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Honeycomb
December 22nd, 2008

One day I will begin writing a science fiction epic set in the distant future based on the premise that each black hole that exists in our universe is merely a doorway to another, separate universe.  A loose possibility that has been posited by Stephen Hawking, I believe, but I maintain that I arrived at this theory originally and independently in the early ours of the morning with a friend over a decade ago.  While I have no plans to begin this book, or possible (and perhaps, hopefully) series, anywhere in the near future, this Stream of Consciousness will be my first foray into the world I will one day create and the book I will write.  Bare in mind, details and ideas explored and discussed below may not make it into the eventual book, or may turn out to be entire scenes; ‘tis the fun of Stream of Consciousness!

Jack Montan hated his job.  But in this world he was one of many who shunned his employment.  As the next passengers boarded the ship – an elderly couple – Jack reached out and took their hovering titanium luggage.  The two cases were massive, larger than Jack himself, but he had no problems as he reached for the hanging straps and dragged them along behind him, like two floating balloons, as he led the couple to their suite.

How did two old people have so much stuff? Jack wondered to himself as he walked down the impeccably white and pristine hallway to the elevator.  On the walls were beautiful pieces of original artwork each revealing another snapshot of the vibrant and diverse locations the Persephone would be taking them.  Jack had been working on the crew of the Persephone for over two years now, had seen little in the way of a raise or promotion, but continued to learn new tasks, earn more responsibilities, and was forced to work harder with less time. 

It was the year 2999, and employees were still treated like shit.

Jack hit the button and there was an immediate ding as the elevator doors whooshed open revealing a very large space that could hold up to twenty people and all their luggage.  He stepped into the opening, triggering the sensor to keep the doors open, and brought in the hovering baggage and clipped the cases to the rail.  He looked back and hmphed when he saw the elderly couple admiring one of the pieces of art.  He began tapping his foot and then stopped and laughed at himself.

“I wonder what planet this is on dear,” said the old man.  He looked to be in his 120s.

“I don’t see any identification,” croaked the old woman.  She must’ve been at least 150.  “Maybe our service boy will know.  Come along dear,” she said leading the way to elevator.

Service boy!  That was a new one.  Jack had been called a number of insulting and discriminating names in his time, but that was a new and even more insulting one.  Service boy, he thought, shaking his head.

The couple finally reached the elevator and stepped into the giant space.  Jack stepped in too and the doors quickly whooshed shut.  He pressed the 40 button, followed by the 88 button.  The elevator shot sideways at thirty miles per hour, but inside the car it was calm and relaxed, as Bach’s violin concerto in E was playing softly overhead.  Jack had heard it at least 500 times, but after a while you learned to ignore it.

“Service boy,” said the old man.

Jack cringed.

“That painting of the burning orange waterfalls.  What planet is that?”

“Yes, where is that?” asked the old woman.

Jack smiled at them.  “That is on the planet Lansoon.  It is the Burning Sunrise Falls.  While the water is not actually orange” – Jack’s smile turned to a condescending grin – “at dawn each morning, the sun blazes on the waterfall and causes the effect.  The painting was done by Lars Ulström in 2982 and was originally housed in  Europa’s Planetary Museum of Intergalactic Art.  Eight years later, when the Persephone was first commissioned and she began her first voyage, the painting was graciously donated by the President of Europa, as Lansoon is one of the first stops on Persephone’s twelve-month voyage.”

Jack didn’t have to even think about this stuff anymore, it came automatically.  During the three month grueling training period, they’d drummed this information into him each and every day until it came effortlessly to him.

“Why, you’re just a big bundle of knowledge, aren’t you boy,” said the man smiling.

Jack couldn’t help but smile back.  They were a kind old couple, and he’d only called him boy that time.  He could live with it.

The elevator switched directions, started moving up, then went sideways for a brief moment and finally stopped with a ding.  The doors opened and Jack was ready, luggage disconnected and in hand, and stepped out into another pristine hallway lined with more original artwork.  Jack was thankful that room 4088 was close to the elevator so he wouldn’t be delayed again.

He led the way with the couple slowly moving behind and stopped at the third door on the left.  He stepped to the side and waited for the couple to join him.

“Access to the room is granted through fingerprint identification.  Could one of you press your thumb on the panel above the handle.”

The woman stepped forward and did this.  There was a red light, then a green one, and a click as the door unlocked.

Jack turned the handle and opened the door and led the way into the suite that the couple would be occupying for the next year.  He set the large cases on the luggage table, laying them down, where they continued to hover five inches off the surface.  He then waited by the door until the couple were in the room.

“If there is nothing else, I will leave you to your comforts.  Have a safe and pleasant voyage,” Jack said.

The old man with that same smile stepped forward and offered him some tokens.  Jack graciously accepted, bowing slightly, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

There was one benefit of this dead-end job: the tips from the super-rich were always surprising and happily taken.

*

The Persephone disconnected from the spaceport, drifting slowly at first until there was enough distance between the giant hull and the connecting arm.  The spaceport controller wished the captain of the Persephone a safe and happy voyage, then the ship shot forward into the blackness of space, covering light-years in seconds, increasing in speed, until it reached the black hole.  The captain engaged the anti-graviton drive.  Not slowing, the Persephone was sucked into its event horizon and disappeared into the mass of dark matter.

Crafting
October 10th, 2008

I begin with its completion.  This isn’t always necessary, and there have certainly been times when I didn’t finish it before I had to do the next part.  As long as I have the basic idea of what it was about, maybe with some scrounging around for summaries and ideas; but in most cases the project begins with a completion.

For some it needs to be have a certain shape, a certain length.  And for all purposes, this is what is usually the case for me, especially when the aforementioned project didn’t capture my mind and stun my brain like a breathtaking sunset on I-80.  As the sun reaches down for its horizon, cycling through a selection of colors and shades, growing darker; while the wisps and splotches of cloud reflect these colors through their white vaporous lenses, adding pinks and purples to the mix.

But I digress.  The project is ordinary in shape and length when the aforementioned project doesn’t interest me.   But when its something magical that blows my mind with its statements and story, its meter and manuscript, its words and wisdom; I challenge the ordinary and ignore the length, pouring all I can into the project, trying to create a piece of work, a piece of writing that in some infinitesimal way emulates, or shows appreciation and respect for the amazing piece of art that is the aforementioned project.

The project should begin with name and writer and then a very brief, one- to two-sentence description, giving away a nugget of detail and possible surprise; a little something to ensnare the reader and create a small feeling of yearning, a wanting twitch in their psyche. 

Now that you’ve grabbed their attention, you move to the next step.

Name the character: who are they?  What do they do?  Why should I care about them?  It is key to keep that interest, and to make it grow, blossom, rise like a delicious cake in a hot oven.  Once I’ve established why one should care about the character, and why the character exists, I move on with the story: what’s happened, what’s happening, what’s going to happen.  This can take a couple of paragraphs and really add “padding” to the project.  It is here I can just tell the story like it is, holding back any surprises or twists; or really capture the reader’s mind, tweaking their senses with some powerful piece of description on what is going on and why it’s so incredible.

Here is where balance is crucial and involves talent from the writer’s fingertips.  I don’t want to give away important events and ruin the story for readers, so I must skillfully give tidbits of detail and happenings by not giving too much away, and yet maintaining the reader’s growing zest for wanting to read this book.

The last paragraph or two is an essential piece de resistance, where I’ve been leading the reader on from the get go and where I have all the power: I can leave them hanging, crush their hopes and dreams, or continue that euphoric suspension and commit the epitome, guaranteeing the sale.  It is here that I can continue to lambaste the author for their poor choices in story and occurrence; add some critique to what seemed to be a good book; or praise the author’s writing ability, after verbally appreciating their story.

Saving the Planet, One Piece at a Time
July 14th, 2008

Here is the finished story for those wanting to know what happens next.

The world is a little bitsafer, Ecoman thought to himself as he clicked save on the audio file and then took off his headphones.  He watched the twenty-eight minute recording saving, watching the percentage bar increasing as it saved and converted the file to an acceptable audio format for uploading to his podcast.  The Ecoman Podcast which he recorded every two weeks was doing very well, gaining more listeners, downloads, and streamers every day.  On a hunch, Ecoman clicked onto a site and checked his podcast stats: he’d just passed ten thousand.  Now over ten thousand people were listening to him talk about what was wrong with today’s world, how it was being destroyed bit by bit, and that it wouldn’t be too long before the oceans would begin rising, the skies dropping burning rain, and the species of the world would be disappearing one by one like stars in the night sky; eventually the firmament would be nothing but black.
    
But the podcast was making a little difference with that, giving advice, direction, and feedback for people on how to change their ways, little by little; to try and heal the planet.  Change could only begin with a single step, and Ecoman felt like he’d made an important one with his podcast, because it was making lots of people take lots of little steps, and in time those little steps would add up to a bigger change.

If Ecoman were to compare himself to a superhero, the closest he would consider would be Batman, because Batman didn’t really have any special powers, just some good armor, fancy gadgets and vehicles, and a fancy suit to boot.  Ecoman didn’t have any special powers, no superhuman strength, incredible speed, or laser eyes.  If Ecoman were to consider anything he possessed a power it would be his mind.  To Ecoman, knowledge was power.

“Knowledge is power,” Ecoman said, now uploading the MP3 audio file to his podcasting site.  Very soon people would be getting his next episode, and start listening to how they could make this planet a better place for their children.

From an early age Ecoman had fallen in love with nature programs, and shows about animals in their natural environments living and enjoying their everyday, free lives.  At first he’d thought he wanted to be a zoologist or marine biologist, or even a zoo keeper.  But over time, with more education, this had changed to a mission, a goal in his life to make this world a better place for all the animals – including people – to live in.  With global warming and the degradation of the environment due to the human stain making this world a harder place to live in, Ecoman knew early on it would take all of his energy and dedication to make this happen.  The endgame of a clean and healthy world, a Garden of Eden, seemed a daunting and impossible task, but Ecoman knew it took a crucial first step from one ordinary person – him – to get others involved.  One small step.

Over a period of four months Ecoman receive three more white envelopes and was able to stop each and every effort at environmental destruction.

Then the following week, Monday morning, he received another similar envelope, except it was thicker with an entire sheet of paper filled with instructions.  Ecoman closed his door and sat back to read it, knowing it was something serious, something bigger, and something more important.  This time some people were really trying to harm the planet and its people.

He felt himself becoming tired in this dark, cocoon like place, and too some deep breaths to clear his mind and forced his eyes to open wider.  He needed to see every detail, not to be caught off guard.  There was probably at least two of them, perhaps three or four.  A cell possibly.

Ecoman had no idea, but he wanted to be ready for anything.

Moments later he saw the darkened tunnel widening into a dark room.  He slowed to a crawl and slowly stepped into the room, remaining concealed in the darker shadows.  He heard another clank of metal on metal and knew he was in the right place.

He dream himself closer to the sound and then stopped when he heard a humming.  In the back of his mind, an invisible spider began to crawl around the inside of his skull.  The humming continued and Ecoman used it to cover any sound he made in coming closer.

It sounded like there was just one person, which was a surprise. 

The humming continued, grew louder as Ecoman came closer.

The invisible spider was now running around in his head, clearly scared and excited about something.

Ecoman was now close enough to move out from the shadows a
little to get a look at this terrorist.  All he saw was a hunched over back.  Seizing the moment, he stepped out into the light and stepped closer to the man.

“Stop what you’re doing,” Ecoman said.

The hunched over terrorist didn’t jump up in fear and shock.  He straightened himself and turned around.

Ecoman’s mouth dropped.

The man who stood before him with what was clearly an improvised explosive device that would sent point radioactive clouds racing towards Sacramento when it went off was his father.

“Dad!” Ecoman yelled in a weak voice, eyes widening at the sound of his puny voice.

“Bout time you showed up,” his Old Man said.

Ecoman felt hot tears form in his eyes and knew he couldn’t do anything to stop them.  He opened his mouth preparing to question, but was cut off.

“Don’t bother asking why.  I’m going to tell you.  It’s what we terrorists . . . we villains do.”

His father paused momentarily, continuing to work on the bomb, then finally looked up at his son.

“You were such a good kid.  So much potential.  Such great ideas and lofty goals that you always thought you’d make.  Your Ma and I were worried when you got all that money, but you used it so well, chose so wisely.  No one could ask for a better child, a better role model . . . a better hero.”

His father’s face changed now, turned scowling, the eyes angry.

“And then you had to go and ruin everything.  Make this happen,” he said, lifting his arms to the sky.

Ecoman looked up at darkness, not sure what his father was getting at.

“When you held that press conference and said the things you said, in that way that you do, you made fools out of all of us.  Out of everyone.  But you made a fool out of yourself the most.  This place is an insult to everything you’ve worked so hard for.  I couldn’t just let you ruin it all and pretend like it was all part of your plan to save the world.”

“But,” Ecoman began, “nuclear power is a good . . .”

“Stop!  Stop right there.  Don’t try and do to me what you do to all the people you brainwash.  It’s all lies!  Has the past, the lost lives, the suffering taught you nothing!”

Ecoman knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere with his father this time.  His Old Man was going to get his way, just like he always did.  Always had to have to last word, always had to be right, no matter what it was, even if it turned out to be opposite to what the initial argument had been about.  Ecoman knew where he got his public speaking skills from.

He raised his arm and point his gun at his father.

The man looked back, still scowling.  Then he spat at his sun, and said: “Who do you think sent you all those ‘anonymous notes.’  Yeah, that’s right.”

Ecoman’s arm wavered and lowered again.  No, it wasn’t possible.  All the good that his father had done for him, to lead everything up to this point of cruelty.  But the seconds he spent thinking were all he needed for it to make perfect sense when it came to his father’s mind.

His arm came back up again and he fired three times.

The darts shot from the gun in rapid succession and buried themselves in his fathers chest.

The man took two steps back and juggled the bomb but managed to hold onto it.  Otherwise, he seemed unaffected.

“You’re my son!” he yelled at Ecoman.  “I know you better than you will ever know.”

His father was wearing some sort of protective vest.  Ecoman might be able to aim a his face or hand, but it was a harder target to hit.

He had no other choice then.

“I can’t let you do this,” Ecoman whispered.

His father began laughing. 

“Really?  Really!  It’s already begun.  I’ll just change the timer real quick.”

Ecoman could see the red LED clock flicker to five seconds remaining.

“Come on son, come be with your Old Man.  Let’s end this together!”

Before his father could do anything else to detonate the bomb, Ecoman was reaching into his pocking and drawing out another gun, a different gun.  This one fired bullets.

Ecoman fired once, not hesitating, aiming for his father’s face. 

The bullet entered man’s forehead, killing him instantly.

Ecoman ran to his dead father, taking the bomb and delicately setting it on the ground.  The timer still held firm at five seconds.  Then he kneeled down next to his father, took the man’s head in his lap, looked into a one of the first faces he ever recognized and began crying.

Saving the Planet, One Piece at a Time
May 5th, 2008

This is the first part and the first draft of a story I am writing about a superhero.

The world is a little bit safer, Ecoman thought to himself as he clicked save on the audio file and then took of his headphones.  He watched the twenty-eight minute recording saving, watching the percentage bar increasing as it saved and converted the file to an acceptable audio format for uploading to his podcast.  The Ecoman Podcast that he recorded every two weeks was doing very well, gaining more listeners, downloads, and streamers each day.  On a hunch, Ecoman clicked onto a site and checked his podcast stats: he’d just passed ten thousand.  Now over ten thousand people were listening to him talk about what was wrong with today’s world, how it was being destroyed bit by bit, and that it wouldn’t be too long before the oceans would begin rising, the skies dropping burning rain, and the species of the world would be disappearing one by one like stars in the night sky; eventually the firmament would be nothing but black.
           
But the podcast was making a little difference with that, giving advice, direction, and feedback for people on how to change their ways, little by little; to try and heal the planet.  Change could only begin with a single step, and Ecoman felt like he’d made an important one with his podcast, because it was making lots of people take lots of little steps, and in time those little steps would add up to a bigger change.

           
Ecoman considered himself a superhero.  Not your average superhero with special powers that no ordinary human possessed, who wore a flamboyant costume, and spent his or her days protecting the planet from evil doers and villains over and over.  Plus superheroes weren’t real, they were just people with powers in comic books, special people that readers aspired to be like.

If Ecoman were to compare himself to a superhero, the closest he would consider would be Batman, because Batman didn’t really have any special powers, just some good armor, fancy gadgets and vehicles, and a fancy suit to boot.  Ecoman didn’t have any special powers, no superhuman strength, incredible speed, or laser eyes.  If Ecoman were to consider anything he possessed a power it would be his mind.  To Ecoman, knowledge was power.

“Knowledge is power,” Ecoman said, now uploading the MP3 audio file to his podcasting site.  Very soon now people would be getting his next episode, and start listening to how they could make this planet a better place for their children.

           
If he were to have a costume and look stupid, Ecoman knew it would probably be a blue skin-tight costume, maybe with a cape, and the universal recycling symbol on is chest.  But he knew this was more a silly gimmick, something that would make him a laughing stock whenever he tried to help and educate.  Ecoman didn’t want laughter, especially not directed in his direction.  Ecoman was very serious about the environment; he was very serious about saving the planet.
           
That was why his costume, technically, was a gray suit.  Ecoman worked at the recycling plant in Sacramento, in the southern part of the city next to the Sacramento River, but instead of dumping harmful or toxic substances into the river, the water itself was just one department of the plant, as they researched ways to make it cleaner and purer.  While Ecoman himself hoped to one day have the water so clean that people would be able to drink from it, he knew this wasn’t a likely reality.  For now, they did their best to find ways to make the river water cleaner.
           
Ecoman’s grandfather had died when he was sixteen.  It was the first funeral he’d ever gone to, and one of the saddest days of his life.  When the will was opened and dealt with, Ecoman received most of his grandfather’s money that was to be kept in an interest-generating account until Ecoman was twenty years of age, then it was officially his, and he could do what he wanted with it.

From an early age Ecoman had fallen in love with nature programs, and shows about animals in their natural environment living and enjoying their everyday, free lives.  At first he’d thought he wanted to be a zoologist or marine biologist, or even a zoo keeper.  But over time, with more education, this had changed to a mission, a goal in his life to make this world a better place for all the animals – including people – to live in.  With global warming and the degradation of the environment due to the human stain making this world a harder place to live in, Ecoman knew early on it would take all of his energy and dedication to make this happen.  The endgame of a clean and healthy world, a Garden of Eden, seemed a daunting and impossible task, but Ecoman knew it took a crucial first step from one ordinary person, him, to get others involved.  One small step.

           
Ecoman had started in recycling and pretty much stayed there for most of his life so far.  It’d been very hard at first, getting his high school to become more focused and dedicated to recycling, and recycling in the correct way.  After that he moved onto his neighborhood, painstakingly talking with and convincing the people of the town that it was an important effort they would be making and in the long run their children and grandchildren would benefit greatly.  When Ecoman invoked the “grandchildren clause,” as he liked to call it, making the people aware of the effect they would have on the next generation, and specifically on their future family, was usually enough to convince them.
           
Ecoman soon discovered he was a talented public speaker, a wizard when it came to putting complex terms into simple measures and executions.  It was once the people realized that there wasn’t too much work involved, and that it was possible to start small and simple and advance through the stages of recycling as one became more versed and experienced in it, that they would usually ask where to sign.  Ecoman loved this part, for there was nowhere to sign.  It was just a case of spending some money on the recycling receptacles and making sure one kept up the “chore.”  They were always surprised to discover they could both save some money and even get back some money for turning in specific recycled items to the correct places.
           
And that was it, everyone went away happy.
           
Knowledge truly was power.

           
When Ecoman turned twenty, his parents had been a little worried about what he was going to do with the large sum of money he’d now officially inherited.  But Ecoman had known for over a year what he was going to do.
           
He started by moving out of the home he’d grown up and lived his whole life in and got a cheap studio apartment in midtown Sacramento.  He then began meeting with lots of different people all over town.  His name and work had preceded him to the capital city, and he soon found a lot of open and willing minds and imaginations.
           
Then the minds came together, the contracts were signed, and work began on remodeling the old building in the south of the city that had been unoccupied since the end of the last millennium.  There was a lot of work to be done, and a lot of money would have to change hands, but fortunately Ecoman had the dollars to spend.
           
Ecoman knew this was one of the crucial steps in his lifelong goal.
           
A year later, just after he turned twenty-one, the Ecoman Recycling Plant was officially opened.  Sacramento was delighted to have such a large and important building in their city.
           

Immolator
April 3rd, 2008

This is an early piece about the main character in a novel I'm currently working on: Wyrd, which is the Old English word for destiny.

The church is small and unimpressive.  But then this is the early days of the religion, barely centuries old.  From a distance it could be a tiny, insignificant hut; the color camouflages it against the rocky terrain.  It is as one comes closer, closing the distance to the holy place, that one recognizes it as a place of worship.

Artorus hasn’t been here before.  He finds himself quite some distance from the once great city of Rome.  Like the city, the nation is now barely a distant memory, a faint recognition, a hazy dream from the past of a time long forgotten.  Romanitas is no more, and as Artorus closes the distance and begins to pick out details about the small church, he wonders whether he will find friend or foe within its confines.  But then Artorus is a follower and believer of Pelagianism, like his family was, and their ancestors.  Its major tenant is that Jesus the Christ was but a man, not born of divine right in divine form, but nevertheless the savior.  And there are those born who are without sin, and who can remain without sin.  Artorus believes this wholeheartedly; he was raised believing this; which is why he must watch his every tread, for he is a member of a small dying sect of Christianity, a sect which has been crushed and persecuted for many years now.  This is why Artorus is almost certain that unless the building is empty, whoever he meets within will most likely be foe.  He must watch his step.

The church has now fully separated its hidden self from the surrounding rock.  With its worn thatched roof pocked with holes; the walls composed of the same rock as the ground upon which it sits – misshapen and seemingly unstable – the building is old and rundown.  One might even consider it dangerous to enter, for risk of collapse, but Artorus does not falter.  There are no windows or openings of any kind along the walls, except for one rounded doorway at one end.  One would not recognize this as a place of worship, for there are no signs or indications of belief or religion; but Artorus knows that something like this, its location; there is nothing else it can be.

As he approaches the small doorway, he slows down, treading lightly, listening intently.  He peaks in the dark doorway into what must have originally been a very dark room that would have needed to be lit by candlelight, but with the degradation of the roof, now has patches of light shining through.  Artorus can’t help but think of this as a divine light, God’s light shining through into the place of prayer.  He hears no sound and sees no movement.  He waits a moment longer and then steps into the church.

It is cooler within, not just from being out of the blaze of the hot sun, but the heavy stone walls insulate, while allowing for breezes through the gaps.  And there is another level of coolness here, a solemn one.  Artorus can feel the age, use, and devotional respect for this place.  While there is no one here now, and there may not have been an occupant for some time, the rectangular room feels ancient and filled in a way by the memories and shadows of the past.  The faithful who practiced their faith here, who prayed and sang, and offered up sacrifice and devotion to God, are not forgotten, cannot be ignored in a place such as this.

Artorus feels a shiver run through him and shake his body, rattling the metal in his clothing and armor.  The tiny noises are exacerbated by the empty, hollow room, and then die away in a series of diminishing echoes.  Artorus takes deep breaths, feeling the cool air chill his lungs.  The air feels thick with age, an almost solid thing passing into his body.  It is the air of the pious.

At the far end of the room from the door he sees a rudimentary altar, only six hand-lengths tall and ten wide.  Like the walls, it is made from the same rock of the surroundings.  There is nothing else in the room to indicate the place has ever been used or occupied.  Artorus knows any articles would have been removed long ago – albeit stolen or taken by the devout who left this place for the last time.  But the altar was left, primarily because of its weight, but also because it is just as much a part of the church as are the walls and the ground, and the warming sunlight that shines through the holes in the roof.

Artorus walks slowly across the room, his footsteps crunching on rock and gravel, making a ricocheting series of sounds that stop only some time after he has stopped his movement, just a small distance from the altar.  He kneels down, relishing the feel of small pebbles and sharp pieces of rock digging into his knees.  He lays his head down, chin resting on his chest, and prays for a possible future and hope for some guidance in his life, some direction, a destination that will give his existence meaning.

Time passes and the static silence of the holy place returns.  Externally there is no sound; internally Artorus can hear his breathing through his nose, the pounding of his heart in his chest, and the whistling of life in his ears.  He understands how his body makes these sounds, how it is that he keeps on breathing, living, existing.  But he does not understand why.  But then that is the question everyone asks themselves repeatedly in their life.

The prayer over, he slowly opens his eyes, feeling his cold eyelids fold beneath his brow.  It helps to clear his mind.  And it is then that he sees the specific shape of the rocks below the altar.  Here there is order and planning, a characteristic that is not apparent anywhere else in this room.  Artorus traces his hand along the carefully and intentionally placed rocks, seeing their shape and articulation.  As he reaches the end of the shape he begins pulling at the first rock.  It is tight, but soon moves and pulls loose.  He continues doing this with each subsequent rock until there is a considerable pile beside him.  Soon the hole is revealed, stretching almost the entire length of the altar.  It is dark within and he cannot see what lies at its bottom, if anything.  But he knows this shape, on a subconscious level, and reaches in at the end he began pulling the rocks from and soon grips a familiar thing.  He starts to lift and feels its considerable weight and that it is partially stuck.  He reaches in with his other hand, makes a swift pull that frees it from the invisible graspings, and then looks upon the long blade of a mighty sword.

It is dirty and worn with age, but if it is a well made blade then this outer crust of time is but superficial and can easily be removed.  Now more familiar with the weight, he switches to holding it with his left hand, his sword-wielding hand.  It was once a great blade and he hopes and prays that it can be once again.  He then begins smacking it with the flat side of the blade against the altar, then spinning it round in his hand, and smacking the other side.  He does this repeatedly and smiles as he sees the flakes and bits of age, dirt, and grime fall from it, revealing glints of silvery steel beneath.  He then pours some water from his waterskin onto it, cleaning it with the edge of his cassock.  Now the steel begins to reflect the sunlight and dazzle the room with flickers of yellow and gold.

Artorus works ceaselessly and it is a considerable time later that the sword is finally pristine and magnificent, the edges sharpened upon the very altar beneath which it was buried.  There are now severe crevasses carved into the old stone, but Artorus feels little remorse, for he is in all likelihood the last person to use this place of worship.  And in so doing, God has granted him this special gift: a great sword with a blade of blinding steel, and a hilt of dazzling gold.

Artorus turns the sword around, holding the blade, and studies its every edge, angle and surface.  After a thorough inspection, he knows from whence this sword came: it is the weapon of none other than Emperor Constantine, the first Christian emperor of the Romans.  He has no inkling as to how so valuable an object, over the centuries, has traveled from the hands of the great emperor of the Roman Empire, to end up buried beneath an altar in a long forgotten and abandoned church.  But he is devout and absolute in his faith, and knows this can only be a supreme gift from God.

Artorus stabs the sword into the stone ground, feeling the well made steel bite in, and then, with hands upon the hilt, he kneels on one leg and prays to God again in thanks for this special gift, and in thanks for an important next step in his destiny.  He knows not where this gift will take him, and what use it may grant him on his journey, but he knows, wholeheartedly, that it is another piece of proof for his necessary existence on this earth, and another piece of proof in the divine above working in His ways.

Nemeses
February 29th, 2008

NOTE: This Stream of Consciousness was something I discovered scribbled in a legal pad while cleaning out my closet a couple of weeks ago. It took up a couple of pages and was apparently the start of a story that I'm sad I didn't follow up on, since it sounds intriguing. Perhaps one day I'll pick up these pieces and form a puzzle that will tell the story.

Brothers from birth.  Siamese.  It was, of course, successful, no complications.  But then it was the beginning of the twenty-first century, the new millennium and all.

Twins.  Separated shortly after birth.  Nemeses until death.  How and why you ask?  Let me tell you.

Ulric and Alaric were identical twins, originally, but after the separation, you would think everything was okay.  Everything shared equally.  Two hearts, four lings, two arms, two legs.  They shared some ribs, but after the operation they had a little less bone, but otherwise were perfectly human in every respect: physically, mentally, emotionally.

But I knew it was too good to be true.  You see there was one part that they had shared equally, and when they were separated, it was ripped in half, and left with jagged edges.  I’m not talking about any vital organ or body part.  Anyone would know something was missing or a least wrong if that were the case.  No, what got torn to shredded halves was something no one can see and many doubt even exists in this modern and scientific age.

Plato called it the pneuma.  Some call it the spirit, others an essence, others a necessary life force.  I call it the soul.  We only have one each.  That’s the deal with God, Buddha, Allah, or whatever creator is running the show.  One.  It’s what makes us human, and more importantly, individual.  Specifically, who we are.  Just as one’s genetic makeup is their physical, scientific fingerprint; the soul is the spiritual fingerprint for each person on the planet.

That is until Ulric and Alaric were separated and left with these torn pieces of the single soul.  Parts of their other being remaining in each of their bodies.  In a way, though they were separate people, they were still very much a single individual.

Succession
Part VIII
November 12th, 2007

Once the man with the evil and selfish thoughts had been taken away, the Queen was able to calm herself and relax.  Her servant returned and she let her know she was ready for dinner, which was brought and served to her immediately.  The Queen ate her last meal, looking out at the night sky with the twinkling stars, while the glowing lights of her queendom below stretched out around her.  It was a beautiful sight, and she couldn’t stop herself crying as she ate. 

When she was done with her food, she walked closer to the window, and it was then that she heard the rumbling sound of chatter from a large group of people.  She looked out and saw thousands of her subjects congregating around the entrance to her castle.  They were waiting for her decision, which would not be made until hours from now, when the coronation would take place.  She smiled and felt herself crying again.  They were such loyal and wonderful people.  She was going to miss them dearly.  She extended her hand out, signaling to them below and was greeted by the sound of cheers.

She walked back into her room and sat in a comfortable armchair.  She indicated to her servant that she was ready and waited for the youngest of her offspring to come to her.  The young girl soon entered her chambers and came into her arms.  They held each other tightly for some time and then broke apart.  The girl sat down in the armchair next to hers, asked for some tea from the servant and told the Queen about the day she’d had.

As each of her children finally left her chambers after each meeting, they left with tears pouring down their cheeks, almost unable to accept the Queen’s swiftly approaching end.  When the last child left, the Queen looked out her window once more.  The crowd had somehow doubled in size, even though there was no more room.  She could see the streets leading away from her castle were also choked with people.

That was good, the Queen thought, for she had already made her decision.

A short while later her children were brought back into her chambers and she announced her appointment of the next queen to them.  They all went downstairs and before her many subjects the Queen placed her bejeweled crown upon the head of her youngest daughter.  She was the most like her, and the Queen felt she would carry out her royal duty to the absolute best of her ability.

The Queen said that her duty as monarch had been completed.  She took a last bow to the roaring crowd and then left them, once again tears falling from her cheeks.

Her servant had her bed prepared with a last cup of tea at her bedside.  The Queen drank it down slowly, savoring its final taste.  Under the warm blankets she held each of her children for one last time and had to forcefully send each of them away in tears, or they would never leave her.  With that duty done, she thanked her personal servant for all her loyal help through the years, and that she had been the best and closest friend she’d ever had.  The servant was now crying along with her.  The Queen’s last wish for her was to serve her new queen just as well.

The Queen laid her head on her pillow, the blankets pulled up to her throat.  The flames were extinguished and the room was shrouded in darkness.  The servant closed the door softly behind her and left.

She returned at dawn and saw that the Queen was in exactly the same position, appearing never to have moved during the night.  She bent down next to her and put her head to the woman’s chest.  There was no heartbeat.  She put her fingers to the pulse at her neck.  There was no heartbeat.  She couldn’t hold back the tears as she left the room to arrange funeral arrangements.

A short while later everything was ready, because everyone had been prepared for this moment.  Servants, along with the Queen’s children, helped carry the lavish coffin through the castle and out to the people.  The crowd was still thick; they’d stayed there the whole night, waiting for this moment.  They made room as the procession approached and then closed in and followed as it past them. 

Everyone was crying.

The Queen was laid to rest in the royal mausoleum.  Each child had something to say about their wonderful mother who they would miss greatly, but never forget.  They all returned to the castle, the crowd once again following and filling up the area at the entrance.  They were now waiting for something very special.

Finally, they saw it: the new Queen’s arm waving to them from the window. 

The roar from the crowd was deafening.

THE END

Succession
Part VII
November 12th, 2007

The Prime Minister’s son sat on the bed in the accommodations that had been provided for him.  His time spent here had been relaxing and enjoyable, the food exquisite, the service excellent.  And the important time had now come.  He looked out his large window, watching as the setting sun folded itself beneath the distant horizon.  This was the last night.  The last night for the Queen.  The last night of her life.  It was also the last night; the time when she would make her decision of who would next be king or queen.

In a few moments, the Prime Minister’s son would be summoned to talk with the Queen, to prove himself to her that he was the best candidate.  After that it would be up to him to deal with her children so that they would be all taken care and she would have no choice but to nominate him king of the queendom. 

No, he thought, king of his kingdom.

There was a knock at his door and then the servant woman poked her head in.  He recognized her; she was the Queen’s personal servant.

“It is time,” she said.

He was up, straightening his clothing, making sure everything was organized and perfect.  He took a deep breath and then followed her into the hallway.

The Prime Minister’s son entered the Queen’s personal chambers.  Only few people had ever seen or entered this room before.  He was guessing he was one of the very select non-royal citizens to ever be here.  He wondered whether he would make this his own personal chambers or not.  The he saw the proud woman looking out her window.  At his entrance, she turned to look at him.  At first she wore a look of concentration, clearly sizing him up, then she broke into a welcoming smile.

“Good evening your highness,” he spoke, croaking it through his now dry throat.

She nodded and gestured to a seat and then she joined him at the small table where they could both look at each other.  There was water and as he sat he drank half the glass, quickly.  He wiped his mouth clean and then prepared himself, running answers to tough questions through his mind.

The Queen sat before him in her radiance.  It was impossible not to feel humble before this incredible woman.  He could sweat forming on his forehead.  This was going to be quite the ordeal.

The Queen smiled at him once more and then began.

Over ninety grueling minutes later, the Queen announced that they were done.  The Prime Minister’s son sat back, finishing his fifth glass of water, and wiping his sleeve across his brow.

The Queen rang her bell and her servant came into the room, bent down beside her and whispered something in her ear.  Even though he was close by, he couldn’t make out a single word.  The Queen nodded, then gave her another strong nod that seemed to indicate something.  The servant left the room.  The Queen looked back at him, now with a dissatisfied look on her face.  As if she’d eaten something bitter and distasteful.  Something was wrong, he knew it.

Then four guards came into the room and walked up to him, two either side.  The Queen was now looking at him with anger.

“In the time that we have been talking, your room has been searched.  We have found something incriminating, to say the least.  Also, after talking with you, I can see you are a man of little means and goals other than personal gain.  I will not be nominating you as the next king.”

She stood up and walked to her window, looking out, never giving him a second look.

He’d been caught.  They’d found the little bit of poison he’d hidden amongst his things.  She’d also seen straight through his answers.

Succession
Part VI
October 23rd, 2007

After confirming his position as possible inheritor to the throne, the Prime Minister’s son went home, enjoyed a vast feast of a meal and had a long night’s sleep.  In the early morning, shortly after the sun pulled itself above the horizon, the Prime Minister’s son was up and taking a long, hot, cleaning shower and then putting on his best clothes.  Today was a very important day for him, to be followed tomorrow by the most important day.

Once ready, he briefly visited his father.

“Do not overdo it, son,” his father said.

“Of course not,” the son said, smiling and left, heading for the Queen’s castle.

Just as the news about the Queen’s imminent end had traveled fast, so had news about the Prime Minister’s son being a possible successor to the throne.  Naturally there had been quite a bit of hum and hawing from the populace about the Prime Minister’s decision, but the Queen had already said she trusted him and his choice.

So when the Prime Minister’s son reached the castle, the guards recognized him and let him through without question.  He passed word of his intention to an aide who passed it on to another and so on until all the required parties had been notified.  In a short while the Prime Minister’s son was escorted to one of the beautiful terraces in the castle, overlooking the city.  There a table with four chairs had been set with food and drink.  He was taken to a specific seat and sat in his place.  A short while later the Queen’s three children – a girl of twelve, a boy of seventeen, and a girl of twenty-five – came outside onto the terrace, greeted the young man, congratulated him on his nomination, and joined him for breakfast.

At first the discussion was solely about the Queen.  What a great life she had led, and what a marvelous job she’d done as queen.  It had been a touchy moment when they reached the subject of her oncoming death, but the Prime Minister’s son skillfully turned this into further praise of the Queen and whoever the successor were to be would do their best to live up to her glorious name.

Finally the subject about the Queen had ended, and they switched to more formal conversation, like the city, its people, the weather, how the queendom fared, and what the future held for the Queen’s people.

It was a very enjoyable meal, and the conversation had been stimulating and engaging, all four people agreed.

The Prime Minister’s son, after making a final toast to the great Queen, “May she live on forever!”, finished his fresh orange juice looking at each of the Queen’s children wondering how best and how quickly he could kill each of them before tomorrow night.

Succession
Part V
October 7th, 2007

The Queen was very tired.  It was near the end of the day, the sun making its way towards the horizon, but still with some distance to go.  She still had one more town to visit for the day.  Her journey would continue tomorrow until noon and then she would return to her castle and her chambers.  It would feel good to be back home, but she knew she would not have long before she would need to begin meeting with her children and the one chosen, to choose her successor. 

The Queen had a few moments now before she would enter the town.  She was currently residing in a tent that had been set up for her, just outside the town.  She was sitting in a comfortable chair, padded with furs, covered in a blanket she’d had since she was a child.  Over the years she’d gone out of her way to make sure it was kept clean and in good condition.  She wanted to be buried with this blanket.  She sipped at her glass of wine; it had been well watered, she couldn’t take wine straight anymore.  It gave her heartburn and made her feel sick.

The Queen sat back in her seat, feeling the warm watered wine run down her throat, soothing her.  She pulled her blanket closer and closed her eyes.  She knew she wasn’t going to fall asleep, she didn’t have the time.  Instead, she thought back on her life as a person and as the queen.

She’d been born into royalty, so while her future wasn’t set for her to be queen, the possibility was there.  She had two other brothers who were also eligible.  Her father was currently the king.  From an early age the king had made it apparent that she was first the youngest, and secondly a girl, making her doubly unimportant in the eyes of the monarch.  She seen little of her father, and associated rarely with her brothers while growing up.  Her mother had been her savior and the only person in her life really for the first eighteen years.

She remembered a time when her father and her brothers had gone off hunting.  She’d asked her father before he left why she couldn’t come with them.  The king had just laughed at her, telling her “Maybe next time.”  She’d been eight years old and seeing her father laugh at her like that had hurt her, sent her crying to her mother.  She’d spent the next hour in her mother’s arms, listening to her tell her that men were like that some times, thinking women were less important because they were weaker.  But she reassured her women were just as powerful, sometimes stronger, but in different ways.  And that no matter what they said about her, they couldn’t change the fact that she had just as much possibility of becoming queen as her brothers did of becoming king.  She told her to always keep that in the back on her mind, especially when times were bad and she was feeling down: remember that one day she could be queen.

The Queen opened her eyes and watched as her servant came into the tent to let her know that it was time, they were ready, and she needed to go into the town and be welcomed by her subjects.  She nodded and the servant left her.  She closed her eyes once more, feeling the flittering images of her memory disappearing into the black.  Eventually her mind was clear and she was ready.  She checked for the millionth time in her memory, looking at the back of her mind and found the nugget of truth there: one day she could be queen and nothing could change that.  She thought about how she had passed on that nugget to all of her children, hoping it would help them get through life just as it had her.

Succession
Part IV
September 16th, 2007

The young girl had been awake since dawn.  Word had passed quickly throughout the kingdom the day before.  She’d spent hours crying, knowing that soon the Queen she’d known since birth would be no more and there would be a new queen, or possibly even a new king.  She’d seen the Queen once in her life, when she was eight, and had immediately been enamored with her beauty and her power: she displayed both so well and the girl admired the Queen as her heroine.  It was her dream to be as powerful and as great a woman as the Queen was, one day.

But now the Queen had one more day to live.  She was spending her remaining hours on this earth visiting the towns and subjects of her queendom.  She was truly amazing, the girl thought.  Which was why she’d barely slept a wink last night and was now wide awake on little shuteye.  But she was young, and knew she’d be able to sleep later, when the Queen was herself taking a sleep she would never wake from.

Breakfast didn’t matter to her as she headed down to the main street of the town.  The street had already been blocked off in preparation for the Queen and her procession.  The girl put down her blanket, taking up a square of space approximately along the middle of the parade route.  There were already many other citizens of the town situated along the route.  The girl got comfortable and took out a scroll she’d been reading.  It was about the Queen and the many times she’d taken her army into battle, leading everyone to victory.

Hours passed and more and more people picked out their spots along the street.  As the morning turned to noon and then afternoon, the sides of the street became very crowded.  The girl had been forced to stand up some time ago, as the crowd increased in number, but she was happy to stand, patiently waiting.  She was after all going to see the Queen for the second and last time in her life.

She knew the Queen had arrived when the roar from the crowd began at the start of the street near the gate leading into or out of the town, depending on where you wanted to go.  Now it was just a matter of time.  She felt the crowd around her become more excited, moving and jostling her as the Queen and her procession drew nearer.

Then the moment arrived and the Queen was there in her marvelous chariot, two giant white horses pulling it along.  She held the reins in one hand, her other hand waving at the crowd as she turned side to side making sure she acknowledged everyone who’d come to see her.  The girl was crying out now along with the crowd, jumping up and down, waving her arms in the air, trying to get the Queen’s attention, to look at her for just a second.

The Queen’s head turned towards her and then they made eye contact.  The girl stopped jumping, just standing, staring back at her.  The Queen pulled on the reins, drawing her chariot to a halt, the processing stopping with a ripple effect behind her.  The Queen put the reins down and stepped off the chariot, walking towards the girl.  The crowd continued to roar, the people around the girl became more and more animated, while the girl just stood there, staring back at the Queen.  Her dress was beautiful, a mixture of vibrant colors and jewels that dazzled the eyes.  Her makeup was done exquisitely making her look both the most beautiful woman in the world but also the most powerful.

The Queen stopped in front of the girl, reached out and took her hand.  Then she bent down and in close to the girl, creating a private and secret moment between the two.  What she would say only the little girl would be able to hear.

“Never give up, sweet one, and one day your dreams will come true.  You will be as great as I once was.”

Then the Queen stood up and was gone, back to the chariot, continuing along the street and smiling and waving to the crowd.  The girl felt the hot tears on her face and absent-mindedly wiped them away.  She picked up her blanket and squeezed through the crowd until she was free and then made her way back to her home. 

Succession
Part III
September 5th, 2007

The Prime Minister sat back in his solid wooden chair, pushing himself away from his large desk.  He loved this room, filled with shelves of books containing every law and case in the history of this civilization, painstakingly collected by many different people over time.  Some had died to get the information.  There was no window, no natural light, just lots of candles spread around the room creating an atmosphere of light and shadow.  The Prime Minister loved it like this; it fit his constant mood.

He had spent the rest of the day, once he’d received the news from the Queen, sending out messengers and announcers and soon the applicants for the crown began pouring in, men and women of all ages.  He was now exhausted, having finally chosen the single person he thought would be the best for the position.  It was a forty year old man who had been born in this city, lived here all his life, and learned much about its culture and its people.  He had also served in the military and was a great warrior.  The Prime Minister thought he would make a great king.

He gave a message to an attendant who went off to the possible future king’s home to let the man know of the Prime Minister’s support.  He then asked another attendant to summon a specific person.  Soon that person arrived, knocked and entered the Prime Minister’s chambers.

“Have you chosen someone, father?” the young man asked.

“Yes, I have.  He is on his way and will be here soon.”

“Excellent!  I shall prepare the celebratory wine,” he said and left.

The Prime Minister smiled, and organized the scrolls and books on his desk, finally done for the day.  At moments like this, anyone else would relish being able to look out of a window and the goings on of the world outside, but the Prime Minister felt the opposite.  He half closed his eyes, savoring the flickering dance of light from the candles off the walls and dark desk.  It relaxed and calmed him.

His son soon returned with a tray and three glasses of wine.  He placed one in front of the Prime Minister, one near the edge of the desk, and took the last for himself, putting the tray further along the desk.  There were two chairs in front of the desk, facing the Prime Minister.  He took the one to the left, farthest from the glass of wine and sat, sipping the drink.

The Prime Minister drank also, relishing the warm intoxicating liquid as it went down his throat.  He drunk some more and then put the glass down.  Then there was a knock at the door.

“Enter,” he said.

The door opened and the chosen man entered, his face a picture of euphoria and joy, quickly walking over to them and shaking each of their hands.

“Please sit,” the Prime Minister said, gesturing, then lifting his glass of wine.  The two men on the other side of the desk did the same.

“To our future king,” he said and then drank.

His son did the same, finishing his glass.

The future king drank deeply and finished the glass also.  He put it back on the desk and looked at the Prime Minister, beaming.  Then his mouth dropped open, his eyes turned in his head until only white was showing, and he grabbed at his throat with both hands.  He made a choking sound that grew quieter and quieter until his arms dropped and he fell back in the chair, not moving or breathing.

“Excellent,” the Prime Minister said, once again picking up his glass and drinking all his wine.  When he was done, he put it down and looked at his son,

“You must now prepare for your important meeting tomorrow with the Queen,” he said.

His son nodded and left the chambers.

Succession
Part II
August 19th, 2007

Word travels fast, for nothing has thrived in the history of humanity as well as gossip.  It has made it into the history books, the oral traditions, the very fabric of every culture on the face of the Earth. 

It had been some time before the Scrying Woman arrived that the Queen’s entire city knew of why the woman was coming.  The Queen had intended it this way, letting loose a single sentence to her servant and word had spread faster than a wild fire with a strong wind.  By the time the Scrying Woman had made her premonition and left the castle, the entire queendom had known why the woman had made her journey from afar, and was now making her way back.

Once the Scrying Woman left, the Queen’s servant returned to her.  The Queen uttered another sentence.  She was her closest servant, the only person she ever confided in and discussed and debated with.  The Queen knew exactly what her servant would leak to another servant or cook, almost as if she’d told her.  The Queen had known the servant for all of her life.  The servant held no mysteries for her.

This time the news spread like a devastating earthquake deep in the ocean causing a catastrophic tidal wave.  The Queen surveyed her queendom from her window, imagining the thousands and thousands of her subjects below whispering in alleyways and shop corners, passing along the crucial information.  She knew the respect her queendom had for her, that the facts would remain unchanged as they went from mouth to ear.  The Queen went to bed that night in as calm a mood as it had begun.

The morning began just as beautiful as the last.  The Queen arose, got dressed, and looked out her window.  She could sense a change in her queendom, a tenseness in the air.  She couldn’t say she was surprised.  She rung a bell for her servant who immediately opened the door and entered her chambers.

“Prepare my carriage please, I wish to survey my queendom today.  Please organize a trip to see as much of it as possible today, and anywhere that is left I shall see tomorrow.  Tomorrow evening, after supper, I shall see one who wishes to replace me, and then each of my children in order of age.  I shall break my fast now, please.”

The servant nodded her head then left with her mind whirring with thoughts.  She had a lot to do, breakfast being the least of it.  She met with the cook and another servant and passed along the message to have the Queen’s breakfast brought up as soon as it was ready.  Then she went along to meet with two advisors to discuss the best route which the Queen and her carriage would take to encompass her entire queen over today and the next.

After that she met with the Prime Minister for the queendom who oversaw all happenings involving the law.  The Queen had requested, in addition to her offspring, one who wished to replace her.  This was an old law here that opened up the monarchial position to anyone who wished to challenge the current monarch.  The Prime Minister would spend the rest of his time now up until tomorrow evening choosing the best outside person for the position.

The servant then met with each of the Queen’s children.  They all already knew what the Scrying Woman had told the Queen.  The servant now informed them that their mother would see each of them tomorrow evening after supper in order of age.

As the servant left the chambers of the youngest child, all the Queen’s offspring were thinking about how tomorrow night would be the last visit with the Queen.  They would not have much time with her, and most of it would be discussing their possible succession to the throne.  When that moment was over and they left the Queen’s chambers, they would never see their mother alive again.

The Queen enjoyed her second to last breakfast ever, as she surveyed her queendom and watched the city stirring and coming to life.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

Succession
Part I
July 1st, 2007

The Queen knew she was old and would not have long to live.  Last month the entire city had celebrated her 98th birthday.  In this place and time it was practically unheard of for people of either sex to live past 90.  So apart from being the Queen and supreme ruler of the realm, she was also revered as incredibly wise in her great age.

But the Queen knew her days were numbered.  This was why she was currently waiting for the Scrying Woman who had been summoned.  The woman lived some miles away, but the message had been sent, and the woman had immediately dropped whatever she was doing, and left whoever she was seeing, and made her way quickly to the royal palace.  When you were summoned by the Queen, you didn’t hesitate.

The Queen had awoken that morning with a strange feeling within her.  A special kind of ache that wasn’t attached to any muscle or organ, an ache that was minor but undeniable.  She knew it was a sign that she would soon be passing on to the next life.

There was a knock at the door to her chambers.

“Enter,” she said.

Her closest and most important servant entered the room and told her the Scrying Woman was ready for her.  The Queen signaled and the woman entered.

She looked to be as old as the Queen, which might be the case, she thought, for these women – because of the works and magicks they were involved with – often lived to a much greater age than anyone else.  Her skin all over her body – her arms, her legs beneath her skirt, her face and neck – was as wrinkled as an ancient oak, and yet the woman was surprisingly nimble. 

She came over quickly to the Queen sitting in her sizable armchair of luxury by the window overlooking her domain.  The servant brought a stool and the Scrying Woman let out a long satisfied sigh as she sat down.

“Shall we begin, your highness?” she said after a few moments.

“Very well,” the Queen said, looking out the window, trying to seem unconcerned with finding out when she would die.

The Scrying Woman nodded and then held out her hands, palms out, saying nothing.  The Queen quickly understood and held out her arms, laying her hands lightly on top of the other woman’s.  The hands felt like a light gravel that if rubbed enough would eventually draw blood.  She kept her hands perfectly still.

The Scrying Woman looked at her, forcing the Queen to turn from the window and make eye contact with her, which she did.  Then she closed her eyes and her brow furrowed.  She started humming to herself, which turned into a gravely growl and then she stopped.  Her eyes opened with a strange luminescence and the Queen was startled by this, showing her shock and then composing herself.

“I know when your life will end,” the Scrying Woman said.  “Do you wish to know.”

The Queen took a breath, made another look out the window, then turned back.  “Yes,” she whispered.

“In two days, as you go to sleep that night, you will attain a restfulness which you will not recover from.  That is all I can tell you.”

“That is all I need, thank you,” the Queen said, signaling to her servant who escorted the Scrying Woman from her chambers to be paid and sent on her long way back to her home.

“Now I must choose a new queen, or king,” the Queen said, looking out once again from her window at the city spread out below her.  She felt like a mother with the world’s largest family.  She didn’t know if she was ready to turn her children over to a new parent.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

She never left my side and we were together many years.  As I said, I never felt any sexual need for her, however I was fully complete in human anatomy, and it was she who demanded I satisfy her in this way.  I’ll admit I felt a little guilty in this, wondering if this was her true desire, or merely part of the spell she had been put under when I drank of her and she drank of me.

We traveled the lands, seeing much of the world.  I learned her language and taught her the many I knew, as well as imparting as much knowledge on to her as I knew.  I started to wonder if I had made her the way she was as company for myself.  While I didn’t necessarily feel the sense of loneliness, I will freely admit that having her around made my life a lot more enjoyable.

It was not until the end that I realized how close I had grown to her, our feelings for each other transcending that of lovers and companions to those who could not live without each other.  This unstoppable feeling of dependency was unsettling to me, but I was unable to stop it or do anything about it.

It was in a small fishing village along the European coast – a village that would one day be known as the thriving and alive city of Amsterdam in the distant future – that things took a great turn for the worse.  We were staying at an inn and, having been together for some years, the curious stares from innkeepers and other people about our particular  relationship had stopped.  Though inn and innkeeper may be a stretched term here, since these specific institutions would not officially exist for some time.  This was more a collection of huts where I paid the chief with goods and we were allowed to occupy one for a night.  It made things very easy when I knew so many languages and was able to communicate with just about anyone.  If it was language I didn’t know, I would soon learn it with my thirst for knowledge and my apparent innate ability at absorbing details and words.

I left my companion in the hut to rest after an active bout of lovemaking to search for food.  It was twilight and I was enjoying the cooling night air.  I headed into a nearby forest, walking a few steps in then stopping and listening.  I soon heard movement with my advanced hearing, focusing in on the sound with my eyes, then seeing the moving deer.  Slowly taking out my knife, I began to pursue it soundlessly.  When I was close enough, I charged, and just as the animal reacted and turned to flee, I launched myself and landed on its back, burying the knife strong and deep into its chest and obliterating the heart.  The animal was soon dead and I trussed it up and threw it on my shoulders.

I returned to the collection of huts, and wondered why people were outside watching me as I returned to my particular hut.  Then I saw the skin covering the doorway had been torn off.  I shook off the deer and ran in to find my companion lying on the bed of furs where I’d left her just a short while before.  Her throat had been fully slit completely around and her life blood had poured out onto the furs.  She had died only recently, I could tell, and if I were to touch her, I would find her body still warm.

It was then that I saw the man in the shadows who came out to attack me.  He sliced at me with a blade that cut across my chest, as I jumped back, but still suffered a serious wound.  My blade was out and we sparred, our knives clashing and flickering in the night and the fire.  But I was by far a more experience warrior and took obvious pleasure when my enemy realized this.  I stabbed deep, stopping him, making him drop his blade.  Then I performed the same crippling wound on him as he had on my companion, leaving him to slowly die. 

I had already recognized him as one of the men from the original tribe where I had converted and taken my companion.  I wondered if this man was her brother, or perhaps her betrothed.  I looked to my companion and felt a deep growing pain that wanted to pull me down deep into the earth.  I could take it no longer and left.

I walked for days until I dropped with exhaustion.  When I’d recovered I fed on another human, not looking to make them a companion, just needing to feed with the most nutritious blood in existence.

The first companion I took was after half a millennium of my existence, give or take a decade or three.  She was young, about thirteen years in age; startlingly beautiful.  A Celtic woman, an important member of the tribe, being now of marriageable and child bearing age; strong ice-blue eyes with long raven hair and porcelain skin.  It was in the south of a country that would one day come to be known as France.

I know not what compelled me to take a companion.  I'd lived alone since my creation for what many would consider a significantly long time, over many generations.  So why did I require some company now?  As I said, I didn't know.  Perhaps it was some deep genetic reaction within me, a turning on of a crucial dormant gene, much like a cat knows to chase and catch mice and other small rodents without being taught to.  With this thought in my mind, I couldn't help but wonder if I were doing this with malicious intent or for another more respectable reason.  As I said, I knew not, but I was certainly wondering.

He came to her in the dark of night, early in the morning.  She was alone in the hut made of sticks, straw, and dung.  He slipped past the animal skin covering the doorway and approached her on her bed of furs.  She looked peaceful, rested, content, sleeping on her side with her hands under her head.  It was ideal really, I thought, with the sweeping nape of her soft neck fully exposed.  Her body was covered up to her shoulder with a thick bear fur.

I reached and snagged the end of the thick fur covering her, pulling on it until it slipped and slither from her curvy form like an undulating snake.  She stirred a little at the new cold, her body breaking out in goose pimples, but did not awake.  I admired her beautiful form, her body full-formed and voluptuous.  But this was not a sexual urge I felt within me; I knew this as I stared at her.  But my reason for existence was not for procreation as is the case for every other living on this planet.  I don't know why I was created, why I'm alive, but I knew as I looked down on one of the most beautiful creatures I'd ever seen, that it had nothing to do with lust or sexual urges.

With my tall, thin form, I crawled onto the furs and formed a tunnel over her, then let the furs covering my body rest lightly on her skin, covering and warming her.  Her breath calmed once more and she was in deep sleep again.  My head was a little above hers, telling me she was a tall woman.  I craned my neck down, opened my mouth, feeling my canines growing as the special hidden muscles within my upper jaw did their work.  I took a breath, my heart running fast, as this was the first time I'd done something like this, trusting my bodily instincts, even though I didn't know what I was going to do or what was going to happen next.

My teeth sunk into her flesh smoothly, with no obstruction from her skin.  There was an immediate reaction from her body, as it stiffened and writhed beneath me, then stopped for two seconds, then I felt the woman reacting in a pleasurable way, moaning, turning, wrapping her arms and legs around me until she was hanging from me.  It was then that I felt the hot irritating pulse on the side of my neck.  Not knowing what my body was doing, I opened my mouth and disconnected from her neck, watching as a trail of fresh rosy blood dribbled down her white throat.  Then I pushed my neck onto her mouth, feeling her hot wet breath on his throat.  She immediately reacted, biting into my artery, liberating my pulsing blood which began running down her throat. 

I'll admit I felt an inkling of fear at this, feeling slightly helpless and under someone or something else's control for the first time.  But then the moment was over and I felt myself pulling away from her.  She swallowed and licked her lips, apparently happy with the amount of my blood she'd received.  I felt the wound miraculously closing on my neck until there was little more than a minute itching.  I reached up and touched completely healed skin.

It was then that I looked down at the woman who was now looking directly at me with her ice-blue eyes.  She was now mine.  This I just knew.

Białowieża Puszcza
May 7th, 2007

Linking the border between Poland and Belarus is a very special place, known as the Białowieża Puszcza.  Puszcza is an old Polish word that means “forest primeval.”  It was while I was traveling through Poland many years ago that I first happened upon this most unique place.

It’s one of the most ancient and untouched places on the planet.  A piece of original life from many thousands of years ago before humanity cut it all down.  It is a dense forest, shrouded in moss and age.  Europe and other large parts of the world were once covered with this same forest, but with the spread of  humanity, the constant increase in population, and our incessant need to use up natural resources to survive; this small location in Eastern Europe is essentially all that remains.

So when I heard about the place and my closeness to its vicinity, I canceled my plans for a sightseeing tour of Warsaw the following day, and decided to head east towards the border and take a look at this puszcza.  The drive only took a couple of hours and I soon reached the edge of this massive forest.  In my mind I was picturing the giant forest that I’d viewed from above back at my hotel room, with the use of Google Maps.  The size defied comprehension.  I knew I wouldn’t be able to go too far into the forest, for a couple of reasons: 1) I had no guide and knew I wouldn’t last long in a place like this if I got lost, and 2) The further in I went, the darker it would get; with no flashlight, I soon wouldn’t be able to see anything.

I only intended to spend a couple of hours here, enjoy the picnic lunch I’d made in an ancient glade where life had been little touched for many many lifetimes.

With my hiking boots cinched tight, I began walking into the forest, immediately noticing the severe decrease in sunlight.  It was a ethereal.  Magical.  Fantastick.  This was the place where legends, dreams, and fairy tales existed.  This was where the Brothers Grimm based their stories.  I almost expected a pixie or an elf or nymph to jump out from behind a tree and welcome me into their home.  Images of Lord of the Rings and hundreds of other fantasy stories flittered through my mind like a spinning Rolodex. 

I walked further, watching my every step so as not to break a branch or disturb a rock, wanting to keep everything in its original form.  An image of primordial life came to mind, where time travelers would break a twig or throw a rock into the infamous soup, and all future life would be changed.  I knew that wasn’t the case here, but I couldn’t help thinking it, wanting to maintain the exact equilibrium.  I was a visitor  to this ancient world after all.

After traveling for twenty minutes or so, I found a good spot with more light than most, and a perfect rock upon which to sit, eat, ruminate and meditate on this special place.  It was as I picked up the second half of my cold roast beef sandwich that I saw the thing.

It was a creature of some sort, though I’d never seen the like anywhere before; not on any nature show, and not in any book.

Naturally it was covered in fur, a dark black, with gray stripes running along it’s body.  Then it was like it had a second layer of fur that was longer, white in color.  I had to blink repeatedly and eventually wipe my eyes to comprehend this optical effect.  It was mesmerizing to say the least.  No doubt the creature used its unusually colored fur to hypnotize it’s prey.  At its back end was an alligator-length tail, almost as long as the creature was.  I was immediately reminded of dinosaurs using their tails as weapons.  Only this one was covered in the same fur and was just being dragged along behind it, not being used for anything at the moment.

The front end was most unusual.  Its head was elongated like a horse’s, its small beady eyes ever so close together high up on its head.  The mouth was large and long, again like a horse’s, with furry lips.  It never opened its mouth, so I was unable to see its tongue or what sort of teeth it had.  That was except for the two large tusks, some eight inches long, stretching from beneath its lips on either side of it’s mouth.  They were not a bright white or yellow, but dark and scratched.  One had a piece missing, indicating a former battle that had not gone so well for the creature.  At the end of it’s head was a large fleshy nose that kept twitching from side to side, no doubt picking up every odor.

As soon as I’d seen the creature, I’d stopped moving entirely, just watching as it appeared from one bush some fifteen feet away, crossed in front of me, and then disappeared into another bush.  Soon there was no more sound or sign of it.  It seemed like even the birds had stopped twittering, but now resumed their call.

I let out my heavy breath, looked at my sandwich, and decided against it, quickly packing up my things.  This was an ancient and mysterious place, and I didn’t think I wanted to find out what else it might harbor when I was so alone and defenseless.

My heart and breath were racing until I made it out of the thick coverage and into the warm sunlight, which had never felt so good.  I drove back to Warsaw and spent the rest of the day walking around the great city, trying to get my mind off the earlier experiences of the day.  It helped a little.

Gotta Make It
April 14th, 2007

To my Mother

The man was running hard.  It was like a bad dream.  He zipped into the turnstile, sliding his ticket through, and then charged down the stairs, flying between the doors of the train just as they were closing.  He’d made it at least to the train.

The man, who was in his late twenties, checked to make sure the wrapped packaged was still wedged under his left arm.  It was.  It was a present for his mother.  His mother’s birthday was today.  And he’d almost forgotten it.  He’d left work early, feigning a sickness he didn’t have.  Rushed out to get the gift he’d been planning on getting her all month.  It wasn’t too much of an ordeal, and fortunately they’d had the item in stock.

He’d then scrambled to the bus station and the large double-decker bus that arrived right at the moment was the right one to get him to the train station.  But he’d known when the train was leaving, and it was a case of willing the bus to move faster and faster – he almost yelled at the driver to “put his foot on it” at one point, but held back – wishing the bus didn’t have to keep stopping at all these stops for other passengers.  He really needed to get a car, or a bike, or just something to get him from A to B faster!

And then he’d reached his stop and so had begun the gauntlet of making it from the bus to the train, where he was now trying to catch his breath.  People were giving him a little room, not wanting to find out if he smelled of sweat or not.  The man savored the granted personal space.

Then he reached his stop, and just when his heart rate had finally calmed, he was pumping it up again, pushing it to its possibly cholesterol-coated limit.  Now he had no other option but the speed of his legs and the stamina of his body.  There was still about half a mile to go, but the man was cutting into that, shaving off the feet per second.

An astonishingly short while later, he made it to the front of the home he’d spent most of his life growing up in.  Not bothering with the gate – vaulting it like an Olympic sprinter – he ran up to the door, turned the handle, and let himself into his childhood home.

It was all silent inside.  Not a sound could be heard throughout the house.  He thought about saying something, but then decided not to; instead he’d began searching the rooms until he found the special lady who’d given birth to him almost twenty-eight years before.

The dining room was empty.  The kitchen was empty.  The laundry room was empty.

In the living room he found her, sitting on the couch, watching the TV.  It was American Idol.  He hated that show, but he knew she really liked.  He sat down next to her on the couch.  She said nothing, did nothing, just continued watching her show.
He took a breath: “I’m sorry I forgot your birthday.  I’m sorry I forgot to call you this morning.  I’m sorry, and there aren’t any excuses that can make up for it.  I’m sorry.  I got you something.”

He handed her the wrapped package.

She finally looked at him with a slight smile on her face, happy that he was here now, but still angry that he’d forgotten.  She took the gift and opened it.  It was a book.  Penny Vincenzi.  One of her favorite authors.  It was her latest book, which she’d been wanting to read very badly, but had held off until she got it for her birthday.

Judging by the widened smile on her face, she hadn’t received it as a gift from anyone else.  He now smiled for the first time, feeling her angry façade starting to crack.

“I know what I did was a terrible thing.  But at least I’m here now, no?”

She looked at him, her smile dropping, an angry look on her face once again.  This wasn’t going to go well.

Then the smile explode on her face and she reached over and took him in her arms.  He hugged her back, feeling all the mixed emotions of the day and their lives together.

“I forgive you, son,” she whispered to him.

They pulled apart and he was looking at his happy mother once again.

“But next year, you better do something pretty amazing to make me forget this day.”

He burst into laughter then, for the first time since remembering his mother’s birthday a short while ago and feeling the dead sinking feeling in his soul.  He laughed along with his mother, and they watched American Idol together.

Tales of the Vampire II:
Harold
February 25th, 2007

(Tales of the Vampire Page)

The man known as Michael many centuries in the future was known as Harold in the mid fourteenth century.  He was currently living in the large and growing city of York in the north of England.  A few months ago word had come of a devastating sickness rampaging through Europe, wiping out towns and villages without mercy.  It wasn’t long after that they were calling it full-blown plague, a pandemic, God’s scourge that would wipe out mankind.  Harold didn’t think it would come to that, but he was sure to keep his ear on the ground and have his contacts in England and on the main keep him informed of what was going on.

Part of him was wondering how strong this sickness was.  As a vampire, he had a superior immune system that was able to thwart most diseases and infections, but something that was this new and unknown might be a test for him.  While it might not kill, it might leave him so debilitated that he would be unable to feed and then he would die of starvation.

Another part of him was also wondering about the decreasing food supply.  The advantage of living in a large city was that he could feed off of so many people, with only few dying, and no one being the wiser.  But he knew that once the plague started ravaging the English people, he would need to find new places and people to feed from.  The cities, especially the large ones, like London, Leeds, Durham and York would be hit hardest first.  And if the reports were correct he would be looking at an astronomically high mortality rate.

Then his contacts on the mainland started turning silent, one by one, as the plague made its way west to the coast of France.  He knew it would be little time now, as the infected fled for their lives in ships across the channel.  Word of the arrival of the plague in England reached him just a few days before his contacts in the south of the country started dying.

Soon people started leaving York, and Harold knew he had to do something quickly.  Engorging himself for a full night, he fled before dawn into the countryside heading west, far west, by horse.  Reaching the coast a few days later, he fed on some sailors and a prostitute, then took one of the last ships to Ireland.  The Irish had come over to destroy the ships and prevent the infected from reaching their country.  Harold made it onto one of the last Irish ships by first seducing and then feeding on the captain, making him his for the time being.  Upon reaching Ireland, he fed off the captain for the last time and then headed further west until he reached the distant coast and the roaring of the cold Atlantic.

Beyond that he knew there was not much, but in his lifetime he had lived with the Viking peoples of the north and knew of a great landmass of ice, and further beyond that an even greater landmass that was thought to be an enormous continent.  The Vikings who’d lived there for some years had never returned, and none had followed in their footsteps.  It was assumed, Harold had been told, that the native peoples had killed all the Vikings living there.

He knew if all his options ran out, he might just have to find a way to make it to this distant and mysterious land.

While the plague had reached Ireland, it had done so in a very minor form and was contained to the eastern reaches of the country, never making it near the west coast.  Harold was safe from the plague, but had to travel from town to town because of the low populations.  Needing to feed of one person per day at least, he knew he couldn’t feed off too many before people would begin to notice.  And this was a world where magic and fairytales, devils and demons were still very much of the cultural life and not just myth and story from history.

Harold slowly made his way east now, as the plague disappeared from the country.  Eventually he made it back to York some years later, the town now growing in populous city once more, its low numbers steadily increasing.  Soon it would be normal again. 

Tales of the Vampire
February 18th, 2007

(Tales of the Vampire Page)

This is the first in what I hope to be a very long series of shorts about the vampire currently known as Michael.  I will begin writing this man’s life story probably in five or ten years.  I t will be a long series of books about this man, the only vampire ever to live, only he has lived for over 10,000 years!  My intention now is to create the character and write these shorts from his life, to develop him and his story, his life and to get an idea of how the books will run.  I hope that when I sit down to write these books in the future, I will have a welcoming collection of these shorts that I will be able to use to give fodder to the books I will write.  I will soon have a page up on the site, dedicated solely to this, and while these shorts will continue to be shown on the “Stream of Consciousness” page, an archive of all shorts relating to this vampire will be collected on the aforementioned page.

I
Discovery

He was the first vampire of our time, and the last vampire to live.  He was the only vampire ever to exist.  While his birth and creation were an event in the dark distance of time many thousands of years before, when humans were but simple hominid creatures crawling the earth, he’d lived for a long time and experienced much.  This is his story, from the beginning until his long and eventual end.  In the year 2007, his current name is Michael.

Michael sat at his large mahogany desk.  It was completely clean except for the old book he was reading on medieval epic poetry.  He was currently working his way through Song of Roland, where the main character – Roland, naturally – had just blown on his mighty horn with all his strength for the second time, and in so doing blown his brains bursting from his ears, for the second time.  That was the thing with a lot of these medieval epics, you didn’t look for accuracy; you looked at the story, at the whole, and took from it what you could, knowing that the writer or orator was simply trying to captivate his audience, and what captivated an audience better than your protagonist blowing his brains out on his horn, trying to summon Charlemagne to help him.

Surrounding Michael were large book shelves reaching high to the ceiling.  They formed to semicircular alcoves in the room.  The desk sat in the middle, looking out of an enormous bay window at the crashing and roaring sea on the beach below the cliff.  Behind the desk was the door leading out of the library.  There was a golden ladder attached to each of the alcoves, on a track, so it was possible to reach the books way up on the top shelves.  Apart from a powerful overhead light, there was nothing else in the room in regards to furniture.

Apart from the book, there was another item on the desk, a cordless phone, and it was at that moment that it began to ring.  Michael immediately picked it up, expecting the call.

“Hello?  Ah yes, I’ve been waiting to hear from you . . . you have . . . that is excellent news.  No keep it safe and secure, as I explained to you.  No, no one else is to touch the chest and by no means attempt to open it.  Yes, just follow my instructions.  I will be on the next plane out.  Thank you for the good news and have a good day.”

Michael pressed the off switch, then he pressed the on switch and dialed three numbers, putting him through to his servant on the ground floor of his mansion in a quiet spot on the Mendocino coast.

“Yes, Charles, please book me on the next available flight to London at your earliest convenience.  Thank you.”

Michael turned off the phone and returned to Roland blowing out his brains and slaying enemies left and right, carving people and horses in half.

Three days later, local time, he was sitting on a very comfortable couch of the best suite in the best hotel in Mayfair.  Before him was an ancient looking trunk that was still in one solid piece.  He had expected no less, since he’d been instrumental in its construction and had made sure, centuries ago, that it could not be penetrated.

Pulling the thin gold necklace from beneath his Armani shirt, he gripped the iron key, lifting the necklace off his head.  It had been a very long time since he’d done this.  The key fit the solid padlock, securing the chest.  It took some strength to turn, but it finally clicked into place and the lock popped open.

Michael soon had the lid open and gazed on the piles of books inside, all with clear leather-bound plain covers.  He took out the top one, wiped any dirt from it and turned to the first page inside where he read a language that no other person on the planet could read, except he.  That was because he had invented it himself long ago.  Remembering the order he organized the books when he’d placed them in this chest, he knew this was the first journal documenting his life.

Breaking the Hold (Part 3)
February 11th, 2007

Click here for "Breaking the Hold" (Part 1)

Click here for "Breaking the Hold" (Part 2)

The third copy of the man walked through the wall and stopped when he saw his two exact copies.

The first man held up his hands, catching the attention of the other two.

“This is what we’re going to do.  We’re all going to leave this room, walk back through the wall and back to the real world and see if we can sort this whole thing out, because I can’t just sit around and let more and more copies of me come through that wall.  This just doesn’t make any sense!”

The man was irate, his breath fast and heavy, his eyes wide and looking all over the room like a scared animal.

“Okay,” he said, trying to calm himself.  “So that’s what we’re going to do and hopefully everything will work out alright, okay?”

He turned first to his third copy who’d just entered the room.  This copy shrugged his shoulders and nodded, not knowing what was really going on and wanting everything to just get sorted out as quick as possible so life could return to normal.  The first copy remembered that feeling and wanted the same thing.  He turned to the second copy.

This copy was looking at the monitor again.  There was no fourth copy of him approaching the wall on the screen . . . yet, the first copy knew.  It was all a matter of time.  He could also see a look in the second copy’s eyes that was saying he might want to try something else.  His curiosity was piqued and he was wondering about the room, the corridor outside, and what might be at the end: another room?

The original man could see this all in the second copy’s eyes and understood it all too well, he was having this minor feeling in himself right now.  He looked back to the third copy, knowing the man might have this thought in the not too distant future.

“Stop!” he shouted at the second copy.  “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m the first one, I’m the original, you guys are just copies, so you’re doing what I say.  Now let’s go.”

He stood up, brushed past the third copy and passed through the wall.

On the other side, he waited in the corridor, hoping the other two would follow him.  Even though they were just copies of him, at this moment in time, where he was and everything, he had no idea what his copies might think or decide to do.  For all he knew, they could be discussing doing something entirely different in there.

It was then he saw one of his copies come through.  He now had no idea which copy it was, but the other copy soon followed him. 

The original turned around and led the way to the wall where he’d passed through what seemed like eons ago now, but was probably about ten minutes ago.  It just felt a lot longer.    He didn’t even know if he could “go back,” so to speak.

He reached out with his hand and it passed through.  He let out a big sigh of relief and then walked through.  As he passed through the wall, he felt his two copies behind him quickly following, wanting to know how this was all going to turn out.

On the other side he stepped out into the alley, looked up at the sky and let out his held breath, breathing in fresh clean normal air.  He then waited for his two copies to emerge and realized that wasn’t going to happen.  He was whole once again, just him, on his own, the only one.  In his mind, his conscience, he was complete.

He walked back down the alley and headed back to the building where he worked.  He took the elevator back up to the fifteenth floor and then walked to his office.  His secretary was at her desk, looking up at him, wondering where he’d been. 

He held up his hand, silencing her before she could demand where he was.  It was the first time he’d really made a firm decision and stopped someone.  He took this as a sign of big change about to happen in his life.

He stepped into his office, closed the door, sat down, and started working not as a middling lawyer in a middling law firm, but as a lawyer who wanted to make it big and get somewhere.

As to whether this happened to our intrepid friend who’d been through a lot in a very short time, that’s a story perhaps for another time.

An Early Walk
(Part Two of Two)
January 28th, 2007

(Click here for Part One )

I can see the end now.  In my mind.  My final destination; the place I call work.  In my head I have a clear picture of it and what I will do once I reach the outside: walk up to the door, unlock it, lock it behind me, and I’ll be inside where it’s safe and warm.

I start counting in my head.  I look at my watch and see I’ve got ten minutes to go, meaning I’ll be there in about five minutes, so I start counting down the seconds in my head.  And it is then that I hear something once again.

Unlike before, I do not simply begin to hear it coming from nowhere.  This sound is different from the others, for it builds, starting as nothing I can hear at first, and then a something at the edge of my auditory abilities, as if the cilia in my cochlea are being barely vibrated by this sound, my ears and mind not fully picking it up.  And then they do begin vibrating and my ears log the sound to my brain.  It takes a few more seconds of getting louder for me to realize what it is: breathing.

My own breath stops when I recognize it.  I hold it, listening harder, making sure it is something separate from me.  Sadly it is.  The sound now comes from directly behind me and soon all I can hear is this ragged but repeated breath.  Like an old person who is tired, who may soon breath their last and die.

I make the last turn to the left.  I still have yet to see a single moving car.  I feel all alone in this town of forty thousand people.  But I am now on the same street I work at.  I look up and can see eight blocks ahead, the building I’ve been going to five days a week for the last three years.  No longer is this an image in my mind, but now a visible, attainable destination.

But the breathing is still with me.  And now it sounds a little closer.

With the end in sight, I will up enough courage to turn my head and look behind me.  And finally I see what has been making those sounds all along, what’s been following me since I left my home just twenty-six minutes ago.  And it’s more horrific than I can imagine.

It looks like an old man; looking as old as the sound it is making.  It has a humanoid form, but its limbs are a foot longer than they should be: the legs very long and very thin making it look spindly and lanky; the arms long and tentacle like, reaching and getting closer and closer.

I am now in a full out run, my breath coming hard and fast, my lungs burning with the cold – the scarf pulled aside to allow a greater intake of breath.

The creature’s face is round as the face of the moon; a dark gray, the eyes black orbs sunk deep into the sockets – they look like mesmerizing pools of viscous black oil.  And I realize that as I look into this thing’s face, I am being distracted from my escape, and I can feel myself slowing.

Forcing my head around, I concentrate on that building just three blocks away.  It’s all I have left, the one thing that will solve everything, that will save me.  In my mind I see it lit up, basking in warm sunlight.  I use my arms now as well, all in the motion of running.  Running for my life.

The breathing now sounds as if it’s in  my ear, as if the creature is leaning over my shoulder to tell me something, or maybe take a bite out of my face.  I’m not going to look back and confirm how close it is to me.

I start yelling, trying to force more adrenaline into my veins and making a sound for anyone who may be around to hear, but I know in my heart I’m totally and entirely alone.  And then the end is truly reachable, and I know I’m at least going to make it.  But I also know to make it in the building alive I will have to put some distance between me and this thing.

My legs take on a new life, as I make them go faster knowing this is my last ounce of strength and this will be the only chance I have.  I whip out my keys and have the specific one ready.  I zone in on the door, then on the lock, just tens of feet away now.  And I hear the breathing go quieter for the first time, knowing I’m putting some distance between me and that thing.  I also hear it growing more ragged and faster, as the creature is tiring.

Then I’m there and I make the key slide in the hole on the first try before I’ve fully stopped.  Quickly unlocking, I crack the door open, slide in, and pull it closed behind me, locking it.  There is a squeal and then the creature slams into the door.  I worry that the glass might break, but it doesn’t, as the thing falls to the ground, insensate, leaving nothing but a greasy smudge on the window.

I know I can probably go outside and look at the creature in it’s unconscious state, but I don’t want to.  I still don’t trust it or myself.  I turn and head to my work station, taking off my jacket, feeling my breath and body calm, my body warm, and heavy tiredness covering me.  I dive into work, losing myself in numbers and words, not thinking about the walk that almost cost me my life.

An Early Walk
(Part One of Two)
January 21st, 2007

I wake to the sound of the alarm, each annoying beep seemingly hammering a nail deeper and deeper into my brain, increasing the pain each time.  I reach out from the warmth into the cold and turn the knob, turning off the alarm.  I open my crusty eyes and look at the clock: 5:01 AM.

A few minutes later and I am in the shower, making the quick icy trip between warm bed to hot water, where I try to bring my body temperature back up to normal.  Once I’m done with the shower, I feel normal and able to act normally.  I have breakfast and read the morning paper under artificial light.  The sun is still at least an hour away from rising over the horizon, the stars and moon still out and shining bright.

It takes me half an hour to walk to work; I leave at 5:28; at a brisk pace, I will arrive with minutes to spare.  It’s twenty-seven degrees out this early morning, I read from the thermometer nailed to the tree, but I’ve wrapped up warm in sweatshirt, thick jacket, scarf, gloves and hat.  My MP3 player is out of batteries at the moment, so today the walk will be conducted with the sound my footsteps and the sounds of the waking town, instead of warm and loud music in my ears.

I set off on my familiar path; I go the same way every day to work; usually it is hours later, when the sun is out, light is about, and warmth has banished the cold, but due to a schedule change, today I must be at work before dawn.  The air is beyond icy, but I am wrapped up warm with my scarf around my face, only the skin around my eyes is chilled, while I can feel the cold buffing my eyeballs: only continuous blinking keeps them from hurting.

There is no wind and the town is still very much fast asleep, not a creature stirring, probably not a mouse.  So all I can hear are my repetitive footsteps on the ground, the sounds changing as the terrain does from asphalt to grass to gravel back to asphalt.  The repetition becomes hypnotic and soon I’m just staring at the ground, lulled by the sound, feeling warm in my motile cocoon.  I still feel awake, the hypnotic state not making me tired.

It is then that I hear a sound.  A strange sound.  A scraping, a scratching, against a wooden plank and then metal.  Like my footsteps it is repetitive.  The scraping against the wood is a dull sound, against the metal a muffled squeal.  It is coming from far behind me to the right.  I turn, feeling the scarf tighten around my neck.  I see darkness and a little light shed by some house lights.  I see nothing of notice, no movement, and the sound immediately stops.  I turn my head back and continue on my determined step.  Then I hear the sound again, this time louder, but not noticeably closer.  This time a whip my head round fast, pulling my scarf partly free and I soon feel the cold freezing my exposed face.  The sound again stops but I still see nothing.

I quicken my pace now, reorganizing my scarf and feeling the exposed area of skin – now covered – begin to warm with a tingling sensation.

Five minutes pass and I hear the sound no longer.  I’m lulled back into my hypnotic state, feeling my legs move automatically, putting one foot in front of the other; the tap tapping on the asphalt.  Then I hear another sound.  It starts low and quiet, increasing in volume.  It is a low hard laugh, guttural and phlegmy,  that gets louder and louder.  Again it is coming from behind, this time to the left.  I turn around, not slowing my step, not wanting to.  It stops suddenly, with no sign of movement, and no hint of breathing after that heavy laughter.  I turn around and continue walking, this time even faster, feeling my heart rate rise and my breath speeding up, making it repetitively warm and cold where my scarf is touching my mouth.  The laugh comes again and I think that I shall turn just as it gets to its loudest point, then I quickly stop.  The laugh stops instantaneously also.  I wait a few moments, up to a minute, and then continue the fast pace again, trying to push it a little more so now I am almost jogging.

I’m passed half way now, almost two thirds, and feeling the end coming closer I move on, hearing the sounds of my steps, but fervently listening for any other sound.  For now all I hear are my feet doing their tapping, as I continue on my way to work.

Alone on Christmas
December 24th, 2006

Christmas is the one time of year when no one’s alone.  Regardless of whether you’re homeless, lost, destitute – there’s some place, some shelter, some group of people willing to open their doors and take you in for the evening; give you a comfortable place to sit, in front of  a warm fire, with the best hot meal of your life.  This is almost a reliable fact, at least in the western world: everyone will have someone to go to, to be with at Christmas.

And the Christmas of 2006 was one of those special occasions.  The shelters and halfway houses and soup kitchens were all full – choked with people of all kinds, colors, and ages.  With this many people crammed into a small space, you would think that tensions might rise, nerves become frayed, but not on this day of the year.  They were all getting a free turkey dinner, and they were all enjoying it together, side by side, regardless of who they were or where they came from.  If a middle class person had stepped into one of these places, he would’ve thought he was at a diner, with the way all these people were getting along, conversing with each other, over good food.  This was the Christmas when everyone was doing relatively okay, at least on this one night of the year.

Everyone that was except for the little boy kneeling on the floor of the abandoned shack.  He was all alone and he wasn’t happy one little bit; tears were running down his grimy cheeks.  He’d never known anyone called father, or any figure who could fill the paternal role.  The only person he’d ever known in his short life was his mother; his one certainty in life.  And now he was kneeling before her lifeless body, crying.  She’d been out for most of the day, trying to beg and scrounge up some food from somewhere, as well as find a place for them to eat tonight.  As she left, she told him she’d find them a nice place to have a good turkey dinner that night; it was the one day of the year she could guarantee him a meal.  By six o’clock they’d be having turkey, stuffing and mash potatoes soaked in gravy.

The boy’s stomach had started grumbling at the thought of this meal.  His mom had told him they’d had the same thing last year, but he couldn’t remember.  There were a few things these days he just couldn’t remember, details, memories of his life; it was like they weren’t there anymore.  But he didn’t want to tell his mom; he didn’t want to worry her; she was already overworked and worrying enough.  She seemed to get a little more tired each day.

She was gone for four hours and it was after five o’clock by the time she came back.  He’d occupied himself for those hours with a combination of staring at life out the window, life shooting by; and playing with a tennis ball he’d found.  He’d bounce it off a wall and keep count with how many times he could do it.  When he dropped it or it bounced weird and shot past him, he’d start again and try to beat his last record.  He’d spent a lot of his life filling these hours of time with nothing to do, so he knew how to occupy himself, even when he couldn’t leave the house.

She hadn’t come back with any food, unfortunately.  She’d tried, looking in all the usual spots, and even begging for a few hours, but no luck.  She had, however – as she said this, her face was smiling – found them a place for Christmas dinner.  All she told him was to remember the name – 4th Street Soup Kitchen – named because it was on 4th street.  And when they got ready to go in an hour or so, she wanted him to lead the way.  He’d smiled right back at her with joy.  Then she’d lain down to take a nap and he’d gone back to playing with the tennis ball.

Over an hour later, when his stomach had actually started hurting because he was so hungry, he went over to his mother laying on the worn mattress.  She was on her side, facing him, eyes wide open, not moving.  He walked up to her, thinking she was awake, but was surprised when she didn’t move as he approached her.  He reached out and touched her, then shook her.  She still didn’t move.  He started panicking, first shaking her, then punching her, trying to force life into her, but she wasn’t moving at all.   Finally he collapsed on the floor, the tears beginning to fall, knowing she was dead and he was now completely alone.

It took a long time for him to pull himself together, but he finally did.  He got up and left the room, not wanting to look at her anymore, at her lifeless body.  He didn’t want to think about her, which was actually quite easy because now his stomach was really hurting and he felt weak, exhausted due to lack of food.  4th Street popped into his head, and he remembered the soup kitchen.  He could go there.  They’d have hot food for him, and they’d know what to do.  Right now, he didn’t have anyone else to turn to.  He picked up the black coat that was too big for him from the pile of clothes in the corner.  He didn’t care.  It was going to keep him warm.

He went downstairs and then out the door.  It’d been raining earlier, but had now stopped.  There was a blustery wind blowing, and as he looked up into the night sky he could see the rain clouds clearing away, blowing into pieces of cotton wool, and then the black with the twinkling white stars.  It made him feel a little better, a little less alone for some reason, though he didn’t know why.

He started walking up the street and when he reached the first cross street, he looked up at the traffic light and saw the sign: 1st Street.  He kept walking, counting the blocks and streets as he passed and crossed them.  He was soon at 4th Street.  There was only one direction to go and he started walking down it, looking on both sides for any sign of the 4th Street Soup Kitchen.  Then he saw it about two blocks down.  He began to run and then stopped, looking both ways, before crossing the street.  It was the only place still lit up, still open, on  the whole street.

He ran up to it and grabbed the handle on the door, pulling at it, but it wouldn’t move, it was locked.  He pulled harder, making sure it wasn’t stuck, but it wouldn’t move.  He looked through the glass at all the people inside, who were eating and talking and having so much fun.  He wondered what he could do, then started hammering on the door.  Eventually one of the people dressed as a chef all in white unlocked the door and looked down at him.

“You’re a little late son for the Christmas dinner.  You got any parents nearby?”

That was all it took and he started crying again, then bawling, then sobbing; his face a mass of salty tears and snot.  The man soon ushered him in, locking the door behind him.  He took his hand and led him to a chair, picked him up and sat him on it.  From somewhere behind him he whipped out a dish rag and wiped the boy’s face clean.

“My mommy’s dead,” the boy said.

The man stopped, not sure how to take this.  Then he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry son.  We’ll take care of you.  And then we’ll see what we can do about your situation, ‘kay?”

The boy nodded and the man walked away.  He thought about how he’d made it here, just like his mom had wanted him to.  It had taken a lot of courage, but he’d been brave, and he was here now.  He tried not to think of his mom dead on the bed back at the home, but as the beautiful and happy woman she once was now looking down on him from Heaven. 

He looked up at the ceiling, imagining her high high above, in the clouds with Jesus and the rest of his family, waiting for him.  But he wasn’t going anywhere for a while.

He was smiling now and the smile changed to an open mouth as the man placed a large plate heaped with food and drowning in steaming gravy before him.  The man put his hand on the boy’s shoulder again, not saying anything, just looking at him.  He nodded and the boy nodded back, many times.

The man walked away, while the boy grabbed the fork and started with a tasty piece of turkey dripping with salty gravy.  He thought he was going to be all right.  For now.  And he was going to make sure he remembered this Christmas for the rest of his life.

FEAR
December 17th, 2006

In the end, it was all going to turn out okay.  That’s what I’d told myself.  Only now everyone was dead.  Friends.  Family.  Acquaintances.  Strangers.  Everyone was dead; the streets were just filled with bodies.  It was just like in that episode of the Twilight Zone, the one where you were all alone, except I wasn’t alone really: I was surrounded by people, only they were all on the ground, dead.

It began with the risk of bio-terrorism.  The news stations proclaimed it would be America’s undoing; before we knew it the silent bombs of disease and viruses would be falling, infecting all, and we’d be dead before we knew it.  I bought into it because I always bought into stuff like that.  Not that I always believed what TV told me, but the way they presented it with all those hypothetical pictures and plans of possible attack.  It just resonated with me on a deep level and I started watching it all from them on.  I couldn’t get enough of it.

Soon after, one by one, they started telling me not to bother, that I was just buying into the whole “fear syndrome” they were pushing through our TVs into our heads, into our minds; brainwashing us.  I shouldn’t bother.  The new people were wrong, and it was going to turn out all right in the end.

Only instead of bombs, they infected our water supply, our food supply, and then our air supply.  People started dropping in droves, then towns, then cities, then states.  Hundreds, thousands, then millions.  And I kept myself sealed and protected, following the news day by day, to the letter, and eventually I was the only one who survived.  Not even the newscasters and their crews who talked about all these ways of protecting yourself had followed their own protocols.  The President, the cabinet, the government hadn’t had time, hadn’t known what was happening.  But I did and I was the only one alive now.

Feelings For the Dead
December 10th, 2006

The man walked into the morgue.  It was now 2:59 AM.  He’d been on the clock since six and was feeling pretty tired.  He’d had dinner just a little while ago and was starting to feel his body slow down and want to sleep.  He rubbed his eyes and drank half of the steaming mug of coffee.  It burned all the way down, but would keep his eyes open for a little while.  He still had one body to deal with.

She was young.  Only twenty-three.  And no matter how many times he worked on a young woman, he still felt very wrong every time he autopsied them.  Without fail, ever time, he’d get an erection too.  He couldn’t help it and he hated it.  It started when he stripped them down and the corpses were lying there on the cold table, naked.  He wouldn’t feel the erection subside until he zipped them back up in the body bag.  It was just one of those things, he supposed, that he was going to keep to himself, until he died and maybe ended up here.

She was already on the table.  He unzipped the body bag and pulled it out from under her.  The body moved and shook; it would’ve been uncomfortable for anyone alive, but he’d done this before: she was dead, she really didn’t care.  He then picked up the surgical scissors and began cutting through all the clothing.  She was in her work clothes: a gray skirt and white shirt, nice black shoes.  She’d fallen down some stairs and broken her neck.  This was a fact.  There’d been witnesses.  The question was why she’d fallen?  There’d been no one near enough to push her.  It was a very unlikely way to commit suicide.  So had she been tripped or had there been something wrong with her, something in her system to make her do this?  Her parents thought it was something to do with the latter and so had ordered the autopsy. 

Her outer clothes off and in the trash, he proceeded to cut her bra and felt his friend down there between his legs rise up.  He forced himself not to think about it; there wasn’t anything he could do, so he was just going to ignore it and do his job.  Soon the bra and panties were gone and she was a very pale porcelain manikin, her eyes closed.  The only sign of any injury was some strange wrinkling of the skin around her neck along with some bruising.  Bones were broken, tissues twisted inside, and he was going to find out exactly how.

He reached out and began feeling around her neck, probing with all ten fingers to feel where the flesh was soft, where it was hard; how much it would give; how pliable it was.  It was then he felt something wrap around his penis through his pants.  He looked down and saw the dead woman’s pale hand wrapped around him; fingers curled, forming a tube.  He looked up quickly at her face and found her eyes half open, looking at him with a plain stare.  They weren’t focusing on anything, the pupils wide and dilated, but they were still  looking at him.  Her mouth was half open.  He heard a minor cough and clearing sound, then she spoke.

“You enjoy this a little too much, don’t you boy?” she croaked at him.  Her voice sounded just like one would if it hadn’t been used in a few days.  “Was this in your interview?”

“I . . . I . . . I,” was all he could stammer.

She gripped him tighter, now hurting him. 

“Yeah, I bet you like cutting the young ladies open.  Right?  Cutting off the clothes, staring at their dead naked bodies.”

With each word, her voice cleared and she was able to talk better, while he was still shocked into silence.

“And maybe sometimes you think about having a little fun with them, don’t you?  A little fun with them before you cut them open.  Hey, they don’t care.  Why don’t you have a little fun with me right now.  Why don’t you takes those pants off and give this guy some well deserved fun,” she said, tugging at his penis.

It was then he groaned, not in any form of pleasure, but in terror, in fear, in horror.  He yanked himself out of her grip, turned and ran.  He didn’t bother with taking off the mask or gloves or anything else.  He just grabbed his keys and ran from the building.  He locked it up and then drove home at over seventy miles an hour.  He went to bed, setting the alarm for a full hour before anyone else would be there the following day.

After the alarm went off, he showered and got ready, throwing away the clothes he’d worn the night before.  He remembered what’d happened, but he was trying very hard to both forget and ignore it.  When he got to the morgue, he unlocked and got dressed and performed the autopsy on the body that was still there, not moving, not talking.  The eyes were closed, the mouth was closed, just like they’d been before.

He performed the autopsy quick and efficiently.  At no point during did he feel any movement between his legs and for the rest of his days as a pathologist, he never got another erection while working.

Breaking the Hold (Part 2)
November 30th, 2006

(Click HERE for Part One)

It was definitely himself.  Because of the high definition he could make out the all too familiar white line on the man’s forehead.  He reached up and touched the same scar on his own; he’d fallen out of a tree as a kid and found a badly placed piece of metal.  He was somehow looking at himself.  But then he had passed through that stone wall like it was nothing more than thick jell-o.  And right now he was sitting in this weird room with the weird TV, watching himself.  At least he wasn’t back in that office anymore, sitting at that desk, monotonously working.

He watched the man who was himself on the TV pull back his arm and then take a step towards the wall.  He was about to pass through.

The man quickly stood up from his seat and headed straight for the wall he’d passed through just moments before.  He didn’t even hesitate this time and passed through it again.  Then he stopped and almost tripped and fell onto his exact copy before him.  He wasn’t sure if it was passing through the wall again or seeing his identical self  before him.  It was probably both.

“Hi,” he croaked at himself.

His other self didn’t say anything, just waved.

“You can’t walk through this wall, the one behind me,” he said, pointing with his thumb.  “You won’t find any answers there, turn around and head back.”

“But, I can’t go back.  I left suddenly.  They all saw.  I left to get away from it all.”

“That’s right.  Shit, I know that.  I’m you.  You’re me.  Okay, let’s go back into the room and think about this.  Follow me.”

The two identical men walked through the wall into the room.  One sat in the chair (the one who hadn’t sat in it before) and the other sat on the desk.

“So what now?” asked the one sitting in the chair.

“Er . . .”

“Wait, look,” he said, pointing at the monitor.

They watched as another copy of them walked down the alley to the wall, did exactly the same things they’d done, put his arm through the wall, pulled it back, then walked into the wall.

“Let’s wait here this time,” said the one sitting on the desk, waiting for the third copy to come walking through the wall and see them.

“This needs to start making more sense.”

Cancer: Loss of Faith
October 18th, 2006

I lost my faith.  I’d lost it much like someone would a limb in a freak accident: sudden and permanent.  There was no period of weakening or questioning, except the warm, encompassing feeling of believing and having faith in something greater than all humanity wasn’t there anymore.

It happened the day I opened the small silver urn and emptied my wife’s ashes delicately and slowly into the Pacific Ocean on the Mendocino Coast.  This was her favorite part of the world.  The only place where she could get away from everything and be here with nature and her husband.  And now I was putting her to rest.  Saying my goodbye to her and to the place I would never return to.

The cancer came out of nowhere.  As cancer always does.  It was lung cancer, of all things.  Lung cancer for a woman in the prime of her life, at peak health; without a nicotine stick or piece of tobacco ever having touched her lips; a woman who never really spent any time in a big, crowded, polluted city, but in villages and towns in the California countryside and coastline; where the air was always cleaner, fresher, purer.  It wasn’t breast cancer, ovarian cancer, or even uterine cancer – the kinds one would expect a healthy woman to somehow be more susceptible to, if she were to be blighted with such a sickness.

It began small and subtle in that lethal way of cancer.  Forming microscopically in her right lung and then just beginning to grow and grow from a minute ball of mutated cells to a raging creature that wanted to take over her body and kill her.

It succeeded.

By the time she coughed up her first handful of blood, it was already too late.  The doctors told us this right from the start.  The chances were very slim.  They could be increased with severe drug therapy and chemo – life would become unbearable for her and horrible for me – and it might give her an extra couple of months, though she could spend them as a sick form, helpless in bed, or comatose; the doctors didn’t know.

We didn’t bother with the drugs and hopeless hope.  We went to her favorite place in Mendocino, far north and far away from everyone and everything.  We had two months, four days, six hours, twelve minutes and eight seconds of happy, loving life together, and then she was gone.

Sitting on a Bench in Central Park Reading a Newspaper
October 11th, 2006

It’ll all work out in the end.

Don’t worry, everything will turn out all right.

Keep your chin up.

Who comes up with sayings like this?  What’s their origin?  Some idiot who’s had everything go exactly his way since he was born.  Someone like George W. Bush for example.

John Linden sat on the bench in Central Park mulling over the thoughts in his mind: a 44 year old man who’d been without a home for two years, scavenging for a pathetic breakfast in the trash cans of the park, feeding left over bread crumbs to the pigeons.  It was how most of his mornings started.

He read every newspaper in every trash can he could find, every day.  He’d got his high school diploma.  He’d gone to college and gotten a B.A. in English Literature, specializing in Shakespeare.  So he knew his stuff.  He knew what a joke the current president was and delighted in reading about his stupid actions and stumbling speeches each and every day.

As Linden fished out that day’s New York Times that had just been discarded by a business woman on her way to her fancy office in a fancy building somewhere, he began perusing the front cover and quickly found an article on Bush’s latest efforts.  He started reading and soon picked out those key phrases that the man who considered himself omnipotent had used repeatedly over the last seven years: “Stay the course.”  “Stand true.”  “We will persevere.”  Translation: “It’s all going to turn out just fine.”

And what did that mean for a homeless man sitting on a bench he’d called home for the last year with soiled clothes, a stench he tried every day to ignore, reading a newspaper.  How was it going to turn out in the end for him?  Was he supposed to stay the course?

Visiting the Graveyard
October 4th, 2006

As John walked through the graveyard, he thought to himself: this really is a scary place at night.  Forget the whole idea about this being a placed filled with corpses slowly rotting in  wooden boxes or stone tombs.  And forget about this being ground zero when people rise from the dead, zombies walking the sacred earth, and every scary horror and Halloween story ever written, told around a campfire, or conceived late at night by a terrified lonely soul.  You’ve got the darkness making it hard to walk around, making the headstones look like dark shadowy creatures ready to jump at you.  Then there’s the slightly strange smell in the air: the watered grass and freshly turned earth, something sweet and sour at the same time beneath.  You can tell yourself it’s the bodies; it just might be – probably is.

He walked slowly amongst the grasses, trying his best to navigate with the light from the harvest moon.  His hands and arms were reaching out at his sides, helping him keep his balance.  In his left hand were ten white lilies.

He reached the grave he was looking for, way back in the far left corner of the large and ancient cemetery.  Looks like the oldest gravestone here, John thought to himself.  The stone wore a coat of multi-colored lichen – ochres, greens, whites, grays and some black bits – it covered the stone completely so that he could neither make out a word nor a single letter.  He stood over where the body was laid to rest long ago, knowing the occupant six feet under wouldn’t mind.  He laid the lilies delicately at the foot of the headstone, then he sat down and crossed his legs.  From his jacket pocket he took out a spatula and from the other pocket a switchblade, pressing the concealed button and watching the blade spring out from nowhere at the speed of light.  The fast click minutely echoed off the headstones of the graveyard.  Soon there was complete silence, even the wind stopping to a quiet.

This is it.  This is where it all began.  Long, long ago.

On that dark night, all alone in the cemetery, while people in the rest of the town either spent it celebrating Christmas with friends and family or spent it drunk and asleep, with no one but the dead to keep him company, John started chiseling away at the lichen on the headstone.  At first it was tough, very tough, as if the lichen had tiny pseudopodia claws to maintain its tenacious and seemingly unbreakable hold on the stone.  But once the first small pieces started coming, it was as if the lichen had given up its habitat around the stone and was just going to let itself be easily pulled off.  The pieces got bigger, became strips and then chunks.  John stood up so he could reach around the sides and get to the back.  He wouldn’t be done until every last piece of growth had been surgically removed. 

There’s something strangely therapeutic about this.  I feel calmed.  It’s like with each bit of lichen I pull, I feel a soothing relaxation open up in another part of me.  By the time I’m done, I should be ready to fall asleep.

And then it was done.  The headstone was completely clear and readable once more.  If John had had some polish with him, ,the stone would’ve been shining in the moonlight.  He might do that later.  For now he would be happy with the work he’d done.  He looked at the headstone for the first time with the intention of reading the carved inscription that had been made so long ago.  This is what it all comes down to.

MARY EVELYN SMITH

1785 – 1807

MOTHER OF RICHARD

MAY SHE REST IN PEACE
IN HER PLACE IN HEAVEN

This is where it was.  The genesis moment.  The point of origin.  The place where his family and the hundreds and hundreds of little steps that led up to his conception, birth, growth to age 34, and coming here today.  By this brave lady making the decision to leave her native England and come to this New World, she had made it possible for him to live a life here, be born here, grow up here and long down the line become President of these United States.

“Thank you, Mary Evelyn Smith, for all you did to make me who I am.”

He rearranged the lilies so they were less crushed against the stone.  He stood up and navigated his way amongst the gravestones again, using the moonlight, but now also following the bright flashlight beam he could see at the entrance to the cemetery.

Feeling Different
September 28th, 2006

The day she woke up as a cat she knew it was going to be a weird one.  It wasn’t like The Metamorphosis; she wasn’t a cat lying in her bed.  She was just a cat waking up on the comfortable armchair.  She felt the deep tiredness slowly lifting.  She could sense her four limbs, as well as the extra tail, which was a new sensation.  She suddenly felt compelled to lick her left paw and, unable to stop herself, proceeded to do so.  Expecting a stringent horrible taste in her mouth from the dirty paw, she was surprised when it wasn’t that strong and the liquids and enzymes in her mouth soon cleaned out any sense of the bad taste.  Now she knew why cats were able to lick clean everything and be able to stand the taste of dirt.  She’d also expected a mouthful of fur, but didn’t get a single hair.

She hopped off the chair, feeling the springiness in her paws, the shock easily absorbed in her joints and shoulders.  She also felt a strange vertigo-like weight forcing her paws to be pulled down beneath her, guaranteeing she would land on her feet.  That’s how they did it.

She felt a numbing in her stomach and trotted at a steady pace into the kitchen.  She saw her mother washing glasses in the sink, who turned and looked down at the cat.

“Hey kitty kitty, you hungry?”

Her mother added some dry food to the bowl.  She strutted up to it and began eating.  Soon the gnawing hunger was gone and she was done eating.  She lapped some water from the other bowl and then hopped through the cat flap out into the back yard.

Everything was so much bigger and more daunting outside.  Then she saw the little movement in the tree; she heard it too: slight movements and minute twitterings.  As if she were a magnet pulled towards iron, she felt the undeniable tug.  In a flash she was shooting up the tree, feeling her claws grip easily into the bark like she was walking on flat ground.

She dashed by branches and twiglets, slipping between branchlets and leaves, avoiding thorns and sharp pieces of wood, honing in on the that sound and seeing the miniscule movements.  Then the bird saw and heard her coming towards it and took wing, at first going to higher branches, but as soon as the cat got any closer, the bird went to another branch then took flight and was gone.

She watched the bird fly away until it was nothing more than a distant speck.  She felt her fast-beating heart, her pumping lungs.  She cautiously slid and skidded down the tree, skillfully using her claws and balancing with her tail.  She reached the ground and went back through the cat flap, back into the living room and jumped back onto the armchair.

She spent the next ten minutes licking every part of her body until she felt she was completely clean, folded her paws comfortably beneath her body and then rested her head on top of the arm making it into a type of pillow, promptly falling asleep.

Breaking the Hold (Part 1)
September 28th, 2006

The man in the suit walked out onto the street and into the wind, his hair blowing off his face.  For the moment he didn’t know where he was going, but was done with it all – work, life, family, getting his which chocolate mocha every morning before he went into the law firm where he worked.  He was a middling lawyer on the middle rung, going nowhere fast.  He got to choose which Starbucks he went to each morning – there was one on each side of the street.  It just wasn’t right.  So today, after just two hours of work, he got up, took the elevator twenty-eight floors down to the ground and now was standing out in the street, feeling the wind on his face.

He thought for a moment which direction to go, where he should go, then turned left and started walking with the throng of people on a street in New York.  Everyone was going somewhere, somewhere important, a work-related destination, all very important people with important locations to get to.

Then he stopped, suddenly.  He looked to the left at the alleyway.  It was in the shade, darker than the sunlit street.  The alley was empty and looked quiet, the man thought, as he tried to block out the roar of the crowd.  They didn’t even notice the alley, even though they’d all been walking passed it every day; which made it easy for him.

The man swam through the crowd and dove into the alley.  The silence surrounded him and he felt instant relief: darkness all around from the high rise buildings, the coolness of his drying sweat; the smells no longer of sweat and clothes but new and interesting scents of damp, rotting vegetables, food and trash.  He didn’t know why, but he liked it here.  It felt new and different.  Not like it was out there, he thought, as he turned and looked back into the bright and speeding world.  He started walking into the alley before his head had turned back.

The deeper he went the more he forgot about everything out there, everything that was in the past.  He welcomed the dark emptiness of his mind, as he began to fill it with details of this new and mysterious place.  He reached the end where there was a high solid stone wall – the end.  He wasn’t going any further.

He let out a sound of disgust and stamped his foot.  He looked back again at the now ignored world and snorted at it.  He wasn’t going back out there, no matter what.  He knew he was completely set on that.  In which case, he thought to himself, he only had one way to go.

He nodded and started walking towards the stone wall.  It came closer and he closed his eyes, preparing for impact.  But he felt no blow, no pain, and saw no starts behind his eyelids.  So he opened his eyes and found himself in a hallway made of metal; shiny, gray, stainless steel on the walls, floor and ceiling.  There was a steady hum of machinery.  He reached out and touched the wall, feeling the vibration.  He turned around, expecting to see a hole, a vortex, something that looked like a doorway from the alley to this new place.  But all he saw was a solid metal wall.  The hallway looked a lot like one of those passageways on the deck of a ship on Star Trek.

He looked up and down the hallway, but there was no sound, no movement, just the constant humming.  He thought about walking through the wall again with eyes closed to see what would happen, then thought better.  He reached out his hand, ready to feel a vibrating metal wall and then watched his fingers and most of his hand disappear into the wall.  The hallway was cool, but warmer than the alley, which he could feel through his fingertips.

He quickly pulled his hand back, knowing he didn’t want back in that alley that led to that old world.  He wanted to be here, in this new place.

The question was which way along the hallway to go.  Then he thought of something completely different,  and since he’d been following that unusual intuition since he left work an hour ago.  He faced the wall opposite the one he’d passed through into this new place, closed his eyes, like he had before, concentrated, and started walking, once again expecting to meet a solid surface and passing through into another place.  Here it was the same temperature as the hallway.

The man opened his eyes and saw the familiar shiny metal all around him, except he was in a room now.  Along one wall he saw a table with a flat screen monitor attached to it.  There was a chair in front  and he seated himself.  The surface of the table immediately in front of him was a touch pad keyboard.  He looked at the lit keys and the red lights before looking up at the monitor.

He saw a high definition picture of the alley, dark, but with enough light to be able to make out the objects he had walked by earlier.  A deep frown formed in his forehead as he saw at the bottom of the screen, at the edge of the alley by the wall, himself, standing there, looking at the wall.  His arm was outstretched, his hand disappearing beneath the edge of the screen.

How could he be standing there in the alley and be here in the foreign room watching himself through a monitor at the same time?

The Plague
September 21, 2006

The plague came from nowhere – an invisible storm with no end in sight.  In the small village of Elson, it was an ordinary day until a little before noon when people started dropping in the street.  Families carried their sick parties home who promptly went into convulsions, then began screaming, and finally dropped dead when their hearts stopped.

With an epidemic, there are those lucky few who are miraculously immune – sometimes there’s a very specific reason for them that can ultimately lead to a revolutionary cure, and other times there’s just no reason.  This was one of those instances.  And usually this group of “immunites” is that – a group – a number of people, sometimes a percentage of the population.  This wasn’t one of those instances.

There was one person, a woman, who didn’t get any of the symptoms that day or next.  She was the oldest and most feeble woman in the village; she was 92.

By twilight, as the sun was racing towards the hills to hide for the night, half of the people in the village were dead.  There hadn’t been time to organize funerals or a mass grave.  The mayor and sheriff were two of the first people to go, so all structure of law and governing was lost.  No one thought to start getting the bodies out of the houses and try to minimize the infection.  People were too shocked to react, to think to do anything.  When night reached its zenith and morning was just around the corner, there were only twenty people left alive in the village – ten of them now sick.

The old lady woke the next morning, grumpily, just as she had for the last nine decades.  Her eyes felt crusty, her mouth dry, and every bone in her body ached like it was going to snap if she moved or put any weight on it.

As her eyes came into focus – the only organs in her body that were still any good – she lifted herself out of bed and stood up; she almost tripped over the corpse of her daughter on the floor.  The dead eyes were staring wide, terrified; her mouth was open, lips pulled back in a rictus.  A trail of blood had dried on her cheek – a red line running from the corner of her mouth to her jaw bone.

The old lady yearned for her ignorance of a few moments ago.  She stepped over the body of her daughter, trying very hard not to remember that she’d given birth to her.  Outside the home she’d been born in, the old lady found a beautiful warm and sunny day.  There was a slight breeze that kept it a little cool, except on the wind all she could smell was death.

Two hours later and the old lady knew she was the only person alive in the village.  She went back into the home and packed a sack of clothes, personal items, and food, then made her way to the edge of town.  She looked back at the only place she’d known.  The furthest she’d ever been was to the river on the outskirts of town; the rest of her life had been spent within the confines of the village.

The old lady at first smiled and then laughed hard and loud over the inconsolable reality that it had taken over ninety-two years for her to decide that once everyone was dead, she was finally going to travel.

The old lady had no idea where she was going, mainly because she didn’t know what else was out there.  If anything?  But she knew she’d never return to the only village she’d ever known.  Pushing the grief and depression aside for the moment (at her age she’d seen and experienced a lot of both), she felt a thrill of excitement run through her feeble body at where she might end up and who she might meet.  It didn’t matter how long she had left to live, she was going to enjoy it and spend it however she pleased.

The Magician & the Staff
September 19, 2006

The Magician laid down the staff of power delicately, not knowing what would happen if he were to drop it.  It had taken over a hundred years to track down the magical item and then another five planning out how to get it away from the mountain of treasure upon which the great dragon sat constant guard.

He’d had to summon the world’s greatest hero – Artur – from the other side of the planet and pay him an exorbitant amount of gold just to hear his plan; Artur was a hard man to employ.  Fortunately, over the hundred years of looking for the staff, he’d accrued large amounts of wealth performing every job a magician could.

So money was no problem for the Magician.  Artur, after hearing the plan, nodded at its creativity and grunted at its ingenuity, but made some suggestions that the Magician knew not to renege on for Artur was the man going off to deal with the dragon and however the Magician told him to fight the serpent, ultimately Artur would make his own decision.  What was important to the Magician was that the staff not be used or try to be used in any way and that it be treated with care and finesse, because – secretly, and the Magician had told absolutely no one about this – he actually didn’t know what the staff did or what its range of powers were.  The dragon had no idea, it only cared that it was made of gold and therefore part of the hoard it sat guard upon.

What would the dragon eventually do with all the gold and valuables?  That answer was easy: nothing.  That’s what dragons do – apart from the fire breathing and killing and destruction and eating – they spend most of their lives on a pile of gold making sure no one gets a single coin of it.  When they die they usually cover the entire treasure with their bodies and over time turn to earth and stone and scales and the treasure is covered somewhere beneath the ground perhaps never to be found.

Artur reached the dragon’s lair at dawn and still feeling rested and refreshed began his siege and attack.  Into the afternoon and long into the night the fight raged.  At dawn the next morning the foes were much injured and ragged: most of Artur’s clothing had been burned off, his armor blackened; while the dragon bore many weeping wounds upon his serpentine body.

Finally, the dragon had had enough.  It took one more stab wound to its soft underside, opened up its giant scaly wings and took flight high into the sky, enjoying the feel of the cold high-altitude air on its wounds which soon stopped the flow of its black blood.

Artur wasted no time; he’d only come for just one thing.  Near the edge he saw the staff exactly as the Magician had described it and seized it from the treasure.  He took not a single additional item, even though the riches were priceless, for he knew he was being very handsomely paid for his quest by the Magician and Artur wasn’t greedy, but a just man.

When Artur began his journey home, the dragon settled upon its gold once more, like a chicken protecting its eggs, and began scheming and plotting a way to kill the great hero and get back that one piece of treasure – its child that had been stolen!

A year later, Artur returned to the Magician with the magical staff and received the rest of his payment.  After a great celebratory feast, Artur left to return to his home on the other side of the world.

When the Magician held the staff in his hands he felt that the time had come and that he was now the most powerful magician in the land; though he was the only one to believe this, as you shall see.

At first he tried the basics: stabbing and shaking the staff, thinking specific actions and then making minor incantations with it.

Nothing happened.

And so began the next hundred years of the Magician’s life.  And at the end of it, when the great hero Artur was long dead, and even the dragon had finally passed and turned to stone – imprisoning its gold forever? – the Magician had still to produce a single spark of magic from the staff.

A further hundred years was spent traveling the globe, asking everyone he met for a way to make the staff work.  But . . .

Nothing continued to happen.

It was during the waning years of the Magician’s life when he knew his end was on the horizon, that he accepted that the staff was nothing more than a gold staff and it came in handy as a walking stick in helping him get around.

The day of his funeral was a sad one for the many people that had personally known him, been helped by him, and known of his history and amazing story of determination and the will to never give up and always be patient.

They laid him to rest within a stone tomb, which had once been a great dragon (the treasure had long ago been found and taken), with the staff cradled in his arms.

The scribes of his story have little to say after his death, as is to be expected.  But I believe that in the next world the Magician awoke to find himself with a staff of enormous power and was able to become the great Magician he had once been in this realm, for he did not understand that there are some magical objects that may be just ordinary pieces of wood or metal in one world, but are great items of power in another.

Ordinary people have a way of dealing with things in an ordinary way.  They take their time.  They think it through and through, from beginning to end, and when they’re done, they have the ordinary solution ready.

Me.  I don’t work like that.  I’m not logical or methodical.  I don’t take my time, lay it all out, and come up with the answer.  I’m not ordinary.

My life exists on a whim, on the random chance of my choosing.  Sometimes I decide in an instant that that is exactly what I will do, there and then, no question, no further consideration.  Other times I will wait, days, a week once, doing nothing, slowly wasting away, until I reach the saturation point: the moment of revelation when it all, somehow, miraculously comes together in my mind, yet beyond my control.

Interacting with ordinary people just doesn’t work in my chaotic life.  Whatever they might say, whatever they might suggest, even though they’re total strangers, in 99.9% of all cases will not be what I “decide” to do.

Of course, one day it will happen.  The moment when that man, woman or child says something to me, interacts with, attempts communication and somehow that’s the specific point in time where my un-ordinary process work lightning fast and I decide and respond with the specific answer that just so happens to correspond with what he, she or it just said or did to me.

“Why are you here?”

“To make your life seem ordinary.”