angel of music

To Brady, Vauhn, and Kent

2010-04-22T18:26:00.000-07:00

CRY OF THE LOST

Can you hear the cry of the lost above the hammering of your desires?
Sweet tone of the almost forgotten just behind the ringing in your ears.
This isn't a fairytale, so don't wish on a falling star
They can't hear you here and they're not coming back.
The world above this is falling and tomorrow you will lift up your voice.

Do you hear the cry of the ones who slide through the holes in your thought?
Her bells remind you.
Faces haunted by voided memories.
You can't see them, but they can see you.
The Clock strikes the hour and that will change.

Will you hear the cry of the fallen; their forms traded for shadows, and their eyes nought but flickering lights?
You speak of them in the deepest realms of sleep and taste their names at morn.
They flee from you as a dream for remembrance makes of their loss a reality. Do not pursue them.
Do not make them real.
Can you hear them--
The cries of the lost?

Fearful Nostalgia

2009-01-27T01:12:00.000-08:00

It was the residue of a laugh that turned my stomach. The thought of the joviality dying to be succeeded by a silence that blistered my ears.

Is it in me to kill? I would have said not, but I've murdered my time with you with cold-blooded efficiency.

Is there so much hate in me? It would have surprised me had I not hated every word that came out of my mouth with a fiery passion.

I asked God and He told me that I am who I make myself.

Is it truly possible to die of fright?

What is in my head that has the power to trap me there? Something tells me nothing. Something whispers that every time I'm locked in there, I'm the one who turns the key. I wish I could lose that key. I wish my mind had no doors.

I've gotten better. I've gotten stronger.

Trust me. Trust me. Trust me.

Spider in the Sink

2008-05-24T02:54:00.000-07:00

It isn't too far to say fear; not far enough to say despair.

It isn't fair--screamed too many times like a curse at the sky as he wishes away his hopeless cries on the torrents of unfailingly dramatic rain falling

Down stairs backlit by terror to a dark room where none can hear him sobbing for his

Mommy is too enamored with the idea of who she wants him to be to have any idea of who

He wants to be the good-hearted man that walks next to his wife in fifty years as she piddles through the store looking for

God knows what will happen when the picture of him is presented unadulterated, uncensored and they see

Him

Only as they want to see him and that is failing

To find an answer to the question

Why can't you see what we are trying to

Say over and over that you love him, but love forgives and you forgive

Conditionally giving "support" that tears him

Down to a bite-size version of a man who can't remember his

Name the last time you told him you were proud of who he was and that he was trying

To piss you off because he just

Wants you to realize that you don't have to accept him for what he's doing, but

Him

For

Who

Is tired of playing this game for which the rules are changed all the

Time is running out and he is ready to quit trying

To find the right way to say

I love you. I miss you. Talk to me like I'm your son and stop staring at the corpse of the man you wanted me to be.

I'm right here.

And you're missing me.

"I Am Your Eternity"--A Lost Magnet Poem

2008-05-11T15:04:00.000-07:00

Death blossoms as he plunges through the cascading sludge of music and she impregnates eternity with the synthetic taste of life. Climb into death where man listened alone. Dissolve through a delicate diagram of a black night to celebrate a full moon; dissolve surprise for my burning tongue. Hell's music is burning like a spring rain symphony. I am your eternity after the sky is dead. The dead do not recall when he smiled or what they said; only dirt and wind. Hide me in wind. You still taste sorry in the morning. Her laugh will color morning red.

Give Me Wings That I May Fly

2008-04-09T19:54:00.000-07:00

There is no light

Yet somehow I can see all too well that

There is nothing to see.

Just me and the one who calls himself me.

We sit together on a plane of

Thought

With holes big enough to fall through.

The power of the faith in the lies

He/I

Tell me protects me from the plunge.

I'd rather fall.

No sound

But the whispered words carried by a

Voice

That slips from between clenched lips.

I cannot hear them.

My ears are stopped by the

Smothering

Weight of the silence that echoes

Through corridors and caverns

Too filled with unfinished but outdated

Thoughts

Ideas

Fears

To traverse without the trap of

Time

Wasted on

Worry

Catching me by the feet to

Hold me locked in

Guilt and

Shame.

Still I know what is said.

The darkness is thickened by a

Mist

Supported by

Promises

Of Pain

Unfounded

Unexplained

Undeniably powerful in their

Carefully constructed

Half-truths.

Night becomes heavier

Noctem Aeternus

The eternal

Night.

I can no longer see as clearly the darkness thickening

In the recesses.

I feel only the drag of fear and worry on my

Consciousness and the hands of the one who calls himself me lovingly

Caressing

Embracing

Feeding

The quicksand of fearful thoughts that

Suffocates

My focus on You

Lord.

Imprisoned in my mind.

I cannot see, but my eyes are turned to You.

Set me free.

Psalm 3,722

2008-02-18T23:20:00.000-08:00

I would cry out to you "Oh, Lord, help me step out from my trials!" but I feel no justification in calling you my Lord.
I have called for you in the thick of the smoke rising from my smoldering skin and you showed not your face. I reached out my hand when I was sinking into the fathomless canyons of my thoughts and I saw you not. I whispered in exhausted supplication when I felt terror's dominion over my mind and still you were not there.
I feel no justification in calling you my Lord.
I felt the fire of time singing the fringes of my life until I was frayed and scattered. I bowed my knee before you and you would not turn your eyes to me. I prostrated myself in your presence and you paid me no mind. I opened my mouth and begged for strength, for the ability to help those around me who were in need. I moistened my lips to plead for forgiveness for straying from the path. And you turned not your eyes on me. I cried out "Oh, Lord, why do you deny me?"
Your voice came from motionless lips. "Do you call me so? Am I Lord to you? You kneel before me with a stagnant heart of fear and doubt. You deny nothing of yourself and beg for yourself all that you will not give of yourself to others."
You turned me out from your presence and your face has been far from me. I have forgotten your face, my Father. You have forgotten mine.
I feel no justification in calling you my Lord.

Tell Me Again

2008-01-08T14:43:00.000-08:00

I want to hold your hand like we're five years old and I'm sneaking a kiss on the cheek behind the twisty slide where the playground monitor can't see us.
I want to flirt with you like I'm still in high school and I have no idea that the lines I'm using were used by my dad a few millenia ago when my parents were dating.
I want to reach out to you like there are a million people in this room but you're only looking at me.
I want to carry you in my arms like a superhero rescuing the love of his life from a plummet of unimaginable height.
I want to hold you like my arms can keep out the world and melt all your fears.
I want to kiss you like my lips can keep in the tears and fix the pain in your heart.
I want to dance with you like every song ever written was for us.
I want to lie with you on the couch like tomorrow will never come and there's only your soft breathing and your heart beating against my chest.
I want to talk to you like I'm a semi-normal human being who knows how to use his words properly without tripping over them or spitting on himself.
I want to walk into your room like I'm coming home and there is no question about where I belong.
I want to tell you I love you like it's for the first time and hear your breath catch.
I want to be your best friend until my last breath like God couldn't help but put us together.
I want you to tell me again that you will be mine for forever and always.
Now I want you to tell me again.

Anonymity

2007-11-26T14:11:00.000-08:00

He sat alone in a group of four. Just another face, another body, another customer who regretted spending as much as he did for a stale brownie covered in ice cream. He'd met the woman before, but neither remembers a conversation having taken place. The child, of course, he'd never seen before. She sat on the other side of the table and tried to read Harry Potter until she decided that the dialogue taking place across the table was not too dense for her to contribute from time to time. His best friend sat directly opposite him, completely engrossed in a conversation with the woman. His friend, too lost in what was being said to pay him much mind, merely glanced at him when he chose to speak or when his friend felt embarrassed by his attempts to entertain the little girl when her interest flagged and she sat somewhat forlornly watching the others. Two plates, five glasses, and two coffee mugs rested--mostly forgotten--in no-man's-land at the center of the table.
The tables around them were occupied by an assortment of middle-aged and elderly rednecks as well as teenagers dressed too meticulously casually to be missed had not every other teenager there been wearing the same thing.
He listened to the woman beside him telling them of her theatre class at his friend's old high school. She elaborated on her hatred of the job and the difficulty of dealing with her students' attitudes and somewhere in the greasy air above her right eyebrow, he caught a fleeting, but stunningly clear image. Every tired old man, every wrinkled and folded old lady, every gussied up, grunged down teenager, every disheartened teacher like the women beside him was nothing more than a fish trying desperately to find a hold on the sides of a glass tank. Some had stopped trying to get out. Some of them floated on their backs in the middle of the increasing pile of the middle class amidst minimum wages and fallen dreams; watching with wide, unmoving eyes as others who refused to accept their plight leaped and fell and tried and failed.
He blinked and the image vanished back into the inner recesses of his mind. He looked around at all the drinking, eating, laughing, smoking customers and despaired. "I'm not like you!" he screamed deep in his mind. "I will find a way out! I will not fail."
He turned away from these thoughts in sorrow, knowing that those would be his last words.

Nightmare

2007-11-16T11:53:00.000-08:00

I dreamed my face had fallen away and I couldn't feel your hand in mine. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on your breathing. I thought of your laugh, your smile, your eyes when you're glad to see me. For a brief moment I felt your heart in the veins of the wrist that pressed against mine. Then I felt nothing. I turned to look at you. Your face melted as I watched and I saw your thoughts written on your mind in a screaming headline that told me I had died to you. There were no tears, no remorse, and your heart beat on untouched by mine. Your eyes became mirrors of my horror and I saw the terror that was once my face. A bleeding, grinning skull spilled tears of black sorrow, turning the ground at my feet to quicksand. The thoughts written on my mind duplicated by yours retold the death of your love for me in bold capitals. I sank and began to drown in suffocating sorrow.
Last night I dreamed my face had fallen away. I was dead, and your heart beat on untouched by mine.

Marionette

2007-11-02T21:04:00.000-07:00

Strings.
They make us dance.
Poised forever on the edge of falling, held suspended over destruction by thin strands of time.
Made to dance by time.
Made to float centimeters above the ground, almost.....almost touching.
Hung.
Lynched by dreams, crucified by thoughts--my very body provides the cross.
Forgive me, Father for I know not what I do.
Adrift.
Purposeless, directionless, at the will of uncaring time. Time holding the strings in a loose
grip too tight to breath through.
Strings.
I hang myself on all that I've done. Forgive me, Father, for I know not what I do.

Two Steps Away From Home

2007-10-26T00:13:00.000-07:00

You take up so much room. There isn't space for a single thought aside from you. I'm two steps away from home and I am lost. You take up so much room. My pride and arrogance shift to let you in and my mind is taking casualties. Asleep forever and never to rest. You take up so much room. I can't see past you to the open window. The door is locked and I can never get out. You take up so much room. Your eyes and the way they meet mine when you smile pushes out worry and fear. I don't want to leave when it's time to go. You take up so much room. I'm two steps away from home and I am lost. The moonlit gravel road goes on forever, promising new places and people. You take up so much room. I forget for a while and I remember--remember that I don't want to think of anything but you. I am afraid to let you out of my thoughts for fear that you will somehow slip out of my life. I remember--You are helping me to destroy those thoughts in my mind that I unconsciously let in. You help me to see my arrogance and pride and that I am no different than the people I look down on. I remember--The open window holds nothing that I want to see. My eyes require one thing--your smile. I remember--The door is locked and it was I who threw away the key. I need no rest from sleep if I can rest in a dream of you. I remember--The road can lead to all other hopes and desires; if you are not at the end, I will stay where I am and perish here. You take up so much room and I finally remember--I am two steps away from home and I am lost. And I never want to find my way back.

Once Upon a Time

2007-09-01T23:09:00.000-07:00

Once there was a man who cupped the beauty of time unending in his hands with the delicate touch of a lover's whisper. He once had the strength to bear the thoughts behind the ceaseless and empty eyes that were once so familiar.
Now, every idea is an agony beyond description. Every concept brings a flood of pain to the threshold of unbearable.
So he covered his eyes so that no one could see that once there was a man with a heart that was too big to hold so he gave it away. Taking the jagged remains in return, he buried them beneath the corpses of his failures that he carried on the wheels that followed him through the dark. Exhausted, but unable to let go, his tearless sobs drained him of the last of his strength. The ground beneath him sucked him in up to his neck. Arms and legs unable to move, he stared into the lights of the oncoming wreckage without any desire to move away. Footsteps echoed in his mind as others stepped over him without a glance
Because they couldn't see him.
They couldn't see that
Once upon a time, there was a man who knew how to pray.
He walked with God and talked with God daily from inside his safe little
Bubble.
Content and complacent he staunchly moved toward his goals
Never thinking, never dreaming, never imagining, never seeing that he was
Weak.
He shot for his dreams and met life on the way who told him that
All that he thought he knew was
Wrong.
Once he knew who he was.
Once he had the strength to bear the weight of his responsibility.
Once he was strong enough to do what was asked.
Once he believed in a God that never let him fall, despite how many times he'd let go.
Now he doesn't believe. He doesn't believe that forgiveness could ever be his.
He's said too much, thought too much, felt too much to believe that God could not hold a hatred deep enough to bury him. He doesn't believe that happiness is anything more than myth and legend. He doesn't believe in a purpose that will take him to the full extent of his potential. He is nothing more than a shell and he doesn't believe in the eyes of people or of God to see that
Once upon a time there was a man.

To the Dark Tower

2007-07-03T16:34:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have any interest in reading the Dark Tower series by Stephen King, stop reading here because I'm about to ruin it.

I've just finished reading the last book in the series that has impacted me more than any other I've read. A co-worker had told me that her husband read the series and was disappointed with the end. I don't know if it's just because I'm partial to King, or if it's the dark storyteller in me, but I thought the end traumatizingly perfect. I reached the end and though no tears fell from my eyes, my heart wept.
I wept for Eddie Dean of New York.
I wept for John "Jake" Chambers of New York, who called Roland father.
I wept for Susannah/Odetta/Detta Walker Dean of New York.
I wept for Oy of Mid-World.
But mostly, I wept for Roland, son of Steven Deschain of Gilead.
I went every step with Roland to his Tower. I felt his grief as he did. I felt the joy that he found at the end of his journey. And I felt his anguish as the story of his life was laid before him.
At the risk of sounding totally and ridiculously silly:
I wish you luck, Roland. My heart longs to follow you yet again, but the retelling of your life is a story that is not for me to know. May you find your Tower. And may it be different this time.

Missed It

2007-06-25T15:17:00.000-07:00

He should have been a librarian. The glasses and dull combination of the almost lifeless colors of his clothes fit well with the prudish face that would have stilled the crying lips of any child that dared to make such a horrific sound in his library. He walked like a librarian--shoulders back from hours of reaching up to the high shelves to push would-be topplers back to their positions between the "Illustrated Ecyclopedia of Canines" and the "Complete Idiot's Guide To Clogging"; head held high from reading reference numbers beyond his level of eyesight; eyes squinting through his spectacles from hours of reading contraband advance copies of Stephen King's newest book in the early hours of morning. He did not look uncomfortable carrying the tray of half-eaten food and ketchup-stained paper, but it looked out of place in the hands that should have supported a stack of books to his chin. His eyes swept the little dining room of the airport restaurant, perhaps searching for more trays, perhaps taking in the dirty, crowded tables that littered his overpriced prison. He turned and slipped silently past cooks and waiters to disappear into a smoky kitchen after which I never saw him again.

She looked...well, at the risk of sounding cruel.....ugly. At first glance she struck me as the epitome of white trash. Her burnt orange shirt hung low, exposing skin tanned over endless hours of hanging up wet wash on the line in the back yard. Her faded jeans looked uncomfortably tight on her thirty-odd-year-old backside and I wasn't sure at first how she was even going to manage to throw the ball. The guys she was with, however, didn't seem too worried about her bowling abilities. They looked at her with a mixture of affection and appreciation that only comes from a lot of time spent with good friends. As always, my pride, ego, and arrogance rose and I wondered what on earth they saw in this lady who was not quite slutty, but who carried herself with the air of one who thought she was beautiful enough for anyone she wanted.

And then she smiled. That smile that held hands with the careless, confident laugh that powered it cut through my stereotypes, arrogance, and pride like a hot blade through tissue paper. In that moment she became beautiful to me and I couldn't help but watch her. She threw the ball down the lane and buried her face in her hands as they all laughed at the gutter ball making its way to the automatic return at the end of the lane. She turned and grinned at the man who had first come with her. She tried to act as if she didn't care what he thought about her bowling skills, but the grin and the shy way her eyes met his showed him that she cared all too much.

I looked at the woman I had originally thought ugly, at the men with her, and at the easy, familiar smile that they all wore, and I suddenly felt a strange sense of glad jealousy. I was glad that the woman she was had turned out to be worlds better than the woman my careless and unjustly critical eye took her for. I was jealous because I did not share that quality.

He did not look like a gunslinger, or the hero of the classic black and white western, but he looked as if he would not be out of place standing behind such men. His dark, curly brown hair lifted from his head in an almost angry protest of the dry desert wind. His jaunty goatee (don't ask me how a goatee can be jaunty, because I don't know; but that's what it was) reminded me almost comically of actors who had portrayed the legendary Doc Holiday in some of my favorite western movies. If he did not come into the restaurant every day, then it was certainly at least every other day. His order became very familiar and the cooks were able to whip out his favorite sandwich before he ordered it.

I have a hard time imagining him working in the store just behind ours. To me he should be sitting in the back of a saloon with at least one barroom hooker on each arm and a hand full of aces hidden beneath his glass of beer. Maybe I'll put him there on paper.

He looked like a fry cook. That was what struck me as so sad about him. His long face, dirty glasses, and ceaseless eyes fit far too well with the filthy apron tied in front (so as to discourage any would-be pranksters from untying it and saying that they had undressed the "Good Little Christian Boy Ben Bees") and the allegedly anti-slip shoes that were caked with every sauce the store used. Looking at him one wouldn't believe that he aspired to be a great storyteller, but it sort of made sense to think of him that way once he'd told you. Unless he was having a really bad day he almost never stopped talking or singing to himself softly enough to not attract too much attention to his lack of tone. He would be unbelievably angry one moment and laughing at a ridiculous joke he had just told the next. Certainly such drastic mood swings would better equip him to portray similar emotions in the stories he told. Or maybe it just made him crazy.

He sat in the back with his Stephen King book for two hours before clocking on. King is his favorite author and he prays daily that some day he will have skills to rival King's. But he knows that whatever voice he finds, it will have to be his own. Right now, it's time to make some burgers.

The people that come in barely look at him. Why should they? There is nothing interesting about him. They don't know that he spends hours daydreaming of his characters coming to life. They have no idea that he wishes more than anything that he could climb in between the pages of his favorite book and go through the story that he loves so much. He's just the man making their food. He's nothing more than a greasy minimum wage college student working for some worthless dream like they once were.
He sees them all. Sometimes he puts them in his stories. Sometimes he feels sorry for them; living their nine-to-fives, heedless of all the stories around them. They don't know this. Why would they want to know of the pity of the man behind the grill.

After all, he's only a fry cook.

My Summer Vacation

2007-06-18T15:40:00.000-07:00

It's the smell of the dust--grains of sand so small, so inconspicuously colored that only the uprising of allergies and the almost immediate clogging of the nose tell of its presence. It's the smell of the trees and their staunch resistance to the dry air. It's the smell of the heat pulsing from the ground in waves that blend with the warm wind that no more cools the sweat on the face than does the shade that retains a temperature of 105. It's the sky at dusk--the orange sherbet rays of sunset draped over the shoulders of the mountains that surround the old town in the most glorious of natural cages that they call a valley. It's the hurried scuttle of wildlife into the nearest bush as you make your way to the top of the hill. It's the tears that threaten the corners of your eyes with the realization that none of your friends can see what you see. It's the slow walk back down while watching the lights of civilization that are almost too far away. It's knowing that you've seen it all before,and each time is the first.

NOTE: Subject to editing.

Silhouette: Broken

2007-02-18T13:39:00.000-08:00

The silhouette of the canopy above his head lay on the snow before him like a picture from a long-forgotten book. The clearing spanned only one hundred square feet; a graveyard for fallen trees; watched from the surrounding shadows by a dozen pair of eyes--pinpricks of light glinting malevolently only inches above the ground. Sound did not seem able to penetrate the hundreds of yards of trees hemming him in. Birds remained on their perches and waited; none dared brave the sky so soon after the fury of the night. The clouds over his head skirted the clearing, racing around the edges to move further east. The wind moved with sporadically alternating violent gusts and friendly breezes. With a furious gust like a thunderclap the wind thrust itself at the ground as if to burrow to the very center of the earth. The last night's snow once again took to the air, swirling and colliding against itself in an effort to reach the sun and melt to fly above the earth again in the clouds. The gust died. Dejected, the flakes fell back to the ground with an almost audible sigh. A semi-tame breeze followed on the heels of the gust, making its way through the trees and across the clearing, sending a top layer of snow skidding along the ground to meet him. The flakes threw themselves against his face, dying in the heat from his flushed skin. He wiped them off with the sleeve of his thin coat and looked around.
He felt he had known this place in a dream. Some dim memory of death and sorrow called to him from the depths of his feverish mind. This place was not to be disturbed. The watch of the ancient Fallen of the old Order had held for an age and a half. Every instinct in his being screamed against entering the open ground.
He pushed his way through the bushes and stepped into the shade of death.
The clearing offered no shelter whatsoever. A single stump stood twenty feet from the north edge as if it were a solitary guard of this sacred place. The echo of a voice that had not been heard in a thousand years whispered to him in the silence. Shadows of the arms of hundreds of the dead pulled at his legs, pleading with him to turn back. Clenching his toungue in his teeth to dam the terror threatening to spill from his heaving lungs, he made his way slowly towards the stump. His fists closed in on themselves as he willed himself to take another step, and then another.
After an eternity he reached the stump and stood staring at it, his panting breath floating in a fog across his vision. The charred roots stood out starkly against the blinding white of the snow, snaking up from the ground and twisting around the base like vines. The age of the tree barely showed through the scar of the flames in the rings spiralling through the stump's core. As he watched, the rings began to take on the faintest glimmer of a dead light. Not a single flake lay on the stump's surface. The snow that floated on the wind travelled in split paths at the base of the stump that rejoined each other on the other side. He reached down with a trembling hand and rested his palm on the marred remnant of lives needlessly lost and pulled back quickly. The tree's corpse still burned with the fury of the flames that had taken its life. His hand began to blister and bleed. He watched through his fingers in horrified fascination as the outlines of a writhing face passed across the surface of the stump. It was gone immidiately, leaving only a faint trail of smoke that curled its way into the air with a delicate grace. With all of his strength he willed his legs to remain in control and turned back to face the way he had come.
The grip of the dead over his body was gone. Somewhere before him he heard the low murmer of thier sorrow.
The sound of a single footstep in the suffocating silence tore him from the last few fragments of the sanity he'd desperately clung to. Before he was conscious of what was happening, his left arm flew up in front of his body. The knuckles of his right hand were whiter than the snow as the fist that held his .45 came to rest on the outstretched forearm. His body merged with the weapon, his torso rotated towards the other intruder of the sacred ground's silence and he took a half-step towards him as his finger brought the trigger towards his palm.
A fine red mist hung suspended in the air behind the other for a brief moment before peppering the ground before the base of the forest's edge. The rabbit slung over his shoulder, weighed down with its own blood and that of its killer, slid to the ground at his feet. The other's hand wandered from his pocket to his blood-stained shirt, then fell back to his side; the watch he had held carved a round hole in the snow. The boy's twelve years faded from his eyes before his body reached the ground.
The weapon dropped from his hand and came to rest on the steaming stump. His legs relinquished the weight of his senseless body to the frozen ground and he fell to his knees. He stared at the child's body until the last light of the sun had disappeared from the sky.

He had not moved by the time they reached him. His eyes did not stray from the face of the child. They entered the clearing cautiously, approaching his turned back with weapons drawn. Fanning out silently, they followed the edges of the forest, ready to move into the safety of the trees should he turn. He did not turn. His eyes were glazed and empty. They would have thought him frozen and dead where he knelt but for the small tufts of breath that streamed from his nose.
Somewhere just beyond his realm of awareness, a father cried out in pain and horror. A man raced into his blurred vision and dropped to his knees beside his dead son. The frozen body was lifted to the man's chest and held as if to never be let loose again. His eyes followed the child's as the boy's father sobbed and screamed into his son's face. His own eyes held no more tears. The snow beneath his frozen, bleeding hands was all but dissolved in the hot salt of the agony that had poured from his eyes at the boy's death.
His eyes did not meet the father's when he turned from his son in blind fury. He did not turn when the shouts of the men in the circle were joined by the shouts of men long gone from there. He did not look away when the old stump was enveloped in the flames that had taken so many lives all those years ago. He did not raise his head or flinch when the man's hatchett sliced an arc through the air, catching the dancing flames in the edges of the blade. A smile touched his lips as her face formed before his. He closed his eyes and watched his dreams seep between them, around the father's blade, and into the ground near the flaming stump. For a moment, for a brief, glorious moment, he swam among the smoke of the Ancient sacrifice. Then the rings of the stump closed around him and he raised his voice with those of the Old in despair for the lost.

Silhouette II

2007-02-02T19:17:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago.

Eli could barely see through the dust and the blow fell squarely on the meat of his jaw. His head whipped around, sending excruciating tendrils of pain through his neck and tearing his eyes away from the square where the other two fought their way past the town limits. Darkness encroached on the edges of his vision. One of the men above him reached down to pick up the .45 they had dashed from his hand. Fighting back the cobwebs in his head, he swung his leg around, catching the man behind the ear and dropping him to the ground without a sound. The man's partner moved to secure his arms behind him, locking back the hammer on his own weapon. Eli waited until the man stood directly above him and threw himself upward, planting his shoulder in the tender meat between the man's legs. The man flipped over backwards with a strangled cry that flew up an octave when he hit the ground. Eyes bulging, hands gingerly assessing the damage below his belt, he scrambled towards his fallen weapon. Eli walked towards him slowly, carefully avoiding his legs. The man reached his weapon and spun around to catch the full force of the blow on the bridge of his nose. The noise of the broken bone was drowned in a gargled scream as the bone broke free of the skin and buried itself in his eye. The man's jawbone popped free of its socket with the force of the silent howl that rose from his broken vocal chords. Without a sound the man crumpled heavily to the ground and didn't move again.
Eli straightened himself fully and turned to see a third standing where he had crouched to watch his friends in the square. The reek of sweat rode on the breeze that rippled the man's shirt, filling the other's nostrils and choking the air from his heaving lungs. Dust from weeks of journeying without pause lay on the man's face like a mask. The man's smoldering green eyes never released his. The mouth was forever tipped upward in a pensive half-smirk by the burn that ran from mid-lip to earlobe. He watched Eli casually; the butts of his weapons hovering near his hips. Eli looked expectantly back at him. The man smiled, collapsing the grotesque mark in on itself and gestured toward Eli's fallen weapon.
"You see, I have honor as well. I will not fire on you while you are unarmed."
Eli tilted the tips of his mouth up in a mockery of the man's shadow-smile, but remained motionless.
The man again motioned toward the weapon. "Please."
Eli continued to watch him patiently. The man's smile slipped. His eyes regarded the other coldly. Suddenly, he let out a short bark of a laugh and nodded.
"You continue to surprise me with your never-ending lack of understanding. You have lost, and yet you continue to hope for freedom and the triumph of you and your friends. Well you needn't bother with any such delusions. The power of the man you killed reaches remarkably far. Even were I to let you and your friends pass, others would follow." He smiled again, flecks of mirth floating in his eyes. He shook his head almost solemnly in feigned regret. "I will not let you pass. And you cannot run forever. But you need not go the way of our Elder, Eli. As I've said, I do have some honor. You may safely retrieve your weapon so that you may face me as the elders of old had once faced each other. You have my word."
Eli glanced at the sky and blinked back an old memory. "Your word means nothing to me. Nor do your threats. I know you, Elsion. Do not act the noble warrior with me. Spend the bullet you came to spend and be done."
"What do you hope to gain from this charade?" The man spat. "The people of nearly one hundred towns across the Plains loved this man. The bullet you put in his head will kill you and the others as surely as it killed him, you know this."
Still studying the passing clouds, Eli nodded. "Love of a man does not make his soul clean. He was foul and wretched. I did what needed to be done."
"Who are you to pass such judgement?" Spittle soared from the man's mouth as the echoes of his shouts floated into the town and were drowned in the gunfire that rolled through the streets.
"Our Elder never believed he had such power; what has entered your head that you should believe you have been given this?"
Eli looked back down at him. "A man's soul can leak out through his speeches and letters and spread to those around him, infecting them with beliefs and ideas that should never come to be. The soul of that man was filthy. His thoughts were dangerous. His push for a foothold in the Chairs of the Wise has upset the balance of our very government. I did what needed to be done for the sake of the Race."
The man laughed again, sending chills down Eli's back. "I know you as well, Eli and neither need you play the noble warrior with me. That man had the backing of all but one Chair. This Chair, like you, lives in the past. He wishes to hold on to the old ways as you do, and he does not know when it is time for him to move with the age. The man's thoughts were dangerous to you. You did what you needed to do to ensure your way of life."
A single gunshot drifted up on the wind from the town below, mingled with a shrill cry of fury. Beyond the man's shoulder, he could make out the outline of Alya lying in the street. Gill stood over her, shoulders bent in rage and hate. Eli bit down hard to quell the fear and bile that rose in his throat. Gill's pained roar followed by a furious volley of shots broke him and he fell to the ground vomiting. Below them Gill spun around as if he'd been hit by a train and rushed to meet the ground. He saw their dead faces as if he stood beside them. They were gone, and he had failed. He forced all his will and strength to settle just behind his eyes. He would not weep in front of this traitor. He dug his hands into the ground and looked up at the man with eyes that shone over bright with pain. The other stood watching him impassively.
"There is nothing left of your way of life, Eli. You are a dying Breed. You and your kind are past your usefulness. I'm sorry, my friend, but you've watched your chance for the honor you regard so highly come and pass. Now it is time for the obsolete to become memory and for your time to end."
Eli threw himself sideways and dove for his weapon as the bullets crashed into the ground beside him. The boot of the man shot forward and found the gun first, sending it cartwheeling over the edge of the plateau and out of sight. He smiled at Eli, his face mockingly showing a regret his eyes did not attest. He thumbed back the hammers of his weapons and raised them to fall level with Eli's head. Eli immediately dropped to the ground, the wind-trail of the passing rounds hot on his neck. He flipped over onto his back and kicked out hard at the man's knees. The man leaped into the air and came down on top of one of those he'd come with. His foot found the spilled blood and he fell and sprawled across the body, his face plunging into the the pool of red near the dead man's head. His face pouring with the blood of his comrade, the man furiously scrambled to his feet and raised his weapons to Eli's face.
Eli dug the toe of his boot into the ground and flung the bloody dirt up into the other's eyes. The man dropped the weapon he held in his right hand and clawed at his face, trying desperately to throw off his blindness. Weeping furiously without thought of his pride and roaring incoherently, Eli gripped the man's arms tightly and drove him backwards towards the plateau's edge. The man frantically pulled the trigger of his remaining weapon; the thunder of the shots rocked Eli's head back on his shoulders. The man screamed in frustration as the final round missed Eli's ear by half an inch. He kicked out viciously, catching Eli's shin just above the ankle. Biting back a cry, Eli wrapped his foot around the other's ankle and yanked hard.
For an endless moment, the man hung suspended over the enormous drop. His eyes locked onto Eli's. No volumes could contain the hatred that passed across the desert air between them. Then he turned to face the setting sun and was gone.
Eli crumpled to the ground and watched through pouring eyes as the man's head exploded against the rocky floor of the valley. Beyond him, the townsmen who had killed his friends were gathering their remaining forces to venture out to find the last of the Great Man's murderers. Slowly, painfully, Eli straightened himself to face his dead friends. He stood watching their still-smoking bodies with both hands over his heart. He stretched out his hands to offer it to them, his fingers catching the last rays of the day. "Elki arfur mealan, my friends. Keep it well until we meet again."
With the man's fallen weapon secured against his hip, he turned his face to the east and fled.

Silhouette

2007-01-15T20:17:00.000-08:00

For the first time in a month and a half he would sleep under a roof. The filthy, leaking canvas left much to be desired, but it would provide shelter enough against the snow. He worked steadily through the quickly fading dusk to anchor the posts at each of the four corners. The pole stretching across the top swung slowly back and forth with the beginnings of the gathering blizzard. A flap broke loose from its peg and whipped across the ground, tossing fallen snowflakes back into the air. He quickly moved to secure it. When it was once more tucked safely away into the frozen earth, he stood motionless and looked up at the angry sky.
Dark swirling clouds and large flakes that continued to fall faster and more heavily flew across the sky ahead of the furious storm. Nearby trees bent and moaned and dug their roots deeper and held on for dear life. The topmost branch of a tree down the path broke free with the sound of a pistol shot in the night and spun around endlessly; carried off amidst the whirling snow past the treeline and out of sight. The flimsy tent lifted with the wind, straining desperately against its bonds to follow. But he had done his work well. The lines would hold.
He stood for a few moments longer, weighing his options. He had been expecting this storm for some time, but it hurt nonetheless to stop now. Judging from the nearly tangible tension that rode on the air, he would not be able to move again until he had dug himself out of the snow late the next day. So it was, so it must be, and so he must accept it.
He bent down into the tent and laced up the flap.

The gunbelt dug grooves into his stomach and hips and his boots seemed to clench around his aching feet, but he couldn't bring himself to take them off. Years of experience told him this would be foolish and he knew better than to argue. He turned on his side and closed his eyes for a few moments before slowly rotating back to his other side. He couldn't seem to find sleep no matter how he lay. The wind screamed and the tent lifted and fluttered to and fro above him, but he had once slept through worse. Now he lay awake staring up at the ceiling of the tent, listening to the flakes splatter against the walls. He knew he should try to get some sleep, but the sound of the snow rushing across the canvas echoed in his head like the footsteps of dozens of tiny insects walking through his mind. Exhaustion began to set into his eyes, the pressure pooling just behind the nerves. Still the lids refused to close. He felt every muscle in his body begin to contract against the cold and fatigue. They screamed in agony while he continued to stare impassively into the dark.
It would begin again the next day. No matter how much sleep he got, he knew that tomorrow the sun would rise, and he with it to again resume the race. Those behind would not slow to let him rest. And he could not run for much longer.
The dark began to take the shape of familiar faces, and as he watched, he finally slipped slowly away from his mind and slept.

He couldn't believe that he hadn't heard him sooner. Her face faded into a dull, aching black that came from behind his eyes rather than from the night pressing around him and he came fully back into consciousness. The eye of the storm had begun to pass over half an hour ago and the silence was suffocating. Soft footsteps echoed clearly against the pain, growing closer until they stopped outside the flap. A curse floated to him as the other struggled with the laces that held it closed. He desperately fought the urge to laugh and buried his face against the blanket until it passed. Cold air buffeted him as the flap pulled back and a shadow darker than the night fell across him. He could almost taste the other's greed as he stepped over him. Metal slid smoothly against leather as a gun floated out and up into the dark. His head dropped into sight and the hammer seemed unusually loud in the silence. His eyes were still closed, feigning sleep, but he was sure the other was grinning as his finger closed around the trigger. His hand found the grip of his .45.
It didn't happen in slow motion as others had claimed. His hand whipped around faster than the smile could disappear from the other's face. The thunder of his death shattered the air, rolling in deep waves through the trees, reaching the ears of those still behind.
He slid his hand across his face, wiping the bits of soft gray matter from his forehead. He blinked through the blood and closely examined what was left of the face. He didn't know him. But he was just the same as the last.

The snow began to pile up against the tent, making it impossible to dispose of his guest's body until morning. The blood had either dried or frozen against his skin. The roof and walls of the tent held what the other's head once had. Every few moments the other's dreams and memories would land with a soft thud between his feet. The half-face continued to stare unbelievingly up at them as if he couldn't understand how they had gotten there. When dawn at last rose through the silhouette of the other's death on the walls, he rose, crossed above him, undid the flap, and began to dig.

I Dream My Dreams When I Wake

2006-11-30T19:56:00.000-08:00

"For in that sleep of death what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil must give us pause."

Last night my sleep was not infested with dreams, but ruled by a single dream.

I walked down a street blanketed in fog. The light from the streetlamps barely cut through to illuminate the ground before me. I could not see if there were buildings around me, but I felt an overwhelming sense of presence on either side, above, and below. Time cared not how fast or how hard I walked; I could not reach the end of the street on my own time. My feet moved as a marionette's, at the mercy of the One holding the strings. At last something materialized in the fog ahead--a ladder made not of rope or cord, but of vines inset with thorns. I knew the world behind the rope ended; the world I had passed through had disappeared with each step. I began to climb.
I very quickly lost my fingers. So pierced, so torn was the flesh that the nerves shut themsleves down and allowed the muscles in my wrist to guide the rest of my hand. My feet were no longer attatched to my legs; I tread the steps of the horrific ladder on bloody stumps that grew shorter with each rung. The raw and exposed nerves caught on the thorns, ripping as my legs continued against their will to ascend to a judgement my mind could not fathom.
When I believed I could go no further, the strings around me slackened and my hands ceased their suicidal trek. The hands that closed around mine must have known that I could go no further. They gripped tight and lifted the rope I clung to until my face was centimeters away from His.
Through the millenia that passed in the single moment our eyes met I saw glimpses of endless worlds. In those eyes that grasped mine in a vice that was a hair's breadth away from crushing my mind, I saw echoes of pain, passion, death. I saw love. But that world that held what I could not have was far from my own. The bridge had been closed. The love was not for me.
As I watched, I felt my soul sliding out through my eyes as smoke flutters from a candle. It was drawn in and lost in His eyes; another trinket to be thrown away. When he had finished, it was as if I had never existed. He still held me in His grip; my body a mere shell; the eyes, once green, colorless and empty; my hair limp and lifeless against the pallid skin of my face. No blood coursed through my veins and yet I lived.
His eyes closed for a brief moment as they swallowed what I used to be. When He opened them again, the other worlds had been replaced by a sadness deep enough to drown creation. He pulled me closer until our noses met and I smelled the universe as it must have been before it was spoken into submission. Our foreheads met and I feared to be lost in the thoughts of one who knew all. His lips parted. Stars fluttered and died in His breath. The moon hid her face from the darkness of His mouth.
All sound ceased in anticipation of His words. He spoke only two.
"You lose."
As the sound of those whispered words washed over me, I felt time become undone. His hands opened and spanned across the sky, blocking out all else. I remained suspended in time and space for a brief moment. I looked in His face, but He had turned away.
I began to fall.
As I fell, I wept for all that was lost. I wept for the pain. I wept for the sadness in His eyes. I wept for the fall.
I wept because I knew I was awake.

Between the Lines

2006-08-24T07:21:00.000-07:00

“….If this was a story it would be the last half-dozen pages or so; get ready to put this one up on the shelf and forget it. The sun’s going down and there’s no sound but my footfalls and the water in the drains.”

Stephen King’s “It”

I wonder:
Were you a character in a story, would you feel it when the covers snapped together? When the book was slid onto the shelf, would your world go dark, or disappear altogether? Would you sneeze as the pages collected dust, or float obliviously between the lines? When the story was re-read, would you walk through it with a strange sense of déjà vu? Would you feel the ending sliding towards you and try to drag it out or would you run towards it to end it as quickly as possible?

I read a wonderful book by a brilliant author or enjoy a movie that was magnificently written and I again marvel at the beauty and power of the written word. Over the summer I stopped and began to wonder what it would be like if I were to exist only as a handful of pages. My face would never be seen, my voice never heard. Character quirks, personality traits, habits of speaking—all found only in the carefully arranged words that were my body and my mind. Would the power to compel or inspire punch home in a way the words I used to give breath to never could? Could I seduce and manipulate in a way that my physical self could never come close to accomplishing? Would love come easier? Would it be worth as much? What could be gained? What could be lost?
To exist not in the written word, but as the written word. What would that entail?
I wonder.

A Brief Conversation With a Former Enemy

2006-06-13T12:02:00.000-07:00

"Hey"
"Hey."
"It's been a while."
"Yeah."
Awkward pause.
"Look, I realize I was the biggest ass in the world for the better part of the past year, but that, I truly hope, is behind us now, and I would like nothing better than to figure out exactly where we stand and move on."
"Agreed.....on one condition."
"What's that?"
"Listen to me."
I looked at him for a long moment. "I will on one condition."
He blinked at me and I could clearly see the amusement in his eyes. "And that is?"
"Talk to me."
He slowly sat down next to me and scratched his head. The light above and behind us shone through his hand and cast the small outlline of a jagged hole on th leg of my shorts. I though of making some crack about him not bothering to lie because I could see right through him, but I didin't think this was really the time.
"What do you think I've been doing all this time?"
"I know, I know. I'm sure you've been telling me everything I needed, I just--"
"Refused to return my calls."
I rasied my hand in a vain gesture of self defense. "I didn't realize that I was getting any calls."
"Then you must simply check your message board more often."
After a moment I slumped in defeat. "Show me?"
He turned to look at me. "I think I can do that."
Another awkward pause.
"May I ask you a question?"
"Well, whatever it is you obviously already know the answer, but go ahead."
"Why the change of heart?"
I thought for a moment, choosing my words carefully. "To say that I was tired of figthting would be untrue--the more I fought, the more I wanted to fight. But I was fighting on three fronts--you, me, and time. I was tired of losing. Given what I had gotten into and my financial situation for next year, I knew there was a lot more fighting ahead. I knew I couldn't fight alone; not while fighting you."
"So you figured you would make the wisest political move that you could and make you biggest enemy your biggest ally."
"I guess you could say that, but there was more to it than that. Believe it or not, as angry as I was at you and as much as I cursed you, I missed you. Despite the drama and poetic inspiration as our battles provided, I didn't want to tfight you anymore."
"So you called me to set up a final peace treaty."
I nodded. "And you came. Again." I watched him out of the corner of my eye. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"Why did you agree to meet me again after the disaster of the first meeting?"
"I was just as eager to end the war as you were. Do you think I like to fight with my children?"
We sat in silence for a few moments.
"You do realize, of course, what story this is?"
I nodded, trying in vain to keep my composure and not cry.
"The 'Prodigal Son' has always been one of my favorites."
"Mine too," I said.

The GODfather

2006-05-08T12:09:00.000-07:00

I had lunch with God today. My parents had sent me one of those nifty little coupons for a free medium pizza from Pizza Ranch, so I decided to call God and set up a lunch date to discuss the terms of a treaty. Surprisingly, He actually returned my call and agreed. He was late, as usual. But if He's usually late, then I guess that means He was on time for Him. I ordered pepperoni and sat down in the back to haggle with Him for a while. Usually when two enemies of massive proportions sit down to talk, they're surrounded by thier armies or right hand man or something. As I looked around, all I saw were a few hungry old people. Men of formidable stature walked past us--men who's stride shook the table beneath me. More than once I was in fear of losing my pizza on the ground and recieving my drink on my lap, minus the cup. In short, no intimidating henchmen stood behind Him or behind me. Just the two of us. I wondered for a second why that was. Then I realized that it's only odd if it's a meeting of two enemies of massive proportions. He was only meeting me.
We discussed the situation for a while. His terms--love Him. Don't turn my back on Him. Do what He says. My terms--I would do my best to not curse Him on a daily basis so long as He tells me what I need to do; so long as He helps me to hear Him tell me what I need to do.
We argued for a while longer. He sat there looking at me with the eyes of someone who knows His enemy is close to breaking. I was well aware of the fact that my eyes resembled those of a man on his knees with the tip of a sword tickling his throat. I told Him I had to go to the bathroom.
I realized then that I watched too many movies. When I got in there I was thinking about the scene from The Godfather when Michael Corleone enters the bathroom, pulls a gun from behind the toilet, comes out, shoots his enemies and leaves. I thought of what it would be like if I pulled a gun from behind the toilet, walked out, and shot God in the face. I laughed. I wonder which would send me to Hell faster--thinking of shooting God in the face, or laughing about the idea.
We left without coming to any definite agreement.
I am enjoying a momentary cease fire, but I'm also waiting for the next blow. If I know my foe, it'll be soon, and it'll be hard. I hope it ends it. I would welcome defeat if it would just end this effing war. Ah well. Enough self pity for the moment. I have stuff to do.

For Butt

2006-04-12T00:05:00.000-07:00

They reached the peak of the hill just before midday. The mounts stood motionless in pools of the mingled sweat of man and horse that collected in puddles beneath their hooves. The armor so well designed to protect the men's bodies from the weapons of enemies now worked with the sun to exhaust them; encasing their bodies in metal ovens and draining them of all strength and moisture.
The fortress lay below them, teeming with starving Creatures. The inner courts, only just visible over the summits of the outer walls, seemed to move as if the fortress itself was a living entity of flesh, blood and fur. The very air seemed to wash over the men with a nearly tangible sense of anger and unending hunger. Aiden's stomach soured. Something had happened here.
The sun, nearly finished with the day's work, bathed the small band of warriors in its final rays, making it seem to the Creatures as if a vast army hovered above them, waiting to pounce. The flurry of activity that had not ceased since midday last rose in ferocity. In nearly hysterical excitement, they prepared.
The men slid from their mounts to their knees and from there allowed gravity to pull them the rest of the way to the ground. The horses eagerly nosed the water bags slung over their shoulders, licking the drops that escaped from the loosely tied ends.
Anders came to stand at Aiden's stirrup. "Aiden, we have to make camp for the night. We can go no further this day."
Aiden didn't take his eyes off the fortress. "Something has got them riled."
"All the more reason to take our rest now."
Aiden didn't respond.
Anders took his arm. "We all but have her, Aiden. She's just down there. Let her rest tonight. We will have her tomorrow." He shook Aiden's arm. Aiden looked down at him. "We will have her tomorrow, Aiden. Now come."

This time they didn't bother to hide the fire. They piled as much timber and twigs on the flames as they were willing to brave the dark for. When they were finally satisfied with the blaze, they lowered their aching bodies to the ground and sat in silence, waiting. From time to time they glanced at Aiden, but he remained motionless, staring out at the silhouette of the fortress lying in wait below them. For hours the only sound that broke the uneasy silence was the shuffling of horses trying to find a decent place to lie down. Some of the band slept, but most just lay on their backs and watched the flames slowly consume the kindling. Their eyes, gleaming orbs framed by shadow masks, held vacant expressions that hid the fear behind them.
Light was just beginning to spread across the sky when Aiden finally stirred.
"We proceed as before."
They all sat up and watched him.
"Anders, you take squad one and circle around to the rear entrance. Solomon, you take squad two and approach the west wall. When you have engaged them on both sides, I will take the main force to the front gate."
Solomon and Anders exchanged a glance.
"You know we haven't the force to launch such an assault with any kind of affect," Solomon said. "Had we the full two thousand we started out with I would gladly support your plan. But twenty battle-weary men could not make the smallest indentation in the Creatures' numbers. Their archers would fell us before we saw where they perched."
"And even were we to reach the gates, our numbers are too small to fell them or to take the inner courts were we to get inside."
"We will not have to fell the gates, nor will we be divided when we launch the main assault. A watcher squad patrols the outside of the fortress. When they see an attack from such a small band, they will rather handle the problem themselves then share the meat with an entire battalion. Anders, as soon as your squad has engaged them, move to Solomon's position on the west field. The watcher squad will pursue and you will break in opposite directions in great disarray. Smelling a fresh meal, the Creatures still inside will open the gates and attempt to round you up. I will come in with the remainder of the force and join up with you. We will then punch through them and make straight for the cells on the upper levels."
"Once we have gained the inner courts and, gods willing, the upper levels, how are we to escape?"
"We don't."
They stared at him.
"We don't?"
"No. Once we have Gabriella, we will make for the stables where they keep the captured horses. Five of the surviving men will ride out with her, not pausing to fight or to assist anyone in any way. Their priority is to get Gabriella out. The rest of us will do what we can to get out. But I will not deceive you; the chances of our survival are almost non-existent."
They looked at each other, the fear no longer masked.
"Each of you agreed to come with me under the assumption that there was a hope of returning. I tell you now that there is no longer any such hope. Because this is the case, any who wish to return now are free to do so. No man here will think less of any man who so chooses and you will leave here with your honor. Be there any who choose to leave, do so now."
One man turned and was quietly sick. No one else stirred.
Anders slowly stood and began to make his way to the horses. "First squad, on your feet. Get your gear ready; nothing heavier than your sword. Get your mounts warmed up. Be prepared to ride out by sunup."
The moment of terror passed, the camp was a flurry of activity as each man chose his weapon and made ready his horse. Shortly after sunup the three groups split up; Solomon through the trees to the west, Anders to the east, the remainder behind the crest of the hill overlooking the battlefield. Like he had done on countless other battlefields across the Kingdom, Aiden prayed and waited for the first blow.

Shadows

2006-04-07T15:32:00.000-07:00

The door swung in on its rusty hinges, crying out as if in pain as it slowly opened up into a room that somehow seemed darker than he remembered it. A flip of the switch failed to illuminate the room, and he began to run his hand along the cieling to the center where he knew a lightbulb should be. With a sharp intake of breath, he drew his hand back and licked the blood from his fingers. Brief flashes of lightning bounced off the jagged edges of the remains of the lightbulb. Swearing softly, he searched his pockets for a box of matches and lit the candle in the corner. The bench along the opposite wall still held the remains of someone's lunch--a stale sandwich and an empty bag of chips--but the rest of the room was bare. The sounds of dripping water coming from the bathroom behind him were the only sounds that could be heard between peals of thunder and blasts of wind. He didn't like that all this had to go down in this filthy little building, but it would have to do. Any mess made here could easily be masked.
He walked to the small window in the door and looked out at the park grounds. The basketball court had become a small pond, the drops of rain relentlessly pelting the surface in waves. Unfortunately, there was no chance of the shindig being called off because of a small storm. They would still come.
He set his coat and hat on the counter and stretched out on the bench to wait. He removed a brown paper bag from his satchel and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels. Normally he didn't drink when he was on a job. But this was not his job. He downed about a third of the bottle and idly watched the glowing end of his cigarrette slowly make its way up the shaft. His hand floated a few inches in front of his face as he traced a name in the air with the trailing smoke. The lights around the edge of the basketball court filtered in through the dirty window and cast his shadow on the wall in front of him. He watched the outline of his mouth seep out smoke until the haze made the beams of light seem almost solid.
After what seemed like hours, his shadow disappeared as a set of headlights danced across the wall. Slightly apprehensive, but not especially scared, he wiped the ashes off his vest, sat upright facing the door, and waited.
They entered slowly; first their shadows, then the rest of them. No one spoke at first. They filled the room, lining up against the wall and the door. Their hats blocked what little light was coming through the window. The dying candle failed to reveal their faces, but he knew them. He recognized their stances, their shapes, the sounds of their coughs in the uneasy silence. He knew every one of them.
"Evening, gentlmen. Fine night for visiting old friends, isn't it?"
They stirred uncomfortably.
"I'm sorry we have to do this, but we have our orders."
"Yes, of course. Must follow orders, musn't we? Tell me, Lucius, how much are you getting for me?"
Lucius remained still. "It isn't a question of money. It's a matter of principle."
"Sure. Next you'll tell me it's not personal, it's strictly business. You watch too many movies, Lucius."
"Sit down."
"I'd rather do this standing, actually."
"Suit yourself. Is there anything we can do for you?"
"Yes, there is."
"Name it."
"I want you to tell Abby that the answer to her question is 'all the time.'"
Lucius nodded. "I will. I'm sorry, Aiden."
Aiden looked at him for a long time. "I know, Lucius. So am I."

The storm had moved on by morning. After three straight days of rain the clouds parted and the sun saw earth again. It slowly spilled into the little room, casting a filtered light on newly bleached cement and whitewashed walls. The remains of an interrupted drink sat under the bench next to an empty package of cigarretes. The light filled the room, but it couldn't dispel the shadows.

Story Corner

2006-04-06T16:51:00.000-07:00

I spent spring break with my roommate at his house in Indianna. It was both a blessing to get out of Iowa for a while and a bit of a trial being away from so many of my friends for that long and being in a new place with new people and feeling like I was imposing on them every time I had to use the bathroom. (Hooray for run ons!) But I came away from the experience with a new appreciation for my roommate and a few cool knick knacks that now clutter my desk. My favorite part of the trip, however was when we took a detour on the way home and stopped by his grandparents house in Wisconson for one day and two nights. They treated us wonderfully--loading us up on all kinds of delicious homemade food and such, trying to make us fat with his grandfather's fantastic cooking and his grandmother's formidable baking, and letting us sleep in their apartment-like basement. But the thing that I liked the best was listening to their stories.
It's amazing how everybody tells a story in a different way. Some people sit there and take their time to remember every detail like what they ate that Sunday that Gladys said something funny, or how old the dog was when they took a trip to Washington. Others will just tell you the key points of the story with all the embellishments that their imagination will allow them. What's even better is when you have an elderly married couple that has one of each such storytellers. That was Adam's grandparents.
They had been married for well over fifty years and you could tell. They fulfilled each other completely while at the same time they remained two different people. When the news wasn't on or we weren't reading a book they liked nothing better than to sit with us and tell us the stories they had made over their liftime.
Adam's grandfather had been a pastor for many years. Before that he was in the navy and he had gone to clown school at one point. He met his wife at college and she supported him in everything he did. He, in turn, supported her with all the same love and respect that she showed him.
My biggest goal in life is to become a great storyteller. But as we were sitting there listening to them and they tried to figure out on what day of the week this particular story happened, I remember thinking, "Gosh, I hope I never get to where all I have to look forward to is telling my grandchildren what I did on the sixth of April, 2006. I want to be out making the stories until I drop dead on a set like John Ritter (hopefully I'll be a little older than he was) or I die while in the midst of making my very own rescue story in which I'm actually the hero." But as the stories progressed I realized that they were far from being finished with making their stories. For them every day held the potential of being an account of love, hate, excitement, fear, and hilarity that would be retold every Christmas with the same desired reactions from their audience each time. They were not done making their stories. They just couldn't wait until the end of their lives to tell the ones that they had. It was then that I did a complete one-eighty and said to myself in extreme excitement, "I want that to be me. I desperately want to be able to sit down with my wife and tell my children's children exactly what happened on the sixth of April, 2006." For an aspiring storyteller, what would be better than living a life that is one fantastic story after another? What would be better than sharing each and every story up until the very last one in which I meet whatever end God has for me?
The moral of this revelation is to remember your own stories and never take a single day for granted. Yes, it's cliche and it's said in every kid's book known to man, but when you are old and you have seen many things that others haven't, you will want to tell others with confidence exactly what you ate that Sunday that Gladys said something funny. You will use every bit of imagination and selective memory you have to embellish each story almost to the point of disbelief.
Now go make some stories, then come find me. I want to hear every one of them.

Starless Sky and Moonless Night Part II/Dark Night of the Soul

2006-02-27T11:31:00.000-08:00

When the conversation I mentioned in my last entry took place, I thought, wow! that would be a great subject for a poem. I resolved to make it so and to write a wonderfully painful poem about the subject. When I sat down to do so, however, it didn't really come out quite right. So I decided to just wait and try in a little while to complete the task I'd set for myself. The inherent difficulties in writing poetry had other plans. I was stumped after the first three lines. For the last couple of days this idea of the poem has been nagging me and has been waiting to be written. But I had nothing fresh in my mind to draw on. The tiniest of events that happened over the weekend--the memories of things that had once plagued me resurfacing as I walked Puddle Jump trail at eleven o'clock, the uncomfortable awkwardness of less then welcome advances, etc.--gave me what I needed. I sat down today and it all flowed out onto the paper like urine that has been held too long but not as fragrant and not as damp. Here it is.

"Dark Night of the Soul"

Teardrops fall on a still and silent lake
Spreading the ripples out further 'till
The whole lake feels the effects.
Memories of an old pain once thought
Dead arise again in the shadow that
Follows every step; a dark mirror
Image reflecting the anger, the
Anguish held in the rounded
Shoulders, the head bent down,
The eyes averted, the feet blindly
Following one another to a place
The rest of the body does
Not wish to go.
The sky is dark, the pleasures of
Night witheld--no stars, no moon
To pierce the cloak draped
Over the world.
To move is agony.
To remain still unbearable.
Each faltering step in danger of
Being the last.
Each trembling breath a cry for
Mercy.
Let it end.
Let dawn rise. Let the early light
Of morning dispel terror and pain.
My heart has fallen. My soul not
Far behind.
I have failed.
I will not see the day.

So there it is. Oddly enough, this incredibly depressing downer of a poem makes me extremely happy. I finally put down in words the feelings that are so hard to articulate that assault us from time to time.
Boom, baby!!

Starless Sky and Moonless night

2006-02-22T00:20:00.000-08:00

A friend tells me of a concept she learned in one of her classes called the "dark night of the soul." It is a fascinating and terrifying concept: a darkness so deep, so consuming as to not only fill your mind, but your heart and your soul as well. God is nowhere to be found. Every light is extinguished. No one sees your pain. No one cares. Or so it seems.
"I've never experienced it," she tells me. "But I'm afraid to because I know it will happen at least once to everybody." She should be scared. This dark night of the soul is the most painful experince imaginable. It welcomes death as a beautiful way to stop it all. It is so lonely as to shatter a heart of iron. It is cold beyond description.
Anger flourishes in the Night. A cold fury or a smoldering rage; it breeds like bacteria in your mind. God is your biggest enemy. His promises are mockery. Every accomplishment seems as nothing. Every accomplishment is nothing. Praise of God is laughable. A contest of wills is sparked. God is your competition.
Night never breaks. Never does the Night fail or fade slowly into the twilight of morning. Night never breaks. You always break. Always.
God is there in the Night. He waits for your heart. Not your haughty words or testing plans. He waits for your heart. Sometimes it is broken when he takes it in His hands. It isn't always back in one piece when He gives it back. But the scars are stronger than the original bits. They tell a story of survival through God.
Life goes on. God has removed you from the night and you can see once again. Beware: complacency can destroy as surely as a bullet.
Night falls again. This time you can't afford to be angry at God. Maybe you'll get through it faster and stronger this time.
See you when we reach the other side.

Paper Faces on Parade

2006-01-14T18:12:00.000-08:00

My three sisters and I played hide and seek all the time as children. Just about everyone has played hide and seek at some point in their lives. There's something oddly thrilling in the knowledge that you have a hiding place where no one will ever find you; some element of pride and satisfaction when you spot a shoelace and yell, " I found you!" and the defeated person rises dejectedly from his or her inadequate hiding place to take the walk of shame back to base.Hide and seek is considered by most to be a kid's game. But adults play it all the time without even realizing it. Oftentimes they play better than the kids. As time passed, the game morphed in its style and means of concealment. No longer is our mode of camouflage restricted to cupboards or spaces behind the sofa. Now we hide behind our brilliantly and carefully designed masks.Now, all of you are sitting here, faces unadorned, looking at me as if I’m crazy because as far as you can tell there are no masks on your faces. Some of these faces are even somewhat pleasant to look at sometimes. But I’m not talking about the kind of mask that you tie around your head and then run around yelling, “High, ho, Silver!” I’m talking about a mask that is as tangible as the air you breathe and as strong as these four walls.
This means of concealment is a higher and more "sophisticated" version of the game of course, but the concept remains the same—do not be seen, do not be found. If you are found out, the repercussions are a little different than they were for us as kids. You do not simply say, "oops, I lose. I guess I'd better try to find a better hiding place next time," and wait back at "base" to start a new game. If you are found out, your strategy and all your potential hiding places for future rounds are known to all the players. Your tactics will then have to change and you will have to create more hiding places which is not nearly as easy as it sounds. If someone yells, "Ollie Ollie oxenfree," and you show yourself because you think you're safe, you could very well lose everything. Confused? I’ll explain. Think about all of your friends and consider--do they know you? I'm not asking if they know your middle name or what your favorite show is or what you thought of the latest installment of the Land Before Time saga. I'm telling you to stop and think of all the things they know about you. Are these things really you? Or are they the invention of a brilliant actor who plays a character offstage better than anything they could ever do onstage? Now, every once in a while, these masks, these facades of confidence and security will slip and we'll see some of what's under them. These moments are rare, but there is another way to see under the mask if you look closely enough. There is an old saying that the eyes are the windows to the soul. I disagree to some extent. I think it's a bit more accurate to say that the eyes are mirrors of the soul. Granted, murky mirrors, but reflections can still be caught in them from time to time. Most people are so busy trying to keep others from seeing what's in there that they don't realize this; they don’t realize that the only things that show from under the mask are the eyes. We could see people if we looked. No one's looking.Why are we so afraid? We walk around as if at a masquerade, trying to guess at other people's motives and intentions while trying to foil the attempts of other people to discover us. If there is one person brave enough to remove the mask, he is laughed and scorned back into his disguise. Any potential followers are discouraged by his example and the masquerade continues. We are left to play our game of hide and seek with all of its guesses and fears and uncertainties.It usually takes time to get to know someone well enough to get them to take off their mask and to remove your own. All along the way there is always the possibility that they will jump ship when things get too scary or intense or inconvenient. But since fear seems to be the overwhelming monarch and referee of this twisted game, all that's left to do is learn to see the mirrors and pray that ours don't get broken. Perhaps at some point along the way you'll meet someone that you can see. I wish you the best of luck. Until then, welcome to the masquerade.