Be Strong, My Child, and Fear No Nightly Noise

In honour of my good friend Sara's graduation, a wonderfully insightful and talented writer and blogger, I wrote the following sonnet. Can you find the allusions to George MacDonald and J.R.R. Tolkien? In the words of Bono, "Every artist is a cannibal / Every poet is a thief" and I only steal from the best.

Be Strong, My Child, and Fear No Nightly Noise

Be strong, my child, and fear no nightly noise.

They are but shadows, clawings of the Ash

And whispers of the Alder who destroys,

Desiring all to hunger, rage, and gnash.

But in you, child, there beats a heart of gold

As pure as laughter from a baby's lips,

As bright and warm as fire in places cold,

As precious as the desert dew that drips.

So sing, my child, and make your presence known;

Beat back the goblins with your foot and song;

Let blaze your light and they are overthrown

For courage, kindness, goodness make you strong.

Go now, my child; adventure waits for you.

Remember me and say a prayer or two.

Typewriter Monkeys and The San Francisco Writer's Grotto

What?! Two posts in one week where there is not a sequel involved? I know, my readers, I know; it's shocking. But I learned a couple of things over the past few days that I think is rather relevant to this blog.

First, I discovered a new blog, The Typewriter Monkey Task Force. Just as quirky as its title, this blog covers a variety of subjects in very fun and interesting ways. I mean, its subtitle is "Faith, Writing, Video Games, Literature, Life, the Universe, and Everything." That's a lot of stuff if you ask me. But it's not really the subject matter than struck me. Well, it kind of was and kind of wasn't. What I'm trying to say, and rather unsuccessfully at that, is that reading his blog, looking at his posts showed me that not everything that ends up here doesn't have to be some great work, or even partial work at that, but can just give my thoughts on things or share something that I found amusing. Granted, that's the way he chose to write his blog, and that not all blogs function in this way. However, for me, this was really freeing. It meant I didn't always have to have some great, edifying purpose behind my postings; they could be as simple as repeating a joke or musing on a conversation. I think I'd like to try that sometime.

Second, I bought a new book, 642 Things To Write About. While out shopping with my mom at Barnes &Noble, I made an impulse purchase of this particular beauty as I was literally about to go to the register to make several ... other ... purchases. *ahem* Anyways, there were two things that I found intriguing about this little book. The first thing was the fact that there are literally six hundred forty-two different writing prompts, in other words, two years worth of ideas should you choose to do a different prompt every day. And the range of the suggestions is fantastic. They can be as serious as relating your most embarrassing moment as if it happened to someone else or as silly as giving a pep talk to a dying plant. With this new tool, I have felt inspired to try new things, things I haven't even thought of before. My last post is the result of one of the exercises asking what can happen in a second. The other cool thing about this book is its creation; it came to be in a 24-hour period as a result of the brainstorming of the San Francisco Writer's Grotto, a modern day Inklings if you like. What this showed me is that 1) a writing community is an amazing thing and I should find one and 2) that not every idea I have for writing needs to be something spectacular or best-seller worthy; it can be silly.

And thus, I may be making a few changes to my routine and quality of posting based on my recent findings but I hope they will be for the better.

I Blinked and I Was Dead

I blinked and I was dead. Just like that. One second, I was alive and the next, dead. Yep, dead as a doornail, to borrow a famous phrase, which I've never understood really. I mean, of all the objects to be compared to death, a doornail would not have been at the top of my list. Maybe “dead as driftwood” or “dead as a coffin.” I guess there is the fact that the doornail was never alive, being made of metal and all, so the comparison becomes not only the obvious one of being very much dead but also that he may not have been alive in the first place.

Funny how much clearer you think when you're dead.

But still, the whole dying thing was much faster than I'd thought it would be. In the movies, everything slows down, and the person's life passes before their eyes like a fast-forwarded film. Honestly, I was kinda looking forward to that part. Well, a part of me looked forward to it; the other part dreaded semi-reliving every moment of my life. So when that didn't happen at all, I felt cheated, just a bit. I shouldn't really be surprised though since Hollywood over-dramatizes everything.

I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't blinked. Would I still be dead? Would I have lived to be married, had kids, spoiled grandkids, and finally died in a nursing home, filled with tubes? Would I have been happier? Made others happier? Brought about world peace? But who's to say I made the world better. Maybe I'd become the next world dictator or a serial killer. Would I have been a mean, selfish person who died alone and unnoticed? Or passed my days in utter obscurity? We'll never know. Because I'm dead.

Really now though, I'm not bitter about dying. It's just kind of amusing to think of “what-ifs,” like imagining what could have happened if you went left instead of right at a fork in the road. You'll never know so might as well imagine something crazy, right? I do have some regrets, people I wish I could have seen again or projects I wish I had completed. I hope this doesn't mean I become a ghost or anything. From what I've seen and read of them, it would stink to be one.

I will say this though about dying as quickly as I did. It didn't hurt. Often when reading a historical novel or watching some modern drama, I'd wonder how much it would hurt to die on the edge of sword or by a speeding bullet. In my experience, I felt nothing at all. I blinked and I was dead.

Screwtape Letters ... Sheegog Edition

In one of the classes I teach, my students read The Screwtape Letters and, as an assignment, had to write a letter from Screwtape to Wormwood as if they were "the patient." And it struck me, why don't I do the same? So, my faithful readers, here is my first complete story in a while. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

My dear Wormwood,

Why is it that you did not tell me that you had been assigned a new patient? I have had to forcefully persuade Galldrip in Distribution to give up this delicious news of yours. Do not think that simply because I advocated that your punishments be extended after your incredible failure the last time that I would be any less interested in your acquiring a new assignment. Quite to the contrary, I desire to be even more invested in your attempts since you obviously did not seem to heed my advice previously. Perhaps this time it will be different. I hope for your sake, nephew, that it is.

From what Galldrip has told me of your patient, you seem to have your work cut out for you. Having been raised in the Enemy's camp, she will be unassailable by some of the techniques used on your previous patient, not that you were any more successful with those. Furthermore, she comes form a stable, loving family who are also devoted to the Enemy thus placing another defense against attack. However, from what I have gathered in her dossier, she does have several promising areas that are much in your favour. Now pay attention, Wormwood, as I will try to explain everything in the most elementary terms so there can be no possibility of misunderstanding me.

First, we have a good hold in a well developed slothfulness that she has passed over as a mere bad habit of procrastination. When confronted with something she knows she has to do but does not want to do, she practically begs us to find her some kind of distraction. What makes this sin even more delicious is the fact that what she most often turns to is something she honestly enjoys but we have turned for our own purposes. Her love and enjoyment of stories can be taken to a numbness when keeping her from what she knows to do. Here you can get a taste of that exquisite flavour of a perverted pleasure where you promise satisfaction and give nothing in return. The internet can be a powerful tool when attempting to distract your patient. The ease of clicking from one page to another or passively allowing one video to play automatically to the next. With your patient, you should encourage feelings of distaste for her responsibility and desire to be distracted, ultimately leading to a day in which she accomplished nothing and has gotten very little pleasure from the hours spent watching something she would otherwise have enjoyed.

Before you make any protest at the ease and seemingly innocuous nature of this sin, let me make my second point. She has, with our help, a strong sense of guilt and shame over not being the person she thinks she ought to be. Remember to not let her realize that her standards and image of her ideal self are unreasonable and largely unattainable. By strengthening the thought that this ideal can and must be met, you not only deepen her own sense of self-condemnation for not having reached them but also further separate her from those who love her for who she is because they see the various facades she wears so as to appear as her ideal for them and are distressed by her drawing further away from her natural self. On her side, she will feel more and more isolated by her mistaken belief that her inability to attain her ideal is causing the distance she feels when it is the mere fact that she is trying to be something she is not that is the real root of the issue. And your pursuit of greater shame and guilt is reinforced by her self-made isolation. Hopefully, you can see where this is leading, though I highly doubt it. By first encouraging her slothfulness and then attacking with her shame and guilt over not being her responsible ideal, you create a most refreshing cocktail of despair and self-loathing with undertones of anger.

However, you must work this very carefully. While you may see this as a very simple matter of encouraging what is already there, you must understand the delicate nature of the situation in which you are working. What you must remember, and keep your patient from remembering, is that the Enemy is always nearby to prompt the patient to resist your distractions and accomplish what is needed of her so she may then enjoy her pleasures without any guilt. Especially because of her time in the Enemy's camp, His commands are embedded into her mind which, while it makes excellent fodder for guilt, therefore means that she cannot be made to fully forget them. He will remind her of these commands, but you must pounce upon every suggestion that He gives before they have any time to take root. Also, you will constantly have to be on your guard with every interaction since most of her social circle is among Christians, thus bringing her into further contact with the Enemy's influence. If you are not careful, you will quickly lose the ground given to you at the outset of your assignment.

Do try not to lose this one. You know the consequences should you fail to bring this soul to our Father Below.

Your affectionate uncle, Screwtape

A(nother) Challenge: The Gypsy's Map pt. 4

The Gypsy's Map (pt. 4)

"Remarkable are they not, sir knight?"

"I do not even know where to begin," Oliver stammered.

"They are called chara berries," explained the Sentinel, "and grow plentifully in direct sunlight and in areas that experience immense amounts of joy. Thou canst eat them with the results thou hast seen or be crushed and used as a salve for any injury. Thou shalt have need of them upon thy journey hence."

Taking the branch as if it were of purest gold, Oliver gazed at it in wonder for a few moments before plucking off the remaining berries and placing them in a pouch at his waist. After storing his newest provision, he gathered the rest of his equipment placing things back into packs and saddling Capell. The Sentinel, for his part, held out the berry he had picked towards Capell, who ate it gratefully. Seeing an opportunity to return to its original perch, the bird hopped from the horse's head onto the stone man's hand and thus up his arm until finally roosting on his shoulder, twittering merrily. Upon the bird's return, the Sentinel inclined his head towards his shoulder companion almost as if he were trying to catch what the bird was saying.

"Dost thou have all that thou needst?" queried the Sentinel.

"I believe I do," answered Oliver. "Thank you for thy hospitality and teaching. I shan't forget thee and shall remember thee in my prayers."

The knight offered his hand. Smiling broadly, the stone man grasped Oliver's outstretched hand and held it.

"Fare thee well, good knight. May the Holy One of heaven guide thee on thy quest and His mother and all the saints protect thee as thou pursuest thy journey."

Releasing their hold on one another, Oliver and the Sentinel regarded one another with friendly, even brotherly, affection.

A(nother) Challenge: The Gypsy Map pt. 3

I know this is Tuesday not Monday but I did write a bit yesterday. I just didn't get a chance to post before it passed midnight. So here it is, meager as it is. I will be posting later today with the segment for today.

The Gypsy's Map (pt. 3)

In its beak, it carried a branch of what appeared to be gooseberries but, instead of the usual verdant or crimson coloring, they were golden almost to the point of shimmering.

“Please eat,” encouraged the Sentinel, gently relieving the bird of its parcel.

The bird in its turn fluttered to perch atop Capell's head appearing almost like a decorative plume.

Oliver took the proffered berries and, trusting to his host's judgment, popped one of them into his mouth. Almost as soon as the berry hit his tongue, an explosion of all the most delicious flavours burst upon his senses. He could not give a name to any of the flavours, of whether they were reminiscent of fruit, vegetable, or beverage. Rather, he felt as if he tasted emotions: sweetness of joy, tang of surprise, spice of curiosity, rich undertones of contentment. Swallowing, Oliver felt fully rejuvenated and no longer hungry. He eyed his leftovers with wonder. The Sentinel, seeing the knight's curiosity growing, smiled and took one of the berries between his fingers.

A(nother) Challenge: The Gypsy's Map pt. 2

The Gypsy's Map (pt. 2)

 “Why dost thou desire truth?” the voice asked again.

“To give justice to a fellow pilgrim,” Oliver replied thinking of the old gypsy whose name he didn’t even know.

“How didst thou come to be here?” queried the voice once more.

“By following a map given me by that same pilgrim.” He pulled out and unrolled it from where he had hidden it beneath his jerkin. Turning around, Oliver showed it to the entire area, not knowing where the speaker stood.

“Very well,” said the voice. “Approach me.”

“Where art thou?” the knight asked in turn.

“I stand before thee, sir knight.”

Oliver looked before him and still saw only the Sentinel stone and the misty avenue. But it had changed. The mist or fog had, if anything, become thicker now seeming opaque. If there had been any hope of seeing anything before, it was gone.

However, the most striking change was the Sentinel. Where once stood a large boulder was now a flesh-and-bone man, tall and broad-shouldered. In all appearance, he resembled the rock from which he came. His mantle and raiment were blue-gray, the collars of which were greenish-gray like the moss that had encrusted the stone. Gray hair spilled from his head to his shoulders and his silver beard reached the center of his full chest. At his side sat a large black blade.

In moments, the knight took in this whole scene. His heart beat faster at the sight of his questioner but bravely strode toward him nonetheless, his gait and manner not betraying his growing trepidation. He could not imagine what this man wanted with him. Certainly, he had asked some peculiar questions but the knight could not determine whether the man meant him good or ill. All too soon, the two stood face to face.

A silence fell upon them both. Wind passed through the trees, whistling. Still the two remained silent. Tension rose ever so slowly as the knight tried to grapple in his mind the purposes of the man before him.

Suddenly, the Sentinel reached for his sword and swung it at Oliver. Caught in the web of his thoughts, the knight barely had time to react. Drawing his sword, he parried the Sentinel’s blow. The zing of their exchange resounded through the forest. Capell trotted nervously, adding his worried whiny to the air. But the two combatants remained locked, neither releasing his blade’s pressure upon the other. Once more the tension and silence rose together.

Oliver was more confused than ever. What had he done to make the man strike at him so? Had he done something wrong? Or not said the right thing? Perspiration beaded on his forehead from the effort exerted by both his body and mind. The strain in his muscles echoed those of his brain. No matter what combination of situations, answers and responses he thought of, the knight could make no sense of his opponent’s actions.

Again, without any warning, the Sentinel pulled out of their lock and swung once more. Staggering forward for not having anticipated the release, Oliver just barely knocked away the stroke lowered at him. Then the blows kept coming, giving him barely any time to think. With each encounter, the knight tried to understand the reason of his opponent’s attacks. But the more his mind rushed to find an answer, the faster came the blows.

Finally, he gave up trying to understand. His mind could no longer take the strain to which it had been subjected. Every idea, both reasonable and ludicrous, had been explored and to no avail. Even if he had tried, Oliver’s mind would have balked at thinking of his present situation any more. As his mind wearied, so did his body. Somehow, as his mind had raced, the battle grew more intense. The Sentinel seemed to grow stronger with every stroke while at each same blow, energy was sapped from the knight. At last, he could take it no longer.

“Holy Father, deliver me, thy servant!” Oliver cried aloud. With no more strength, he fell to his knees at his opponent’s feet.

The Sentinel held his blade aloft in preparation of giving the final blow. But he stayed his own hand. So they stood, one man standing and the other kneeling. Then, just as unpredictable as his first onslaught, the Sentinel withdrew from his fallen opponent. Sheathing his sword, he reached out his hand to the knight.

“Rise, sir knight,” he commanded. “Thou hast passed the test.”

Ready to accept death, Oliver was confused to hear the Sentinel address him so. Looking up into his opponent’s face, he was surprised to see a small smile creasing the weather-beaten face. Something glinted pleasantly in the victor’s grey eyes. Thinking and reviewing for a moment all that he knew of the Sentinel, the knight decided to trust him. Firmly, he grasped the outstretched hand and was pulled to his feet. Looking up into the Sentinel’s eyes, Oliver saw what looked like fatherly affection.

“I do not understand, sir,” the knight said at last, this simple statement summarizing his state of mind in reference to everything he had experienced with the once-stone man.

“Dost thou remember the lines penned upon thy parchment?” ask the Sentinel.

“Trust thy faith and not thy eyes. Be thou cunning, brave and wise,” recited Oliver, unsure of how this applied or how the Sentinel had come to know of that couplet.

“What didst thou believe that meant?” the Sentinel questioned.

The knight thought for a moment. He really had not given the couplet much notice other than as an interesting side part to the more intriguing map. In his mind’s eye, he envisioned the faded ink upon the matted parchment in its gentle script. Nothing about it had particularly struck him as noticeable. The lines did not seem to make much sense together but individually were words of advice, the first Scriptural and the other good cautionary sense. At last, he shook his head and looked questioningly to the Sentinel to enlighten him.

“When thou didst face me,” the Sentinel began, “thou didst try to understand my movements by thine eyes. Through observation, thou didst search for victory. Yet, the more thou didst search, the more difficult it didst become to understand. Only when thou didst cry to the Holy One of Heaven didst thy salvation come.” The speaker shook his head mournfully. “Many a knight has fallen by my hand without once thinking to call upon his Maker.” Returning from his momentary reverie, he smiled down upon the knight. “But thou, sir knight, have earned the right of passage. Hand me thy map.”

Bewildered by everything the Sentinel had been telling him, it took a moment for Oliver to realize that the man was waiting for the map from the gypsy. Retrieving it from where he’d placed it in one of the saddle-bags, the knight handed it to the Sentinel. He could not fathom what the man of stone would do with the map. There was nothing more there beyond the point of the Sentinel and the beginning of the avenue. With immense curiosity, he watched his former opponent.

The Sentinel received the parchment with the deepest solemnity and handled it with more delicacy than one might expect of a man who had once been a boulder. Turning it corner to corner, he whispered a stream of words in a strange, unheard tongue that had once been spoken at the beginning of time but now only echoed in the hearts of the trees and earth. Then he brought the paper close to his lips and blew gently. Like flaking scales, small pieces of parchment flew away and revealed some more of the map.

Oliver looked on in amazement. Never before had he seen anything so wondrous. Handed the map, he looked to see the newly exposed area. Not much had changed but there, snaking across was a milky line that the knight rightly assumed was the avenue before him. It continued for a way without turn or off-shoot, finally ending in what appeared to be a sheltered glade. Like when he had first seen this magical map, he had no idea where this glade was or what it was called. And still there lay more unmarked parchment. He looked back to the Sentinel.

“What do I do now?” the knight asked child-like.

“Thou must continue, sir knight,” answered the Sentinel kindly. “Thou hast set thyself upon a quest for another and must complete it or forfeit thy honour.”

As if summoned, the face of the old gypsy glided like a specter before his eyes. For an unknown reason, Oliver was drawn to the man’s eyes. Wrinkled and weather-beaten, the gypsy’s brown eyes reflected great care and deep sorrow. The knight’s heart cried out in sympathy and longed to comfort his former guest. Determination rekindled to renewed vigor and he felt boldness once more run through him. Folding the map, he put it beneath his jerkin against his breast. Facing the Sentinel once ore, be put forth his hand.

“I thank thee, sir. Wilt thou take my hand in brotherhood?”

“That I will, noble knight.”

The two men clasped hands and no words were spoken for a time.

“But thou must take rest with me,” the Sentinel said at length, “for there is no protection or shelter in yonder avenue. In the morning, thou mayest continue thy quest.”

Gratefully, the knight accepted the Sentinel’s gracious offer. He followed his new host to where the Sentinel had once stood as a boulder. In its place was a small alcove of young trees, amidst which was just enough space for Oliver and Capell. Entering his home for the evening, the knight immediately felt its magical effects. A sudden drowsiness fell upon him. All the strain and exertion he'd made earlier that day demanded their dues at once. Lowering himself to the ground, Oliver saw Capell already soundly asleep, his flicking tail evidence of happy dreaming. He drew close to his stead and laid to rest against its side. Never before had sleep claimed this knight as quickly as it did in the man of stone's arbour.

The Sentinel smiled and took his place before his sleeping guests to protect them from any terrors of the night. Nothing would pass him that would pose any danger to their needed rest. As he kept his vigil, the Sentinel spoke many prayers over the sleeping knight, asking the beloved Saviour, His mother, and all the saints to protect and guide the knight on his perilous quest.

The sun rose the next morning dazzlingly bright, dappling Oliver and Capell in speckles of golden light. Rubbing his eyes, the knight propped himself up on one elbow and looked into the new day. The Sentinel still stood at the entrance, steadfast as the granite from which he came. Oliver got to his feet and stood beside his benefactor.

“Good morning, sir knight,” said the Sentinel turning to smile down on him.

“Good morning, Sentinel,” Oliver answered with a smile of his own. “Hast thou watched all through the night?”

“I hold a vigil for every soul who comes to me, whether he falls beneath my blade or rests within the arbour,” explained the Sentinel.

A small red-breasted bird alighted atop the Sentinel's head, creating a comical appearance with the difference between the large stony man and the tiny gentle bird. Yet it did not seem at all inappropriate either, as if the bird was meant to be there.