my stomach is dizzy
my hands are a wreck
i can't sit still
my mind races
what are these traces of guilt?
why won't they leave?
this pressure behind my eyes
when will it have been?
i have dealt treacherously
i have lied
i have stolen time
i have borrowed what i cannot repay
when payment is due
and my hands are a wreck
and i hold them out empty
will i find mercy?
my hands are a wreck
no stigmata
how can they be clean?
who will want them?
i need to be loved
maybe not for who i am
maybe for who i can be
no more treachery
no more lies
no more theft
no more defaults on loans of the heart
what is my surety?
God has forgiven
then there is no room for guilt?
remorse certainly
yet my hands are a wreck
my hands are my works
for good and for ill
what are these traces of guilt?
they are my hands
29 November 2011
Entry for the Broker's Game
She pulls her face out of the sand and coughs water from her lungs.
Failure ... failure. Everyone's dead ... I'm dead--soon, at least.
Waves from behind rush over her and carry away the blood from a wound she can't see. With a hoarse, half-drowned voice, and the unpleasant crunch of sand between her teeth, she calls out for her companions.
Nothing.
Her arms fail twice to hold up her weight before she notices the boots of someone standing a yard away.
"Having some trouble?" says a sarcastic masculine voice.
Without looking up, she croaks her plea: "Please, help my companions..."
"Not sounding so sweet now, are we, Mellifluous?"
With great effort, she looks up at an incredibly tall man. His face is featureless--no eyes, no nose--but for his cruel smirk.
"Your companions are all dead," the mouth says. "And you will soon be dead as well; I'm sure you've noticed the mast of your pathetic raft is sticking out of you."
A sob escapes the broken girl. "I just wanted to--to save my people ... from the monsters."
"Yes, on that filthy little island of yours. Unfortunately, you won't be able to help them as you are now."
Mellifluous lets her face fall back into the sand. The remaining warmth from her body seeps out of her as she continues to bleed out.
"Do you want to play a game?" the man asks, and he kneels down in front of her. "If you win, I'll grant you one wish. Anything you want."
"What do I have ... to do?" she manages.
"Give up your most valued possession, and you'll find out. You'll get it back, of course. If you win. If you don't win ... well, it won't really matter."
"Take whatever you want. I have nothing left."
Without hesitation, the man plasters his palm to her forehead, lifting her head from the sand in a manner not at all gentle. She feels her form shift without her control. The black hair becomes its natural silver, her face loses all distinctive features.
"A changeling without the ability to change. Now you truly have nothing."
Pain disappears as the fabric of the world shreds apart and reassembles itself in a completely new order. With no means of disguising herself, with her security blanket stripped away, she explores the pink sands of this strange new world.
She has to win this game--whatever that might mean--and save her people.
Failure ... failure. Everyone's dead ... I'm dead--soon, at least.
Waves from behind rush over her and carry away the blood from a wound she can't see. With a hoarse, half-drowned voice, and the unpleasant crunch of sand between her teeth, she calls out for her companions.
Nothing.
Her arms fail twice to hold up her weight before she notices the boots of someone standing a yard away.
"Having some trouble?" says a sarcastic masculine voice.
Without looking up, she croaks her plea: "Please, help my companions..."
"Not sounding so sweet now, are we, Mellifluous?"
With great effort, she looks up at an incredibly tall man. His face is featureless--no eyes, no nose--but for his cruel smirk.
"Your companions are all dead," the mouth says. "And you will soon be dead as well; I'm sure you've noticed the mast of your pathetic raft is sticking out of you."
A sob escapes the broken girl. "I just wanted to--to save my people ... from the monsters."
"Yes, on that filthy little island of yours. Unfortunately, you won't be able to help them as you are now."
Mellifluous lets her face fall back into the sand. The remaining warmth from her body seeps out of her as she continues to bleed out.
"Do you want to play a game?" the man asks, and he kneels down in front of her. "If you win, I'll grant you one wish. Anything you want."
"What do I have ... to do?" she manages.
"Give up your most valued possession, and you'll find out. You'll get it back, of course. If you win. If you don't win ... well, it won't really matter."
"Take whatever you want. I have nothing left."
Without hesitation, the man plasters his palm to her forehead, lifting her head from the sand in a manner not at all gentle. She feels her form shift without her control. The black hair becomes its natural silver, her face loses all distinctive features.
"A changeling without the ability to change. Now you truly have nothing."
Pain disappears as the fabric of the world shreds apart and reassembles itself in a completely new order. With no means of disguising herself, with her security blanket stripped away, she explores the pink sands of this strange new world.
She has to win this game--whatever that might mean--and save her people.
Song: The Seventh Trumpet by August Burns Red
Quote: "My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth." - Hamlet
28 November 2011
Arbitrary Wisdom 01:
Wisdom received from your peers is almost always hypocritical.
This doesn't mean you shouldn't follow it, it just means that you can figure out your friends' faults. Remember, friends that blackmail each other begrudgingly stay together.
~Kyle Van Dyke~
This doesn't mean you shouldn't follow it, it just means that you can figure out your friends' faults. Remember, friends that blackmail each other begrudgingly stay together.
~Kyle Van Dyke~
27 November 2011
Pessimism in a Box - November Issue
To: The World
From: Connie
There is no need to get overly excited about the Redskins winning, people. And yes...there are probably billions of people out there who don't give a hoo-ha about the Redskins, but I do. They are my team. I love them. Woot.
There's still no need to get excited.
I'm a realist (it's not pessimism, I promise), and the REAL deal facts of life at this particular time and place is that the Redskins are just not there yet. Heck, they haven't been "there yet" for like 10 years. They're slow movers, it's no biggie. Winning one game does not automatically make them Superbowl material. It probably doesn't even make them Puppy-bowl material.
TANGENT: Ahem...the Puppy-bowl is a real-deal thing where they put a bunch of sugar-high (steak-high? shoe-high? hamster-high?) puppies in a little mini-arena with a plastic blow-up ball and make them all push it around with their noses into the endzones. Because we're Americans. Forget sending money to African missions to help children with malaria. We're gonna put a bunch of squealing baby dogs in a pen and air it on television to 50 million people instead.
Back to the point...
The fact of the matter is we're all still fans here. The Redskins franchise doesn't even bother promoting the players anymore: it's all about the fans. I mean, if you can stick around after 10 years of Redskin horribleness and still say you're a Redskins fan (and are able to endure the criticism that will inevitably follow because of how much the Redskins suck---just for NOW, people. They're slow movers, remember?) then you are about as hard-core as a fan can get, and deserve to have a completely filled Fed-Ex stadium shriekingly applaud you as if you were Elvis-flipping-Presly.
And if your'e not a Redskins fan...well...shut up please. I'm trying to give a pep-rally, if you don't mind.
From: Connie
There is no need to get overly excited about the Redskins winning, people. And yes...there are probably billions of people out there who don't give a hoo-ha about the Redskins, but I do. They are my team. I love them. Woot.
There's still no need to get excited.
I'm a realist (it's not pessimism, I promise), and the REAL deal facts of life at this particular time and place is that the Redskins are just not there yet. Heck, they haven't been "there yet" for like 10 years. They're slow movers, it's no biggie. Winning one game does not automatically make them Superbowl material. It probably doesn't even make them Puppy-bowl material.
TANGENT: Ahem...the Puppy-bowl is a real-deal thing where they put a bunch of sugar-high (steak-high? shoe-high? hamster-high?) puppies in a little mini-arena with a plastic blow-up ball and make them all push it around with their noses into the endzones. Because we're Americans. Forget sending money to African missions to help children with malaria. We're gonna put a bunch of squealing baby dogs in a pen and air it on television to 50 million people instead.
Back to the point...
The fact of the matter is we're all still fans here. The Redskins franchise doesn't even bother promoting the players anymore: it's all about the fans. I mean, if you can stick around after 10 years of Redskin horribleness and still say you're a Redskins fan (and are able to endure the criticism that will inevitably follow because of how much the Redskins suck---just for NOW, people. They're slow movers, remember?) then you are about as hard-core as a fan can get, and deserve to have a completely filled Fed-Ex stadium shriekingly applaud you as if you were Elvis-flipping-Presly.
And if your'e not a Redskins fan...well...shut up please. I'm trying to give a pep-rally, if you don't mind.
26 November 2011
Bloody Rain: Prologue
It’s raining in Seorus … or what used to be Seorus. Great torrents of storm fall unendingly from the strange swirl of color that is the heavens. A single horse with its panic-stricken passengers pounds heavily through the woodlands, but are they really surrounded by trees? It’s impossible to say; an insurmountable murkiness distorts their vision, yet this is undeniably an entirely different world.
The garishly yellow sky swarms with black and crimson clouds that gyrate feverishly, and the rain is blood that burns when it touches skin. Moaning peals of thunder drone and clash above them, reverberating painfully in their skulls as the black lightning cracks the sky like a great stained glass window. The bleeding sky drenches the broken land, the air reeks of inescapable death, rancid blood, and smoke from the burning foliage. The gore trickling from the dense canopy does little to quench the fires.
Oblivious, the horse maneuvers through the thickening forest, undaunted, almost enthusiastic. Each crashing step splatters vivid red muck onto itself and its riders. The younger man clings to the first, who in turn desperately clutches the saddle. Both struggle with a nightmarish inability to speak, dependent on the animal's instinctive, mechanical wandering to bring them through their unreal situation.
The horse suddenly veers sharply to the left and onto a trail previously hidden by decaying leafage. It follows the sporadic course as if it knows the way, ignoring the ground that crumbles and buckles beneath its hooves. The earth begins to quake and it gradually opens its maw. The riders fully expect to plummet through the scarlet-tinted mire, but the horse easily vaults the expanding fissure.
There’s no wind now, no movement—apart from the raging colors in the sky—but the moment the horse’s hooves thunder to the ground again, the stillness is shattered by an abrupt cacophony of eerie moans and loud lingering creaks from supposedly empty overhead boughs. Frantically, the riders whirl around in the saddle, seeking the source of the baleful noise. They feel the tree line slowly closing in on them, trapping them in between whatever waits eagerly in the darkness on either side. They cannot see them, but they know—as if they were in a dream—that the silent wraithlike figures, the things with no eyes, stalk closely behind … skeletal hands reach forth from the dark recesses of their all-encompassing cloaks to skim across the back of the rear rider’s neck.
Does not want—here … anyone—here….
The thin penetrating whispers grow in intensity, but remain partially unintelligible, and dance around the pair in a nauseating circle even as they ride at full gallop. The disquieting, roiling sky acquires stars that glare down on them attentively, arrogantly, to act as the eyes of the wraiths.
Why—sent here … why—here … away!
As if on that cue, the trail withers out. abandoning the riders in the center of a clearing. And this time, perhaps with the help of the eyes in the sky, the thing behind them doesn’t miss its mark. Bony fingers connect with skin and puncture it. Fingers enter flesh to crush bone and windpipe. Screams escape as gargling rasps of anguish. Death by unusual strangulation isn’t enough, however, and the unseen hands extract the rider from the saddle and he disappears.
The other rider attempts a leap from his mount, but something strong holds him in the saddle. He can only turn and watch in horror as indistinct, mutated silhouettes creep out from the underbrush and maul his gasping companion. An equine grunt draws him from the sickening display and he turns back to the horse.
His breath catches as he looks into the face of the animal. Its head begins to rotate slowly … and continues to strain further than should be possible. The bones snap to compensate for the unnatural movement and their splinters lance through the flesh of its neck.
Dismayed, the rider stares into the empty, bleeding cavities of the horse’s eyes. Numbness seizes his being as a final strangled plea sounds from behind him. Then the horse—the thing—throws him from the saddle.
The trees draw in their limbs and lift them toward the sky like priests hailing the heavens, exposing the man to a fresh gout of raining blood. The red torrent pelts him with its damp, scorching heat. It fills his eyes and his lungs as scalding water.
He stops breathing.
Everything blanks.
He wakes to find himself in the corridors of the palace again. The horrifying images forcing themselves upon him are gone. He exhales in relief and searches for his companion … whom he spies sprawled across the floor beside him, blood spilling freely from his eyes and from the corners of his mouth, neck twisted grotesquely. Suddenly, reality doesn’t seem any more preferable.
The prince towers above them, withholding a spiteful grin, though his eyes betray his endless enjoyment over their suffering. They had defied him: they had said no. They should not have said no. He hadn’t meant for this exhibition to injure them. He meant only to threaten them, but also to give them another chance to see the superiority of his alignment. But he went too far: he had not intended one of the potentials to expire in such a manner without first hearing his response. But there was one who could still respond.
“Do you now understand? Have you changed your mind?”
The man on the floor swears angrily at him, something about murdering his brother, and the prince growls. Was he not being generous? Why are people so selfish and closed-minded? After all, it’d be for their good in the end … and two chances are two too many, really. His masters will surely punish him for this, especially since he’s been having difficulties recruiting followers of late. Or maybe it’s just a sign that they should move on? Perhaps there is none left to recruit here?
The prince coldly regards the still living man, his mind elsewhere, and even as the man continues his list of curses, the prince draws an icy dagger.
How does it fare?
"It fares well. I’ve gathered more than fifty to assist us.”
Is their power adequate? Are they well trained?
“Most of them have had some education, yes, but they could use further instruct—“
No, they must be ready immediately. How many are there that are already experienced?
“Perhaps half of the number.”
You are becoming too accepting of the unworthy.
“Can they not be of assistance in another way?”
They are nuisances … meaningless. Add them to the sacrifices and erase them. Now, our numbers are still inadequate. You will triple them in no less than a fortnight. We see you have failed with another two. Do not do anything so extravagant in the future. We may be noticed before we wish it. You will act only as we direct you.
“I apologize.”
Have you anyone else in mind? Or shall we move south?
“I do have others in mind … two others who’ve had no instruction. But wait—they have such potential! If I can snare them, they’ll be more helpful than most of the educated. I swear it.”
Then present it to them as well, but we will be the one to judge them in the end. And do it quickly: tonight, there will be a cleansing. Be prepared.
“After midnight in the southern district?”
Yes. You know what you are to do now.
“Take my final rounds—of no extravagant measures—and erase the remaining population.”
Song: Glass in the Trees by Dead Poetic
Quote: "Do you think that if you stopped doing something that defined you as a person that, maybe, you would cease to be that person?" - Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
The garishly yellow sky swarms with black and crimson clouds that gyrate feverishly, and the rain is blood that burns when it touches skin. Moaning peals of thunder drone and clash above them, reverberating painfully in their skulls as the black lightning cracks the sky like a great stained glass window. The bleeding sky drenches the broken land, the air reeks of inescapable death, rancid blood, and smoke from the burning foliage. The gore trickling from the dense canopy does little to quench the fires.
Oblivious, the horse maneuvers through the thickening forest, undaunted, almost enthusiastic. Each crashing step splatters vivid red muck onto itself and its riders. The younger man clings to the first, who in turn desperately clutches the saddle. Both struggle with a nightmarish inability to speak, dependent on the animal's instinctive, mechanical wandering to bring them through their unreal situation.
The horse suddenly veers sharply to the left and onto a trail previously hidden by decaying leafage. It follows the sporadic course as if it knows the way, ignoring the ground that crumbles and buckles beneath its hooves. The earth begins to quake and it gradually opens its maw. The riders fully expect to plummet through the scarlet-tinted mire, but the horse easily vaults the expanding fissure.
There’s no wind now, no movement—apart from the raging colors in the sky—but the moment the horse’s hooves thunder to the ground again, the stillness is shattered by an abrupt cacophony of eerie moans and loud lingering creaks from supposedly empty overhead boughs. Frantically, the riders whirl around in the saddle, seeking the source of the baleful noise. They feel the tree line slowly closing in on them, trapping them in between whatever waits eagerly in the darkness on either side. They cannot see them, but they know—as if they were in a dream—that the silent wraithlike figures, the things with no eyes, stalk closely behind … skeletal hands reach forth from the dark recesses of their all-encompassing cloaks to skim across the back of the rear rider’s neck.
Does not want—here … anyone—here….
The thin penetrating whispers grow in intensity, but remain partially unintelligible, and dance around the pair in a nauseating circle even as they ride at full gallop. The disquieting, roiling sky acquires stars that glare down on them attentively, arrogantly, to act as the eyes of the wraiths.
Why—sent here … why—here … away!
As if on that cue, the trail withers out. abandoning the riders in the center of a clearing. And this time, perhaps with the help of the eyes in the sky, the thing behind them doesn’t miss its mark. Bony fingers connect with skin and puncture it. Fingers enter flesh to crush bone and windpipe. Screams escape as gargling rasps of anguish. Death by unusual strangulation isn’t enough, however, and the unseen hands extract the rider from the saddle and he disappears.
The other rider attempts a leap from his mount, but something strong holds him in the saddle. He can only turn and watch in horror as indistinct, mutated silhouettes creep out from the underbrush and maul his gasping companion. An equine grunt draws him from the sickening display and he turns back to the horse.
His breath catches as he looks into the face of the animal. Its head begins to rotate slowly … and continues to strain further than should be possible. The bones snap to compensate for the unnatural movement and their splinters lance through the flesh of its neck.
Dismayed, the rider stares into the empty, bleeding cavities of the horse’s eyes. Numbness seizes his being as a final strangled plea sounds from behind him. Then the horse—the thing—throws him from the saddle.
The trees draw in their limbs and lift them toward the sky like priests hailing the heavens, exposing the man to a fresh gout of raining blood. The red torrent pelts him with its damp, scorching heat. It fills his eyes and his lungs as scalding water.
He stops breathing.
Everything blanks.
He wakes to find himself in the corridors of the palace again. The horrifying images forcing themselves upon him are gone. He exhales in relief and searches for his companion … whom he spies sprawled across the floor beside him, blood spilling freely from his eyes and from the corners of his mouth, neck twisted grotesquely. Suddenly, reality doesn’t seem any more preferable.
The prince towers above them, withholding a spiteful grin, though his eyes betray his endless enjoyment over their suffering. They had defied him: they had said no. They should not have said no. He hadn’t meant for this exhibition to injure them. He meant only to threaten them, but also to give them another chance to see the superiority of his alignment. But he went too far: he had not intended one of the potentials to expire in such a manner without first hearing his response. But there was one who could still respond.
“Do you now understand? Have you changed your mind?”
The man on the floor swears angrily at him, something about murdering his brother, and the prince growls. Was he not being generous? Why are people so selfish and closed-minded? After all, it’d be for their good in the end … and two chances are two too many, really. His masters will surely punish him for this, especially since he’s been having difficulties recruiting followers of late. Or maybe it’s just a sign that they should move on? Perhaps there is none left to recruit here?
The prince coldly regards the still living man, his mind elsewhere, and even as the man continues his list of curses, the prince draws an icy dagger.
How does it fare?
"It fares well. I’ve gathered more than fifty to assist us.”
Is their power adequate? Are they well trained?
“Most of them have had some education, yes, but they could use further instruct—“
No, they must be ready immediately. How many are there that are already experienced?
“Perhaps half of the number.”
You are becoming too accepting of the unworthy.
“Can they not be of assistance in another way?”
They are nuisances … meaningless. Add them to the sacrifices and erase them. Now, our numbers are still inadequate. You will triple them in no less than a fortnight. We see you have failed with another two. Do not do anything so extravagant in the future. We may be noticed before we wish it. You will act only as we direct you.
“I apologize.”
Have you anyone else in mind? Or shall we move south?
“I do have others in mind … two others who’ve had no instruction. But wait—they have such potential! If I can snare them, they’ll be more helpful than most of the educated. I swear it.”
Then present it to them as well, but we will be the one to judge them in the end. And do it quickly: tonight, there will be a cleansing. Be prepared.
“After midnight in the southern district?”
Yes. You know what you are to do now.
“Take my final rounds—of no extravagant measures—and erase the remaining population.”
Song: Glass in the Trees by Dead Poetic
Quote: "Do you think that if you stopped doing something that defined you as a person that, maybe, you would cease to be that person?" - Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Trees and People
Greetings! This one is Akyra. *bows*
My field is horticulture. In other words, I’m a bona fide plant-geek. I love digging my hands in the dirt and my mind easily finds connections between plants and random everyday interactions. Here’s a place where I can put down some thoughts… connections, if you will. I find curiosity a marvelous thing- and “boredom” a good excuse for letting the mind wander around the world God’s blessed us with.
God uses symbols in the Bible so many times… a great many of them are desert-based, which makes sense considering the Jews were very much desert people. He tailors stories to fit what the people would connect with- any good teacher understands that to grab a student’s attention, one must capture a part of him. Jesus uses vines (I am the vine, you---know the rest), olive trees (the shoot of Jesse’s stump), sheep (I call, the sheep know My voice), lions (like a roaring lion, seeking to devour), the meager grass on the desert fields (the green pastures… just enough for today), wadi water (unforeseeable danger), living water(safety, healing), honey (God’s provision), and the list goes on and on… If Jesus was such a great story teller while on the earth, Ah! Imagine how wonderful His stories will be in Heaven! :D Hmm… which now brings me to a tree. (… What. You didn’t see a connection there?)
My head’s been throwing this idea around for a few weeks now – the boredom and sameness walking to and from classes invites wonderful rabbit trails. Trees have been the topic of Landscape Establishment (LEM) class for a while now, and if you think about it, humans are much like trees. We start off as tiny things and grow up to adult height. Many times things go wrong and the tree never makes it to its full potential, either through lifespan or stature. In fact, finding a tree living to its full potential is a lovely and rare sight; yet battered trees live on, doing their best to fulfill their purpose.
Each type of tree lends itself to a particular growth style (basically: upright, branching, or weeping), just as each person lends to a certain style of ministry or certain personality traits. Upright trees tend toward structure and height, allowing stability and an identifying tower- just like the people deeply grounded in their faith or passion, giving strength and confidence to those around. Branching trees (like Live Oak or Maples) tend to have wide-spreading branches that cover a lot of area. These I associate with the people-lovers. The best place for a country picnic is in a field with a large oak giving ample shade if called upon. The tree just seems to invite crowds to enjoy its shade from the hot sun. Weeping trees are usually small ornamentals like cherry, but some can tower like the weeping willow. I’ve always viewed these soft spoken trees as the quiet ones… perhaps because willows are often found stretching over an inviting stream, perfect for reading a book under its peace. Maybe it’s just because they sound different in the wind- their speech and touch is calming and holds Truth.
Surely most have heard this oft quoted verse from Proverbs 22: “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.” Certainly there are a number of ways of viewing this, but I’ve heard it said that it can literally say to teach the child “each in his/her own way,” meaning to take into account the interests/personality leanings of the child. I’m not sure how that would fit in the time of its writing, but in my own time I see it like this... If a quiet, “withdrawn” child loves reading, music, art, and tends towards these areas, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to expect this child to become a college football player or a boxer. Not to say that the child shouldn’t be trained in physical activities, but if the general interest is mentally-creative in style, then put emphasis in those areas he is good in. The same could be said for a rough-and-tumble fella who loves sports and working outdoors and “doesn’t have a creative bone in his body.” Putting him in an office job instead of the underground mining company might cause unwarranted restlessness (I have actually met a man who has a passion for working in the mines- and more power to him: I would go crazy in the dark analyzing rocks, just as I would go crazy being stuck in an office cubical.)
Now, I bring this up because trees also do best in their own choice range of environmental conditions. A silver maple can handle a wide range of conditions- it naturally grows in boggy areas, and so can withstand compacted soil much better than a dogwood. Lace-leaf maples will burn with too much sun exposure, and so require a more shaded spot as secondary forest trees. Planting these trees in their wrong spots can stunt their growth and potential - like the writer/artist forced amidst the football players, or the farm-lover stuck inside an office cubical. Trees are trained by the weather, soil conditions, animals, and also professionally or carelessly by people. Humans are trained by all sorts of things: parents, mentors, friends, and life in general. Training is rarely a welcome experience for us, and if trees could choose, I doubt they would beg for their limbs to be cut off or reshaped. A strong tree has a good branch structure for its own style of growth. trees should be trained to help develop good structure which will help the tree in the long run to be able to hold its own weight and not snap under the stresses of nature when it has reached a mature height.
A tree can grow co-dominate leaders, which are basically two trunks on one tree (also called double-leaders). Both leaders are competing with each other to be the tallest/best, but this internal war often becomes the weakest point of the tree- breaking at this weak point is common, and the break can strip bark halfway down the tree… the loser isn’t just that branch, but the whole tree. If an upright tree has formed double leaders, the undesirable leader should be pruned out so that the tree will grow to its fullest potential. This can be compared to a human who must choose between two conflicting missions or life paths. One leader must be chosen over the other if the person wants to achieve his highest potential. Depending on the strength and position of the branches, either leader may be acceptable to keep. However, keeping both will make him weaker as time passes; even choosing to remove the stronger leader and keep the weaker would have been better for him than that.
“Good news from far away is like cold water to the thirsty” –Proverbs 25
Plant worthy of recognition: Erica x darleyensis, (and other hybrids) "Winter Heath." grown for its evergreen foliage and winter blooms.
God uses symbols in the Bible so many times… a great many of them are desert-based, which makes sense considering the Jews were very much desert people. He tailors stories to fit what the people would connect with- any good teacher understands that to grab a student’s attention, one must capture a part of him. Jesus uses vines (I am the vine, you---know the rest), olive trees (the shoot of Jesse’s stump), sheep (I call, the sheep know My voice), lions (like a roaring lion, seeking to devour), the meager grass on the desert fields (the green pastures… just enough for today), wadi water (unforeseeable danger), living water(safety, healing), honey (God’s provision), and the list goes on and on… If Jesus was such a great story teller while on the earth, Ah! Imagine how wonderful His stories will be in Heaven! :D Hmm… which now brings me to a tree. (… What. You didn’t see a connection there?)
My head’s been throwing this idea around for a few weeks now – the boredom and sameness walking to and from classes invites wonderful rabbit trails. Trees have been the topic of Landscape Establishment (LEM) class for a while now, and if you think about it, humans are much like trees. We start off as tiny things and grow up to adult height. Many times things go wrong and the tree never makes it to its full potential, either through lifespan or stature. In fact, finding a tree living to its full potential is a lovely and rare sight; yet battered trees live on, doing their best to fulfill their purpose.
Each type of tree lends itself to a particular growth style (basically: upright, branching, or weeping), just as each person lends to a certain style of ministry or certain personality traits. Upright trees tend toward structure and height, allowing stability and an identifying tower- just like the people deeply grounded in their faith or passion, giving strength and confidence to those around. Branching trees (like Live Oak or Maples) tend to have wide-spreading branches that cover a lot of area. These I associate with the people-lovers. The best place for a country picnic is in a field with a large oak giving ample shade if called upon. The tree just seems to invite crowds to enjoy its shade from the hot sun. Weeping trees are usually small ornamentals like cherry, but some can tower like the weeping willow. I’ve always viewed these soft spoken trees as the quiet ones… perhaps because willows are often found stretching over an inviting stream, perfect for reading a book under its peace. Maybe it’s just because they sound different in the wind- their speech and touch is calming and holds Truth.
Surely most have heard this oft quoted verse from Proverbs 22: “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.” Certainly there are a number of ways of viewing this, but I’ve heard it said that it can literally say to teach the child “each in his/her own way,” meaning to take into account the interests/personality leanings of the child. I’m not sure how that would fit in the time of its writing, but in my own time I see it like this... If a quiet, “withdrawn” child loves reading, music, art, and tends towards these areas, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to expect this child to become a college football player or a boxer. Not to say that the child shouldn’t be trained in physical activities, but if the general interest is mentally-creative in style, then put emphasis in those areas he is good in. The same could be said for a rough-and-tumble fella who loves sports and working outdoors and “doesn’t have a creative bone in his body.” Putting him in an office job instead of the underground mining company might cause unwarranted restlessness (I have actually met a man who has a passion for working in the mines- and more power to him: I would go crazy in the dark analyzing rocks, just as I would go crazy being stuck in an office cubical.)
Now, I bring this up because trees also do best in their own choice range of environmental conditions. A silver maple can handle a wide range of conditions- it naturally grows in boggy areas, and so can withstand compacted soil much better than a dogwood. Lace-leaf maples will burn with too much sun exposure, and so require a more shaded spot as secondary forest trees. Planting these trees in their wrong spots can stunt their growth and potential - like the writer/artist forced amidst the football players, or the farm-lover stuck inside an office cubical. Trees are trained by the weather, soil conditions, animals, and also professionally or carelessly by people. Humans are trained by all sorts of things: parents, mentors, friends, and life in general. Training is rarely a welcome experience for us, and if trees could choose, I doubt they would beg for their limbs to be cut off or reshaped. A strong tree has a good branch structure for its own style of growth. trees should be trained to help develop good structure which will help the tree in the long run to be able to hold its own weight and not snap under the stresses of nature when it has reached a mature height.
A tree can grow co-dominate leaders, which are basically two trunks on one tree (also called double-leaders). Both leaders are competing with each other to be the tallest/best, but this internal war often becomes the weakest point of the tree- breaking at this weak point is common, and the break can strip bark halfway down the tree… the loser isn’t just that branch, but the whole tree. If an upright tree has formed double leaders, the undesirable leader should be pruned out so that the tree will grow to its fullest potential. This can be compared to a human who must choose between two conflicting missions or life paths. One leader must be chosen over the other if the person wants to achieve his highest potential. Depending on the strength and position of the branches, either leader may be acceptable to keep. However, keeping both will make him weaker as time passes; even choosing to remove the stronger leader and keep the weaker would have been better for him than that.
“Good news from far away is like cold water to the thirsty” –Proverbs 25
Plant worthy of recognition: Erica x darleyensis, (and other hybrids) "Winter Heath." grown for its evergreen foliage and winter blooms.
22 November 2011
Gossip is the Last Thing We Need
It's just between you and me,
let's hope these old walls have gone mute.
A secret kept inside this room,
reality takes a turn for the time.
Let's tell the others of nothing,
what they know will only hurt.
Recite it, please, I need to hear
your promise of this hidden spite.
Recite it, please, I need to hear
your promise of this hidden life. ~Fiona
Affluent America
The authors of Affluenza: The All-Consuming Epidemic define Affluenza as “a painful, contagious, socially transmitted condition of overload, debt, anxiety, and waste resulting from the dogged pursuit of more” (2). Because America has so much to offer compared to other countries, Americans have grown accustomed to instant gratification. We have become a consumerist society produced by the American Dream and motivated by owning more of what is bigger, better, and more expensive (3, 27). Although the tone of the text is satirical and almost light-hearted, the authors are dealing with a serious topic. Their main concerns are the major effects Affluenza has on American lifestyle, emotional stability, the planet, and the younger generation.
De Graaf, John, David Wann, and Thomas H. Naylor. Affluenza: The All-Consuming Epidemic. San
Francisco: Berrett-Koehler Publishers, Inc., 2002. Print.
Song: I Never Told You What I Do For A Living by My Chemical Romance
Quote: "Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind." - Dr. Suess
Affluenza causes many imbalances in our society. For example, there are more cars than registered drivers (33), “more people [file] for bankruptcy than [graduate] from college” (20), and the average adult spends “seven times as much time shopping than playing with their kids” (41). Over two million Americans are homeless every year, yet nine million have second homes: this is more than just a distribution problem (79). Americans feel like they have to have the best new things and we spend eighty percent more—a fifteen billion dollar difference—on stuff than on higher education (13). We buy so much stuff, that we have no place to put it all: the United States storage industry has “expanded fortyfold since the 1960s,” making it larger than our music industry (32). We are a society that demands instant gratification, partially because our banks encourage credit usage with a “buy now, pay…whenever!” ethic that has caused national “credit card indebtedness [to triple] in the 1990s” (19). In the year 2000, the authors explain, the average American household had over seven and one-half thousand dollars in credit card debt (19). Dishwashers, dryers, central heating, air conditioning, color and cable television, microwaves, VCRs, CD players, cellphones, and fax machines…all of these things used to be “novelties that not everyone could afford” (28). Now, because Americans demand simplicity and immediacy, very few of us do not own all of these things. The authors quote columnist Ellen Goodman: “Normal is getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work, driving through traffic in a car you are still paying for in order to get to the job that you need so you can pay for the clothes, car, and house that you leave empty all day in order to afford to live in it” (34).
Scientists claim that, “since 1950, we Americans have used up more resources than everyone who ever lived on earth before then” (4). We use and discard so much and at such a rate that if everyone in the world were consumers like the United States, we would need more planets to reduce pollution and restock products (4). Statisticians have calculated that in one year, Americans will use one-hundred and fifty-five billions gallons of gasoline and we will spend sixty billion dollars to ensure that supply. We will be taxed two-hundred billion dollars “for road construction and maintenance, snow plowing, subsidizing parking, and public health” (89). Every American spends over thirty-five hours a year in traffic, and this traffic causes one-fourth of the United States’ greenhouse gases and degrades air quality enough to “inhibit sleep and contribute to radical increases in asthma, emphysema, heart disease, and bronchial infections” (34, 89). Every year, we create seven billion pounds of unrecyclable material from automobile manufacturing alone (90). There are forty thousand fatal car crashes per year and six thousand pedestrian deaths per year. If these number are added together each year, it will total more than the recorded deaths in all of America’s war history (85). But these statistics only cover automobiles—just one of the many major Affluenza-encouraging businesses. The following section is a parody:
“Though flora and fauna are dwindling, the spectrum of goods available to consumers is wider than at any time in planetary history, and that’s something we can all be happy about…Any complex system, whether we are talking about the Amazon rain forest or the Mall of America, needs a rich array of species and products if it is to survive. That is why, in light of the crumbling global ecosystem, it is increasingly vital that we [diversify] the global marketplace by buying the widest range of consumer products possible” (90).
The authors include this in their argument because they believe it to be disturbingly accurate.
Not only does Affluenza affect us as a society, but it is detrimental to emotional health as well. “Futurists were predicting that by the end of the twentieth century, we’d have more leisure time than we’d know what to do with,” but instead, our generation is working more jobs and longer hours than any other generation preceding it (40, 42). “Our consumption has doubled and…working hours have risen. More than half of all Americans get too little sleep,” says sociologist Juliet Schor (43). “The longer hours we work, the more stressful our home lives become; and the greater the tensions at home, the more we try to escape into work” (48). Patients of Dr. Richard Swanson suffering from “acute stress” showed “physical symptoms: headaches, lower back pain, hyperacidity, palpitations in the heart, unexplained aches and pains… [and] emotional problems: depression, anxiety, sleeplessness, irritability, yelling at your boss or at your colleagues or at your kids” (38). “There were all kinds of behavioral symptoms,” he says of his stressed patients, “like driving too fast, or drinking too much, or screaming too much, or being abusive. They didn’t have any space in their lives, they didn’t have any reserves…there’s an addictive quality to consumerism” (38). Since 1945, the rate of clinical depression has multiplied by ten, possibly because people feel that their lives are empty and meaningless (72). “Americans,” says economist Wilhelm Ropke, “[lose] sight of everything that goes to make up human happiness apart from money income and its transformation into goods” (74). People who “keep up with the Joneses” lack “the genuine and essentially non-material conditions of simple human happiness” (74). Americans try to fill the emptiness with more money and more stuff. The authors quote Matthew 16:26: “What good will it be for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul? Or what can anyone give in exchange for their soul?” and explain that humans have “a purpose in life” that is essentially “to serve God by caring for God’s creations and our fellow human beings. Happy is the man or woman whose work and life energies serve those ends, who finds a ‘calling’ or ‘right livelihood’ that allows his or her talents to serve the common good” (70).
“The first TV cartoon shows were created explicitly to sell sugared cereals,” the authors point out, and today, “the average twelve year old spends forty-eight hours a week exposed to commercial messages,” but they only spend one and one-half hours in “significant conversation with [their] parents” (52-53). Marketing consultants have found that “anti-social behavior in pursuit of a product…, portraying parents as fools…who aren’t smart enough to realize their children’s need for the product…, and softening the parental vetoes” are all good tools for selling more of their products. Whether we think so or not, commercial advertising has a great effect on the younger generation: in the 1980s, obesity rates in children doubled. Crime also increased as a result of commercialism; children from poor homes feel that they need the newest stuff on the market to feel and look important. Because they are from low income families, some resort to criminal activities to get what they want (82). America has “ten times the rate” of citizens in prison than “most industrial countries”: California alone has more prisoners than France, Germany, Great Britain, Japan, Singapore, and Holland combined (82). Affluency has been proven detrimental to any society. Business management professor David Kopter shares that his career “was focused on training business executives to create the equivalent of our high consumption economy in countries throughout the world,” and wanted to bring “every country into the consumer society” by “[reshaping] values of children from the very beginning to convince them that progress is defined by what they consume” (83). Again, Affluenza is affecting the younger generation by convincing them that consumerism is normal and good in society. David Kopter soon realized that he was causing “more harm than good” and that “peoples’ lives were actually worse off” (83). He saw “the environment trashed” and “the breakdown of cultures and the social fabric” (83).
Affluenza, the authors believe, is a horrible disease that will cause more damage the longer we leave it untreated. It degrades America’s lifestyle by convincing us that we have to buy to keep up, and it affects emotional health because of the high stress levels induced from the level of work and debt we carry. It affects the environment through pollution, and—worst of all—it affects our younger generation by beginning at an early age to instill in their minds that this disgusting lifestyle is actually healthy.
Works Cited
De Graaf, John, David Wann, and Thomas H. Naylor. Affluenza: The All-Consuming Epidemic. San
Francisco: Berrett-Koehler Publishers, Inc., 2002. Print.
Song: I Never Told You What I Do For A Living by My Chemical Romance
Quote: "Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind." - Dr. Suess
Poetry in a Tube
To: The World
From: Connie
Because poetry comes out when nothing else will...
Dedicated to Melz:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writer's Block
Staring at the whitest page,
Curser blinking on and off.
Where's my muse? Oh where's my sage?
Writing nothing incites rage,
But can't write this sorry stuff.
Having lots of half-spun thoughts,
And ideas without a pen.
But this battle can't be fought,
For the cure to this is naught,
And I cannot win.
So much that I want to say:
Lacking words that sound just right.
I will waste away the day
Knowing not one other way
To write.
From: Connie
Because poetry comes out when nothing else will...
Dedicated to Melz:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writer's Block
Staring at the whitest page,
Curser blinking on and off.
Where's my muse? Oh where's my sage?
Writing nothing incites rage,
But can't write this sorry stuff.
Having lots of half-spun thoughts,
And ideas without a pen.
But this battle can't be fought,
For the cure to this is naught,
And I cannot win.
So much that I want to say:
Lacking words that sound just right.
I will waste away the day
Knowing not one other way
To write.
21 November 2011
First three characters for the "Broker" competition
“You know, everyone in this competition has problems. It is hardly a unique situation.”
“I’m dying. Is this contest of yours… a race… to see who bleeds out… first?”
“No. That would be remedied before we began.”
“Heh. Not a lot of choice, then…”
“On the contrary, death is a perfectly reasonable alternative.”
The man, blood soaking into his hakama, looked at the stranger in the white kimono, and gave a feeble laugh.
“Not in my books.” His head lolled, staring at the bloodstained blade in his hands. “I won; but it doesn’t really mean much, on this side of things.”
“I would agree that your victory has a certain hollow ring to it; yes.”
“Well, then I accept. Patch me up; and I’ll just have to win again.”
“I see. Your fee will be taken first.” The pale man with the dark hair and cold porcelain mask raised one white robed hand, and held it before him. There was a moment of silence, as if the sound of the world was spun around his finger, trapped so it could not be heard. Streams of silver light coalesced into a ball, and then vanished, leaving a small globe of snow balancing on the pale white finger.
“That feeble dream is now contingent upon your success.” Another flick of skeletal, graceful fingers, and the dying man gasped with a sudden pain. He stared at his chest in shock as the sword wound began to draw closed, leaving a livid scar, and he could feel the blood drying out of his white hair.
“That’s it then?”
“No. This was simply the beginning. Good luck, Isshin.”
With a small bow, the white robed man disappeared, his kimono fluttering in an unfelt breeze, before blowing away into a spray of snowflakes.
Rising, Isshin glanced around. He wasn’t in the palace anymore. He was in a strange city, with buildings made of a strange seamless stone, dark grey and wrecked with pockmarks and craters. The ground was rocky and uneven, and the only sound was the distant cry of birds.
With a sigh, he sheathed his blade, and rolled out stiff shoulders, before walking off into this alien city.
Far below, on the white sand dunes, a figure had collapsed. Closer examination, in the greenish white light of the sun, would reveal that figure to be an ogashi; and a female ogashi at that. She was horribly malnourished, her skin a pale pink, and she didn’t even look to have a horn.
It could be thought that the man standing over her felt pity; if one did not suspect that the man standing over her never felt anything.
The harsh wind was kicking up the fine particles of silver, bouncing them off the plastic windbreaker he was wearing with a faint ringing sound. His bony face and inscrutable black eyes were fixed on the woman, or perhaps girl, at his feet.
After a moment, he gave her a prod with his boot, and she gave a faint groan. Another prod, and she managed to lift her head, to look weakly up at him.
“Good afternoon, Ferra. I have a deal to make with you.”
The woman snarled, her golden eyes fixed on the man’s knees, and she spat, revealing teeth which glittered with a certain metallic sheen. “Just end it, slavemaster. I can’t run anymore.”
The gaunt man sighed, and crouched down, so he could look her in the eye, grabbing a fistful of silver hair to pull her gaze up to his face. Her gasp of pain was ignored. Reaching into his coat with his free hand, he produced a brass canteen, waving it before her face. “Listen; and I’ll explain the deal.”
Her eyes followed the canteen with a desperate hunger, and she seemed to forget her pain, a faint nod.
“Good.” He let go of her hair, letting her face fall into the sand with a soft whump, before continuing. “I propose that you are allowed to participate in a small contest; a competition, where the last one standing wins. They will get a wish granted; the entry fee is that which you hold most dear. You will get it back if you do well.”
She pulled herself painfully up onto her elbows, and nodded.
“You will also be saved from your current situation; you’ll have 72 hours to give me your answer; though I doubt you have that long to live.”
A rattling laugh. “Aye, rich man. I don’t have a choice, do I? You can just take me by force; I’ll play your game.”
“You misunderstand. I am not a slavemaster. I’m the broker.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
With a small shrug, the broker accepted her response. Holding out a hand, he said, calmly; “I’ll take your fee then.” Touching his palm to her forehead, where her horn ought to be, had she one, he gave a faint whisper; in some language unknown. She winced, and then gave a whimper of pain.
“It is collected.” Setting down the canteen where she could reach it, he straightened, and then, with another gust of wind, he was gone.
So was the wind, and the sand. Slowly pulling herself upright, Ferra looked around. It was a bleak city, with streets piled with loose stone, and buildings falling to ruins. Grasping at the canteen, she took hungry, desperate draughts, before carefully setting it down, stifling the coughs which threatened to shake it out of her hands.
Then she reached to the manacles on her wrists, and the broken chains; they were made of gold; a horrible, indigestible metal. But on the ground, over there… was iron. Her center aching with the need of it, she began to crawl across the broken rocks; she needed to grow strong for this contest…
She needed to win.
“The quality of the blade is not in question.” the man said, adjusting his sunglasses and rising up from his seat on the decrepit couch. “It’s how much you value the blade…”
“It’s among my prized possessions. If you want the rest of them I’ll give them to you.”
The man gently lifted and unsheathed the weapon, its silver blade glistening in the dull light of the room.
“No.” he said, his smarmy smile growing into a disturbingly large, toothy grin. “That will not be necessary.”
“So this price will do?”
“No. Whether you knew it or not…you have not upheld your end of our bargain.”
“What?” Grath growled, growing tired of the man’s cryptic behavior.
“This is my favorite part of the acceptance process…when the applicant’s true price is revealed.”
“Get to the point.”
Suddenly the man dropped the blade onto the table and placed his arms before him. A blue crystal slowly fabricated amid his hands.
“This is your price.” said the man, his teeth glowing blue as he grinned down on Grath.
Grath's cigarette fell to the ground as he gripped his head.
“What…are you…doing?!” he managed to gasp.
“Extracting your end of the bargain. The memories…of her…”
“No…” Grath lowly growled. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m afraid I’m bound by contract to take this.” the man said, tossing the crystal in his hand. “But you will have a chance to earn this…and more.”
“Give it back now!!” Grath screamed as he slammed his fist onto the table. “I don’t want to be a part of this damn competition!”
“I’m afraid it’s far too late for that.”
“Son of a bitch!” boomed Grath, whipping out his revolver and firing off a round.
The bullet embedded itself in the wall behind the empty couch. The man had disappeared.
“Grath Wyvrin, your toll has been accepted.” said a voice that came from every direction. “You’re wish will be granted if you rise victorious among the other competitors. Would you like to change your wish before you are transported to the plane of battle?”
“No.”
“Very well. Prepare for yourself for fragmentation.”
Grath watched as his feet and lower legs were broken down into crystalline bits which slowly faded from view.
“Stay out of the shadows, Broker.” he said, lighting up a cigarette. “You’ve just made a deal with the devil.”
“I’m dying. Is this contest of yours… a race… to see who bleeds out… first?”
“No. That would be remedied before we began.”
“Heh. Not a lot of choice, then…”
“On the contrary, death is a perfectly reasonable alternative.”
The man, blood soaking into his hakama, looked at the stranger in the white kimono, and gave a feeble laugh.
“Not in my books.” His head lolled, staring at the bloodstained blade in his hands. “I won; but it doesn’t really mean much, on this side of things.”
“I would agree that your victory has a certain hollow ring to it; yes.”
“Well, then I accept. Patch me up; and I’ll just have to win again.”
“I see. Your fee will be taken first.” The pale man with the dark hair and cold porcelain mask raised one white robed hand, and held it before him. There was a moment of silence, as if the sound of the world was spun around his finger, trapped so it could not be heard. Streams of silver light coalesced into a ball, and then vanished, leaving a small globe of snow balancing on the pale white finger.
“That feeble dream is now contingent upon your success.” Another flick of skeletal, graceful fingers, and the dying man gasped with a sudden pain. He stared at his chest in shock as the sword wound began to draw closed, leaving a livid scar, and he could feel the blood drying out of his white hair.
“That’s it then?”
“No. This was simply the beginning. Good luck, Isshin.”
With a small bow, the white robed man disappeared, his kimono fluttering in an unfelt breeze, before blowing away into a spray of snowflakes.
Rising, Isshin glanced around. He wasn’t in the palace anymore. He was in a strange city, with buildings made of a strange seamless stone, dark grey and wrecked with pockmarks and craters. The ground was rocky and uneven, and the only sound was the distant cry of birds.
With a sigh, he sheathed his blade, and rolled out stiff shoulders, before walking off into this alien city.
***********************************************************************************
The sun was high in the sky, and certainly seemed to be comfortable there. It had been there for hours, and would be there hours longer.Far below, on the white sand dunes, a figure had collapsed. Closer examination, in the greenish white light of the sun, would reveal that figure to be an ogashi; and a female ogashi at that. She was horribly malnourished, her skin a pale pink, and she didn’t even look to have a horn.
It could be thought that the man standing over her felt pity; if one did not suspect that the man standing over her never felt anything.
The harsh wind was kicking up the fine particles of silver, bouncing them off the plastic windbreaker he was wearing with a faint ringing sound. His bony face and inscrutable black eyes were fixed on the woman, or perhaps girl, at his feet.
After a moment, he gave her a prod with his boot, and she gave a faint groan. Another prod, and she managed to lift her head, to look weakly up at him.
“Good afternoon, Ferra. I have a deal to make with you.”
The woman snarled, her golden eyes fixed on the man’s knees, and she spat, revealing teeth which glittered with a certain metallic sheen. “Just end it, slavemaster. I can’t run anymore.”
The gaunt man sighed, and crouched down, so he could look her in the eye, grabbing a fistful of silver hair to pull her gaze up to his face. Her gasp of pain was ignored. Reaching into his coat with his free hand, he produced a brass canteen, waving it before her face. “Listen; and I’ll explain the deal.”
Her eyes followed the canteen with a desperate hunger, and she seemed to forget her pain, a faint nod.
“Good.” He let go of her hair, letting her face fall into the sand with a soft whump, before continuing. “I propose that you are allowed to participate in a small contest; a competition, where the last one standing wins. They will get a wish granted; the entry fee is that which you hold most dear. You will get it back if you do well.”
She pulled herself painfully up onto her elbows, and nodded.
“You will also be saved from your current situation; you’ll have 72 hours to give me your answer; though I doubt you have that long to live.”
A rattling laugh. “Aye, rich man. I don’t have a choice, do I? You can just take me by force; I’ll play your game.”
“You misunderstand. I am not a slavemaster. I’m the broker.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
With a small shrug, the broker accepted her response. Holding out a hand, he said, calmly; “I’ll take your fee then.” Touching his palm to her forehead, where her horn ought to be, had she one, he gave a faint whisper; in some language unknown. She winced, and then gave a whimper of pain.
“It is collected.” Setting down the canteen where she could reach it, he straightened, and then, with another gust of wind, he was gone.
So was the wind, and the sand. Slowly pulling herself upright, Ferra looked around. It was a bleak city, with streets piled with loose stone, and buildings falling to ruins. Grasping at the canteen, she took hungry, desperate draughts, before carefully setting it down, stifling the coughs which threatened to shake it out of her hands.
Then she reached to the manacles on her wrists, and the broken chains; they were made of gold; a horrible, indigestible metal. But on the ground, over there… was iron. Her center aching with the need of it, she began to crawl across the broken rocks; she needed to grow strong for this contest…
She needed to win.
**********************************************************************
“I brought the price.” Grath said, placing his father’s sword on the table.
“That’s not what we agreed on.” replied an abnormally tall and lanky man dressed in a black business suit.
“The contract said to bring the thing we valued most.” A cloud of cigarette smoke evacuated Grath’s mouth. “This is my father’s blade. It’s over one-hundred and fifty years old and in perfect condition. You’d be hard pressed to find a weapon more excellent than this.”“The quality of the blade is not in question.” the man said, adjusting his sunglasses and rising up from his seat on the decrepit couch. “It’s how much you value the blade…”
“It’s among my prized possessions. If you want the rest of them I’ll give them to you.”
The man gently lifted and unsheathed the weapon, its silver blade glistening in the dull light of the room.
“No.” he said, his smarmy smile growing into a disturbingly large, toothy grin. “That will not be necessary.”
“So this price will do?”
“No. Whether you knew it or not…you have not upheld your end of our bargain.”
“What?” Grath growled, growing tired of the man’s cryptic behavior.
“This is my favorite part of the acceptance process…when the applicant’s true price is revealed.”
“Get to the point.”
Suddenly the man dropped the blade onto the table and placed his arms before him. A blue crystal slowly fabricated amid his hands.
“This is your price.” said the man, his teeth glowing blue as he grinned down on Grath.
Grath's cigarette fell to the ground as he gripped his head.
“What…are you…doing?!” he managed to gasp.
“Extracting your end of the bargain. The memories…of her…”
“No…” Grath lowly growled. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m afraid I’m bound by contract to take this.” the man said, tossing the crystal in his hand. “But you will have a chance to earn this…and more.”
“Give it back now!!” Grath screamed as he slammed his fist onto the table. “I don’t want to be a part of this damn competition!”
“I’m afraid it’s far too late for that.”
“Son of a bitch!” boomed Grath, whipping out his revolver and firing off a round.
The bullet embedded itself in the wall behind the empty couch. The man had disappeared.
“Grath Wyvrin, your toll has been accepted.” said a voice that came from every direction. “You’re wish will be granted if you rise victorious among the other competitors. Would you like to change your wish before you are transported to the plane of battle?”
“No.”
“Very well. Prepare for yourself for fragmentation.”
Grath watched as his feet and lower legs were broken down into crystalline bits which slowly faded from view.
“Stay out of the shadows, Broker.” he said, lighting up a cigarette. “You’ve just made a deal with the devil.”
18 November 2011
This is a Test
Hello, blog. At the moment, my cat Squirt is sitting on me in such a way that it is very difficult to type. I will make this brief.
This is a test post! I have no intention of posting regularly here because this blog is meant to be a multi-authored project. The authors will hopefully include poets, artists, photographers, novelists, playwrights, short story writers, and people who just enjoy rambling in general. By the time all authors are invited, posting should be probably, maybe regular.... We'll see how this works.
Song: Sick of Everyone by Sum41
Quote: "A painter paints pictures on canvas. But musicians paint their pictures on silence." - Leopold Stokowski
This is a test post! I have no intention of posting regularly here because this blog is meant to be a multi-authored project. The authors will hopefully include poets, artists, photographers, novelists, playwrights, short story writers, and people who just enjoy rambling in general. By the time all authors are invited, posting should be probably, maybe regular.... We'll see how this works.
Song: Sick of Everyone by Sum41
Quote: "A painter paints pictures on canvas. But musicians paint their pictures on silence." - Leopold Stokowski
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