Never Wonder Nights

The Maine House

2012-01-28T21:53:00.001-08:00

I rambled down the cramped dirt road. To my right, there was a sheer cliff face. To my left, a row of Victorian houses, each with their own personality. Some had moss covered rock fences, others had wood sheds. Before I arrived here, I tried to remember what this place was like. I had been bogged down, always wistfully desiring to return to this summer home, but there was always a reason not to go—there was a new project due, I had just finished a project and didn't want the hassle of driving up here, my fiance and I had planned a romantic getaway in our house. I was just busy. Then she died. It came as a surprise. It wasn't like I thought she'd live forever, but she was 32.

I passed the white, the green, and the eclectically painted homes and reached the Maine House. It was owned by our uncles, but my sister loved it so much, they passed it down to her. As a sort of family tradition, we all held a share of the house. It was a family house. It was for childhoods and summer.

I pulled into the dirt and gravel parking spot. I looked out across the treeline and at the foggy and grey expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. Waves roiled up against the beach. The three small islands were still squatting in the distance. I could hear the crashing. That soothing sound of the mysterious ocean. I stepped out of the car.

I placed a hand on the cool rock fence, moss growing out of the cracks. There was a metal gear stuck in a rock. The rock was warped. I sat down on it. When we used to come here as children, we arrived in a mini-bus. We'd stock pile the back with everything we needed for the two weeks and more. My sister and I would have our own seat. When we'd arrive, we were all tired—my dad was the worst off, of course, but as children, we just hated the sedentary blandness of driving for 8 hours. We wanted to scatter, run along the beaches, clamber up the cliff path, check out the local, yuppie hotel for interesting people, fellow kids, and when we were older, some hottie.

Luggage would stack up by the door as we lugged in our blankets and pillows—not because the house didn't have it, but we always brought a little of home here. It made us feel safer.

I pulled out the key to the house and unlocked the front door and entered the mud room. The house was strange, thinly built, as though it would whisk away like in the Wizard of Oz, and the rooms nestled together in odd angles. The mud room was a rectangular room, small, and opened to bother the kitchen and to the dining room. No one went through door to the dining room.

The kitchen was torn apart—there were no bowls, no flatware, no food in the fridge. There were two boxes on the kitchen table, something that was to be left behind, but beyond that, the kitchen was empty. The entire house was like this. The bare skeleton remained—the furniture, little odds and ends that didn't matter, but the charm was gone.

Tomorrow, the new owner was going to arrive. I would give him a little tour, even though he already had one with a real estate agent, but it would be one between owner to owner. It would be a silent passing of stories. The new owner and his family would make new memories and I would make my last one.

I wandered through the house, watching the waves and the three islands out the window, innocuous in the daylight, the fog dissipated in the sunlight. The second floor, filled with bedrooms, four to be exact, all in their silent state. Our parents always reserved the nicest room for themselves. My sister and I, we often shared a bedroom, and yet sometimes we'd brave the nights alone. Each bedroom had its own share of nightly terrors. In the attic, the effervescent presence of ghastly things seemed saddened today. There was always stuffy feel that mingled with that fear that you were being followed, being watched by some long past soul. The scorch marks in the one room never helped the matter. Neither did the despairing state of the attic bedroom and the murky red water in the abandoned bathroom.

Night would fall in several hours, so I left the house to visit the cliff path. As I left the house, the porch swing creaked goodbye.

The path was rather iconic—rocks, moss, pines, and rich brown earth. It was never a difficult climb. It was just a perfectly, friendly forest scene. The path leveled off and the pines always ended. Short, stocky blueberry bushes scattered around and I watched my step for the rocks formed nooks and crannies. It was always like walking into a barren land to me, despite the blueberry flora. It was the sky and the ocean. There was a harsh, glaring blue and grey. The world was bright compared to the pine walkway. Down this rocky and blueberry patch, the pines grew back. I always contemplated about this spot. Why so barren? My sister thought it was from a creature from beyond. Once, we found bones in the pines.

I walked to the pines up ahead and sat down on a rock ledge in the middle of the pathway. I used to bring an old laptop up here to write. It was usually a failed venture. The scenery was always more interesting than the screen. There were gauges in a tree nearby. Every summer, we'd find them up here. Only once we walked further among the pine path. We found a dense forest with two wooden slates forming an X across the entrance. Due to the thickness of the trees, we couldn't see far past the blockade. The path quickly delved into shadows. We never even dared each other to go further. We just stared into it, then left.

I wandered the pines for a while, feeling whatever beast it was watching me. Usually I felt that trepidation—would I become its next snack? And yet this time, I wasn't afraid. It had been about 10 years since I've been here last. It must of wondered where I went. It must have been thinking about how I have grown. I thought that it would be getting older, maybe it had its own family now. Maybe it was the son, hearing tales of two little girls running through the woods and now it finally has seen one of them. A monster fairytale, just as it was a fairytale for my sister and I.

I left the pines, passed the barren blueberries, and clambered down the pine slope and walked down to the yuppie hotel for dinner. I made sure to grab a handful of mints as I left, just as I always did as a kid.

Night fell as I stalked the house alone. As the sun set, I sat on the screen-covered porch in a wicker chair. The porch swing continued to swing at a lazy pace, back and forth, creaking along the way. Every so often objects moved in the house. It seemed a beneficial or neutral spirit, more minding its own little business than attempting to harm the two little girls that would stalk its movements in fascination. We would camp out at night, watching the swing. Sometimes we'd leave little gifts on it. When it became too dark to see, I left the porch, ensuring to place a mint on the swing.

I threw two logs in the fireplace and lit the newspaper. We always kept plenty of wood in the outside basement. I watched as the wood crackled, reveling in the warmth. I stood, keeping my hands warm. After some time, I stood by the bay window, staring out at three ghost lights that hovered over the three islands. Our father always told us that they were lighthouses, but when my sister and I dug through some newspaper clippings in the attic, we found an article about three widows, their husbands lost at see.

The fire died down. I turned on the lights as I headed upstairs. We had a system, my sister and I, in order to never be caught in the darkness. We would turn on a light, turn on the next closest one, then turn back to turn on the first light. We kept up this chain. The shadows couldn't get us then.

On the second floor, I paused at the first bedroom. It was the white room. It held a double bed. I opened the door and peered in. Empty. The linens were gone. The first time we came here, we found a porcelain doll resting on the pillows. She had black hair, black, shiny eyes. She wore a white dress and black buckle shoes. She should be in some box somewhere on her way to a storage unit. No matter where we place her, she always appeared back in this spot.

I closed the door and opened the next one. The yellow room. It was small, very cramped, and the walls angled oddly. We always felt time was slow in here. Even the light seemed yellow in here. At night, you could hear a faint voice singing an indecipherable lullaby.

I moved on to the third room. There was a pair of twin beds in here. A dresser stood in between the windows facing the beds. We always found candy in there, like magic. We theorized that this room once housed a pair of young tricksters. I was going to sleep here tonight. I turned on the lamp and closed the door and walked to the window. The three lights were still flickering in the distance. I listened to the waves crashing. The sea was always beautiful at night.

In time, the lamp flickered and went out. This happened a lot in this room, only at night. The door creaked open. That never failed to send a shiver of terror down my spine. A stomped my foot on the floorboards. The lamp turned back on. The door closed. I smiled.

I slept on one of the beds. I had brought a sleeping bag for the one night.

I woke up to the sun shining on my face. I sat up. Today, I had to give the key away. After I dressed and brushed my teeth, I walked down the hall to check the white room once more. The doll wasn't at the headboard.

I packed my sleeping bag and my toiletries. I ate a Nutrigrain bar and sat on the porch. An origami lily made out of the mint wrapper sat on the porch. In time, the front door knocked. I pocketed the lily and answered the door.

A man stood there. He had horn rimmed glasses and a mustache. He smiled and somewhat unassuredly asked if this was 98 Club Rd. I invited him in. I gave him the tour. He asked about the pipes and about the fireplace. I told him they worked fine, ever since the house was built. After the tour, I gave him the key. I told him I was going to walk on the beach one last time before leaving. We shook hands and I left.

It was low tide and I clambered down the glittering and iron-red rocks. I walked along the beach for a mile. I turned back and walked along the base of the cliff face that the pine path perched upon. My sister and I used to collect crabs and sand dollars. I used to hate the beach; something in the sand felt like maggots burrowing into my skin. Once, we dug a hole until we found sand worms. They were terrifying, their heads reminding us of tapeworms. Their bodies were segmented and they were very long. In horror and disgust, we never dug deep enough to find them again.

After a while, I headed back. I clambered back up the rocks for the last time. I passed the house for the last time. As I headed to my car, I heard a howl. It was loud. I turned to look at the pine path. Standing among the woods was a furry wolfman. He was tan. We stared at each other. He left, the bushes and trees cracking and swaying as he passed.

I thought about the theories my sister and I had about the Maine house. The timeless room. The porcelain doll. The vigilant ghostlights. The trickster twins. The spirit on the porch swing. The wolfman. I wondered how much of the house was real. How much of it was fantasy. I ate at some crummy diner along the way home. By the time I reached my home, it was midnight. I threw my keys on the couch and headed up to bed. A porcelain doll sat on the pillow, her black eyes shining. She wore a white dress and had black shoes. Her hair was black and perfectly straight.

Dominus Caedere

2009-01-06T13:31:00.000-08:00

This is something I wrote for my fiction class last spring. I just never put it up here. I think it was due to that this is not the finished version. I mean for it to be a lot longer, but I couldn't think of an idea for a short fiction, so I just shortened this instead. It's really what I would say a LOT longer. Probably book length, really. There's a lot in it, for one. I was writing this the night before it was due, and had to omit several things. For one, how Halcomen loses his eyesight. That needs to be explained, really. This is, at the moment, one of my favorite ideas. Dominus Caedere means 'to kill a king' or lord, or whatever you mean it to be. I prefer 'to kill a god'.

Note: I realized there are several mistypes. I don't know where all of them are, so just bear with me. Somewhere, I know, I use 'assignation' instead of 'assassination'.

...

“I am God. Those in my regime cannot deny this. I decree an action and it is done.” The man said, running his right hand against the wood-grain patterns of the table. He sat in silence, looking down as if to stare at his hand. The room was dark, a glow of light in the corner where a stenographer sat, scribbling down notes for his book.

The stenographer looked up. “How do you mean, Sir?” he asked. The man at the table smirked.

“Have you not witnessed what my campaign has done? It has passed, and not a moment too soon. But look at what I commanded, look at the thousands of countless deaths that I have dismissed without opposition. I was a god, back then. I stated what I wanted and I got it. My word was law.” The man paused, his hand still rubbing against the table. He continued to look downward, his eyes a black scarred strip—deep sockets where they had been. He continued, “Every day now, you pass the Forum. I know there is great talk of tearing it down, reducing it to rubble. I know that the common man wishes to salt the land and burn the city. No person wants to live upon the lands I have strengthened. The commoner is disgusted by my actions, by their own peoples’ lack of moral rights. No one denies they have done wrong in letting me live, but they cannot face with what they have let me do. What they do not understand is that I cannot find peace in my life. I have ordered the worst of atrocities and I will have to face to them. In due time, I will have to ask forgiveness to all those I have wronged. I will not be forgiven.” The blind man stopped. His hand stopped. He glanced away and sighed.

“I will not see tomorrow. This is the last we shall speak. If you have any last questions, ask them now.” The blind man said.

···

“When I met him, he was starved and in a gutter. He was good-natured and young. I had not seen him since. I went to one of his rallies last month and did not recognize him.” – Ludwig Haven, childhood friend of Halcomen

Lights flashed and smoke rose; the media swarmed as a man in an unadorned military suit stood with his hand raised to head level. The reporters screamed out questions and comments came from the masses past them. The man stood silent at his podium as the audience fell still in waiting awe. Halcomen breathed deeply, and then looked up, his eyes piercing and fierce—a deadly sheen of absolute fanaticism.

“People! I swear to you! We shall have our war! We shall have our liberation! If you believe that our freedom is short in weapons, I shall provide in willpower! Believe in Ezan strength; believe in our strength! For our oppression is at an end! Follow my command and I shall bring forth the war and the freedom we so desire. Those of the Valdingraad and Staltsk shall fall to our might. The eastern fronts are no longer safe from our righteous mark. Our bullets and bombs shall find their aim and we shall reign true to our hour! Fellow men, our Homeland shall walk and take command of what we deserve! The Union of the East, Aissur, is ours!”

Men and women screamed in ardor and devotion as they listened to him speak—his passionate voice spread over the crowd, the words lost on enslaved minds.

A lone man near the back watched in sadness. He pulled his fedora onto his head and shook his head as he walked away. He thought of the young man he found in a pub, passionate and caring. He thought of how the man aimed for peace and how his words then induced growth and thought. Now the man had grown, binding all who listen with his words and driving them down the path of blood and glory.

···

“How did you become… well, what you are?” the stenographer asked. The blind man looked up, empty sockets staring towards the voice.

“A general question, but I know what you mean. You want to know how I got into politics? It was a friend of mine. Once, when we were drunk, we preached in a park, talking about what great people we would be compared to the current president and what needed to be done in order to correct our failing country. He shrugged his beliefs off the next day. He was a common man. He went back to his work and his life. He had a fiancée then and was on his way to becoming an architect. He was in his last year of technical school. I… was not. My mother had died a month before and I had yet to pass the exams to enter into any sort of college. I had taken to sleeping in hostels and selling my possessions on the street. But the next day I took to the pub yet again, and not for drink. I argued in a debate with some of the men. Every Thursday, I went. The owners of the pub liked me: my loud tirades brought more costumers, more money. Not only did it attract cash, but it attracted fame.” The blind man stopped. His hand that had absentmindedly stroked the table, feeling what he could not see, stopped.

The room felt darker when the man stopped talking. A mental light shone when he spoke and when he stopped; everything went dark. Every word he projected was in calculating precision; no word left useless. And just as he stopped talking, his hand would stop—the feel and touch of the world around him, the last connection to reality. He was nothing without speech, nothing without the life-driven force in which his words led. Men listened to him and followed blindly; women heard and were enslaved; children took note to the only importance in life. The stenographer felt the power of speech fade as the silence continued.

···

“Oftentimes he woke in the night from terrors in his sleep. When I asked on them, he said they were his dreams come true.” – Anna Braun, consort of Halcomen

The air was thick and wet, warm and comfortable. A man in a dark felt hat strode across the lawn. He had his hands behind his back. There was a shout and he glanced to his right. A black standard-line coupe was parked shoddily on the road. A young man in military uniform was stepping from it, waving the man in field.

The man stopped as the young ran forward. “Sir! Magnate Halcomen, I was asked to bring you a message.” The man said, reaching Halcomen. The man stopped a yard away.

“What is it, Hershore?” Halcomen asked, facing the captain. His back was straight and his manner formal. An enticing chill drew into the air. These two men were not comrades, only business associates. Halcomen had only three consorts: a woman and the two dogs that were roaming the line between the woods and field in the background. They were both tan and black: ears pointing upward and their coat thick. They traversed through the brush, searching for game. A young woman followed the dogs, stroking their heads if one desired affection.

“The telegraph from Fort Danzig arrived just now, Sir.” Captain Hershore said, glancing at the young woman. There was a pause but he continued, “The Assurian Staltskmen have joined the Valdingraad in battle. We have already lost Asov and Nakhodka—we need more men. The Assurians will breach the Danzig walls if we’re not careful. They cannot be allowed to enter Ezan soil! Send a FlaK unit. Send two, we need more men!” The Magnate Halcomen stared at his captain. The captain awaited his response. Halcomen looked away, to the woman and two dogs. She smiled somberly; the nomadic dogs paused at a bramble, on the trail of game.

“Send two FlaK units and a panzergrenadier platoon.” Halcomen said.

“Yes, Sir,” Hershore saluted him, and then glanced back at the woman.

“Anna and I shall need an escort. There is a concert performing and they are playing one of her favorite pieces. She has invited you, if you wish to join us.” Halcomen said.

“Ah, no Sir; I’m not very much into the orchestral. I’m more into a night in a pub.” Hershore said, looking away. This answer was expected, and even desired. Anna and Halcomen’s officers did not mingle.

Halcomen called to the woman, Anna, and the two dogs, Chara and Asterion. The dogs perked to their master’s call and bound to him. Anna trailed after them; she and Halcomen watching each other as she progressed towards him.

···

“Who was Anna?” asked the stenographer, looking up from his notes. The blind man had been motionless, staring at nothing and doing the same. His right hand was resting on the table, waiting for a new question so it may continue its repetitious movement. The blind man remained silent; the stenographer opened his mouth to repeat the question, but was interrupted.

“Little should be known about Anna. Her name should not be associated with me. But she was my consort. Many may believe there was a deeper, more intimate relationship, but no, there was never a thing like that. She was my one true human companion, that is all.

“I tried to keep her away from my officers, from my life as a despot. It was hard, and I did not succeed—there were several attempts on her life. She loved the orchestra, though, and I tried to give her what she loved. Oftentimes she would invite an officer; she liked talking to people. They would decline—more likely afraid of offending me in case she was something more than a friend.

“She was a kind woman and a lover of the natural world. She gave me my purebred Ezan Shepherds, Chara and Asterion. I did not want her to know of the horror I brought to the world, so I hid her. I wanted to protect her from the monstrous potentate that I was. Some were able to inform her of my actions—one such man was Ludwig Haven. He was a friend of mine during my schooling years. I ordered his assignation.” The blind man stopped talking, tapping his right hand on the table. The stenographer was silent.

As if bidden by some silent urging, the blind man spoke again, “I do not know if I can ever repent for the disaster that was the Volkstaag Rebellion.”

···

“Halcomen was a man to be feared. Any man with his dreams come true should be feared.” – Ulrich Joachim, Minister of Justice

A whistling scream seared through the sky; the ground shook from an exploding shell. The men at the table stood in alarm. There were shouts outside the room and a man burst through to door yelling, “Magnate Halcomen, we need to get to the bunkers. Follow me.” A group of men stood outside the door, rifles ready in their arms. One of the men at the table looked to the head and Halcomen nodded, his eyes ablaze with adrenaline. There was a flurry of paper and cloth as the men followed Halcomen and his entourage to the bunkers below as shells fell upon the Ezan capital, Volkstaag.

“Sir, our radar did not pick up the planes!” said one of the ministers. He was round and balding. Halcomen remained silent, setting his pace quick and fierce as they travelled down the winding stairs. The minister glanced to one of his fellow men.

“If they were not detected, then does this not mean it was sabotage?” asked another minister who was taller than the rest and hawklike in appearance. The balding minister turned quickly to him, worried.

“It is more likely an Assurian trick,” said a thick, stout minister. “Who knows who is a spy nowadays?” He glanced quickly at the balding man who startled at the accusing glance.

One of the escorts burst in a red spray, splattering the ministers and Halcomen. Gunfire rang through the stairwell, and another guard was hit. The firing stopped as a two men fell to the floor dressed in the same uniform as Halcomen and his men. The wounded escort held his arm, blood seeping from his shoulder. Halcomen glanced down, glaring at the fallen soldiers that had fired upon them. He shot them both in the head, twice each, with his pistol. He moved forward into the hall and turned right. His escort and ministers followed.

They stood outside a double door basement. Two of the escort opened it and entered. After a signal that all was clear, Halcomen and the ministers went down. The escort closed the doors and Halcomen was greeted with Asterion and several other men—Anna and Chara were not in the city, but in their northern villa. Halcomen patted the dog on its head.

Halcomen then flicked the cylinder of the pistol open; two shots left. He dug into his belt, pulling out four bullets. He placed them in the cylinder and snapped it shut. He raised the pistol to the stout minister. The minister narrowed his eyes.

“Sir, what do you think you are doing!” shouted the balding minister, backing away from the man. The rest of ministers did the same—none wanted to be splattered by any more blood. Halcomen’s eyes fired in anger.

“You parasitic turncoat! Your wife was promised free passage into my regime! Her papers were destroyed; I did so personally. I offered your wife’s unhindered freedom despite her filthy Assurian blood! She was free to live under the guise of a simple Ezan wife, but your insurgence has cost you and your family their lives,” Halcomen railed. “Minister Ulrich Joachim, you have failed your family and your Homeland.” There was an undistinguishable shout from one of the ministers and a shot rang out. The wall behind Joachim was painted red as five more shots pelted the falling body of the late minister.

···

“Do you have any last words to convey?” asked the stenographer. The blind leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. The stenographer waited.

After some length, the blind man said, “It is not the right of man to say whatever he pleases.”

He chuckled. “A journalist such as yourself may not understand, but you may, one day.” The stenographer remained motionless, one brow raised, then typed what the blind man said quickly. He stood up and packed his stenotype into his bag and turned out the light. He opened the door and watched as the old man stood facing the wall, unmoving. The stenographer closed the door.

At length, the blind man tugged at a pull-string attached to the hem of his right jacket sleeve. The hem unfurled, exposing a pill laced with cyanide. He picked it up and rolled it in his left hand momentarily, then placed it on his tongue. He swallowed.

···

“Many [people] present ill will towards him. This does him no justice and discredits them. Halcomen had merely lost himself to his dreams. To the normal person, this is acceptable. They become a drunken wanderer, lost from home or family. But Halcomen was dangerous in this state. He had the capability to form a mirage of dreams. His fantasies became real. In this state, he had no ability to control them; he took no account for other humans. Once these creations of his mind were in the real world, he had no power over them. He was a boy lost in a world of dreams.”

-- Conversations with the Magnate: Recollections of the Last Ezan

The Red House

2008-11-29T19:22:00.000-08:00

The wind whipped the tassels of his jacket as he turned around, to see his wife, Mary, stumble out of the house. Holding her canvas-colored bucket hat, she glanced up at him. A faint voice on the wind yelled, “Neil!”

The wind tossed his hair wildly as he shouted out, “I’m finding the dog!” And he began to trudge through the gales, out towards the woods.

Again, there was a faint voice against the wind, “But the cliff!”

The man called Neil stopped, again, a pillar struggling to stay up, and shouted back, “I’ll be fine!” And he continued his trudge.

As he pushed against the invisible force, he heard more voices, getting fainter as he went further from his home and towards the patch of trees and field.

“Neil!” A pause, then, “Neil! Where are you?” was heard.

Neil stumbled forward, dodged the puddle of hardening mud, and fell.

He stumbled and rolled and tumbled, then hit the bottom. He stayed there for a pause. Looking up, he found himself at the bottom of an unforeseen hill. He thought to himself that he never remembered it being there. Getting up, he saw that there was a red building in the distance. Without a thought, he went towards it.

…

A burst of hot air surrounded him as he stepped into the inn. There were shouts and loud laughter from a corner of the bar. The man glanced around and was very suddenly confronted with a young woman. She had apparently said something to him. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“Would you like me to get you a room? Or are you just getting yourself to the bar?” She had an odd accent, something faintly alike Irish.

“Oh, I guess just the bar.” And as she started to go back to her business, he added, “Have you seen a dog, perhaps? A little like a wolf? Large, but very friendly.”

The young innkeeper smirked and chortled a little, “I’ve seen many a wolf and dog, sir. Just look at the drunk rambling around and you’ll see who’s hunting out for some young lady.”

Neil frowned and took a step to the door, “I suppose I should be off, then. I need to find my dog. Sorry to bother you.” He stopped, however, to the innkeeper’s tone.

“You won’t find yourself leaving. Not if you want to live at any rate.” Neil was about to indignantly tell the young woman that she had no right to keep him there, but she added, “Not to worry, I don’t care one way or another if you stay or go. Only I prefer it if you go, that you be well armed against those demon cats out there. It’s best that you stay here until its safe.”

Neil looked at her, nodded, and opened the door. “I’d prefer to take my chances. I want to go back home.” He left.

The wind was a mere breeze around the building, but after 20 feet, it grew into the familiar angry gale. He glanced at the patch of woods. A large tiger-sized puma stalked out of the woods, raising its head and staring at him. Its eyes glowed from the moon’s light refracting. It stood, waiting. Neil looked back at the inn, its fading red pain on dark wood and its sign, The Red House. He went back inside.

…

A large waft of beer and a snort came from the man’s left. He looked over and there was a large, hefty man. He was thick-set, but strong, and wore flannel. He noticed that there was someone looking at him. He snorted, a deep throated sound, and said, “So, who’re you? I haven’t seen you around here.”

“I’m Neil. I live on the cliff edge. We just moved. Lovely view of the water, but we didn’t know there would be so much wind.”

“Eh, well they call me Boar, my real name’s not really important.” He grunted.

“So what do you do?” Neil asked.

Boar took a swig of beer and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Take down trees, I guess.”

“I didn’t know there was a lumberjacking business around here. I’m a writer. Came here for the view and piece and quiet.” Neil said. He glanced down at his glass and swirled it. It was the best whiskey he’s had. The bartender said it was made locally. Suddenly, he was hit on the back, spilling his drink.

A large, booming voice said, “Heya, Boar, corrupting the new folk?” A tall, large man came into Neil’s view and leaned on Boar’s shoulder. He laughed loudly. “This beast here is a large pile of trouble, best to stay away from ‘im! He’ll run you through, always charging into things without a care!” He slapped Boar’s shoulder and sat down next to him.

“This man is Zeus, the great lout he is!” Boar said. “Don’t listen to him.”

Neil smiled faintly. “I’m guessing you’re also a lumberjack?”

Zeus laughed, “Of course I am! Strike down those trees, eh?”

Boar added, “One of best around these here parts! Just don’t be near him when he’s at work! Dangerous force of nature, he is!”

“I can see. It’s already dangerous to be around him. He’s strong!” Neil said, dabbing at himself with a napkin.

Zeus chuckled, “I’m sorry good mate! Here, I’ll buy you a new one!”

As Zeus was busy with the bartender, and Boar took the liberty to down his mug of beer, to get another one, a lithe, slender woman snuck beside Neil and leaned towards him. “I see we’ve got ourselves a new little playmate. I heard from Bird that you’re looking for a dog of your’s?”

Neil startled, unaware of the woman’s presence, “Yes, I’m afraid I’ll be stuck forever in here.”

“Why are you grounded to the inn?” she asked. She shifted, and her dress glittered like scales. It was a very deep green, almost black.

“There’s these cats out there, and it’s so windy. The innkeeper said it was dangerous.” It dawned on Neil that this was why he never enjoyed bars. He didn’t like talking nonchalantly, or small talk.

“That would be Bird. She worries over her tenants and bar folk like a mother hen. Those cats wouldn’t bother a soul, not unless they’re hungry.” The woman smiled.

“Get you away from him, venomous woman!” Boar grunted. The woman glared, as if to strike. Boar waved his hand, “You’ve got nothing to do with the man. Let him be!”

“It’s my right as well to talk to the patrons here. I’m welcomed just as you are, and I make less trouble.” The woman countered.

“Less trouble, my ass. Never know why Bird lets you in. You spread poison, woman, now get away from the good man and let him be.” Boar said. Neil looked at the two, and then at Zeus, who kept quiet. With a hissing glare at Boar, the woman left.

“Who is she?” Neil asked. Board grumbled something.

“Morelia. She and Boar never got along. Always at each other,” Zeus said. “Charming little gal, could charm a snake.” Zeus gave a low rumbling chuckle.

“She’s family,” Boar said.

“Are you sister and brother?” Neil asked.

“That’s about it, ay.” Zeus said as Boar grumbled. Zeus gave a withering look at Boar, and said, “Now he won’t be happy until another two pints, at least, maybe not at all until morn’. Blasted serpent-woman.”

Neil looked around, noticing that the bar had gotten quieter, particularly without Zeus and Boar’s jovial friendliness. He saw a pair go up the stairs and a group exiting the inn. Neil pulled out his mobile and frowned. Ever since moving to the cliff, he’s had trouble with it, and yet again it was on the fritz. It had frozen in mid transition to telling the time. He took out the battery and put it back it. He looked up to see Zeus watching him and Boar sipping his beer unhappily. “Don’t know what time it is. My wife is probably worried I’ve fallen off the cliff, ha.” Neil smiled.

“Hast ta be around the witching hour at the latest! You got pretty late in yourself, twilight, right?” Zeus said.

Neil nodded, “Yes, just after the sun had set.” The bartender placed a new glass of whiskey in front of Neil. “That’s fine, actually. I think I’ll need to rent a room. Maybe I can get my mobile working.” He stood up, thanked Zeus and Boar, who was still in a sour mood, and went to find Bird.

…

The stairs were creaky and as he climbed them, he was roughly shoved aside by a small group—two men and a woman. Neil grabbed a hold of the railing to keep from falling. He looked up to see that they were in light tan leather jackets. He righted himself and continued.

One of the guys, with dark sandy hair, and the blonde laughed, and then the guy shoved her. The blonde fell against a door and the patron inside shouted. The blonde snickered and the lighter blond male rolled his eyes. The two pranksters of the group started slapping each other. The door that the girl hit opened and a furious, bushy man started to shout at the three.

Neil stopped walking and looked at his key number, then at the doors next to him. The door he needed to get to was past the commotion.

The two major troublemakers flanked the bushy man and they started yelling at each other. The third strayed a little behind.

Neil grimaced at the loud noise and at the pounding against the floorboards as the four stomped their feet and slammed fists against walls. Seeing an opening, Neil pushed past the group.

The bushy man barked out at the youngsters as they sneered at him, then one of the guys kicked at the man. As another man from the room came out to join the fray, and a few people left in the bar bounded up the stairs to help bring peace, the girl fell against Neil.

Neil shouted and fell. He scrambled from the girl and stood up. He heard a noise and turned around. He saw a flurry of tan as one of the guys hit Neil. Neil fell again and his nose started bleeding. He heard scuffling, shouts, and it all started to fade away.

…

Something smelled terrible, similar to wet dog and terrible morning breathe. Neil twitched as something wet dripped onto his face. He opened his eyes to see a tongue and sharp canine teeth. He sat up, running his hand through his unruly hair. A bushy, shaggy, wolf-pelted, medium-sized dog stood beside him. Neil cocked his head.

Reaching out a hand to rough up the dog’s ears, he smiled. “Glad to see you, old boy. Where have you been, eh?”

Neil looked around to notice that he was by the small patch of woods, in a field. He grunted as he stood up and rubbed his nose, which hurt a little. Looking around, he saw his house in the distance. It was morning.

He looked behind, only to see a flat line of fields. The dog at Neil’s side barked.

With only woods, a large field, and no red house, Neil walked back home, his dog bounding at his side.

.................

This was an idea that occurred in my creative fiction class last year. We had to write a brief exercise with a lot of feeling, like cold, hot, etc. Back then it was about a guy named Neil and his wife wandering around in the fog and wind, while Neil falls down a small hill and sees a red barn, and ends up in some other world. Then that's all I got to. Here, I made it an inn. A lot of the people here aren't really people. I like to think of the tan leather jacket kids as the pumas, really. The bushy guy, Neil's dog. Morelia is a genus or family or something of snakes. I decided to not put in her nickname of Snake. Boar's real name is Suscroff, after the boar's scientific name Sus scrofa.

Tzhilitchauchlici

2008-03-24T22:40:00.000-07:00

“Chlol, chlol. Tchau muon tchitli tlul.” The man sitting across the fire spoke. My assistant, Adrian, looked at me uneasily. He was new and had not yet fully grasped the language of the Akzametl, the Edge-Folk, so called for living at the edge of the great forests.

I leaned towards Adrian and translated, “Quite indeed. There are things in the forest.”

“Tzhilitchauchlici tu kan-”

“-The… Animal-Folk live.” Adrian and I shared a look. The Empire believed the great forests were uninhabitable. “Ti tu kan muontakli?” I asked.

“Tcha! Tcha! Tzhilitchlici tcha takli!”

“No! Not at all! The Animal-Folk are not animals! Ti tu kan muonmet?”

The man paused. He cocked his head and stared hard at me. This was how his people expressed thought. Adrian shuffled on his log. It took me a while to get used to this, for years their hard staring was uncomfortable. “Tcha… Tzhilitchlici tcha met… Tzhilitchlici te Tzhilitchlici.”

My assistant looked at me for translation. I hesitated, the Akzametl were rarely unsure of themselves, something that made them hard to work with and one reason why the Empire was not so favourable of them. “He says that no, the Animal-Folk are not people. The Animal-Folk are the Animal-Folk.”

“What does that mean?” Adrian asked. I looked at him sardonically. “Sorry, I know, stupid question. Should we report this to Rogerts then? You know that the Empire will love hearing about new naked natives running around this place.”

“I don’t know. They could be just the run of the mill ape for all we know. But do you notice how Jaktl fiddles with that marking on his right hand? It’s the symbol for Akzatliquatkitlihaucan. Here he his both death-bringer and life-giver, as opposed to the Mountain-Folk beliefs. That is why his symbol is black, but the hourglass-figure representing woman. The Edge-Folk must fear the Animal-Folk. Perhaps we may have to do a search for these Tzhilitchlici, then. See why they are neither called animal nor human, but rather both.”

“Tchu litlitkahamoun?”

“Chlol… Tuli-Kitlaunli hacamoun.” Adrian raised his eyebrows at me as I stood up. I nodded my head towards our tent and said “Sleep time.”

· · ·

My youngest son, Kyran, appeared behind the door-frame. He looked up at me, staring but not speaking. He was a good boy, if a little shy. I looked to my wife and she nodded to me. I smiled and took my son’s hand as I took him to his room. He crawled into his bed and there I sat down and as per ritual, I began my tale:

“In the far away lands, across the Edge where the Dragons lie, there is a woman. Her name is Chaliqi. Every day and every night, this woman collects a bundle of Golden Wheat. In the morning, she mills it by the Lautqau River and as it turns to flour and to dough and to bread, it grows even more radiant with each touch of Chaliqi’s hands. She takes the Golden Radiant Loaf to her grandfather who lies sickly and old in his house in the mountains. It is a long and arduous journey, but she carries the loaf in her arms, so none may take it from her. She reaches her grandfather in the mountains and he eats the Golden Loaf. With each bite, the radiance fades. Seeing that her grandfather is now healthy, Chaliqi takes her journey back to the Lautqau River, but as she does so, Akzatliquatkitlihaucan, the Dark Snake of Birth, sneaks into the house of Chaliqi’s grandfather and bites him. She does not know this and the Golden Loaf that her grandfather has eaten draws him into a deep sleep from which neither noise nor touch may awaken him. And the Dark Snake of Birth takes a piece of his life for the Dark Snake needs life sacrifice to tend to his crop of Golden Wheat.”

Kyran shifted in his covers. A sign for me to stop.

“Is the Dark Snake the Demon-Foe, father?” he asked. To the Akzametl, the Dark Snake brought Life to this world. To the Empire, any belief other than theirs was heresy and witchery. Lies were considered a sin and yet to tell the truth was worth your life when the truth was unwanted.

“The Dark Snake took life, son. The taking is life is forbidden, is it not?” I responded.

My son nodded his head, and then asked, “But what about the woman? She stole from the Dark Snake!”

I smiled. My son, the ever thoughtful one, who never lets any thing go by him. I answered, “Some things… Some things are not as they seem. Think on it, Kyran. Tomorrow, give me your answer.”

· · ·

Adrian came running to me, nearly tripping over a piled loop of rope. He called out, “Sir! Sir! I heard the news! Kyran just ran into my office and told me. You plan to do it!” He reached me, past the grumbling sailors and various suitcases and cargo being loaded onto the ships. His leather bag slammed against his thighs. “You’re going to search for them, aren’t you? The Animal-Folk, the Tzhilitchauchlici!” He grinned conspiratorially. If I came back with any sort of finding, the Empire would award me richly and I would receive an even better pay than I did now. I smiled sadly at him, at how young he was. He and my son were two years apart and both so similar in youthful innocence and hope.

“I will search for the Tzhilitchauchlici, Adrian. Dammit! Wipe that grin off your face! You know why I am going. Just… take care of Kyran, and little Aria, will you? You may wish that I find them, but I don’t. I hope that damn forest kills me.” I said. I resented the bitterness in my voice, even though I did not show it. Adrian was a great man, if faulted to be a little young.

Adrian bowed his head and said in a low voice, “So it’s true… Your reason for going, it’s because your wife was murdered, isn’t it? That’s why you’re leaving. If you succeed in finding the tribe, they’re most likely to be hostile. If you don’t, well… that forest is hostile. You won’t survive the trip. I was hoping you’d see Aria and I married, that you’d walk her down the aisle and watch with pride from the sidelines as I said my vows. Your absence will darken her life, you know this. You don’t care. You can’t. Well, sir, it has… It has been a pleasure to w-work with you. I’ll take my leave now. May the ailments take you.” His eyes were red and glossy as he straightened up from his bow and stood, staring at me. Then he turned, stumbled across the port and disappeared behind a carriage.

A sailor called out, exclaiming that it was time to depart. Silently, I picked up my personal luggage and carried it aboard to my cabin. My only thought was of despair in how the ship was full of men of no moral obligations. Men just like the one that raped and murdered my wife.

· · ·

Metihauca, a female guide stopped and clicked. The llama carrying my luggage groaned while stopping. “Tcha nlili kqlimacklit.” She would take me no further. The Akzametl had been reluctant to allow a Miktli, a Guide, to show me a safe passage into the forest. The Miktli were a wandering tribe, a rarity to have in abundance in any area. Their maps and guiding were the best in these lands. To have one in service was a great honour.

I may have worked with the Akzametl for a time, but not to place any sense of honour. I was merely a diplomat. But these men knew death. They have seen my hair pepper and then grey as we have worked together. They have heard my tales of my son growing of age and my daughter receiving her first bloody flower. We share stories, the tribes-people and I. They tell of their hard winters and barren summers, I tell of mine. I watched as Jaktli’s son procured the demon’s spots and I told how to cure them. And they knew. They knew that this time, when I stepped off the ship and travelled to their village, that there was something different. A wife of Jaktli gave me the bitter tea that they drink at a death’s service. When I requested that I would ask in which direction to find the Animal-Folk, Jaktli held his hand on my shoulder and said that the dead will meet no bitter end. A meaning which, as long as the grieving drink of the bitter tea, those who have died will find happiness in death. I believe he meant to drink of the tea when I left to my journey into the forest. And then they assigned the Miktli woman to guide me. At times for those old and weak, a guide will show them to a place they desire, sometimes to the coast or mountains. A place that they had a relation to. Most headed towards a place of ardour or personal meaning; I headed towards my death.

Adrian was correct in his assumptions, I wished for death and I will find it. Jaktli will drink his bitter tea, Adrian will scowl as the memorial service is performed, and my son will bitterly wallow in work and find some greater purpose. My daughter, my little Aria, she will cry and despair. She will wear a symbol of grief and hide deeper within herself than after her mum died. Adrian will attempt to get her out of the house and she will refuse. She will cry and suffer the plagues of a survivor. But I am the parent and I have nothing left.

It is my time to die.

The Miktli woman leaves.

· · ·

The air is thick and dank, the air of a tropic-forest. The ground is dark and rich; each step brings the scent of rot and leaves. There is a lack of light; day and night are the same. The stars, the sun, the moon, they are all eclipsed by the towering, damp trees.

The world is slick with humidity, pressing with life and death presents itself everywhere.

A root catches my foot and I stumble. It is hard to stand; my legs and arms are weak with hunger. My mind reels with the world and I turn to my left and vomit. I remain there, prostrated and ready to expel more fluids. My eyes slowly force themselves to focus upon the bush in front of me. Nauseating unfocussed thoughts slam against the small inch of focus in my mind and I vomit again. Tears leak down my cheeks in pain. A slam of agony forces my body to eject as much liquid as possible. My very mind is being tortured—stabbing, wrenching pain. My voice is hoarse as it lets out a howl of suffering.

· · ·

Pain is my first thought.

I open my eyes to find myself on the forest ground. A leg is in front of me. I jerked, and then stopped. While the pain in my head is a never-ending force, movement causes my stomach to rebel. I slowly turn towards the rest of the body sitting beside me.

A woman. She is naked, her breasts have never seen a support and her body remains natural without the deformation of clothing. She holds a few scars, the main one on her left leg—not deep, but she will keep it for life. Her hair is lengthy, the hair on her legs like down. She is obviously unwashed, the hair matted together. Her eyes are hard and shock me with their ferocity. They dart to me and to the forest. I see that her skin is taut, not fattened by everyday consumption of meat, but the hardiness found by living in a world of harshness. I realise that as I stand, a waft of a musky sweetness comes from her. This woman is something I would call nature. I realise her beauty and the magnificence of her being. I realise that I have found life.

Then I realise that I am naked.

I move to cover myself and she turns swiftly towards me. Her muscles taut and she lurches forward slightly, ready to spring on me in case I flee. She glares at me, giving me a harsh noise. Taken aback, I pitch backwards. In catching myself, my chest exposes. Her eyebrow raises and she grins, not showing off her teeth. Her canines are sharper and more pronounced and when she grins, they show a sense of dangerous play.

I remain still. She coos a little and looks away. I pull myself in; the lack of clothing brings an odd light feeling on my skin, as though I am missing something.

After a while, a man comes, just as natural as the woman. He is older than her and has greying hair like me. He holds more scars than her, one across his cheek and his back and arms are riddled with them. He is muscular. He too has long hair and a beard. He makes a soft yet loud call to the woman and she answers back. He throws a satchel to her, who in turn hands it to me. It is soft and contains water. I drink.

· · ·

I am in a throng of these natural beings. Every so often, one sniffs towards me and looks me over. Usually they give a sort of chuckle to themselves and go about their business. Sometimes a younger male will make a threatening gesture.

Looking around, they appear to have a social order. There’s the requisite alpha male and female which lounge near the centre, giving barks to various workers. A group of children play watched by unisex care-takers. Gatherers come with berries, nuts and other plants of use. Sometimes they wander over to what appears to be a doctor of sorts to get an order for some plant. Hunters come by, holding spoils of strange birds, small hogs and what looks to me as a tree-rabbit. I can see guards up in the trees and I am sure that there are more that I cannot see. From what I noticed, there is no distinction between male or female. Men take care of children and they hunt; women gather and guard. One young male hunter came in with a slashed leg and ever since he has prepared food and medicines. I believed that he would have lost the leg and be left out to die, as is the cruelty of nature. However, the doctor bandaged and placed salves and a poultice on the leg. For the past few days, two of the women have kept by him, sleeping and cuddling next to him. His leg is fine and he appears to only wait for the gash to heal.

I have remained in their camp for several days and the woman who found me has come and gone, her place is as a scout. At least that is what I believe. I can find no real language, just a series of noises and motions. I have tried the Akzametl language and some of them merely gave their chuckled coos and others gave me a look of confusion. I have found that the woman and I can communicate, but I do not understand how—or at least not entirely.

On the first night, I awoke starving. I had long since ran out of food and water during my trek through this forest and was long-needed of a meal. The woman had been sleeping beside me, something I found disconcerting given my lack of clothing and that I am a man of moralities. I do not go sleeping with other women, not since I found all I wanted in my late wife. She started and when she saw that I was awake, she nuzzled closer to me, trying to get me to lie back down. I nudged her away. She made a noise, one I suspected of annoyance, and left. She came back moments later with a bowl of nuts. I ate them, but ever since then, I’ve noticed a series of unspoken conversations between her and me.

I have found myself sleeping with the woman every night. It seems as though how these people keep warm. There is nothing sexual or intimate, but there is this odd sense of togetherness. I realise that this is what it is to be in a pack. We are joined as a unit, everyone participating in a duty to which they are fit and none are to be left behind. I do not know my place in this, I am unfit to be a hunter and completely unused to their customs to be allowed to teach their children.

· · ·

It is a warm night. I lie awake, listening to the sounds of the forest and those that live here. Next to me is the woman, who I call Che. She awakens and nuzzles closer to me, latching on. I move myself to be more comfortable. My wife and I never slept like this, but I never knew why. This sleeping is warm, comfortable, and secure. Che and I are one, together underneath the canopy-tops.

She slips into a light sleep, dosing and slipping awake enough to give a noise of comfort. I brush my hand across her back. Her skin is soft and warm. The air around us is a casing of our scent mingling. There is a male musk mixed with her sweeter, more feminine smell. I nuzzle my head against her’s. She moves upwards to lick at my ear. It startles me; this is the first of this type of action. She makes a light growling and holds one of my arms as the other brushes against me in a movement to kiss my lips. I move more forcibly away.

Then her smell hits me.

It’s entrancing and sweet, a strange attraction.

There’s a faint strength of spice in it, something familiar. It’s intoxicating.

I lean inwards, towards her. The smell of her, the feel of her skin, the taste of her all pulling me in. I cannot pull away.

I do not pull away.

All the time, this deep inner part of me takes over. My actions, my wants, my Che. My mind no longer functions as logic and rigid thinking. I no longer remember the lessons taught as a child about morality or the works of the all-father. I no longer remember my wife or children; they are all a world apart to what is a dream. My mind and this deep thrumming part of me exchange.

I am the animal.

I am the wild.

I am the nature.

..................

The original point of it was to say that there is more than one way to live, there is more than one way to think. He was supposed to leave, wander and die into the forest. But now I'm not so sure... he might live on, he might not. The thing is, he is no longer the stuffy archaeologist from the Empire anymore. He's now this wild thing in the middle of a gigantic forest. He doesn't even HAVE a name. The one character in the story to not have a name, and it's the main character. I don't think he really needed one. He was just a random man from the Empire (Britain, essentially; and the place where the tribes are are obviously the Aztecs and Amazon rain forest).

It's not a happy ending. The thing is, he left all these people behind to mourn and cry over him. He LOVES his daughter, but he left her in his own misery. His son and assistant hate him (Kyran is less likely to admit that). His wife was raped and murdered. The own man's way of thinking and views were destroyed; he had sex with some RANDOM feral woman for no REAL good reason. Whether or not he dies physically, his life is destroyed and dead.

Blue Rose - Valentine's Day Gift to All

2008-02-13T21:15:00.001-08:00

There was once a young man and this young man loved a young woman very deeply. This young woman was not entirely fond of this young man and like most of her gender at that age wanted, she asked him to show her his love for her.

Now, he did not know what to say. So he asked instead what she would want. Like most women at the time, she sent him along on a quest. She had done this quite a lot to her suitors, which was fine for them as it tended to allow them to see the world, conquer various strange beasts and end up with a bar wench who was quite prettier (and less apt to ask them for more than the typical house and children) than the lady they were trying to woo. After her last suitor failed to bring her a unicorn and the one before that a cloak of starlight, she decided to ask for something she believed a little more attainable.

So, when the young man asked her for what she wanted, she asked for a bouquet of blue roses. When he asked her, “Why not just one?” she replied, “Because one is not enough. Every year for ten years, you must bring me one blue rose. Only after that I will see that you are persistent, loyal and hard-working.” Believing this to be a time for adventure and fun, the young man consented to the deal. Pleased with herself, the young woman went back to her daily activities, which mostly included thinking up impossible things to ask of young men.

The young man planned and packed that night for his journey. His father hinted that he had heard during his own travels that a young woman in the Orient had asked for a blue rose and had even received it. Believing that a good place to start as any, he headed for the Orient.

However when the young man arrived at his destination, he found something relatively different than what he expected. Upon asking a young princess how her husband had gained a blue rose, she told him that he obtained it by being honest, true, valued her love, had been patient and kind. The young man told her that he had to give his young woman a blue rose every year for ten years and to that, the young princess smiled and told him to remain as honest, loving, patient and kind as he was now and his young woman would find what her heart desired. Confused by this strange idiom of wisdom, he felt that he would continue his way west.

As he headed to his destination by train, then by ship, he spoke to an old man with a thick accent. The man spoke of new times and a blue rose. When the young man asked the old man if he knew where the blue rose was, the old man said, “I plucked death from a lake and saved my love.” Unsure of what the old man’s tale meant, he followed the train west.

He found himself lost within the islands of the Mediterranean and there he found a woman. As he had asked many who had helped him along his way, he asked her if she knew of blue roses and their location. To this, the woman said that she had not fashioned any rose of that colour and to end his search for it was in vain. Wistfully as she sewed rose petals together in the form of a small woman, she mentioned that she had heard of poems contrived due west. Perturbed by the woman’s rose petal person, who had sprung to life and danced, he headed as she said, west.

He again took use of ship and yet another train and here he found a man somber and, when people asked him, told them a short fanciful combination of words. The young man question the somber man about blue roses. The somber man answered that those you will search the world all over and people will mock you for your try; the only place to find blue roses is in Death’s embrace.

Not very fond of that answer, the young man felt that he would, instead, dream. He took residence in a meadow in the west, where it was warm and many would often time slumber in such places. He fell asleep the warmth and golden sunlight and peaceful breeze. And there was a young lady. She was his age and she wore a dress. He smiled at her, for that was the polite thing to do. She bent and tended to a bush of flowers. Curious, he bent over her, realizing that that was not an entirely polite thing to do. She asked, “Do you wish for something, sir?” To this he replied, “I wish for a blue rose.”

She looked at him funny then. She asked why. He answered that he needed it to please a lady. She said, “You do not need these things to make a woman happy.” He told her that she wanted it. She replied, “Wants flitter and scamper about; they do not stay the same. To appease desire is to do the impossible.” To this he remained silent for a while.

She asked this time, “What do you dream for?” To this he replied, “I dream for a young lady who dreams for me.”

She said, “You dream for the impossible.”

He asked, “Why?”

She replied, “Young ladies, these days, only dream for things desired, those cloaks of starlight and unicorn fouls and bouquets of blue roses. They do not dream for love but for a show of it.”

This made the young man think again. He seemed puzzled, trying to work things out. He nodded his head and said, “Then what I dream for and what I want, you cannot give me?”

The young lady smiled at this and answered, “I can give you what you dream for, young man. Awake and find yourself a pub.”

To that, he awoke. Not quite remembering what he dreamed about, he headed toward the town for something to eat. There he spied a pub called the Blue Rose. Smiling at the irony, he entered this pub. There it was quite quiet and still, not many travelers wandered into this parts and the pub was not really the rambunctious drunk pub but more of the calm with delicious stew variety.

He ordered what was delicious and as he sat by himself, a young lady entered. The man who ran the place greeted her and she gave him a bouquet of blue roses. The young man exclaimed loudly to this and startled the young lady. She laughed at his surprise and said, “Not many travelers come to these parts, we’re not on the map you see. Who are you?” He told her that he was a young man and that he was searching for a blue rose. She said, “Oh, well, you’ve come to the right place, I s’pose. Here, you can take one. They grow lovely around here, probably the soil.” And she handed him a blue rose.

To this he paused, looking at her. He said, “I have also dreamed of a young lady to take with me.”

To this, she paused, smiling at him in embarrassment. She said, “I have often dreamed of a young man to take me away with him.”

He took her hand, placing the rose on the table and kissed her lightly. She stroked his hair and he closed his eyes. She kissed his forehead. The next day they both traveled from the town which they never found again and with it they brought their love and blue rose.

...

This is my Valentine's Day gift to you all. It was written to work with my gift to Michael, my boyfriend. Those pictures of his gift shall appear when I actually give it to him.

Satu

2008-02-04T19:06:00.000-08:00

An old woman wrapped in a shawl, red in colour, was rocking on her porch. She was enjoying the nice warm sun and slept. The woman was most commonly known as Kozani Shapash and while most knew who she was, nobody knew much about her otherwise. The townsfolk had learned that she was never either generous or stingy, but inbetween. She was not friendly and nor was she rude. Shapash, or Shapa as the little ones called her, remained neutral in everything.

That seemed very much impossible, and some of the town philosophers would contemplate this while sipping their coffee in the local shop in the morning. As far as anyone knew, she had never married nor had children. A very rare few people and a pinch more of other folk did actually know the answer to this question; however they would not be apt to discuss it, even if you could get a hold of them.

Now, one day a stranger came into town and the wind blew, as more than often times it does in these situations, and he entered the local coffee shop. He was a medium-sized man wearing a tan mud-splattered, with a few darker stains that gave a hint of long-splattered blood and even some other non-descript stains, trench coat and a dark moss coloured fedora. He was a traveller most certainly and not one of these touristy loudmouths that the town seemed to get too often these days. He was a brand of traveller that was well-welcomed because he would have stories to tell of worth and kept a certain amount of mystery on his person. What the townsfolk did not know that this was a special brand of traveller, one that was even more rare than usual.

The man, his name Thomas Shriver, ordered a small latté and sat down next to the early afternoon philosophers (who normally discussed how much film has fallen his Federico Fellini and how the producers should have left Orson Welles be or how publishers shouldn’t let 15 yr old boys publish their books and that nothing new is left to write). One of the men with a lime green tea mug leaned forward, “But what about this… You, Winston, can write about the mushrooms and Mark, you do the cats. I’ll write about the socks and-”

“-But I want to do the cats. And why are there cats in this anyways? WHAT are we doing?”

“What do you mean? We decided last time that in order for this to feel right, there needed to be cats.”

“But I don’t like cats, you like-”

“Alright, alright! No cats. How about envelopes?”

“Why envelopes? That doesn’t make anymore sense than cats OR socks OR mushrooms. I thought you said we were gonna do something normal.”

“Oh come on! When does writing EVER make sense?”

“So now what? We’re just going to do things that have no thought process then? We’re just going to end up just like those experimental film-makers - explaining the world by not making sense.”

“FINE. If you don’t want to do this book, then we’ll just call the entire group off. I’ll message Kat and Maddy; tell them that we can’t do it.”

“Look, I had to pick up my daughter 15 minutes ago, I’m sorry. I have to leave.”

There was a silence as one of the men stood up. As he left the shop, the one named Mark smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He gave a meek noise, Thomas didn’t catch it and he was fairly certain neither did the remaining man, and left. Thomas looked at the man with the lime green mug. The man with the lime green mug sighed and noticed Thomas staring at him.

“An anthology of stories about kitchen-related objects, I presume? Mushrooms ready to be cut and placed into a stew, an envelope ready to be sent to a sister’s birthday, a cat drifting in for her afternoon meal and socks - things that do not belong in a kitchen but yet they somehow found themselves there anyway?” said Thomas Shriver. The man with the lime green mug gave a puzzled look. He was about to say something, realized another and with an apology, left the shop in a hurry.

Thomas Shriver smiled and drained his cup. He stood and threw his cup away. While exiting, he paused and asked a woman, “Do you know of the old woman named Kozani Shapash?”

“Oh, well… I do not believe I would call her old, however she lives on Oak Road, I think. Dear, where does that woman live?” she said turning to her husband.

“That is fine. I just needed to know the road to travel by, thank you. Ah, and no, stealing the stray hundreds from your dying mother is not justified.” Thomas said and before the woman could recount against what the man said, he left the shop with a jingle of the bells on the door.

He paused at the roadway and breathed in. A car or two passed by. “Oak Road, eh?” he murmured. He stepped into the road, strong deliberate steps. A wind passed around him, unlike that which is normal. It did not, say, pass around a little girl with her balloon and mother or a town-cat that eats on the scraps freely given by various shop owners. As he took his steps, the place he was heading in across the street changed from an old trinkets shop and shoe store and a blackened out building that went out of business to a young tree and a yard and a porch and a house. It was not blip of instantaneous or melting into a thing to another, but more so as though Thomas walked several miles by crossing the street. It was a direct walk, as some say as the crow flies however here it may be more prudent to say ‘as the stork walks’. Thomas was always most fond of this ability, it certainly was less work than wandering the through the mazes that people had built. He had once heard a preacher say that the god’s path was not easily walked and yet all Thomas had to do was step onto a road with a destination in mind and there he was. Then again, he was quite certain that the man was not actually talking about the REAL god-path but some sort of thing some one once made up.

Thomas glanced over to the end of the street and the sign said ‘Oak Road’. Sure enough, he had indeed arrived at the right location. Even the house he stood in front of had an old woman covered in a red blanket. It was all too easy and as some say, too easy means something is wrong. Thomas shrugged at the thought and walked up the porch steps.

“Now I assume that you are under the guise of ‘Kozani Shapash?’” he asked the old woman.

She did not stir, but answer nonetheless, “Ah, I was wondering when my little Norn would come around for me.” Thomas cleared his throat and she opened a lazy eye at him.

“Yes, well I prefer Thomas now. I suppose you may call me at the present, Lee Thomas. I have been known on occasion to be Thomas Shriver. It’s these Americans and the New Ages. They just don’t know the old gods like they used to. A New World, A New Name, eh? My dearest Mati Syra Zemlya?”

“Toh! I always hated that one, Thoth. I prefer the Earthmother or Sun-Mother.”

“Hm. Yes well, now you’re the Sun-Mother. It’s mid-day, isn’t it?”

“You did not come to chat about the Americans and their names or the New World and the End of the Old Ways, did you? Odin, he calls himself Wednesday now, came around and mentioned it to me too. Get on with the business and leave this town be.”

“Yes,” Thoth said. “Well, let’s see here.” He rummaged through his pockets, bringing out a piece of parchment and a stork feather quill. “Crocus All-Mother, the Serpent-Mother to Knossos, the Death Goddess, the Warrior Goddess, the Aphrodisiac in Living Flesh, Earthmother, Kar the Wise, Mother of Athena, The Hound of Hades, One of the Three-Fold Face, Plague-Bringer, Sun-Mother, The Meadow and Lady of the Organs.” He paused for breath. “And you know I never understood that last one?”

“Oh, please do get on with it, Thoth. I do not have all day.”

“Ah, yes. I do suppose that you do not. Have all day that is. Usually my clients are less… ah… knowing of what to come. They tend to keep silent and are not in hurry. I haven’t judged a god for a while, you know. We just don’t die that easily. I suppose I’ll have to get used to it. People judge themselves these days.”

He hurriedly read through the last few lines to catch his place. “I, Thoth, the Judge, shall ah… judge your soul and heart against the Feather of Truth. If your soul and heart weigh more greatly than the Feather of Truth, then you shall be eaten. If the Feather weighs the same, you shall go to the Underworld, which Anubis, the Guide, shall show you.”

“Where is Anubis?” the Crocus All-Mother asked.

“Oh? Well, he is holding up our morgue we’ve put together. Have to make a living, of course. Now, where did I put that scale?” He again rummaged through his pockets, bringing out a normal-sized scale that looked, in the least, a little tired. He place a raggedly feather, again from his pocket, on one side of the scale. “Your heart please, Crocus All-Mother?”

“I haven’t had to take it out for ages, you know. I might have to dig around a bit. Probably in the back somewhere out of the way.” She took off her dress and stabbed her hand into her chest. She grimaced and after a moment of feeling around, she pulled it out. It was still, silent and looked as though it had not been used for a while. “Here you go.”

“Ah, thank you.” He placed it one the other side of the scale. They watched as the heart and Feather bounced from heavy to light and light to heavy. Finally the heart settled on being lighter. Thoth made a grunt and scribbled something down on his parchment ledger.

“Well, you shall be reborn, then. Of course, you ARE a god-being. That’s no surprise. The people will always need something to worship.” Thoth flipped the page. “Now it says here that you shall become Saffron. It’s not too readily worshipped around, so you might not get too high a rank. However you shall be, let’s see, patroness of spice, food, chefs, red dye… Still of crocuses and autumn crocuses, poison too.”

“Thoth, it’s been a good run, hasn’t it? I guess this Old Way is not needed anymore. Good luck in your own travels, Thomas.” Said the dying Crocus All-Mother.

There was a flash. It was not light, it was not dark. It was Change. It was Death and Birth. It was that of a goddess needed no more being reborn into one that was. It was an Old Way disappearing from the Human Lands and a New Way coming into. It smelled of red and was the colour of spice, of cooking and was as light as night and dark as day. It was a flower dying into existence. What was once an old woman with a red-coloured shawl was a young girl in a red-coloured spring dress.

“Hello,” said Thoth to the girl named Saffron.

She smiled back and asked, “Would you like some tea? Maybe some lunch?”

“Ah, no. I must decline. Work to do I am afraid.” Thoth responded and he left.

As he began to cross the street into a place over in California where his old partner Anubis was and his morgue resided, he thought that he might have curry for lunch. He knew a great, and expensive, Indian restaurant that served a special curry with saffron.

...

This is my newest piece. I was originally going to make it my first manuscript to send out to some fantasy magazine. HOWEVER, a few days later, I've decided the idea is a little too flimsy. It's sort of... based from TWO ideas that formed during the writing of it. One is about an old lady with a red shawl and she IS the Crocus All-Mother, the Lady of Spring and Autumn, of Sun and Moon, Life and Death, who dies and turns into Saffron. The other is about a medium-aged man named Thomas. He is the embodiment of Thoth in the new ages. Shriver comes from schreiben, German from 'to write'. Thoth IS a god of writing. He tells the writer in the coffee shop not the IDEA, for the writer came up with it himself, but more of the connection from dream-stuff to real-world ideas. Lee Thomas is the Judgement side of Thoth. Lee being a name in Korean that means 'judge' or 'plum'.

So instead, I think I'll send in a rewritten story about the Daily Life of Thoth and write one about Saffron for a series of illustrated books on spice.

Satu is a Scandinavian name meaning fable or fairytale.

Unhiatus

2007-08-13T22:47:00.000-07:00

I am OFF hiatus now and GASP, I bring things.

Well, I will once I'm done writing it that is. It's a rewrite of The Sacrificing Brother, Cain's story for Suite 21 (or otherwise known as 22/7 Blackwell Society of Fiction). I decided that I just did not like my submissions the first time around. Why? Cain and Abele did not quite turn out the way I wanted. This time I've had a lot, lot, more time to reflect on their characters (as I love them greatly) and will be able to write a better version of them. Along with that, I am hoping to have something along the lines of some Norse stories. I may EVEN rewrite They Met on Wednesday, which the title irks me a little. I reread it, loved the characters but decided that the story was missing a little. I keep thinking back to some of the stuff I've tried to write and failed to put to type. There are these two characters, Spade and... well, I never CAN remember his name, haha. Two supernatural detectives taking on supernatural cases, to put it bluntly. I did, at some point, promise them their own book. Along with Al and Frankie, the two lovable mobster vampires. However that IS another story (well, I think it is at least). Then there is heading back the last piece I had written when I went on hiatus (in short, the reason WHY I went on hiatus). I don't even remember what the story was about. I barely remember having the character in a prison of sorts. Hmmm. There is also an idea about a bastard son overthrowing and taking over a kingdom that I've been meddling about. Finally there is a piece of artwork I have more recently decided would set a very nice ghost story. It was a scrap, the artist had framed it but felt that, if she needed a canvas, would promptly use. I spotted it, commented that I really liked it, and she gave it to me. If I DO write a story on it, I'll post a photo of it. (And to be truthful, as much as I love it, it's not one of her better pieces, hahaha. Nonetheless I'm glad to have stolen away with it.)

I hate to say this, I really do.

2007-05-07T18:26:00.001-07:00

Sorry, but I am going to have to say that this Blog is now officially on haitus.

I figured that everything would blow over, be quick, nice and easy. But it won't. I will not be able to post for a while. It makes me terribly sad that this shiny and new and happy Blog will not be updated. I had an entry in motion, but I cannot finish it. I am incapable.

Not that anyone reads this.

The Woman and a Rather Annoyed Death

2007-03-29T21:19:00.000-07:00

This takes a little backstory, and that is: In Latin class, we had to translate a little story about a woman who laments and groans and weeps over her poor dying husband. She begs for Death to kill her instead of him. Of course, he answers that call. Why not? A death is a death and hey, he's not really losing here. So he comes knocking and she freaks out and doesn't want to go. I thought this sounded very much like Terry Pratchett's Death, who I love. So, bored and nothing to do, I decided to write something. And, voila, here it is.

...

The woman sniffled and walked through the door. She set down the tray and walked over to the bed, where a relatively ill-looking man was laying. A tear went down her cheek as she kneeled by the bed and grasped his hand. She held for a while looking fairly forlorn and lost. She was always so fond of him and it would just break her heart to lose him. She sniffled loudly.
The man had noticed his wife but didn't quite feel like answering her. She sniffled a little more loudly and he rolled his eyes. She was fairly nice and not too bad at cooking as long as you stayed away from her soups and sauces[1]. He looked over at her and said, “It's ok dear, I'm just a little sick.” She looked up with pouty lips.

“Dear, you must get better. I just couldn't stand it, my love. With you gone, oh what shall I do? Oh, you must get better.” She said pleadingly. Her husband couldn't really stand her. He thought to himself on how much better off he would be once he as dead. He wouldn't really be alive anymore, but then he wouldn't have to deal with her.

She opened her mouth and he secretly wished to smack her. She raised her arms up and moaned, “Oh great gods, oh cruel Death, how could you do this to us? We are husband and wife. We are the land and ocean. We are the rose and aphids![2] Please, please, please, Death, do not take my innocent husband away! If you must, oh nasty Death, take me instead. Take me and leave him whole and healthy.” She inwardly smiled to herself as she flopped onto the bed and cried dramatically. She thought this would be such a nice little act for her dying husband and gossiping slaves. What she didn’t count on was that Death, who was relatively bored at the moment, listened in to her dreadful moaning. There was a cold draft coming from the corner of the room, the one with the scroll-shelf and a light flapping of heavy cloth. A tall ominous figure stood there. The husband stared at it, hoping for sure that this tall ominous figure was not who he thought it was and had not come for what he thought he came for. The wife remained oblivious.

I HAVE THOUGHT ON IT AND HAVE DECIDED THAT A DEATH IS A DEATH. IT DOES NOT REALLY MATTER WHO DIES, JUST SO LONG AS SOMEONE DIES WHEN A PERSON OUGHT TO.

The wife looked up and screamed at the tall ominous figure. “I-it... erm... Well, I take it back! I don't want to die anymore!”

The tall ominous figure stared at her for a moment. The husband thought it looked as though it was thinking. The figure then shrugged and said:

WELL, I HADN'T REALLY EXPECTED THAT.

“Then, can I not die?”

The figure looked over at the husband.

The husband looked back.

And shivered.

[1] She had problems with the stirring. She always kept it on the burner for a little too long or a little too short. Well, that and she did not have the knack for choosing out the best of veggies. They were almost always a little old and rotten and she was not the gentlest of veggie-holders, causing them to bruise rapidly. Or, for the matter, the best of meats. On the whole, it was wise to stay away from her cooking. For his own sake, he tried to make her happy and secretly munched on their head of house slave's dishes instead. Understanding his predicament, the head of house slave always made two helpings worth of food and got paid rather well for it, too.

[2] When she had first thought this up in her mind, she thought it sounded poetic, romantic even. After all, it had the word rose in it. As she said it, she realised just how stupid it sounded. Her husband would have agreed with her.

NO. YOU DID CALL ME CRUEL... AND NASTY. I DON'T THINK THAT WAS VERY NICE. I’M A PRETTY GOOD GUY ONCE YOU GET TO KNOW ME.

“So... I'm going to die? For... INSULTING YOU?”

YES. THAT IS PRETTY MUCH IT.

The husband figured that this wouldn't be a good time to mention that he felt a little light-headed and his feet were getting cold. He was pretty sure that this was something to do with him dying.

“Well, then how do I die?”

WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

“If I'm to die, I need a reason. People just don’t go around dying for no good reason. I don’t have a reason to die. I’m healthy.”

THERE ARE OTHER WAYS OF DYING.

“Such as?”

WELL, YOU COULD BE STABBED.

“By who?”

SOME ONE WITH A KNIFE.

The husband thought that this would be pretty obvious.

“I don't want to be stabbed.”

YOU DO NOT GET TO CHOOSE HOW YOU DIE, I DO.

“Pick another one.”

FINE. HOW ABOUT BEING RUN OVER?

“Too messy.”

ANIMAL ATTACK?

“Nope.”

The husband felt his abdomen was feeling a little chilly.

HOW ABOUT FALLING OFF A CLIFF?

“What cliff?”

By now, Death was getting annoyed. This woman asked to be killed, then refused to and now wants to choose the way in which she died. Most just died with fear and got over it.

THEN FEAR. YOU CAN ALWAYS DIE OF FEAR.

“But I'm not afraid.”

THEN YOU COULD FALL AND BREAK SOMETHING... AND, WELL, PUNCTURE YOUR HEART.

“Not graceful enough.”

Death was, by this point, getting very annoyed. He just remembered that he was to meet Pestilence at a quaint little café in the 21st century. This woman was taking too long. Death looked at his watch. He was going to run late if this kept up any longer.

By now the husband felt rather dead, which was odd because he wasn't.

THEN YOU COULD DROWN.

“And become all bloated and ugly? Ew, no.”

HOW ABOUT A HEART ATTACK?

“My heart is fine and it just sounds so violent.”

There was a pause as he tried to think of something.

A WILD ANIMAL... WITH A DISEASE.

“What kind of wild animal?”

A WOLF?

“We're in town.”

IT IS DISEASED, IT WOULD NOT MATTER.

He was now five minutes late. Pestilence liked people who were on time. Death liked being on time, he was a very punctual person.

I AM LATE. THE WAY IN WHICH YOU DIE DOES NOT REALLY MATTER IN THE END. YOU ALL END UP IN THE SAME PLACE ANYWAYS.

Deciding that he was late enough, he ended it.

Breath is Life

2007-03-01T20:13:00.000-08:00

This is the third essay. It is on Gudard's Breathless (French, 1959, I think). Good movie.
...

In Gudard’s film, Breathless, the characters mimic famous Hollywood stars, losing their identity and who they are. Michel, despite all he tries, is not Humphrey Bogart. Humphrey Bogart is only cool in movies. Once Michel tries to become the living characters that Humphrey Bogart plays, he cheapens his existence. He gets bored, hates it and wants to run away. Patricia, even though she does not imitate anyone, is also alike Michel in that way. She, too, is acting. From the beginning, she was not quite so Hollywood, but then as she and Michel are near each other, it grows on her. By the end of the film, she and Michel are akin.

Because Michel tries so hard to do what he wants, when he wants and not care about what happens because of what he does, he condemns himself. Whether to a miserable existence, jail or death, his fate is to end up unhappy. From the start of the film, the audience watches him hijack a car, kill a policeman and steal money. In life, killing a policeman would hardly be exciting or interesting. In Hollywood, it would be dramatic and exhilarating. In Breathless, it is quick, confusing and boring. Michel takes out the gun, shoots and runs. Despite how much Michel tries to live as though in the movies, he lives in the real world. If he shoots a man, the man gets shot. No dramatic gunfights or witty quips or intense pauses.

In life, people take a lot of time to move from one place to another. This is the same for Michel. He may act like Bogart, but life is life and he’s forced to take the time to walk, drive and live. Whenever the intense, dramatic music, usually reserved for the intense dramatic scenes, plays, Michel is walking or driving.

Patricia is not reckless, but she is not innocent. She plays the part of the femme fatale. Not a particularly sly and deviously cunning one, but for Michel’s case, she is one. She plays the part of the American student who wants to be a writer. She cannot run off, or she looses her money and is forced back home. Michel is given a hard decision: Patricia or Italy. Michel dearly wants to leave Paris, but if he does, he loses Patricia.

Patricia becomes affected by Michel’s reckless behaviour. She allows herself to be absorbed into Michel’s life. It is a subtle occurrence, but she does begin to pick up Michel’s habits, such as his three exaggerated emotions motion. She does not want to pick Michel. She does not want to love Michel. That is why she informs on him, even though she does not like informers. Because this is life and in life, people do things that are unexplainable, she does inform. She, like Michel, has two choices: Michel or not. She did not pick him, and that meant she needed to inform on him.
Michel’s death scene is not Hollywood. Even in death, Michel cannot achieve that blissful status he wanted so badly. His life was filled with Bogart’s lip move and thoughtless behaviour. He is not what he used to be. He is not quite so human anymore. He is sub-human because he poses Bogart. When he dies, he has no harsh and tender moments with Patricia. He gets shot, he runs and he dies. Patricia stands over him with her indescribable expression. The policeman even repeats his dying words incorrectly. His last words and they are wrong.

Patricia then repeats his Bogart move.

Imitation is cheap. Michel and Patricia are two people cheapened by Hollywood hype. Michel began to hate his life, thoughtless behaviour was getting him nowhere and tried to run. When he tried to run, his past problems caught up to him and killed him. Hollywood and Bogart cheapened his existence to the point where he died.

Dig a Deeper Grave

2007-03-01T18:56:00.000-08:00

This is a (pretty good) essay on Harry Lyme from The Third Man, played by Orson Welles. I loved Harry (I like Welles) a lot. So, for film class, I wrote this two page essay on him (instead of a really long essay on the whole movie).

The Third Man was directed by Carroll Reed, is British and from 1949.
...

A British ‘noir’, The Third Man contains inventive film shots and intriguing set to explain the antagonist: Harry Lyme (Orson Welles). It takes place in Vienna, after the WWII. Due to the bombings, the city filled with rubble. Using the city’s rubble and maze-like sewage system, Carroll Reed enhances Harry’s mental disposition. Not only that, but the way in which he twists the camera so the shots themselves become askew, also enhances the movie. Besides rubble and rubbish, the music further perplexes the audience. A zither for a noir background is uncommonly pleasing. It is peppy and out of place among murders and threats.

Whenever something seems to be going wrong or Harry Lyme is mentioned, the screen tilts. We first see it tilt when Holly finds out that his best buddy, Harry Lyme, is dead. Not only is the shot tilted, but we are looking up at the man telling this horrid news. The next time we see this tilted-shot is when Holly and Anna talk to each other. The topic of choice is, of course, Harry. Whenever Holly is close to learning a clue about Holly, such as when they are talking to the porter, the screen goes back to that familiar tilt. This tilting would most likely be, because, the truth about Harry is what everyone thinks. It shows an inner turmoil in Holly. He does not believe that Harry is dead, so whenever a clue or the subject of him comes up, the truth bends.

The rubble, too, is akin to what Harry has become. According to Holly, we get the understanding that Harry would not sell bad medicine plainly for money. The rubble and Harry made each other. Because of the bad life in Vienna, Harry began a less honest way of work. Then again, Harry also ruined lives, turned them into rubble. Harry and the rubble are the same, brothers. By the time Holly arrives in Vienna, Harry’s life is in complete disarray, just like the city.

The sewage system, too, is also like Harry. Harry’s life is neither straightforward nor clean. The Vienna sewage is a maze. There are so many entrances and turns and rooms. Harry has many faces. The one he shows Holly or Anna and many others. He was both a friend to Holly and his antagonist. He was Anna’s lover and her condemner. He is dead and alive. Holly knew him as a friend, but when they took the Ferris wheel ride together, it dawned on Holly that the old Harry he knew and befriended was not particularly alive anymore. Instead, there was a cold criminal. To Anna, Holly loved her. He was her benefactor. He gave her a passport, even if it was fake. But he also turned her in to the police. Harry took away his gift. Harry was supposed dead. He would have remained so if Holly did not come around. Once Holly arrived in Vienna, Harry was alive. Holly refused to believe either that Holly was dead or that Holly was not murdered. Holly resurrected Harry.

Despite the seriousness of the happenings in the movie, the zither music is light-hearted and happy. Instead of feeling intense, the audience feels as though nothing is important. Anna’s passport is found fraud, cheerful zither. Holly is being chased by an angry mob, peppy zither. It is as though we are hearing the world through Harry’s ears. Harry is sarcastic, dry and witty. While he may talk about something death-defying serious, he jokes. During the Ferris ride, he mocks Anna and love. He mocks peace and human compassion. Harry Lyme is bitter, cynical man and he sells flawed medicine with zither music in his head. He even dies to it.

The Third Man, for all its seriousness, it is oddly twisted. Even though Harry is the antagonist and only appears at about the last quarter, the movie reflects his feelings, thoughts and being.

The Mark of M

2007-03-01T18:07:00.000-08:00

This is a (bad) essay on the movie, M. I am taking a film class, currently, so I thought I might as well (procrastinate and) post this. This one is not very good, seeing how I wrote it over the period of a month or two. It is six pages.

M is a wonderful movie by Fritz Lang. It is German and from 1931.
...

The German murder movie, M, directed by Fritz Lang, was a breach between German expressionism and film noir. It was made in 1931, after WWI and during the depression. The movie showed dark aspects from the times (i.e. – run-down building, a surplus of beggars and a lack of fathers) and the earlier expressionism. Unlike German expressionism, the set is not warped and twisted to fit the story, but closer to that of noir. Both noir and German expressionism uses shadows as a way to express certain feelings or amplify an idea. Unlike noir, the main character is not trying to find something, as is the norm of noir themes. Instead, it the movie is displayed like a documentary, points out how occurrences like murders is entertainment and brings attention to sound in moving pictures.

The opening of the movie sets the tone well, there are children, in a circle, playing in a yard. They’re playing a murder game, where a child spins around and around and around in the middle and point to another to leave it, becoming one of the murdered, all while singing a song that goes with the game. At the time of creation, sound was a new and wonderful thing. Unlike our movies today, M, rarely gives background music and hands out lots of silent bouts. Even before we see the children playing, we hear the children songs of murder. These children standing in a circle are a hint as to what the movie is about. At this point in plot, only children are being eliminated (by our Hans Beckert). In only the first minute of the movie, we get two themes: sound and elimination.

A mother tells the children to stop singing that horrific song (which the children ignores) and we skip over to see a girl playing in front of a warning pasted onto a pillar. She blithely ignores it; the warning tells of a child-murderer and to be careful. As the shot rests on the warning, we see a man’s shadow splay across the words. This shadow-play is reminiscent in noir cinematography. The shadow draws our eyes to the words mörder (German for murderer). Even though we cannot tell who the man is, the words tell us what he is. Such shadow-play creates a suspense (of who this murderer is) and gives us our first introduction to what will be the main character. It sets up the plot wonderfully for the audience, our first scene is of children playing a murder game, our second scene is of a child being murdered.

The movie now moves over to a mother wondering about her child, calling out to her down the stairs (as an audience, we can grimly guess and can only wait until our dark presumptions are confirmed). A man comes by her apartment and tries to sell her a shilling shocker of a new chapter in a murder novel, which she promptly buys. This is all done purposefully. Lang points out how murder is displayed as entertainment and propaganda (to buy papers). We, the audience, is plainly watching a movie about a murderer which is a reference to a murderer from a year or two before. When the mother calls for her child (Elsie, whom we know, by now, that she is truly deceased), we are given a handful of clips of stairs and clothes hanging to dry. This gives in to the ‘documentary look’ of the movie, making it reference, yet again, to murder as entertainment.

After the mother’s distressing calls disappear, the jarring call of young newspaper boys ring out. Someone in the crowd asks who is the murderer. Directly after that, we see a man writing by the window. Right away, we learn he is the murderer. Not only because of the note he was writing, but because of the more subtle clue from the last sentence spoken. Also, we can recognise it as the murderer because of the whistling. The audience now starts to associate the murderer to the whistling. The first time we legitimately saw him, he was taking Elsie with him. Now, as he writes the letter to the press, he whistles. This also brings up the recurring theme of sound.

Now the audience watches a crowd reading a notice on the news boards. It is a reward for informers. This goes back to Lang’s point that murders are sold off as entertainment by newspapers. The crowd is not so much as concerned citizens as horrified readers.

In mid-sentence, the scene cuts to the head policemen reading the newspaper notice out loud. They are sitting in a circle, which is yet another recurring theme. Just like the children, the full circle is broken.

Cutting a few scenes, we get back to the newspapers. A newspaper has printed the murderer’s, Beckert’s, letter. The newspaper was sure to print it. What more could boost their sales than a letter written by a murderer currently ‘popular’? Not only is their murder-is-entertainment as a point here, Lang also shows the detective process for seeing who wrote the letter. The documentary feel pops up again as the audience is sees the fingerprints, detective science and graphology. As the graphologist speaks of what the handwriting tells of the person who wrote it, we watch as Beckert makes faces in the mirror, bringing image to what the graphologist is saying. Then, while the police chief is talking of how taxing the manhunt is on his men, we are shown a series of examples on just how tired the policemen really are and what they are doing to find Becket. Leading again to a documentary feel. As he continues the talk about widening the search for the killer, a map of the area is shown and the town is circumscribed several times, giving us more circles.

The police raid one of the underground clubs, and they do so in complete silence. There is no background music or talking or sounds of cars and people. It brings a greatly noticeable attention to the heavy silence and when a whistle and car horns pierce through the silence, they are more harsh and prominent than otherwise.

The policemen search the people in the underground bar (arresting many), display all the weapons, flasks, cutlery and other objects they confiscated. How they display the items mirrors documentaries and how they display items.

After the police raid, the movie cuts to the head criminals. They’re waiting for the Safekeeper. The four of them sit down at the table, creating an almost circle. This, yet again, brings back the circles. The Safekeeper finally comes, completing the circle. While Safekeeper talks, the scene continuously cuts to the policemen talking about the same thing. Every time a man talks, he stands up, breaking the circle. When he is done, he sits back down and someone else breaks the circle. Both parties want to stop Beckert and want to find him first, bring their own justice on the man. Even though the police and the criminals are on the opposite sides, they both agree that Beckert must be caught, no matter what.

The criminals decide to use beggars as a way to find Beckert. The audience is given a show of cigarettes and cigars, metals, food and cards. Yet again, reminiscent of a documentary.

The policemen have a list of people they suspect. Lang shows us the papers, slowly, making sure the audience can take a good, long look at it. This is another documentary-type shot.

Beckert walks up to a window and we see him through the shop. The glass reflects what is being displayed (murder weapons, knives, mostly). Some fo the knives form a box and it frames him. In a mirror in the display, he spies a girl. She also is framed by these knives. Not only is the murderer and victim is framed by weapons, but the display also has the hint of a documentary feel. As Beckert moves to stalk the girl, the whistling resumes.

After a beggar recognises his trademark whistling, Beckert finds a girl, buys her candy and ends up being followed. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a knife. That causes a moment of suspense. We put the three (Beckert, little girl and knife) together and momentarily believe he is going to hurt her. However, he begins to peel a fruit. The tracker pretends to trip, marking Beckert with the M. Lang ends the shot by zooming in to Beckert’s newfound trademark.

The audience already knows that Beckert is the murderer, but the police are far behind both the criminals and the viewers. We are given another documentary shot when the police find Beckert’s red pencil and where he wrote his letters to the newspapers.

The girl finally spots Beckert’s M and promptly tells him he has something on his shoulder. We are then given a spectacular shot of Beckert looking at his shoulder in the mirror. The people stalking Beckert realise their ruse is up and begin whistling to each other. The sounds are piercing and are audibly blatant. This, yet again, brings attention to sound.

The men continue to stalk Beckert and the shot widens up. We are given an aerial view of the streets as the men try and corner Beckert. This is a common shot used in noir. The characters look small and insignificant in the large city. A fire truck passes by, creating a clamour, bringing more attention to sound. We are given a look around the rooftops and one particular shot reminisces to The Casket of Dr Caligari. Bells toll and loud horns and many people are heard. The second attention brought to sound in the scene.

The next scene is of the criminals breaking and searching for Beckert. It is the most extensive documentary example. We are given a run-through of how the criminals break through the building (and into every office). A man trying to figure out how to bypass the alarm system hears a taping. This is Beckert, trying to get through the locked door. This is yet another sound example. By now, Beckert’s shots have gone from open streets to a storage room, to an even smaller storage space. In an attempt of trying to not to be found, he shrinks deeper into the stuff. As he gets closer to being caught, the space he occupies shrinks until there is nothing left to shrink into. That is when he is caught. After they finally apprehend Beckert and hurriedly run off, the building is empty and we see the damage done. Guards tied up, broken doors, a smashed storage space and a nice circle through a ceiling, which brings us to the police arriving at the scene a few hours late as usual (although it does tie the two scenes together cleanly).

Beckert is brought forth to the criminal underground for a hearing. We find a gigantic crowd staring at us, the audience. There is complete silence. The Safekeeper holds up pictures of the killed children, and as he brings the pictures down, we see the crowd staring at us.

From smoking to open streets, M has aspects to it that are noir. The way it is filmed is closer to noir, but it is not. It has still yet to abandon expressionism. The story and the way it is presented holds roots in expressionism. M is the branch between the two genres. It also holds importance to sound and how murder is entertainment. To hold up that murder is entertainment, scenes are played out as though it was a documentary.

The Sacrificing Brother (A. Cain Arlini)

2007-01-21T13:35:00.000-08:00

There was a chink, the sound of ice moving in a glass. The room was lit respectively, it was not too bright nor too dark. There were no windows in the dining room and if there were, the sight was not worth the look. The room was, like the rest of the house, decorated with reds, off-whites, creams and browns. It was finely dressed and not pompously rich. The room showed the owner to be rich, the kind that was not to be flaunted, but also not to be hidden. Every object in the dining room had a purpose and there was not much art.

A. Cain Arlini was not a man for the arts. He did not care for paintings or play, and certainly not musicals. He did dabble in a book or two, but they never struck a fancy or even a chord. Cain was just a man. Cain also had a very peculiar interest in pulps. While his brother, Abele, read books avidly, watched plays with awe and listened to concerts in rapture, Cain found solace in horror comics. He kept that fact hidden.

The inhabitants of the dining table was an older man, who sat at the head and had a pepper-and-salt mixed with chestnut clean-cut and short hair, an older woman, who was black-haired and devoid of wrinkles and also sat across from the older man, and two men, who were in-between their 20s and 30s. The man was the Father of Cain and Abele. He was highly respected, and also highly feared. His name was Adem and he ran mostly illegal businesses (and a very nice theatre for opera, which they had named The Globe). The woman was the Mother of Cain and Abele and her name was Ava. She ran the opera most of the time and was the reason why they owned the theatre. She had a relentless love for opera. The two last men were, to lightly put it, very special. The one on the right hand of Adem was Abele. He had darker brown hair and the same colour eyes. The one on the left side of Adem was Cain. He had the same colour hair as his father and his eyes were the same brown. Abele’s hair looked soft, the cut made him look kinder than his brother, who’s hair formed horn-like flips. This made Cain look imposing and devilish, which made Abele look like a victim when near him. They both were the same height and almost the same weight. Abele was skinnier by default and it gave him a look of incompleteness. Cain was more filled out, but he was not portly. None of them were, in any way, overweight or chubby. Despite what most people thought, they were not twins. Cain was a year older than Abele. Abele’s leg was bandaged and, if one looked closer, he had several small cuts. Cain tended to look at his brother menacingly from time to time. The reason was because Abele would not be silent.

“If you insist, youngest son, then we might indeed see the opera. Zukerman, that would be the Arianna the papers have been gibbering about these days, will be our lead soprano. The Globe is showing Tosca.” Ava said. Abele was about to mention something happily when the cook came out, followed by four waiters, to announce that dinner has begun. They were treated to Cain’s favourite dish: softly roasted lamb, cooked spinach, whipped potatoes and a mushroom sauce. It was always divine. Disobedient or rotten cooks lost hands, if they were lucky, and cooking a dinner for the Mother and the Father of Cain and Abele was the worst time of the year for the cooks. Cain made sure to personally visit the kitchens to announce that his parents were coming and that the food was to be perfectly celestial. The cooks did not dare to try and quit then. They had heard the stories of bits and pieces of arms or legs found in waste bins. Cain did not like pressure and finding a magnificent cook on short notice entered his list of ‘pressure’. After the cook announced, fairly bluntly, on what the dish was, the waiters strode forward and placed their dished in front of each person.

“I shall now allow the masters and mistress to dine,” the cook said and left. If one looked closely, they could have noticed the small shaking in his legs.

Adem looked at his dish, teasingly amused, “I suspect that this is all you eat, oldest son? This is all you ever serve us.” Abele smiled and nodded in agreement. He received a small kick underneath the table; he made no movement, he did not dare to show to their parents any thing such as fighting.

Cain, pretending to be amused, answered, “It is a fine dish, father. It is both respectable, but not pretentious. I have found that a superb lamb is hard to find and this is a perfect dish to show off my cooks’ skills. Do not worry, though, we will certainly not be dining on the same dish every night.”

Abele, muttering under his breath, said, “Every day would be better… There is breakfast and lunch, of course.” Cain arched an eyebrow at his brother.

“Did you say something, brother? Is something not to your liking?” he said, there was an undertone warning.

“O-of course not, brother. The lamb is d-divine. I love it. I was c-complimenting on the dish.”

“I do hope so, brother.” Cain took a sip of his red wine. There was a small silence, except for the chinking of silverware on good china.

“I was saying, Abele, the Globe will be showing Tosca. Perhaps we ought to go this week?” she offered. Abele and Adem nodded. Cain was neutral.

“I have yet to see this Zukerman. I have heard that she is outstanding,” Adem said. “When is the best time to see it, dear wife?” Abele looked from his father to his mother as they discussed the times that were best to view the opera. He avoided his brother’s gaze; he knew that they were not benevolent and kind looks.

“I would like to do it this week, if that does not displease you, my oldest son. It would be a nice family outing,” said Adem. Cain politely bowed his head slightly.

“No, it would not displease me at all, father. When would be the best showing, mother?” he said. Ava gave a pause, thinking. Abele ate his potatoes and ate around the lamb. He always felt bad eating lamb. He did not really care about the animal itself, but he just had an inner, distinct feeling that when his brother served lamb, something was not right.

“The weekend is never the best, of course. That is when all the commoners come. Today is Wednesday, so they do not play tonight. There is no time, anyways. They do play tomorrow. Do you have anything for use planned, dear older son?” Ava replied and asked. Cain remained control of his face, but his hand was white-knuckled. He had planned on them to see a play. His family did not take well to plays, but adored operas and musicals. He never minded operas, only when they were obstructing something far more interesting. In this case, the play was on outside and natural rendition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was to be done without costume and only natural sets. There were the necessary masks, of course, and the natural lighting. He was quite looking forward to it. It was like his brother to ruin his brilliant plans.

“No, mother. I did not have anything special planned for tomorrow. If you wish, we shall go.” He responded. Silently and mentally he was hitting his brother over and over again.

“Good. Tomorrow, then.” Ava concluded. She gave a nod, and asked for a pardon. She was tired and full. Cain gave her pardon. Adem, Abele and Cain silently ate for a while. Adem then asked for a pardon and left to join his wife. Cain glared across the table at his brother. Abele looked down.

“S-sorry… b-b-brother.” He said.

Cain continued to glare at him. Awkwardly and ashamed, he began to eat his lamb. Cain picked up his knife and Abele automatically gave a small flinch. Cain slammed his fist down onto the table. Abele stared at his brother. Cain sat like that for a while, trying to control himself. He was forced to not harm his brother for the whole of the week. Abele looked down at his lap and stared at it intently. One of the lesser cooks came out to take the plates. He gingerly took Adem’s and Ava’s. He did not come back. The moment broke and Cain dropped the knife onto the table. He sighed with exhaustion. “Go, dear brother.” He leaned back in his chair while Abele scurried off. Cain stood up with effort and lumbered towards his quarters.

He changed into his favourite pyjamas (black and warm) and lay in bed for a long time. He finally closed his eyes and slept.

It was day. He was sitting, nay, kneeling on grassy land. His hands were wet with blood and his eyes were closed. He felt a presence. It was not the person beside him and it was no ordinary presence. It was, he supposed, The Presence. Then the person beside him spoke and he groaned internally. He opened his eyes slowly as the person beside him waved and said, “Wot’s… er… your name?”. It was Abele. Cain elbowed him, hard. The angel stared at Abele.

“Are you daft, brother? Who the hell do you think he is? He’s the Metatron,” Cain said. Abele looked at his brother, confused.

“Who’s that?” Abele asked. Cain glared at him. Even though they never read the Bible, on principle (for it gave them the shivers), they did learn Christian mythology.

“Shut up,” he retorted. The angel looked from one to the other. He looked fairly bored and extremely annoyed. Cain felt he understood.

The angel rolled his eyes and began to speak: I AM THE VOICE OF GOD. (“Oh, said Abele quietly and received a glare from his brother). GOD THANKS YOU, ABEL, FOR YOUR GIFT. HE ACCEPTS IT GLADLY.

The angel bowed and looked as though he was going to take off. “Hey now! Wait a minute. What about mine?” Cain asked. He was not just going to allow his present, whatever it was, to be ignored.

The Metatron looked at him momentarily, as though thinking of what to say. This made Cain a little uncomfortable. That, then made him a little scared. He hardly felt uncomfortable or scared. Finally, He (despite that the he in question was, in fact, genderless) spoke again: GOD DOES NOT ACCEPT YOUR GIFT, CAYN. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

Cain stared as the angel flew off. His gift was not accepted? What was better about Abele’s gift? He looked over at the stone slab which held their gifts. Cain was a slab of cut meat, from what it looked like. Abele’s was plainly a lamb that was slaughtered. Did God prefer whole lamb? Cain felt his anger rise like never before. The more he thought upon it, the more it rose. He could not temper and cool it. In the background, off miles away, he heard a stammering apology. Cain spied the knife he used in front of him. Without thought, he grabbed it. He rose and faced his brother, who was beginning to back away. Cain took a step closer. His brother fell. Cain screamed and lunged forward with the knife. He was blind and deaf in anger.

Cain was confused. In front of him stood his brother. His brother stared at him, surprised. Cain noticed that he was sitting up. He also noticed that his fist was a centimetre away from Abele’s head. Cain regained his composure. “What is it that you want, dear brother?” His brother wrung his hands.

“W-well, the servants were busy with our mother and father. I th-thought you might want to get up.” Abele looked down.

“Yes... well, thank you then. Leave, I need to change” Cain said slowly. Abele left quickly and thankful that his brother did not strike him. He was trying to remember a dream he had. He was fairly certain that he had heard it before. He shook his head. He found that the dream was slipping away into his subconscious and sneaking out the door into forgetfulness. By the time he was standing in front of his bureau and putting on his trousers, he could only faintly recall that he had a disturbing dream and nothing more.

Cain looked over at the clock on his bedside table and rolled his eyes. It was 6 a.m. Cain always awoke at 8 a.m. Sometimes he woke up later, but he would lay there, thinking, or read or listen to the servants talking. Cain loved laying there in the morning, basking in the pause of time before he would be forced to work and play politic games. Abele had taken that away from him today. Abele had taken away a lot of things today. First the outside and ‘natural’ theatre and now his lounging time. Cain knew this was not going to be a good day. He stood, staring, at his rack of ties, picking up one, placing it back and nodding his head. He wanted to, if anything, wear one of his favourite ties today. He finally found what he wanted and walked over to the mirror, tied it and left, smiling.

The tie was black with a red tear-shaped drop bordered with white.

A/N: This took a long time to do. I ran into homework (well, I was on vacation before; I miss it) and school and I kept watching movies instead of working (this week was Pirates of the Caribbean, both movies, and Nosferatu). So it got put on hold. I was in the middle of the dinner conversation and it probably seemed a little boring compared to the movies I was watching, so I kept saying 'after this movie'. Anyways, I finally sat down yesterday and today and finished it off.

I did the big 'author no-no' and copy-pasted, haha. I wanted to keep the dreams the same, just from different perspectives. I hope it wasn't too boring. I think it's because I love that dream way too much. I love the Metatron; he is based off of Alan Rickman's performance in Dogma. My dad (who is, basically, my editor) looked at me while he was reading and asked 'Have I seen this before?'. I told him it was from The Sacrificial Brother and he responded with 'Oh'. The fact that is seemed very familiar, but not so familiar as to directly correlate with my previous story is very amusing. I wanted that to happen. I wanted to make them seem as though they could have come from anywhere (or anytime).

The Sacrificial Brother (Abele Arlini)

2007-01-09T13:57:00.000-08:00

A bird fluttered down by the window on Abele Arlini’s New York-styled apartment. The apartment was on one of the upper floors, the eighth, to be precise. There were nine levels. There were only two other rooms that were in use on the eighth floor and no one questioned about the ninth. There was not a lot in Abele’s apartment. The living room was currently a mess, the reason was obvious. A table was overturned and the couch was sliced. Old bullet marks splattered the walls. A chair was broken and forgotten about, the leg was somewhere unknown. The sole lamp was in a corner, smashed, and looked as though it was thrown. There were no lights except for the sun from the window. There were two windows looking into the room, but one had been long-smashed (most likely by a bullet or five) and the occupant of the apartment had boarded it up. The room had a general look of unlived in, not because the occupant was busy and away, but because the occupant had long since learned that anything nice and decorative would be a waste of money.
The bird on the windowsill cawed, denoting it as to be a carrion bird of some sort. “Not dead yet,” said a sniffled voice behind the mangled couch. There was another sob when a hand reached up to the couch and the man stood up, with difficulty. The wall behind the man was covered in blood, with good reason. Abele stumbled from the couch to the wall and entered his room, where he kept the bandages. A wide streak of blood was painted at thigh-length on the wall. When Abele sat down on his bed, a pool formed. His left leg received the most attention from the knife. An arm, a bit of his chest and his face had also received some small gashes or two. His face had begun puffing up from being hit by the handle of a knife.
The gash had finally ruined the faded-to-nondescript-coloured pants. Abele dug underneath the bed and produced a first aid kit. He proceeded to take of the pants, with painful difficulty. His eyes watered a lot in the effort. Abele was not fond of pain, to his never-ending despair. He took out a pad and wiped as much excess blood as he could. He took out a leathered stick, a needle and a cat-gut thread. He put the leathered stick in his mouth and threaded the needle. He began to sew up his wound. The bird outside the window was given a chorus of whimpers and sobs, a period of silence (from Abele regaining his composure) and then another chorus. It finally ended and the bird cawed out and left for something tasty.
With his leg finally sewn and bandaged, Abele tended to some of the lesser wounds. He decided against putting on a different pair of pants, but put on boxers. He walked back into the living room and then to the kitchen. Abele dug into the refrigerator and at the back in some corner, he found a piece of meat. He held it to the right side of his face. He also found a glass in some cupboard and poured sink water into it. He sipped it with care as he sat at the mangled couch in the living room. For a while he sat there silently, but a knock finally sounded from the door. Abele looked fearfully at the door but the knocker called out that it was just Ana. Abele limped to the door and let her in.
Ana was, to put it bluntly, an old crone. She had assumed the role of babushka on the floor, but she wasn’t really Russian. Abele never questioned where she came from and the only time he had entered her apartment made him guilty when he asked where Mr Ana was. When he had peaked into her room, out of small curiosity, he found a shrine to a middle-aged man and a strapping young man. Abele did not question on her family, ever. He did not even know her last name. Everyone called her Ana or some form of Mother from different languages or homelands. She was shrunken and bent, like all old crones, and held a firm and caring face. She was not the grandmother who spoiled or the elderly who scorned the young. She would scold the foolish but bandage their wounds. She did have a head-scarf and shawl, which amplified the elderly lady feel. Abele was ever-grateful to her for all she has done for him.
Ana tsk-ed at his bandaging job. “I bet you didn’t even wash off your leg properly.” She went into his kitchen and grabbed the rag and a bowl of water. She placed the bowl on the floor and unwrapped his shoddy bandage. She washed off the wound which had slowed down to a small ooze here and there. She sighed sadly, “You always get the brunt of his anger, poor Abele. The Irish-folk will be having a dinner tonight. They asked me to extend the offer to you. Cabbage, potatoes and a nice hearty and heavy drink. Father Abbán’s son, Aidan, you never met him, but he had a bonus at his workplace. They’re celebrating while they can.”
Abele nodded, “I don’t have any more food. I would like to come, if they have enough.”
Ana stood up, “There, done. I see that your sewing has improved. It is much better than the last one. You better change and I will find my old crutch. I must get back to my cleaning.” She spied the smear on the wall. “You better clean that up. Ah, and do you have any more wash for me? You must have. You always do.”
“They ruined my pants, but the sheets need to be cleaned. I've got blood on them again.” He added a sorry after he saw the look on Ana’s face.
“Don’t give me this apology, Abele. You have no apology to give. You do not have another pair of sheets, I expect? The Irish-folk may be able to spare one.”
“Oh, no. I can sleep without sheets. I don’t want to bother the Irish-folk.” Abele looked down at his feet. He didn’t like getting help like sheets and clothes and food from others. The sheets and clothing tend to get ruined before he could give them back.
“I will get you the crutch. The Irish-folk can give you the sheets after dinner. Bring your dirty ones to me and you might as well bring the pants. No waste in cloth. We will make more rags or bandages from.” She left his flat.
Abele sighed and went into his bedroom, where he stripped the bed. He dug into the chipped dresser and found another pair of muddled pants. He gathered up the pants and limped out of the apartment. He entered the apartment two doors down to the right of his. He placed the sheets in the hamper by the door and placed the pants on a chair. He looked around, waiting for the crutch so he could leave the flat. Ana appeared carrying his crutch and accepted it nervously. He had an inkling that this belonged to the young man in the shrine. He bowed slightly and said ‘thanks’. He left quickly, hoping to not rub off more of his bad luck onto her.
Abele returned to his apartment. He dumped out the dirty, red water that was left in the bowl and filled it up with new water. He began to clean off the wall. He was forced to abandon the crutch for a while, in order to clean up the blood sprinkles on the floor that trailed off to the bedroom. He picked up the needle that he had used and plopped it into the bowl and carried it all to the sink. He washed the needle and bowl. After he was finished, he limped over to the couch and slept awkwardly.
Abele awoke to a knock. He began to sit up when the door burst open. A relatively tall and very thick man walked in. The door had flown off its hinges for not the first time. The man stood aside as a taller, thinner and much smarter looking man entered the room. There were a lot of similarities between this man and Abele. For one, they were about the same age. They both had the same eyes, were the same height (except that Abele hunched and this man stood straight) and had the same facial features. Abele had a softer look about him while this man looked harsh. The main reason was the clothing style. This man had a suit. Abele had what was once a suit, but was now merely indescribably clothing. This man had finely combed hair, which was brushed back and naturally formed a sort of horned look to him. Abele just had hair.
“Hullo, brother,” said Abele. He sat silently after that. The man stared at him harshly.
“I suppose it is too much to tell you not to call me that. No matter, you will dine with me, tonight.” The man said. Abele gulped.
“I-is it too much to a-ask why?” Abele said. The man smiled, almost darkly.
“Why should I not dine with my one and only brother on occasion? Do I need a reason to embrace my fellow kin and offer him a seat at my table?” The man looked as though he excepted an answer. He got none, except for a look down. Abele was sure that whatever he answered with would only irk his brother. “Perhaps my dear and only brother does not wish to dine with me?” the man said.
“O-oh, I would l-love to dine with you, brother,” Abele said. The man’s smile grew even darker.
“Lovely. You will come with me. My servants will dress and wash you properly.” Abele stood up, leaning on the crutch, and walked forward. “You will leave that here.” Abele obeyed and place it on the couch and hobbled forward. A different man from the one who forced through the door stepped forward and Abele leaned on him. They walked out into the hall and towards the stairs to the exclusive ninth floor. A young man across from Ana’s flat had looked out and watched Abele go up the stairs. He went back inside his apartment and told his father that Abele will not be able to join them tonight and to forget about the sheets for a while.
Abele was dumped into a bath and properly washed off. His cuts and bruises were given salves. His leg was given a finer dressing. His puffed cheek had gone down considerably. His hair was combed and he was given a new and shiny suit. He was also given a fine wooden crutch with comfortable padding. He almost looked presentable if it wasn’t for the rabbit-in-the-fox-den look. The servants shoved Abele out of the washroom and closed the door. He looked around to see if his brother wanted to give him anymore orders and found none. He limped off to his room. He stood in the doorway and looked behind him. He relaxed a little and entered the room.
Abele had not been back to his room for almost a month. He inspected his bookshelf, desk, dresser and bed, making sure nothing was touched. Nobody but the dust-maid had entered the room. No one wanted to. Abele sat on his bed and laid there. After a few minutes, his brother knocked on the door. Abele responded quickly with a ‘come in’. His brother entered the room and closed the door. Abele stiffened and stared at the closed door.
“Why such the look, brother? I will not harm you here,” Abele’s brother said. Abele sniffed, almost wanting to sob.
“B-but you always hurt me, brother.” Abele did not look at his brother as he said this.
“Oh, but I will never hurt you here, dear brother. This is your room.” Abele looked as though he was going to say something, but his brother stopped him. “I did not come here to bicker with you. Mother and father are coming here tonight. It would do you best if, as always, you did not mention our little… ah, squabbles.” Abele nodded sadly. “Good... You will stay here for a week and then you may return to your filthy flat.” Abele’s brother nodded and turned to leave the room but Abele stopped him.
“What will be tonight’s dinner?” he asked. His brother looked back at him but did not turn to face him.
“Lamb,” he said and left.
Abele continued to lay there, staring up at the ceiling. Normally he would read or write in his diary, but he did not have the energy. He dozed off and fell into the dream-world. The dream disturbed Abele. He and his brother were wearing tunics and they were shepherds. They were both happily friendly. One day, on the first of spring, they went to a hill each with offerings to a god (or, as Abele though, maybe the God). They stood at the stone and both killed their offerings of a lamb a piece. To Abele’s surprise, his brother took some of the better pieces of meat and placed them into a cloth. He then wrapped the grisly meat in the fat. Abele merely killed his lamb. They said their prayer to their god. There was a flurry of feathers and wings and Abele, no longer able to bear it, looked in front of him. There stood a man with white wings.
“Er... hullo?” Abele said. The angel looked down at him. Abele waved. The angel arched an eyebrow. “Wot’s... er... your name?” Abele asked. The angel stared at him dubiously. His brother elbowed Abele in the ribs.
“Are you daft, brother? Who the hell do you think he is? He’s the Metatron,” said Abele’s brother.
“Who’s that?” Abele asked his brother.
“Shut up,” said his brother.
The angel rolled his eyes and began to speak: I AM THE VOICE OF GOD. (“Oh, said Abele quietly and received a glare from his brother). GOD THANKS YOU, ABEL, FOR YOUR GIFT. HE ACCEPTS IT GLADLY.
The angel bowed and looked as though he was going to take off. “Hey now! Wait a minute. What about mine?” Abele’s brother asked.
The Metatron looked at him momentarily, as though thinking of what to say. He spoke again: GOD DOES NOT ACCEPT YOUR GIFT, CAYN. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.
The angel bowed and left quickly, so as not to answer another question. He had a lot of things to do, mainly sort out that nasty list of who had Fallen and who had stayed in Heaven. Abele and his brother watched the angel fly off. When he was out of sight, Abele’s brother stood up. Abele realised what had just happened.
“Er... I am s-sorry, brother. I-I just do not like gutting lambs. It m-makes me sick. I can give you s-something if you w-want...” Abele saw the look on his brother’s face and began to back up. His brother had the darkest and scariest look he could ever remember seeing. His brother reached down and picked up the knife he used to skin and gut the lamb. Abele was about to turn and run when he tripped over a rock. He fell and hit the ground.
Someone pounded on Abele’s door. He sat up and realised he was on the floor. He returned to his senses and said ‘come in’. He was still dazed and very disturbed. He could have sworn he had heard that story somewhere. He felt he would have recognised it, but the more he though on it, the more it faded to a wisp and then to nothing at all. His brother entered.
“Why, brother, are you on the floor? Have your days in the apartment turned you to an animal? Should we just put a dish on the floor for you to eat at dinner?” His brother said. Abele looked down.
“W-well, I was having a n-nightmare. I f-fell,” he explained. His brother looked unconcerned.
“Straighten yourself up and get out here. Mother and father have arrived.” His brother turned to leave.
“Cain?” Abele said and his brother turned around.
“What?” Cain, the brother of Abele, said.
“Oh... er... I suppose it’s nothing.” Abele said silently. Cain stared at his brother, then left to tend to his guests.

...

A/N: I have always been fond of the Cain and Abel story. Something about two brothers fighting and fatricide that interests me. Abele is just the Italian version of Abel. I made the older version of Cain to be Cayn (somewhere I saw it spelled like that in a medieval painting/picture). There isn't another version of Cain, apparently (unless I want to do somehing like Kain, but I think that looks a little tacky and not very Italian). The two of them were based around Gaiman's Cain and Abel from The Sandman, which in turn is based off of the Cain and Abel from House of Secrets and House of Mystery (more comics). My Abel is skinnier than Gaiman's. He is about as good looking as Cain, he just gets beaten. They are younger, too. They are in their 20s-30s. You can tell I also got Abele's suttering from Gaiman.

This is a story for the 22/7 Blackwell Society of Fiction (a writing club). The first challenge was to write about your pen names (mine would be Abele Arlini and A. Cain Arlini). I don't like how I have to post on the forum, so I just make a link to here. ((I am hoping for the challenge at the end of next year will be something revolving around our pen names again and I can have this as a four-parter; I still need to write Cain's story)).

Oddly, I found that everyone's name started with A. It sets Cain's name out from the others, so I like it. Actually, Cain's first name is Andreau (Italian version for Andrew), so it's really A. Cain Arlini. Just plain 'Cain Arlini' did not settle well with me. It sounded awkward.

They Met With Wednesday

2006-12-25T15:09:00.000-08:00

A raven cawed on the branch outside the cabin. It cawed again and a second raven landed next to it. They looked at the cabin curiously. A well-lit fire flickered inside the cabin. A man stood near the fire. He had a staff which looked as though it had seen many years and many times. He had a beard and one eye. He stared down into the fire, waiting.
A young man entered the house after doing his daily chores. He nodded at the old man with the aged staff and his long beard as he entered the chicken. He placed his machete on the table and turned on the facet. He washed his bloody hand. The old man looked over at the young man. The young man only had one hand. In the background a wolf howled. It was the howl of a wolf tethered and bound.
“Father, when will they come?” said the young man.
“They will come when it is time, Son,” the old man said. “The others come only when it is time and never before. That is how it is done.”
They waited in silence. The old man stood in front of the fire, watching it and the young man cleaned his machete. The ravens cawed out and the wolf howled.

∞

Laughter rang out, disturbing the ravens. A muscular man knocked onto the cabin door. The man slung his heavy hammer onto his soldier. He was a rugged sort. He had a beard and was built like a wood-cutter or a carpenter. He was taller than the young and old men. The young man opened the door for him and the ravens settled back down on their branch, peeved.
The muscular man dropped his hammer in the corner of the room and helped himself to a mug of beer.
“I see that you’ve been doing well, Father,” the man said. The old man looked over at his muscular son.
“I have done as well as I can, Son. Even with Him gone, it is still a hard life. Time goes on and so must I.” The muscular man nodded and drank his beer. He sat down in a chair next to the young man.

They waited again.

∞

A woman knocked on the door of the cabin. The ravens cawed out to her. She smiled at them. As the young man opened the door and she entered, she pulled off her hood to her brown cloak. She took it off and put it on the coat rack. She had a necklace on. The men stared at her. She was amused and her smile showed it. She sat down on the couch. The men looked at each other.
“You seem well, Sirs,” she said.
“The same with you, Miss,” the old man said. The muscular man offered her his mug of beer which she declined.
They waited until the time.

∞

The old man thumped his staff on the floor and looked outside. He said, “It is time Sons and Miss. We must go to Him now.” The men and woman did not look particularly pleased. The muscular man drained his mug and put it on the table near the machete. The young man picked up his machete and walked over to the door. He helped the woman put on her cloak and the muscular man found his hammer. The young man was the first to walk through the door, which he held open for the other three. The old man was next, followed the muscular man and the woman.
They walked down a path that led into the deep forest, a different path than the muscular man and the woman came from. They passed a wolf that was tied up and secured. He glowered at them. The ravens followed the group. In the background, two extra wolves howled out. They also followed the group through the forest. They walked and walked until they reached a clearing. A great and tall stake stood and a man was chained to it. He was slumped on the ground. He was bitten and cut and raw and naked. He looked wild. The old man was the first into the clearing and the wild man looked up at him in anger.
“It will come, Brother. It will come,” the wild man said. The old man smiled grimly.
“This was not why we came, Brother. It is your day. We will not speak of your release now,” the old man said.
Besides the great stake and the wild man, there was a heptagram carved into the ground forever. It was a star with seven points and the stake was positioned at one of the points on the star. The young man walked up the point that was two points away from the wild man. The old man stood next to the young man and three points from the wild man. The muscular man stood next to the old man and the woman next to him and the wild man. Two points were missing people.
They waited.

∞

The sun shown brightly. It was midday and the brightest it has ever been. It was not day, but light. It was the sun. The symbol of the sun re-carved itself on the point next to the wild man. It was a circle with a dot in the middle of it. The light began to fade. There was no sunset. They all waited.

∞

It was darkness, a bright dot of silver shown through the blackness. It was the moon at its best. All one could see was the moon. A shaft of moonlight re-carved the symbol of the moon onto the last point on the star. It was in-between the sun symbol and the young man. The light began to fade. There was nothing. They waited.

∞

The symbol of sun glowed. It was a light that was not quite light.
The symbol of the moon glowed. It was a light that was not quite light.
The young man took his machete and stabbed it through the ground at his place on the star. There was a light that was not quite light.
The old man took his staff and speared it down at his place on the star. There was a light that was not quite light.
The muscular man took his hammer and slammed it down at his place on the star. There was a sound of thunder and a light that was not quite light.
The woman took off her necklace and dropped at her place on the star. There was a light that was not quite light.
The wild man glowered but spit at his place on the star. There was a light that was not quite light.

∞

The three men and the woman took back their possessions and the symbols began to fade. The wild man sat at his stake. The Week was made.

...

A/N: This was, to those unfamiliar, based around the fact that the weekdays were named because of the Norse gods. Tuesday: Tyr's Day, Wednesday: Odin's Day, Thursday: Thor's Day, Friday: Frejya's Day. Saturday is named after Saturn but it is sometimes refered to Loki's Day (but it isn't set in stone). Sunday is obviously Sun's Day and Monday is Moon's Day. I wasn't sure if I wanted to personify the Sun and Moon, but decided against it. I forget exactly where the heptagram came from. Oh well.

Ever since I read Gaiman's October in the Chair, I wanted to write a story about the weekdays. I wasn't actually going to write it like this, but having it as a creation story was formed instead. Of course this wasn't actually how the Norse created the week. I have no clue how they did so (otherwise I would tell you). The reason why it is called They Met With Wednesday is because Odin is the All-Father (in other words the patriarch of the Norse mythology or the Zeus, you could say).

I was listening my new CD that I got from my father today (for Christmas). It is Neil Gaiman ~ Where's Neil When You Need Him? Nice CD. I like it a lot and one of my favourite tracks is Even Gods Do, We Won't Go and Coraline by Rasputina. They sort of influenced me to write it like this. (And sorry, no real Christmas fiction... only this).

Author's Preface: On Fairytales

2006-12-20T09:55:00.000-08:00

Folktales and fairytales dictate that if a young child is to wander into the deep wood; they are going to run into trouble. Most typically with a wolf or an old witch or trolls under bridges or fairy things or tricky mean-spirited shape-shifters to run into on unfortunate times. Only in fairy tales do the children run upon trouble, for in real life these wolves and witches and trolls and faeries and tricksters do not distinguish between child and adult, but enjoy their fortune (and the wanderer’s misfortune) of a tasty little snack. So while our tales give sound advice to children, many adults forget to take heed of it themselves. Therefore here is a tale, not for children, but for adults, who often do not take heed of their own sound advice.

A/N: I am going to talk about the preface and the first chapter here because the chapter is was too long to add on a note.

Basically the book (which has no name at the moment) is about a man who messes up rather badly, breaking all codes of morality, and pays for his mistake. He is selfish, cold and uncharitable: that type of cliche. He finds himself in the middle of the forest (that gets explained, so don't worry) and ends up at Baba Yaga's house. Unlike typical tales for children, everything is 'complicated', much like adult life (in reality, it isn't as complicated as it all seems, everyone just thinks it is). Baba Yaga, instead of cooking him as she normall does, helps him (sort of). The really confusing bit is that he is dead. It's not really his body that enters the house, but his mind in the body of a demon (or imp or something of minor importance that is fairly unpleasant). That's about the gist of it, anyways.

There isn't much for my o say on the preface, but I kept want to write 'tricksy' instead of 'tricky'. But on to the first chapter: I did not mean to create Alice. She just appeared and I was very confused. She sort of took control in the beginning. I was just not going to have a secretary but perhaps police or the inspector. I like her though.

There was a bit of problem with throwing in the fairtale. I didn't know which to do, for one. I needed to introduce the concept of the Baba Yaga but also I didn't want to make it too childish. I suppose that's an oxymoron (or word I can never quite remember). After all, talking things appear right after it. The original fairytale had a dog talking and some other bits that I took the liberty to take out. I also did not want to make it too long. I wanted a simple and page or two long tale. The original version did not have it at all, but Ross (and I) felt I should have one.

The house was a lot different in the beginning, too. Gate and Cat never really changed. The house originally did everything that the fairytales told of: spinning around, chicken legs, screeching, no doors or windows. I felt that the house no longer had a personality any more once I did all that. I decided to scratch out the spinning and to keep a door. Now it is a very bored hut with the mind-set of a chicken.

Chapter ONE: In Which the Main Character Finds Himself Perplexed and the Female Lead is Enraged

2006-12-20T09:50:00.000-08:00

The body was found two days after his death, amongst the forests of New York State. It was a cold, snow-free wintry day. A mid-December feel, except the month was actually October. Even the slight joy of up-coming holidays was present, for a rather morbid and obscure reason. Not many are overjoyed by a man’s death. In this case, the poor were the rare overjoyed. For the coldest bastard of a man, Theodore Wrensky, was dead.
The body was recovered three days after he had died and five days after he was found missing. The search party was given a clue as to where he quite possibly went by an irate taxi-cab driver, who had the man run out on him without paying. After driving a quite some distance, the driver had realised quite precisely who the man was, and then confirmed it by the wallet that was left behind (which was devoid of money, much to the dismay of the driver).
By the time they had found him, he was stiff, and not the usual cold stiffness of a high-end, stressed and depended upon large corporate businessman, but of a long since used, chilled and completely dead ordinary human body. What was different from the ordinary human body part was the lack of touch on his person.
Unlike most living (or in this case, dead) things, he remained untouched. The sort of dead body that all detritivores and carnivores came together to discuss and eventually formed a census on not to touch it. The only scratch on his body that they found was a small cut on his knee, which ruined his muddy suit pants even further. It was from running a mile and a half straight into a forest that would eventually, if he had kept running, reach deep into the Catskill Mts.
The body was brought back two hours after the news had reached the Miss Alice McKensey, who was even more enraged when told to identify the body. Alice McKensey was Mr. Wrensky’s private secretary, who did more than what she was paid for. She had no love and positively no like for the man, but did so just out of duty (and she was full of that). She had long reflections on why she stayed with him, and she decided that not only did it not matter, but she did not even begin to wish why. All she knew was that her boss had the severe tendency to skip out on the many meetings and visits she planned for him, and for that, she was always furious with the man. He even had the nerve to run out (quite literally, this time) of the most current of many meetings.
She stood outside the meat-packing factory, leaning against the Rolls Royce of a raven colour, deep black with a shiny purple undertone. She shivered and hugged herself further into her fur-lined coat, which was a “present” from Mister Wrensky, and only because he was annoyed by her middle class everyday coat which she wore everywhere. Annoyed with the image she brought upon herself, he gave it to her to make himself look better. She didn’t mind wearing it because it was warm and very comfortable, much more than her previous one.
She looked around, and noticed a man had exited the building. He was walking over, and most definitely was able to note her fine clothing. She sighed, puffing out steam. She moved off of the car and walked over to meet the man.
He had an apologetic and saddened look on his face. “Sorry to make you come all the way out here, Miss McKensey. We’re not allowed to take him out of the county, I’m afraid.” She gave the head cop a slight quizzical look. “Suspected foul play. We’re going to need a few statements and an alibi from you, too.” He paused for a moment, and went on, “I’m the inspector here, Inspector Charlie Kent.”
“Yes, well, state-level I presume?” He was about to say so when she cut in, “I don’t care. Not while we’re standing outside, too cold to do that.” He smiled acknowledging and nodded for her to follow, and they walked towards the door he came out of. He looked over at the woman as he held the door open for her who looked very much in control, emotionally and professionally.
Two men were standing inside, waiting. One was a tall man of deep ebony matte and there was a smaller man with a French body-type. Neither of them looking entirely too happy, which was rather reasonable. They were both cold, in the middle of Nowhere, New York in a meat-packaging factory and it was just plain, good manners to be solemn when there were dead people and their grieving friends and family around.
Alice looked around and gave a polite nod to the two men. She followed the inspector through the corridors and finally to a room. Alice noted to herself that it looked like where they cut the meat, which gave her a chill completely unrelated to the freezing cold of the room.
Sitting there on the table in the middle of the room was a white sheet which formed a fairly human-esque figure. The inspector walked forward, giving her a moment to regain her wits. She nodded for the go-ahead and he pulled the sheet away from the man’s head. Alice stared.
“I know it’s tough, Miss McKensey, but bare with me. Does this look like Mister Theodore Wrensky?” His voice was kind but rough. Alice nodded.
“Yes, it certainly looks like him, just never thought the man could die.”
¥
There was once a man who had a daughter. His wife died quite some time ago and he remarried. The new wife had a daughter also. The new wife did not like the husband’s daughter and so the daughter had a very hard time.
One day the father brought his daughter out into the woods and found a little hut standing on a chicken leg. He called out “Little hut, little hut, stand with your back to the woods and your front to me!” The hut turned around and out cam Baba Yaga (a little irate, she was in the middle of making tea and it spilled over when the hut moved).
“I smell a Russian!” she said, and that was by no means a complement. She wasn’t fond of Russians. They kept coming over and interrupting things.
The father bowed to Baba Yaga and said, “Baba Yaga, I have brought my daughter to be your servant.”
Baba Yaga was rightly pleased with that, she did have some things that needed to be done. She looked the daughter over, a little scrawny but manageable. “Very well, she shall serve me. I will reward her for it.” The father left.
Baba Yaga gave the girl a basket of yarn to spin, told her to make fire for the stove and dinner, then she left. The daughter attempted to spin the thread but failed and broke down crying. A handful of mice came running out and asked for some gruel. The daughter said, “If I give you gruel, then spin my yarn.” The mice did not have anything better to do and so did. They were rewarded and the daughter managed everything by the time Baba Yaga came home.
When Baba Yaga came home, she ordered the daughter to give her a bath. After that was done, the daughter received several fine dresses. The next day, Baba Yaga gave the girl even harder tasks. Again the mice ran out and asked for gruel and they made the same deal. The maiden received even more fine dresses.
One day the father sent out to find his daughter (and see if she is still alive). He found his daughter well and happy. The step-daughter was jealous of the many fine dresses and the step-mother ordered her to head off to the Baba Yaga’s house (much to the annoyance of the poor old woman).
The Baba Yaga gave her the same orders she gave the daughter and left again. The girl started weeping (the family never was good at spinning yarn). The mice ran out, hoping for a little gruel, but when the step-daughter saw them, she killed them with a rolling pin. She never got the spinning done.
When the Baba Yaga returned, she was irate. Not only were these Russians bothering her but they were getting more and more useless. She was already missing some gruel. She killed the step-daughter and put her bones into a basket (the meat was hung). The husband went to pick the daughter up but was handed only a basket.
¥
A raven’s caw sounded. It was evening or late afternoon. All he knew was that it was dark, but that could have been from the trees and heavy clouds and not the sun creeping away towards the other parts of the Earth. He was sitting up and contemplating on his next move. He was very fond of that idea, but the raven called again and he knew that it would not be possible. His option was to stand up, and that was it.
He brushed himself self off, being a bit muddy, and looked over to where the raven was standing in a tree. The raven ruffled its feathers and cawed again. The man looked up at the bird and threw a nearby rock at it. He missed. The bird paused to look at him and flew off, making what sounded remarkably like a laugh. Annoyed, the man turned and walked in the different direction, walked in what he hoped was a way out of the forest.
It was not that he did not like the forest. Sure it was muddy and full of pesky flea-ridden beasts, but it was dark and creepy. A place you would find imps and demons and monsters. A place to scare little children with and he liked that. It made him feel powerful. More powerful than he already was, that is. It just made him happy, and yet he had to leave it. It was not an option. It was like some profound and god-like being ordered him to move and never to rest and that he had no option to disobey it. So he moved.
He left the glen and pushed around bushes until he came upon a path. It was no real path of clean-make and of dirt (or rocks, as some prefer) or widened for people to walk upon with ease. It was a path that had over-brush and rocks and tree roots and was completely unnoticeable to those who were not meant to move along the path. It was a rare and unfindable path that was meant for only one way, person and use. This specific path was for this man to find his way to a house and after that, it would disappear into trees, rocks and any manner of such things.
It took a small manner of difficulty to move along the path, only because he wished to keep his suit as clean as possible. This was already a hard task, for it was soiled from him being on the ground so long. It felt as though the brambles and branches were reaching out and grabbing a hold of him the further he went and that the rocks and roots were tripping him up more and more as he walked. Annoyed and stubborn, he walked on.
¥
Alice was wondering why she was here. The man was the inspector of her boss’s death, after all. She did not even like him. He was too fatherly and she was not fond of her father. She picked up her coffee and sipped it.

“I know it is hard at a time like this, but I do need an alibi. You were the closest person to Mister Wrensky and it will be hard. It would just be better if you found an alibi quick.”

“Inspector, I already have an alibi. It is rather simple and very hard to be. I had just finished setting up the next month’s agenda and printed it out when I got a call that he never showed up to his meeting. I called his phone several times and at all possibly locations. After I could not reach him, I drove over to the meeting room. Look on my phone bill or ask the people I reached instead of Mister Wrensky or look at the security tape that watched me call all these numbers. I was most certainly not anywhere near him. I was in my office all day.” The inspector nodded.

“Yes, we will need to check those tapes.” He said, “I did not bring you out to this diner just to talk about your alibi or legal things. I came to make sure you are OK.” The waitress came around and put a plate of scrambled eggs, some pancakes and bacon in front of the inspector and a plate of toast in front of Alice’s.

“I am fine, inspector. He was my boss and was not a very kind one. If it wasn’t for being out of job, I would not care. He never showed me much kindness, only worried about his self image.” The inspector nodded.

“Is there anyone to contact? I know his parents are dead and his brother is gone. No uncles or cousins you know of?”

“No,” Alice said. “He really wasn’t a family person. He mainly just worked. There were no calls on his birthday or the holidays from family or friends. He didn’t have much of anybody, sad really.”
¥
Finally, the man reached his unknown destination. He looked back and the path melded into the trees and bushes and rocks and things. He looked forward.
What the man saw was a house, a hut, rather. A hut with no doors and no windows (in truth, there was a door, just not visible until it wished to be so), which was rather sensible if it was left to that. For it was also a hut with chicken legs (one in each corner) that was shifting from foot to foot, scratching here and there and shifting around in its paddock. It looked bored. The man stared.
“Staring at it in that stupefied expression doesn’t do you or it any good, you know.” said a quick and haughty voice next to the man, who was trying to collect his thoughts. He looked over to his right and was not so much surprised, but confused (and his lack of surprise perplexed him). Standing there, looking up at him was a surly black cat. “And staring at me doesn’t do much good either, mister.”
Coming back from his daze, the hero retorted in a more pompous manner than he had intended, “Perhaps, then, you ought to stop talking! Act like a real cat and meow, beg for a bit of meat. Act as you should. It’s unnatural and should cause staring. Look at that house, even. It has chicken legs! ”
The cat rolled its eyes and walked towards the hut, calling back, “Then should you not act as you should? You are as every bit as ‘unnatural’ as I am, good sir.” Perplexed, the man followed the cat until they were both standing in front of the gate and fence that surrounded the hut.
Quite like the hut, the gate and fence was just as abnormal (or unnatural, as our hero would say). It was ivory-white, a bleach bone colour. On closer inspection, it was actually made of bone (and when our hero leaned in, he realised that they were very human). Upon every post was a human skull except on one to the exact right of the gate, which was bare, almost waiting for the next unlucky visitor to come by.
The man reached his hand forward to touch the bone fencing to a spot not far from the left of the gate. “They’re quite tired of that, little one,” The keyhole of in the middle of the gate moved and mouthed the words, “Tired of it, indeed.” The gate huffed. The man stopped and looked at the gate surprised. A cat and a moving house he could deal with. After all, houses could move in this day and age, praise technology and profoundly rich people with realism issues, and cats were just cats. He had never understood cats. They could talk for all he knew. However a gate made out of human bones was talking to him. And not only had this gate spoken to him, but it had called him “little one”. For all he knew, he was not the type to be called little one like a small child being talked down to by an aged and pompous adult.
“Might as well go ahead and listen to him. Not much good in risking it. S’not like those bones are standing of their own free will. Take any chance to bring in another to share their pain. Misery loves company and all that,” the cat said.

The gate sniffed in a bored manner, “Oh yes, misery and all that. You know what’s miserable? Not those wankers up on the fence, I’ll tell you that. It’s good ol’ sturdy Gate. Oh sure, people come and see me, but it’s only to use me, only to get to that bloody house. You should see it when it gets riled up. Means we have to keep the bugger in. It runs hard and fast, too. It screeches, too. You haven’t had the chance to hear it yet, little master, but stick around long enough and you will. Oh, you will. Hurts my ears.” Gate continued to rant on about his poor old self and the always moving, unhappy bone-fence as his face, or rather him, creaked and groaned, bones moving how bones never would do so normally and all doing so to form an overly dramatic and loud gate.
The cat looked up at the man and said, “Oh, don’t mind him just old, creaky Gate. His bones won’t take you. Just push on through. I feel up for a fine mouse or two. Talking to him always gets me hungry,” the cat stalked away and disappeared, not without looking back and adding, “Watch for that keyhole though. Get your hand too close and he’ll snap it off. He doesn’t get to eat much, you know.”
The man watched the cat disappear before turning back to Gate, who was still ranting angrily, only this time about a little girl named Vasilissa and her sticky, filthy fingers. Not sure of what else to do, he furtively pushes the gate, making sure not to get anywhere near the keyhole (or mouth, both and whichever) and walked into the lawn.
The grass was craggily and dry: dead and crispy under the man’s feet. He stopped in front of the shifting hut, unsure of what to do. All he knew was that he wished to enter it. He did not even know if he wished this freely or if it belonged to someone else and they passed the desire on to him. He knew that he did not care whose desire it is, but just that he did what it desired. And now, besides wanting to enter the hut, he longs to make it stop screeching.
“Stop it!” he tries. This did not work, mainly because, as everyone knows, houses and homes and huts do not have ears. He attempted again, adding a “now”.
“Open sesame?” No luck.
“Allow me to enter?” No change.
“Cease!” he shouts. In the background, he can hear Gate continuously talking. He sighs and looks around for help, looking for, just maybe, a magic biscuit or mushroom. At least Miss Wonderland had help, he thought. He made a face and spoke the nonsense that suddenly ran through his mind:
Turn your back to the forest, your front to me.

The hut stopped scuttling and stumbled only slightly to keep its balance and sat down. Our hero was only pleased for a second, for while he had stopped the hut, there was still a problem of entering. He tried the door, but it was locked. It had no windows.
Like a dog kicked out of the house, he sat down against the wall. He sat like this for a while, when suddenly there was a noise, a muffled noise of someone shuffling around. He moved away from the door, which busted open with a bang.
The first thing he noticed was a nose looking out of the doorway. Upon a second look it was a tall, gangly, infinitely aged woman with a long nose. She had wild, wiry hair that is a grey colour and a scraggily long dress that looked of leaves and coloured in many Earthy dead tones. Not morbidly dead, but a leafy, dirt death. She glares at the man.
“Ah, you’re not him. You look like him. Oh you do indeed, laddie. But no, you’re not him. You’re not proud an’ tall. He always holds himself like that. But don’t get me wrong, you’re a git alright. You wouldn’t be here is you weren’t. You’re just not that git,” she gives a pause to look closer at the man and made a clucking noise. “Now, state your purpose. I don’t have all day, you know. This old lady has too many plans to be bothered by some new troubled youngster.”
The man was unsure of what to say, for he had no real purpose, of course. He just came upon a path (just for him), talked to a cat and passed through a talking and potentially dangerous gate and, on a strange whim, ordered a house to stop moving. He realised, when taking this into perspective that it was all very wrong and unnatural. He did not know what, but there was something he could not remember.
“Advice! I’ve come for advice,” he figured this to be the safest choice. Everyone gets advice asked from them at one point in their life. What advice, he could not decide. How to get out of the forest, he thought. It wasn’t a complete lie, a little white lie. He wanted to exit the forest and he found someone to ask, perfect.
The old woman made a disgruntled face, obviously not pleased by this answer, “All you humans ever want is advice and advice and advice. Maybe a little bread and a bed here and there, but after that, it’s all the same. What is it this time, it couldn’t be much. You don’t have many ties, not anymore.” The man furrowed his eyebrows at her, confused and curious. He opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted, “Be quiet. Don’t ask unnecessary questions. Never ask unnecessary questions. It only does harm to the person being asked. Now if you want advice, and bread and bed, you obviously need it, then come in. My house must always be open to visitors. Whether you’re pure of heart or not, is another matter, my dear. For your poor soul, I wish you are. It would make everything easier for the whole of us.”
He paused, only for a moment. He entered the hut.

Zerfall - Mastered

2006-12-20T09:37:00.000-08:00

There were chattering and murmurs coming from the double doors leading to the dining room of the mansion. One of the female servants stopped pushing the trolley to stop and straighten a cup and brush down her dress. She pulled a stray hair out of her face and was about to open the door when she heard a voice behind her, which caused her to jump. She looked around and was surprised to see a man in a fine, crisp colonel uniform completed with every adornment and award given to colonels. “Excuse me?”. She had been busy preparing herself that she had not heard what he had said.
“Would you mind me getting the door? I am late to my meeting and imagine how embarrassing it would be for the coffee servant to enter and I did nothing to help? As the colonel and head of this station, it is my duty to continue in gentlemanly acts.” She remained expressionless for a few moments, unable to comprehend his tone behind what he had said. Was he being cold, rude and manipulative, or was he just the type to state a matter of fact and was acting with her as his equal? He remained to wait for some sort of response, it seemed and she nodded, seeing no reason to decline the offer.
The man opened the door and allowed her to enter first. He walked over to the head of the table, as every sombre, serious official stood. The servant began placing down her coffee cups, starting with the head. To the man’s right, was a man in lieutenant’s uniform, with his nametag claiming his name to be “Lovecraft”. He held a seemingly bemused face, most likely because the colonel was late, and addressed the man, “So, our high and honourable Colonel Xavier Norris finally came meet with us?”
Colonel Xavier smirked and said, “Well, I was hoping to meet all that boring and dull stuff. You know I can’t stand meetings. Nothing interesting ever happens, Lovecraft.”
Colonel Xavier was given his coffee and turned to his front. He looked at all the men who sat at this table. They were the men brave enough to enter take the hardest position anyone had from the East Union Empire: guarding a captured country. They had all came to this country because they were assured that they would be given extra troops within time. However the EUE not only refused extra troops but stopped all communications from the surviving soldiers. The EUE was to forget that there was ever any military camp within this small, insignificant country. Colonel Xavier took another sip.
He allowed the men to talk for a while, mingling and calming nerves. He did not catch what they were saying and nor did he care. Finally he stood up and all the chatter stopped. The meeting was to commence again. Colonel Xavier cleared his throat and began reciting the typical procedure of all military EUE meetings. “By the name of our Empire, these lands shall be protected with our ever-giving devotion. Defeat is not an option. Cowardice is not permissible. Our heart and body shall remain strong as the strength of our Great Lion. All Hail East Union Empire!” He said this in a flat and bored voice. He sat down. The men sat down. Lovecraft raised his eyebrows at the Colonel.
“Is that not too sacrilegious to speak the words of commencement at a meeting such as this, Colonel? After all, our plan is rather cowardice.
“Lieutenant Lovecraft, if our plan is cowardice then perhaps it ought to change? I am not any more fond of cowardice than the Great Lion is. Of course I do not agree with him on much more points other than that of war.” Colonel Xavier arched his eyebrows at Lovecraft, who looked exasperated at the colonel.
“Of course, sir. I do know how you feel. I still believe it wrong to use those words here, especially if the country-folk hear it.”

***

Colonel Xavier entered the kitchen silently. He pulled a bag out of his pocket. The bag held a powder. He opened a cupboard and took out a tin box at the very back. He opened it up and place the bag in the tin box. He looked around and placed the tin back. He walked over and took some bread and left the kitchen.

***

Lovecraft opened the door to the Colonel’s balcony. Colonel Xavier was staring out into the mountainous forest. Lovecraft walked forward, a bottle of vodka in his hand. He asked, “Enjoying to view?” Colonel Xavier nodded.
“The wolves call. The moon does not shine. The wind whistles silently behind every tree and rustles the leaves behind your back.” Colonel Xavier looked at his lieutenant. “The bravest and stupidest of the country-folk do not dare enter the forest. Even our own men, when in battle, would do everything but enter those mountains. Why do you think that is?” Lovecraft had nothing to say and, so he sipped his vodka. “It is no fairytale. What is out there is real and it is powerful. The whole of East Union Empire could not take it down. That, whatever it is, is truly beautiful.” Lovecraft stayed silent but looked to his colonel. His eyes shown with eagerness. He radiated cruel happiness.

***

Two maids were preparing the coffee when the head of the maids, Isra, relieved them. “Have rest, you will need it”, she had told them. All she really wanted to do was be alone with the coffee. As soon as they were gone, she went into the cupboard and took out a tin box from the back. She distributed the powder into each cup and pushed the trolley out of the kitchen and down the hall. She knocked on the door. Colonel Xavier appeared where the door was once closed. He held the door open as she entered. She gave a nod and said, “Thank you, colonel.” He nodded back and sat down.
Lovecraft looked to Colonel Xavier as he was handed his coffee. “What do you believe we should do, if not run away? I tell you, there are not many options.” Lovecraft took a sip. A raven cawed outside. The Colonel smiled as he took his coffee. He tilted his head at Lovecraft and looked outside.
Lovecraft gave him a puzzled look and turned around as he sipped his coffee. He furrowed his brow and stared at the trees in horror. There were many young men donning their EUE uniforms hanging. All of the foot soldiers left were hanging; all of the soldiers were dead.
The Colonel smiled eerily, his eyes shining. “What odd fruit the trees of these parts grow, Lovecraft. This country ceases to amaze me.” Lovecraft turned back to the Colonel.
“What do you mean by this? What has this accomplished?” he said in awe.
“By this? Oh, just a means of disposal. I did not need them. I have my own squadron now, Lovecraft. None of the old EUE men are needed and nor are they wanted.” To the left of them, one of the men began to gag. He stumbled out of his chair and threw up on the carpet. He tried to gag again but fell, twitching. The rest of the men began to gag. Lovecraft took out his pistol and aimed it at the Colonel, who was still smiling.
Lovecraft stumbled forward as he pulled the trigger. There was a loud bang and Lovecraft’s pistol was in Isra’s hand. The bullet had entered the ceiling missing its mark completely. Lovecraft managed to say “Monster!” before he fell to the ground, dead. The Colonel arched his eyebrows and moved his foot away from Lovecraft. He looked outside. A raven cawed out as more flocked to the odd tree-fruits.
The Colonel stood up and walked forward. He stared out at the ravens momentarily before spinning around quickly. Isra followed him. The Colonel kept walking until he was facing the start of the forest. Isra had taken off her peasant’s dress and was now wearing tight pants and shirt. She stood to the right of the Colonel. He turned towards the woman next to him. She was his second-in-command. Her name was Yamin; Isra was the name she took from a missing maid. The Colonel looked past the opening through the trees and to the wide expanse of forbidden forests and mountains. Behind him stood the trees with odd fruit and a manor of poisoned coffee left out for foolish rats.

“Zerfall is a beautiful thing, Yamin. Decay is, after all, the basis of war.”

A/N: The three astericks are the breaks. Originally I had some fancy squiggle, butblogger cannot handle it too well.

It might seem a little rushed, I hope not, though. I wrote this at the beginning of September but kept re-writing it. Each one was relatively different from each other, so I put in subtitles. This is the final and fourth one. There was the original, visited, re-visited and then mastered. This one is much less detailed in other people other than Lovecraft, Isra/Yamin and Xavier.

The names all meant something, so it was a little hard to throw them all away. Lovecraft was the most random of all. The name was from the author. I just like the name, I think. It could have reflection or some sort of meaning, but I really didn't intend. I just couldn't think up a grand and wonderful name. (Sorry to disappoint, HAHA).

Isra means 'riches' and is Arabic (depends were you get the information, I suppose. I just looked it up on babynames.com which put it as 'riches', but I was originally told that it meant 'peace'). Xavier means 'new house' and is Spanish. Yamin means 'right hand' and is Hebrew.

Outline of the Indict

2006-12-20T09:32:00.000-08:00

Year One: Introduction, Ex-major Ophelia Courts

Year Two: Jeremy Tindelman medical report

Year Three: Conversation between Ophelia and Lydia

Year Four: The first of its Kind, Time Travel

Year Five: Colonel Jack Sumner medical report

Year Six: 50th Failed Experiment

Year Seven: DNA News

Year Eight: Leaving the Lab

Year Nine: The First Surviving Egg

Year Ten: The Meeting

Year Eleven: The Influenza

Year Twelve: It Returns

Year Thirteen: Detention

Year Fourteen: Working Together

The Indict: The End and the Beginning and the Middle

What is the disease?
Year Two, Five, Seven, Eight, Ten, Eleven, The Indict

How does the machine work/is build?
Year Three, Four, Six, Nine, Twelve, Thirteen, The Indict

What is the journey forward?
Year Fourteen, The Indict

What about the colony itself?
Year One, Indict

Dr Heind Dies
Dr Lydia Dies
DNA News Report

A/N: I just liked the names for each year, really. It's sort of like a 'reader's guide' to the story. I'm just putting it up here for my amusement.

The Indict

2006-12-20T09:20:00.000-08:00

Year One

We heard the news, all of us. All of the people on the world heard it. It was not so much of a broadcast across the papers and the television and the internet, but it was a broadcast through the Homo sapiens DNA. We all heard the news.

I was the prominent world-leading scientist’s assistant. Because of that, I survived. She did not. Her name was Lydia Chovsky. She dealt in time, space, the continuum and travel of. Not many would consider this to be the world-leading branch on the Earth, but unbeknownst to the common humans, it was. It saved the species, after all.

She was the head of the physics department, but she was also on the Council. Dr Lydia was witness to much odd and sometimes ‘fun’ experimentation. Dr Heind was a close friend of hers and he tended to ask her to witness an unusual medical examination, experiment or surgery. She often wrote her own reports, just in case Dr Heind became invalid.

I met her by ‘chance’ when a wild theory of mine got me noticed by the USN, or the United Science of Nations. It is alright to tell you this now; the organisation has been out of power for one hundred and twenty years. Everything has been out of power for one hundred and twenty years.

That was how long it would take before Earth was safe. Certain things needed to die, to be killed off. A team of the top medical doctors calculated it to be seventy years, but we wanted to be sure, really sure. That was how long for this disease to pass through the rest of the remaining population and for those infected to die off. There was no vaccine for this disease, much like the past SARS and bird flu and AIDS and certain cases of cancer and the many prions out there.
There might still be small pockets or groups here and there, in the most remote of places, but I don’t think we need to worry about that now. I hope that is the case, at least. It will not go without testing, of course. I do not rely on hope anymore. I cannot do that. As Leader, I cannot. I wish I could, just like those primordial Homo sapiens could. With all I have seen, I believe there are still pockets of the Diseased. Diseases do not like to die. Nothing does.

Year Two

Subject: Jeremy Tindelman
Age: 7
Height: 4’ 3”
Weight: 100 lbs.
Patient Number: 25717

Observations: At 0200, Patient 25717 was shown into the lab. He had convulsions, similar to epilepsy. The patient was strapped down. Blood was drawn. Fifteen minutes later Dr Heind began the examination. The patient responded violently towards light, especially when flashed in his eyes. Five minutes later, at 0230, the convulsions raised in intensity. Heart rate was at 200 and rapidly increasing. The patient spewed blood, all orifices bled. The patient’s left eye and aorta burst and veins popped, causing massive internal bleeding. The heart was left indescribable: one massive hole and the cells left completely indistinguishable. The lungs had several punctures and filled with blood. The liver was ripped to pieces. The spine and chest cavity held blood. The bone marrow was liquid, completely destroyed. The brain liquefied and leaked through the ears, nose, mouth and down through the throat. Dr Heind took several blood samples. Dr Mendelssohn and Dr Klein took several biopsies.

Blood Sample 1: Taken at 0205. No signs of viral or bacterial infections. The dissected platelets held an unidentified protein.

Blood Sample 2: Taken at 0235, from the chest cavity. No viral or bacterial infections, like sample 1. An abnormal amount of platelets.

Blood Sample 3: Taken at 0235, from the head. Same as sample 2.

Blood Samples 4-10 are the same as sample 2 and 3: Taken from the lungs, heart, bone marrow and spine.

Biopsy from heart: Cells were destroyed, indistinguishable. It was nothing like human or any other animal cell recorded. Cells were crushed into a mass, nuclei destroyed beyond recognisable.

Biopsy of brain: Stems cells were elongated and most were broken into several pieces. They were recognisably stem cells.

Biopsy of liver: Cells torn apart. Almost like the heart cells, however several cell organs were left intact while there were very few whole cells.

Dr Lydia Chovsky, 2006.

Year Three

I entered Dr Lydia’s office with a sheet of permission. I handed it to her. She skimmed over it and looked up at me from the sheet. She raised an eyebrow. “You believe that you are ready to begin experimentation, Major Courts? We have very bad luck with your line of work, you do realise that.”
I nodded and shifted position. “Yes, I do realise that. But Dr Chovsky, you know what a great deal this is to me. I have read over the past files and I cannot find fault in my machine. I do not believe it will bring attention to us from the government. If you are that unsure, then look over my work. Look over the diagrams and my notes.”
She looked faintly bemused. “I will sign this, Major, but remember that if this machine brings the government to our doorstep, you will disappear forever. There is no going back.” I nodded. I knew what I was dealing with here. I gave up my life to pursue this line of work and I was finally getting close enough to the final stages. “However I am pleased that you are making progress, Major. If you did not show a result within a year, you would be in a very dangerous position.”

Year Four

I walked around the machine and looked over at the desk smothered with blueprints. I sighed with the pleasure of finishing a great task and touched the machine. I walked over to the incubator in the right corner and held up an egg, my first of many-to-come subjects. I opened the hatch of the machine and placed the egg inside.

I entered the closet which held a few lab coats, a radiation apron or two and many various types of helmets. I picked up a hefty steel welding visor and lugged a radiation helmet onto me. I picked up thick gloves made of the same materials as my apron. I walked over to the blast room and began setting the controls up. I flipped the switch that turned on that warning red light outside the lab room. I began my work: watching lights flicker, flipping switches, and finally switching on the important and gigantic lever that diverted the power to the machine. Light indicated it worked and the machine disappeared.

The machine reappeared. I checked the radiation levels in the room and all other sort of levels that could possibly endanger my being. I opened the hatch to the machine as Dr Lydia entered the room and looked around. She raised an eyebrow and said, “The… fiftieth one, I presume?”

Year Five

Subject: Colonel Jack Sumner
Age: 35
Height: 5’ 11”
Weight: 167 lbs.
Patient Number: 25721

Observations: Patient 25721 entered room at 1450 hours. Heart rate was at 120 and patient was tensed. There was slight convulsing. We took a blood sample. The patient was not able to make any form of speech, but made grunting noises. The patient responded to our questions, but was unable to speak. The patient developed a twitch, located in the neck and right arm. Dr Heind commenced the stimuli test done on Patient 25717. Similar results, especially to the light. As time passed, the patient began jerk and twitch. Convulsions worsened. Heart rate increased to 180. The patient began sweating profusely. The grunts became more like screams, showing pain. Fifteen minutes later, at 1505 hours, patient’s right eye exploded and heart rate stabilised at 195. The patient began jerking at his straps. Dr Heind’s assistant took a blood sample without luck. The patient refused to cooperate or could not. He drooled and his eyes seemed crazed. He started screaming. He began to attempt to rip out of his bondages without any luck. The patient’s heart rate went up to 200 and past. The convulsions started again, worse. The patient began to throw up blood. Blood started leaking through the ear, nose, tear-ducts and anal orifices. The brain began to leak out the patient’s nose. The patient died at 1523 hours. Autopsy showed that the heart was thoroughly worn through and aorta was ripped. A few ventricles in the stomach and lungs broke, leading to the throwing up of blood. Some vessels in the brain also broke and also the brain itself had begun to liquefy. Another blood sample was taken.

Blood Sample 1: High adrenaline. A foreign protein was detected in the platelets.

Blood Sample 2: High adrenaline and a high count of platelets, although less than that of Patient 25717’s count.

Blood Sample 3: Same as sample 2.

Biopsy of Aorta and Heart: Both had same results, the cells had begun to break apart when the heart stopped.

Dr Lydia Chovsky, 2007.

Year Six

Dr Lydia walks into the lab and picks up the nearest jumble of burnt mass of wires. She raises an eyebrow and looks over at the woman picking up a burnt and exploded egg. The doctor sighs and walks over.
“The… fiftieth one, I presume?” The woman dumped the egg in the trashcan and stood up, brushing off her radiation apron.
“Ah, yes. I think that’s the number now and that red light outside the room is there for a reason. I’ve stopped counting, really. I think we’re missing something. Maybe if you actually showed up once and a while we might figure it out, but in the mean time we’ll be keeping this up, depleting our funds. I suppose your funds, too.”
“I’ve got unlimited funds, major. You’re on your last limb. If you cannot find a break-through, you’re done here.” The woman glared at her and strode out of the room.
“I’ve told you, I am not a major anymore. Remember this super-secret top-security organisation we’re in? My home country thinks I am DEAD now, not many dead majors.”
“You mean not many active dead majors.”

Year Seven

I was putting my old blueprints away when it happened. An assistant I was rather fond of was in the room. He started shaking and shivering. I began to move over to him to see what was wrong when I started shaking and shivering too. His eyes were wide and he was staring off into nothing. I could not help but do the same. I saw things.

There was the entire nation, the world encompassed by my fellow Homo sapiens. We were all linked together, I could feel it. I did not feel safe. We were not happily linked, but there was a part of me scared. I was frightened. Something was wrong and it was disastrous. I wanted to cry out; I most likely did. All of us were afraid and we all knew it. What we were afraid of exactly, I am unsure. It was big and it was inevitable. There was no stopping it. We knew it would spread and fast. It shall encompass the entire world and Homo sapiens will be no more.

I fell forward, screaming. I had lost my balance. The assistant looked up at me, sweating and breathing hard. “It has begun,” he said. His eyes were wide.

Year Eight

I looked over my blueprints and my notebooks on last time before I stood up. I had work to do, a lot of work. Every scientist on the compound is being forced to go to a meeting. I have too much work to do and this epidemic break-out of a deviant strain of something unknown is not in my field. I do not care, not yet. All scientists within this compound do not concern themselves deeply in other fields. It pulls them away from accomplishing their own work. Dr Lydia is the only one I know that concerns herself too much into the realm of Dr Heind’s little medical playthings.

I sighed and began to close everything down: lights, computer, everything but the device monitoring my machine of time. This meeting I was forced to go to is to decide on Dr Heind’s future at this compound. Because he has not produced a specific result for two years, all the scientists must decide whether or not his current work is important enough to allow Dr Heind to stay. These meetings normally do not fare well for the scientists in question but Dr Heind is high up in our politics. I wish for him to leave. He unnerves me.

Year Nine

I made the final adjustments on my machine. This new power system should work. The last one produced a poisonous and flammable gas within the life form when it was forced to enter the speed of light, the speed at which we may travel time. At first I thought it was the travelling itself, but I refused that to be the case. Why would metal survive but my hardy little eggs should not? This time I used my own version of the Tipler cylinder instead of electromagnetism. My Tipler cylinder did indeed rotate, but it was not forced to such an ungainly length and could go anywhere it needed or wanted instead of only being able to go where it has already been. There was my original circular and rotating piece, but I added into it a cylinder which pumped up and down in the middle of the circular piece. This created the correct type of friction to create a miniature black hole for the time it was moving. The cylinder held several rare crystals which were the power source for creating the black hole. The crystals restored energy by the active life forms around them. Only human or another life form as mentally active as that could power up a crystal.

With these new modifications, I hoped for my egg to survive. I donned my apron and helmet and gloves and began to turn on my machine. Unlike the last one, this must be turned on by outside force. No computer was capable of doing so. It required an arcane knowledge, something only known by someone in tune to the space-time continuum. Every control changed slightly compared to where, when, who and what was. I specified the when and pulled the lever to begin the process. I stepped back as the circular and cylindrical pieces moved and rotated. There was a power surge, the lights in the lab dimmed. I could hear, no feel the rushing of the crystals working and the black hole forming. The egg sat silently. The lights went out. When they returned, my machine was gone. I looked at my watch.

Year Ten

We were all called into the medical conference-room today. Dr Heind and his assistants were solemn. Their medical experiments on a handful of unfortunate individuals were not going well. The team was in trouble. They could not figure out what this epidemic was, how to cure it and whether or not the occurrence a few days ago was actually related to the epidemic and how did that occurrence happen in the first place. The first victim they knew about was in Cardiff, Wales. It was a young man, Captain Ian Middler. He was a pilot. He fell ill; the doctors thought it was a seizure. After he died, a doctor who witnessed the autopsy noticed it as an odd case. Two days later, Jeremy Tindelman came in with the same symptoms. The doctor called us up and Tindelman came here. After the boy, there was Suzie Bates, Miranda McKay and Todd Derringer. They were all alike in their sickness. Then Colonel Jack Sumner came along and he ended up differently. Not only did he last longer, but he was able to show what happened psychologically to the patient; he became violent and bloodthirsty. After that, the next patients were in the same lot. If not held down, they would attempt to attack others. They let one loose on an animal once. The animal died.

After hearing their long plea for salvation, we began to vote. I pressed the No on the computerised ballot in front of me in an assured manner. No matter that he was the best doctor we had, there was something wrong. This entire matter was wrong. I did not want him working on this epidemic or anything remotely near it. Of the people who voted sat silently as the others meditated on the offer. Everyone was given an hour to decide.

Year Eleven

It had been only twenty minutes after the voting began when it all started. My assistant ran into the room. “You need to turn on the telly, Major. Channel 3, news.”

I went to my computer and ran the channel through. The news footage had already started. At the bottom of the screen, there was a call number for specific medical help and to stay where you were. The newscaster reported, “-And do not panic. I repeat, do not panic. For all who are in Cardiff and the surrounding outskirts, this is quarantine. Stay where you are. For those who just tuned in, Cardiff as been quarantined. An epidemic has gone out of control and medical professionals are attempting to see what they can do. Do not attempt to reach your loved ones within the city, you could become infected. Officials have got this under control and are doing all that they can to reduce the victims-” I began to record the report and left the lab. I did not need to see this now. It only confirmed my suspicions on Dr Heind. This was most assuredly the disease that has claimed so many of their patients and baffled the entire medical branch. Even the timing was suspicious and blatantly so.

I entered the voting room and looked up at the counter. The vote for Yes had risen from when I left. He was going to stay. I left.

Year Twelve

I was in the lab taking readings. I was still unsure of where my machine went. It was not unusual for this to happen. If I got it wrong, it would not come back, hopefully in my life time, but there was a possibility of it just disappearing. I sighed, not only did I lose my machine but I was also waiting for my reprimand. We were not supposed to drain the base’s power; it tended to make the government suspicious.

My readings showed me nothing, so I sat down at my computer and waited. Sure enough, the Council’s courier appeared and handed me a letter. Just as I reached out for it, the lights dimmed, flickered and ended. There was black pitch of nothing and then I heard a sound; it was the sound of rotating cylinders and circles. It was not squeaky or un-oiled, but not smooth either. The sound was of a machine working, the parts creating friction and doing precisely what they are supposed to do. The sound ended and the light reappeared. My machine had returned. I momentarily looked at the courier’s surprised face then ran over to the machine and opened it up. Sitting there was a quaint little omelette on a plate, a fork and a note. I was puzzled. I picked up the note. It said:
- Good job, you are on the right track. Try not being so enthusiastic next time; the machine is more sentient than you realise.

I looked at the note fondly, and picked up the omelette and fork. I offered them to the courier, who shook his head quickly. He left.

Year Thirteen

An irate Dr Lydia entered my lab, where I was polishing my machine. I was ready to send her off again. This time I was going to take that advice and try not to be so strong in my emotions. I did not want to have to rely on some other person or possibly even the future me, to return my machine.
“You realise the trouble you are in for this, major? The government is homing in on our position. They are beginning to figure it out. They are not stupid, you know that. We have enough on our hands than dealing with your disgusting pet project. Dr Heind and his men are trying to fix this horrific mess and one more clue to the government and everything will be lost. From now on, you are to suspend all work and shall be confined to your quarters.” Five detaining personnel entered the room.

Year Fourteen

The lights showed red. The alarm sounded. Heavy iron doors cut the compound into quarantined sections. Dr Lydia Chovsky readied her single-hand shotgun and ran towards the quarters. She pounded twice on one of the doors which were reinforced like all quarantine doors. Five knocks came from inside. Dr Lydia swiped her card on the door and pressed seven numbers on the number pad. The door retracted and Major Ophelia Courts found herself with a single-hand shotgun pointed at her face.
“Your name?” said Dr Lydia. Major Courts raised an eyebrow.
“ I am Major Ophelia Courts, or rather ex-Major Ophelia Courts.”
“Good, and where are we and what is your purpose?”
“The location is classified and I have no bleeding clue what my purpose is. I like physics, though, especially the kind that deals with time.”
Dr Lydia glared at the Major and said, “I ought to shoot you just for being so damn cheeky. If you haven’t heard, that alarm means quarantine. The compound has been compromised.”
“What happened?”
“Everything. The human race is dying. The entire world has been compromised, if you wanted to get technical. It was the unknown epidemic Dr Heind was working on. It continued to mutate. He never figured it out, no one did.”
“And why take me out of quarantine?”
“You know how to run the time machine. Your assistant tried to, but it did nothing. It just sat there. We figured you put a lock on it.”
“I did not. It is sentient, must not have liked him.”

The Indict

One of the new Council members came into my tent. He came to report that there had been a sighting of a group of humans in the woods outside of camp and they looked Diseased. He said that the camp was beginning to pack up, just as planned. If any single human was seen outside of the camp members then we were to move forward in time. We did not want to take chances. Chances meant death.
I started to pack everything. All my belongings, all work and notes, my futon and tent was packed and brought into the time machine. It was bigger than I first made it. Dr Lydia and my assistants had hooked it up to larger ship. The original was still there, thankfully. The last bits and pieces of the camp came in when a group appeared over the ridge: the Diseased. The doors locked shut. We sat there momentarily, staring at the group. I could barely recognise them. They had not aged, but so much as changed. They were filthy and wild and ill. They were travel-wearied from time. We could not help but stare at our old colleagues. Dr Lydia and Dr Heind were there. Dr Heind had fallen before I was let out of my quarters but I had witnessed Dr Lydia being attacked and bitten. I was forced to close the hatch on her.
I leaned forward and began to pull the levers: the one to the left, then to the upper right and then the fourth and fifth and sixth. My time machine reacted and began its rotations. On the fifteenth lever, or the indict as I liked to call it, I reached to major lever of power and switched it on. I looked up as we began to dematerialise.
I felt my machine ripping the continuum. We were alone, the machine and I. I felt its power surging through me. We re-materialised in Dr Lydia’s office. I had a chance to look at the papers on her desk. A medical report of Jeremy Tindelman was sitting there, ready to be faxed to Dr Heind. I felt the ripping again and felt us moving forward. I appeared and appeared. I witnessed the creation of my machine and witnessed the experimentations done on the victims of the Disease. I watched myself smile with pride when the machine came back with the omelette and note and I laughed to myself at the courier’s surprised face. I materialised in the security room during the quarantine. Everyone was dead; they had shot themselves or swallowed the proper cyanide pills issued. I looked at the screens, watching everything happen. I saw Dr Lydia and I running to my machine. I watched passively as I saw Dr Heind and his assistants stumble forward and intercept Dr Lydia and I. I was ahead of them and looked back when I heard a scream. Dr Heind leapt forward and Dr Lydia was brought down. He bit her. She screamed and shot him in the face. I had already reached my machine and opened went through the hatch. I looked behind and saw Dr Lydia running towards me. I closed the hatch and the machine started up.

My machine and I reappeared in a medical lab. Dr Heind was alone. He looked up at me and I could not help but stare at him. He raised his hand and dropped the phial he was holding. It broke. He calmly walked forward and pressed the alarm button. Lights showed red and the medical quarantine began. My chest started to feel heavy. I had trouble breathing. My machine began flashing back and forth. I could feel my machine was hurt. The rotations were struggles. The power was failing. It struggled backwards; I felt it searching through my childhood. It zoned in to Cardiff. It felt a great surging power from there. We materialised in an old hangar bay, in a corner behind some crates. A captain was washing on of the older planes wistfully. He looked over to where I appeared.

A/N: The blogger messed up the layout of the story, so I did the best I could (so no indented paragraphs randomly and such).

For those of you still wondering, an indict is fifteen years. It is no longer in use for measuring time, but I liked the word too much. It sounded faintly scary and intense. I hoped that this story reflected it, but at least I tried and that counts for something. On the other hand, I might change the ending. I am still a bit unsettled on it. It seems all too deus ex machina (in a bad way, I assume) and there are loopholes in it. I'll see how others feel about it.

The Perfect Love Story (and for a warning, it is lesbian)

2006-12-17T14:49:00.000-08:00

She entered the classroom. What was she doing here? She should be in history class right now. I scrunched down in my chair, trying to avoid her more than the stares directed to me. I was disrupting class again and she was in front of me. The teacher had excused me, but I refused to move, or rather I could not move. She was standing and was so pretty. She had a beret in her hair and was looking so pretty. It certainly turned heads.
“Hey, Vennie Charles,” she called. “You’re late for our meeting. They told me to come find you.” I looked up her, surprised. How could I have forgotten?
I forced myself to stand and slung my satchel onto my shoulder. I mumbled a “sorry, excuse me” and walked out of the room. She followed me out.
“You’re lucky to get out of Schrider’s class,” she said. “I hate math. I don’t understand it at all.” She smiled warmly as she looked at me. I got butterflies in my stomach when she did that. She was so beautiful.
“Well, I’m not that bad at that. It’s just boring. He drones on and on. I can’t help but drift off. I sit by the window, doesn’t help at all.” I laughed happily.
I looked at her face and then away. It’s her hair, I think. Her hair was a deep, dark brown and long. She was an athlete. She played soccer. She was taller than me, too. She wasn’t the first one I would pick in the crowd, but she played soccer so beautifully. It amplified and made her radiate. We continued down the hallway and I stuck my hands into my pockets. It was a hopeless dream to be her girlfriend. Harriet Burman was not a lesbian.
“So,” she said. “What experience do you have in soccer? Do you have a favourite position? I’ve never seen you play before.”
“Position? I don’t know. I don’t know any. I’ve never played sports before, not outside gym, that is.” I smiled and looked at her. “What is yours?” I said. “I’ve only seen you play goalie. You’re great at that.” I looked away. I loved watching her play goalie. I’ve watched her play ever since freshman year and I am in my senior year.
“Being goalie is all I know how to do.” She laughed and opened the door. “Here we are.”
♀♀
The meeting began and ended. All of the members flocked to me, trying to recruit me to their favourite position. I knew nothing of soccer, only of what I saw from Harriet. I was afraid of being goalie because Harriet would have to coach me. I’d die if she did that. I’d burn up and die of embarrassment and love. I stood up despairingly. I regretted joining the club. The entire thing was completely embarrassing. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do now. I had missed lunch and by the time I got my books put away, everyone had fled.
I turned to the door and she was standing there. She had a friendly smile.
“Hey, you missed lunch, didn’t you?” she said.
I nodded.
“Then you wouldn’t mind eating during my period? Best stick together!” She kept smiling.
“I do have a free period. I was going to do an essay, but I’m so hungry!” I said. “I’ll run over to Radcliff’s room and sign in. We’ll meet you outside. Is that okay? I always eat under the trees.”
“Do you? Coincidence! I like eating outside better too.
♀♀
I hated facing Radcliff. She always left a bitter taste in my mind. I was too happy, though. It made me so happy to finally be able to eat lunch with her. I get a period to be with her! We don’t have any classes together and I only saw her on the field. I finally get actual time to be with her and not in front of the entire soccer club.
I walked down the hallway and opened the doors that led to the outside.
There was Harriet Burman.
There was a man.
They were kissing.
My eyes burned.
I ran into the hallway, another hallway to the right and down that forever and then, finally, up stairs until I reached the very top and out onto the roof. I stopped running. The wind had picked up and whipped out at me. I huddled against the wall. I just laid there. I felt like screaming, crying, tearing myself apart and those pieces float away into the wind. I wanted the wind to pick up harder and harder and whip me. I felt stupid.
Then the door opened.
“That wasn’t what you thought it was,” she said. “I don’t like him. I want to let you that. I didn’t want that to happen. It wasn’t my choice. He made me.”
I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t answer her. The wind toned down.
She walked over to me and put a hand on my shoulder. I sprang away from her and hid myself on the other side of the doorway. I was crying. She followed.
“I’m sorry if you liked him,” she said. Her eyes were tear-stained.
I shifted away from her. “I wanted you,” I said.
Her eyes opened wide. Her mouth hung open a little. “Oh,” she said. She brought her hand up to her hair and looked down.
“I loved you since I saw you on the field,” I said. “First game of your freshman year.”
I moved out of my crouch and wiped my face and smiled. “I guess you don’t like me then,” I said. “No chance of that? You’re one for the men?”
She looked at me with a confused expression. “Oh, no,” she said. “I suppose I owe you the truth. I don’t really like-men.”
I blinked. She coughed.
She walked towards me and tugged at her ear. She looked down at me in my sitting position. She kissed my forehead. I fainted.
♀♀
I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling. I sat up slowly and looked around. I appeared to be in a bed, the bed in the nurse’s room to be precise. I looked around and Harriet entered the room. She gave me an embarrassed smile, scratched her head, gave a quick look to me and fixed her gaze on the sink. “Awake, I see. Good.”
“I fainted.” She nodded. “You’re cute and I couldn’t help it.” She looked surprised by my forwardness.
“Oh, well. I guess I won’t kiss you anymore, right? I can’t keep taking you to the nurse’s office.”
“You’re so mean!” I acted indignant. She sat on my bed.
“Are you alright though? I didn’t think you were going to faint.”
I looked abashed, it was pretty embarrassing. “It was too much for me to handle! I was emotion-ed out. First I thought I was going to be able to eat with you, then you and that guy were kissing and then you kissed me!”
“Do you accept?” She leaned over me, her hands on either side of me so she looked directly so she was looking directly into my eyes.
“Accept?”
“My proposal!” She sat up.
“What proposal?”
“You’re so THICK! So never mind.” She crossed her arms.
“What proposal? You never said anything! How can I accept something if I don’t know what it is?” She leaned in to my face. We were inches apart, noses barely touching and eye to eye.
“My proposal to date you.” She was so close; all I could see was her.
“Oh. That kind of proposal. Well-“ I looked down.
“TOO LATE!” She stood up and started to walk to the door.
“Wait, what do you mean ‘too late’? I accept! I accept!” She spun around and looked at me.
“Are you serious?”
“Well, are you serious?”
“I asked first.”
She looked at me impatiently and collapsed exasperatedly.
“Yes, I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
We smiled happily at each other for a frozen moment.
I leaned over and kissed her.

A/N: Some people in my fiction class asked whether or not this was from personal experience, and no, it was not. I just felt like writing a love story and it turned out to be two women.

Everyone loved it, a LOT. Ross tried to make it better (suggestions) and everyone basically growled and stood firm that it was perfect. I was rather unhappy about the beginning. Ross ripped my story apart and typed up a version (using purely only MY sentences, so adding nothing of his own work) and we had an 'exercise' with that for class. It did not go well. Everyone just thought it was perfect how it was (I felt bad for Ross, because he was correct. There were things that needed changing). This is the final version (I had originally posted up the first one, which was much longer. It used to be up to 8-9 pages, now it is 5).

Foxes

2006-11-07T20:26:00.000-08:00

The bell on the door tinkled as my partner lumbered in – the uncovered ceiling light swung back and forth. He shouldered off his great winter coat and tossed it into a chair and he began to take off his scarf – shaking off the rain-freezed-to-snow. His face was skewered by that ridiculous cap he always wore.
“Can’t you just throw that bleeding grungy cap out? You look like some filthy Holmes,” I said as I shifted my in my creaky, red-brown wooden chair. I put my feet onto the desk.
“What do you mean by ‘filthy Holmes’? If I’ve got to be Holmes, then you’re bleeding Watson. Better be filthy than that tosser. Go fetch my mug of tea, Watson! Come on, chop-chop old chap. I don’t have all-”
“Oh sod off, you bastard. Even if you were Holmes, you would’ve noticed that tea bin. Make a terrible Holmes, you would. T’was your turn to buy the tea, remember? But it didn’t cross your mind one moment, did it? Told you last night and don’t bother denying it. I did.” I crossed my arms.
“Didn’t – didn’t cross my mind! It surely did! The shops were closed, you know that. I did not have a single pence or quid this morning. I spent it all on the rent for my dear, lovely old landlady and some nosh – supper and this morning’s brekkers.”
I raised an eyebrow at him, “Oh!! Did I not pay you enough? You’re the one complaining, HA! I ought to be the one ratting down on you. You took what? Twenty quid, was it? Robbery!” My friend was about to protest, “Ah!! Ah!! From my own dearest friend! Nay, my closest brother! If this is disappointing, then there is more of this atrocity! You know what that twenty quid was for?” I stood up and walked over to him, point my finger at him. “Bleeding whores, that’s what. Not a damn pence went to you dear old landlady. Not a damn quid to the nosh – no, plump little sausages for brekkers, no slices of toast with jam, no biscuit for your tea. No tea, even! Oh, now don’t look at me with that indignant face, you bleeding wanker. It’s all over you! That’s the shirt you wore yesterday, still got the bloodstains. Your shoes and jacket are covered in mud, from falling into the puddle outside the brothel. You were too smashed to avoid it. Your breath reeks of liqueur. Then there’s the cap. That thing is doused in liqueur, reeks of the unique and very harsh lavender scent that the frisky little ladies down at the Red Fox drench themselves in. No sir, I owe you nothing.” I walked over to my desk and pulled out a small little box and popped it open - out came the finest cigarette I am able to buy. I snapped the box closed and shut the drawer. I stuffed a hat on and slipped on my jacket. I opened to door to the rainy outside and flicked my thumb and index together, producing my ever-favourite flame to light the cigarette. I was about to exit when I looked back at my partner. “Throw out that cap, will you? The ‘murderer’ will know what hit him even if he’s all the way in bleeding Scotland.”

---

This was an one-class assignment for fiction. We were supposed to do everyday conversation. Which I tried to do, yea, but my original intent was to have these magic-users as a sort of noir Sherlock Holmes and Watson characters. Of course we weren't allowed to use much prose either, so I just hint that they use magic. The 'Watson', or the partner who stole twenty quid, could manipulate liquid. Make them hot or cold or what. The 'Holmes' conducts heat. He creates flames, manipulates them. Sort of fond of these two, even though this piece doesn't really show what I had in mind for 'em. The Watson was a portly man, short and a bit gruff. The Holmes was thin, slender and tall. Not very rough looking, but more of a bright man. Oh well... Hope to keep the two in mind (and hopefully name to poor two men).

Recently.

2006-11-01T20:54:00.000-08:00

Well, I was hoping to weave a Halloween story, but it seems as though this year's Halloween fell just a little short. No real costume, no real story... Ah, well. I had some lovely potato soup (very, very good potato soup).

On to the next business, apparently it is the new month. Not a real shocker, the months change 11 times a year. However this would then mean that it is the 'official' start of the 227 Blackwell Society of Fiction. At least... I suppose it is the official start. The club never really was approved by the school officials. Just sort of... us doing what we do (meaning my little group). I'm not sure when the club gets officialised (by the school). Not that it matters, of course. It will go on as long as we keep it up (hopefully we will).

((Note: the 227 Blackwell Society of Fiction is a silly little writing club with an overly pretentious name and therefore, much fun)).

We will have to get together and throw some challenges around. I do believe I have got a few, and in the mean time I shall continue to write. I have already wasted a few hours on silly frivolous idiocies (The Flying Circus might not exactly be an idiocy, but it is silly). Oh dear.

Blood, interesting. What about a book on blood?

2006-10-27T19:13:00.000-07:00

Having just finished reading Bill Haye's Five Quarts, my mind is filled with interesting little facts on blood. Things such as "what those weird little sticks of red, white and blue swirls hanging outside barber shops really are" (Barbers, in medieval times, were also small-time doctors, and the red equals blood, blue equals veins, white equals bandages and the stick represents the stick the patient held during bloodletting) and the history of Queen Victoria's little family (and their giant blood problems). However there were parts that were dull.

Mainly the parts with his personal history of blood. The author is quite interesting himself. Not many seem to be so open (or is it that there are not so many?) about being a gay man. Some of the stories he adds in about his family (he is the only son among five sisters) or about his lover (Steve) and him. This could all be a baised opinion from just finishing An Unquiet Mind (written by Kay Jamison) which was dull, dull and very dull (quite the opposite, it seems, from everyone else's opinion). Or possibly from my lack of complete enjoyment from non-fiction. Non-fiction, if not interesting from the start, is very boring to me (and hence my lack of enjoyment of An Unquiet Mind).

I would recommend it to other people, most certainly. It has quite a few things to learn from. As a very important daily substance, blood is overlooked. People do not want to talk about it. It is just one of those social forbiddens. Reading the book is exquisitely informative. Little things that make you go "Ah!!! I get it now!!" (One example would be why we wear wedding bands on our fourth finger on our left hand). Little fun trivial facts (and I do ever so love those).

Overall, the style of Bill Hayes is a bit put-offish, a bit like Tracey Kidder, who wrote Mountains Beyond Mountains. However unlike Kidder's or Jamison's style, it is more on the mediocre side. A voice that, if not in the mood, would seem dreadfully boring, but if in the mood, be interesting. It all depends. A book that you must read with something else to break it apart (for me, it was Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things, another book to not read in one sitting... but for a completely different reason*). In conclusion, if you find a book about blood interesting, go out and buy it. If not at all, then do not bother. Not yet, at least.

* Fragile Things is a collection of short fictions, and if you read them all at once, they clash and run together and ruin themselves. If spaced out, they're wonderful.

The Rubble of Men.

2006-10-27T18:46:00.000-07:00

The men stood apart from each other, languidly and not taking notice of their farewell ration of the rare hot chocolate. A Private Charles Finn leaned against a piece of rubble with his helmet on his knee and the hot chocolate in his left hand. His eyes saw nothing, took in nothing. Another Private, Kent Bramble, sat unsupported and stared at one of the guarding soldiers, one of the men issued to aim the rifle and fire. He was a tall man, with a mustache, and held a look that showed his lack of opinion on his orders. Private Kent Bramble wished this man to be the one with the bullet in his rifle.

One of the issued soldiers was staring at the Private Peter Henley, who was crouched and hugging himself, facing the rubble landscape and muttering to himself of his insanity.

The last Private, Bernard Lindleman watched the landscape, taking in the beauty of destruction. He didn't touch his hot chocolate, but held a clean head, unlike Private Peter Henley or Private Charles Finn or Private Kent Bramble, who were lost to the world. He did not touch his hot chocolate because he tended to feel as though it did not suit him to drink hot chocolate. He then took in the rubbled church in which was to be their dying ground. It found him ironic, for he refused in the belief of gods.

The four Privates awaited the Final Order. An army jeep's engine was heard and after a few moments it appeared. Within it was a the man to give the orders and the witness. The witness was a photographer and so took the last photo Private Charles Finn, Private Kent Bramble, Private Peter Finley and Private Bernard Lindleman would ever have.

The seven soldiers who recieved the orders took a draw, to take which rifle. Private Charles Finn was ordered to stand over to a spot and had his crimes read to him. His crime was refusal to orders and cowardice. He stood, thinking about the reason why he didn't drink his hot chocolate. He refused it for his French wife would make the best he could remember. She had died though, in Verdun, from German cannon fire. As he was thinking of the first time he had tasted her hot chocolate and knew that they would be together by marriage, he was shot. He was glad for that last memory, for it was one of his favourites.

The rifles were given back and the process was repeated as the dead person was put into the jeep. Private Kent Bramble stood in his spot to die. His crime was refusal to orders and cowardice. He thought of how the soldier, who he wished would be the man to kill him, was his brother. He looked like him, held the same manner as him. It made Private Kent Bramble sad to think that his brother would not survive the war. Or that he died several months ago, helping his mother flee Marne. The seven soldiers fired. Private Kent Bramble stared at the soldier who killed him. His brother, he was sure, had killed him.

The Private Peter Finley screamed out his insanity as he was pulled to his dying spot. He was read his crimes, as he screamed how he was insane. His crime was refusal to orders and cowardice. His mind replayed images of his long months of laying in a sickly bed, recovering from shellshock. With his fever, he deliriumed of his wife bringing him baked pies and bowls of his favourite soups. Two months after his shellshock he was brought news from a fellow soldier that his wife and his children had fleed to the States. It broke him, for he felt them leave him to die in this war. He would refuse to fight, saying he was not well. He, in his yelling, felt warm blood spreading and soaking his uniform. It was when he realised that he had no children and refused to believe in his wife.

Private Bernard Lindleman was lost in his viewing of the fine scenery he would die in. He heard the last shot and stood up uncounsiously. While he was drowning in the beauty of destruction, he had counted the shots. One of the men led him to his spot to die. They asked if he wanted a blindfold and he told them no, there was too much destruction to look at. He heard the men read his crimes and found it monotonous. His crime was refusal to orders. He was never a coward. As he searched with his eyes, he found a piece of broken church that was positively lovely. He was shot there, sketching the piece of rubble in his mind.

---

This took place... well... not precisely during WWI or WWII. It took place in a world of the collaboration of the two. Think of it as the setting of WWI and the ideals of WWII (well... the same type of ideals, not the exact same reasonings). ((Ah, and yes. I realise that they would most certainly have their eyes covered, but this is a different world. The times are not so soft. There is a high honour system and these men were probably worse than dirt to a proud citizen of the empire they belonged to.)) There are times when I write about this war. Not in chronological order, but they're there. The reason why I wrote this was because of an article a while ago that appeared on the BBC newsletter: pardoned soldiers.

I must say, Private Bernard Lindleman was probably my most favourite of them. He was initially an artist, really. He was sort of that solemn, serious, heavy-reader, quiet artist. I'm pretty sure he took photographs. He isn't the painter sort.

Private Kent Bramble must have been my second favourite. He loved his brother. After he was bedridden (trench fever, the same for all of them... well, except Lindleman), he recieved news that his brother and mother died in a sort of Blitzkrieg. Devestated, he wanted some sort of realise. Having a man who looked incredibly alike his brother gave him the precise realise he would have wanted. ((Of course, you don't get all of this in the story, really. Ah... well. Faulty writing?))

To those of you actually out there.

2006-10-27T18:33:00.000-07:00

Well, yes. There is hardly anything here. Sighs. Ah, well... due to the terrible-ness of school. I'd wake up (6:30), be at school ('till 16:10), sleep at home ('till 18:00), do homework ('till 23:00) and when I would finally sit down with pen in hand and notebook in front, I'd stare. I would be there for quite some time until I shoved off, studied for SATs and read (this would start from 00:30 to 1:00 and end at 2:00, which is when I go to sleep). I realise it is most likely my lack of sleep. I get four hours (and that means I have a twenty hour day). Which is all due to the incompatability of my night-owl ways and the rest of the world's early bird ways. I write better at night, sadly enough.

Anyways, that would be the reason why I do not have as much as I wanted up here. It is not a writer's block that stops me, really, but a stubborn block that just doesn't want to do work anymore. Ah, well... I shall try and post up some of my older stuff tonight. (And hopefully edit them along the way).

The first little snipit over here.

2006-10-22T20:52:00.000-07:00

The Story of the Monsoon

The Fire Bird always told the coming of the monsoon. She rose, chasing the bones of her lover in the same fate as Sisyphus to his rock and stone. Impossibilities to no end.
They would note the coming from the Fire Bird’s blazing display. She would rise, her feathers moulting the white flame and her shrieking cries never-ending for two weeks. By the end of her warning her shrieks and cries died out and white flames burned to nothing.
The men and women uncharacteristically equalled shares in the work and preparations during the two weeks warning. No time must be spared unless one wished for the monsoon to devour them.
Men sprinkled un-birthing elixir among the plants and fields as women dismantled the homes of mud and planted their doors of ash. Children kissed their rocks goodbye and returned to the land.
As garments unravelled and stone sheep returned to bone and flesh, the winds of the monsoon would sound in the deep-hearted men and the Bones of the Lover of the Fire Bird entered into the sky. With their last look at their rumbling husbands, the women entered the rivers.
The men stood in the barrenness of their undoing and boomed. The longer they stood, the longer they rumbled. The leader of all men fell into the monsoon first, as all leaders tend to do. As the followers of all men, the men did their duty and entered into monsoon.
With the men gone, and the rumbling wind everywhere, the sheep shivered and the doors shook as the children started quaking. The leader of all children did as a leader did and the Earth broke by his power. The child had entered monsoon. Children are all leader and all followers, and so the Earth was torn as they entered into monsoon.
The Earth dampened and the sky fell as the leader of all women washed away the life. The water rose and all sheep were lost and all doors floated like the forests from the olden days. The followers of all women did as followers do and drowned all life.
The Bones of the Lover of the Fire Bird shimmered n a briefest moment, but then the Fire Bird came upon the horizon. She caught just the glimpse of his bone-tail and her white flame ended monsoon.

---

This was written a while ago, in the summer. It was in the first week of school. Must have been. I remember myself freaking out that I needed to sleep, but I could not and so I knew I would be tired the next day. It was around 3am and I was half asleep. Was laying there in bed and went into one of those "I'm perfectly aware of this dream, yet I am asleep" type dreams. It all started with this people, in tunics or weird tribal-esque clothing, in this terribly barren wasteland. Or rather, "not lush". The houses were of mud and there were sparse fields of plants in the dirt (not sand, a sort of dirt) and door-trees (rather, doors stuck in the ground as though a tree) and a single river that was behind the village. The sun was a giant fire bird, rather like a phoenix. There was positively nothing to do, it seemed.

So I woke up. I snatched up a pen and sketched this down (in a rather untidy and sleepy fashion). I thought that if the sun was a giant fire bird, than she must be chasing something. And so I thought "bones". The moon was her dead lover. Decomposed to nothing but silver-white bones. And due to a spell, she must chase them forever (all she wishes to do is to breath life back into them, but a cruel witch or god placed a curse so for her to never be able to reach them).

And so what IS the monsoon? I do not know. I am not sure if I truly wish to know. It seems as though that it is night. I suppose it could be dreams or possibly it is just what it is: a storm. I like the thought of it to be the people entering dreamland, though. If you think about it, it makes it lose its beauty and illusions. It is better off as a "monsoon". ((On the contrary, I do not know why that popped into my mind in the first place. Monsoon is such a weird thing to think of.))

I had a lot of fun with this story, I must say. It is so random and weird. I remember, after writing it, looking over it quickly and not understanding one bit as to why I wrote it. I never thought about it, really. It was just written down. One of those little special pieces given from the gods, I suppose.

Pilot Post.

2006-10-22T20:42:00.000-07:00

Well. This is it. This is the first post ever. I do not have much to say, really. Besides "posting for a first post". I do have a livejournal, though. I suppose I'll post something, once I have something worth posting.