Pete - Rebooting of a myth

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

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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.

Combat!

yarr.

--

The assistant was near a cell with its door blown open. A voice drifted out: "... I guess I'll go deal with your friends first, since they're just arriving now," it said. Gren cracked his knuckles -- it sounded like a fight. Brian dropped into his typical fighting stance, too, but this wasn't the circle and this wasn't just for fun or practice.

The source of the voice leapt nimbly from the doorway and landed flat-footed in front of Brian. Brian's blood ran chill -- this was the person he had seen when Elhaym had been sacked. This was Trass.

"Hello, Brian." The demon smiled, his handsome young face still masking the true monster that lurked underneath. "Good to see you again!" He planted a booted foot into Deis's stomach and laughed when the man screamed. "Honestly, these people are terrible. I bet you and your brother will be more interesting."

Gren put his hand on Brian's shoulder and whispered, "Remember what I said? We run. Now."

Just as he said that, a second voice piped up from inside the cell. It sounded like Alan, but instead of his typical Northerner dialect he was speaking normal Gaelic. "Get the [i]hell[/i] out of here! That guy's nuts!" Alan appeared in the doorway, his still-tied hands pressed against the jamb to keep him standing. He looked terrible.

Gren didn't know what hell meant, but it sounded like good emphasis to him, and he was saying what Gren was thinking. Gren turned and started to run, but not before spinning Brian around. His run was cut short by an armored body in front of him. There was a loud *clang* when Gren rebounded off that armor.

"Oh, come on. Fight me!" Trass threw out a fist, the gauntlet rattling around from the friction of the air. It whistled; it connected. Gren's face exploded in a bright burst of pain and he was lifted off his feet. The pain acted as a catalyst; adrenaline and mexa started to flow through his veins, supercharging him. He tucked his knees up into his chest and turned the fall into a spin, rotating at just the right speed so that he landed on one hand and both feet. Arc electricity bounded between his limbs and core.

Gren stood up and dusted himself off. He was blessed by Nature with great powers; he had been told this many times before. Trass had been a boogieman for so long, the ex-knight in front of him seemed ridiculous, powerful or no. He was human -- he could be beaten.

Off to the side, Brian was assisting Alan down. "How did you speak Gaelic?" he asked.

Alan shrugged. "Not sure. Just happened one day. I don't know if I can speak English or Northern or whatever anymore, haven't really had a test to experiment, haven't... uh... can I sit down for a sec?" He collapsed on his knees and then fell backwards. The clouds were beautiful. They seemed to be escaping, though, the area directly above them a noticeable circle of clear sky.

A blast of electricity sizzled the air. Gren had scored a direct hit on Trass's armor, turning the location of the strike black. It hadn't penetrated, though, and Trass seemed no worse for wear. He strode over to Gren like a general to an insubordinate private and backhanded Gren. Or would have, if the elder brother hadn't expected the tactic and dropped to the ground the second Trass's hand started moving. Gren grabbed at Trass's foot and yanked; Trass fell backwards and landed. The soft grass absorbed most of the damage, but Gren figured that in so much armor, it'd be at least a few seconds before he got up again.

What Gren had failed to notice, however, was that outside of the whistling of his gauntlet when the first punch was thrown, there had been no noise coming from that armor. No squeaks and no rattles, no clanging and no jangling. Trass flipped backwards, sprung off his hands, and landed with the grace of a gymnast.

One of the important rules of a hand-to-hand fight is that you must never, ever ever give your opponent space. The most effective attack is one where your opponent can't attack back, and to do that you have to occupy those positions where the opponent would like to throw his punches and kicks. In a very real sense, the best defense was a strong offense. By letting Trass stand up, Gren had given him several yards of ground. Gren raced to fill the gap, readying to grapple the monster and retain offensive flow, but Trass was too fast -- armor or not -- and Gren felt rather than saw the knee embed itself in his stomach.

He exhaled all his remaining air and doubled over; stumbled back; dropped to a knee. "This is boring. Brian!" Trass clapped his hands together.

"Alan, you okay?" Brian interposed his head between Alan and the softly drifting sky. "You know who that guy is, right?"

"No, and I don't care. I'm going to die, I get it. I can tell he's strong in that weird mystical way that makes no sense. How the hell does magic work? And why does it work -- and why do some people have it, and not everyone?"

"Uh," interrupted Alan, "No, everyone definitely can do it."

Alan stood up. "The -- what -- but -- I thought -- Colvan was going on and on about someone being 'blessed' and screwing with his head! I thought blessed meant blessed with magic!"

Behind them, Brian heard Gren get knocked to the ground. This wasn't the time for explanation. "Let's just say it means EXTRA magical for now and I'll explain later, kay? Right now I've --"

"Brian!" The clap resounded throughout the plains. It dug into your skin and inside your inner ear and vibrated like a tuning fork. There was no ignoring that clap. Brian, who was already on his way to distract Trass anyways, found his feet stumbling one over the other without his input. He stood in front of Trass. The man smiled and patted his head. "There you are! I didn't want you to ignore us." The third time his hand came down he didn't let go and started to grip tightly on Brian's skull. The metal fingers put intense pressure on Brian's skull almost immediately. He screamed.

There was a dull thud, and the hand loosened its grip. Trass fell to a knee, and from behind him Gren gave a thumbs up, his own boot planted on the inside of Trass's calf. He raised his foot up and stomped again. This time, the boot struck dirt. "Shit." Trass was not so stupid a fighter, and had already twisted his lower body and used the coiling effect to spring back up, shoulder ramming into Gren's stomach again. The two hit the ground tumbling; Trass landed on top and slammed his fist into Gren's face.

Brian was there and ready, though, and not about to let his brother be killed by some hyped-up children's story. Brian snapped his fingers to start the flow and rivulets of liquid fire ran down his skin. He charged forwards and let out a mighty cry, kicking Trass as hard as he could in the square of the monster's back. The kick missed; Trass had grabbed Gren by the shoulders and pivoted to the right, taking Gren right into the path of the kick. An attempt to redirect his attack worked, but at the cost of Brian stretching himself too far and losing his balance. Trass capitalized on the mistake and thrust his left hand out. There was no doubt: Brian's kneebone had just been shattered. The fist continued its arc and came down against Gren's face again. Blood splattered onto Trass's armor.

Alan watched, unable to help. He was doomed. Doomed doomed doomed. He hadn't noticed when there was no danger, but having his hands tied together was actually incredibly inconvenient. So he did the only thing he felt was appropriate, and gently nudged his toe against Deis's flat forehead in an attempt to wake him up.

It worked. Deis's hand shot out and grabbed Alan's leg. Alan froze in panic, but the grip was quickly relaxed, and patted around. Once a finger looped around the curved rim of the bowler hat, it flipped the hat up in the air. Deis sat at the same time, and caught the hat. He stared at it, melancholy evident on his face. "And to think," he said, "I was going to die unpresentable. Terrible, terrible state of affairs, this is." He stood and patted at his dark grey jacked; motes of frost and dust fell everywhere. "Has anything overly interesting happened?"

Alan nodded his head towards the fight. When he wasn't looking, Gren had somehow managed to turn the tables on Trass and was now slamming his knuckles as fast and as often as possible into the man's face. Each blow was accompanied by a sickening crunching noise. On the nearby grass, Brian rolled and sobbed, clutching his knee. "I see," said Deis.

Gren's fist froze in midair. Blood dripped off it slowly, most of it clinging and flowing down his arm instead. "What?" He stared at his arm, trying to will it further down. He had beaten Trass, dammit! He'd destroyed a nightmare!

And indeed, Trass looked like a nightmare now. His face had been bloodied beyond all recognition, and so any attempt at appearing human was no longer relevant. His face grew in length and width, the shoulder-length black hair receding into nothing. His smile, worn weak by the loss of several teeth and a puffy lip, was replaced by a thin maw too wide for his face. Razor sharp teeth reflected the sunlight. He had no nose, and his ears were flat against his head, elongated, with a pointed tip. There were four eyes that ran in a column on the right side, and three on the left. They all blinked in concert. Gren screamed and clutched at his head.

Trass stood up; great leathery wings unfurled behind him, beating back the air. He flew over to Alan, and said in a conversational tone, "Are you curious what I did to him? It's pretty slick." His voice was the scraping of a rusty iron nail on a well-worn blackboard. "Basically, he thinks that he's stabbing himself in the eye repeatedly. Isn't that crazy? The brain holds a lot of weird tricks like that." He smiled; Alan wanted to throw up.

"YOU FUCKER! FUCKING -- GET THE FUCK OVER HERE!" Brian was screaming now, too, this time in anger. The mexa had reached its chemical peak, and in accordance with his nature the shattered kneecap had fused in fire, reformed into something workable for the time being. Brian had finally drawn his sword, and impatient to kill Trass, had thrown it.

Something interesting happened. The sword was clearly going to miss -- Trass even started to laugh. But as it flipped and turned in the air, the course gradually altered, and before Trass was sure what was happening, the point stuck cleanly out of his chest. "Of course!" shouted Alan. But he didn't say the rest, because he was afraid Trass might get angry that he had given knowledge away. He didn't want to be killed until it was absolutely necessary.

Deis took the sword out and looked at it. "As normal as rain in Reth." He shrugged, and in one violent motion stabbed at Trass again. Trass flew out of the way, knocking Alan over in the process. "Or not! That was -- it seemed to pull at my hand! How strange."

Brian charged into them, knocked Deis over with his shoulder, and reclaimed the sword. "Enough fucking around!"

Trass laughed. "You stupid bastard! I've eaten the hearts of demons! Why should stabbing me kill me? I don't get it," he added. He shook his head. With dawning awe, Alan realized that Trass really didn't get it. In a serious, fundamental way -- he was like a young child who had been given a gun for christmas and not told that using it was wrong. Was Trass actually a child? Or was he simply some kind of idiot savant? The way he spoke and acted was not typical magalomaniacal behavior. It wasn't really consistent with anything [i]but[/i] a child, petulant and spoiled.

"Come down here, coward!" The younger brother's shouts filled the sky, his words punctuated by the heavy beating of the demon's wings. "Face me!"

Through all the yelling, Gren was trying to ignore the pain and crawl towards his allies. It was tough going, though. Although he could feel both palms press against the chilled grass, in his mind he saw his right hand holding a dagger, swinging it up into his brain, pulling it out, juice and blood just spilling everywhere, then back in to stem the tide, then out, each swing accompanied by very real twangs of pain. Movement went slowly. He could barely hear anything, his ears were so filled with blood -- but not, Gren told himself, not really. This was devil's magic. This was Trass's true power. He whimpered and sobbed but kept on moving anyways.

Just before he reached Alan and Brian, something heavy landed on his back and crushed him to the ground. He didn't need to look to see what -- who -- it was. He didn't have enough breath left to yell, or do anything but lay there. The sudden force had stunned him so badly that the images had stopped. Or did Trass simply think it was time for something new?

Through the murky distance a voice bubbled up. It was... Alan? He was shouting something to Brian. Something to do with the sword. Then he heard his name, over and over. Gren! Gren!

"Gren! Grab the sword!"

Grab the sword? What sword? Gren looked around, and sure enough, it sat almost right in front of his face. But grab it? Why? He did as he was told, anyways. He could barely see; his eyes had been watering and still felt like they'd been stabbed out. The blade cut the insides of his palms. What was he doing?

Despite the obvious potential of a trap, Trass just stood there. He was smiling his wicked smile at Brian. "I wonder how much longer he can live like this. I weigh a lot, y'know. This armor was special-made for me; extra heavy for others, extra light for me. Isn't that cool?"

Oh. Gren figured it out. He tugged the sword out of the ground (which wasn't hard, as it was barely hanging on in the first place) and sent a burst of electricity through it. Trass started to tumble forwards just as the sword started to tilt upwards, inexorably coming towards one another. The sudden release of weight was heaven-sent; Gren rolled out from under the falling demon and let loose his first unhindered breath in minutes. It scraped his throat and he started coughing. Brackish blood splattered all over his side, and his coughing stopped along with his heartbeat, frozen in fear that it might poison him.

Trass's center eyes were squeezed shut in pain. The other four darted back and forth. His wings beat against the ground as he attempted to right himself. Brian laughed, harsh and cruel. "Shows you, asshole!" Trass found his way back to his feet, wavered slightly. This time he'd been stabbed in something vital. Alan was sure of it.

With a soft thud the sword landed on the ground next to Gren. The blade was coated in ichor, which reflected a kind of anti-light that hurt Gren's already-aching eyes.

When Trass spoke next, his voice was much deeper, and every word was laced with pain. "Fine. Whatever. You win. But I'm tired of playing. Brian, come here." Brian did, much to his own chagrin and every effort to stay where he was. Alan attempted to tug at his arm, but it was like pulling at a stone statue.

Brian tried to avoid looking at Trass's face, but his head lifted of its own accord.

"You have two choices. I kill you where you stand or you follow me. If I kill you, I'm going to kill Gren as well -- there'll be no one left to stop me. This world is a lot more peculiar than you think; looking at Alan's thoughts has already shown me a lot of very interesting things. Things you'll never know if you die, and that I will tell you if you follow me. I know you're curious, Brian -- nothing that anyone does seems to make much sense, does it? All this talk of Gaia and Mars, of the Golden Lands and Gods. It's not quite logical, is it? It doesn't fit with a sane worldview. I apologize for my previous crudity; there is more than one 'me' in this vessel, this body -- this avatar. I swear that I will not act so madly.

"All of which is irrelevant, because if you don't follow me now [i]I will kill you.[/i]"

Brian's geas is suddenly freed; his shoulders slump and he turns his head away. Disgusted, he realizes that he might rather live and serve this monster than do the honorable thing and die. He was raised better than that. Just as he opens his mouth to tell Trass to shove it, though, Gren says: "Don't forget what happened to mother and father." Brian remembers: he remembers the pyre and the promise to forget agreed by all the stupid villagers, and the implicit agreement by his own brother to support that madness. It just doesn't make sense.

"Fine. I'll go." He pauses, then adds: "If only to strangle you later."

There is something even more frightening about Trass's smile than before. It seems like it fits his monstrous face this time; it isn't a human wearing a mask, but a demon wearing a human. "That will be a most interesting night."

The two disappear.

Historical Fiction

Lane's topic: "...take an obviously famous historical figure (one that everyone has , or should have, heard of) and write a historical fiction piece that stars that character, good or bad."

--

July 18th, 1945.

Oppenheimer was, as far as anyone knew, a good man. He had done his fair share of badness, but it was the kind of badness the regular Joe could get behind -- steal a peek at a nudie mag, curse in public when things didn't go right, that sort of thing. He was a human being, after all, and human beings made those sort of mistakes.

But since Los Alamos, people had grown nervous. It wasn't just that he was more Russian than American (or so the brass felt); it was that he had taken to stalking the corridors, pacing in an endless loop around the complex the Manhattan Project called home. In the days before Trinity, he was an amicable fellow who liked to ride his horse; several Generals had gone on trips with him to chat. It was only reasonable that he'd be a bit dour after the test, given the toxic fruit his tree had borne, but his utter disregard for military structure had started to step on people's toes.

Oppenheimer was called into General Farrell's office. He paced down the hall like a flightless bird, bobbing his head forward every so often. Some non-com puke opened the door and let him in. Farrell was sitting behind his desk, if you could call it sitting. It was more like waiting; more like hunting. He leaned forwards in a sleek way that implied he could leap forward with a killing blow at any moment.

"Sit." He smiled. Robert sat.

"We understand that you have some.... apprehension... about --"

"Apprehension?!" Oppenheimer stood up again, slamming his hands histrionically against the solid mahogany desk. It was a serious desk, all dark red stain and hand-carved drawer faces. It shook under the onslaught. "You call this apprehension? My God, man, if this is apprehension, what do you call utter terror?"

Farrell stood up, too. He wasn't about to let some civvie undermine rebellion against the Japs, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let that same civvie look down at him. "I call it unacceptable. Now sit down, Mr. Oppenheimer. We have to discuss your continued support of the Manhattan Project."

"Fine." Muscles oiled by daily work and exercise (not at all those you'd expect on a scientist) coiled in on themselves, bunching up into the chair on the other side of the desk.

"Now. We're going to use the bomb; we've got to use it. I'm as scared as you are about what the hell it might do, but as you know, the Targeting Committee already got their targets set. So that's that. We only gotta use it once. After that..." Eyes never leaving Oppenheimer's iron-clad gaze, General Farrell also eased into his seat. "That's all it's gonna take. If we don't drop it... I don't want to think what might happen if we don't."

Oppenheimer cocked his head. "I wonder. How long would Japan last against a steady onslaught?"

"Plenty long enough for our own boys to lose their lives, if that's what you're suggesting."

"Oh, no no no," said Oppenheimer. "I'm scared too, but... can I be frank, General?"

The General laughed, the joke exiting his mouth at the same time he thought. "I thought that was your brother, Rob!" He began to ease up, but still his sight never moved.

"Good one, General. Seriously, though; I think we should go ahead. The sooner the better; we all need to work together and finish this war. I suppose you think America coming out on top is a rather fine side effect of its usage, don't you?" He didn't wait for General Farrell to answer. "I don't care about that."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, 'I don't care about that.' It's wonderful that we have the best position to maneuver with the eventual treaty, but that bomb -- that explosion -- it's not going to remain unheard. Other people will want it, and there is nothing more dangerous than a covetous friend. When you do use it, ensure that you're the one to stay in power."

J. Robert Oppenheimer got up, gave a mock salute that caused the General to grit his teeth, and paced out of the room.

As soon as the door fell closed, General Farrell pressed the com button. "Shirley?" he said. "Get a couple grunts on Oppenheimer. I think the fella got a screw knocked out by the Trinity blast."

"Will do, General."

--

August 6th, 1945.

All around were cheers and celebratory whistles and even a few catcalls; champaign bottles popping open, each one a miniature explosion of its own; tweeters and clatterers; in the corner, a young couple sucking face. It was all so... plebian. The war had not yet been one, despite the wreckage of Hiroshima. The Japanese were not so simple an enemy; they had centuries of shame and doubt to fight against, along with the continued oppression of nearly every western influence known to modern man. The fires in Hiroshima served only to incite rage.

And still these fools danced and laughed. J. Robert Oppenheimer had become a man who did not party. There were more important things to attend to. Without a single man or woman knowing, he disappeared from the celebrations.

The night air was cool and crisp; the complex was well-lit and alive even at this late hour. Oppenheimer preferred to remain in the shadows. He turned right, towards the intelligence offices; two goons guarded his approach. They seemed to Oppenheimer to be made of nothing so much as chin and shoulders and machine guns.

"Sorry, sir," said one. "We can't let you in during festivities," said the other. "Right," said the first with a little less humility and respect, "So fuck off, 'kay? We're tired of babysitting your sorry ass."

Oppenheimer nodded, but he wasn't really paying any attention; instead, he was looking past them, directly at a locked door marked in black lettering that pronounced "JANITOR'S CLOSET" with all the subtlety of a negro at a triple-k rally. "Hey," the angry one was saying, "You listening to me?" He was not.

Back at the party, nobody heard anything.

--

August 9th, 1945.

Major Sweeney didn't know what the flying fuck Oppenheimer thought he was doing sitting around the B-29 that Sweeney called home, but he was sure that it wasn't anything good. The guy had gone from an amicable, human-centric person to a downright nutjob. Unfortunately for the United States Military, nutjobbery wasn't a pre-requisite to kicking ass and/or taking names, and he was still (supposedly) a hell of a scientist. This bomb, he had promised with a twisted smile, this bomb was much better than the previous one.

Sweeney believed it. He wasn't around to see Little Boy in person, but Fat Man was more than big enough to scare the bejezus out of his kids back home. It seemed to radiate threat, and if he understood his physics well enough, it was doing just that. All encased in a neat little lead shield, or something like that. He wasn't really even that comfortable keeping it in his cargo bay, but that's what he was for, wasn't it? And it wasn't like he was going to let the American Military down. Kokura was going to be a perfect little ball of melted people when he was done.

From the back of the cockpit came a low little chuckle. He had really wished that James hadn't brought the guy. James was really nervous about it, too, like he was doing something he wasn't supposed to do. "Sorry I got held up," he said -- even though he was five minutes early -- "but Mr. Oppenheimer kind of wanted to come, and... well, here he is." It was really weird, is what it was, but James Hopkins wasn't the kind of person to let much under his skin, so Sweeney figured that it wsa part of something more important.

They passed over their primary target; On the eastern side was a massive front of clouds. Luckily, it hadn't reached Kokura yet. "Alright."

He got up after switching on auto-pilot for a minute so he could round up the crew and get the bomb prepped. Unconsciously, he straightened his hair and pushed out his jaw. Business time, boys.

The hold looked like hell on Earth; blood was splattered across the metal hull, matte red obscuring the shine of steel and making the light jagged and awkward. He barely had time to ask what the fuck had happened when a bullet pierced his shoulder. He screamed and fell backwards.

J. Robert Oppenheimer. Of course. That bastard scum. "What the hell--?"

Oppenheimer smiled and pressed the Walther to Sweeney's head. "That is the plan, my friend." He sighed, and released some of the pressure of the barrel from poor Sweeney's temple. "I don't suppose you've seen it, hell? It's not all that bad. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

Just fifteen pounds per square inch, and Charles W. Sweeney was no more. Oppenheimer stalked like a savannah lion to the cockpit of the Bockscar. Kokura lay ahead of him, a ripe fruit fallen to the ground to rot, to gather worms and viruses and scum until it was itself the disease, spreading to the nearest fruit. Trinity replayed in the back of his mind. He had had enough. He had to get rid of the bomb the only way he knew how. He grabbed the throttle and pushed. The plane started to tilt downwards.

Fat Man had already been activated; he had put a switch in to do it remotely. At first Oppenheimer considered detonating it on the proletariat swine that was The Brass, but he realized they were too far removed; they weren't the problem, anyways. The social mores of society itself were to blame. Every single human was complicit in the continued machinations of The Government against itself. It was ridiculous. It had to end. And J. Robert Oppenheimer knew how.

"I am become Death, Destroyer of Worlds." The plane hit the ground.

Dilemma (yes, the story)

Jack's Dilemma topic: This is a generic topic, but the dilemmas we face throughout our lives often tell us who we really are. We put ourselves or are put into situations where there are multiple ways to go, but none of which are truly ideal. Write a brief story, fictional or real, that centers around a dilemma -- moral, romantic, any kind you want.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"Time To Move On"

I’ve never been a good employee. It would be a close call if I had to weigh the proposition of hiring myself or a bipolar illegal immigrant with one foot who can only speak in dead languages.

While I don’t steal from or lie to my masters, I have never really done anything exemplary. I do what I am told (unless it requires too much effort) and show up on time. That is about where my productivity as an employee ends; I won’t go to the extra effort or try to think of an innovative solution to a reoccurring problem. I’d rather just clock in, perform the tasks, and go home. Likewise, trolling the Internet or chatting up coworkers are not aversions of mine. These problems don’t revolve around laziness, but some grand combination of a general disinterest towards busy work and specific desire to avoid getting in trouble.

Despite my failings, supervisors often believe I possess some sort of untapped merit and routinely trust me with more important assignments. It is as if they think “Gangster’s Paradise” will begin playing at any moment. Usually, I find a way to finish the assignment in such a way that burns no bridges and satisfies the supervisor, but does not really revolutionize the fast food, museum attendant, or athletic ticket taking worlds. I often luck out in that the assignments end up being immeasurable and thus I cannot truly be evaluated my superiors.

The last time a supervisor trusted me with a crucial project, the project turned out to be more imposing than I first thought. While working at my real job post-college for my university’s football office, the supervisor called me in her office. Sharon was a short, husky woman who I never actually saw stand up. Her large bangs reminded me of the Mary Tyler Moore reruns from TV. That being said, she did not remind of me of Mary Tyler Moore; the razor burn over her lips and the cigarette-marred voice killed that illusion. Sharon had lived a hard life in a small town and she showed it. Suffice to say, people didn’t screw with this five feet of fury.

“Shawn, I’d like you to take over the new mailing program for the season ticket holders. You’ve done a good job so far this year and if this little experiment works out, you will be doing every year,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ll make my assistant Kevin check in on you every once and a while. What do you say?” Sharon asked as the smoke emanated from the ash tray near her keyboard. Smoking was technically prohibited by the university, but no one dared to tell her.

“Yah. Sure, whatever,” I mumbled in response. The fate of the season ticket holders didn’t bother me either way. What did spark my interest was the fact that I wouldn’t be forced to handle the phones any more. With the football team nearing bowl-eligibility, the college football equivalent of the playoffs, the phones never stopped ringing. Alumni were desperate to score tickets for the perceived big game; people simply wouldn’t stop calling and when we explained that no tickets were available yet, they simply offered more money. It was like running at an auction that claimed to have the last puppy on earth.

Extricating myself from that ordeal seemed like a good plan even if it involved a little more responsibility. In fact, managing the mailing effort the season ticket holder program turned out to entail a lot more responsibility coupled with very little oversight. My task involved designing all the promotional materials, writing the content, selecting the printing companies, organizing the mailing effort of over 30,000 packets, coordinating the follow up phone calls, and managing a budget that ran into the thousands of dollars.

Up until this point in my life, I still confused the routing and accounting numbers of my checks. Very quickly, I realized I was over my head. And like any young professional entrusted with task important to the greater good, I lied about my progress at every opportunity.

“How’s that list coming, Shawn?” Kevin, the boss’s assistant, would ask.

“The vast majority of it is on its way to being tackled,” I would respond without realizing how my obfuscation had taken on a life of its own. Any competent assistant would have seen right through the nonsense I spouted, but Kevin was no such person. When the boss said that Kevin should check in on me, he simply poked in to say hello and reported back on my outstanding progress. In reality, he knew less about the project than me…and I knew nothing. His knowledge was somewhere in the negative zone; in fact, whenever he appeared, I began to forget the little that I knew. The fact that Sharon delegated more responsibility to Kevin whenever she needed to go to the doctor (which became more frequent as time went on) meant that I had less oversight than ever. I would come into work, stare at the reams of paper, and then wait until I could go home again. Having an office all to myself made my hiding much easier.

Sometimes I would attempt to begin, but the initial products of my work were so abysmal that I would abandon the attempt shortly thereafter and return to the previous plan: duck and cover. Having the trust and respect of my boss meant that these stall tactics appeared to reflect careful planning; a sentiment as untrue as your girlfriend’s statements about her sexual mileage. I didn’t really intend to deceive any one, but the enormous nature of the project intimidated me. Admitting I couldn’t do it was more than my pride could handle, so procrastination became the most effective focal point of my energies.

Periodically, Kevin would check in on me again and during those times I would highlight might impressive looking, but truly meager progress. After his visits, I would be spurred to action: phone calls would be made and documents drafted. But after a little while, I would again crumble under the pressure of a task I didn’t understand and feared I would fail. Instead of putting my effort into and failing, avoiding the task meant that I could I always reserve the “I could have done it if I really tried” excuse.

As the weeks went by, deadlines began to approach. The NCAA, the governing body of the college sports, dictates very specific deadlines for when any sport-related activity can occur. Most of the publicized rules apply to student athletes. For instance, due to a rule against gambling, a university once had to cut a hole through a hotel wall to prevent the players from walking through a casino to enter the arena. However, a whole host of regulations also deal with tickets and a school’s administration. Through my procrastination and dereliction of duty, I actually missed the deadline for when my project could be mailed out. To mail it afterwards would bring the Gods’ fury upon the university. My extremely preoccupied boss didn’t appear to know about the deadline.

The real question is, what would I do? I stewed over this issue for days as I waited for my boss to come through my office doors. I could stay silent and hope that no ever noticed. If asked, I could either lie or tell the truth. Recognizing the flaws in both those plans, I even considered mailing the forms anyway and hoping the NCAA didn’t catch me. One part of me felt guilty for screwing this project up; another really didn’t care all that much. Despite those competing emotions, what I really wanted was to avoid getting trouble. One thing was for sure, I had really committed a “fireable” offense. If the university found out, I would be promptly discharged without a second thought. I was going to be fired from my first real job. How was going to explain this to my dad?

Days past as I waited. By this time, a week had passed after the NCAA deadline. Yet, no one ever came to check on me. My plan to wait in silence appeared to be working. But finally, Kevin walked in with the grimmest look of any one I have ever seen.

“Shawn, you need to sit down. We need to talk,” he said. "But first, would you remind clearing out of this office. I don't think you'll be needing it any more."

“Okay,” I said. This was going to be it. I was going to be fired.

“I don’t really don’t want to hurt you, but something terrible has happened and I think its best that I treat you like a man and just tell you.” he said as he paused and put his hand on my shoulder. I could feel my heart thump as my job was put on the chopping block. “Shawn, Sharon died of pneumonia over the weekend.”

To this day, I am ashamed to admit that my first thought was Ya-fucking-hoo. Sharon was a great person and her loss was a sad day, but something more important had occurred: I was saved and no one would ever know. In the wake of Sharon’s death, the project would end up being forgotten and I could cover up my incompetence. And that is exactly what I did. For weeks, I transferred documents and evidence from the office to my car: every lunch a folder, every day a box. Slowly but surely I put Andy Dufresne to shame.

Weeks later, Kevin would be promoted to Sharon’s former job and another revelation would come: Kevin would be promoting me based on how well the season ticket plan was selling. He appeared to have no inkling whatsoever about my efforts. Tickets were selling at a record pace and my nonexistent “mailing plan” was being assigned the credit.

From this ordeal, I learned one simple fact: death can set you free.

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! ; )

Question

Pete and I bounce this question around all the time: what existing movie do you wish that you could have written? Generally, I pick "Before Sunset" and Pete picks "Unbreakable," but for the purposes of the question, we'll call those films off limits.

How about you?

Next topic: A Dilemma

This is a generic topic, but the dilemmas we face throughout our lives often tell us who we really are. We put ourselves or are put into situations where there are multiple ways to go, but none of which are truly ideal. Write a brief story, fictional or real, that centers around a dilemma -- moral, romantic, any kind you want.

Another Writer's Blog

Hi guys,

Below is a blog created by some of the writers from the Gen Con writing seminars. I haven't examined it thoroughly, but it looks useful. Through the first posts so far, the writers discuss their takes on creating characters.


http://www.writerssymposium.blogspot.com/

Memory - Bio

It was one of those dreams that you can't really remember when you wake up. Of course you can remember a face, or maybe the needle in your hand, but the rest is a blur that you'll never get back. I woke up.

The room was small. the first thing I noticed was the ladybug biting my hand. I shook it off. I stretched. The springs under the bed creaked, with, ever so slight, a sound.

I knew what the creak meant, even if i wasn't coherent enough to realize it at the time. As I worked all of the sleepies out of my eyes I would remind myself that I should have expected it. The creaking meant that somewhere, in the small Soviet built apartment, I had been living in, an otherwise moderately sane woman was about to take the plunge into absolutely fucking nuts.

Aunt Magda, my father's youngest sister, before him, was an over worked, underpaid artist, who, at the sound of the creek of my bed, would feel a tug of insanity. that insanity is commonly known as Polish hospitality.

Symptoms of this hospitable psychosis include a sudden bout with Alzheimer's that makes you forget that your back and legs hurt from working, cleaning house, and walking all over the city trying to get errands done before your kids get back from school. This is followed by an obsessive compulsion to feel guilty for thinking of resting your legs, when what you should be doing is making breakfast for a grown man, who probably could make it himself.

My door burst open.

"Oh, you're awake," she was speaking Polish, but I'll translate, "Are you hungry? I'll make you some breakfast."

She turned and bolted from the... (no, bolted is the wrong word. It was almost a scurrying. Shoulders and head slouched forward in a lurking fashion, small quick steps. Hands, chest level in thought. Yeah, that was more like it) ... the room, down the hall, and into the kitchen.

Meanwhile, I was in the bedroom trying to find and apply pants and a shirt to myself, while struggling to untangle myself from a bed sheet that I was having issues with letting go.

My clean pants were hiding beneath a mess of already worn clothes and a half open book. My idea of cleaning is throwing clean laundry on a convenient chair, and once a week throwing dirty laundry from the floor to a likewise convenient chair covered, inconveniently, with clean clothes.

By the time I had clothed myself with whatever I could grab (and thrown the rest back on the convenient floor), I could hear the stove turn on.

"ugh," was all I could say before the taste of my morning breath reminded me that I should refrain from talking. The room was still blurry, on account of the fact that I slept on my side, and slightly down, with my face jammed against the pillow. My eye felt like a stiff muscle. I made a groggy hobble to the kitchen.

"Aunty (in Polish), Shit it's bright in here (in English)."

She was already boiling water for tea, which meant I had to eat something. I get sick if I drink tea on an empty stomach... usually I forget this fact until I'm halfway through a cup of tea, and my sudden urge to vomit reminds that I haven't eaten anything yet.

"Oh, there you are," she wasn't actually aware that I was in the room until she by chance turned and saw me rubbing my eyes, "what would you like me to make you?"

I didn't have time to answer before she turned away.

Of all the things that I knew were about to come out of the fridge, the words "we have," where not actually inside of it, but managed to always come out, preceding the following assortment (which were inside the fridge, and were about to all end up on the kitchen table and counters).

The articles that would be pulled from the fridge were as followed : the words "We have (in Polish)," followed immediately by," ham, cheese, white bread, sourdough bread, chicken, more ham for some reason, rye bread, butter, goat cheese (hard and soft), swiss cheese, sliced beef, margarine, another kind of butter, eggs, sausage, blood barley sausage, bacon, oh look another egg I wonder why I didn't put that with the others, there is also lard, if you want I could smother some sausage in lard and cook that with bacon."

As the world was coming into focus, finally, and I no longer had to shield my eyes from the penetrating rays of the sun, not that the sun wasn't there, but my eyes were no longer hurting, I became certain that a cigarette had shit in my mouth while I was sleeping. I held back my gag reflex.

"Aunty, no thanks, I'm good."

A funny thing about translation is that it doesn't always come out how you want it to. For example, if I wanted to say "jestem dobre," to my aunt, I would be of the sound mind in thinking that I had just told her something along the lines of, "I'm fine," I'm good," "I don't need anything," "Look you fuckin' nut, it's seven in the morning I've been drinking all night, I just want to lay in bed for a while, instead I have to chase you down, wearing pants that, I'm pretty sure I put on backwards, so I can tell you not to trouble yourself because I can make my ow.. hey, smoked ham!"

However the literal translation of "no thanks, I'm good," really comes out more in the fashion of, especially after taking into account the synthetic nature of the language, "I'm a good boy," ...

It was no wonder that she was now looking at me like I was retarded.

No man should be subjected to the unpleasant experience of eating polish sausage fried in a pan of lard with chunks of bacon in the mix. It slides around inside, and feels like you forgot to kill whatever you ate.

"I love riding horses," Kathy's hips swayed as she walked. Her hips weren't very pronounced, but things like that rarely really matter.

"you know, in high school, my friends called me horse."

"why did they did they call you horse," It was about three seconds before Kathy realized what I just said. A shade of pink slipped over her face as she pursed her lips to keeps from smiling. I watched her out of the corner of my eye.

"you're a shit," the edged of her lips made a prison break for her ears but were pulled back in. She ran her fingers through here hair.

I smiled. "You said you like to ride horses, what was i supposed to say?"

She didn't answer. She folded her are arms under her breasts, jutting her chin out. She bit her tongue with a smirk.

The streets of old town Krakow are cobbled. Street performers lined the edges, carrying violins, accordions, and other implements of their respective crafts and trades. The city was full of tourist traps. I needed to find a bathroom. Damn smothered sausage, I thought.

"Did you want see..."

"you on top of me, sure."

She rolled her eyes and sighed. Her chest rose.

"Did you want to see the castle?" she asked again.

"Not really, I'll probably see it with my school."

She shrugged, "O.k., what do you want to do."

I smiled. I smiled a lot around her, "You really make this too easy."

"What?"

I laughed and shook my head. her body angled toward me.

"You're english is terrible," the tease was underlined with a hint of I love giving you shit. I really need a bathroom, I thought.

"Oh, my English is terrible, then why aren't we talking in Polish? Or maybe we should speak Italian." She said something in Italian. Whatever it was, it sounded... inviting.

We didn't visit any of the tourist traps. No royal castles, with tapestries and lines leading to tapestries. No museums of historically famous Polish art. Instead we walked. we kept to the small streets of Old Town, the small art galleries of local artists, to teahouses in old cellars, and in quiet bistro's tucked away in the old courtyards.

"How long have you been riding?"

"Since I was little." She skipped. Whether from the thought of being a little girl riding, of from the recent victory in Italian, she skipped. Her hair bounced, so did her breasts. I peeked, Not that she would have minded.

"How long have you been playing guitar?" there's is a point where it's acceptable for a grown person to fidget like a child. It's usually when you're nervous, but happy. She locked her hands together behind her back and stretched. One foot came my direction just off the ground. Her knee peeked from behind the pastel flowers of her summer dress. I thought about her legs.

"Since I was in high school, we had a shitty band that used to play Kiss covers." I laughed remembering how bad we sucked, and that we actually played Kiss.

She rolled off from her grounded foot to her forward. Toward me.

"Hey." I couldn't wait any longer. "Let's go in here."

her eyebrows raised slightly, " are you hungry."

"Huh?" God no, I thought, "oh, I was gonna get a drink."

We walked into the Bistro and grabbed an out door table. The Small Ring wasn't too far away, with it's fountain, overlooked by the Pizza Hut, housed within a historical building. I shook my head.

"I'll be right back," I didn't bother sitting down, "If the waitress comes can you just get me some tea?"

"Where are you going?"

"To Touch myself," I said it loud. Her face went beyond pink. She looked from one table to another. Someone behind me understood English.

I winked.

Kathy, or Kasia in Polish, was once a student of my aunt. My aunt had tutored her in drawing and painting, for less than a real tutor would cost. Her parents saw a good deal in front of them, and like anyone who always felt slighted by the lack of profit to be made under Communist Russia, they took advantage of it. With a few silver words about connections and networks, Kathy's parents where able to procure the services of a talented artist, with no understanding of her work's worth, for about the Polish minimum wage, when she could have been making well over the American minimum wage, that was in the late nineties. It was significantly more.

The bathroom was around a corner... The door was thick.

I didn't hold it against Kathy. She was still paying for it, in a way. Anytime we stopped at a gallery she would chat up the owners. They sometimes knew her father, or a friends of hers, sometimes not. She would drop my aunts name and get word that they'd be willing to sell some of her pieces. I don't know how much the pieces sold for.

I left the bathroom, feeling better.

My aunt would get invited to garden parties, by friends. Friends like Kathy's parents. She appreciated all their help. I could have been drunk and retarded and still known that she was being fleeced at every turn.

Kathy was outside at the table. Her legs crossed. Her face was like a stone.

"Why do you do that?" I asked.

"Do what?"

"You always look pissed off."

She was about to say something but paused. Then she tried again. She almost laughed. "I don't look pissed off."

"No, you laugh when you're around me, but whenever I see you walking alone you always look serious, and you look straight forward." I sat down at the table. Her legs slid against each other as they uncrossed and crossed again.

She was trying to object but, she kept stopping before she said anything.

"Look, watch this girl," A Polish girl walked by. Her eyes burning a hole into something a thousand yards ahead of her, her shoulders were straight. "I bet if I chucked my phone at her, she wouldn't even respond."

Kathy laughed and hid her face in one hand, "I do that all the time, and I've seen other girls do it too."

"It's like your trying to ignore a fart."

"That's gross, and the fart we're trying to ignore is creepy guys," she laughed.

"Hey," her tone interupted her laugh. "I was thinking."

"I'm so proud of you."

She pursed her lips again. Her arms folded and she tapped her foot. She was fighting a smile.

"What were you thinking?"

she didn't answer right away, "you are a pain in the ass, you know that?"

"I'm glad you like it." I sat, leaning toward her. Smiling.

She leaned toward me. "I want to hear you play guitar."

I leaned back, "yeah, not gonna happen, I haven't played in front of anyone in years."

"...and I have never told anyone about what we talked about last night, I think you owe me." I watched her bring her straw to her lips. It darkened as cola pulled through it. She didn't take her eyes off of me.

I drank my tea. I wondered if I was getting the short end of the deal. I hadn't played in front of anyone in years.

"I haven't played in front of anyone since Gina."

She didn't say anything.

I had never thought about playing in front of someone as being a problem. That was until she asked me to do it. I didn't even realize why I had a thousand excuses to get me out of playing. I shook my head.

"We are totally sleeping together afterwards."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. She smiled, but I won't describe the smile. That's for me. Only.

Bio

Aharon Vadel was the name given to a Seraph of destiny. As the Seraphim, or Thrones, were the highest choir of angels in the theoretical Catholic heaven, the writer chose the name of this angel as representing a higher ideal than himself.

Aharon is now the pen name for writer uses in place of his own persona. The Writer has always been fascinated with angel lore since actually before he could remember, and is working toward writing a series of short stories, and some not so short, about angels found on earth. The fact that similar concepts have been dealt with by authors such as Neil Gaiman, and Steve Jackson causes some notable concern for the writer as he is often worried that his writing will be seen as standing in the shadow of these men.

The Writer is currently working toward dual degrees in English Studies and in Sociology. He hopes that these backgrounds will be a positive influence on his life and writing. Thus far he believes that they have been.

The writer joined Write Monkey Write to challenge himself as a writer. Although he knows himself to be young in the craft he often suffers from an over inflated sense of ego, and must from time to time remind himself that he has a great deal yet to learn… especially in the department of grammar.

About Aharon.

The pieces under Aharon at Write Monkey Write are usually in third person, or in a first person other than the writer. Unless specifically a memory The writer hopes to be able to write from the perspective of various personalities, and with different voices. Although this is the intent it is at times not fully realized and the writer often invited criticism that will help him improve.

Why would a Monkey Write the random sets of sound that the once monkey's call the written language. Does the monkey write for fame, does the Monkey write for the glory of god, does the monkey write for love. This only the monkey knows, and this is only shared with what god he chooses. Write Monkey, Write.

-Aharon Vadel- get well card

The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways - I to die, and you to live. Which is better God only knows.

- Socrates

Memory - Bio

Eeks.... I sincerely apologize for being so far behind. I've been insanely sick and hope to get caught up as soon as I feel like I'm back amongst the living.

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"You have to be a real adult when you turn 25."

That was something my dad always said when we were growing up. My dad always seemed to have a great balance between responsibility and fun. Most years we had a "nothing practical allowed" rule at Christmas yet he was strict. Just the right amount. I think his saying about only having to grow up at 25 was a perfect example of his idea of balance. I realize now that he was trying to instill in us that there is, of course, a time to mature and go out into the world with a sense of responsibility while still not skipping past the frivolity that young adulthood has to offer.

When I was 25, I had a 4 year old child, was divorced already, was 4 years into a successful career and had already had the wind knocked out of me by some of the things I only thought happened on tv. Responsibility was something I already knew well. Yet, somehow that was the first year in a long time that I answered my mom's ridiculous "So do you feel any older?" birthday question with a resounding "Yes!"

Later that year, my grandfather passed very suddenly. Grandpa Hakes was the one that took us to the apple orchard every year and talked them into letting us pick Spys early because we liked them extra sour. He taught me how to drive a tractor, how to shoot a gun, how to catch a mouse with only a plastic spoon, peanut butter and a bucket and how to make homemade noodles. Until the day he died he still called me "Runt" and still had room for me on his lap.

I could go on and on about the sorrow and loss that I felt when he died, but it was a sudden missle to the soul that really was life-changing for me at the time. It was March, and very cold outside. We were at Grandma and Grandpa's house, congregating as people do after a death of a loved one. We were sitting in the living room as dusk fell, 6 of us crammed onto the sofa and two chairs, leaving Grandpa's big recliner eerily empty. The smell of a church-delivered casserole was drifting in from the kitchen.

Grandma was in the bedroom when we heard the closet door slide open. We knew she was picking out the suit for Grandpa to be buried in. I was 25 years old and had never once known Grandma to cry. The sound that escaped from her bedroom that day was the exact sound that I know a heart makes when that final cut that never heals slices through.

It was at that very moment, the first time I heard my grandma cry, that I felt the palpable, life-changing transition of the generations.

I looked around. I saw the hearth of the fireplace where my sister and I used to stand to take orders from the family to serve fake "hamburgers" made out of tin coasters. I saw the couch that my grandma always called a davenport. It was the couch I camped out on for three days when I had my wisdom teeth removed. It was the couch I sat on when Grandpa and I worked on countless puzzles. I saw that big recliner that I used to climb into Grandpa's lamp in. Then I saw the kids. Our kids, mine and my sister's. OUR kids were standing on the hearth. My niece Erica was bringing coasters around asking us all if a piece of "cake" would help us feel better. All of a sudden I realized that I was at Grandma and Grandpa's house, but I wasn't one of the "kids" anymore.

This was a defining moment in my life. A different kind of maturity set in. I have always said that I wanted to be just like my grandma when I grew up and now I saw her in a different light that only reaffirmed that desire. It was at that moment that I learned to embrace growing up and growing older. Since that day, my relationship with my grandma has brought so many things to light for me. I've watched her blossom in a way that, due to the traditional, defined roles of that generation's marriages, she never could have with Grandpa. She now speaks up about politics and doesn't bite her tongue, yet is still always the classiest lady in the room. She's 80 years old now and still takes classes... just because she's interested in the subject. She has a part-time job, just for the enjoyment. And she prints out jokes for us to pass around and read out-loud at holiday dinners.

I've seen a lot of similarities between the transitions in her life and those in mine. I, too, have had to learn how to take care of a house by myself because I hate asking for help. I've had to learn my identity outside of being a wife. I've really learned to think for myself and have experienced how truly rewarding it is to learn new things with an open mind. I did plenty of growing up as a youth. But that day, in my grandma's living room, was when I started truly growing.

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Who I am today:

Girl next door. Self-proclaimed nerd. Crazy insomniac.

I'm in my young 30's with a tween-aged daughter who helps keep me humble by never quite letting me feel fully sane. My family is comprised of all sorts of dysfunction, yet somehow we're still close.

For work, I'm an insurance geek. I handle auto liability for losses that occur in Indiana. I have all sorts of letters behind my name that only mean something in the insurance world and I'm working on the big ones. CPCU is sort of the holy grail of insurance designations; I'm on the 5th of 8 courses in the program. A huge thing that occupies my work life is co-chairing our largest employee resource group for the state of Michigan.

Outside of work, I rarely sleep, but have lots to keep me occupied. I'm insanely domestic and have been working on decorating my big huge house that I bought in December. I love to bake and experiment with that a lot. I'm kind of a lit freak, so I read whenever I get a chance. I write poetry and have just now joined this really cool writing group. It's called "Write Monkey, Write." Maybe you've heard of it???

Someone close to me told me recently that I "live life in gulps, not sips." I like to think that will never change, even when I'm the 80 year-old grandma.

Nanowrimo

Next month will be National Novel Writing Month. The goal of which is to write a 50k novel in 30 days (roughly, 1,667 words a day). I'll be attempting this, and I know Zach has done this in the past too. Is anyone else up for it?

The offical website is at: www.nanowrimo.org

Jack - The Princess And The Maidens Behind 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."

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It little profits that an idle queen,
With decadent children soon to govern
Barbarous men with men's unequal laws,
To reminisce on the past pangs of lust
And ancient futures behind fated doors.

He got a bride -- lovely in every way.
But a princess dies, and is reborn Queen.
A shame no barbarous land will be led
Without a regal lout to scratch his beard;
He laughs when a lean tiger mauls a man.

Our kingdom claims balance in such cruelty.
Which we are given by the god of chance,
But can a capricous god forgive,
And dowl out just to just so that no
Mother should thereby be caused to cry?

My king breathes heavy and walks odd with gout.
When our son stands in his stead how will he
Sentence those misfortunate maidens to marry
Men who the god of chance chose so poorly?


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Notes: I apologize for subjecting you to my attempt at poetry. This poem still isn't great, but I'm done tooling with it and ready to move on to the next topic.

The Doors

I still need to write Scene 3. Sigh.

ACT 1, SCENE 1
The King's Antechambers.

The KING sits on his throne. Enter THE PRINCESS distraught.

King. Daughter. Truly, I would give ten years of life to see you happy for one. Tell, is it the boy? The rapscallion who stole thy heart?

Princess. It is not the rapscallion who stole my heart that troubles it, for, as thou hast said, it has already been stolen -- I've no heart left to be troubled.

King. Say not such bitter things! Today, justice hath been served -- that fortuitous creature called fate, in corroboration with chance, hath shown me the villainy of that man; but we are avoiding the question. Why must my daughter fall prey to sadness at a time like this; nay, at any time?

Princess. It is not for me to say, father, nor is it for you to listen. I shall keep my burdens close to my breast, so that it may not worry you. Have you not a kingdom to run? Worry not the needs of one woman, that the needs of scores of noblemen shall be left unmet. In time, my heart will return to me. On that day I will inform you, as to day, where I informed you of its departure.

King. I see. Retire, then, to thy chambers, where sleep will rob you of your tears, and in the night I shall see to it that thine heart alights upon your desk, so that when you awake you shall find it willing to continue. There is much work to be done, though, dear daughter, and to that end I am afraid I must see thee off.

The king stands up.

King. Come, now, tarry not lest we be plagued by beseeching commoners.

Princess. Yes, father.

Exeunt.

Enter The LADY, EULEN, and COMMONER.

Lady. What noisome beast! What foul-bred, ill-mannered, tempestuous succubus would do such a thing? Were my status higher, I would call for her hanging!

Eulen. What sayeth thou? Who deserves to have such names hurled at them, and for what reason?

Lady. I dare not say, and yet -- oh, my blood, it boils! To know that she had led him to his demise...

Eulen. Surely you could not mean this morning's arena event! The man was guilty, my lady. Even thou knewest it.

Lady. And it was that guilt that led him to the wrong door! Hear me, Eulen, for wrongdoing hath been done, and I shall not rest until her father has her put to a likewise test.

Commoner. Trust in the fairest lady of the city to be the most ebullient.

Eulen. Give the lady her chance to speak, or I shall rip the tongue from your head. If she speaks, it is the truth. All that is left to wonder is whether or not we can do anything about it.

Lady. Whether or not we can, indeed! I shall see to it that she pays, be it by judge or by my own hands.

Commoner 'Zounds! Calm your self, lady, or the earth itself will quake in fear, and we'll all be lost to the pits. The woman you called witch is the princess, correct? Surely, she must have done some wrong. But for all your heart's baying, you were as trapped as the tiger; there is no way to know for certain such events occurred as your mind imagines them. Perhaps a soft down bed shall see your senses restored.

Eulen. He is right. I would not go after a Princess, particularly one as strong-headed as ours, without the time to consider alternatives.

Lady. Perhaps... keep thine ears against the walls this night. I would like to hear what the little birds have to say about our Princess. She must have done some wrong; although he was guilty of being seduced by that demon, he was an innocent at heart, and fate left alone would have shown him the way to my arms. I am certain of it. And when the instrument of the Gods is played with, some one hears it some where.

Eulen. I shall do my best. Be certain of it.

Commoner. For what little worth my word has in this town, I will give you it. Mostly, I am curious as to the veracity of your claims. Perhaps the times are not as boring as they appear!

Lady, angrily. My love was murdered by a monster from the orient, and thou carest only for excitement! Begone from my sight; I'll speak to thee no more.

the Commoner leaves.

Eulen. Was that necessary, my lady?

Lady. Yes.

Eulen. Your bed calls out to thee; why not heed it? My ears will remain open until such a time as the information you seek finds his way in.

Lady. When that time occurs, could thou wakest me?

Eulen. If that is thy wish. My apprentice is fine enough to handle the early business him self, if but for today. And today, it is worth it.

Lady. Thanks to thee.

Exeunt.

ACT 1, SCENE 2
The Princess's bedchambers.

The Princess lays in bed.

Princess. O, dost the wind blow heartily tonight! It beats upon my brow, upon my breast, and even in this room the chill dost cut through the bone. these fineries are no match for the sinister imprecations of that wind. O, ye Gods, cease this infernal wailing!

The MAN enters.

Man. It is not the Gods that are wailing, my love.

Princess. How... what manner of devil are you, that seeks to bewitch me by assuming my lover's form?

Man. It is I that am wailing.

Beat.

Man. I will not question thy intentions. I simply wished to see thee before the Eternal called me back.

Princess. I've found myself trapped in a nightmare, then! For no ghost would deign to visit a foolish woman such as I. O, how I regret that final moment!

Man, moving closer. I know not regret, my love, nor anger at thy betrayal. All I know is longing for the passion that lies hidden within thineself. Has that spark already faded?

Princess. It has. With thy death, all reasoning hath ceased. Perhaps it is my heart that hath ceased, that thou comest upon me now, to carry me into the Heavens. I would like that dearly. Not one day has yet passed, and already I feel the weight of eternity bearing down upon me. I do not know which is the more worrisome; that I killed thee, or that I did not intend to kill thee.

Man, now upon her. Come with me into the cold, my love; I care not for intentions anymore. Thine choice has been made; now come with me!

The Princess screams. Exit Man. Enter Eulen.

Eulen. Princess, what nightmare's got you so bespotted?

Princess. Who are you?

Eulen. A humble blacksmith, my lady, entertaining the desire to explore the palace. I was a friend of... I am sorry. Perhaps now is not the time for such talk. Hark, the wind blows cruelly tonight! The palace walls can barely contain it. Ghosts walk the halls on nights like these, they say.

Princess. Then you saw him? You saw my dear one's spirit as well?

Eulen. I have seen no such thing! It's all children's tales, regardless of how well they frighten. Worry not, my Princess, it was assuredly a nightmare. The dead do not walk any more than the mannequin by the front of my store.

Princess. Were I you, I would be more careful of my tongue; I do not doubt my experience, and you should not doubt me. I do not hold the same disdain for your class as my father does, but that does not mean I suffer fools and disbelievers lightly. I tell you, he came.

Eulen. I am certain that he did. May I ask what he said?

Princess. You may not. Nor may you speak of this to any one; I will not have it known that spirits prowl the palace, particularly this one.

Eulen. Very well. If he was indeed here, then have I not saved your life? For that, I ask one favor.

Princess. You are quite presumptuous, to ask favors of a princess after sneaking into her bedchambers! I could have you put to the arena.

Eulen. Ah, but I am not guilty of anything but chance, and if chance shall lead me here, then it shall follow me into the arms of my lady, the fairest and most beautiful woman in the land. Is that thou, or is that thy lover's concubine, I wonder? Regardless, my favor is this: confess thy sin to thy father, and no one else. If my lady hears of it, she will surely come to murder you. If any in the city hear of it, then she shall hear of it too, for there are many little birds that like to flit about and gossip. To let such a thing pass, though; even one so strong as thou darest not shoulder this burden alone!

Princess. I will see thee hanged for this.

Eulen. Worry not for nightmares, princess. If thou art guilty, they will most certainly come. If thou art innocent, the Heavens will leave thee be.

Exit Eulen.

Princess. That man! He knows; shall I put him to the death as well? Is such a thing wise? I'd rather that no one have to face that tiger again; ever if at all possible! And yet, if word gets out, I'll have nowhere to turn. Think! Ignore this howling wind and think! I cannot simply say nothing; there was menace in his voice, of that there is no doubt. I cannot tell my father, for he shall disown me, or put me to my death. It is not my fault! Gods, I beseech you, understand this: that I had planned for days to give him up to her, that foolish commoner girl! I was going to be the noble my father had raised, but my blood -- curse this barbarian blood of mine, I couldn't see her take him! It was not my intention, but he is dead none the less, and now I am the less for it! This situation is without solution; so thinking, I must cut the tangled mess as best I can and pray. That blacksmith must be put to death. My father must not know, and that man would clearly rattle like a snake as soon as he learned I have no plans to confess. He was wrong; I am strong enough to face these ghosts and nightmares. I dare the devil himself to come and prove me wrong. This I swear: that to night, I shall sleep like a babe, and wake up just as new.