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.

A(nother) Challenge: The Gypsy's Map pt. 1

This is my last week of Easter break and I have a couple of things I want to do before going back to work, one of which is actually writing or at least completing a story. While reading through some old journals, I found a medieval/semi-fairy tale story that I started about 5 years ago and decided to try and finish it. I suppose the urge and interest was increased by the fact that I visited friends at my alma mater (now that's weird to say) Saint Katherine College where they are taking a fairy tales class and had to write ones of their own. Thus I feel inspired to do the same. Also, a little boy that I read a portion of it too from years ago is still asking about it and I would like to let him know how it ends.

So here's my plan. I am going to post pieces every day of my progress on the story and, hopefully by the end, I'll have a new story on my hands. Yes, yes, yes, dear reader, I do realize that I am trying to do yet another challenge, which I know I have a poor track record of actually completing. But I am going to do it. And I have better chances this time since I'm only keeping it to a week and I am not working this week. Therefore, I'm going to cheat today and post what I had previously written. I pray your forgiveness in advance as it's going to be long so I'm going to break it into two pieces. Hope you all enjoy the journey as much as I do.

The Gypsy's Map (pt. 1)

Many years ago a knight named Oliver came from small village now long forgotten by men. All was peaceful in his village and all the area around it. Resolved not to become idle and self-consumed, Oliver worked for his fellow villagers doing odd jobs, as if he’d never been knighted. Then, an old man came to the town. His clothes were thin and dirty, and he carried a large walking stick carved with many intricate designs. As he walked, he limped greatly and leaned heavily on his stick. Around his waist, he wore a rope belt from which hung an assortment of talismans for, you see, he was a gypsy. When they saw him, all the villagers rushed to their homes and locked their doors. Oliver alone was unafraid. Having faced greater dangers than one old gypsy man, he approached the stranger with kindness.

“Hast thou travelled long, good sir?”

“Many a weary mile on old tired feet,” was the answer given. Looking up from the dusty ground, the gypsy saw his greeter’s face. “Thou art not of my brethren. Why then dost thou greet me?”

“Tis the teaching of our Lord Jesus Christ to give shelter to the stranger. Come with me.”

“Saint Sara bless thee for thy kindness.”

The young knight led the old man to small hut he had built himself. The door opened to reveal a modest room nicely furnished and clean. Seating the old gypsy on a chair, Oliver went to a pot emitting wonderful aromas. He then proceeded to spoon the stew into earthenware bowls. After encouraging his guest to begin eating, the young man cut a few slices from a loaf of bread and filled two cups with water. The two men ate in silence, the one fulfilling the hunger gained from days of travel and the other not wanting to disturb him. Thus went their evening meal. When the gypsy had eaten his fill, Oliver led him to his own bed. At this, the man balked.

“No, sir. I shall not take thy bed. Thou has been gracious to this old gypsy . . .”

“And one more kindness cannot hurt thee,” the knight finished.

Seeing that his host would not be moved, the gypsy lay down, closed his eyes, and immediately fell into a deep sleep. Smiling to himself at his guest’s slumber, Oliver drew the covers over the sleeping man and took his repose beside the dying fire with his sword at his side.

The next morning, Oliver awoke to find his pot already brewing and the old gypsy gone. Going to the stewpot, he sniffed its contents. He nose told him his meal would be delicious. As he was stooped over the pot, the knight’s guest came in holding a strange bouquet of herbs and flowers. The old gypsy smiled seeing the look of surprised pleasure so easily seen on Oliver’s face.

“It pleases thee, I see.”

“Yes but thou didst not need to go to all this trouble. ‘Twas my place to prepare our meal.” The guest shook his head.

“I took no more trouble than thee when thou didst take me in and in this small way, I may repay thy kindness.”

Thus was the knight rebuffed and forced to be a guest in his own home while the gypsy finished preparing the meal. After a few minutes, it was finished and he spooned into their bowls a mash-like substance yet it had a unique, foreign flavor that delighted the senses. Once both had had their fill, Oliver asked the origin of their meal. The old man sighed heavily and his brown eyes grew sad.

“From my homeland, many miles away. I was not always the weary vagabond that thou dost see before thee. Once I had been a farmer and physician amongst my people. But it seems the saints and God most holy did not desire this to remain so. Our land suffered a drought like none that even our elders had ever seen. We cried out to Saint Sara for help but we received no reply. Then,” his eyes began to fill with tears and his voice faltered, “people began to die, our children and our elders. They looked like raisins in the noonday sun. Never before have I seen anything more tragic or pitiable.

“Finally, the few of us who were still alive left to find a new home. But on our way, we met a wild-looking man. His eyes seemed to stare at us and still not see us. He waved a sheet of parchment, crying that it led to the source of the drought. We all believed he had lost his sanity due to the lack of water. But we could not refuse his parchment for he would not let us pass until we took it. And so began our woeful journey. I am sorry,” he said suddenly. “I should not burden thee with my troubles.”

“No, thou has not troubled me in the least, good sir,” answered the knight much intrigued. “Do you still have the parchment the crazed man gave you?”

“Yes,” the gypsy shrugged, “though I did not take much notice of it once we had it.”

He moved to where his satchel sat and looked through its contents. Finally, he pulled out a worn sheet of paper and offered it to Oliver. The knight took it with great solemnity. But when he looked at it, his brow immediately furrowed.

“I’m afraid some of the ink has faded. There is naught here but a small portion.”

“’Twas always that way, good youth,” the gypsy replied. “Another reason we disregarded its former bearer.”

“Wast thou not curious in the least to know why it had been made so?”

“We did not pay it much mind, considering its former owner. What curiosity we had was satisfied with a short verse on the parchment itself. Thou canst find it here along this edge.” He turned the map so the knight was now looking at it upside down. “One of our young men found it whiles passing the time on our journey.”

Oliver examined the writing carefully. It was written in an even, delicate hand. And thus it read:

Trust thy faith and not thy eyes.

Be thou cunning, brave and wise.

The knight studied the couplet for several moments. His mind mulled their meaning and significance. The old gypsy watched the young man curiously, wondering what had intrigued his host so much. Nonetheless, he did not interrupt Oliver’s reverie. At last, the knight re-acknowledged his guest’s presence.

“Wouldst thou mind if I kept this map?”

“Take it with my blessing, good sir. May it bring you better fortune than it has its previous bearers. Well, I must be going.” The old man rose and began to gather his few belongings.

“Wait,” Oliver cried, surprised at his guest’s sudden behavior. “It will soon be sundown and it is quite a distance to the next village.”

The gypsy seemed to take no notice. He continued filling his sack and then put it on his back.

“No,” he stated finally as he headed for the door. “I cannot impose on thy hospitality any more. Besides,” he paused half-way through the door, “the rest of my people are waiting for me.”

“Where exactly are your people?” the knight queried aloud.

The man stopped and looked out towards the setting sun.

“Waiting in the arms of Saint Sara,” he replied quietly and continued walking out of town.

Oliver watched until his guest was no more than a black spot against the sun. Then he went back inside his home and prepared his evening meal. That night, he prayed for protection over the old gypsy wherever his travels led him.

The next morning, Oliver gathered all the maps he possessed and began comparing them against the old gypsy’s map. He looked for any recognizable landmarks so he could find the starting place. Finally, he found a large rock called “The Sentinel” on both the gypsy map and one map of a small woodland area. Smiling, he leaned back in his chair and took a few deep breaths. He then got up and began gathering his equipment and provisions.

Stepping out the door, the knight gazed out across the land stretching before him. His armor glinted defiantly, boasting scuffs and gashes from skirmishes with bandits. On his hip rested his trusty sword, docilely waiting ‘til its master should have need of it. Maps, food, spare clothes, flint, and a tinder box were stuffed in a pack upon his back. As he stood there pondering the path ahead of him, Oliver fingered an amber-entombed piece of white heather that hung around his neck. Shoving the pendant under his shirt, he walked to the nearby stable.

“Capell.”

A chestnut-hided horse trotted out to the knight and nuzzled against his shoulder. Oliver gazed deeply into the horse’s eyes and it seemed to understand what was in its master’s mind. Once saddled and bridled, he mounted the stead and looked one last time upon the quiet village that had been his home.

“Fare thee well, good home. May the blessings and protection of our Lord rest upon thee.” With that benediction, he turned his back on the village with the thought in his heart that he may never see it again.

Several days passed before the knight reached the Sentinel stone. It stood at the entrance of an avenue of trees between which hung a thick fog like cobwebs. Like a guard it sat imposing and impassive, daring any to enter the misty passage.

Oliver dismounted Capell and pulled out the gypsy’s map. He had reached the only place pictured on the map. Now, he did not know what to do. A path led away from the Sentinel but led to blank space on the parchment. Methodically, Oliver pondered in his mind what could be next.

“What dost thou desire?”

The knight drew close to his mount and placed a hand on his sword. His eyes darted all around, searching for the speaker.

“Who goes there?”

“What dost thou desire?” The voice sounded as old as the earth and seemed to reverberate through the air like thunder.

Calming Capell, the knight stepped out with his hand still ready on his sword. He had not seen or heard anyone enter the wood since he had. As far as he could tell, no one was hiding behind the trees around him. The only place left was the Sentinel and the fog-laden avenue and nothing there had changed.

“Who goes there?” Oliver repeated.

“What dost thou desire?” came the voice a third time.

“I desire to know the truth,” answered the knight.

Xavier and Earl

I'm sorry for not posting this sooner but the internet where I was was spotty and quite unruly. Thus this is posted after a delay. I continued the saga featuring Xavier of the excerpt previous. With this piece, I tried digging into more of the back story of why Xavier is going to Anton and the identity of the "dead person" he's looking for. It surprised me very much, giving me ideas that I hadn't even thought to contemplate before, but I hope that you all enjoy the revelation just as I did.

Xavier and Earl

Earl began organizing the various pieces of jewelry by type and color for the third time, giving Xavier sidelong glances every so often. Xavier sat in a chair behind the counter, rocking back onto two legs of the chair and fingering a photograph. Whistling nonchalantly, Earl edged his way closer and closer to his friend. Xavier remained absorbed with his photo. As his whistling waned, Earl looked over Xavier's shoulder to see what had so fixated his friend's attention. After seeing the subject of the picture though, he shook his head slowly and walked back towards the shelves of digital cameras.

“She's out there, Earl,” Xavier said quietly, not looking up from the photograph.

“Xavier,” Earl began with a sigh.

“She is out there,” Xavier repeated, crinkling the corners of the photo.

“You've got to let her go, man,” continued his friend as he let the cameras be. “There's nothing more you can do.”

“But she's still waiting to be found!”

Kicking over the chair as he got up, Xavier shoved the picture in Earl's face.

“Look at her! You're just going to give up on her?!”

Earl pushed Xavier's hands away and tried to move past him towards the depths of the shop. Xavier grabbed his shoulder as he passed, turning him back towards the photo. As Earl attempted to move away, Xavier tightened his hold on his friend's shoulder.

“Look … at … her,” Xavier seethed.

“She's dead, Xav. Accept it!” Earl broke out, ripping away his shoulder and grabbing both of Xavier's shoulders in his turn. “You can't let your guilt control you like this. You're going to drive yourself insane. Some people have even already started discussing committing you to Rigby Range.”

He snatched the photo from Xavier's hand and turned it so Xavier was confronted by its image.

“Is this what Sarah would want? You obsessing over Jemma? Losing your hold on reality?”

Xavier stared at the photo, wellsprings forming in his eyes. With a quivering hand, he reached up and took the picture from Earl. Earl released both the photo and his friend's shoulder, moving to lean against the counter. Xavier held the picture in both hands as rivers ran down his face.

“Do you remember taking this picture?”

“'Course I do. It was a week before the accident.”

“We were having a picnic to celebrate Sarah getting into veterinary school. Jemma had helped me make a cake for her.”

A smile quivered across Xavier's face.

“She … she insisted that we write 'conga-rats' instead of 'congratulations' because it had animals in the name. Sarah just about died laughing when she saw it.”

“I remember you freaking out that you'd forgotten the napkins and utensils when it came time to eat it,” Earl added, a smile playing around his mouth.

“Yes,”laughed Xavier as he wiped his face with his shoulder. “I thought I'd ruined everything. But Sarah and Jemma … thy just looked at each other and grabbed handfuls of cake. Like mother, like daughter. They never saw a problem without finding a solution.”

Dropping one hand on the counter to support himself, Xavier covered his eyes with his other arm, his hand clutching the photograph. His breathing grew ragged. Earl watched his friend and dug around in his pocket.

“I can't lose her, Earl. I barely have Sarah and I promised her … I promised her I'd take care of Jemma until she woke up. How can I face her now? How can I say I lost the best thing that ever happened to her?”

Hearing a crackling sound, he removed his arm and looked toward his friend. Earl was holding out a peppermint. Xavier took the mint, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. Setting the photo on the counter, he tried to smooth out the corners. Earl wrapped his arm around Xavier's shoulders.

“You'll cross that bridge when you get there,” counseled Earl. “For now, just be there for Sarah. Focus on what you can do for those who are still here.”

Xavier nodded and continued smoothing the picture, pausing at times to stroke the faces of a smiling blonde young woman and a laughing brown-haired girl.

Xavier and Anton

I realize that I have a bad habit of leaving things unfinished for which I apologize profusely, dear readers. But I had a new idea. In my mind, I pictured a guy in a fedora pulled down over his eyes smoking a cigarette as he leaned up against a wall. The feeling with the picture wasn't that the guy was sinister but he was a bit shady, "working on the side of the angels but not one of them" to quote a certain BBC show. At first, I thought I would need to create a whole framework and story into which he fit and played but then it dawned on me that I could just start writing a scene with him in it and see where it went from there. And so here is the scene. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

Xavier and Anton

“Thanks for the ride,” Xavier said to the cabbie. “Keep the change.”

“Sure this is the right place? Rather a lonely spot,” commented the cabbie.

“Yeah, I'm sure. I'm probably just early is all.”

“If you say so.”

As the cab drove away, Xavier looked around the street. At the end were the cab's taillights fading around the corner. The stores on the street were closed for the day and looking as if no one cared whether they opened again or not. Along the street were a couple of vehicles as forlorn looking as the buildings in front of which they were parked. A few streets over, a siren sounded. Xavier peered into several of the dusty, empty windows before confirming the suspicion that there was no one else around. Hearing a crash and a scream nearby, he jumped and looked towards the source of the noise. Two cats chased each other out of an alley, across the street, and into another byway. Xavier exhaled slowly and leaned up against the wall.

“You spook easy. That's good to know.”

The young man whirled around to see another person in the street with him. Seemingly out of nowhere and making no more noise than a ghost, the speaker had appeared leaning up against the same wall.

“Are … are you Anton?”

“I go by that name … sometimes,” answered Anton, taking a pull on a lighted cigarette.

Xavier stuck his hands in his pockets and shifted from foot to foot, waiting for Anton to continue. The stranger let out his cigarette smoke slowly. An awkward silence had fallen on the two people, one that Xavier did not feel it was his place to break. He didn't want to scare the guy off by acting too eager, by being overly hasty. But Anton continued to lean there smoking his cigarette as if he had eternity ahead of him. The young man began playing with the insides of his pockets to give his fingers something to do.

“So … you wanted something from me.” Anton finally spoke through an expulsion of smoke.

“Yes, yes I did,” Xavier confirmed with more eagerness than he had wanted to show. “Franny said that you could do just about anything.”

“Well, you know sisters. They'll say just about anything about their big brothers.”

“Then … was she … was she wrong?”

“No, she wasn't,” assured Anton, holding his cigarette between two fingers. He turned to directly face Xavier and looked straight into his eyes. “But you really shouldn't believe everything everyone tells you.”

Xavier took his meaning and nodded.

“I know.”

Turning his back on Xavier and returning his cigarette to his mouth, Anton started walking down the street. Xavier remained where he was and then began following Anton, at a distance. Anton stopped beside a '74 Plymouth Roadrunner that Xavier had noticed but had assumed abandoned by the state of disrepair. Rust lined the edges of the plate joints. The bumpers were dull and looked as if they'd been covered by years of dust. The rear window was so cracked it looked as if a spider had made its home within the glass.

“Well, introductions and preliminaries now aside, how about we step into my office.” Anton waved his cigarette at the front passenger seat as he disappeared inside the car.

Pausing with his hand on the door handle, Xavier looked back around the street. At the far end from which he himself had entered, another cab was passing on its way to another destination. A call jumped to his throat but never passed his lips and the cab continued on its way. He watched it disappear from sight, even waiting till he could no longer hear the tires on the asphalt. A tap on the window brought Xavier back to the fact that he had still not entered the Roadrunner. Pulling the door open and sitting down, Anton began driving away.

“Since you are coming to me on recommendation from Franny, it can only mean that you are in desperate need of something that is otherwise unattainable,” Anton stated, breathing his cigarette smoke out the window.

“Y-yes,” answered Xavier looking down at his hands, his fingers interlocking and then separating repeatedly.

Anton took lazy pulls on his cigarette waiting for his passenger to continue. Xavier kept his gaze fixed on his hands, the color slowly draining from his face. He licked his lips.

“I … I need to find someone.”

“A lot of people do.”

“Yeah … well … I don't think a lot of people are looking for someone like I am.”

“Obviously. Most people go to the police rather than come to me.”

“I tried the police,” Xavier explained through gritted teeth. “They said that I was crazy.”

“I knew that the moment you came to me. Most people, well more like everyone who comes to me is crazy in one way or another.”

Xavier gave Anton a sideways glance. For his part, Anton flicked ash from the end of his cigarette onto the swiftly passing street.

“So, why is it that our city's public servants believe you bereft of your sanity?”

Xavier leaned back in his seat and rested his head and arm against the window.

“They said … the person I'm looking for … is dead.”

The Night

Prose at last, everyone! This will be a bit of a change from the usual fare as I will be posting increments of it as I have them. So here's the set-up. I am attempting to combine and re-tell two of my favorite Hans Christian Anderson fairy tales, The Wild Swans and The Traveling Companion. Hopefully, I will not do the Danish master too terribly with my attempt and hope that you all enjoy it along the way. These are just the opening lines so I apologize for the briefness.

The rains had been especially long this year, filling the rivers and lakes to the verge of bursting. Everything everywhere was wet … and cold. Thousands of stars littered the ground as they mirrored those in the velvet above. Thin strips of cloud veiled the chaste moon's face. And in a small cave covered in moss sat a mound of rags.

A Day in the Life of a Domestic Feline

For this week's posting, I'm sorry to say that I do not have the happier half of the poem I posted last week. It is still in the works. Instead, I have a short vignette on what my pet cats must be thinking while I think they're taking it easy. I hope you enjoy the silliness.

A Day in the Life of a Domestic Feline

From the outside, the domestic feline has an easy life.

All they need do is eat, sleep, and nap.

Sometimes the routine will change, adding playful antics.

However, this is only the human perspective.

For the feline, it is war.

It's constant struggling for dominance.

We think they're napping.

But they're waiting.

And then,

Attack!

Writing Challenge - Day 6

He looked down at his hands; they were shaking. He tried to get them to stop but they refused to obey. As he sat there, television rolling in front of him, he could feel his heart mimicking his hands. His breaths grew short and quick, as if his lungs couldn't bear to be full for very long.

"It can't be," he thought. "It can't be."

His hands still shaking, he took the phone in both hands for fear he'd let it drop. Slowly, he typed the numbers and put the phone to his ear. The dial tone rang once.

"Oh good, it's working."

Second dial tone.

Third dial tone.

"Maybe his phone's on vibrate and that's why he's not picking up. That's got to be it."

Fourth dial tone.

"Come on, Kurt. Come on."

Fifth dial tone.

"Kurt!"

"Hello?" answered a strange male voice.

His hands had steadied and pulse slowed when the phone had been answered but renewed their activity at the non-Kurt voice.

"Who are you? Where's Kurt?" he demanded with more vehemence than perhaps the recipient deserved.

"Calm down, sir," said the strange voice. "Who am I speaking to?"

"Cameron, Cameron Sturgeon."

"What is your relation to ... Kurt?"

"I'm his brother. Now put him on."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sturgeon, but that won't be possible."

"No ... no ... it has to be possible. You have his phone so he has to be there. Give him the phone!"

"Mr. Sturgeon, please. I'm sorry to have to tell you this over the phone but ... your brother Kurt is dead."

P.S. So the weekend threw me off my regular routine (well, sort of routine) but hopefully I'll be able to keep up my streak after this.

Writing Challenge - Day 4

Inspired by the legend of Hemingway (or some other famous writer) who wrote a story in six words: "For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn."

Help needed. New coffin. Child sized.

Help wanted. Friendly face. Just once.

Lost mind. Can't find. Need help.

P.S. Yes, this one is legitimately late but I am doing my best.

Writing Challenge - Day 2

(inspiration for story below)

All It Took Was a Look

I remember the day I met him. Father was hosting a party for Mother's birthday and had spared no expense. I missed much of the preparations being away at school. When I asked how it had all come together in my absence, he said he had relied heavily upon a new secretary that I would meet him later that day for dinner. That evening, I came out to the parlour and saw my father sharing a drink with a young man. The man turned at Father calling out to me. “Elsie, this is Arthur Lynthol. Arthur, my daughter Elsie Cooper.”

P.S. This would have been posted yesterday but I accidentally hit the "save" instead of "publish" button.

Sound the Bugle

Prompted by my sister, I am posting some of my older writing. "You have the blog to post your writing, right?" she asked me. And she's right. Predominantly, my finished works are Lord of the Rings fanfiction so here is a piece of writing that I am particularly proud of. The way I wrote several pieces was to take a song and break up the verses and choruses with related story bits. This song is from the movie "Spirit: Stallion of the Cimmeron" and, if you read, you'll figure out who it's about. Enjoy! I sure did.

Sound the Bugle

Sound the bugle now - play it just for me 

As the seasons change - remember how I used to be 
Now I can't go on - I can't even start 
I've got nothing left - just an empty heart 

Rising from where he had fallen, Boromir looked around him anxiously. "Frodo?" he called quietly. Not hearing anything, Boromir turned around, hoping to see the Ring-bearer. "Frodo," he repeated, "forgive me." Desperate for the hobbit to hear him, he yelled, "Frodo, I'm sorry!" The steward's son fell to his knees crying bitter tears. What anguish of soul he felt. He had betrayed the very person he had sworn to protect. Not only betrayed but had accused him of thoughts of betrayal, had even cursed him and fellow halflings. How could he have done it? Boromir mourned even more bitterly knowing that Frodo would never see him in the same light, possibly never to remember the noble knight of Gondor with whom he had set out on the journey at the beginning. In his grief, a thought flitted through his mind. He had disgraced Gondor. He, the eldest son of the steward of the White City, the city of kings, had fallen and taken the honor of that city with him. A new feeling of horror and revulsion pierced Boromir’s breaking heart, leaving the pieces now empty of all hope and pride.

I'm a soldier - wounded so I must give up the fight 
There's nothing more for me - lead me away... 
Or leave me lying here 

There was nothing left for him now. Without honor, what was a soldier? A warmonger. A murderer. Every part of his being cringed from these ideas. Yet this was what he had done to himself. Hearing the sounds of battle, Boromir was roused from his hopeless reverie into action. He rushed forward with a yell, eyes blazing, sword unsheathed. Perhaps in this his final battle. Yes, it would be his last. In death, there was always honor for a soldier. He would remain here forever to sleep without waking. In death, there would be no condemnation, no agonizing disbelief. He would fade away. The company would leave his body to be taken by the oncoming orcs and they would be right in doing so. For what honor should be given the body of a traitor than to be taken by the enemy?

Sound the bugle now - tell them I don't care 
There's not a road I know - that leads to anywhere 
Without a light I fear that I will - stumble in the dark 
Lay right down - decide not to go on 

As he was fighting the Uruk-hai, Boromir's mind was not following the motions of his body. Instead he was thinking of home. How could he return to Minas Tirith now? Disgraced and dishonored. His father would be harsh with him, he knew, but Denethor would get over it, thinking it some mistake on the part of the fellowship and not any fault of his son's. But Faramir . . . Boromir could not bear to think of what his brother would think of him. His dear brother, the embodiment of all the honor and grace and wisdom of the kings of Gondor to Boromir, would be crushed. To his brother, his idol, a fall from his pedestal would be a blow that nothing could heal. In his mind's eye, the steward's son could see Faramir's eyes fill with inexplicable shock to hear of his brother's doings. Those eyes that had always expressed the younger son's inner emotions. Boromir could not face him, those eyes, with the guilt that now lay darkly and heavily upon him. Even if he said nothing, Faramir would know of it. He had always been perceptive and could read what his brother was feeling no matter how Boromir tried to hide it. Pain in his chest immediately brought him back to Henneth Anuin. He looked down to see a black feathered arrow protruding from his breast. Looking up, he saw the assailant and continued to fight the orcs closest to him. How could he have been so blind as to miss the archer in the group? Truly, he was no longer worthy to be called the Captain of Gondor. No captain would have allowed such a thing. But that title had been stripped from him the moment he had attacked Frodo. He cared no longer as many more arrows pelted him. He would fall here then, far from all those who had retained their honor, amid those who knew not what honor was at all.

Then from on high - somewhere in the distance 
There's a voice that calls - remember who you are 
If you lose yourself - your courage soon will follow 
So be strong tonight - remember who you are

Preparing for his death blow, the steward's son watched, in a haze, a man ram and engage his assailant. When the fight was finished, he was finally able to see his savior. To Boromir's utter shame, it was Aragorn. He who claimed to be the heir to the throne of Gondor. He who had nothing dishonorable in or about him in any way. He would be the one to find the disgraced son of Gondor. Slowly he spoke to the Ranger of the North. "They've taken the little ones!" Again he had failed, failed to keep those innocent halflings from falling into the hands of the orcs. "Stay still," Aragorn told him. But Boromir could not rest. "Frodo! Where is Frodo?" All his thoughts were now focused on the one he had wronged the most. "I let him go" was the reply. Pain ran through him that came not from the arrows. "Then you did what I could not. I tried to take the Ring from him." He could not look his leader in the eyes. Aragorn answered, "The Ring is beyond our reach now." "Forgive me," persisted the dying man, "I did not see. I have failed you all." Comforting the fallen man, the Ranger said, "No, Boromir. You have fought bravely. You have kept your honor."

Ya you're a soldier now - fighting in a battle 
To be free once more -Ya that's worth fighting for

Barely hearing Aragorn's answer, Boromir continued. "It is over. The world of men will fall and all will come to darkness, and my city to ruin." All the despair that had welled up in his heart broke forth in his statement. He could see it now. The White City in ruins and its people afraid and enslaved. Through his nightmare, he could hear Aragorn speaking. "I do not know what strength is in my blood, but I swear to you, I will not let the White City fall.  Nor our people fail!" Did he truly just hear what he thought he heard? "Our people." Truly, this Ranger deserved to be the hero of the White City, its true hero. Never would he know how much those words rang brilliantly within the fallen man. "Our people." From this man, this seemingly beggar and renegade of the North, he has returned his honor. "I would have followed you my brother, my Captain," yes "my King." And so passed the great Son of Gondor, his honor yet gilding him as shining mail.

Only the Good Die Young

I've been writing! Well, again this was an assignment but it is still an excuse for writing. I hope you enjoy them.

Only the Good Die Young
On March 14, Jeffery Langford of Ravensborough died at dawn.
He came to the hospital with a gunshot wound.
The doctors said that he should pull through.
Unfortunately, Jeffery reacted badly to some medication.
They never discovered what it was.
He got shot protecting someone.
A girl, I think.
She was alone.
He jumped.
Bang.

55 Word Stories

These are some very short stories I found while looking through the plethora of unfinished works that lie waiting in my cache of documents. Each story is only 55 words long. The first sentence is 10 words, the second is 9, and so on until it ends with a single word. It was a really fun exercise and I'm rather impressed with how they came out. I especially like The Light Next Door because there seems to be more of a story there than in Fairy Dances, though that is much closer to the kinds of subjects that I normally focus on.

Fairy Dances
The fairies danced upon the flower’s petals as I watched.
Twirling in the air, they looked like shooting stars.
I wanted so to join their lovely dance.
But I didn't know how to ask.
So I simply watched and longed.
Then, they saw me staring.
They stopped and whispered.
One flew close.
She laughed.
Twinkling.

The Light Next Door
Light shines from the lamp in my neighbor’s upper bedroom.
I've never seen anything in that room before tonight.
It intrigues me so I move in closer.
Perhaps he’s rented out the extra space.
Heaven knows he needs the money.
But why wait so long?
I don’t really know.
I should ask.
Shouldn't I?
Nevermind.