm here," he waved his hand, indicating all of Hole Lotta Fun!, including the arcade. "A pretty diverse cross section of humanity comes through here; I figure just like the putters I get handed, these are the people I'm being handed to look at, and possibly to work with. I'm sure I could go out into the wide world and find people, but this just feels right, here. It's all laid out... just like each individual hole on the course here." Cain pointed back a few holes, and Magdalen looked. "With the windmill, you watch for the blades. With the whale, you aim right for the center of his smile. With the castle, it's juuuust to the right of center, across the drawbridge. This is my territory, and I know it well. It helps me spot the little things when people come in. I try to be subtle, doing just enough."

Lawyer Guy was done, and had led them through 18 holes of what seemed to be normal mini golf. But there was something just not right about him, something that tickled the edge of Magdalen's senses. "Let's follow him to the parking lot," she said.

Cain agreed, and together they bypassed the shack where you dropped of your clubs when you were done, instead circling around to an out of the way stairway so they could watch Lawyer Guy as he went to his car. There were surprisingly few people here today, and things were quiet. Well, up until now, they had been.

They heard Lawyer Guy before they saw him; his angry voice loud and shocking, along with some crying. Cain and Magdalen peeked around the corner, very close to where Lawyer guy was venting at the top of his lungs to a white-haired woman in a walker. The transgression was a mystery, but he was yelling and leaning into the woman's space, and she was cowering back from him, clearly terrified. His face was radish red, eyes bulging.

Wrath.

Almost as soon as it started, it was over. The senior almost stumbled away, and Lawyer Guy did not follow, his face now purple with the effort of his rage. He stood looking to control himself. No one else was in the parking lot, and from where he stood, Lawyer guy was shielded from view from the course, the street, pretty much everyone.

No one just blew up like this, out of the blue, on a whim. This was him, who he was, Magdalen figured.

She sprang cat-like out into the lot, putter swinging at her side like a twirling baton. The heavy end circled around and around, whipping faster as she approached silent behind Lawyer Guy.

The sound was exactly like that of Cain sinking another hole in one; plop, and he dropped like a stone, crumpled starched white shirt and perfect tie now askew. With a broad grin and a last twirl of the putter, she was back to Cain. They went up the stairs at a leisurely pace and in moments were back on the course as if they'd never left.

Cain was smiling.

"Why did you do that?" he asked conversationally, a look of mild amusement and curiosity on his face. His eyes were in hers now, searching, and his hand was once again up at the back of his head, rubbing in the ‘awww, shucks’ gesture.

"Well, he might not have been Number Four on the list,” she explained, that lower lip caught in her teeth again. “But someone still needed to whack him upside the head, eh? I ‘helped the Universe along a bit.’ "

"I'm proud of you, Maggie. Truly." With this, he traced a finger along her forearm, and she flushed immediately, turning one foot in and bringing her shoulders close.

A good thing, eh?" she managed, her cheeks hot. “I'd hate to have to whack you with a putter."

"Hate? Wrath-hate?" Cain asked, with a smile.

"Well, you know what I mean. But don't worry. I can sin one or two of the Deadlies, too. I'm not on your List."

- edited by Tammy thank you soooo much. : )