From My Political Page on Facebook...

How to change a democracy into a dictatorship in eight easy steps:

1: Debase the value of a human life. Start with just one. Teach your populace that they are not divine or divinely loved, but lonely and worthless. Slaughter innocents. Gloss it over by saying that those lives were not important. Repetition is vital; if you say anything enough times, it becomes truth.

2: Lower the educational standards for the general public. Teach children not to think for themselves, but to believe what they are told, unconditionally. Do not teach logic, or philosophy, or history. Teach them that learning is laborious. Make them hate school, and they become sheep. Vilify anyone who applies reason and justice to their world view.

3: Incite divisiveness. Infighting is the perfect tool for population control. If your people hate each other, they will be too busy trying to "win" to pay attention to what is going on outside their doors. The more they fight, the less you have to worry about a unified, logical stand against your oppression. Keep them distracted with contention, the media will soon follow. This is key. If you properly implement enough diversion, you can get away with anything. Anger is the enemy of clarity.

4: When changing the laws, or stripping away rights and freedoms, do it subtly and behind closed doors. Change policies one at a time, adjust the wording ever so slightly, so as not to draw attention to the systematic destruction of their civil liberties. Use lots of big words and double speak. If you have properly implemented steps two and three, your sheep will not be knowledgeable, educated, or focused enough to put the pieces together and see past your ruse.

5: Make them depend on your government for everything. Use enormous monopolies and massive, faceless conglomerates (which you control), to decimate small businesses and family owned resources. Not only will you profit greatly from this takeover, they will depend on you for everything from food and housing, to clothing and healthcare. Also, because they will be mostly unfamiliar with how to survive without TV's and prepackaged food stuffs, they cannot leave your system.

6: Widen the gap between the wealthy and the poverty stricken. You will control the rich through their fear of losing everything, and the poor through fear of disease and violent crimes.

7: Take away their arms. Leave them only with sticks and stones to defend themselves. This will be incredibly important when they finally look up from their infighting and poverty and realize what has happened.

8: Outlaw religion, censor art; create repetitive and generic music. Make sex, love, and nudity awkward, filthy taboos. Turn wife against husband; and foster apathy and spite in parents. This is the final step. Without these final beautiful things, there is no way for your population to learn from each other, for knowledge or wisdom to cross generational gaps. You will have actually made step one their reality. They will have no passion, no drive, and no memory of a better life. Instead, they will suckle at the tits of your dictatorship, sleeping and waking to the beat of your drum.

Good Luck! And remember to have fun with it.
Don’t forget: "A government should not be afraid of its people, people should be afraid of their government."

Nocturne

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I love kissing her frosty nipples with my soft lips. I love caressing them with my warm tongue. I love how they are pink like her lips... How they respond to my mouth.

~
I haven't slept in weeks, but now, the room is dark and the sheets are cool. I feel safe in his arms, and as I fade into sleeping, I meditate on the way his stubble feels on my shoulder.

~
She’s not even two yet, and her beauty is already crushing. Her golden curls, and the way she holds her teddy bear. I kiss her lightly on the forehead and shut the door.

~
We each fall asleep in our armchairs. His head tilts forward and he begins to snore. It used to keep me up, but now I miss that raspy sawing. I really love that man.

~
I always sleep naked. I hate it when my clothes bunch and tug while I sleep. The green glow from my alarm clock keeps me awake. I pull the covers over my head and pray for sleep.

~
I climb in bed with my curlers in, ready to begin my deeply medicated slumber. Sixty-two years old and I still sleep with the light on. I can hear the young couple above me. I remember those days...
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Post Script
(Nocturne: 1. A painting of a night scene. 2. An instrumental composition of a pensive, dreamy mood, especially one for the piano.)
These snippets of prose each represent a portrait of the different tenants in an apartment building as they go to bed. In a myriad of different ways.

End

"Black Wine and Withered Prunes" or "A Rude Awakening"

She held a wine glass in her spidery hand, swirling the black liquid it contained nonchalantly. She was completely naked. However, it wasn't a pretty sight. She was all bones, with pale white skin stretched like a latex glove over her skeleton. Her breasts sagged unattractively.
Ted remembered being hit over the head at the gas station, and a foggy semiconscious ride in the back seat of an Oldsmobile. The smell of cracking leather upholstery.
He resurfaced to the bright beam of a flashlight in his eyes; but wasn't really awake enough to fight back as they half dragged him down the long corridor with the marble floors. As the fog over his mind slowly lifted, he became more aware of how strange this evening was turning out to be. A dull, throbbing pain was beginning to grow from the lump on the back of his head.
Everything was too bright.
When she spoke, her voice was like a creaking door, covered in cobwebs. Her lips were dry, and cracked with each syllable they formed. The sounds reached his ears like they were underwater, all muted and distorted. Her nipples rose to the occasion like tiny withered prunes.

Ted wished he were at home in bed, tucked warmly beneath his down comforter. He really had no idea what the fuck was going on... but for that matter, neither did the naked hag sipping mystery goo from a wine glass and looking smug.

To the great Crawling Chaos, they were leaves blowing in the wind. Termites in a hill of dung.

Ten in 13

Last year, my New Year's resolution was to not make any New Year's resolutions.

I achieved this goal.

This year, I am stepping up my game. In the interest of self-betterment, I have created a list of equally achievable tasks.

In no particular order,

And without further fanfare...

Ten Actually Achievable Goals for 2013 

1: Clean your bedroom. Twice.
2: Read three good books.
3: Stop saying “fuck” in front of Lily.
4: Weigh less at the end of the year.
5: Visit Brendan in Chicago.
6: See an awesome show.
7: Learn how to make a chicken curry.
8: Have a good cry.
9: Memorize one Shakespearean sonnet.
10: Go on a hike.

Why I Really Hate Interviewing: Epic Conclusion

I got the job.

Oh, Lord, I got the job!

Thank-you Jesus!

Amen

(Passes out, hits the floor. Curtains close, house lights come up. Everyone is cheering.)

Season's Greetings

Merry Christmas, dear reader, and happy New Year. :)

When the Red Phone Rings

I just thought this would be an awesome title for, well, something...
Definitely see those words in that order on this blog eventually.
In the mean time, watch: "Tucker & Dale Vs. Evil".
It's a really fun twist on a classic horror theme.
These sentences keep getting shorter.
I wonder what I'll say next?
This is very weird.
I should stop.
G'night.
G

Why I Really Hate Interviewing

The phone interview went so well.
By the time the call ended, I was stoked.
Today is the face-to-face interview.
Both of my eyelids are twitching.
If I'd have known that it would be today, I would have trimmed my hair. I tried to cut my nails this morning but couldn't find the clippers...

The Next Day

This is the worst part.
Replaying the interview in your head, over and over, dwelling on all the mistakes you made. The stupid things you said, your vague, inconsistent answers.
I just hope they liked me enough to see past how bad I really am at interviewing.
I hope they saw or heard something that turned them onto the idea of me working for them. Something unique.

Waiting for a call. It's Christmas week, so I've no idea if I will get a response before the first. I highly doubt it.
I guess it's just nose to the grindstone until then. I'll try to put it out of my head. Constantly thinking about it will just drive me crazy.

Dear Lord, if you want me to have this job... lean on them for me, will you?

New Paul: Odyssey Chapter 8 Submission

Paul scooped up Maya in his arms, and kissed her on the face. They were both so sticky.
His eyes were filled with rainbows and light, but besides that, the levitating, and the goo, there were no other signs of the monstrous torment that had raged his very being just moments ago.

"Where are you taking me?" Maya asked, still surprised that the spell had worked.
"You'll see." Paul smiled, not reassuringly.
He tilted his head back, and he and Maya floated rapidly through the new hole in the roof, and into the foggy, smoggy night.

The filthy and majestic city of London stretched beneath them. The moon hung massively on the horizon, bathing the glittering city in silver light. They covered ground rapidly, Paul with feet flung haphazardly behind him, Maya cradled in his arms.

That's when Maya saw her, Tal'shen: a mass of glittering scales and writhing tentacles, with wings as dark as night and studded with stars. She, it, was immense. An oppressive entity of epic proportions; the spawn of Lysanna, born of Paul.
Tal'shen the Monster of the Cosmos was contorting a thousand feet above the Tower of London. Maya Shuddered. She had no idea what Paul was planning, but she doubted anything could defeat this malevolent being.

Paul stopped suddenly over the London Eye, and closed his eyes. "Maya, I'm going to need your help with something."

"Of course." She answered, without hesitation.

Paul smiled even more disconcertedly. "Excellent." He then screamed, no roared, a noise which no human could produce - a war cry which stopped the shoppers and tourists below in their tracks. "Tal'shen! I cannot let you consume this planet, nor its people."

Tal'shen writhed and turned on its cosmic wings. Maya could see the wide black eyes, and the sharp squid-like beak. She expected a reply, but none came. The spawn of Lysanna took after her mother: she could not fathom the concept of defeat.

Paul was still grinning. "You vomit slime bitch! I should have cut you out of my leg the moment you leeched onto me!" He opened his eyes, a psychedelic laser-lights show of color. "Now I'm going to excise you from this plane, and leave you to fend for yourself in the Between Spaces!"

The beast paid him no mind. It began stirring up a great whirlwind with its wings and tentacles. Car alarms and sirens sounded from the city below; and pedestrians were knocked to their feet and blown down the street. Maya knew what would come next. Tal'shen intended to open a black hole in the earth beneath her, and consume the planet's collective life-force.

Paul began chanting in an ancient alien tongue. Maya recognized it as her own. She knew what the words meant. "Tal'shen you insignificant mite! Lowest life-form in the universe! I, by the power of the dark Counsel of Hatharadas and the infinite corporeal authority of the Great Olmon-Yen, cast you into the place between universes, that outer darkness from which there is no escape!" Maya had never heard this spell before, but Paul delivered it flawlessly between his clenched, madly grinning teeth. "This willing sacrifice I deliver onto the Most High Chancellor of the Swirling Void, Vaskem-Adrahamenned himself, as payment for the toll of Hell's passage."

With this, Paul looked deeply into Maya's eyes, and let go.
She screamed as she plummeted to the earth a thousand feet below.
A splash of red ended her existence.
Still Paul was chanting. "Aitchrk louvvimn'vco kuut! Pliyv'vukt liyv cern!"

Something began to happen to Tal'shen. At first, it looked like a flicker of brilliant white light, a flash of lightning. Then, a rift opened in the place at her center of mass, a yawning black chasm, flashing with tendrils of lightning. A massive black hand with ten fingers and long curved claws reached through the gap. It grabbed Tal'shen and clenched, pulling the beast into the hole. A massive clap of thunder shook all of London as the portal closed.

Paul stopped smiling, and said: "Thank-me those bitches are gone... this planet is mine."

End

My deviantART profile:
http://alovesickman.deviantart.com/

Odyssey II Homepage
http://odysseyproject.deviantart.com/

Spilt Milk

Her skirt couldn't have been shorter, legally. Her legs went all the way to the floor, and ended in tall black stilettos. And her body was... Coke classic. Curvy in all the right places.
She wanted to have sex. I knew by the look in her eyes, and where her hand was on my thigh.
I tapped my fag on the ashtray, and looked her straight in the face. "Sorry Baby, I don't have sex with synthetics, even sexy bots like you."
"That’s okay," she replied in her smooth as silk voice. "I don't have sex with squares."
We shared a smile, and I finished my drink.
"Keep it clean, Synthetica." I winked nonchalantly and stepped into the smog and fluorescent lights.
Ever since my first couple of run-ins with positronic princesses, I've steered clear of that thick freakness. They crave new experiences, and often don't know they’re own strength. Also, I always feel guilty taking advantage of machines. I hardly ever even make my car do the driving.

I hopped in my jet black Caddy, and pushed start. The lights all came on like a scene from Tron, and the engines revved quietly, then whined to life. I was pulling out of my spot when I reached down to light up another cancer stick.

Bam!
My neck whipped forward and I dropped my lighter. My heart was in my throat, I knew I had hit something which had not been there even a second ago. I shut my car off, and didn't even wait for it to touch down before I was climbing out to see what I had hit.

Synthetica. Fluorescent white-green fluid spurting from her legs. Oh, those flawless legs. A shocked, disappointed look on her divine face.
"Awe crap, baby, I'm sorry." I took off my hat and squatted down next to her. "I didn't see you there."
Her voice was calm as still waters and just as clear. "That’s okay." She replied, "I’m still under warranty, and I'm sure it'll be covered."
"Can I take you to a service center?"
"That’d be lovely." Poised. Grateful.

I knelt down and scooped her up. I threw up a little thanks to the Big Guy that she was a mint model. The older Androids weighed almost as much as a car. Carefully, I laid her in the back seat, and started the car again.

Right as I was pulling out, she said: "mirror." And I checked, twice.
The air was thick with icy tension. I did my best to break it, conversationally. "How old are you?" I winced. "Sorry. Bad form."
"Don't be, I'm a bot, remember? I'm seventeen moons old. Should have till thirty-six on the extended plan." I looked at her in my rear view.

You wouldn't know she wasn't a human solicitor, except for the small barcode at the nape of her neck. "I'm Sally, by the way."
"Are you registered?"
"No, actually, I'm part of a work-study. I fill out a few surveys every couple of weeks, and they poke me and swab me, and in exchange, I'm a free bird." Another smile. "My turn: what do you do?"
"Gun control." I answered, solemnly.
"Rough business. Ever been shot?"
I laughed, cynically. "Plenty. Mostly they’ve been trying to replace us with droids, but they just don't cut it; no offense."
She smiled, heartbreakingly, and even though I knew she was mangled, I felt a little blood start to flow. "Look," I said, tentatively, "If you want, I can hang out in the lobby while they patch you up, and maybe..." I paused. "Maybe we could sync up back at my place after." I looked in my rearview again, I couldn't help feeling her up with my eyes.
A big grin met my gaze. "Not tonight, baby. I don't want two hit and runs in one day."
I felt my face go flush. "Yeah, that was pretty low functioning of me. I shouldn’t have asked."

We pulled up to the service station, and I set my Caddy down slow. "I'll carry you in."
"Don't fret, big daddy. I put in a call on our way, they'll come out and get me any moment."
"Right. Well, let me know if you need anything..."
"Of course." Her lips were so soft, so red. "Sorry I got your seat all wet."
I turned stoplight red, for the millionth time that night; and as they carted her inside, I wondered how things might have turned out if I had just gone back to her place.

After all, they just legalized Human-Synthetic marriage in Boston.

End

Post Script: I originally started writing this as a T&tR exclusive, then when I got halfway through, I realized that Androids are created objects, and this story therefore fit in the theme for the next inkWELL publication, coming out on February 1st: "Creation". I am, therefore, going to present it to the group and see if they like it. If not, it's still a fun piece, and a great accessory to the other stories on this blog. ;)

TBQ I: Cruel Knife, Chapter 1 (RD)

It wasn't easy to leave her home behind, but Raschel knew that she had no choice. The witches were on the move again, coming up from the south, casting a dark shadow over the horizon. She put on her wool coat and threw her bag over her shoulder. Silently, she bowed her head and said a little prayer. She wished that her dad was here to see her, but she quickly shook off that thought and steeled herself for the journey ahead. Stepping into the sunlight, she closed the door, realizing that she had been holding her breath.

Tom Callahan was waiting on his chestnut horse in the front yard, beside him was Raschel's white mare, Sandy: who pawed the dirt impatiently with her hoof. Raschel put on her hat, and mounted her horse. Together, they rode away from her childhood home and into the prairie.
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The rain was slashing down in sheets, crashing against the windows as the wind shook the house. Jeremy was sitting at the dining room table with his parents, pushing the chewy pot roast and shriveled carrots around his plate apathetically. 
His dad cleared his throat and peered at him over his horn-rimmed bifocals. “You should eat up, Jermy, you’ve a long night ahead of you.”
Jeremy shrugged. “I just wish we didn’t have to go tonight, Uncle Emmett is so weird, and I only just finished school today.” He pushed an undercooked potato in his mouth, and tried to chew it. 
“Well, there’s no two ways about it. Your Uncle said today would work best for him, and your mom and I are very grateful to him for taking you in this summer while we’re in Italy: so tonight it is.” He pushed his glasses back up, and smiled at his wife, rubbing his tummy like God himself couldn’t have cooked a better roast. 
Jeremy’s mom and dad, Mr. and Mrs. Barber, were both medium heightish, but kinda heavy set. They both had rosy cheeks, and salt and pepper hair; although his mom’s hair was much more prevalent. Mr. Barber was a vacation salesman, which is how they’d gotten such a great deal on their trip for two to Italy. His mother worked part time at the library, and taught a water aerobics class on the weekends. 
Mr. Barber checked his enormous gold wristwatch, and wiped his mouth. “I trust you’re all packed up then?” Which was more an assertion than a question.
“Yes, Dad. Are you sure I can’t take my iPod or Laptop?” 
“You know your Uncle lives in the boonies, and he’s got no electricity.”
“All packed then. When do we go?”
His dad wiped his mouth once more, and brushed his hands on his cargo pants. “We may as well head out. Martha, are you coming with?” 
“Of course, dear,” she replied sweetly. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Sending off my little boy for the whole summer!”
Jeremy groaned in protest. “Mom! I’m almost fifteen!”
“But still my baby.” She smiled.
Before he could say ‘clunker’, they were all packed in his parent’s ramshackle minivan. They took the highway out of town, headed off into the rainy night. Jeremy dozed on and off, waking now and again to his parent’s flirtatious laughter, or an especially large pothole. Slowly, the rain died off, and a full silver moon came out from behind the clouds, lighting the world below almost as bright as day. The van jerked to a stop, and Jeremy woke, rubbing his eyes. He stumbled out of the rusty van and got his bags from the back. 
“Come along, Jermy!” He could see the blurry image of his dad leading the way through the tombstones. 
Tombstones?
“Where are we?” Asked Jeremy, sleepily. “Does Uncle Emmet live in a graveyard?”
“Sort of!” His mom replied, much too cheerful for the late hour. 
“Here we are!” His dad was grinning, ear to ear. His eyes looked huge behind his thick glasses, which reflected strangely in the moonlight. He swept his arm dramatically like a ringmaster. 

Jeremy looked down. At his feet was an open grave. A couple of dozen feet deep. “Is this some kind of weird joke?” He inquired, hopefully. 
“Nope!” Smiled his dad. And with that, his parents shoved him in. 
“Have a nice trip!” His dad yelled after him.
“See you next fall!” Shouted his mom, giggling. 

Jeremy was free falling through the black. Panic gripped his mind, and his heart stopped beating. Still he was falling. The moon was far overhead now, his parents two hazy blobs. He closed his eyes, bracing for impact. He just knew he was going to break his legs or something. 
Finally, he smacked into the dirt below, a cloud of dust flew into the air. Slowly opening his eyes, he took a damage report. Everything seemed intact. No excruciating pain to cause concern. 
That's when he realized: it was the middle of the afternoon - and his crazy uncle Emmett was standing over him, grinning a mile wide. 
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Post Script:
This is an excerpt from a Young Adult book I am writing. (the Barbershop Quaretet, Book 1: the Cruel Knife)  This is a VERY rough draft, and may end up not turning out anything like this. However, I hope you enjoy it anyway!
G

End

the Thunder and the Rain, or, a Boy and His Mouse (RD)

Working on my submission for inkWELL's "Thunder", which will be published on April 1st...

Thunder crashes and lightning flashes outside, sporadic arms of light reach across the sky; the clouds like an Ansel Adams photograph, and the rain like Noah’s flood.

A house with rickety walls, a ramshackle roof. The windows shake. No electricity or artificial light cast their pale glow upon the scene, inside the furniture and little boy are lit by strobes of brilliant white. The shadows cast are long and quick, the corners shrouded are unlit. 

He’s five years old, and seventeen days. His parents sleep like babes upstairs. He too should be in slumber’s grip, but drawn to waking by the storm he finds himself wandering the house at night.

Tow-headed, a ribs-showing skinny, curious eyes cast about the maze of flashing light and familiar objects turn strange and tall. For a while, he is content to sit, on the living room floor by the brightness lit. Staring out at the sky and the chariots of wrath, listening closely to the pattern of the rain as it splats and slams against the speckled pains of glass. 

A rustling sound catches his ear, the pitter-patter of tiny hands on hardwood. The little boy drops to all fours, and looks under his father’s raggedy chair. A small white mouse, with pink eyes; an intruder in an otherwise solitary and monochromatic setting. The mouse wiggles his nose, and the boy does the same, squeaking at the mouse trying to invoke a reply. 

The mouse just sits and stares, looking back with a matched curiosity, uncertain if he should flee or remain completely still. 

to be continued...

CT

My heart hurts for the tragedy in Connecticut. My mind is constantly searching for a solution; and my soul is bruised for the shooter's broken mind and fallen spirit.

I want to move on, to pretend that nothing has happened, that it was a bad dream. But I know that the victims families cannot ignore this, and neither should we.

Please pray for the hurting people involved in this terrible event. And that our leaders and lawmakers will be inspired with the wisdom to make the best decisions for our country moving forward.

End

Writer's Block

Just write. There is no such thing as writer's block, just laziness.

On the bed, the glowing screen of a MacBook bore this mantra. It sat opened before a young man whose legs were tucked in the lotus position.

Just sit down and type... something will always come.

The single, over-head light fixture illuminated the dingy hotel room. Frustrated, the man ran his long fingers through his thick mop of blond hair. Softly tapping mindlessly on the keys, he tried to organize his thoughts... to no avail. With a huff of anger, he uncrossed his legs and rose from the bed. He stumbled into the insignificant bathroom. Quickly turning on the faucet, he cupping his hands and splashed the icy water over his face. Stepping back, he took a moment to ponder the haggard image in the speckled mirror.

Rather longish and unkempt blond hair framed a tired middle-aged face. The dark circles under his eyes looked larger than he remembered. Sighing, he brushed the back of his knuckles across his stubble-covered chin. His clothing consisted of red plaid boxers, no shirt, and thick white socks. His stomach was chiseled into a near six pack, his ribs sort of poked out at his sides. A slightly concave chest made him appear even more malnourished. A starving artist indeed. Satisfied that he fit the image, he padded from the restroom. With no care taken for gracefulness, he flopped down on the twin-sized mattress.

Rolling over to face his laptop, he stared at the lack of words discontentedly. Maybe they weren't true after-all. So much for the writing class he had taken at the college. He'd never liked the stern professor who had tutored anyway. He was too stoic for a writer.  Plenty of lectures; but no passion.

Gently, he closed the glossy-white computer. Just before it shut, he glanced at the clock in the upper right-hand corner, 9:52 p.m. He moaned at the effort it took to stand again. He'd had no fresh ideas in over a month.

Walking past the cigarette burned armchair in the corner, he stood before the thick burgundy curtains. His hand went to the string that operated the dust-covered drapes. He firmly pulled down the cord to get it past a snag, then opened up a gap in the curtains.

Brick buildings with rusty steel frames and shoddy windows rose into the dark night sky. Trails of smog rose into the air from countless vents and chimneys. A light fog shrouded the feet of the structures. Zigging and zagging in an endless maze, pipes and fire escapes hung precariously from the decaying apartments and hotels. A single star shone brightly in the night. Far away, the wailing of a siren could be heard, the rising and falling of its pitch echoing down an alleyway.

The curtains closed with a thump. Starving artist... hmm, there was an idea. Had he eaten dinner? No. Lunch? Maybe. Food sounded good. He'd always been fond of food. Turning from the window, he reached for a pair of beige corduroys that lay discarded over the back of an ancient television.

Apprehensively, he pulled the brown leather wallet from the back pocket and flipped it open. Just as he'd feared, only some crumpled 'ones', and some receipts. Rifling through the rest of his billfold, he pulled out a few coins and set them on the desk. $6.13 in all. Dinner tonight, free hotel breakfast in the morning. He was covered until lunchtime tomorrow. If he was lucky, there was still some money in his checking account. He stepped into the pants. With a great deal more stress than seemed reasonable, he was able to stuff the wad of money into his right-hand pocket without any of the coins dropping to the floor.

Stooping over, he opened the drawer of the peeling dresser on which television was perched. He snatched a t-shirt from the top of the little stack. It was white, with a baby blue stripe across the chest. Does white go with beige? He half-heartedly considered. No, but blue does. Now mostly dressed, he glanced around the room for his pair of sandals. Can you wear socks with sandals? Sure, why not? Shoving his feet into them and loosely strapping the Velcro, he was off.

Maybe some coffee and a burger would tear down his writer's block. Or maybe I'll just crash, He thought.

End?

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Post Script

This is something I wrote in high school, which I ran at the end of my first book, "Dandelions", an earlier version of "More than Weeds". Basically, I was going to write a whole book on this character, but it never happened... that poor man.

Unfortunately, this does not bode well for the preview which I put at the back of "More than Weeds" either. Maybe I should stop doing that. Hmm.

That Damn Fox

The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. So the dog got pissed and chased the fox down; tearing off it's hind legs and strewing its entrails all over the sunshiny field.

The End

Words from a Wizard...

Gills
Sneak
Twat
Drown
Heterosexual

Inspired by Dumbledore's inception speech in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, by J. K. Rowling

End

Transcendental Darkness

My most recent submission for Odyssey II, a poem this time:

They transcend time

The viruses en vita

Explosions of color

Tentacled expulsions

Deep dank darkness

Hell descending down

Violent virulent colors

Spines, horns, claws

Black, blood, ending

They will never leave us

The madness and seizures

They deceived us

And now they are here

The pentacle of poison

A pentagram of stillness

It all ends here

http://odysseyproject.deviantart.com/

Sunlight in 78 Words

An older short short story, previously unpublished...

He saw her first whilst walking through the woods behind his house. Her hair was fire, and her form flitted between the autumn trees with transcendent grace. Her radiant eyes haunted his dreams ever after. Soon, sleepless nights followed weary days as he endlessly sought her amongst the falling leaves and the shifting snow. As the years passed, he became a skeleton, then a shadow. In final fleeting thoughts he realized his folly. His angel was a sunbeam.

End

Moons

Dungaree lays his daughter back down in bed. He kisses her on the head, and softly closes her door. Once outside, he stretches with his hand on his back, and looks up at the silver moons. The South Down Village is a cliff one, with domiciles built into the rock faces high above the rushing waters of the endless jungle sprawl. Ropes and bridges zig zag hither and yon, but one gets used to the climbing. Anyway, the only safety afforded when living in the jungle zone is to be off the ground and out of the trees. Even then there is very little to be had.
Once, when Dungaree’s father had been a little boy, some of the village’s youngest and strongest men went down into the jungles to carve out a living on the surface. Of the ones who made it back, only a boy called Knees was able to talk, and they were all covered in cuts, bites, and clawings.
Dungaree can hear the animal noises drift up from the rushing rivers below. Howling and screaming monkeys. Bellowing bull boars, and yelling birds. Occasionally a tiger or a panther. On the bloody horizon, a couple of titanic freighters are blazing their way through the skies. Ships of steel and plastics with massive engines pulsing blue light. On their way to the desert zone probably, and then off world. A long time ago, before his daughter was born, Dungaree had worked on an interstellar. The hot between decks, checking dials and watching the epic cooling shafts. Their cargo was mostly petroleum for plastics, and clays for ceramics. Headed back and forth between the mines on the slave planets.
One at a time, the lights in South Down click off. Dungaree goes back inside and climbs into his hammock beside his wife. In the distance, a jaguar coughs his roar. The sun falls off the earth and the moons shine silver on the cliff faces. Everyone sleeps.

End

Release

inkWELL: Ghosts, has gone off without a hitch. The release is massive.
Thank-you, fellow writers and friends, for sharing this wild ride with me.

Now... only eight weeks until
inkWELL: Creation.

Soap Boxes and Microscopes

On the occasion that some know-it-all televangelist recants the biblical account of creation. He does not speak for all of us.
.
.
.
Soapboxes and Microscopes

We know so much.
The earth is round.
Elliptical orbits.
DNA’s double helix laid bare.
Higgs Boson making matter matter.
Dinosaurs and Carbon Dating.
Global Warming, BHT, DDT.
All for what?

Nothing.

Conceit, arrogance.
We’re so crass, so fucking smart.
Ants.
Crawling through the endless black chaos of the universe.
Insignificant little hotheads, with our electron microscopes and particle colliders.

Meanwhile, here on our minuscule little rock, we murder each other in droves.
Enslave, degrade, rape each other.
We’re racist, sexist, speciesist.

Science is our god.
Reason is the reason we go on.

Love, hope, mystery... sacrificed on the altar of science.
In their place: money, knowledge, and power.
Aren’t they making us so happy?

We lack imagination, we whitewash our children’s brains, and cookie cut the bits that stand out.

We are continually learning more and more and more...
We are learning how very unimportant we truly are.
That is, if it’s really all about our flow-charts and subversive, transcendent realism... we are well and truly fucked.

Standing ovation, modern man.
Thanks for everything.
I'm glad you think you know so much.

Happenstance

Intrinsic
Insanity
Eccentricity

Madness
Sadness
Serendipity

The occasion
Of coincidence
And heartfelt sympathy

Regret
Second thoughts
Third thoughts
Obsession

The Cave, the Cove

This morning I had the distinct impression that we, being the human race, are still in Plato’s cave: dancing away the hours in the darkness. Outside, the sun is somewhat overcast, and the green ocean waves crash on the beach. An old fisherman walks the coastline, lost in the memory of the day that the sea devoured his wife and daughter. Meanwhile in the attic bedroom of a small suburban house, a boy is learning about sex with the neighbor girl. The soft afternoon sunlight filters in through the window, warming the feather top bed. Her father is an astronaut, who stands outside at night looking into the darkness with his sky blue eyes. He knows that if the earth is a cove, then the answers must lie in the outer blackness.

A Conspiracy Theorist's Wet Dream

Titular Titles
Of top secret files
MK Ultra and War Games
Mind Control and Satellites
Zombies, Cyborgs, Missiles
All organized by some guy
Whose name is Giles

Dust and rust are piled
On these 50’s cabinets
The world goes on not knowing jack
The cover ups are all ate up
They taste of uncreative lies
And eternity slowly forgets

Destiny's Design

Thurundum rund
Drun derun thrund
Thurundum Rund
Durat durat thrund

Oaks and river deep
Hills and mountains steep
Mines and catacombs roam
Beneath the ground under my feet

Rattatat thurat trat
Rattatat trat thurat
Durat thrum tratat
Burat tratat tat

Dragons fire burns red
Talons walk o’re the dead
Spears are broken splinters
And the smoke obscures its head

Thurundum rund
Drun derun thrund
Thurundum Rund
Durat durat thrund

Stars and comets shine
As the planets all align
But destiny is nothing
Because these choices are all mine

Over My Head

Just spent six hours creating what is probably an overtly modern, boringly minimalistic design for the cover for our inkWELL first edition book: Ghosts. I love it, I hope you all feel the same. :)

Truly Awesome

Warning: Scientific accuracy is not guaranteed. Please do not use this visualization for interstellar navigation.

http://workshop.chromeexperiments.com/stars/

Lardo's Gang

Instinctively, Robert knew that he was going to die. In fact, he knew that probably, everyone was going to die. But in particular, he was going to die even sooner than most because that large man had a shotgun shoved down his throat. Robert gagged, not from the metal pipe in his esophagus, but because the large man smelled like a barrel of dead fish. Which made sense, because the fat man had chased him all the way from the fish market; which was a miracle in itself.
There were three other fishmongers behind Lardo. Robert didn't know this, but their names were Aesop, Shaver, and Smokeface. I'm not making this up, these were hard dudes.
Lardo was wearing a sweatsuit, with a pile of gold and silver bling adorning his baggy neck. Aesop was as thin as a rail, with rat-like features, and tiny eyes. Timer has it, he killed his little brother in a shoot out with the FBI. Shaver was a skanky hoodied-up crack addict who paves knives.

And Smokeface was always shrouded in a haze of ever present cigarette smoke, so no one really knew what he looked like. Except that his hands were old, and his fingernails were very yellow. He flicked a silver zippo habitually. On, the off. Open, closed.

Intrigue...

So,
I was flipping through the site stats for this blog, turns out that I have had over 700 page views, but most of them are from these weird websites which track stats for other websites. Bizarre huh? You ain't seen nothin' yet! At the bottom of my stats page is a section which lets me see how people are finding my website by key word search. This was one of the strings which led someone to discover this site:

blond hung by ankles from tree

Spooky, huh? And the strange thing is that I don't even have anything on this site which particularly matches that grouping of ghastly verbs and nouns.
Maybe I should write a story about this...

Or maybe not.
G

P.S. I did a Google search using exactly that phrasing. I wouldn't suggest it! Anyway, sure as taxes, there on page four of the results; I see a link to my blog, with this excerpt beneath it:

The girl was lithe and beautiful, with long flowing blond hair, and ... if you tell him anything I shall have you hung from the trees by your ankles!

How surreal is that? I guess that means I'm off the hook as far as writing a story containing those words!

END

Disclaimer

Hello,
I am a writer.

Sometimes, I am going to say and write words like

Fuck and
Shit and
Titties

Right now, it may seem crass...
But when I'm famous and a best selling author students somewhere will be like, 'It's so gritty, he curses so artistically in his writing, and it adds realism to the story and the characters."
For now, you'll just have to understand that I'm a human and therefore have sharp edges and will sometime express that through writing. And sometimes it will be pointless, and I will do it just because.

So, there.

G

the Incestuous Offspring

My Submission for Chapter Four of: http://odysseyproject.deviantart.com/

The two were inseparable. Like hatred and malice, or envy and wrath. They had waited in the dark places for eons; swirling in the ocean’s currents, and hiding in the darkness between  the stars. They waited, as they had seen modeled by patient wolves and ambushing spiders on the puny rock below.

The fleshy inhabitants of that dank little orb disgusted them. Crawling like ants all over its surface, directionless, purposeless. A swarm of soft shelled insects trying to keep the night at bay.

Silently, the sisters waited. Until a realization dawned in their vast and perfidious minds. These tiny beings were hollow. Like eggs, they could suck out the gooey insides and fill their fragile shells with something altogether more terrifying. 

Their moment had come. 

Holding hands, they stepped into reality, and crawled from the dank fishy depths. 

Instinctively, the sisters knew what had to be done. Their time in the black places had not been wasted. They had marveled at the power of viral life forms, and recognized their superior power and adaptability. The sisters hatched a plan. 

 A son must be born, and they wasted no time finding the nearest shells and emptying them. A new Adam and Eve walked the earth, and their offspring was incepted that night. 

A child lay thrashing on his parents’ carpet, who in turn lay dead nearby. The sisters were drinking them like a chunky pink slushy, as they watched from the sofa a few feet away. These vessels would not last long. Chunks of skin and muscle were blackening and shedding away. New forms must be found, and the sisters reasoned that stronger, tougher humans meant longer burn times. One turned to the other, their minds separating and pulling apart. The untwining hurt, but they knew that splitting up increased their baby’s odds of a full, healthy term. 

Finally, the small boy stopped convulsing. His skin swirled like an oil slick, an inky rainbow of unearthly colors writhing beneath the surface. The carpet was ruined.

Now, Lysanna sat on the bed in the dark. Horror twisted her already mangled features into a mask of unearthly wrath. She saw clearly now, between the mirrors, that her sister Maya was doing something to their baby’s growth. She began to shake violently, and knew that another  body was required. She concluded that the housekeeper in the hall would serve her purposes for now.

Her twin was trapped. The one called Maya was something new. Instead of shattering like glass, her human soul had somehow stayed intact through the infection process. They were both crammed inside, and for the first time since the invasion, doubts began to grow in the sister’s conscious thoughts.

END

The Beast Below

You should read the revised version of "the Request" below.
I think I'm in love.

Skip "the Sycamore Tree" for now, it's mangled and needs reconstructive surgery. :)
G

Spoilers...

For those of you who don't know, this movie is based on an awesome book which all started on a blog just like this one...

http://www.johndies.com/
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1783732/
http://johndiesattheend.com/

The Sycamore Tree

Softly, the fallen leaves rustled in the wake of a small breeze. The trees were dead, and the sky grey. Quiet hung over the wood in the chill of that late autumn afternoon.
Carefully, between the trees, a shadow flitted. Light contrasted against the zigzag pattern of the naked sentinels. A spirit stole around their fragile branches. Abigail shifted to the right, just so. Her silver streaming hair shimmered in the waning sunlight. Like ripples in a river quickly dive and swirl, her ghostly form shimmered and reflected in the air.

Young, golden laughter broke the stony silence. Abigail stopped. Glancing quickly around, her eyes spotted an adolescent couple vivaciously trudging through the forest.
The boy was tall, gangly and awkward. He had a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks, a crazy mop of rusty blond hair, and a broken pair of glasses balanced precariously on his nose. Nervously, he readjusted his glasses, and habitually pulled at the sleeves of his denim jacket.
The girl was lithe and beautiful, with long flowing blond hair, and startlingly blue eyes. She was awkward too, but the freckle stricken boy would never notice. Her scarf was snuggled close to her porcelain neck and chin, her nose and cheeks pink in the biting wind. Holding hands, they timidly giggled as they wandered further into the maze of trees.

Abigail was intrigued. Rarely did anyone sojourn this far into her backyard, and she needed to know why. Curiosity was what kept Abigail from dwelling on the piercing loneliness of her current state throughout the seasons and through the years. Often, she would perch high in the trees and watch the forest critters steal amongst the undergrowth, or watch the wolves stealthy stalk their unsuspecting prey. Above all, the bears were her favorite. Their ambling and laconic ways so cleverly hid their tremendous speed and strength. Without a sound, she stole closer.

The boy pulled at his sleeves. They were never long enough to adequately cover his wrists. The girl leaned in and whispered something in his ear. A blush broke out across his face, and his ear warmed at the words. “Cadence!” He halfheartedly reprimanded. “If your dad heard you talking that way!”
“He never will.” She brazenly proclaimed. “Because if you tell him anything I shall have you hung from the trees by your ankles!” She nudged him playfully. “Anyway, I’m never going back to that place.”
“What are you talking about?” He asked, confused.
“I’m running away tonight, and I’m never going back.” She raised her chin in the air. “That’s why I brought you out here. To say goodbye.”
The boy stopped walking. “Goodbye? You can’t be serious! You don’t have anywhere to go!”
“I’m going to live in this forest.” She announced.
“How will you survive? You’re being ridiculous! You didn’t even bring anything with you!”
“Well, Jeremy. I’ve thought about it, and I don’t really need anything. I’m going to strip naked and become a Wiccan. I will live off the land, and dance with the bears and eat berries for the rest of my life.”
Jeremy’s face turned redder still. He stammered, abashed. “That’s insane!” His voice broke. Genuine concern flooded his green eyes.
“Yes, silly.” She smiled carelessly. “I’m just messing with you! Honestly! You need to learn how to take a joke! Lighten up!” She laughed aloud. The sound was like silver church bells and singing birds. “Holy crap! You actually believed me?”
Jeremy couldn’t make eye contact. He pushed up his glasses in frustration. “It’s not funny! You’re supposed to be...”
“Supposed to be what?”
“I don’t know... good and stuff.”
“Good?  I always have to be good. My dad won’t let me do anything! And your mom is even worse. That’s why you’re such a prude.” She winked. “When was the last time you did something you wanted to do? Just because?”
“I’m not a prude!” He was clearly flustered.
“Prove it.” She winked. “Do something... distasteful.”

Abigail leaned in. This was the most interesting thing to happen since the bears were hunting salmon earlier in the fall. A flock of geese flew noisily overhead. All three looked skyward.

Jeremy pushed his shoulders back and peered into her blue eyes for a clue. “Like what, exactly?”
“I don’t know!” She giggled. “Cuss or something!”
“What? No! My mom would kill me!”
“My mom would kill me!” Cadence mocked playfully. “See? You’re such a mama’s boy.”
“I don’t know! I don’t like cussing.” He kicked at a stick with his toe. “Pick something else.”
Abigail shifted, and put her hand to her chin. She thought for what felt like a decade. “You pick! You’re the one who’s being a girl.”
Jeremy was getting annoyed. “Fine!” He said, “I’ll cuss.”
Cadence clapped her hands cheerfully. “Do it!”
“Okay!” He looked away. “Dammit!” He yelled.
“That’s it?” She asked. “Dammit?”
“I don’t know! What do you want?”

Abigail shifted. The brush and the branches swayed and rattled.

Cadence looked around. “Kiss me.” She said.
Jeremy froze. “What?”
“Kiss me.”
Jeremy was shocked.
“Do it, and I’ll let you off the hook for your lame excuse for profanity.” She stepped closer. “Don’t you want to?”
Jeremy nodded, then swallowed purposefully.

Abigail crept as close as she dared. The two shivered as her cold stole their breath.

Jeremy kissed her. Everything stopped. For a while nothing happened.
Then, slowly, time began again, and the planet started slowly to turn in orbit.

Cadence and Jeremy smiled. “There.” She said, blushing, and trying to be cool. “Isn’t that nice?”
“Yes, I mean, it’s way better than nice. Can I do it again?” He flushed rampantly.
“Not quite yet, Casanova. There’s plenty more where that came from.” She started running away, “You’ll have to catch me first!”
Jeremy stalled, and then sprinted after her.

The young couple dashed amongst the trees, running further and further into the woods. Abigail followed swiftly overhead, not even straining to keep up. After, all on silver moonlit nights, she would run with the dear as they sprang over the rocks and hills, and deftly dove in and out of the valleys. However, Abigail was perplexed. She had never seen a kiss before, and she was shocked and bewildered when she saw it happen. She knew what it meant, and a flicker of sadness like an icy dagger poked her heart. The infinite loneliness of her immortal continuance became painfully clear. She longed for the boy’s foolish warm lips to fumble against hers. She wanted to know what it felt like.

The young children stopped running, out of breath. Jeremy sat haphazardly in a pile of leaves and dirt. Cadence walked up to a sycamore tree, and ran her fingers over its smooth white skin, exposed through the shedding bark. Her eyes widened in delight.
“Jeremy!” She exclaimed, “Do you have a knife?”
“Why?” He rasped. The cold air had taken its toll on his lungs.
She sashayed over to him. “I want to carve our names into that tree.” She smiled, that way we can always remember our first kiss.”
Jeremy smiled. “I like that idea.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a knife, which he carefully unfolded.

Abigail was instantly appalled. She had heard of this kind of thing before, and quickly became wrathful at the thought of those children cutting into her beautiful trees. She tried to hold back, surely they wouldn’t do it, they had to know it was wrong to scar such a thing of beauty.

Jeremy stood and walked over to the tree, running his hand over its smooth skin. He jabbed the blade into it.

The wind around the children howled loudly, kicking up dust and leaves. The branches overhead shuddered. Abigail felt her anger rising.
Jeremy pulled at his sleeves, “Maybe we shouldn’t.” He looked around fearfully.
“Don’t be such a baby.” Teased the girl.
Jeremy reached out to try again.

Abigail lost it. Screaming loudly, she glistened and shook with the wind. A cloud occulted the sun, and the sky grew dark. The children were shocked to see her ghostly form standing in front of them. “Get out of my woods!” Abigail howled. “Or I’ll sic the wolves on you!” She roared. “Now leave!”

Jeremy looked at Cadence. Their mouths were open. They couldn’t move a muscle.
“I! Said! Leave!” The sky grew darker still, and flames leapt up in Abby’s eyes.
The children ran. They flew from the wood, kicking up their heels at a breakneck pace. They never even looked back.

Abigail vanished. The wood was silent again, and the sun warmed slowly in the cosmos. She didn’t see children in her wood again for many years afterward, but she didn’t take very kindly to them after that.

And, yet, she always pined for that freckle stricken boy and his fumbling kiss, regretting never having received one in life.

Revisit, FF

A quick revisit of form and function.
I've spent my first day on vacation learning about design.
If you're interested, you can watch these three films.

Between the Folds
Helvetica
Objectified

I've learned a lot today.
I miss school. :(
Later, G

Dear Reader,

Have you read this blog?

Please post a comment, any comment, constructive or otherwise, on this post.

This is not an ego stroking opportunity, it's just that the traffic tracker for this website blows, and I genuinely cannot tell if anyone is checking it out!

Thanks,
;) Gabriel

Spooning with Heather / Jack Knife

Heatherton Weatherby looked like a zombie
She walked and she talked like one too
I wasn't quite sure ’till she opened my skull
And ate all my brains with a spoon

/

Little Jack Horner
Sat in the corner
With a dull and rusty knife
He cut off his thumbs
And his toes and his tongue
And said what a good boy am I!

the Request, (Revised)

Part 1


There was once a man in Russia who owned a shop dealing exclusively in boxes.

He sold every single type of box you could possibly imagine, and some you would never think of. His shop stood on the corner of a lesser known street in a small town, and had impressively tall windows with gold script which read: Immanuel’s Glorious Gallery of Boxes. Immanuel was a young man, tall, with broad shoulders, dark hair, and eyes like a deep blue lake. People of all sorts would travel from around the world to gawk at his exotic inventory, or to make specific requests.

The bell over the shop door rang pleasantly. An enormously obese man with a mouth like a bass inquired in a booming voice. “Do you have boxes for cigars?”
“Of course.” Immanuel replied, and provided the man with a box carved ornately of dark cherry wood, with little foxes and bears dancing on the lid.

“I need a crate to ship an elephant.” Demanded an extraordinarily tall man in elaborate maroon raiment.
“Right this way,” said Immanuel proudly, “I keep those in the back next to the tiger cages.”

“I have a magic wand I wish to display.”
Immanuel provided a fragile glass case with delicate etchings which carefully plotted the movements of the stars.

Once, an old lady buried in scarves timidly entered his business. “I’m looking for a bag...”
“Terribly sorry, miss,” Interrupted Immanuel. “You have the wrong store.”

Business was booming; every single request from every guest was filled.
Then, one brisk autumn afternoon, the bell over his shop door dinged, and a beautiful young lady in green stepped in.

“Hello.” Immanuel smiled his best smile. “How may I assist you?”
The young lady turned, “I’m not sure that you can.” She replied, and her voice was heavy with sadness.
“I would be surprised if that were the case. You see, I have every type of box ever created by any earthly craftsman.” Immanuel proudly proclaimed.
“Alright,” sighed the lady in green, “I require a box to contain all of my love.”
Immanuel took a step back, then composed himself. His face was somber, his brow furrowed in concern. “Why do you wish for this?”

The young woman turned away her gaze, and her voice broke. “You see, today is the one year anniversary of my husband’s death; and I can no longer bear the burden of my love for him.” She paused and took a purposeful breath. “When I heard about your store, though I’m sure it’s impossible... I had imagined that I might be able to confine all of my love in one of your wonderful boxes, and place it in my attic that it might burden me no more.”

Immanuel was concerned. He had never received a request quite like this before. He knew this was going to be a difficult order to fill.

The young woman spoke up. “Your advertisement said you had boxes for everything, so I just thought, I know it’s stupid...” Her voice trailed off disappointedly.
“I will be completely honest with you,” he hesitantly replied. “I have never received a request quite like this before.” The young woman had tears in her eyes. Immanuel went on, “But I swear to you I will not rest until I can find you such a vessel.” A little light entered her face at this small hope. “I will search my entire inventory all through the night. Please leave your name and address and I will hand deliver your box tomorrow afternoon.”

So Immanuel searched his entire store, opening every box; thoroughly checking every shelf, nook, and cranny. He searched under the counter, and in the impressive windows, and behind the shop. He ran his fingers over wooden boxes, and smelled boxes made of ivory, and tapped boxes made of glass. He overturned his neat displays which had been meticulously stacked on the shop floor. He even looked in his apartment above the store. He searched all through the night and found nothing.

As dawn crept over the horizon, delicate frost glistened on the impressive windows of Immanuel’s emporium. He put on his coat and walked into the streets. It was very cold outside and the air burned his lungs. Soon, the tip of his nose became numb. Finally, he arrived at the address she had written down. He rapped on the door with the brass knocker and waited.

Several minutes later, the young lady arrived at the door, wearing a long, bright yellow robe which she pulled tight against the chill air.
“May I come in?” Immanuel inquired tentatively.

Timidly, she replied, “Yes,” and stepped aside.
Immanuel stepped into the house, standing awkwardly in the foyer. The young lady studied his haggard expression with concern. He raised his tired eyes, and for the first time, realized now how beautiful she was. She was thin and fragile like a flower. Her long auburn hair flowed in locks past her shoulders. He was momentarily captivated by her bright green eyes. In his head, he recited her name, Klara. He almost forgot why he was there.

“You have found a box for me.” Her tone was bright and hopeful.
“No.” Immanuel replied raggedly. “I have searched my entire shop, all my boxes, my entire inventory; and I have no such box.”
The young lady was crushed. “But you were so sure.”
“Yes,” Said Immanuel, “and I intend to keep that promise. However, I am afraid it will take a while longer.”
“How much longer?” He could hear her desperation, her depression.
“Give me one year.” He replied, standing tall and proud, hoping his confidence could be a small comfort. “On the eve of your late husband’s passing, not quite one year from now, I shall return with the box you require, or I shall retire from the business and close my gorgeous shop.”
This seemed to satisfy her, and she nodded, “Take all the time you need. Only, save me from this burden of sadness.” A tear glinted in her green green eyes, reflecting the morning sunlight.
“I have a book in which I keep the names of all of my suppliers, all my manufacturers, all my craftsmen... I will search the world over and find you the perfect box.” With this, He bowed, and left.

Part 2

Immanuel boarded a train that afternoon with his little black book in hand, and set off for South Africa. In this region, where the air burns hot like the sun, Immanuel knew of a man who made the most marvelous boxes designed for containing demons and spirits. His name was Umbutu, and he was only a few years older than Immanuel.
He was a small man with strong wiry arms and piercing yellow eyes. His boxes were black like the darkest night and small enough to fit in your pocket. Yet, despite Umbutu’s magic and his great skill, he did not possess the box Immanuel required.
Next, Immanuel travelled to the Himalayas where there was a woman named Asri; who lived high up in the mountains above the circle of the earth. She too was skilled in the ways of making vessels which could hold things somewhat insubstantial. Her boxes were tall and thin and made of gold. They had red lettering on the outside in a tongue which man no longer spoke. Her boxes held stories. They contained the history of all the Hindu gods and their exploits and teachings. She made thousands of them, and hid them in a cave in the highest mountain peak. However, she slowly shook her ancient head at Immanuel's request; for she knew not how to construct such a container.

Immanuel continued his travels. He crisscrossed the globe by train, and boat, and camel, crossing out one name at a time in his book. In Israel he met a child whose boxes contained the very nails which pierced Christ’s hands and feet, and the crown of thorns which pierced his head. In Ireland he found boxes which held faeries. In China he found boxes which held vampire’s blood, and in Australia dragon’s scales.

Seasons past, and still there was no hope in his quest. At night, he lay awake with his hand on his heart, thinking about Klara. He pictured her green green eyes, and replayed her musical voice in his mind.
He opened his book to the final page. There was one name left.

To reach the last man on his list, Immanuel crossed Antarctica by dog sled. There, amongst the mad mountains of the vast southern continent, he found an explorer who was collecting the earliest forms of life on earth. Painstakingly, the ruddy and bearded man tucked them away in boxes of ice and crystal. It was this barrel-chested fellow who instructed Immanuel in his booming voice to seek out an ancient shaman in America. The explorer assured him that if anyone on the planet could help, it would be him.

So Immanuel boarded a ship and sailed for America, seeking out a man who was not even on his list. Eleven months had passed since he had embarked on his journey, and this mysterious elder was his final hope.

Weayaya’s face was as old as the earth. His skin was like leather, tanned by decades under the sun. His eyes and mouth were surrounded by deep wrinkles from years of laughing and weeping. His head was crowned with long silver hair, braided throughout with beads and feathers. He sat in front of his tent, beneath the whirling constellations. A small fire smolders before him, his figure was wrapped in fur and wreathed in smoke. His eyes reflected the burning embers.
Immanuel bowed respectfully, cleared his throat, then explained his plight. Weayaya listened intently to his story, then sat in silence for what seemed like centuries.

Solemnly, he answered.
“I can create almost anything your heart desires,” He explained, “right now, in fact, I am building a box which I will use to contain a dying star who has been a dear friend to me.” Weayaya scratched his beard, then continued. “But even I cannot instruct you on how to go about such an ambitious endeavor. I am truly sorry, my friend.”

When Immanuel heard this, he felt a pain in his heart. It was like the old man had taken a sword and pierced it. He saw Klara's face flash before his eyes, her tears and her sadness.

His heart broke in half.
Immanuel cried out in pain, and the world faded to black.

He awoke in his hotel room with a physician standing over him. “Your heart is broken.” The doctor announced. “You require months of bed rest and medication.”

“I cannot.” Immanuel replied, assertively, “I have to return to my shop in Russia.”
Shaking and grimacing, Immanuel picked up his luggage, and his little black book, and boarded a train to the east. He took a ship across the ocean, then more trains. It seemed to be raining the entire journey, and he kept his hand clutched to his chest. The pain was excruciating, and Immanuel must have aged five years on the journey home.

When he at last reached his shop, he pushed the door open, coughing in the swirling dust.

At the back of his shop, behind the counter, there was a shelf containing one box. There was nothing unusual about it. It was a brown wooden box with scrollwork burned into it, about the size of a large novel. Immanuel knew that the following day, he would have to face the young lady with the news of his failure. The pain was too much to bear, so Immanuel placed his broken heart in the ordinary box and closed the lid. There was nothing else he could do for her.

That night, he slept like one who is dead, and there was a fever on his brow.

As the sun rose on the eve of her husband’s death, Immanuel was struck with the answer in a dream. He shot bolt upright in bed and clutched the place where his heart used to be. Throwing on his clothes and stumbling down the stairs, Immanuel grabbed the ordinary box containing his broken heart. He seized his coat and hat, and slammed the door behind him.

Winter, spring, and summer had passed while he was away, and the chill of late autumn again burned his lungs.

Immanuel stood on her front step, and rapped on the door once more.

She opened it, and was surprised to see him after such a long time. She beckoned him inside. “You have found the vessel for my love?” She asked.
“Yes,” Said Immanuel.
Going down on one knee, he tenderly opened the ordinary box which contained his broken heart.
“This is my heart, torn for you after having failed to find a container for your love. You see, I have traveled the world over and could not find anything suitable which could hold such an incredible thing. That is, until I realized this morning in a dream, that whilst I have been travelling the world over searching for the perfect vessel; the answer lay in my chest beating for you since the day we met.” His eyes met hers. “If you will take my heart, broken as it is, I will cherish you forever, and keep your love safe inside it.”
A single tear fell from her breathtaking green eyes. “Yes.” she said, “Yes, I will take your heart as my own and pour out my love into it. I see now this is the only way I can ever be whole.” Immanuel stood, and they embraced and kissed, tears of bittersweet joy mingling on their cheeks and becoming one.

Afterward, Immanuel and the Lady in green were united forever. They raised three children and taught them about love, and joy, and sorrow.
They lived happily for many decades; until one day, they were placed in dark wooden boxes of their very own, and buried side by side in the earth.

The End

Epilogue

Five thousand and four years later, Weayaya walked the wasted earth under a deep navy sky, tracing the tail of a star as it slowly fell from it’s place in the cosmos.
There, on the edge of a beach set against the dying sun; he saw two silvery translucent forms, walking hand in hand on the golden shores. He swore to himself that he had seen the young man many years before.


~G