West Of The Moon

new years poem

2008-12-31T22:26:00.001-05:00

“New Years 2008”
- Matthew B. Rose

Another year is closing, another one dawning,
And somewhere, out there, someone is yawning.
Some major big changes happened this year,
So shut up your singing and lend me your ear
(I’m sorry to bother you, but I think you should hear).
I wrote a big thesis, it weighs a ton
But during the writing, boy I sure had fun.
I have a BA, (but its sort of BS),
Since I majored in English and History, I guess)
Worked through the summer, then got a real job
Teaching some youngsters, most of ‘em slobs!
(I don’t mean that jab. Please, no tears and sobs)
I visit my friend, and strain for a life,
Outside of teaching and grading and dodging the scythe
(And yes, I’m still single, and still have no wife)
And thus I look forward to the New Year ahead.
Will it be lively, or will it be dead.
(With Dems in charge, I’m voting for dead)
Lets hope it gets better, rather than worse,
And maybe a sports team will throw off its curse,
And maybe I’ll find out my vocation
And spend some time during summer vacation
Traveling round to places so cool,
And maybe the College will get a new pool.
(Non Sequitor, I know, but it rhymes with “cool”)
So here’s to the prayers for luck and success,
And blessings and blessings and all of the rest.
Happy New Year to you, and yes, you too.
I’ll see you on the flip side, East-side of this zoo.

Novels

2008-06-16T11:33:00.001-04:00

I'm working on turning "I Promise" into a novel. Any tips?

“The Most Humble Man on Earth”

2007-06-20T09:44:00.000-04:00

Ok, this place needs more LIFE!!
Here's a poem I just wrote. Hope it make everyone smile at least once.

“The Most Humble Man on Earth”, by Matthew B. Rose

I’m the most humble man on earth.

Of all men stripped of noble birth

And left to wander the streets at night,

With only a forsaken birth right,

I am the most humble.

I am more holy than a pious priest

Who wages wars with spiritual beasts,

And says his prayers at night before bed,

And strikes his breast, and bows his head,

For he lacks my great humility,

For I am the most humble.

I am mightier than the greatest king,

President, sultan, or other such thing,

Who leads his country from sin and vice,

Hearing whispers of others’ advice,

And shows the advisor as the man

Who thought up that awesome saving plan;

Such great men are mere pish-pash,

Since I am much more humble.

I am more beautiful than the moon,

Reflected near in a child’s spoon.

For the moon steals from the sun

And from theft his light becomes

The source for light in dark night,

And takes the sun’s greater might

And shoves it in his burning face.

Such things cause my heart to race,

For I know I’m more humble.

So for all those whose hearts descend,

Frowning because I am so grand,

Rest assured when you see me pass,

That you are only next to last,

And that you have been greatly blest

And can tonight in your bed rest,

Because you saw my humble face,

That which God could never replace,

That face of incredible birth,

Of the most humble man on earth.

Highest Love

2006-08-02T10:05:00.000-04:00

I wrote this this morning before going to work. Enjoy.

"Highest Love"
How does my love look when she sleeps?
She sleeps quietly, not snoring,
Soon sighing as she is dreaming.
When the nightmare and terror disturb
That quiet surrender to peace,
She stirs, moans, and cries out for me.
Her face distorts, her mouth hangs wide.
Her body shakes, her arms reach out
For my hands, my side, anything
To let her know I am with her.
She starts awake, calling my name,
Shouting and shaking, then waking
To find herself alone again.
“Lover answer,” she calls to me.
Yet from my lips I answer not.
“My love, where are you. It is dark
and I need your light to guide me,
your eyes to see the barren path.
I desire your close embrace,
If the danger draws too closely.
Oh sweetest soul, answer me.”
No answer, for I do not hear.
“Will you ignore your lover’s plea?”
I remain silent to her ear.
“I need you now, what do you say?”
I say nothing, for only that
Is enough to explain my love.
“forget you then,” my love screams.
“what love could you have with no yes
Or no, or go, or stay with me?
How does one stay with the one who
Chooses his own life over her?”
With that I reply to my love,
Who has screamed in the darkest night,
Called me in the darkest night.
“Sweet,” I call her, for that she is.
“I am here, be afraid no more.
I would never abandon you,
Not if someone better comes by,
Nor if you betray me, left me,
For others have done it before,
Yet I still remained close to them.
As to answer your pondering
Of the selfishness of my heart,
Consider what I did for you.
Long ago, before the Earth
Existed, I loved you to death;
To death I went because of love,
For you and for all, to save you.
I will never abandon you
In the darkest pits of the night,
To the dangers of a hunter.
For you are mine; I do love you.
But you also must love me back.
Call for me during the good times,
Not just when darkness beckons you.
Tell me of good things, not just bad.
That way we will share that deep love.
We will be united as one,
To live together forever,
To gaze upon each other’s face.”
She soon settles back into sleep.
I sigh and long for her sweet eyes.
There I watch her, my love doest lie.
How she looks when she is asleep.

Pray for Regina Doman and Family

2006-07-11T19:59:00.000-04:00

Regina Doman, good friend of Christendom, professional Christian author, and energetic supporter of the arts at our beloved College, who resides in Front Royal, posted this note on her website on July 9:

I have news so sad that it is breaking my heart.
Yesterday, July 8, my four-year-old son Joshua Michael died in a car accident in our church parking lot.
I love that boy so much.
Please pray for our family.
Regina and Andrew

Conclusion for "I Promise"

2006-07-03T10:07:00.000-04:00

This is the end of the story. To answer the Fidelio's question on the last post, this is the most recent completly creative work of prose i have done in a long time. Prior to this work, most of my prose has been based off of another story ("The Hitchhiker" and "The Green Ribbon") or a song ("House Carpenter"). The only story I have written before this that came completly from my head, shear, unadulterated me, was "The Best Swimmers," which can be read on my blog, ibidthefencesitter.blogspot.com. i have named the following part, because, althought it is long and with section divisions, it is in reality one part: 'Broken Promise.' I guess you could say that the last little bit is an epilogue, but not really. It could be entitled something like 'One More Time' but that doesn't work as well.
For those of you who have seen my short movie Promise, you know the ending already. I wrote the movie before I wrote the short story, but I got so obsessed with the characters I had created, I had to find out what happened before the movie. So my brain and hand had a good talk and decided on what you have been reading, and hopefully finish reading right now. So without further ado, here is the conclusion of "I Promise."

She whispered it into the other girl’s ear. The tingle of the latest news was what they had come to hear. Word spread among the campus. He cheated and she did not know. He had done it before, and had done it once again. The girl would not give her name, the story said, but she knew that the couple was together. She begged the boy to think of the other girl, his girlfriend, but he would not hear of it. He promised he would leave his girlfriend for this girl, this anonymous girl. So she gave in, and he cheated.
It was the worst of lies, concocted by a chef like Satan himself. The worst news was that it worked.
The girlfriend was sure when she heard it for the first time. She did not believe, not for a second, that her love could burn down, that her love could do such things. She knew him, and she knew that his love was the strongest man could give, that all his being loved her and her alone. He had promised himself to her. Besides, he would never go that far with a girl.
It was now, at this point in Angela’s reasoning, that she remembered that conversation at the diner. She remembered that he had trouble in the past with girls, that he had gotten very close. What if he lied? What if, by some twisted play of fate, she had been lead to believe falsely in his chastity?
It was then that doubt slithered in, hissing in her ear that he was a bad man, a man not to be trusted, and a man not to be loved. It was from then on that her suspicions grew, her anger flared like a bonfire, and her jealousy broke from its chains and bars, bursting forth onto the stage.

The room had no light in it. It smelt of despair, of a soul crying out for help. The darkness seemed omnipresent, as if it was always a part of the room. The bugs and creatures of the night that inhabited this cavern excitedly moved about, searching for their dinner, friends, or death. The world, in their lives, was perfect.
Then the light turned on. As they scurried out of the path of two large monsters, threatening to kill mercilessly, they were silent. Inside their simple body, the instinct to become invisible kicked in. Each one, down to the smallest ant, was ready to flee and hide.
The body that walked into the room ignored these creepy-crawlers. He held in his hands a gold mine, as treasure trove of beauties that he wanted to see. He took the tape and put it into the player. The screen turned on; he turned off the light. The creatures of the dark waited, then went about their lives.
Francis sat down as the screen began showing odd shapes: a tree, some buildings, and a rock. The sound of murmurs and laughter echoed in the background. Suddenly the screen showed a couple sitting on a bench. Angela sat to the right of Francis. They looked at each other and smiled.
"Hey," said a disembodied voice from the screen. "Do something. Wave or something.
The couple in the screen shook and waved at the camera. Francis watched silently; his hand quivered over his mouth as he blinked back a tear.
"Dude, what's that on your finger," the ghost voice begged of the boy sitting on the bench.
The boy looked at his left hand; he held up the appendage and pointed to a piece of string tied around his finger.
"She's making me wear it. I'm supposed to keep it on until we're married. Then I replace it with a ring. Just to be sure."
"That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard," said the voice. "You're whipped."
Francis watched the screen. He felt his naked hand, realizing for the first time bareness of his finger. He shook his head and stood up, walked towards the screen and turned it off. The figure of the happy couple faded away into nothing.

The rain had stopped, yet the sun would not return. Everywhere the gray tint removed any hope of warmth, any hope of rebirth from the fallen rain. The ground was soggy and dirty, formed by the fresh mud mixed with the older snow; puddles had formed along the sidewalk. Some of the students who had taken refuge inside decided to come out for a conversation and a smoke. The world seemed to be waking from a deep sleep.
Francis walked out of the dorm. He didn’t really think of walking anywhere: he just wanted to walk. He needed to get her off his mind. She was gone, and he needed to get over it. So he walked, going past one of the dorms.
The he remembered.
It had been a week after they first met, and they were planning what they would be doing that weekend. They were coming back from the river, since the day had been warm, and had temporarily lost the way up the path. He had said something funny, just to keep her lighthearted, and she laughed. She laughed for him, so hard that she couldn’t walk straight. She had to lean against him to steady herself. She laughed. “You’re not so bad,” she had said, and Francis had smiled. It was the first nice thing she had ever said to him, and he held it within him for their entire relationship.
He continued walking, sighing as he walked, not straight, but rather sideways, not sure where he was going, or what he was doing.
That’s how he made it to the Commons. The doors opened and he walked in, not realizing even what he had just done. Yet somehow he turned and looked towards the piano, sitting in the corner, growing colder with each second that the warmth of human touch was deprived of it. Francis walked over and pressed some keys and sat down, playing a song that he remembered only too well.
When he finished, Francis sat at the piano trembling. That was her song, the song she loved to hear, and he played it without her. Well enough, he thought. She won’t be hearing it anymore, not that she would want to. He stood and pushed back the chair from the piano and walked out. He walked up through the two doors, swinging both open at once, more morose than angry. He walked up towards the chapel and went in, praying in the pews. He prayed for her, where she was, that she would be okay. Suddenly, he became angry at her. She left him, knowing he could not live without her. They had nearly become one. Often they prayed together in this very chapel. Yet he could not anymore. With disgust Francis left, walking down towards the other side of campus.
The puddle barely gained a ripple from his shoe as he strode through, a unconscious determination to see something older, something he could remember. There was one other place, one more place that rang hope in his heart. He uncomfortably walked past the dorm, past the dorm where she once lived, down to the glade, one green and fresh in the early Fall, now covered in disgusting lifeless death. He started at the seat, that glorious seat upon which they once lived. She had laid her head upon his lap, as they sat discussing their future, their life together. He remembered something else then, that moment he stood in the slippery filth under his shoes. That was the last time she laughed with him. She had been uncertain about school and he had tried to keep her mind off of that horrid fact. So he joked and pondered with her, discussing the future, which seemed so bright. They had sat their on that slab of wood, sure of everything. Yet now that same seat that one held them both had fallen, broken by the carelessness of others. He stared at the seat trying to forget, but he could not. He could not erase her anymore. Suddenly he turned and ran back up the hill, past the dorm, past the chapel, towards the commons.
His mind did not register any of the scenery around him. Instead, the thoughts of his proposal flashed through his mind. Yet the one that he remembered was not the real one, that one night it rained. The proposal he remembered was the one that had made her laugh, the one that had not been real, yet seemed more real to him that the actual one. Even though he did not give her the ring that day, he knew, in his thoughts, that she did not need it. She would still be his without a stupid ring.
He arrived in front of the Commons, hoping to keep going. But something told him to stop. As he looked out into the parking lot he remembered a different scene, a scene that seemed too soon and too far away at the same time. He looked out and remembered the annoying drizzle, the rain that had soaked his hair as he stood in that same parking lot with her, trying to stop the yelling, trying to stop the tears. She had pushed him away, yelling that he promised himself to her, forever. “How could you do that,” she had said. She had told him how she knew she was cheating, how she knew he had the other girl. He had approached her, trying to tell her she was wrong, that she was the only girl, but she would not listen. She had flung her ring on the ground, screaming that she wouldn’t need it, and for him to go to Hell. She had thrown his hat to the ground and stormed off to her car. He had watched her go, screaming her name, but he had not gone after her, knowing she would come back, knowing she would sit down with him and discuss the problem in a civilized manner. She had gotten in the car and driven off.
Now he once again shouted her name into the parking lot, and ran towards where they had stood in that rain in the dark. Something in his mind told him to stop, that it wasn’t worth it, that it was over, but he did not listen. He could not listen now. He stopped and stood where he had been that time ago and looked out to the street where he saw her go, where he had watched her drive off in to the night, while he had screamed her name into the darkness.
She had not answered, for her crying drowned any sound possible. She had turned sharply, picking up speed as she left the campus. She had wiped her eyes as she pulled near the town, turning along the road. She had closed her eyes as she made a turn and drove faster down the pavement, not watching her speed, not watching around her, just trying not to think of him anymore and of his lies. She had turned one last time, not looking to see what was in front or to the side or behind. She had not seen the other car until she swerved to the right, trying to regain control.
Her scream had been drowned out by the sound of her brakes squealing and the metal crunching against the railing. She had kept her eyes open and had not thought of how much she wanted him to be right. Yet as the world slowed around her she felt a pain in her heart. She had known all along he had been right. She sighed as the final moment screeched nearer. Maybe, she had thought, he will forgive me.

He walked along the road, barely noticing the flowers in his hands. The tiny memorial, a crucifix leaning on a white cloth, rose up from the hard ground. He did notice that the small ribbon he had tied on last time was still there. He smiled at this, remembering it was her favorite color. He walked closer and laid the flowers beside the small cross, attempting not to remove the sacred feel of that place. He wiped his eye as he looked down upon his handiwork. He had asked for the small cross, to help others remember her. He did not need the simple piece of wood but it helped sometimes. He had visited her grave the week before but that had not satisfied him. That was not where she had left him. It was here that she had done that deed, that deed that had torn his heart apart, allowing him to loose all will to live. He had nearly died without her. Yet everyone prayed and he was stopped at the last minute, emptying the gun into the wall, and went away. Soon he was better and went back to school. He graduated barely, even with the grade sympathy the teachers gave him. He stood on that roadside, not knowing what to do with his life. His plans were gone, and he was not ready to start new. He knelt down beside the cross, asking her for help. He stood and looked again at the cross, promising himself that he would do it for her. He smiled as he turned away from the cross, knowing that he could do it now that she was with him again.
And for the first time, in many months, he felt the sun shining on him.

"I Promise" 3

2006-06-26T10:08:00.000-04:00

Good Morning from Maryland. I bring you the next part of the story. These sections are entitled "Proposal" and "Road to the Altar." As before, if you are just joining, please read the previous posts.

The sun was setting as the van pulled up to the theater. Orange light spread like fingers across the quiet town. The tiny theater had been the location of every spring play the college had held since the beginning of its drama department. It was simple, unable to be expanded, and constantly under the threat of being bought out by a neighboring landowner, one of the old families that had lived in the town for ten generations, since the Civil War tore the town apart. The theater was built around the same time, and had been upheld through the years. It was here that the plays of the college found their home.
It was also in this town that Francis was going to propose.
He had been planning it out, again, ever since he had actually gained possession of the engagement ring, about a month ago. His memory of the town and its charm inspired him to try to propose here. He named his eager adventure “Plan B,” this being his second attempt to propose.
He would first take Angela for a walk, along the town, stopping at the different stores, saying hello to locals, remembering old times. They would reach a certain bench, one which Francis could not forget, with a fountain in front, and a brick path leading to a church. Here he would propose, while she sat on the bench. It was perfect, flawless, highly romantic, and charming in every corner. All that remained was to convince the director of the play to allow Francis and Angela to go for an evening walk.
Francis explained his situation to the director, who, after much begging and promising, agreed to allow the couple to stray from the theater for thirty minutes, plenty of time for Francis to woo and propose.
They started off from the theater, walking down a path towards a small bed and breakfast. They discussed their parts in the play, went over lines, recalled previous roles and plays, many in which they acted together. Francis’s smiles were frequent, and he felt the ring in his pocket. He embraced her every so often, whispering that she was beautiful, that daylight itself shuddered in comparison to her on her worst days. It was about this point that they neared the bench, the site of the proposal. Everything was going as planed.
Unfortunately for Francis, the world was not aware of his plans, and the weather contended his mission. For since the vans pulled up into the driveway of the theater, intruders blocked the sunset: storm clouds which now loomed overhead. They were full from the heat of the valleys, of the lakes and streams, and now were prepared to deluge upon the small town.
Francis, oblivious to the atmospheric changes in store, set Angela on the bench. He took her hand into his as he stood in front of her.
“Angela, I’ve been wanting to do this for some time now. When I first saw you, that first day of school, I felt something. I didn’t know if it was a mere childish infatuation, or if it was sincere emotions. I ignored them for a while, then finally gave in. I’m glad I don’t stand a chance against myself, or else we wouldn’t be here right now.”
The first drop fell and splashed onto Francis’s hair. His mind registered it as water, as a raindrop, the harbinger that disaster was coming. He began to speak faster.
“I wanted to say this before, but circumstances, um, prohibited it from happening. Now I have my chance, my moment, to ask you this one question.”
He lowered his body, his left knee bending and pressing into the brick sidewalk. He reached into his pocket for the ring, safely encased in its velvet box. He began to withdraw it, noting the look of joy on his love’s face.
Then the rain began to pour.
It happened suddenly, like a flash rainstorm. Genuflecting in the midst of a downpour, Francis pulled the box out of his pocket, and opened it, exposing the gorgeous jewel to the amazed eyes of Angela. She swooped off of the bench into his open arms in one swift movement. They clung tight to each other. She pressed her lips against his kissing him hard.
“Will you marry me?” He finally was able to say it. All those years, all the waiting, the hoping, the praying, and the courting finally paid off.
“Yes, Yes. YES! I will. I will”
They embraced again as the water drenched them, causing them to shake with cold. They stood and ran back to the theater, laughing the entire way.

The days passed soon, quickly fading into memories, then being pushed away by more events. The happy couple grew closer than before, much to the marvel of their friends. Families were excited and plans were made. The date for the celebration of a new family, bridging two from different places, was to be held the month after their senior graduation. All rejoiced in the sight of love, of the happiness of the two together. They were not like other couples, always trying to slip away to be alone, but were active, retaining their bonds with the rest of the world. Even their schoolwork seemed to have improved, as several professors testified. A thesis was written, followed by another two days later. Only occasionally were they alone together, and then only in the open, outside on a bench, together in the Commons, or just walking together in the woods, often within a stone’s throw of one of their friends. They worked smoothly together, aiding in every aspect of their lives.
But some changed their ways; some who were rejoicing before now glared from behind the crowd. Plans began to form in the minds of men, or women for that matter, on how to destroy that which drove them mad. Envy had spread like a plague in their hearts; Satan had found a place for the night. And so the downfall of the relationship was concocted, a poison designed to elevate the bad and defecate on the good.
Therefore, the plot fermented, and the conspirators waited until the right moment, waiting to spill the lovers onto the ground in shame.
Meanwhile the couple’s courtship blossomed. They attended Mass together, one day even dedicating their relationship to Mary, Mother of God. They frequented the glade near the girls’ dorms. Often they talked, joking with each other. Sometimes they just sat together, feeling the love from the other.

The piano seemed new, but it could never be. The bench was empty, a rare occasion. The atmosphere was calm, even mellow. A strange quiet prevailed; even the sounds of crickets or the plumbing was absent. There was not a soul present.
Suddenly the sound of footsteps running up the stairs reverberated inside. A cheery young man turned the corner and skidded to a stop. He quickly sat down behind the massive instrument and waited. The sound of another set of feet clomping up the stairwell soon could be heard as a woman’s voice echoed off the walls.
“Francis? Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Angela turned the corner, her shoes clicking on the floor as she passed from hard wood to carpet. When he heard the sound, Francis froze, still behind the sheets of music. As she came closer, she noticed the shirt bent over the keys.
“Ah-Ha!”
He looked up quickly with a smile. She walked over and stood behind him. He started to speak but she covered his mouth.
“Shh. Play. Don’t say anything. Play our song.”
“You mean the one I was playing when we met.”
“Yeah. That one. I never heard all of it.”
“Yes you have. I’ve played it all the way through.”
“Just play.”
He began to play. The familiar sounds of the piano once again filled the room. Francis’s entire body moved with the piano notes, holding some notes out, others shorter than the sound of a keyboard typing. A smile broke his face and he looked up at her. She looked down and winked. When the song finished, she let out a sigh.
“It’s such a good song. It feels happy, yet really sad.”
“That’s why I love it.”
“And it’s our song.”
“You know it.”

The dark seeded plan had grown deep into the ground. It was nearing the surface, ready to break forth, spreading poison into the heart. The wheel turned and the word was spread. It was the nastiest rumor created, one that would destroy forever the hope of a man, and the life of a woman. Hate and Envy, the two deadliest chemicals, mixed together to form a potion so powerful, that none who drank from it could survive unscathed. None involved in this cruel action could survive, if they were alive to begin with.

To my Uncle Clive

2006-06-21T10:23:00.000-04:00

See if you can guess who this is about.

“To my uncle Uncle Clive”

“At my first coming into the world I had been (implicitly) warned never to trust a Papist, and at my first coming into the English Faculty (explicitly) never to trust a philologist. Tolkien was both” – C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy

You stubborn fool!
You biased fool!
Why did you not see?
Why could you not open your eyes an inch?
All that was needed was an inch.
A light, beautiful light, such beauty,
Would have reflected off of your eyes,
Maybe this light would have swollen, engulfing your face
(such a kind face, a gentle face)

Why did you not listen to the Wiseman?
Why did you turn away?
Why did you ignore Strider and his fellow Writer;
Or why did you snub them in that club?

Bias killed you, Uncle.
It was the bias, the Bias
Damnable Bias that led to your doom.
Damned Bias, Damned prejudice.

Why did you not accept his hand?
Why did you refuse his love?
His holy hand, that spiller of beauty,
That hand of metaphors?
Those there like him believed so similar
To you, my Uncle
Why hate the beloved Faith
Holy Faith, held dear by the Writer
A Papist? John? Yes!
You couldn’t be one too, like him?
“No!” You cried, so loudly still.
Damn Papists

For your life, sweet Uncle,
Has become a tragedy.
You life sad, a song, moaned by a lion.
Why could you not embrace your lion,
That awesome creation, or the world he made?
Why didn’t myth begin and your lying fantasy end?

Why, oh Uncle, Why.

Like Cicero before you
You reached close to your goal,
But the goal stayed far off,
For you held back.
Your yourself said you had to dive,
But you would not dive in.
So close you were to that ultimate goal,
Yet the Papist threat was too great.

Why, oh Uncle, Why.

Contact

2006-06-20T17:48:00.000-04:00

Naval Project #245268715 was originally conceived by higher-ups in the Government’s military chain at the goading of the Governmental Department for Scientific Exploration. NP#245268715 had for its goal the exploration of foreign solar systems with the intention of contacting other worthwhile life forms, with the understanding that the aliens would be the brethren with which to share the galaxy, to explore and discover along side of.

The project co-opted a large portion of the Government’s space navy. Using the latest technology in space travel, ships were sent off in all directions, pointed toward the closest stars known to have planets that would support organic life in rotation around them. Many of the scouting craft were comparatively small, and carried a crew of three.

One such craft, insignificant when compared with the thousands of other craft in the fleet, set off for just such a planet around just such a star. The ship was quick, dependable, and was known as Scout Craft #472-36-9.

The star, insignificant when compared with the thousands of other stars in the galaxy, only had one planet upon which life could exist. The planet was of medium size, was covered with oceans, continents, and was known as Earth.

The craft, the star, and the planet were all later deemed significant. This was due to all three producing the first positive results that the project found.

The three crew members aboard listened to transmissions of the creatures accessed from satellites in orbit around the planet. The crew members each represented a branch of the Government, military, science and governing departments. After the designated period of time for study, SC#472-3-9 returned home, and reports were filed for the executive officers of each of the crew members.

***

Naval Project #245268715
Lt. Galan, Military ID # 4289662

Report: On Governmental Standard Day 892 of Governmental Standard Year 241 we entered the target system. After five days of travel, assessment of all outer planets had been completed. On reaching the target planet, our party found definite signs of life, even advanced life. The inhabitants seem to have progressed past primitive weapons, but focus on ground or atmospheric installations. There was no sign of a space navy, though there were many satellites, most of which seemed to be used for carrying transmissions.

Analysis and Recommendation: This planet is of little value, and can be conquered easily. The most powerful weapons they seem to have are not contained, and therefore will destroy large areas of their planet if released. The target planet does not harbor the goal of the mission, as this race is not disciplined enough to share an appropriate understanding of such essential things as government and military. The planet is governed by many governments, and many of those lack the strength to put down any who dissent. This race is too weak-spined to be brothers to our race. If conquered, they may serve as an adequate slave race.

***

Naval Project #245268715
Rschr. Tirip, Military ID # 92848720

Report: We reached target site #425 on GSD 892, GSY 241. We spent a week in orbit, and attained much information on the people living there. It took the translation device nearly six hours to decode all the languages that we encountered. We managed to record many historical accounts, and all of our information came from orbital communications satellites.

Analysis and Recommendation: The goal of this project is not met in this people. I discovered, amongst other things, tales of cruelty among this people, as well as disorder and lack of enlightenment. There is still resistance to euthanasia, government abortions, and there is still a belief in mystical religions. The whole of this race has not yet reached a broad-minded and enlightened stance yet. They are promising, as many of them accept the necessity of a progressive mindset. However, they lack the understanding that they need an absolute power to enforce the liberation on those who will not accept it, for the good of society. In short, this race is too weak-minded to be brothers to our race. In time, they may follow in our glorious footsteps, and should be closely monitored in the meantime.

***

Naval Project #245268715
Government Observer #24811

Report: As per your orders, I accompanied Lt. Galan and Researcher Tirip on their expedition. I managed to cop their access codes and governmental passwords from them while they were busy drooling over all the data they had downloaded. However, the real success of my mission was in the findings that they found: a race much like ours before the blight of this accursed tyranny fell on us. In addition to the access codes, I am also enclosing all the information I found there on forms of government, as well as religion and documents of freedom.

Analysis and Recommendation: These people could be most powerful allies in our planned coup. The revolution will need help if it is to fill the great gap left by our government. Many of the target planet’s nations would most likely aid us. I recommend that we contact them in secret, as if we do not convince them to join us they will almost certainly be destroyed by the Governmental military. On another note, I see that their race is on the same course that we are desperately trying to remove ours from. Already in the larger nations the governments annex all power to themselves, using it to kill off the very old and the very young. Many governments place all the goods in hands of officials, leading to a shade of the corruption that we are so familiar with. I think that these people are truly our brothers, if only our little brothers. They are stronger with the vigor of youth, but must learn from our mistakes. If our cause succeeds, I know that we shall not force them to learn, however. The chasm between our peoples is painful to me. As I see them careening to the unhappy fate of our people, I am filled with a great sadness.

Strength to the revolution!

***

"I Promise" 2

2006-06-19T11:31:00.000-04:00

Here are the second and third part of the story. These parts are entitled, respectively, 'First Date' and 'The Promise.' For those who have just joined in, please read the previous posts entitled "'I Promise' 1" below.

“You haven’t kissed me yet.”
”Huh?”
Francis looked up from his plate of food across the table to the figure starring at him. She was resting her head on her hands, holding them like a table for her delicate chin. Her red hair reflected light from the over-hanging lamp. She had let her hair down, something she had not been doing recently. She had also touched up her eyes and cheeks, giving her a warm glow.
“We’ve been dating for two months now. You’ve never even pecked me on the cheek.”
”Don’t you think that’s a little fast?”
“No, not really. I mean, not all girls at school think that the ideal way of dating is to keep the daters at arm length from each other.”
”I’m just not sure if I’m ready yet.”
“Not ready yet? When then? When we graduate? We’re out of here in three years.”
“Two and a half”
“Point is that we’ve got no time. We’re second semester sophomores for crying out loud. Now is the moment we live in.”
“Are you saying this on your own, or have your friends been blabbering to you again?” “Friends, but that’s not the point.”
“I’ll kiss you when we’re ready.”
She sighed and looked back down at her half eaten plate of food.
“Ok. I trust you.”
“Thank you.”
He continued picking at the food, scrapping his potatoes over his steak.
“Why are you taking it so slow? I mean, you hardly even hold my hand.”
“Do we have to talk about this now?”
“Yes. Otherwise, I’ll forget later.”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Oh come on. I’m your girlfriend. If you can’t be straight with me, who are you gonna be straight with?”
“You really want to know?”
”Desperately.”
“I’ve just had relationship problems in the past, that’s all.”
“Like what? Did your ex have clinging issues or something?”
“Not exactly.”
”Well are you going to tell me or not?”
“Lets just say my last girlfriend moved a little too fast for me.”
“What did she do, hold your hand on the first date?”
“No, it’s not that …”
“Oh, I know, she tried to get you to kiss her hand.”
“Angela, that’s not it …”
“Or better yet, she tried to dance with you, with less than a foot in between the two of you.”
“She tried to have sex with me, ok?”
She sat silently. His eyes had begun to water and were starting to overflow down the side of his cheek.
“Oh. I, I didn’t know.”
“I thought I was going to be meeting her parents. We had been dating for almost a year and she said that I should meet her parents. So she drove over and we went in. I sat in the living room. She comes in, sits next to me and starts kissing. She whispers that they couldn’t make it, that we had the house to ourselves. Before I knew it we were on the couch, me shirtless. Then I lost it; I freaked out. I got up and started to put my shirt on. ‘I can’t do it,’ I kept saying. She said ‘I thought this was what you wanted baby.’ She tried to touch me but I shrank away. I just ran to the door. She drove me home and that was that. We broke up three weeks later.”
Angela stood and moved over next to him.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. We can go as slow as you want. I’ll wait for you. I really love you, and I’ll do what ever it takes to keep you.”
“Why would you want to be with a guy like me, with my past? I almost did it.”
“Almost did. Besides, if God can forgive, so can I.”
“Thanks.”
He wiped his eye, looked over at her and smiled.
“Who would have thought that we would be dating? Do you remember freshmen year? With your soda?”
“And you putting a spice cocktail in there? How could I forget. Or sophomore year, when I put that worm in your salad?”
“Do we have to talk about that?”
The laughter and smiles prevailed, and the happiness overcame the sorrow. The date ended when Francis’s car pulled into the girl’s parking lot. Right before she could get out of the car, he gave her a small kiss, not an elaborate one, but not an overly conservative one. Just right. She smiled all the way back to the dorm, whistling an unrecognizable tune.

The crisp fall air tickled Francis’s nose as he threw a stone at the dorm window. He had been standing outside this particular room for several minutes now, trying to decide on whether he should throw the stones in his hand and risk a fine or just walk away and wait for her at dinner. He knew she would prefer the rocks. She always found the rocks more romantic, like something from a medieval romance story. He was pleased to do whatever she wanted, anything to make her happy. So he threw rocks, rocks that were not just pieces of the earth, or some girl’s doorbell. These were rocks that symbolized the love Francis and Angela showed each other. This was how they saw it and this was how it was.
The window opened and a head popped out, like a curious chipmunk.
“Francis? What are you doing here?”
”Hey Isabel. Is Angela there?”
“Didn’t you tell her to meet you by the river?”
“Yeah, but I figured that she wouldn’t have left yet.”
”She said she had something to do first.”
”Oh.”
”If she comes back, I’ll tell her you called upon her.”
“Could you do that? Thanks.”
The window slammed shut, just as a small gust of wind picked up. Francis picked up the basket at his feet, brought the jacket closer to his body, and walked down the sidewalk towards the woods. He passed the parking lot and stopped at the gym. He walked in and went into the weight room. Paul and Simon were lifting together, while loud rock music blared from the stereo. The room smelt of sweat and bodies straining against metal. After lifting a few waits and chatting, Francis left the room, exited the building and continued on his walk down to the river.
The trees had just turned their colors, and the forest seemed alight with burning branches. The rocks were slippery, the result of the early morning rain. A squirrel scurried out of Francis’s way, content with his simple life of forging and climbing. A bird swooped overhead, calling to it’s companions. All animals felt the coming winter; even some students seemed to act like the squirrels and gathered food into the cavern of their dorm room.
He rounded the corner and saw the marina. This was once just a piece of riverbank, overlooking the ancient river as it passed on its never-ending journey. Francis himself, along with some of his friends, had personally built a small dock. Here students could launch their canoes or rafts for an afternoon ride. Some fished from the edge while others used it as a diving board into the deep, murky water.
This was also a special place because it was here that Francis had asked Angela out that special day, after arriving back from Christmas break, sophomore year. She had said no at first, and then agreed to try a week later. They had been dating ever since, still pulling jokes on each other. They had acted together in three plays now, and possibly were going to act together in a fourth in the coming spring.
This had been his plan: once they had gotten comfortable there at the river he would propose to her, on the river bank. Then they would go back up the path to spread the good news. This had been the plan a few days ago. He had it all planed out, down to the minute detail. Then he went to get the ring. It was then that he found out about the jewelry shop’s policy on specialized rings: that he would receive a notice when the ring was completed, along with his bill. He would then have to pick up the ring at said jewelry shop. The problem was that Francis had prepared this event in detail, and had forgotten about the ring. He would not be able to get it at least until next month. Angela was of course still going to be at the river and he would have nothing to give her.
So he had packed a picnic lunch and brought it with him. He could not propose without the ring, but he could at least promise himself to her. His roommate told him that it was stupid and that the girl was ruining his life. Francis had shrugged him off and continued with his adjustments to his plan.
Angela then walked down the path, trying hard not to slip on the wet rocks. She called to him and he walked over to her. As he reached her they looked around them and seeing no one else, quickly kissed. She took his hand and the walked over to the prepared lunch.
“Well this looks very nice.”
“Thanks. I tried to make everything just the way you like it.”
“Aww, thanks sweetie.”
“Welcome.”
They sat down and ate. After the lunch was finished, they talked, discussing class and anything else to pass the time. Finally Francis gathered the courage and went in front of her.
“Get up.”
“Huh?”
“I want to say something.”
“Oh my...”
He lead her up and took her hand. He went down on his left knee, reminding himself that his right was for God. She held her other hand over her mouth.
“Francis, what are you doing?”
“Fake proposing.”
”What?”
“I’m making a promise to you, that I will love you forever, until the day I die.”
“Um, that sounds a little cheesy”
They both begin to laugh.
“Yeah I know. I’ll propose to you later. I’m just making sure you know how I feel about you.”
She knelt down in front of him and looked him in the eyes.
“I know you love me. I love you too, and will love you forever.”
Standing, they took each other’s hands and embraced. She went over to the basket and removed a napkin. Tying it around his finger, she murmured something.
“What?”
“This is a makeshift promise ring. If what you say is true, this will stay on your finger until we’re married. The only other reason you can take it off is if we are not together anymore.”
“What about showers?”
She laughed. “Ok, I guess that too.”
“Thanks.” She gathered up the remaining materials from the picnic and walked with him up the path, towards the school.

2006-06-15T23:40:00.000-04:00

I am glad that people are planning on using West of the Moon this summer. I simply didn't have time before the end of the semester to get people together to discuss summer activities.

Anyway, anybody who's reading this thing, pass on the word that West of the Moon is alive and kicking!

I'll post something here myself sometime soon.

God bless. I hope you're all having a good summer

Yours,
John Jalsevac

"I Promise" 1

2006-06-13T10:13:00.000-04:00

Welcome back to the return of the West of the Moon blog. I saw that others were preparing, and I knew I had to jump in on it. So here is, what it think, is one of the best things I've written. Or at least part of it. It is a long story, so I shall submit it in parts.

Remember that movie I made for the JPII film festival, about the guy wandering around, moping about his dead girlfriend? Do you want to know their story? After I wrote the screenplay for the movie, completed the storyboards, and chosen the song, I still couldn't get the characters out of my head. I wondered what had happened to them to make them that way. I'm obsessed with writing about love, be it true or faulty (see my "The Green Ribbon" for a classic example, and "House Carpenter," forthcoming). Of particular curiousity to me is what causes people who are in love to "fall out" of it? Is there such a thing as "falling out of love," or is it simply that love did not exist in the first place. I feel that the couple in this story were truly in love. Well, you shall see what happens. Its "a little bit happy, a little bit sa-aa-add." So without further ado, I give you the first two part of the story, 'Introductions' and 'Confessions'

“I Promise” By Matthew Rose

The sun warmed his back as Francis walked outside. It was a bright and sunny day. There had been very few days like that since he started school, and he had to enjoy them while he could. He did not want to see the clouds that always covered that warm sun, those clouds that rained and ruined his day.
Francis was a freshman in all aspects of his appearance and in all manner of acting. He walked with his head up, looking everywhere. He did not know anyone and quickly lowered his gaze when someone walked by. There were not many people here; Francis had arrived early and it seemed that there were no other freshmen on campus yet. It was just as well; He was in no mood to make any friends, much less answer a bunch of annoying questions about his life. He reached the Commons and opened the door. As he walked in, the clouds covered the sun, blocking all light.
Inside the foyer of the building, there was a coat rack and a piano. The entire foyer looked polished and buffed, as if to shine like the now hidden sun. The piano, on the other hand, looked abandoned. Francis walked over and opened the cover. A spider scrabbled out of the way, across a maze of cobwebs. Francis blew, rippling the webs against the metal of the piano. Closing the cover, he went over to the keys. He plunked a few notes off and sat down on the bench. He scooted it forward, placing his feet on the pedals. Testing the keys again, he began to play. The notes of the piano filled the air, circling like leaves in the wind. They floated around the building, filling the corridors with beauty rivaled only by the greatest of cathedrals. Francis’s hands moved slowly, then quickly, constantly sure of their destination. His entire body leaned into the notes, pushing with physical delight in his ears. He closed his eyes and let the music take him to a place far away, to the dark woods, then through the open sea, and then into the arms of a mother.
Francis slowed his finger work and stopped. He opened his eyes slowly to look in front of him. Across the piano from him was a girl. She stared at him, resting her head on the palm of her hand.
“What ‘cha playin’?”
“George Winston’s ‘Longing/Love’”
“Oh”
He stood to leave, trying not to look at her.
“Where ya going Mozart?”
“I have to get back to my dorm. I forgot to do something.”
“Really? I’ll walk back with you.”
She began to walk towards him. He went to the other side of the piano, keeping the instrument as the boundary between the two of them. She tried to go back over to him, but he moved back over to the other side.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you wanna talk?”
Francis could not help but look up at her, just once. He felt that feeling again, that feeling that he felt last year. He had been starting senior year and that girl was a junior. Not the girl he currently was starring at, but a different one, one that made him feel nervous. They had dated, going to a movie or dinner every other week. Then, around Christmas time, she drove him to her house. He thought he was meeting her parents; she knew they wouldn’t be home for hours. She had him in a compromising position, and he felt trapped. He had thrown her off of him, repeating over and over “it isn’t right, not right.” She finally relented and drove him home. He would not kiss her goodbye. Three weeks later they broke up. She started dating some guy who would give her what she wanted. That was the last Francis saw of her.
Now he was feeling the same internal pains he had felt when meeting his ex-girlfriend. What did this girl want? Why won’t she leave me alone, he thought.
“My name’s Angela. What’s yours?”
“Francis”
He finally got to the door and opened it. She moved past him outside, looking at him.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m, um, going back to my dorm. I forgot something.”
“Forgot something my foot. You just don’t want to talk to me.”
“No, I seriously have to go”
”You wanna date me; you wanna hug me...”
“Please. I hate that movie.”
“It is a piece of crap, isn’t it.”
It was at this point that Francis realized that he was walking with Angela in the middle of the walkway, heading towards the guy dorms.
“So Francis, where are you from?”
“Maryland. Baltimore.”
“I’m from West Virginia.”
They were standing outside of the dorm. Francis’s hands were in his pockets. He lifted his gaze from the ground up to the girl. She spoke first.
“I guess I’ll see ya ‘round”
“Yeah, sure”
“By the way, you suck at the piano.”
With that she turned and strolled away, whistling the tune she had only recently heard on the piano.
Francis went back into the dorm and opened the door to his room, walked in, and sat on the bed. He rubbed his face with his hands and looked at the clock, then up at the crucifix he had hung up in the room earlier.
“Here I go again.”

The alarm clock rang loudly, a constant buzzing that resembled a swarm of wasps closing in on a kill. Francis fumbled around as he tried to press the Snooze button, finally succeeding. He rolled out of the bunk, banging his toe on his desk chair. His roommate stirred and mumbled some vague threat. Francis bit down on his finger as he walked towards his closet. He put on his running shorts and went out of the room towards his bike.
The morning air was crisp, but not too cold to move. Francis knew he still had at least another month of good mornings to ride in. He peddled down the path,, turning up towards the street. He took a right and drove down to where the girl dorms stood. As he passed one, a faint voice called his name. He skidded to a stop and looked around. He saw a figure on the porch, looking out at him, waving. He waved back and walked his bike over to the figure, a girl with arms crossed around her chest.
“Fine day for a ride, isn’t it,” he asked.
“Seems to be. Otherwise, why would you be out this early?”
“Right. Can you really kill a guy for trying?”
“Yes, but not you. You’re just not worth it.”
“Not worth it? Now it’s personal. Why not?”
“You think you’re the center of your own little universe, and every girl should bow down before you. If your brain was as big as your ego, you wouldn’t be in this lame school.”
“Lame is it? This coming from the runner up for class president two years in a row.”
“Exactly. These people wouldn’t know greatness if it came up and bit them in the butt.”
“I just think you should be more sympathetic, that’s all.”
“Bull. Go ride your stupid bike.”
“I will; I’ll enjoy myself while you complain.”
“Fine”
“Fine”
Francis saddled and glided down the hill, towards the gym. He lifted for about ten minutes, then rode back. As he was riding past the dorm, he noticed that Angela was still sitting there, sipping coffee. He stopped and waved. She didn’t move. He turned and coasted over to her.
“You’re still out here?”
“I’m trying to decide if it’s a good day for a ride. Some idiot mentioned it to me, but I didn’t believe him.”
“Sooner or later you’ll learn to act human. Until then, you have fun scratching the fleas, with all the other dogs.”
“Oh, that’s an original. Why don’t you just say it.”
“Fine. If you weren’t evil incarnate, you’d be kinda attractive.”
“Really. Do I remind you that much of your mother?”
“Bye Angela”
He turned and biked off. He didn’t look back at the girl, the girl that scorned all men, all advances for any relationship. She had remained single for two years, not surprising since she rejected every boy that came her way. She had earned her nickname. It was well regarded that she would never marry, probably just go and become a nun, living the rest of her days without men. She would be completely happy. So thought the entire campus.
So it was probably for the best that no one, especially Francis, saw her wave goodbye, and whisper under her breath, on that not so warm morning “I love you too.”

(I will post a new section of the story occasionally, as seen fit by myself. The parts to follow may be combinations of parts, as was this one, or it may be a single part. I wish I could just post the whole thing, but the blog doesn't work well with 12 page stories.)

The Poem

2005-12-31T18:53:00.000-05:00

The other day I was musing over a lost bet to a certain Lademan Smith. You see, if I lost the bet, I had to write a 'creepy, scary, whatever' song for her. Well I lost the bet. So I was musing, as I said, over this lost bet, when I started writing a poem in silly angst, hoping maybe some lyric would come to me, so I could go that route, rather than that whole melody bit first. This poem turned into what you see now. Enjoy, :^) Note well, I love you all. Especially you, Mark. Yeah, without further ado:What is wrong with Lademan?She always sings sad songs o’ man.Why can’t she write happy?

What is wrong with Lademan?
She always sings sad songs o’ man.
Why can’t she write happy?
Or like most girls, be sappy?
What is wrong with Lademan?

Nothing’s wrong with Lademan.
She just chooses to move on.
She is no fleeting butterfly,
Flying and dying uknowingly
Nothing’s wrong with Lademan.

What is wrong with Lademan?
As she leaves the luncheon.
Why can no picture take?
Why does she play the flake?
What is wrong with Lademan?

Nothing’s wrong with Lademan.
What is wrong with you mon?
Sure, there was no picture we could make
But there was no finer jewel for Lynch to take,
Nothing’s wrong with Lademan.

Now what is wrong with Jalsevac?
He reminds me o’ the Bal-a-zac.
His snaky eyes and misdemeanors,
His crunched up cups, and table manners?
What is wrong with Jalsevac?

Everything’s wrong with Jalsevac.
Let us not continue on this tack,
Lest the Bugos put us in the rack.
Oh great Sass, please don’t defenestrate,
Let’s put this to the Magistrate:
“Everything’s wrong with Jalvsevac.”

What is wrong with Samwise fair?
There’s nothing wrong, he is so great.
He’s one of a kind, a true primate!
Sam, Sam, he’s the man!
If you can’t act’em, no one can!
There’s nothing wrong with Sam the man.

What isn’t wrong with Sam the ma’am?
He’s just as good thrown off the dam.
He’s full of bluster, blood and bile,
He barely runs the needed mile!
He acts’em cause he’s a youngest child.
What isn’t wrong with Sam the man?

There’s nothing wrong with Sam the wise,
He’s smart and witty, he has no vice!
He may play the fool, but it’s for friends
We all know they are mere imitations.
He’s meek and humble, just carries a big stick.
There’s nothing wrong with Sam the wise.

There’s nothing right with Sam the wise!
He plays the smart, he is the fool!
He sees a butterfly and he starts to drool.
Meek and humble? He’s just hairy.
No more, on him no longer can I tarry.
Tuh, Sam the Wise, he’s just not right.

Then what of Lola bug? She’s all wrong!
She’s such a lug, and she’s such a tug,
She beats you down with her tongue!
She sits imperious, demanding done
Every whim that crosses her fancy.
What of Lola bug? Ugh, she’s so chancy.

What of Lola bug!? My gosh she’s all right!
Crossing her might be your plight,
But her voice is like a drug! Intoxicating.
Her personality and her mug, inebriating.
Ahhh, Lola Bug, Lola Bug, sweet perfection.
Cross her, and I’ll use you for delectation.

Furthermore, of her it must be said,
The best chocolate is first bittersweet,
But once ‘tis refined, what is more glorious a treat?

What is wrong with Joseph?
Nothing I would say.
He is always right!It is him we should all obey.
Never once has he been a trite.
Never does he miss the mark.

What is wrong with Joseph?
I must agree, nothing there is here to say.
Any who cross him, fate makes fey.
Hey, is there anyone more cool,
Or who better plays the fool?
Ha, what is wrong with Joseph.

Fidelio, the little sweet,
What can we say but tweet?
Not perfect no, but is there one
As True, as good, as this little one?
Busy as a bee, curious as a cat,
Beautiful as an angel, eater of the fowl.

I Saw You Rejoicing

2005-09-16T19:23:00.000-04:00

This one was started some time ago and finished fairly recently. I have an innate interest in Native American culture, and I have always felt a sort of kinship with the Native American people, although I am not at all American Indian. They seemed to possess such a strangely accurate idea of God, whom they called 'the Great Spirit.' Chief Red Fox(I think that is his name) once said something along these lines: "Among the American Indians there was a single concept of religion regardless of tribe or geographic location. They believed the finite and the infinite to be expressions of one universal, absolute being, who furnished guidelines for their moral conduct, and motivated every living thing. They called this the Great Spirit." I thought this statement to be absolutely beautiful, and living proof of the natural law which God has written on the heart of man.

I Saw You Rejoicing

I saw you rejoicing
And wonder, my angel,
Your heart and your eyes like the sun were shining
The essence of a west wind
Was restless beneath you
His neck shone as gold in the strengthening sunlight
I saw you there laughing
My angel, my moonlight,
Tutonka were many on plains of Dakota
The deer were too many
To slay with a quiver
Too many for Five or Six Nations to kill
Like river in moonset
Your hair in the sunrise
Your features of copper were brighter than flame
I watched you, my angel,
From eyes in the shadows
Of linden-tree flower and falcon wings rising
I hid without courage
Away in the forest
Not daring to move at audacity’s spur
I feared you so greatly,
Thine anger, my angel,
Why should you believe if my wonder I told?
And how could you listen
My angel or sunlight
I thought you would only see blood in my eyes
I feared not believing
Would you turn and leave me?
Or maybe my presence would cost you thy peace
I thought that, my wonder,
Forgive me, my angel
I heard of the screams for which others bore guilt
Unbridling anger
Believing in hatred
Released on ones lost in unwelcoming shadows
I thought that my life blood
Would lie in death’s stagnance
But God would rebuke me for judging thy heart.
You saw me there hiding
You wondered, my angel,
A pale-face watching where nothing was mine
An evil one tempted
My angel to anger
But no one could poison the light in thine eyes.
“Come with me,” you said.
I did not understand thee
But somehow the aspens were telling your story
You held out your hand to me
Should I, my angel?
I knew not where, how far from haven and stay
My mind raged against thee
It told me of shadows
It saw naught but tomahawk, quiver, and blade
But I would not listen
Already decided
I placed my white hand in thy waiting red palm
You brought me beside you
Our throne was of sunlight
You told him to take us wherever he might
You showed me thy rivers
The leaves of thy maples
You said to be trusting, you well understood
Though I could not answer
You knew what my thoughts were
But all thought was lost in the things that you gave me
You took me to freedom
The edge of a rock face
You let my heart soar with the hawks that were near me
The clouds were my footstool
The sun was my mantel
When heard I a shadow, I followed the voices
Into the deep forests
The lowest of valleys
The darkest of crypts and the blackest abyss
You parched my true spirit
With plains growing golden
You dried out my heart with the arid plateaus
But over the mesa
A lake glimmered songlike
A stream speaking softly, a lingering mist
My soul drank it, wondering,
Touching a heaven
The kingfishers knew and they smiled on me
The tree frog was laughing
A timber wolf gazing
The eagle of gold turned from where he was gleaming
Though knew I not how, still
I spoke to my brothers
The heron crept closer, the stag bent his antler
I spoke to them, angel,
They listened, my moonlight,
I spoke, and they listened, and they understood.
But angel, I listened
More wondrous than speaking
If I could but tell you the words that they sang.
They told me of, angel,
I can’t speak for wonder
Their words were as frightful as darkness and night
As sweet and as joyful
As swallows in summer
As apocalyptic as comets or storms
They spoke of their birth
At the dawn of the ages
Of Him Who is girded with rivers and stars
The One from Whose Stillness
The birds swept at morning
And into Whose Heart the last eagle will fly.
Their speech was unearthly
Beyond human telling
The Spirit had given them measureless wisdom
The wolf praised His valor
The turtle His meekness
I saw in the raptors His fierceness and light
Each new revelation
A well sharpened dagger
A beautiful agony tortured my soul
I fell in a vortex
An effluent violence
The words that they told were too much to contain
The wolf snatched my spirit
And ran to a mountain
He let it fall bloody to no safe return
The fall was a glory
So violently splendid
The impact of earth the most splendid of all
Yet never to rest me
The swords were still waiting
For me to arise so to pierce me again.
The lightning and thunder
Surrounded and sundered
My blood ran and curdled with healing venom
My heart was like fire
All darkness around me
And then I was seized by ineffable light.
I fell back in wonder
Less pain than a rapture
He sent me His falcon to soften my fall
I leant on its breast
Fairest creature de terra
He covered my slumber with sheltering wings.
I opened my eyes with
A peaceful arising
Both knowledge and mystery flooded my heart
Some strange sort of life was now
Rising within me
The kingfishers looked at me just as before
The stag was still standing
Beneath the sequoias
The heron still waded but farther away
The wolf lay beyond me
No hint of his actions
The falcon who guarded me now was at roost
The sun was here falling
He painted earth golden
The first of the stars were beginning their watch
You stood in the sunlight
Your steed next thee waiting
“What saw you, while standing?” I said to thee strangely
You smiled, and said to me
“Somebody told you
Of Him while you stayed by the water and thistle
I saw in your features
A light of His making
While kingfishers watched and an eagle was near
I call Him ‘Great Spirit’,
He fills me and moves me
I ask Him each day to watch over my heart
He gave me Creation
To guard and to cherish
My people are wardens of flower and stone
The hawks are our comrades
The foxes our brothers
They tell us of Him in exchange for our pledge.
Surpass we creation
But we are united
Our eyes are the stars and the sun is our heart
He dyed our skin crimson
With roses and soil
He drew out our hair from the strands of the night
So closely connected
The earth and my people
He charged us to watch it and keep it for Him
The grasses and vireo
Marten and thunder
And such is our task to the end of the world.’
I knew this already
Remembering something
I once saw in waters a glimpse of thine eyes
The mountains were holding
The secrets you gave them
Each sparrow betrayed every note of thy voice.
Thy laughter was evident
Rising from brooksides
The flower would lean to thee, seeing itself.
How could I go, angel
Where could I find sunlight
I asked you to show me each peak of thy mountains
All lilies that grew for thee
Each of thy kestrels
You told me it might take the length of our years
But you did not mind it
And I did not mind it
Though sunlight was gone we set out on our quest.

Passage

2005-08-04T21:11:00.000-04:00

Passage
By Jenn P.

(Posted on Jenn's behalf by Ambrose)

Mrs. Adams grimaced. "Schooling and some fool health board may have made you a nurse, son, but God made you a boy and I simply won’t have you in here to change my sheets, diapers, or anything else."Lochlin sighed. This had been going on for three weeks now, if he so much as touched a corner of the bed. There was no arguing with this woman and, after each battle, he simply retreated in disgrace. He had called one of the female nurses twice in the last two days, having found no polite words which would sway the old woman’s determination to hang on to her dignity.

"Fine, then, Mrs. Adams. I see that I won’t be changing anything around here, not even your mind. I’ll just be going, then.""Hmph." She sighed herself, a tiny little gale of wind which shook her entire frame, then slid her feet to the floor. Lochlin watched patiently, knowing better than to do so much as twitch. Would this be the day?"What they call you, boy?"

"Lochlin."
"Carlin?"
"Lochlin."
"Lauren? My day, they was calling little girls Lauren."
"Lochlin, Mrs. Adams. Like from Scotland, you know?"
"Oh. Well, Loch, I’m fixin’ to explode here. You’d better get me on that glorified chamber pot in there before something in there busts and both our troubles get over."

And that was the beginning of Lochlin’s strange love affair with Mrs. Adams. Each day he came in it was an exercise in diplomacy, a skillful display of the art of letting someone else get your way. As Lochlin found himself in her room more and more often, he learned a great deal about her. He learned that she was the mother of three boys and a girl. The daughter he heard little about, save that she lived ‘somewhere up north with them damn yankees.’ Mrs. Adams was still fighting the civil war. Loch assumed the daughter was not in good graces, considering she had not visited, called, or written in the entire seven months since Lochlin had first met the old lady. The sons, however, were a different story. ‘Her David, her Andrew, her Robbie’ she forever spoke of with animation and joy. None of them had ever set foot in the nursing home, either.

"I suppose it was fifty-one or fifty-two," she had said, without preface, when he walked into her little cubicle that Saturday morning. Lochlin recognized the beginning of a story and stood still, waiting. He studied the photographs above her head; a woman, alone, four children in the late 1940s; Mrs. Adams with her husband, long deceased. He wondered idly why those pictures were up there on the wall, where she was unable to see them. The only sort of decoration in the room which benefited her was a cracked photo, unframed and unprofessional, of a smiling girl in her early twenties, terribly beautiful, whose arms were wrapped around the shoulders of a young man Loch recognized as one of the three sons. Robbie, he thought to himself, focusing on the two as they grinned deliriously at him from next to the television beside the bed.

"At that point, then, it was just me and Robbie." Lochlin came back with a start, having missed a length of Mrs. Adams’ story. "He didn’t enlist with the other two right away, because he was engaged to be married. Davie and Andy, now, they didn’t have anything holding them to home but momma’s apron strings. Working in a grocery store didn't inspire a lot of sentimental attachment to home, and I told all four of my children I’d be proud to see them make their own way in the world. David and Andrew just considered the whole enlistment as a new adventure, one of the rare ones that I approved of.

"Robbie, on the other hand, he had interests." Mrs. Adams nodded significantly and Lochlin nodded back. It was best to agree. "Robbie was engaged to the sweetest little girl in the world, and they were going to be married in July. But then, when the little boys went off to the army to be Marines, well then he decided that a wedding would have to wait." Off to the army to be Marined...Lochlin laughed again. If only his military-wife sister could hear this, he thought. "Of course, Amanda didn’t like that idea too much, so she suggested that they just move the wedding forward, instead of back, and that’s just what they did. They got married the next week, and all of my boys were gone within a month. It was just me and that big old house, all alone."

Lochlin shifted on his feet, then gingerly sat down in the chair beside the bed. He’d never had the gall to make himself a visitor before–he’d stood stiffly on the office of caretaker, listening being solely part of his job. This was a whole different sort of story, though. This was care giving on a human level he’d not experienced before. It was clear that the things she was telling him had not been shared in many, many years. The details and events were dusty, crusted with time, and he sensed that something was special about his being chosen to hear them.

"Well, anyway, David and Andrew went and got theirselves killed in a truck accident the day they landed in Korea. That about broke my heart at first, because David was my oldest and he reminded me so much of his daddy. Later, though, I decided that it was all right. It was meant to be." She laughed, interrupting herself. "Funny, you know. I sound all high and mighty saying ‘later it was all right.’ I reckon that 'all right' was a long time coming, since 'later' probably works out to be about thirty years, by my counting. Not much time to me, but I figure that’s longer than you’ve been alive, isn’t it, Loch?"

Lochlin was 26. He nodded again, then stood up and made a pretense of checking Mrs. Adams’ blood pressure. She resumed her story, her head turned on the pillow, facing the photograph beside the television. "Robbie had been over there for two months when Amanda finally came to me and said she was gonna be adding another Adams to the collection. We laughed, we cried, then we sat down and wrote a letter to Robbie from the both of us. She’d done written one on her own, but after ours was finished we walked to the post office like two little girls, hand in hand, and mailed those letters like we was writing to Santa Claus. It was a great week, let me tell you. Her folks came over for dinner and we laughed and talked and planned and just reveled in that joy. There was nothing like it."

Lochlin released her wrist and sat down again. There was a vase of dried flowers on the table nearest his chair. He began to automatically count the flowers, counting up to fifteen and starting over again mechanically. Mrs. Adams coughed lightly and Lochlin made a mental note. The pneumonia was not responding to the drugs she was on, obviously. Ninety six years were a lot to leave on those skinny shoulders of hers, and age was taking its toll at last."Anyhow," she continued, "we were all just as happy as a duck in a June bug nest for three weeks. Then my telephone rang. It was some army big shot, and all he had to tell me was that my son was killed in action and his body was being sent home to my address. ‘Please notify any unlisted next of kin’ he says to me, all official like, and then he just rung off. Amanda didn’t know. I had to tell her, and I did, because there weren't no sense in delaying."

Lochlin made a noncommittal noise that she construed as an agreement. "Amanda took it like the big girl that she was, and we named the baby Judy Ann. That was it. Robbie was buried, and we went on. I had a hole in my heart shaped just like Robbie and I figure Amanda did, too. She came to see me every single month after that, for almost five years, then she moved away to get a new job where she could support herself and that baby girl. I don't think she'd have married again."Mrs. Adams coughed.

Lochlin stood up and moved around the other side of the bed to take her temperature. She muttered as he did so, "Good thing some smart doctor thought up that ear thingermajigger for my temperature. I swear to goodness that I’d die right now if you ever tried to stick something up my fanny like they did in the good old days."

A week later she was worse, so much worse, and it pained Lochlin to see her body wracked with those choking coughs. However, she wasn’t to be daunted. The television was on, and Loch stepped between it and the bed, trying to readjust the sheets and Mrs. Adams smacked at his backside, the only part of him that she could reach, and snapped,"Your parents weren’t glassmakers, boy. I’m trying to watch the idiots on the tube!"

He quickly stepped aside, but no sooner had he ceased to obstruct her view but she reached for the remote and flipped the set off. Lochlin looked at her quizzically, and was shocked to see she was looking at him intently. Usually, Mrs. Adams let those blind grey eyes simply rest on whatever took her fancy and, though he knew full well that her sight was quite good, Lochlin liked to indulge in the fancy that she didn’t see him. Somehow it made the mutually humbling sponge baths and bathroom trips a little less painful. However, now she was looking right at him, through him. Here was a woman with a life behind her."So, Amanda moved away and I haven’t seen her since. I’d like to see her and that little baby again.”

Lochlin calculated absently, gently lifting her into the thick, padded chair and beginning to peel the thin sheets from the bed. That little baby would be over fifty years old now. She probably had children of her own. Her children probably had children of their own."I’d like to see them again, Lochlin. Could you bring them in sometime, for me?"Lochlin paused at the far corner of the bed. If there was one thing Mrs. Adams had never shown symptoms of, it was dementia. She never lost the least little bit of her faculties, ever. Loch looked at her with concern and said cautiously,"Mrs. Adams, how on earth could I do that? I don’t know her name. I don't know anything." He waited, afraid she would go on with the petulant insistence of so many people he cared for on a daily basis—the sort of patients who cried out for a relative long dead, staunchly refusing to understand that they could not be summoned by anyone less than God almighty.

"Look her up on your world wide wait, boy." Lochlin giggled at her, unable to sustain the doomsday feeling his meditations about eyes and God had brought on. The way she picked up phrases from he and the other nurses and regurgitated them back into conversations was so amusing. The words fell oddly from ninety-something year old lips.

"I’ll do that, Mrs. Adams."

Lochlin shook his head as he left work that evening, unable to shake the vision of Mrs. Adams eyes. Normally, he discarded every promise he made to a dying patient as soon as he walked out the door. They didn’t ever remember anyway. This time, though, something told him that Mrs. Adams wouldn’t be forgetting anything.When he got home that night, he sat down in front of the computer and sighed. There was no way he could ever find that woman. He looked around in frustration at the few photos on the walls of the closet he called an apartment. They were sparse, to be sure, and all of his elder sister and her family. He got up from the computer, ignoring the three blinking icons that said "A Friend Has Signed On!" and ambled toward his single bookshelf.

Near the top was a book called "Winter’s Come," which a friend had bought him while the two were in medical school. It was about a young intern in a nursing home who befriends an older man dying of cancer. They read poetry together, they talk, and the man’s dying days have meaning because of this young intern. Lochlin snorted politely at the author and replaced the book. Mrs. Adams didn’t need him to give her dying days meaning. They had plenty of meaning. The day Mrs. Adams patted his hand after they closed the book of Robert Frost poems was the day he became administrator of the home. Things just didn’t happen in real life the way they did in the books. He sat down at the computer again and clicked on Google.

Two more weeks passed and Lochlin arrived at work on Saturday morning with a bounce in his step. There was a woman in South Carolina who answered his somewhat random and flustered email. She was looking into her family history and thought she could help him. In fact, she thought Mrs. Adams was her aunt. Things were good. He felt a sort of fulfillment in having made that connection, and he couldn’t wait to share his news with Mrs. Adams. She had asked him every day about his search for her family, and it had become a sort of obsession with her. Lochlin couldn’t explain why this had suddenly become so very important, but something about that little lady drove him to work for her as he did for no patient. No, this was for a friend. He was so proud as he walked in that door. He glowed.

He stopped glowing. She was lying on her side in the dark, with the curtains drawn, television off, radio off. The room was dead. There was no life in it, no cranky personality that he had come to love and look forward to. He looked over her anxiously, feeling for a pulse. It wasn’t there. He dropped her limp, cold hand in momentary disgust and stepped back from the bed. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be! He was supposed to tell her he had found a family member, and some sweet great-grandson who looked just like Robbie was going to come and visit her with his siblings and she would die with her family all around her, happy and peaceful. Lochlin kicked out at the chair and stubbed his toe painfully. He almost swore, but then stopped himself because he knew Mrs. Adams would scold. No, wait, she wouldn’t, would she? The walls of the room seemed to be a million miles away. He was floating in space.

Lochlin called the desk and the immediate, mechanical process of dealing with a deceased patient began. He was gently pushed aside as the team came in, he was given a form to sign. He signed it absently and walked up to the desk. He would notify the next of kin, he told the receptionist in a haze. Then he walked to the break room and looked through the folder. He called the daughter, who coolly accepted the news, asked the final balance for her mother’s healthcare, and informed him that she intended to have her mother buried there in Davidson beside Mr. Adams. Would he please see to the details, as the home is accustomed to do for patients with no family? Lochlin hung up with a sick feeling in his stomach.This was getting depressing. He continued to go over that dreamy scenario he had planned, the one with the touching family reunion. That’s what happens when you let your imagination get formed by stupid authors who wouldn’t know reality if it hit them with a baseball bat.

At home he sat at the computer again and checked his email. There was an email from a name he didn’t recognize, which he promptly deleted. Stupid spam mail.Wait. He pulled up the trash folder and looked at the email again. It was from her great-granddaughter. The first three pages worth were typical girlish ramblings about how amazing this all was, and how many times her grandmother had talked of this Mrs. Adams, and how she was so excited to maybe be able to connect with that part of her past. She went on and on until Lochlin thought he was going to be sick again, but then the tone of the note became abruptly businesslike and he paid attention once more. She wanted to know where to find Mrs. Adams. He told her the news of her great-grandmother's death as professionally and kindly as possible, and gave her his phone number.

She called the next day, asking where and when any sort of funeral would be, because she intended to be present. It had been a long day at work, and a Sunday at that, and he answered in clipped, rude tones that there were no arrangements. Well, then, she wanted to meet him and talk with him, then. There was a gentle persistence in this girl which exasperated him. He just wanted to let the whole thing drop. This is what happens when you got close to a patient. This is why they say never to do it. He wanted nothing to do with remembering Mrs. Adams, much less sharing her with someone. It was a dead topic, about a dead person, and he wanted only to push it under the tattered rugs and forget it all happened.

The girl pressed him again, repeating a question, and he returned to the phone conversation with annoyance. "Sure, whenever," he said. In five minutes he hung up and looked down at the little pad of paper in front of him. There was a time, date, and place written on it, with the name "Bethany" at the top.All that week he brooded. This was going to be a difficult trial, he thought. He was going to have to feign interest and concern with this girl, telling her all about the stories that he had been graced with over the last several months. He sat in the car in front of the little restaurant and reviewed all the stories Mrs. Adams had told her. Each was a treasure, he thought, a tiny little gem from a necklace that made up one woman’s life.

A white jeep pulled up next to him and a girl about his own age got out and walked toward the door. He got out and said, tentatively, "Bethany?"

She turned and he involuntarily sucked in his breath. It was Amanda. The same smile, the same hair, the same sweet and loving nature that had looked at him from that photograph so many days.

She put her head on one side and answered, "Yes?"

Lochlin thought once more of Mrs. Adams and her ear thermometers and her television. "I’d like to tell you about a woman I fell in love with."

She smiled. “I’d like that.”

The End of the World

2005-07-27T11:19:00.000-04:00

I wrote this poem at the end of last year, in sort of a hurry to get it in to Dr. Townsend. It was an extra credit for Astronomy and must have helped, since I got a B- for the class. The thing is, I like it and would like to know what else i could add on to it.

The End of the World
By Matthew B. Rose

The time it took was seven minutes
The time from start to end
None could know the end of time
was just around the bend.

Not all the people cared for things
that would save them from strife
Now their horrible apathy
will cost them their life.

It grew very large over time
slowly gaining space.
The silent beast made no sound
as it quickened its pace.
It grew very large, for a moment,
then began to expand rapidly
towards that place of life and blessing,
destroying all things quickly.

Here we did not see it start
when it did for reason's known
for it takes light seven minutes
to get from there to our zone.
Therefore, we went about our lives
not worrying about the future.
We spent our final minutes
living life like a creature,
our horrible habits, our daunting
vices shown like a star:
this was the group of men
who could not sense a car
coming down the road at speeds
of 60 miles or more,
for all we paid attention to
was the life we longed for
We cared not for the glories of love,
nor the worship of any such God
that would put a hamper on our life
Satan was our twin in the pod.
For this was our fate,
to be engulfed in a wave
of heat and light, and radiation
from which none were saved.
Our star itself exploded then,
when we were not looking.
The time was only seven minutes
before we started cooking.

Elizabeth Jones walked her dog
down the street of 4th and Main.
She looked at the different houses
and gave people looks of disdain,
for she had no blood love lost
over any of her common man.
They were nothing for her,
like liquid soup in a can.
She did not see them as equals,
she did not see them as friends
she merely saw them as obstacles
to achieving her own ends.
When the seven minutes was up
she would cry aloud
for her hate for all mankind
would give her a crowd
of angry, hot, and pushy neighbors
who shared her same beliefs.
They would be her only company
for eternity is not so brief.

The light and heat, radiation too,
expanded, engulfing the messenger
that small, hot and rocky mass
that never showed any danger.

Fr. Francis Prose, saint of men,
prayed for his mere soul,
and bowed before the altar.
Dipping his fingers in the bowel
he prepares for the high feast
of a lamb he cannot yet see,
of a Lord he will one day
worship for all eternity.
Here he cleanses his fingers and soul,
preparing for the greatest gift of all.
He gently turns to the congregation,
shifting the position of the pall.
His piety and love of all the good,
all that his God has made for him,
leads him to meet his master,
for now his soul is free from sin.

The giant spread across the space,
Morning Star is swallowed up
that inspiration of poets of old,
now drinks from an empty cup.

What none of these people knew
was that another power was at play.
For here was the work of the Lord
His glory manifests itself that day.
For this day of destruction and death
was ordained since the beginning.
This time of death that approached
was simply the suffering coming.

The pressure was too much for the star.
It could no longer hold it's power.
It expelled its strength, its energy,
in one oppressive final shower.
The seven minutes passed by quickly;
all who saw it knew its purpose.
Some who prayed were saved that day;
Others, who did not, never surfaced.

Miss Jones turned on the TV.
She sat on her favorite chair.
Her dog hopped onto her lap.
How on earth could she care?
The screen was blank, a black stare.
She paused 'fore pressing "Off"
She rose, but couldn't turn on the radio.
for then, she started to cough.

Fr. Prose looked down at the open book;
he stated quietly those holy words.
Then lifting the simple cup and his eyes,
he brought the prayers heavenward.
He had done the ultimate act of a man:
He had succeeded where others would fail
And as he set down that holy chalice,
all the temperatures all slipped off scale.

The world was engulfed in a wave,
unsurpassed in the history of time.
The ancient start of ours, older than us,
older than life, older than time,
could not contain the mass of its life.
our existence, our planet, wiped away
in the span of seconds. The holy of
God were saved; the rest were erased.

Such is the way of the end of man
For theirs is below heaven's Hosts,
yet higher than the beasts of the field.
Such is the way of these new ghosts.

For be it the irony of Adam, Job, and Christ
that all we have received from God strife.
For the Lord gave and took away, our of love.
The Creator is the one who removes life.

Laughter And My Generation

2005-07-23T15:06:00.000-04:00

Laughter And My Generation

By John Jalsevac

Tonight I sat at my computer and read endless, endless numbers of news articles; and as I did I happened to stumble upon a certain essay. It was written during the Cold War and I read it with increasing trepidation. It is a famous essay, a devastating essay, and I believe is still often read for having given a potent written form to the apocalyptic mind of the Cold-War generations.

On the news that night, said the essayist, the respectable-looking, facts-at-his-fingertips newsman said that with proper preparation maybe the Soviet Union could only kill 40 million Americans with their nuclear bombs. They could kill only 40 million instead of, say 80 million, if Americans were only prepared to flee out of the cities to the countryside in time, and then there would be enough Americans left to retaliate, enough, perhaps to annihilate the Soviets.

“If I were sixteen or seventeen,” said the essayist as the mournful beauty of the essay reached its despairing crescendo, “and I had to listen to that, or read things like that, I would want to give up listening and reading. I would begin thinking up new kinds of sounds, different from any music heard before, and I would be twisting and turning to rid myself of human language.”

But I don’t think he went far enough; I think he stopped short of what he should have said. I think what he should have said is that if he were sixteen or seventeen he would be twisting and turning to rid himself not only of language but of thought altogether; of the very ability to think. I desperately believe that to be most accurate he really should have said that he would be twisting and turning to squeeze out of the tight, claustrophobic scales of his self-awareness, if he was sixteen or seventeen and had to read and listen to things like that.

I myself was reading the news tonight. “Al-Quaida nukes already in United States,” said the headline. “Bin Laden's goal,” said the news, “is to kill at least 4 million Americans, 2 million of whom must be children. Only then, bin Laden has said, would the crimes committed by America on the Arab and Muslim world be avenged.”

“China is prepared to use nuclear weapons against the US if it is attacked by Washington during a confrontation over Taiwan,” said the news tonight. “China now has the full capacity to strike the United States with missiles with nuclear warheads.”

“At least 50 people have been killed in suicide bombings in London,” read another headline. “The West is on high alert with information that there will be more attempts in the coming weeks.”

Some short time ago as I neared the end of a mildly tumultuous teenage-hood and I thought things over I decided that instead of the anger or melancholy of my adolescence I was going to make the laughter of my childhood my new creed. Chesterton made me do it. After frantically imbibing as much of Chesterton as even the strongest disposition can handle, I realized that his was the ethos of laughter. I also concluded that the ethos of laughter is the one that holds the greatest power and is the most reasonable in a world infected with fear; in many ways Chesterton himself, I realized, was the embodied words of St. Francis, who Chesterton quotes in The Meaning of Crusade. "Shall I, the gnat that dances in Thy ray, dare to be reverent?" Personally I have come to consider this one of the most insightful things said by a man. So, I decided that the greatest thing that I could offer the world, and what would be the greatest praise I could offer my God, would be to be cheerfully and lovingly and humbly irreverent; I would laugh.

But now, as this long, long, hot summer progresses towards its end something has changed. It has become a part of my job as a journalist to be well informed. Every day it is part of my job to read dozens and dozens of news articles; this was never the case before. I have never been ‘well informed’, at least in contemporary events, before.

I don’t have to speculate like the cold-war essayist did. I don’t have to say, “If I was sixteen or seventeen.” I am twenty. There is so little difference between twenty and sixteen or seventeen. I adequately represent the youth of generation ‘X’, and even some of the next generation below mine.

As my mind and my store of experiences grows I find my tenuous personal peace being repeatedly shattered by the force of crashing revelations that I wouldn’t ever have expected to have. This summer--with information and events throughout the world constantly pouring into my mind--has been rammed with such intrusive revelations. I, just like the rest of my generation, am undergoing the difficult process of gradually growing into and coming to grips with the inexplicable world and the particularly inexplicable historical age into which I have been abruptly placed and ordered to get along in. But, though I desperately want to live the ethos of laughter that I once professed, instead to my chagrin I am now gripped by the ethos of fear. I find this a curious and terrible thing; because I thought that Chesterton and the saints had finally taught me the greatest and most enduring lesson of my life. I thought that maybe nothing in the world could make me stop laughing, not even death. And if I have stopped laughing, how much more so the rest of my poor, disillusioned generation?

Sometimes now when I read the news I find myself twisting and turning to shake off thought; tonight is one of those nights. Tonight I see the bombs strapped to the bodies of strong, young Arab men, and I see Chinese and American and British missiles peacefully slicing through the air hundreds of miles above the earth; I see terrifying explosions in New York, in London, in Beijing, in Paris, in Paris, in Paris. In Washington, in Moscow, in Los Angeles. And sometimes I am hit with the temptation to consume bottles of pills; I think that maybe I should be smoking up; shooting juice into my thirsty veins and gasping brain; indiscriminately folding myself into the ecstatic pleasure of others’ bodies; losing myself in the non-intelligence of sensual ecstasy through whatever means available—just like the rest of my generation is doing. I think that I should be squeezing out of thought altogether, not just reading and listening; that I want to squeeze out of thinking, to shed that rotten skin.

A number of weeks ago I attended a large party; in the midst of the natural intoxication of that sweet summer night a dozen boys and girls of about my age sat around a table and passed around a large, potent Marijuana joint. And they drank, they drank with a curious, ravenous desperation, lifting the bottle to their lips as though every sip of its contents was vital to their continued existence at that precise moment. I was sitting on the subway a few days ago on my way to work and I heard a group of students of about my age discussing the various anti-depressants and drugs that have been prescribed to them. A news article from several days ago said that stats show there is an increasing and disturbing trend of so called pharma-parties, where teens are getting together and exchanging various legal prescription drugs with one another and experimenting with them.

This is my generation. My generation twists, and they turn and they squirm; they’re not listening, and they’re certainly not reading and most of the time, if they can help it, they’re not even thinking.

The night of that party I listened to the hollow, hyenic laughter of the drug stuffed scarecrows that sat around that table and its sadness made me want to weep. “They have made laughter lonelier than tears.” How do you reach that? What can you say to them to make them think that maybe thought can show them a far deeper and more fundamental joy than their false and empty ecstasy?

Laughter must be the answer. It occurred to me that night that perhaps, even as my friends were lost within their languishing drug-induced trance, maybe if they heard the deep, welling, joyous, consciousness-smashing laughter of a saint, perhaps that would serve to cut through the layers upon layers of walls that they have constructed around their minds. Perhaps, just perhaps, that kind of a true thing crashing into their world of illusions would collapse their house of cards; perhaps it would startle them and make them stop and listen for even just a moment; perhaps then they would know the hollowness of their own attempts at laughter and would catch a vital glimpse of the deep joy of the saint.

A true laugh may be the world’s quickest theological lesson. Unless we learn the joy of our faith then we are good for nothing. I tell you that my generation no longer wants to listen or read, or think. It is squirming and twisting and turning to stop itself from thinking. It wants nothing to do with thought; it looks on thought as an enemy. The true laugh may be the only theological lesson that this desperate generation will listen to; it may be the only theological lesson that can be delivered and listened to in the simplicity of their own language. And for this reason I will soon learn to laugh again.

Et Ex Copiis Domini

2005-07-18T14:56:00.000-04:00

I wrote this one or two years ago. I was very much in tune with Tolkien's style at the time, so this poem bears some resemblance to the Lay of Luthien in The Fellowship of the Ring. I was concerned that verse 5 was far too simliar to verse 6 of the Lay of Luthien, and that I shouldn't have used the glimmering;shimmering rhyme scheme(I got it from the Lay, wherein it is used at least twice), or the word 'sorrowless', as I got that from the Lay too. Please let me know what you think regarding these concerns - if you get the chance , please compare this to the Lay in order to verify my concerns. Thank you!

Et Ex Copiis Domini

The world was black, the days were dark,
The sun no more to fall,
When mounted I my steed of grace
To reign the wind to Yahweh’s hall.
The helm of justice on my face,
The seal of the call,
And flying by my side the lark
Of wisdom, never deign to fall.

From north to south and back again
The cavalry did fly,
The soldiers, east to west, and thence,
To rally to the Captain’s cry.
The army by the Kingdom’s fence
Was ready not to die,
For when we marched into the fen,
The clouds were black within the sky.

The ancient hills were darkening,
When marched we to our fate,
The shadowed ones were waiting there,
With damning mace and axe of hate.
The banners of the Lord stood fair,
The evil to abate,
We fought, to lark-songs harkening,
When eve and night were falling late.

The arrows unhatefulness
In quivers bound with grace,
Were singing through the dark of night
From bows of faith and virtue’s lace.
The traitors swarmed upon the fight,
The righteous to disgrace,
With daggers of unfaithfulness
And blinding death upon their face.

It fell aback, and forth it laid,
When looked we to the King,
Like rising sun, and rolling sea,
And stars of diamond glimmering.
His brow was shining by the Tree
That stood, and towering,
And by Him rode the Armor-Maid,
Like moon on ocean shimmering.

Our hearts were strong, and soon they came
With seething, striking breath.
“No more, I said, shall darkness slay
And bring its claws and teeth of death.
We swore our oath to ever stay
From now to Ever-rest!
So come in pride, and flee in shame,
Ye heralds now of fear and death.”

The stars were resting, fair and bold,
Upon our ready sword,
Into a darkened eye to thrust
Behind the standards of the Lord.
Their eyes were red with bloody lust
Into our ranks they poured,
And with them took our tears unrolled
Like cloud and wave they roared.

On and on the battle weaved,
When falling from the moon,
The stars upon the sullied ground
With lone despair and darkness strewn.
The hawk of death and Hades’ hound
Were raging, and the moon,
Was weeping, when our soldiers grieved
For comrades lost, in shadows hewn.

The tides of earth were stained with blood
And from the crimson shore,
I looked to where my comrades fought,
But near to me they fought no more.
Their valiance was come to naught,
Their shields nevermore,
To shine in sun, and quell the flood,
Now cold they lay upon the shore.

‘O God above, and here below,
Upon the ruddy sand,
Where have my brothers fled today
And from this cursed mortal land?
My shield arm and swords were they,
We shared a common brand!
They left me under trees of woe
In darkling plain, a skyless land.’

I fell upon my wounded hands,
And cried across the sea,
And with my voice the raging sound
Of fierce, unharried villainy.
Their hoards rejoiced, and marched around
The dune ensnaring me,
And came their numbers on the sands
In triumphing and treachery.

‘You there who sit not sorrowless,
Where is your bravery?
I saw you once with fire-eyes
And free from yoke of slavery.
But now I see you’ve told Him lies
And, too, your bravery,
For here you kneel arrowless
As if you still loved slavery.’

Their voices grated in my mind
As sentencing a curse,
Before I heard another one,
From falling stars a stronger verse.
‘Despair and grief take heed to shun,
If better comes to worse!’
The Armor-Maiden, strong and kind
Was looking on my fated curse.

“I too,” she said, “was watching you,
And ere your fellows slept,
Your bow was keen, your heart was strong,
A secret evermore unkept.
So rise, I say, and take the throng,
That ‘round you here has crept,
Now take your sword and run them through!
Enough today has valor slept.”

I leapt without an idle thought
And threw my waiting knife,
Into the hoard that near me raged,
And in the heart of faithless strife.
A shriek arose that thence was caged,
And cloven by a knife,
A creature that the ones had brought
Who valued honor less than life.

His wings were wrought of adamant,
His eyes were gilded gold,
His scourge was carved of shadow-flame,
And chilling, burning, icy cold.
A tripled figure spelled his name,
Engraved in emerald,
And in the folds of bright raiment,
There glittered pearls and pyrite gold.

“Ah ha!” I cried in daunting tone,
“You thought that I was yours!
Not so, while still my Lady stands
Upon the winds of languid shores.
Now go back to your shadow-lands,
Where peaceless evil roars,”
I said, but not my voice alone,
For others were upon the shores.

Their swords with evil blood were black,
Their faces lined with pain,
But now again their hearts were light,
Like streams of sun amidst the rain.
I knew they fought throughout the night,
As I was fraught with pain,
They scoffed the noose and bloody rack
As now their arrows flew again.

To mouth of snake and heart of lie
Our bows were aimed, and taut;
The dragon fell in ignorance
Of with what pride our troops had fought.
We gazed in awe, as in a trance
On what our strength had wrought,
For nevermore were they to fly,
Their pride in shame we crushed to naught.

Our eyes then looked upon the King,
And on his hallowed sword,
He raised it high above our eyes
Beside the standards of the Lord.
He said, ‘O friends, from heaven’s skies
Receive your just reward!
You fought for Me in tears to bring
Before My Feet a faithful sword.’

Then sang of Him my Lady Grace
A-glimmer, by the Tree,
We followed where her chanting led
And to the dawn above the lee.
The cries of battle long had fled
Through earth and sky and sea,
Defeated, flew they from His Face
Et ex copiis Domini.

The Hitchhiker

2005-07-14T14:14:00.000-04:00

When i first posted this story, completed two days ago, on the 8 O'clock Chaplet blog, it got good reviews. When i let my mom read it, she went through and suggested re-writes to my many mistakes, most of which were stupidly obvious ones. So "I preesent for the approval, of the Midnight Society..." (Are You Afraid of the Dark, for all you sheltered people) my adaption of another older story. It may or may not be based off of a Flannery O'Conner story (that's the writer, not the dancer), but it is older. Please give me feed back.

The Hitchhiker
By Matthew B. Rose

Ian looked out the window of the house. What had once been a cloudless, sunny day had turned into a stormy, rainy night. It was a night for sitting at home and reading. It was a night for sipping hot coco, not for being out, and definitely not for driving. Ian wished that he were home. He wished he did not have to go out and drive on a night like this.
Why did he agree to come to the party?
Sandy walked over to him, putting her hand on his shoulder. He turned and looked at her.
“Are you sure you want to go out on a night like this? Peter and I always have an extra bed for you. You know that.”
“I know, I know. Your husband already said something to me. I can’t tonight.”
Peter walked up behind them.
“Why not, old pal? You too busy to hang out with your old friend for a night?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just, I have to hurry home. I have a big interview tomorrow. It’s for the job at…”
Sandy interrupted: “You mentioned it. You want to teach at that college in God knows where.”
“It’s just over in the mountains for crying out loud.”
Peter jumped in: “Yeah, well, you should stay here and leave in the morning.”
“Can’t do that. I would have to wake up and go back home, pick up my papers, then drive to the college. Staying here would, no offense, take up too much time.”
The married pair stared at their friend. Peter put his hand on Ian’s arm.
“Look, if you’ve really got to leave, by all means, leave. Don’t let us stop you.”
Ian moved his hand and grabbed Peter’s. They shook hands.
“Thanks man. I knew you would understand.”
The three of them broke apart. Sandy went to the back of the house, towards the closet. Peter and Ian walked towards the door. Peter patted Ian on the back.
“Hey listen, if you can, call us when you get home.”
“Who are you, my mother?”
“Yes. Now brush behind your ears young man.”
They laughed until Sandy arrived with Ian’s coat. After the hands were shook and cheeks were kissed, Ian opened the door and stepped out onto the front step. Peter stood in the doorway.
“Hey.”
Ian turned to look.
“Drive carefully. Too many accidents happen out there on nights like this.”
“Yeah I know. I will.”
“Take care. Pray for me.”
“Will do. You for me, ok?”
“Always do.”
Ian walked quickly down the walkway to his car. The rain was harder than it seemed. He fumbled around in his pockets, trying to find the keys. He drew them forth and opened the car. He settled down into the driver seat, put the key in the ignition, and turned it to start the engine.
Nothing happened. The car would not start. Ian tried again, holding his breath. It started. Ian sighed and pulled out of the driveway.
* * *

The rain was really pouring now. Ian could not see out the window, even with the wipers going at full speed. The forest surrounding the road seemed dark, like the night rain itself. Ian squinted to see the signs on the road, each one seeming harder to read.
It took him awhile to realize that he had no idea where he was. He suspected it when the road he had been driving on grew narrow. Yet, he did not know it for sure. That is why the sign took him by surprise.
Ian slammed on the breaks, swearing. He rolled back, looking closer at the sign he had passed. He checked his watch: it was 20 minutes until twelve. He swore again and fiddled in his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. He scrolled through his list and dialed. The phone on the other line rang twice.
“Hello?”
“Hey Peter, its Ian.”
“Hey Ian. What happened? I thought you would be home by now.”
“Yeah, well, I got lost. Can ya help me?”
“Of course.”
“The sign here says that I’m 20 miles from Charlottesville. I’m surrounded by woods.”
“Oh, hey. I know where you are. Keep going that way for about 15 miles, then get on the highway. You should be ok after that.”
“Alright. Thanks. I owe you one.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“I mean it this time, ok?”
“Yeah, alright.”
“Thanks man.”
“Yeah, sure. Call if you get lost again.”
“I won’t get lost again.”
“Sure, sure.”
“Alright. Bye.”
“Bye. Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
Ian hung up the phone and put it back in his pocket. He turned the key and started the car, pulling onto the road. The rain continued to fall hard, pounding on the windshield.
* * *
The rain fell at a different pace. Before the drops had pounded Ian’s car so hard that he wondered if there were dents in the hood. Now there seemed only to be a misting drizzle. Still, the outside world seemed miserable, as if the whole world was crying.
Ian had his high beams shining on the road ahead, showing everything. Everywhere there were trees: trees on the left and trees on the right. His eyes were beginning to tire, burning under the stress of the drive. He glanced again at the clock, trying to focus his eyes: 11:59. He needed to get home. If he hurried, he could still get six hours of sleep. As long as nothing else stopped him, he would be fine.
With that thought in his head, he slammed on his breaks, skidding forward another ten feet.
“What the...?”
He looked out the rear window. He saw a heart wrenching sight. There was a girl, no more than 15 years old, standing on the side of the road. She wore only shorts, a T-shirt and sandals. Her hair was matted against her head, which never tilted up from its downward glance. Had she even seen him drive by, Ian wondered to himself. He put the car in reverse and drove back until the car was parallel with the drenched girl. Ian opened the door.
“Hey, do you need a ride?”
The girl tilted her head up, slowly brushing aside some of the soaked hair that covered her face. Her eyes were dark blue, darker than any Ian had seen. She seemed pale and shivered involuntarily as she stared. Ian suddenly felt a shiver down his back. His neck tingled as the tiny hairs rose slightly. He felt an urge just to drive away, leave this creepy girl. He was in a hurry anyway.
“Here,” Ian got out when he gathered himself. “Get in. I’ll drive you.”
The girl slowly climbed into the car, dripping water on the seat. Ian got out and closed the door behind her. He scurried behind the wheel and started the car, pulling it back onto the road.
Ian looked over at his new passenger. She seemed to shiver less but was still pale. She held her hands in her lap and did not look up.
“So, where exactly am I taking you?”
The girl looked up and pulled back her hair, which had fallen again into her face.
“I, I live on Maine Street.”
“Well, that’s a start. Do you have an address?”
“3545. It’s a big house with a blue door. There’s a rose garden in the front, but one of the roses won’t bloom.”
“Hey, you live close to where I live. I know your house. I used to bike by it every day.”
“Sure, I guess.”
The girl turned her head back towards the front of the car. She looked out the window in a blank gaze, never blinking. Ian had not noticed that she wasn’t blinking until just then. He had figured that she was blinking, but he just never noticed because he was driving. Puzzled, Ian spoke again to the girl.
“I hate to interrupt your deep thought, but what’s your name? You do have a name, right?”
“Colleen. Colleen Heart.”
“That’s a very pretty name.”
Silence.
“Are you named after a relative?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay then.”
Ian looked over and noticed the girl rubbing her shoulders. She gave a shiver and wiped her nose. She did not sniff though; she just wiped her nose with her finger.
“You look cold. Here, take my jacket.”
Colleen looked up and took the jacket from Ian. She put it on her shoulders and wrapped it around her arms. She then looked out the window.
“Thank you.”
They drove on in silence. Ian checked her every few moments, just to see if she was warming up. He even turned up the heater. He body had stopped shivering and her voice had become less weak. However, her face and hands were still pale. Ian did not ask any questions about this, just questions about her family, school, and interests. This in turn was followed by a period of silence, broken only one minute into its stretch. The silence was broken not by a question of Ian’s but one from Colleen.
“Do you ever think about death?”
“What? Death?”
“Yeah. Do you ever wonder what happens when you die?”
“I guess you go to Heaven if you’re good, Hell if you’re bad.”
“Are you Catholic?”
“Yes. Well, I kinda haven’t been into it as much as I used to. I still go to Mass and Confession, if that’s what you mean.”
“I was wondering because you forgot to mention Purgatory.”
“Purga... Oh yeah, I forgot about that. I remember learning about that in school. It’s the place for cleaning, right?”
“Yes. I learned about it in class this year. It’s where the souls who are good but not ready for heaven go.”
“So they say.”
“That got me thinking about ghosts.”
”Oh ghosts. Ghosts don’t exist. They’re just stories told to frighten people or get money. Nothing more.”
“No. I think that there are different types of ghosts. One type is unable to do anything: they just appear and repeat their death. They died horrible quick deaths. Thus they are unable to prepare for Heaven; that is their Purgatory, to revisit their death over and over again.”
“What about the ghosts that hurt people?”
“They are demons and evil spirits, trying to drive their victims away from God. If they provoke fear into their victims’ hearts, the soul hardly recovers. They draw in the living person by a tale that seems innocent and harmless. Then they attack.”
“That’s a pleasant thought. But what about the ghosts that don’t hurt people, but do things, like move chairs and stuff.”
“They’re ghosts that are trying to communicate to the living people in the house. They usually are from heaven and are trying to lead the living back to God, since they have turned away.”
“Um, ok.”
“And there is one more type of ghost. That type interacts with people. These spirits are always from heaven and try to lead the living back to God. More often than not, they are saints, and therefore register as visions from Heaven. But sometimes the spirit is not recognized as a saint; therefore the communication is not looked fairly upon.”
“Wow, you know what you’re talking about. You sound very adult.”
“Thank you.”
“So that’s what you think ghosts are.”
Colleen looked at him closely and nodded.
“I’m positive.”
* * *
The car pulled up to the house on the street. The house was exactly as Colleen described it, down to the rose without a blossom. The night sky was clearing up and the moon was peaking through the thinning clouds. Colleen looked up at the sky through the window.
“I guess you should get going,” Ian mumbled. Colleen nodded and opened the door. She began to get out of the car but then stopped and started to take off the jacket.
“No, no,” Ian said. “You can keep it. You still look cold.”
Colleen smiled at him. She had a beautiful smile, like the moon that shined above them. Ian could not help but smile back. He felt calm, certain that, whatever he had to do, he would succeed.
“Thank you.”
“No problem. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
She got out of the car and went up the walkway to the front door. She rang the doorbell and waited. Ian did not watch her go in; he pulled away onto the long road towards his house.
* * *
The dawn broke, spilling its yolk-colored sun through the windows of the apartment. The alarm clock sounded through the room. It could not echo, for the mess scattered around on the floor and on the furniture absorbed the sound. The body in the bed shifted and reached for the buzzing annoyance. It fell to the floor. Grumbling, the man got out of the bed and turned off the alarm. He stretched and looked at the time.
“Oh shoot!”
Ian threw the clock aside and hurried into the bathroom. He showered, brushed his teeth and hair, and ran into the bedroom. He threw on the suit he had picked out and ran to the kitchen, grabbing an apple. He ran down the flights of stairs to the main lobby, exiting through the double doors. It was then, as he stood outside in the cold morning air, that he realized that he had forgotten something.
He almost turned and went back into the complex when he remembered the previous night. He remembered giving the jacket to the girl and saying that he would pick it up in the morning.
Shaking his head, murmuring to himself something about Christian charity, he entered his car and closed the door.
* * *
The house looked different than it did when Ian had driven by it last night. Of course, it could have been that last night was dark and there was not enough light to see the true details of the house. Something, however, just did not seem the same. The house looked different, almost sadder. The flowerbed was in shambles; even the roses were wilted, except for the one with no blossom; that alone stood tall. The paint looked faded, and the house itself looked like all hope, all life therein, had drained away.
Ian walked up the walk to the door. He looked for a doorbell but could not find one. He turned his head and raised his fist to knock when he noticed the knocker on the door. Shrugging his shoulders, he knocked. A few seconds later, as he stood outside, he heard the shuffle of feet coming towards the door. He straightened up and fixed his tie.
The door opened a crack, and an eye looked out at him.
“Yes.” It was a woman’s voice. It sounded younger, not too many years older than Ian himself, but felt worn, as if the voice itself had been tortured for some unknown sin.
“Mrs. Heart?”
“Yes? What is it?”
“I’m here to get something from your daughter. I’m the one who brought her home last night.”
For a moment, the woman looked up at him through that crack in the door. Slowly she opened the door. Ian looked at her. She was still in her nightgown. Her eyes were red and wide open, swollen with tears that seemed to threaten to deluge forth at any second. She did only look about 35, but she had wrinkles on her face that made her seem to be twenty years older. Ian started to speak but couldn’t.
“My, my daughter?” The woman’s eyes began to water. She looked up at Ian, her mouth agape.
“Yes. I believe her name was Colleen.”
“Oh Sweet Jesus.”
The woman slid down to the floor in the doorway. Ian moved quickly to help her. He moved her into the kitchen and searched for a glass of water. She cried constantly, so loudly that Ian was sure that she would pass out if she did not stop. He brought her the glass as she struggled to control herself. She sipped the water, and then looked up at Ian.
“Colleen was my daughter.”
“Was?”
“She died three years ago. No, more like four. Yes, four. She was riding home with a friend in a car. It was raining and the driver was young. The police said that there was alcohol in his blood. He was 17; she was just 15. I always thought she was too young for him. Anyway, we got in a fight and she stormed out. I was still angry at her when I got the call.”
She sniffed and wiped her nose.
“We buried her in her graduation gown. She was so happy that day, her graduation. She had the biggest smile.”
Her words trailed off into another stream of tears. Ian stiffly patted her on her shoulder.
“I had a dream last night that she came back, that she stood over my bed. I dreamt that she said goodnight, like she did when she was little. I could have sworn she sat down and hugged me. She looked terrible, as if she had been through a storm, yet looked so happy. She practically glowed.”
She cried again. Finally she began to compose herself, wiping the tears from her damp eyes.
“I’m sorry for this show I’m putting on. I must look horrible. I’m sorry, but there is no way you could have seen Colleen last night. You must have been mistaken. Maybe you dreamed it or something like that.”
Ian was quiet. He stood up as the woman began to rise.
“Thank you for helping me. Sorry for the um...”
“It’s no problem, really.”
She led Ian to the door, seeming to have recovered herself. As he walked out the door, Ian turned.
“What cemetery was she buried in?”
“St. James’, down by the church. It was our parish.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
With that, Ian walked back to his car. He opened the door and entered as in a trance, slowly closing the door and, finally, driving away.
* * *
The sun did not shine, for a cloud had covered it. It was not abnormal, but unique, since it was the only cloud in the sky that day. It hung over the cemetery, never blowing away, never releasing the rays of the sun down upon that place of rest. Elsewhere in the world, even in different parts of the town, the sun shone as normal, even, as some commented, brighter than normal. Then, as strangely as the cloud appeared, it faded away, showing the life-giving rays of the sun onto the desolate bed of the empty shells resting in peace.
Ian’s car pulled up in the driveway of the cemetery, the only movement as far as the eye could see. He was struck not just by the lack of sunshine, something he had just been riding against in the early morning, but the complete and utter lack of sound. There was not even a cricket chirping in the silent realm of the dead. Ian rubbed his eyes as he exited the car. When the door closed, the echo of the slam carried off into the wind.
Ian had rescheduled the interview in the car, on his way to the cemetery. The revelation that Colleen had been dead was almost too much for him. He had called the school and regretfully said that he would not be able to come that day; it was rescheduled for the following day. So now, Ian was here to visit the forgotten, the abandoned dead, the loved ones who were loved no more.
Each grave was solemn. Ian read the names and dates, touching the stones, saying silent prayers for those who had no one to pray for them. He noticed that many had holders for flowers, but the flowers had long ago withered away. The holders themselves had crumbled, until only the bare rusty wire remained. Everything was gray or brown; the colors of warmth had faded with the flowers.
It was then that he saw the grave. It was obviously newer than the surrounding inhabitants, those silent residents, yet seemed already worn, abandoned. The name was the same and the date was correct, showing that this fair maiden had died only four years before. The epitaph simply said “Only the good die young.”
He saw none of this. He could not take his gaze from the ground in front of the headstone, the ground only so far above the decayed body beneath. His face lost only a little color at first, but soon became pale, almost translucent. He started shaking, as his body became suddenly cold: he could feel the warmth leaving him. He lifted his hand to his face, scarcely believing that he could be awake. Then he bent over and touched the burst of color that shone like the missing sun through an overcast sky. He then held the color close to his heart, feeling it, surprised by its dryness and warmth. He then began the long walk back to the car. Only this time he wore a wide smile. This time his mind was not troubled but triumphant. This time the sun shone down upon him as the strange cloud drifted apart.
This time he carried his jacket in his arms.

Unerased

2005-07-12T22:08:00.000-04:00

I wrote this last semester, and I just tried revising it tonight. I'd love some outside criticism. Rip away.

Unerased

by Adrienne Alessandro

She had wanted to be a nun when she had been little, but her father had not cared for the idea of his child going to Africa and harboring her virginity in the jungle heat. “Stay in the village and be a mother,” he said, as he sat on the dusty doorstep in their Mediterranean village. He rubbed his grizzled beard slowly and squinted his eyes. “You can do more with your life here than you could ever do there.” He looked up at her while the street leading up to the village church was swirling with golden dust, kicked up by the worn soles of the women working in the village. The ancient sun threw its light onto the yellow sandstone buildings and cast itself on the figure of Giovanna, standing before her father in the circles of dust. She looked up the street and down to her father, and said, “You don’t understand, papa. But I will listen to you and stay here if you want me to.” She had gone inside and held back her tears until she went to bed that night. She had listened, but she did not agree.

The nuns at the school always had always told Giovanna that she was smart. That idea had never really soaked into her in the same way that the Shakespeare words and the Italian songs and the love for silence had melded themselves into her bones, but she stored the statement in the back of her mind and kept it there to remind herself someday. She liked to go down to the garden by the harbor, guarded high by the strong block walls that had kept back the invasions and the sea for hundreds of years. This sea whipped out from her like a taunt blue rug that was being dusted by the wind. She looked down at the blue and thought about the motion, the waves, and the wash that crashed against the wall. She would sometimes look down at that water until the rhythm of the waves would creep into her body and she could feel their motion moving through her lungs, mind, and soul. It stayed with her as she walked through the streets of the city afterwards, onto the bus and back to her school.

Sometimes she brought a schoolbook to the garden, but mostly she sat and watched the people go by. Some of them had children in carriages, others had suitors to walk with. The rich ladies had hats that floated above them and set their own rhythm. Giovanna watched them all with a pencil in her hand, and sketched out the people in a gold book . It was the one beautiful object she owned, that she won at school for a sketch she made of her father. Giovanna loved the embossed swirls that traveled down over the stiff board cover. She traced them with her fingers while she daydreamed and let the people pass before her eyes.

Afternoons spent away from the noisy boarding school were Giovanna happiest moments. When she came back to the college on those days she still had the sea’s blue in her body, and others could tell that there was something different about her. Some had suggestions.

“You daydream too much, Giovanna,” Sister Nicoletta said primly, acidly. The nun’s words flooded over Giovanna thick and heavy, drowning out the voice in her head and the rhythm in her soul. “You do well in school, but your head is in the clouds. Your mind is in that gold book. Look down and see the work in front of you. Be smart about life. Be like Michealina,” she said approvingly. “She knows what the world is.” Giovanna looked out the window to see the glorious Michaelina, blooming for the moment, pointed out to her, and she saw the woman that her father wanted her to be. Michaelina was the kind that would eventually be ground into the yellow dust with the spilled baking flour and the dirty washing water. She was full of hard wide bones and coy looks for the sailors who dropped by the harbor on leave. The only dreams Michaelina made were the ones of boys who twirled her for a week in the dances and left her to spin on her own. Giovanna had looked at Sister Nicoletta with her steady green eyes that showed no fear. Her words came out coolly, decidedly. “I can only be like Michaelina if I keep the Giovanna that’s in me.” She turned and quickly walked away as the nun disapprovingly watched her retreating figure.

Giovanna laughed about it later, when she sketched out Sister’s expression in her book. It was not that Giovanna was afraid of work and the dirty dishwater. When she went home on the weekends, she got down on her hands and knees on Saturday morning and washed the stone floor that her family walked on all week, and the next Saturday she went back and washed the dust off again. That was part of the life of a girl in her village, and she participated in it with energy and love. Giovanna would do her share of work with the rest of the women. But she would not give up her afternoons and soft twilights in the garden by the sea, feeling the salt breeze wash over her face, and she would not leave her golden book on the shelf for as long as she had something to draw to herself. No, she thought to herself, she would not be like Michaelina in that way. Giovanna would stay light and fierce and dance hard in the light and draw her sketches by the sea.

* * * *

Four years passed and Giovanna’s hair was down and whipping across her face on the gray blue day when she first met Francis. The wind was coming in spurts, jumping over the old walls and catching the pages of her gilded book playfully until the pretty teacher finally smiled and closed the cover. She looked up and there he was.

He was leaning against the wall and looking out to sea, letting his eyes rest on a fisherman who was launching his net-burdened boat into the water. The man’s face had the smile of a person who did not know something yet, but who wanted to know what it was. Giovanna found herself tucking her hair back behind her ear in spite of herself. She was pleased with how the man gazed at the scene she saw below her. Her finger traveled gently over the cover of her book.

“Do you see that picture?” the man said, never taking his eyes from the man in the boat. She knew that he was talking to her. “It’s more than what he’s doing. That fisherman below lives out a whole life on that boat.” His voice was soft and it smiled in the description, making pauses to make sure that she would understand the way his mouth wrapped around the foreign words. “He says goodbye to his wife in the morning, takes the nets, which she probably mended, and steps out onto the water every day, alone.” His voice caught on with the image. The fisherman had now bent himself into the hard row for deeper waters. “He rocks all day with only the sun and the fish for company; but look at him, he loves it. He understands the sea, he knows it.” Giovanna rose and leaned on the wall beside him, looking down to where his finger pointed. She smiled at the picture he had given her, at the sea, at the fisherman’s life. She saw the inkstains on his fingers, the worn leather journal peeking out of his knapsack, and she tugged back on her hair once more. He turned to her and smiled into her eyes. “You must see it every day, but for me it’s the first time. His life makes a beautiful story, doesn’t it?”

* * * *

Six months later, Giovanna ran to her garden by the sea with a sob, repeating to herself that it was alright, that her father just did not understand. She should have expected this; it was like him, she thought bitterly. But this time she was not stepping back, she told herself, choking out the words, she would not change her mind.

He is not one of our people, her father had barked at her. Couldn’t you find a man from our church, our village? Someone who understands you? Someone who knows who you are? Who is this man? Do you know? Can he offer you anything that the village cannot? You do not know, and what’s more, you do not know yourself. Your head is in the clouds, girl, and you need to wake up. Wake up, girl. The words tumbled from her head down her heart and bit her there.

For six sweet months, Giovanna had drawn pictures for the writer and lived with the stories and the pictures that he etched upon her mind. Two nights ago, he asked her to marry him, in the same spot where she now cried out her tears. And she was going to marry Francesco, she whispered to herself, marry him and move away to his home in America. Her father had some truth. Leaving her home, her family, this sea, would rip the bark off of her heart, she knew. But her soul wanted to marry his own soul. She may have thought of many new dreams since that gray blue day in the garden, but she was still Giovanna. Not Michaelina, she whispered to herself. She would not understand, like papa does not understand. But I do, she cried to herself. Oh, I do.

No, she choked to herself, no. I know who I am, and what this village is. I know what I love, and I know the village men. They want women that they can use up like matches, light them up and then throw them out after two seconds, burnt. But I want to love, just to be able to love. And he sees life in pictures.

She looked out to the sea.

He knows the meaning of blue.

She turned her eyes out to shifting peaks that rose towards her, and looked out past the sea.

He writes his beautiful pictures for me, she whispered. He cannot carry the garden here with us to America, but he sees me, he knows me. He draws me for myself in his eyes and on the page.

She lifted her eyes up to the sky, and in the distance, she saw the glow from the church in her old village, calling her back. She had cried long enough. Giovanna rose and turned her steps towards home. Her golden book with the finger-worn cover was in her right hand, tight, and her mind already flew across what intended for the last page. When she came home in the twilight to face her father on the step, she held no fear. His last words to her, “Is there nothing here for you to stay for?” brought no tears.

Giovanna stepped into the house, took a thick red ribbon and tied it around her golden book, and placed it deep in her suitcase with some crushed rose petals from the garden by the sea. As she came out the door, she looked up the street, past the settled dust, on to the lights of village church and nodded her head. Then she took Francesco’s hand and walked away.

* * * *

Thirty years later, a woman with a faded red ribbon around her salted hair leaned against the sea wall in the Farrugha Gardens by the harbor. Her dim eyes knew the spot well. In her hand she carried two books which she placed on the ledge beside her. The first one was cracked at the seams, but traces of gold were still caught in between the embossed swirls that had been wiped clean by the fingers of time. She opened it to the last page, where there was a bold sketch of a man looking out to sea with a woman standing strongly by his side. Giovanna looked up, and took a sigh that found its depths in three decades of longing and love. Scattered tears fell quickly to the sea as the woman lifted the book to her lips, giving it a gentle kiss.

When she took her seat in the garden, she reached over to the other book that had a cover of cracked brown leather. It fell open to the picture of a man who had a ring on his left hand, looking out with a look that knew. The woman reached out to touch his smile. But the pages flipped to a charcoal scene of trees that starkly surrounded a cold stone rectangle in the ground. A woman shown ten years older than the page before bent over in grief and clutched at her womb and heart. The letter from her father that year had been cruel. What has this man, who took you all the way over there, given to you? Why won’t you come back here where you fit? he stabbed. She had burned that letter and thrown the ashes to the wind.

One page later, there was a kinder letter tucked within the leaves. It was written by the hand that her eyes used to rest on, following its motion as it sprawled out black words upon white paper. “My Beautiful,” it said, “when I must leave you, I want you to remember and glance back, to see and sense again the love that we have with us now. There is a new joy to our lives now, which you alone will fully know . . .” But it was not necessary to read any more; the words were already written on her heart. She folded the pages of the letter and turned instead to the last page of the book. Upon it was a soft picture done in black ink with gold paint and light blue chalk. She gently traced the yellow curls of the figure with her fingertip until she thought to look up.

A thin American girl holding a pastitzzi and a glass bottle of soda stood before her. Giovanna thought to herself how young the girl looked in this setting of old stones and heartaches, joys and memories. Maria’s mouth twisted as she took a sip out of a bottle of Kenny, but smiled at the sea as her sandy blonde curls fell over sharp blue eyes; eyes that knew. “Is this the place that you told me about in all the old stories?” Giovanna smiled and nodded to her daughter. Maria leaned over the wall and grinned dizzily at the drop. “No wonder you love it so much.” She cozied up to her mother and wrapped her arms around her slight figure.. After a little while, she asked softly, “What did you lose, mother, when you left here? Do you have any regrets?”

Giovanna turned to her daughter, grabbed her hand and gave her a strong kiss. She looked deep into Maria’s eyes and said, “No. None at all. I gained much more than I could ever have had.” Her worn eyes ran across her daughter’s face, and both knew. Then the woman gently closed the brown leather book and placed it on top of the book with the worn gold cover, tying them both with a turquoise ribbon. She dropped her arm around the waist of her precious girl with the golden curls, and both of them looked out with gratitude and wonder at the ascending blue sea.

Paradise Found

2005-07-11T19:14:00.000-04:00

Paradise Found

"The sage wears rough clothing, but carries the jewel in his heart."
- Lao Tzu
...Being was - to start
And all was Unified
Not one adjunct component -
A Circle, round and Wide
Never ending, Never starting, Never slowing down,
But moving all the time

And then there came the Light (yellow-bright)
And Water, clear and blue
That separated - Piece by piece
And split the earth in two

And from the sea emerged the land -
Red with rocky soil
Where Man and fateful Choice were made
Where lurked therein Death's coil -

It was a Paradise, they say,
So green and lush and wild -
Where lived this man with Diamond in his head
As simple as a child

His paradise was Beautiful -
Many pieces, yet one whole
But never so pristine could be
A place Dim Pride and Fear cajole

For a little string of black snaked there
Temptation - in a Tree
That tugged and pulled
Unraveling...
Magnanimous - Safety

The man turned Back
The Jewel went Black
And Tumbling, tumbling Fell - All
But Pieces of his Paradise
Amidst the blinding Gall -

It didn't hurt too much (thou thereafter he no color saw)
Man awoke with separate Eyes -
Half-sight, half-taste, half-life was his
Absurd and homely prize

His Separateness was evident
His loneliness unquelled
A Stranger he became - a Bug
Indifferent, repelled

In Blandness he Existed bleak
For sands and sands of Time
As broken dusty sadness speaks
In bells that never chime

"Innocent" he became -
The treachery all "forgot"
Until from Prophecy arose -
Redemption he'd not sought

Salvation was a Pain - so Great
A tender, loving Sore
That throbbed and with it's Opening
Didst shake Man at his core

It jumbled him, and loosed the chips
That Death had Hardly froze
Like needles pinching Numbness
That's settled in one's toes

"Everything dead that's coming back
Must hurt like Hell and Fire,"
For Love, that Diamond Paradise forgot
Is Death in shy Disguise -

Their Difference is like White and Black
No difference almost
But that White is all colors
And Black naught but their host

(Love) - the Bridge that bonds those rainbow gem-shards -
Once borken Stupidly
One must Die to climb -
To Exist eternally

That Death of Death is what Love is
And of Absurdity
For after Death's dark, Spring's color comes
- Returns to Unity...

Mahler's Ninth

2005-07-11T10:44:00.000-04:00

Mahler's Ninth
by Jennifer P.

Posted by Shadows and Dust on behalf of Jenn.

He sat alone in the tiny, darkened garret, alone save an ancient, dusty trunk. An old trunk and so very many memories. The clasps were rusted and stiff, but he managed to crack the lid, after some effort, then sat motionless, afraid to open it any farther. He was loath to disturb something within, something which he would rather lay still and undisturbed as it had for so many years. Secrets? Perhaps. The trunk rested, still and silent, though he watched it steadily as if were a live thing. Finally, he opened it and the air became charged with a thousand specters of things long past, dead and buried long ago.

There was a moment’s pause, then he began tearing through the items in the trunk, tossing them right and left, or into the small brazier that sat as his feet—a futile means to stave off the bitter cold which enveloped him and the little room. Dissatisfied with life, with death, and with everything. He tore through letters, dried flowers from a long-forgotten party, concert programs, souvenirs…vestiges of his life before all had gone bitterly wrong. Nothing would remain! That life was gone, and he determinedly burned everything that brought back those times.

Suddenly, in the midst of his rampage upon the past, a photograph caught his eye. He paused, and picked it up by the cracked and faded edge. Now, new memories came flooding back, of someone he had long ago forgotten. Cherished beyond words, she had been, now lost forever. He sat with the photograph in his limp fingers, allowing the images and feelings from the past wash over him. He remembered her dancing, gracefully floating across the floor, so very like the cloud the poets spoke of. He remembered her smiling at him, sweetly yet sad. There had always been that wall between them, a part of him he was never able to communicate to her, and it was his music. There was a place she never saw into, a small wedge in his mind that eventually drove them apart. However, that was all later. There was a time when that didn’t matter. A time when they sat and talked, or simply sat and listened, to his playing, to her singing. He drifted slowly among pictures of her folding her hands in her lap when he began a lecture, or of her stamping her little foot in frustration with his oddities and habits.

Of course, those were the good times, he though. His inability to communicate, her inability to understand were more than could be overcome. He pictured her one last time, saddened but angry, standing in the doorway. Then, she was gone. He slammed the lid of the of the trunk shut with vehemence, tossing the photograph into the fire and watching the edges curl up agonizingly, tortured. He stared, broodingly, into the flame, then began throwing the remaining items after it in rapid succession. There was nothing left to remember. There was nothing left to do. He stood and left, leaving the room dark, and colder than it had been before.

When The End Is Near

2005-07-07T10:48:00.000-04:00

(Note: As per previous post, if possible please print the story to read. I firmly believe that literature is not meant to be read on-screen. Also, this is little more than a rough draft. Please feel free--indeed, I encourage you to--criticize or otherwise disparage this piece of work.)

When The End Is Near

By John Jalsevac

With the relish of a born country boy raised in the big city, contrary to what he was dimly aware were his deepest yearnings, Davie leaned back against the gunnel of the aluminum rowboat and smoothly swung over the release on the fishing reel. It fell into place with a distinctive click. Long ago the boy had learned to associate that sound with infrequent communes with the dawn and the dusk, precious sunrises and sunsets, and a silence of soul and mind so tenuous that he dared not think on it lest he break its spell. So he didn’t think on it; he enjoyed it.

The quiet, purposeful click of the reel releasing the tension of the line fell like a stray raindrop plopping itself on the bottom of the aluminum rowboat; it might have been a mechanical sound, but it was nothing like the industrial din of the big city. It was as much a natural sound as the crisp swish of a canoe oar slicing through the northern water.

Lightly pressing the line to the rod with the index finger of the same hand that had pulled the release, he fluidly swung the rod back over his right shoulder, and with a flick of the wrist sent the bass lure whizzing over the dark, shimmering water. It broke the surface with a quiet plunk. No other sound broke the heavy stillness but for his quiet breathing; after two months of harassment the frantic swarms of mosquitoes had disappeared into nothingness as quickly as they had arrived from nothingness. The motions and the pleasures of fishing were like those of breathing to Davie, except better. A quick half spin on the handle and the release fell back into place with another click that was quickly lost in the thick fog that further deepened the heavy and expectant darkness of the early morning hour. Nothing at all was visible but for a few feet of unmoving water around the sides of the boat, and at first Davie had had to strain to pick out the tackle box and net and chain lying on the floor of the boat. But now his eyes were accustomed to the dimness. He gave the rod a series of swift tugs, then reeled in a little ways; then repeated the same motion again.

A small perch broke the surface a few feet away and concentric rings expanded across the surface of the small lake, like visible sound waves.

“I can’t remember much these days. Can’t much say if any of the things I think about really happened. And the thing is, that there just isn’t anyone left now who can tell me if they did. There’s nobody left at all.”

Pops gazed across from the stern of the small row boat at the outline of his grandson who reclined with a cushion against the fore gunnel. The curly-haired boy looked younger and fresher and happier than he ever remembered feeling when he was the same age. Wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, his thick, sun-burnt arms gave some idea of the power of his body, and a defiant, knowing confidence swimming barely beneath the surface of his eyes, apparent even in the darkness, gave some sense of the power of his mind. Warily extending his memory, stretching it out into the hazy past, Pops couldn’t recall ever having the confidence that his grandson demonstrated.

But then, when he was the same age the old man had already fought the devil with nothing more than a rifle, a bayonet, and a few hand grenades. That’s exactly the sort of thing that’ll shave a few years off of a man’s boyhood, he thought.

The old man leaned the rod against the edge of the boat, half sitting on the butt; that way the rod wouldn’t flip overboard if he got a bite; his line trolled lazily in the water behind as the boat floated almost imperceptibly with the slow current through the thick soup. He sighed. He was too old and too tired to keep casting and reeling and casting and reeling; his line was baited with a fresh, squirming leech and a red and white bobber lolled peaceably in the water fifteen feet off, a vague stab of crimson through the black and gray of the water and the heavy ceiling of mist that whirled in slow and graceful circles overhead; he always had more success with fresh bait anyway. His body ached; he slowly repositioned the cushion he sat on, painfully crossing his right leg over his left with a grunt.

“Ah Davie,” he said abstractly, his voice low and quiet and thoughtful so as not to disturb the heavy silence, but so as to meld into it, to become a part of it. A click, then a swish, the hiss of fishing line, and then a quiet splash as Davie cast deep into the mist.

“We used to have such a family Davie, like you wouldn’t believe. This was before you were even born. The times we had...We used to have huge family reunions with hundreds of people. And now I can’t remember half of them, not even half; they’re all gone this way or that; a lot of them are dead now I suppose. I don’t know what happened, but it’s all gone now. I can’t remember so much about those days now. I try hard to remember some of these things, to think back, and sometimes I don’t even know if they happened, or if they’re just a pipe dream. And there isn’t anyone left now who can tell me if they really did happen.”

Pops felt like talking. But a part of him couldn’t believe that he was talking to his grandson. Since when, he asked himself, had this grandson of his, this child, grown such that he could understand?; when had he gained enough experience and wisdom to understand the thoughts and reminisces of his elderly grandfather, who had seen the world several times over, and whose life spanned over four times the number of years? When had a bridge been built between the two which could be crossed without fear of its disappearing or breaking?

But the last two days of fishing and sitting for long and peaceful hours on the sprawling veranda of the Northern cottage the family owned, doing nothing more than watching the cool breeze laughing through the massive swaying pines that made the cottage seem a mere island of civilization in an endless wilderness of lakes and hills and cliffs, and smoking, and sometimes reading, and sometimes talking had caused the old man to begrudgingly accept that his grandson was knowledgeable, and even wise; sometimes he feared that the boy might be wiser than he himself was, and that thought caused him confusion.

Over the last week Pops had been thoroughly puzzled to see his grandson wake up early each morning, sometimes before sunrise, or when the first virginal rays had only begun to transform the Northern sky into a deep, rich tapestry of sea-blue. Wrapping himself in a blanket David would sit down by the shore on a rock, or at the edge of the dock, with his feet trailing in the water, a black, still silhouette stark against the giant silver mirror of the water, staring out over the lake as though, in some sense, he understood it. What did he think about during those early hours of solitude; what did a boy his age have to think about so deeply? At first Pops thought it must be a girl, a blonde beauty whose face haunted the boy in the early morning, as the faces and the rippling laughter of the untouched and unconquered beauties from his own youth had unexpectedly begun to haunt his dreams in the last few years; but now he wasn’t so sure. Something about the boy forbade simple lovesickness. So, if not a girl, what did the boy think about? Before Pops had even had a chance to accept his manhood he had wrestled with the devil with nothing more than a gun, a bayonet, and a few hand grenades; he sure had a lot to think about when he was that age. But what about this boy, who had never left the cradle and the comfort of his own mother’s arms and his own home?

But perhaps, he thought wearily, the boy had fought with the devil with his particular array of weapons. And perhaps, just perhaps the boy hadn’t lost the battle, as he had.

Pops felt like talking.

“What is it you can’t remember Pops? The war?” asked Davie. He leaned forward a little, his ruddy sunburnt face genuinely interested. Long, dark locks of hair fell around his eager eyes. He wanted to hear about the war; that’s why he asked the question like that.

No one had listened for a long time. The boy listened. He asked questions.

“About most everything. Can’t remember anything really. It’s all a fog now.”

“Where’d you fight Pops?”

“All over the place. They just kept you moving the whole time. Half the time I didn’t know where the hell I was. It was all a blur, even then Davie.

“They first shipped me over to Belgium,” he continued slowly, addressing the shifting and oppressive cloud that had squatted over the whole lake, swallowing his voice. He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with a practiced, but trembling hand. The match flared out in the gloom, casting deep, flickering shadows on the old man’s drawn and pale face and on the bottom of the boat. It hissed when he flicked it into the water. “That’s where I started fighting. Moved around a lot after that; don’t remember half the places I was. Don’t remember most of the guys I was with either. When I was first sent over I had a few buddies; but after that you just can’t keep ‘em for long. One day they’re there, and the next they’re gone. You want a cigarette?”

Davie shook his head no.

“You know, “ said Pops, “I quit these damned things for twenty years. I only started back about five years ago; twenty years and I never lost the taste for ‘em. I craved a smoke every day for twenty years, and after a time you can’t but wonder what’s the point of not having one. I couldn’t seem to answer that question, so I started back.”

Pops slowly reeled in his line, checked that the leech was still firmly hooked. It was. He ponderously cast about fifteen feet behind the boat and settled the rod in between his knees. He wore an old red truckers cap, with the bill as straight and rigid as when it came out of the factory.

“I remember I had one buddy” he continued, “Johnny something or other. I don’t have any idea what ever happened to him; but still I’ll always remember him. He was a little crazy; that’s why I remember him I guess. There was one day we were walking along, God knows where; I think it was in France. Well, the Germans, you know, they used to set booby traps everywhere. You had to keep a close eye for them. Me and Johnny were walking along—I think it was near a farmhouse—and there was a wire along the ground. We couldn’t see what it was attached to. And Johnny, he was going to pull it. Well, I called him a son of a…puppy—I called him something worse than that—but he woulda pulled it, he really would’ve if I hadn’tve socked him one. That damned wire would’ve been attached to a bomb and we both would’ve been blown to pieces. He was crazy like that.

“And there was another fellow I remember. A young kid; he was scared as hell the whole time I knew him. A rocket took his head clean off. I’ve never been able to figure out why it didn’t blow up right then and there. But instead it just plum took his head off as if that’s what the blasted thing was made for, as though that were it’s only purpose.”

He exhaled a cloud of thin cigarette smoke that swirled up about his head. Davie loved his grandfather, mostly, he thought, because his grandfather had the most genial smile of anyone he knew. He didn’t know anything about his grandfather, or at least very little, and most of Pops’ kids couldn’t stand him or grandma, including David’s own father. Going by their example David would have thought the old man wasn’t worth exchanging words with, and for years growing up he hadn’t. It wasn’t out of malice; it just hadn’t ever occurred to him that maybe his grandfather had something to say. But Davie had learned much in the last few years and informed by the optimism of youth he just couldn’t believe that a man with a smile that ignited his eyes into dancing crystals, that erased all sense of age from his creased and leathered face, could be as bad as that.

The boy had decided that he wanted to know his grandfather before he died. And he knew now that with every passing day his grandfather was getting closer and closer to that great and final battle which every man must lose. Out here, drifting in the rowboat, floating in the midst of this gentle and hazy dream of water softly lapping the side of the boat, and the silence of the early morning breeze through the ghostly pines, and the luminescence of the new born light diffusing through the drifting fog, Davie felt drawn to the gentle old man who had suffered more than Davie could understand. He listened carefully to each word and tried to imprint it on his memory; he thought that perhaps when the old man died he might be able to give him a fitting eulogy, while his own kids couldn’t because of old and unforgiven bitternesses. For most of his life the boy had believed his grandfather to be a very simple man, without a whole lot to say about much of anything; but now he had the suspicion that something deep within the elderly and broken soldier was causing him pain and Davie wanted to find it out. And further, he felt that the old man wanted to be found out.

“I don’t like to remember these things Davie. I don’t like to remember them in some ways; and yet, sometimes I still try to remember. I don’t know why I try to remember. War does things to a man Davie. That’s why I threw away my gun when it was all over. As soon as the war was over, I threw it overboard the boat that was taking me home. I was afraid that if somebody said something to me, I’d blast ‘em to hell. I hated that gun.”

“Did you ever kill anyone Pops?” As a child Davie was told that his grandfather had been a foot soldier in the great war. But the idea that those firm, calloused hands, accustomed to the heavy manual labour by which honest work he had fed his family for decades, had ever been used to spill human blood wasn’t reconcilable in his mind; even if all they ever did was pull a trigger and let a flying bullet do the worst part, it was still too much. In his dreams David had often seen his grandfather running in flat open battlefields with thousands of other soldiers running along beside him and hundreds of rumbling tanks; always running, and running, just running, never shooting. As a child there had never once been an enemy in David’s visions of the war, and his grandfather never even once pulled the trigger on the rifle he carried in the dreams. But since then David had seen the movies, and he knew in his heart that his grandfather had to be a killer; if he wasn’t he wouldn’t still be alive.

“I don’t know Davie. I don’t ever like to think about it. I had a machine gun, just like everybody else. I pointed it and I fired just like everybody else; and maybe I killed somebody, and maybe I didn’t. I don’t like to think about it. Some of those boys I fought with, they were real murderers you know. They might have been fighting on the right side, but it didn’t matter. Together we might have fought for what was right, but individually…”

“They enjoyed killing?”

“Yes. That’s right. That’s exactly it. They enjoyed it; they wanted more of it; they got a thrill out of it. But as for me…I’ve never really been able to handle going to the Legion with all the other guys. I’ve never wanted to tell those war stories—I killed such and such, and so many, and all that—and I’ve never ever liked listening to them either; I really can’t stand listening to the stories the ol’ boys tells. It’s nothing to be proud of, what we did. We did what we had to do, but as soon as you start enjoying it, you’re little better than a common murderer. It’s a terrible thing…what we did…

“There was one time Davie…” He paused and looked out over the water; the cigarette dangled between his fingers, the red tip smouldering into gray ash. “I was behind the lines. I was shell-shocked. I was pretty screwed up, and I hadn’t fought for a few days; nothing in the world could have made me voluntarily go back to the frontlines. Anyway, I guess they wanted to get me back into feeling like a soldier. I think that was the idea. The commanding officer told me to get on a lorry that was going out there; I was heading to the front, he told me, to pick up paper. To pick up paper. Hell, Davie, I sure as hell wasn’t gonna go. There was no way. But the sergeant major, he got two guys, Canadian soldiers, to point their guns at me. Imagine that, your own boys pointing their guns at you. I still see that every day. Every day Davie. And every time I see it I get madder ‘n hell.

“Sometimes I’m pretty confused about these things…” He fell into a brooding silence.

There it was. The boy caught sight of the gleam of the piece of shrapnel that remained lodged in the old man’s heart. He quietly reeled in, jerking the rod now and again; the line silently spun onto the spool and cool water dripped on Davie’s fingertips. A blue-green minnow shot into sight, sliding gracefully just beneath the surface of the water, slender and swift; Davie gave one last jerk and the minnow leap through the air and then dangled miraculously a foot off the water, dripping. Metal hooks protruded through the belly and a piece of green muddy seaweed clung to it. Leaning out Davie grasped the line, glistening like a sunrise spider web in his hand and guided the minnow-lure into the boat. Carefully he unclipped the snap and slid the lure off. Leaning down he rummaged about in the tackle box and selected a floating lure, threading it onto the snap. A light wind floated in from the South. The fog was mostly dispersed and the shore was visible now. To the east, against a black silhouetted hill of waving pines, the sky turned imperceptibly lighter, a deep, mournful sea blue, with no hint of the harsh light that would soon break across the horizon.

“Let’s try a new spot Pops. The fish here are too smart for us. That or we’ve caught them all already.”

“Caught them all? We haven’t gotten a damned bite all morning.”

“I guess it’s just not our day.”

“Nothing doing. We’re too early. The fish aren’t even jumping yet. Give it ten minutes and they’ll be biting like they haven’t eaten in years.”

“We ought to get one of those new-fangled fish finders they sell these days.”

“And take all the fun out of it?”

The boy stuck the hook through one of the loops on his rod, then reeled in until it was firmly fastened. Leaning the rod against the bench he gently stood up; the boat swayed. For a moment he just stood and breathed deeply. The air was perfumed with the heavy sent of pine. A light smell of smoke mingled delicately with the thousand other earthy smells that quietly assaulted the senses. David loved this place.

“It’s one heck of a morning Pops.” The boy felt so alive he thought he would burst.

“Sure is. Now get rowing before I take the oars and show you how it’s done. We got fish to catch. Your mom wants something to fry for breakfast. No man wants to disappoint his mom.”

“Sure thing Pops.”

He seated himself on the middle bench and grasped the oar handles in his palms, curling his fingers tightly around the rough wood. As he lifted the oars from inside the boat into the water, they gave a loud groan and a splash; Davie leaned back, pulling his shoulder blades together. Aware of and reveling in the power of the muscles of his broad back, he pulled hard on the oars and the boat picked up speed. He quickly fell into a rhythm—leaning far forward and then pulling back—and the heavy aluminum row boat shot across the lake on the tips of the tiny waves, cutting a clean path. Sweat formed on his brow and he felt the newborn heat of the morning sun on his neck. With every passing minute the light grew more and more intense.

“How about we try the swamps Pops?” He said in between breaths.

“Sounds good Davie.”

Pops was right. Fishing was in the old man’s blood; Davie was only pretending for a few days. Maybe a few months of this kind of life and it’d seep into his bloodstream too, until his veins and arteries themselves whispered the secrets of the wind and the moon and the stars to him. All around the boat fish were breaking the surface in search of their morning meal, gliding out from cool underwater refuges; water-spiders leapt across the glittering surface, their little splashes like raindrops falling all across the lake. A huge dragonfly silently hovered over Davie’s head and inspected the metal craft; satisfied he floated off as silently as he had come.

“I’m a confused man, Davie…” Pops said as the boat glided in towards the bulrushes that grew at the western end of the small lake. A great blue heron took a few nervous steps back and flapped his massive wings, before settling back into his tedious contemplation of the water that swirled about his feet.

A year ago Pops had been forced to see a psychiatrist.

At first he swore he wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Davie knew this because he had heard his aunt talking about it. “I ain’t seein no shrink,” he had protested with the stubbornness of the eldest generation who believes that anything invented after they’re born doesn’t apply. “I don’t care how much I’ll get from him. I ain’t seein’ no shrink.”

But he did care how much he got from him. He had to because he had just finished scraping the bottom of his pocket and there wasn’t anything left to scrape; and all his family and his kids were just as poor as he was. So he went. He hated it, or so he told everyone. He told everyone that he hated the probing, personal questions asked him by the kindly faced, bespeckled shrink. Who did he think he was anyway? But the truth was that it was the first time he had talked in years, the first time the important questions had been asked of him in decades. And a man’s gotta talk every now and then. The toughest man in the world needs to talk every now and then, to tell someone what’s on his mind. Apparently Pops had a lot on his mind because he talked, for hours. And the shrink listened—because it was his job, Pops reminded himself; but even so, the shrink was good at his job, and Pops believed he cared about what he talking about. That was all it took; that’s all he needed. So he talked.

“You’ve got war trauma,” said the psychiatrist after the required number of sessions. “You’ve had it ever since the war. There’s no doubt in my mind I can recommend you be put on pension. I’d be glad to do that for you.”

War trauma. Well, that’s what it was then. When the young psychiatrist said it, it sounded right. It felt nice to give it a new name. Before then it had always had a different name: fear.

Anyway, the pension was nice. Though it wasn’t nearly as much as he knew he deserved. He should have been wealthy…after all that he’d been through. He felt that God owed it to him. That’s why he gambled.

“God won’t let me win the lottery,” Pops said, slowly and painfully pulling his arm back, lifting over the release on the reel, and lobbing the bobber and line ten feet from where the bulrushes grew. “but he’ll let me suffer. I just keep on suffering, and I don’t know why, and I get pretty angry about it sometimes.

“Do you know what a V-2 is Davie?”

“Sure Pops. It was the rocket that the Germans used near the end of the war. Could’ve tipped the scales if they’d gotten it sooner.”

“Well, there was one day I was lying there with a few of the guys, and one of the damned things lands right next to me. They were huge Davie. If you could hear them coming you were alright, because it meant the rocket was still firing and it’d fly right by you; but if you couldn’t hear ‘em, you were screwed. One of ‘em landed right next to me in the muck, and it didn’t go off. It could’ve killed fifteen of us right there. It just stuck right there, half buried in the mud.

“All I can think is that God must’ve had a plan for me. Otherwise…I once walked away after ten of my buddies got torn to bits by another rocket, right there in front of my eyes…

“He must’ve had a plan…but instead all I do is suffer, and suffer…and I can’t make any sense of it at all…”

“Pops,” said David quietly, “Pops, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

The old man was staring with all his might at the red and white bobber; it was ducking up and down wildly as somewhere below the surface a fish nibbled away at the leech. And then it disappeared altogether, as the fish, caught in the frenzy of pain and fear of being caught tried to free himself from the hook that pierced his mouth. But Pops didn’t yank the line as he ought to have, didn’t react at all, didn’t even see, didn’t feel the tension on the rod, didn’t move a muscle. A glittering tear squeezed out from his reddened eyes, and then coursed a twisting path down the wrinkled and leathered face of the old man.

“I’m so confused…” he whispered.

“I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you Pops,” Davie earnestly repeated, scared; scared to see his grandfather cry, and scared to hear an eighty year old man admit confusion, admit failure…admit despair.

And still his grandfather didn’t say anything.

David thought that he understood.

“I’m sorry, Davie” Pops seemed to say. “I’m sorry that you too will spend your life searching for what cannot be found, as I have. I’m sorry that I caused you that pain by pointlessly defying the thousands of bullets and bombs with my name on them. I’m sorry that some great, cosmic accident spared me, while so many others died. So many children were never born, never conceived, because their fathers did not live to love their mothers; those children were the fortunate majority, who never had to wrestle with the as devil I have wrestled for over eighty years, who never had to know the exhaustion, the soulless tiredness that dogs me as I trod towards the inevitable grave that will open its yawning mouth to me before I ever know why.”

David’s impulse was to embrace his grandfather, but did not know how. Instead he swung over the release on rod that had sat limply in his hand, forgotten; it fell into place with a gentle click, and with a gentle swish he carefully cast into the bulrushes.

“I’m sorry Davie,” Pops said as they dragged the boat onto the shore later and unloaded their gear. “I talk too much.”

“No Pops,” said David. “You don’t talk enough.”

A brief appeal

2005-06-29T10:46:00.000-04:00

As we get started using this blog, I would like to make one recommendation and it is this:

I find that text read on-screen is generally more difficult to read in depth and to truly digest than text printed physically on paper. This is especially so with literature. The subtleties of style can often be lost on a computer screen, since the internet is so often used for the quick retrieval of pure information, and not enjoyment. Therefore it is customary, and even habitual, to skim what we read on the internet. This translates poorly to literature, in which every single word does, or ought to, serve a particular purpose; in which each individual word contributes to the grand mosaic which constitutes an individual writer's unique voice.

Since most of the posts on this blog will be literature, I think it a good thing to ask that if possible please print out a particular work, and read it carefully in its physical form before commenting.

Bathrobeman - the greatest story ever written

2005-06-29T09:40:00.000-04:00

“I’m going to kill everyone,” I said.

Aah! The roommate coughed! I lurched in my sheets. I tried to subdue my stress with a forceful sigh, the ones that come out jaggedly, like a noisy can of soup bouncing down a cliff. I spoke it again, “I’m going to kill everyone,” but this time with a profound sincerity. But rather than murder, I simply rolled over in my bed. I shot my next sigh at the wall, transforming the exhalation into a deep groan of bitter agony. Then fearfully I glimpsed at the red glow of the clock, blazing like a hellish ember in the dark, mocking me, prophesying my upcoming doom in the morning.

“Shut up,” I said to it. “I’m going to kill you too.”

To my consolation, my eschatological thoughts were drowned by the resurrection of my roommate’s snores.

“Thank you,” spoke I aloud at my friend’s slumbering recitations. “I feared you would not return!”

With that, I jumped out of my bed, entirely forgetting that it stood upon another, and consequently providing myself with an unexpectedly painful descent onto a pile of books, clothes, and probably a garbage can. A litany of curses came from my mouth. My ruckus, however, silenced the evil snores from my roommate, tempting me back into my bed. But reason dictated otherwise. I knew what he was thinking. The bedridden symphony would surely return in a dissonant vengeance if I took the bait.

My calling that night was elsewhere, I knew. It was a strange night. But as it was my freshmen year, having apparently lost the ability to sleep before four o’clock in the morning, I had nothing to lose. I didn’t have any friends. My roommate hated me. And I despised him too. His personality was tolerable, but his snores unforgivable. He denied the existence of his snores and would laugh at me. Just the other day, I stood on the precipice of snapping — of chucking my laptop into face like a frisbee. It was a close call.

I couldn’t see anything in the darkness. And what semblance of Christian charity I had left for my roommate withheld me from getting the idea of turning on the light. I felt around for clothes on the floor, and put on what fit my purpose of getting dressed. Some articles probably belonged to my roommate, and all of them, no doubt, were overdue for a wash. I put on two different kinds of shoes and then strove to find some species of coat, as outside there was a wintery seasoning. Just then my roommate’s song came in for a final movement. Irked by my inability to find adequate layers amongst the tiresome melody, I ripped off the blanket from my friend’s bed and headed for the door.

“Hey,” mumbled the roommate in a stupor, “hey, my brother should be an altar boy.”

“Well, you know what?” I shot back in defiance, “I don’t care because you’re talking in your sleep, and I can do whatever I want and you won’t remember a thing, so ... go suck an egg!”

I exited into the hallway like a king in a regal robe after telling an enemy monarch to go shove it. I didn’t the know what the heck I was doing, but I knew I would regret it. However, in the end, it all turned out to be rather providential, at least in some far-fetched manner, if you look really deep into it. So there I was, wearing two left shoes, a stained T-shirt, brown dress pants, and my roommate’s blanket, trotting down the stairs and out of the dorm into the nippy, icy air of whatever month it was.

I looked over the hauntingly dark ice-plains of the campus, speaking ghostly words through the frosty winds, and leaf-less trees swaying like skeletal hands. Promptly I stated, without composing more narrative metaphors, “Forget this. I’m going back to bed.” But upon my decision to return, I noticed something in the darkness.

[by: Julian Ahlquist]

I was looking southwards, in the direction of the Quad. Between it and myself lay the dark November forest, glistening with mystery, with the crescent moon gleaming in the eastern sky. As I surveyed that frosty darkness, I could tell that something was moving along the forest border, its figure barely distinguishable from the gloom that surrounded it. I imagined it was a deer or a bear, and I thought about getting my gun, and giving Chef Ron a real surprise in the morning. But something about its movements through the dusky leaves was too regular to fit the wanderings of a bear, and too heavy for a deer, so I decided I would keep watching, and try to figure out what it was. As I watched, my eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness, and I realized with a start that I was gazing upon a man. I couldn’t see much in that pale moonlight, but I could tell that he was short, and he was carrying a big pack on his shoulders, as he walked along the forest border down in the direction of the river.

I guessed maybe he was one of those hikers that come through town pretty often in the fall, down along the Appalachian Trial, and had made a camping ground down by the Shenandoah River that runs directly behind our school. The only thing that didn't make sense to me is why he was here on school property, instead of across town, where the trail lies. Besides, even if he had a good reason for being here, what was he doing out at this hour of night? I began to get suspicious; I wondered if he was a criminal. As I watched this man vanish into the woods, the sleepy feelings left my eyes, and I forgot about the comfort of my bed. I was fully awake now, and all my senses began to kindle in the chilly morning air.

With my robe snuggled tightly around my shoulders, I stepped stealthily down the steps from the safety of my dorm to investigate the dark fastness of the forest. I figured I would take a quick look around to see if I could spot a campfire, or any indications of where that man had gone. All was still in the forest, while the darkness of the woods streamed up to the buildings, and the moon was climbing into the faraway depths of an early morning sky. And yet that darkness was pregnant with mystery; it pulsed and throbbed with the breath of the night.

The forest!---I had been too long away from it. The swaying shadows of the woodland trees seemed almost to stir and rouse themselves like a living thing and speak to my listening ears. They besought me to join in their adventure. I was convinced that the moment had come to take heroic action, or to kill forever the love of adventure that burned in my heart. Orion, shining overhead, seemed to beckon me to the hunt, and in an instant thrill of excitement, I returned the summons. I took a few steps, and entered the woods, as the trees kept the rhythm of the wind, and the darkness seemed to close in upon me with a sense of gloom and foreboding.

A minute after I entered the forest, my roommate reached the open door of the dorm, irate and shivering. Unable to slumber with a thin sheet as his only cover, and for ventilation the steady stream of an open door, he had left his bed, thrown a bathrobe over his shoulders, and stalked out to demand the return of his blanket. But I was not there. Seized with a sudden anxiety, my roommate turned on the lamp over the dorm porch, and discovered my footprints in the icy lawn, leading straight to the forest.

[by: Jacinta Wittaker]

In this instance of the story, I should like to bring in the security guard. His name was Carl--a burly man of fifty-two with no hair upon his head, and barely able to squeeze into his uniform. He used to belong to the Marines and was greatly overqualified for his job, though not anymore. Since this assignment, he had assumed a great deal of mass and indifference. The small liberal arts college seemed immune to trouble, save the occasional townie who would chase girls. Under the bureaucratic fetters of his job, doing anything enjoyable infringed the policies to which he was subject. Technically, they forbid him to read or do anything of the productive, innocent sort while he sat in the lobby – all night long, doing nothing. He had to smile at passerbys, an oppression more tyrannic every day as he grew more bored and lazy. Relief only came in the hourly patrol of the campus and the use of lavatory in the adjacent room. One pastime which he believed did not rebel against policy and which he employed to his own amusement was trying to identify the gender of each person who walked down the hallway to his desk, judging only by the sound of their feet. After 6 months, he arrived at what he thought might be the pattern to make sound judgments on the issue, but it didn’t test fool-proof, though one day he had 84 percent accuracy. That glorious day was fiendish fluke, though, and the project broke his heart when he even started misjudging his own gender.

Carl was a nice guy. Truthfully, he had once been a navy SEAL, and even a some kind of secret agent I found out later. Because of a strange turn of unfortunate events, some of which involved bar fights, I think, the government exiled him to this. This security position did not even recommend to its workers a firearm. With what means he was supposed to subdue criminals Carl could not fathom. He had pursued his superiors with inquisition but they kept changing the subject with a pitiable smile. In a pinch, though, Carl still knew a vast array of hand-to-hand combat, though in the recent years, this gauntlet of inaction had reduced his physical tools to questionable performance.

The clock finally dictated to Carl another leisurely patrol. The bear-like security guard rose from the confines of the desk and opened wide the door to the chill of darkness. Carl liked the darkness. He felt safer. He had been trained to fight in the dark and use it to his advantage against the enemy. Some people thought he was just weird.

It was then that Carl spotted me, running into the woods with large blanket. The sight immediately brought a suspicious flavor. Before pursuing me, however, his eyes fell upon my roommate, close in pursuit in his bathrobe. His location provided enough time for Carl to intervene and so he did.

“Hey, there!” Carl bellowed in a deep, bear-like voice, “Are you a student here? Could I see your ID? Nice bathrobe.”

[by: Julian Ahlquist]

As the security guard, wolflike, culled the straggler from our little herd, I hurried after the mysterious figure. He was moving down the steep path to the dam. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness and saw him outlined against the trees, he seemed a slight figure. He crept at a fast, but stealthy pace, his knees bent. Slowly, as he descended the path, he dropped out of sight.

I rushed after him, blanket spreading out behind me. I must have looked ridiculous, running around in a blanket like a little boy pretending to be Superman. But I was so engrossed in catching up with this mysterious night rover that I quickly put the thought out of my mind.

I reached the top of the path and stood a moment, peering down into the darkness. The roots and stones of the path were nearly invisible, but I could see, faintly, the slight, dark figure moving carefully down.

Glancing at the sky, I saw the crescent moon was climbing further up in the eastern sky. Dawn was only a few hours away. I started down the hill, cautiously, but still as quickly as I could.

The rocks shifted treacherously under my feet. I glanced down, but then looked back up, fixing my eyes on the figure ahead of me and kept moving forward.

Big mistake. My foot caught in a root and I pitched headlong. Unable to break my fall, I tumbled all the way down the path. I heard a short, high-pitched noise from the figure in front of me before I crashed right into him and sent him sprawling.

I lay still a moment, feeling individually each of the numerous bumps and bruises that had accumulated around my body. Finally, I had taken stock of all of them. I sat up and waited for the stars to clear from my head.

Next to me, my friend the dark figure was also sitting up. A number of things surprised me greatly. The first one was that he was not a he.

I hadn’t given it much thought, but I had sort of assumed it was a man—either hiker or Mexican bandito. But under the hood of the heavy black sweatshirt was a slim, pale face, framed by straggling wisps of brown hair.

The second surprise is that it was a face I knew. I didn’t know the person it belonged to—but I had seen the face a hundred times. She was a sophomore, and in my opinion (and not mine alone) the best-looking girl in her class at least, and maybe on the whole campus.

The third thing I noticed was that she looked absolutely terrified. She glanced around wildly, then tore off her backpack and clutched it to her chest. “Don’t tell anyone I was here,” she whispered frantically. “And for God’s sake, don’t follow me. Go back—quickly!”

“But Diana,” I asked, bewildered, “what are you doing here?”

“Shh,” she whispered, barely audible, laying her finger to her lips. “It’s too dangerous. Go back. I can’t answer any questions. Just let me go.” She tried to stand up, trying her weight on her right ankle. Then she grimaced fiercely and grabbed hold of the tree beside her.

“Let me help you back up,” I said, taking her elbow. “Then you can go back to your dorm and—”

“No!” she hissed. “Let me go! He’ll see you!”

[by: Sheila]

"I don't think it's easy for anyone to see anybody in this dark, so what's your real worry?" I said rather impatiently. Frankly, I wanted to know why the hell was I here.

"Look, John, just go home, and leave me alone. I'm going to the dam, that's all. The rest is none of your business. Just ... for heaven's sake just leave me alone," she whispered.

"Wait a minute ... who's he? Why are you down here, what's going on?"

"Stop shouting, damnit". I didn't think I was shouting. Something was terribly wrong and I knew it. The dam had become a dangerous place to go than in previous years. Wandering toward that side of the woods was not my idea of adventure. The drug route ran right through Front Royal. Everyone knew that. Sheriff McSheffrey was shot by one of the gangs in broad daylight while he was eating at the Fox's Diner. Everyone here insisted it was safe enough. Mad deluded bunch. They still wouldn't let that fatso security guard carry a gun. Maybe the dam was still safe. I had my doubts. My roomate's damnable snoring, and his hateful face seemed to become more and more forgiveable, almost desireable.

"My boyfriend, and he's gonna kill you if you say anything." I knew she was lying, she saw that in my face. "John, I've been through alot. Don't ask questions, and you won't get painful answers. Go back to your dorm. What you don't know isn't gonna hurt you. Leave me alone, and let me live my life."

I stood still, and couldn't say a word. Her boyfriend? That was new to me. It couldn't be true. Everybody seemed to know everything about anybody at Christendom. Who's going out with whom, who broke up, who likes whom, whom likes who, who is dating but not really, were things so well known that nothing was secret. Only the storms of the soul were shrouded in secrecy, and only exposed in the confessional, or the closest confidant. Something had to give between us. And yet, all I could do was look at her, and let the words 'let me live my life' echo in my brain.

A face is hard to make out by the light of the crescent moon. Only the barest outlines discern the shape, and those two shining lights looking into my face gave it any real definition. The light of her eyes. Those two lights filled me with the sadness that lay in them. Diana was one of those Christendom girls a fellow can fall in love with, and never know. Oh, I always wanted to talk to her, maybe be friends. I loved her roguish smile, and her sense of humor: two things which I never saw again when I heard her mother was killed last October. And now, I was talking to her, under circumstances I wish to God, now, never happened.

I couldn't leave her, and I couldn't go with her. I needed to say something desperately. "What's in the bag?"

"Ha, ha," she chuckled sardonically. She tossed her head back, and stared straight into my eyes. "John, you're a literary boy aren't you. Yes, you are, you're always reading those silly love poems, and writing articles, and other pretty things and fake fairy tales on that stupid laptop. Well, Johnny, I'll tell you a real story, and then you're going to let me go or I'll scream, and it won't look good for you. Do you like me?"

My eyes sank to the ground. "That's a rather random question," I muttered.

She stepped closer to me, I wrenched my eyes from the ground and met her blazing eyes. "Well, maybe you think I'm pretty. Oh, yes you do, thank you, John. You're sweet."

"Why in God's name did you say that! Why?" I helplessly thought. No word in the world could I muster. I was only thankful that the darkness hid the color of embarrassment from my cheeks.

"Now, the story, John, begins 'once upon a time'... they all begin like that don't they?"

"Not particularly," I said.

"Well, they should. This one does. Once upon a time, there lived a happy family in the happy kingdom. There was the king, who worked all day, the queen who was happy at home, and the royal princess who was just a sweet baby. One day, the king didn't come home, and the queen was always crying and very sad. See, the king had left his little kingdom for another. Poor mommy, oh sorry, the poor queen had to work in the kingdom for her little baby. The royal princess grew up with her mother, the queen, and never saw the king again. The princess, and her mother were very happy, until she had to go far away to Christendom. Then when the queen was all alone a dragon came and killed the queen driving home from work on the interstate." The tears down her faced glistened in the moonlight.

"Diana, where's this going?"

"Let me finish the story damnit. Can't anyone tell a story besides you?" She snapped back with the fierceness that seeps from wounds no physician can cure. "So, the princess alone and distraught in the world, had to stay at the land of Christendom. I couldn't afford the flight tickets home, my mother's dead and buried ..." she broke off, and tore her gaze from me. Then in a tortured whisper, she said, "God I hate this place!" She quickly turned around to face me again, and bravely wiped the tears off her cheeks. "Oh, but I must finish the story". She smiled weakly, and trembling began, "Now, the princess found that there are magic things that make the pain of sorrows cease. There's a wonderous magical water, which once it is drunk, makes all little sorrows cease. It comes in bottles, by the way. Down the throat like fire it goes and burns away all the pain ... for a while ... and then the charade begins again. Now, sweet freshman, who likes me and has no friends, leave me alone. I have a rendez-vous at the dam- that's French for a meeting - and now you're making me late!" She took several steps back, then slung the pack over her shoulders, and with a sad but defiant glance toward me stepped into the swallowing darkness of the night. The swallowing darkness of the soul.

Into the darkness of the night, I faintly called out, "I'm lonely too." I headed back up the beaten trail, tormented by griefs for one lonely soul that now quashed the vile hatred I had held toward all.

I walked slowly up the trail, my numb feet hurting at each step. The dry twigs snapped and crackled beneath my frozen toes. I could take it no more, and finally I sat myself down on a rock overlooking the winding Shenandoah, and the small campfires by the dam. I wrapped the blanket round my numb toes, and warmed them with my hands. Such a clear and starry night! Ah, there was Orion, that mighty warrior, going to rest in the west from chasing his enemies in the sky. The lovely crescent moon hung in the sky. In my other times of loneliness and solitude I might have found these things romantic, and conjured up new stories, but I felt a sadness for someone other than myself and couldn't think. I frustrated my life at Christendom. I had not any friends, and I kept to myself. I had kept quiet enough at Christendom, and since I was quiet people didn't really take that much note in my existence. I was there, but never really apart of their conversation. I became a wallflower. Oh, yes, I took charge of the Stream, and people once said they never found a better editor since Mr. John Jalsevac of whatever class year at Christendom. Yet, I've been merely a name and a face. Most never bothered to go beyond that. Frankly come to think of it, I never really let them even if they did try. Until now, and now for the first time, all I could think of was that another lonely soul down there needed help for the loneliness that no amount of drink can drown, not even the waters of death.

I lay back on the rock, and looked up at the stars. "My God, how beautiful You made them." That was new. I hadn't said anything to God in a long time. Funny how the suffering of another can make you do that. The stars in all their splendor stretched before me. How the little stars twinkled and danced that vastness! All I could hear was the rushing of water over the dam, the rising echo of quarreling voices, and the deafening crack of gunshots forever breaking the peaceful rhythms of the night.

[by Peter Jesserer]

The gentle breeze turned icy as my thoughts raced. There was nothing I could do, nothing. She was dead. I knew it deep within my heart, knew it with greater certainty than I knew my own existence. Why did I leave her, why did I let her go down alone? My anger at my roommate, my teachers, and my acquaintances coalesced into blank despair that tore me deeper and burned far hotter than any anger ever could. Before I could consciously will my limbs to any kind of movement I was halfway down the slope.

I ran, ran faster than I had ever run before, my blanket streaming behind me like a pair of enormous wings. In the dim moonlight distance was uncertain, and shape indefinite. Trees rushed up to strike me, stones turned under my feet, and roots snatched at my legs, but in my rush to reach the bottom of the hill, I bulldozed over everything in my path. Then, with a wild scrambling, and a rush of debris I went over the lip of the small cliff that borders the dam.

I landed hard, and my ankle turned under me. Panic blanketed the pain beneath a wave of adrenaline, and blanked my mind of everything but bare sensation. I stumbled into the circle of light cast by a small wood fire nestled in the rocks, wild-eyed. “Where is Diana?” I gasped. I knew exactly where she was. I had seen her the moment I entered the light, but my mind had yet to catch up with my mouth. Several faces turned towards me, and with the distant amusement of the half-drunk they gestured towards a figure seated some distance away from the fire, leaning against a rock. She didn’t even turn her head to see what the commotion was about. Adrenaline drained from me, drop by painful drop as my mind slowly came out of overdrive. All that was left was weariness and humiliated self-contempt.

“Dude, man you look kind’a tight. Want a beer?” My eyes slowly focused themselves on the Good Samaritan standing before me, in his hands a brown bottle, which was shining old gold in the firelight. The night was black, a velvet background with the firelight flickering before it like fading shreds of sunlight. Sparks rose out of the fire like stars rising to meet the dawn; and imposed before this whole pageant was a cylinder of warm brown glass, alive with the color of the fire. It was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen, but at the moment I could have cared less. I would have traded all that beauty for the squalor of my room and the sound of my roommate’s snores in an instant. At least up there I fit, however imperfectly. With a mumbled thanks I took the beer from his hand and collapsed against the embankment. Conversations continued, unchanged by my presence. My eyes lost focus again as waves of sound washed over me. Two voices continued a very heated discussion over the proper Catholic mindset towards money and profit. Several others expressed the opinion that the argument had been going on quite long enough and burst into an off-key rendition of a soon-to-be-forgotten pop song. One person remarked to another that, what with all the backfiring that was going on a moment ago, Allen must have arrived up above. Then someone called out from the trail.

The pop song lost some of its volume as various people stopped singing to call back to whoever was up there. Somebody by the fire turned and yelled “Hey Diana, your boyfriend is coming.” The calculating venom in that voice almost shook me out of my depression, but as my mind registered the word “boyfriend” the heat of anger vanished, and once again I felt only the cold void of despair. With a cacophony of voices Allen and his friends walked into the circle of firelight.

[By Sean]

The arrival of Claudius onto the set of Hamlet could not have filled me with more loathing. I despised Allen, not because he was the supposed boyfriend of the girl whom I had minutes before admitted was pretty: no, I disdained the fellow because I knew the truth about him. He was the R.A. in St. Joe’s, and everybody thought he was the steady stickler type. But I knew better. He kept alcohol behind the oversized statue of Mary in his room and held “quiet” drinking parties with his special friends who knew how to keep their mouths shut. I was the only one who knew about this fact aside from his co-revelers, and I only discovered this dark truth about him because I stumbled upon one of these AM parties as I came to get approval to watch Howard’s End. They not only mocked me for obeying the rules (“Dude, nobody does that—and Howard’s End?), they told me that they would kill me if I told our Dean. I never talked about it, and now wasn’t exactly the right time to resent Allen for his behavior: I was breaking curfew and drinking, so who was I to talk. But the situation continued to bother me because I’m the sort who usually obeys the rules, even when it’s tough. My own mother told me that that was probably why I didn’t have any friends, but I disregarded her opinion. It didn’t matter much to me in the current situation.

What mattered now was the fact that I was no longer needed down here at the dam. Who was I deluding? I was never needed in the first place. Diana was secure having an interlude with her bottle and her newly-arrived boyfriend. There was no reason for me to remain in the tree-cast shadows, swallowed by feelings of disgust and the ever-encroaching chill of early morning. My rumpled hair, the torn clothes, the dirtied blanket now wrapped around me like a child’s security toy: all were reminiscent of a defeated superhero, all existed to prove that, somehow, I was a lesser man than Allen, who had sauntered so confidently into the spot that he belonged to. I didn’t belong at the dam, and I found little comfort in my moral superiority over Allen when I could start to feel the damp of wet leaves coming through my thin borrowed pants. I prepared to retreat, acknowledging my own inadequacy to either react against him or offer any genuine assistance to Diana, who remained slumped against a rock. The girl held her lone bottle and stared off into the dark with eyes consumed by hungry indifference that was too affected to be real. She barely acknowledged the arrival of her boyfriend with even a look, preferring to nurse her sorrows in the sight of the gathering shadows preparing themselves for dawn. I was content to go.

But Allen wouldn’t let me leave. Inexplicably and suddenly aware of my presence, he turned to me with that damnable, charming fake smile and said, “Hey man, why don’t you hang out a little? Stay by the fire,” he said, letting his eyes travel down my odd assortment of borrowed clothing, “you must be cold.”

“No, really,” I muttered, fumbling away towards the dim path in the trees, “I have to get going,” looking down at my two mismatched shoes before I threw out one last look at Diana and then at her annoying boyfriend. But he wouldn’t let me take my exit. And now he had seen me look at her. The friendly face fell. Oh for pete’s sake man, it was only a look.

“Oh, I suppose you wouldn’t have any special reason to stay, would you?” The iced sarcasm was not lost upon me. Good Lord, I guess Diana wasn’t joking when she said that Allen would kill me for talking to her. Who the heck slipped this guy past the Admissions Office? Couldn’t we just go back to me wanting to kill everyone?

“Um, no, not really, it’s really cold and my roommate is wondering . . .” and really all the while I’m thinking to myself why the hell did I follow Diana like a damn Alice chasing a white rabbit down a hole. Inadequate. Fumbling. Going to get killed. Yes, that is me at 4:38 AM on a Monday morning down by the dam. Always thinking like a literary man, even in the most harrowing of circumstances.

Allen opened his mouth to speak, with hands clenched. Yes, I noticed those hands. Thankfully for my face, the world will never know what he intended to say, and it will probably never mourn for the loss.

For at that moment, the Sheriff Shenandoah patrol started their multi-tonal sirens and beamed their spotlights onto the quickly deteriorating scene taking place in my life. I loosened my pent-up desire to escape and had started to stumble up the ragged path, when a hand grabbed onto my own and Diana gasped out to me, “Help me make it to the top, oh, please John.”

“Why don’t you have Allen help you?” The snide comment inevitably escaped from my lips, and I regretted it an instant later.

“He’s being arrested for trespassing right now.”

“Oh.”

Together we made it back to upper campus, once again dodging the sight of the incorrigible Carl, who had finally decided that the struggle was not worth it and had bust out The DaVinci Code to help while away the hours. I didn’t talk to Diana on the way back. I was too full of embarrassment, and really too ashamed with the unexplainable thought that I had failed her somehow, even though she had never asked for my help; she had refused it outright. As we reached St. Joe’s, Diana turned to leave but I, hoping for some small ounce of a chance to redeem myself, quickly whispered, “Wait—let me walk you back to the dorm.” She hesitated, then slowly nodded her assent. It was the least that a guy could do.

<> At the back entrance of St. Catherines’s basement, I opened the door and then turned aside to make my final retreat, but she continued to stand in my way. Diana faced me with oddly swimming eyes and said, “This probably won’t mean much to you, but Allen never walked me back from the dam to my dorm. Never.” And then, overcome with the apparent cheesiness of her forthcoming words, she murmured, “thank you for caring and I’m sorry” and softly closed the door.

I had never seen her look so beautiful.

I stood there for a couple of moments, and then slowly turned away. My pace started off slowly at first, but then it lengthened, turned into a stride, accompanied by the gently billowing cape of a blanket that made me feel, just somehow, like a superhero. A minor one in borrowed clothing who had gotten no sleep and who was returning to a roommate who suspiciously muttered about dams and Carls in his supposed sleep; but a bit of a hero, nevertheless.

Diana and I never talked again about that night, and we never dated nor had reason to deny that we were dating, so you might say that that entire night was a failure according to Christendom standards. But the light had started to come back in her eyes, and the next semester she transferred to a college closer to her old memories of home. Allen was expelled and the story of that early morning by the dam was hushed upon campus. Contrary to my desires, I never did get to kill anyone. And to this day, my roommate still asks me what the heck happened to his blanket.

[by: Adrienne A.]