554. Alterity

The door was unlocked and the cottage, although empty, felt smaller, the air, dust mote quiet. You can't prove a negative nor can you find a note not left behind. Trev looked with one eye, the other fixed firmly on guilt, the kind of guilt that wanted to find a note and equally did not. At least he could admit it.

553. Dysphoria

When one is alone and wet and cold, and the distance between foot and cottage is not the distance feared, one has thoughts, some heavy like old iron, others light as hummingbirds and still some like the wasp. With a real wasp, one can run or one can swat, or if stung, one knows a life was given in the act. But when the wasp is inside and the sting within, well, one has thoughts best not shared.

I played in my mind what I would say. Then I played it again and I knew, what sounded so good in my imagination would remain as separate from the act as the play from the audience, as the reader from the book, as the ink from the idea. So, I took all my words and I kicked them before me as the rocks before my raisined toes, my anger shielding the pain, for what could a toe know of the woe of heart, the rend of soul, the dull ache of mind turned on itself.

The night air was warm and humid and I breathed the fire of salt into my dry nostrils and the burning brought tears to my eyes, salt to salt as dust to dust. That's when I saw a sight I will never forget and felt a burning in my failed lungs. Like that, they were gone and for all the running and yelling I might as well have been in a dream. The cottage was not the same and the emptiness of wall was but a pond to the empty ocean of my heart.

552. Important and Urgent

Wearing his customary pristine white tunic, hair disheveled in a turbulent sea of grey swells and shimmering whitecaps, face warm bronze to match hands aged and weathered in the love of all things outdoors, shoulders symmetrically sloped displaying the strength and beauty of mountains in winter, Zeke listened with the patience of the sparkling ocean that glittered before his pale blue eyes. He leaned back, wooden chair kissing wooden desk like timid children out of teacher's sight, while the voice on the other end of the line spoke of matters important and urgent.

Questions sat, not asked. Just talking and listening. What the hellocks could be said that had not already been said? Words had been poured forth from father to son as water to stone. Familiarity bred not contempt, but accepted weariness, the kind of weariness that existed between husband and wife in the morning when love was a memory long faded and questions of endearment no longer offered nor expected. So the questions just sat, unopened, ignored, gifts forever unknown.

When the call ended, Zeke stood, drawing breath of brass and bergamot, wood old and leather worn; his hands held behind his back, softly, one into the other, fist into palm like ball into glove. He looked upon the waters of Valla as if in the looking a sign or signal would appear, and he could take his hands and do something. To do something to hold at bay thoughts of what had been done and, thoughts be damned, what had not. Take what you want, then pay for it. Is that how it is? Reluctant, with belly full, to pay for the meal. Blame the cook need only a mirror.

His son had succeeded, at work. Won prestigious awards, stood in the world on his own merits, had married and had two beautiful children, Kyra and Emily. Something changed when Emily died. He withdrew. Episodic bursts of anger as unpredictable as infrequent. His wife looked on with dead eyes, leaden tongue, their marriage held together by professional ambition; and the storm.

They had chosen Emily over Kyra, second born over first. Had taken her with them on their travels. Said that Kyra's schooling was the reason she was left behind. Damn the lies, the pretense. Parents tended to favor one child over the other, but the art of parenting was never to let either child know which was which. Perhaps he succeeded. Kyra never questioned or if she did, never gave voice to the doubt. Yet, still, the child seemed, at times, melancholy beyond her summers. What do we ever really know of the inner life of another, forever sifting clues and forming assumptions, drawing conclusions, forgetting that what we know pales in comparison to what we don't.

The call talked of things important and urgent. The planet was in peril. Changes had to happen now. Those in power were in denial. Zeke listened. Not once was the question asked. How is Kyra?

__________

A few years earlier . . .

"Papa," asked Kyra, "why are you crying?"

"When I see you, I see the most beautiful thing in the whole world and the joy from my heart expresses itself through my eyes."

"Is that why Grand is crying too?"

Papa looked over his shoulder, his beautiful bride leaning against the worn door frame, her hand wiping her nose. "Yes, Kyra," she said.

"Can I cry too?"


Commentary and Reading published on the Podcast site.

or here: iTunes

551. Domus

Drawn by a light she knew should not be there, Grand returned to the kitchen. She could have sworn she had secured her nook, yet, casting a glow candle soft, the oven light. "Zeke, did you turn the oven light on?"

"I did." His tone, Tao smooth she called it, implied query asked and query answered. Nothing more needed, nothing more forthcoming.

"Kinda late to be cooking."

"Wasn't planning on cooking."

"And the light?"

Zeke put his book down and looked over his glasses, his tawny face glowing warmly in lamp light like a lion facing twilight. "Feels like home when the light is on, that's all."

550. Gestalt

When I took the leap, arms outstretched, chest bowed and head held high, I can say without any doubt, for the first time in my life, I felt free. The leap itself, although mere seconds, remains to this day, the single most defining memory I have. Imagine a waterfall and you are standing behind the cascade and all that you see is vague, fuzzy, ear pounding and colorless. You fear the water until pushed and on the other side is peaceful quiet, vivid color and where there was wet cloak heaviness, now, only the lightness of a bird in flight, bones hollow, wings spread, endless vistas verdant and lush.

I had heard, and I expected, to feel regret. Instead, as strange as this may sound, a rebirth. The world I knew could not leap with me, would not dare to dare as I had dared and I felt a smile I could not repress, a joy I could not contain, a happiness as water to the fish, as air to the bird, as wisdom in the child. I won't say that time stood still. I was well aware of falling, but to fall without fear, to embrace death and in the embracing of death to experience life on a plane beyond my previous comprehension effected what I can only describe as an internal expansion, as if before I had to define the world with only a handful of words, now I saw with the eyes of a thesaurus, my mind burning in a light seen without eyes.

Then I hit the water (laughter here), and, I shite you not, I felt like a baby yanked from the womb, the sting of life upon me, my sentence served. Took three days to get the taste of salt out of my nose and I would by lying if I didn't say I enjoyed every sneeze and snort and ache and throb, which, much to my dismay, began to fade as the color from a rose plucked from the bush.

549. Inanis

He sat, head in hands, heavy as stone. His eyes looked without seeing, the glitter of the night ocean lost before his mind; the wind, picking up as the moon rose, mute to his ears. Nor did he feel the goose pimples on his arms. The balance of one's life, what is taken and what is given, a question without an impartial answer. Worthy, what did that mean. To be worthy, the question felt as horn on horn, one falling upon the other, neither giving way, haunches sprung, necks swung, two rams banging heads.

And there was that sound again. Bruit was the technical term. Turbulent flow. No stethoscope necessary. Would they know? Would they care? He stood, expanded his chest and listened. No denying the sensation. Divine justice perhaps. But then, the question returned. Worthy? One would have to be worthy for the divine to give a frail. Kyra had said something similar. Staring into death, she saw a great nothingness. And it dawned on her, that all her beliefs could be nothing but lies. Worthy of what? Worthy to what?

Whether the ocean was listening or beckoning he could not tell. His eyes felt dry in the salt air, the flesh of his orbs paper thin, the light dimming from within. Numbness sat in his fingertips like lead weights, only his hair moving, dancing in the breeze, highlighted with moonlight. He took a step toward the edge of the outcrop, toes like claws grasping rock like bird. Could he fly or would he drop. Accident or intentional. Wouldn't be his frailing problem to solve. His shirt billowed like a kite and his legs appeared as a diver, arms outstretched, chest bowed out. As toe kissed rock goodbye, he expected regret and smiled. Even in his final act, he would be denied.

Soundtrack: Tarja Turunen's Oasis

548. Cecity

Trev ran. From Em. From Mairi. But mostly, from himself, or, as he might rationalize, to himself, whatever the hell that meant. The sand under his feet, between his toes, burned with coarseness or friction or heat or all the above but he ran anyway, ran till he felt his heart in his chest, heard it throb in his ears till even the surf sounded distant. Then he ran more, ran to extinguish the pain through sheer exhaustion as if his mind, like an old sludge-filled engine, simply needed to spin, to rev, to burn the gunk of regret through physical exertion.

For all his effort, he might as well have tried to kill the fly on his forehead with a sledgehammer. Perhaps then his bastard memory would reveal what was real and what had only been a dream or, maybe, just his over active imagination. Em asked the wrong question at the wrong time and Janus damn her for pushing the issue, an issue he himself couldn't reconcile, his memory a puzzle, complete it seemed except for those extra pieces, pieces she demanded an accounting and he but a mumbling idiot had not an answer. Not one frailing answer. Remember she had said. Remember frailing what. Remember frailing what.

Climbing wet rock, the air turned cooler in the aestival evening. A tide pool, calm as glass, reflected herds of cotton-ball clouds roaming a sky pristine. Trev leaned over, his face unrecognizable. His smile, a grin; his eyes hollowed. Indignation rose from gut to throat, stuck, lacking object to strike. Curses, ugly, tremored his cracked lips, held within to stew, for the stewing resonated a delicious pain, one familiar, welcomed as enemies joining hands against a common foe.

He played the events over in his mind, what he said, what he didn't say, what he wished he had thought to say. She looked so beautiful in her hurt, like a little girl discovering a cherished belief was nothing more than a lie, and the liar had nothing but excuses that belied not care and concern or even wisdom; rather, a glimpse, a look into the void, an opening into the chasm they called adulthood--code language for, we don't have a frailing clue and neither will you in time. She had that kind of look on her face and the image, static, unchanging, bore a hole between his eyes like a bullet, one he had fired come around the world, and in perfect symmetry stuck him dead stupid, tongue ripped from moor, throat afire, surrounded by water he couldn't drink. Licking his cardinalate lips, he could not deny some perverse pleasure in the taste.

547. Nocent

Mairi woke and seeing Em asked, "Where is Trev?"

Em, seeing Mairi awake heard the question as one hears the distant surf. "Gone."

"Gone?" repeated Mairi, her voice not much more than a whisper.

"Gone as in not coming back gone," said Em, her tone numb, her gaze somewhere else.

Mairi stared at Em, part crestfallen, part disbelieving.

Em continued. "Not your fault. Not mine either. The boy has issues."

"What happened?"

"I confronted him on a few, let us say, inconsistencies. Of course, he didn't quite see it that way."

"Em?"

"What?"

"Why is your nose bleeding?"

__________

Several months earlier . . .

"Polaris?"

"Yes, Polaris."

"Punishment or reward. I mean of all the forsaken places, not that I'm complaining, I hear its beautiful, but--"

"History is made in the forsaken places. Count your blessings for the opportunity."

__________

A few days before . . .

"Sir, the update you requested."

The Hood looked over the slate, the data drawing him from seat to stand. "Polaris! They went to Polaris?! 

546. One Late Afternoon

He walked in the door like Janus himself, halo of light, accompanied by an angel. Ariel skipped and danced around him as children free from life's gravity do, her golden hair shimmering (without a light source), her eyes like stars, her smile as sunrise. Confidence, long lost and now returned, emanated from John, as clear to my senses as light to new born eyes. I reminded myself to breath and felt, simultaneously, elation and heartrending bottomless destitute sadness. His eyes, like gimlets, bore into my heart and his hand, upon my head, felt as a cradle made to catch the swoon. Speechless, I watched, a patient (secretly) glad to be ill, lost in the moment of what could never be, swimming, straining against tide, sinking deeper, engulfed by a force preternatural.

His smell, so close, was no smell and every smell, my memory working to reference, searching for what did not exist. As a palm before hurricane, I bent, stubborn, resisting, angry, holding on, fighting. He braced my weight on his arm, my waist spooning into his, lips separated by inches, anticipation, closer. I resisted. Then he spoke and as a finger in the bubble, the magic was gone. We were but two umbrellas one late afternoon.

Soundtrack: Dar Williams' The Beauty of the Rain

545. The Fount of Light

I walked from hospital to chapel on an afternoon best remembered as a near perfect summer day. The sky, a deep blue, the kind of blue typically seen only at elevation; the trees, hardy in their battle against wind and rain swayed like majestic giants in a gentle breeze, whispering well wishes; the grounds, pristinely manicured, a sign of care and money communicating peace through order and design.

The chapel rose from the ground, stone by stone, each cut by hand, each unique, patterns of nature expressing beauty to shame great masters. I walked alone. My thoughts happy for the space. The chapel growing in size with each step and I felt as a son returned to the father, my shoulders heavy with lessons learned the hard way.

He approached and I thought nothing of it, an older soul in a body at ease, steps soft, eyes clear, a smile natural in the ways of smiling, as natural as the flower before the sun. I would have made nothing of the encounter, ordinarily, until he spoke, not to me as much as with me, as if his only mission was this moment, to greet, say hello; and I felt an energy I had not felt in a long time, an energy few possess, an energy with the power to move heart and soul rather than stone and soil. We talked for some time before he apologized and introduced himself as the chaplain. I enquired if the chapel was open and he said by all means I must visit, to spend as much time as I liked. His handshake felt warm, not of hand, but of heart and I believe he knew, from the touch, my soul needed the energy he gave. Before I could break the spell, he was gone and I smiled or perhaps he smiled me. I watched him walk away, his feet soft upon the ground and I thought that under different circumstances and another time, I'd like to share word and bread and I'd like to think he would have welcomed the occasion.

For the brief moment of our encounter, my fears took pause, and as the old soul disappeared into the distance, they returned, shadows of mind emerging for breath, begging for attention and so I drew breath and welcomed them to journey with me and together we would visit the chaplain's domain. I was not as alone as I had thought.

I entered not from the main door, but rather from the side, a smaller arched door adorned in carving that needed no translation. To the right rose the main tower, nankeen stone reaching into the sapphire sky, and I felt not alone. Looking into the bell tower, I saw no one and I knew at this moment no one would be in the tower. Still, I looked again and the feeling grew stronger. I drew breath and my hand began to tremble and before my mind flashed a vision or a dream or perhaps just a hope.

As promised the wooden door was unlocked, opening with heft, notably without squeal or squeak. Natural light spilled into the warmly lit narthex, a candle unto itself keeping watch over the darkened nave. Aisles lined the cavernous interior and from above hung embroidered banners, each a testament to trial, tribulation and triumph. I felt as if transported to the Tao Hall of Whales and, as if from instinct, the solemn weight of memory bowed my head. From light years removed, I felt a bond sewn in the sinew of brothers, a bond I feared I would never feel again.

Raising my head, I breathed in the cool air, letting the light from the stained glass walls illuminate the path before me in a kaleidoscope of color. The nave's belly held not pews but chairs, perhaps a thousand, all the same, arraigned with meticulous precision, slated backs slightly curved, reaching upward, ever upward, like soldiers in attention. I stood front and center, the alter some distance before me, not another soul to be seen.

Following the lead of the chairs, my eyes looked up and I saw arch upon arch, wood inlaid upon stone, receding as I imagined trumpets might. On either side of the alter, perched as owls at night, the gleaming instruments of divine calling. I spoke, almost unconsciously, two words, the only two words that seemed fitting: My Janus. What happened next, I should not have been surprised, made me smile. My voice, of what should have been only a whisper, resonated, not by accident, but by what could only be called intelligent design, and I longed to sit among many, listening to a single voice, the old soul, bring order to chaos, his voice as clear from the rear as from the front, as from the conversation of what seemed a long time ago.

Then, for some unknown reason, standing in the luxury of other men's labor, I felt utterly alone. The feeling started in my gut and like a wave rolled upward leaving my face flush. I seldom feel lonely, but in this moment, standing within this storied place, so magnificent, I missed my boy. I missed Ceru and the wonderful hues upon the smooth stone before me appeared to pool, the image more dreamlike with each remembering. I made the sign of the Tao and bending on one knee, lower my head.

I never heard the steps. His hand laid upon my shoulder like a heating pad. I rose without looking as he said come with me, and we begin to walk. In the center of the nave stood a fount, not of water, but of light. I stood to one side and the old soul to the other. He nodded his head and I placed my hands in the fountain of light. What happened next I cannot explain no more than music and be explained in words or a song by ink and paper.

__________

Younger C and me outside of All Saints Chapel on the campus of The University of the South, inspiration for the chapter posted above.

544. Notes as Motes

ed note: sometimes I get stuck. usually because I'm taking myself and The Story too seriously. sometimes because I read great authors and upon the reading feel as if I've completely forgotten how to write or that what I write is such tripe as to waste the time it takes to write and wastes the time of those who attempt to read. sometimes I'm just out of ideas, interesting ideas, of where to take the story. when this happens, you get a chapter like the one below. each of the snippets could and perhaps should be a full chapter in its own right, and one or two just might be expanded. forgive my stuckness and feel free to skip the tripe below although I'm not promising tomorrow's tripe will be any better.

"So, tell me more about his message?" asked Kyra.

"Don't really know anymore than I've told you," said John. "What's wrong with your nose?"

"Nose bleed. Can't seem to get it to stop."

"Let me see."

__________

"Is there a chapel?" asked Von.

The servitor displayed a virtual map of a building a few hundred yards away. Von took note, nodding his thanks. A few minutes later, standing in the courtyard, his eyes sore from the sight, sore of memory forgotten, the chapel stood, an object, as chapels should he thought, with a gravity and presence beyond stone and mortar, wood and banner. Creed mattered not. He opened the door and walked into the expanse, tradition and ritual breathing, him, breathing life into soul, stoking memories of Tao sanctuaries back on Hyneria, reminding him of what was and what was never to be again.

__________

Em motioned and Trev followed. "I've got a problem," she said.

"Look, this is not what it looks like."

"You ever notice that when you get nervous you repeat the same word."

"I'm not nervous. I'm concerned."

"You should be."

"I don't know what your problem is but Mairi was there when I needed her and I fully intend to be there for her now."

"I'm not talking about Mairi."

__________

"Rog, you wanna get your message? You know, we haven't heard from anyone since we landed."

"No, not really."

"Well, I think I will."

"No, I don't think so."

After a short and playful wrestling match with Yul on top, her knees on either side of his chest and his comm to her ear, Rog noticed a change in her demeanor. "What's up?"

Handing him the comm she said, "I think you need to listen to this."

__________

Kyra held her head back and removed the bloody cloth. John webbed his hand to the back of her head, looking, looking a little too long without speaking.

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure, but I think we should head to the hospital."

"Are you serious? For a nose bleed?"

"Yes. How quickly can you be ready?"

543. Ochlesis

Trev took Mairi to the back bedroom and laid her on the bed facing the ocean. She had felt lighter in his arms than he remembered, her hair more faded, her skin paler. Gently, he took a wet cloth and wiped the dry blood from her lips. She looked at him as a puppy looks at his master long gone, now returned.

Em stood on the other side of the bed, watching, as much Trev as Mairi. To her eye, he seemed different. His face looked different and his voice sounded different. She wasn't asked to help and as if an invisible wall existed between her and the two of them, she felt oddly out of place, no real reason, just an uneasy feeling, a tightening of gut, a stirring of intuition.

With tender strokes, Trev wiped her forehead and then her cheeks. Mairi looked up, her eyes on Trev as were his on hers. Em felt like jumping up and down. Yelling hey. I'm here too. She resisted. With effort. Strained ugly effort. The kind of effort to surpress nausea. A temporary fix.

Mairi spoke first. The back of Trev's hand resting on her cheek. "Just like old times, huh," she said, taking his hand in hers, holding it tight to her face.

Em's eyes locked on Trev, big as owls, the skin on her face tight. Trev looked up, a feeling not so different from a vise gripping his chest, from hand to eye, from Mairi to Em. He shrugged.

Mairi continued. "Remember the time?" Her voice but a whisper. Em leaned. Mairi repeated the query. "Remember?"

Em looked at Trev. The kind of look found in the courtroom. A look expectant. A look that had all day for an answer.

Trev remained silent. Em exploded. "Answer the question!"

__________

Ed note: Mairi is referencing three previous chapters in particular:

With Considerable Effort

First Time

Outtake #2: Ministrations

542. Revenant

John opened his duffel bag, feet solid on the ground, shoulders squared, back straight. His hair was cropped short, his face shaved, nails clipped military neat. To the left, he re-folded his underwear, tucking the cloth neatly into the corner of his bag. Socks along the sides like tires on the outside of a tugboat. His pressed shirts took second tier, one laid upon the other head to toe and toe to head, rising in equal measure by design.

Ariel sat to his left on a stool and watched. This was her dad. His routine was him and what was him was a part of her. His attention to detail, care, organization, neatness. All of it. "Daddy, why do you pack like that?" she asked, not so much to know the answer but to hear him say it; and not so much to hear him say it, but to hear how he said it, the tone, the sureness, the confidence in 'his way.'

John stopped, a shirt in his hands. "Take care of the little things and the big things will take care of themselves."

Ariel twirled her feet, toes pointing down. With innocence or precociousness, John could not tell, she asked the question he left hanging. "What big thing are you worried about?"

John smiled. Ariel was a very intelligent and observant adult trapped in a six year old body, or if he closed his eyes this would be the impression created, namely, that talking to Ariel was not like talking to a child and he wondered if she had been quite this way prior to Kyra taking her into the divine or if, Janus forbid, he had just never noticed before, been gone too much as Cait was wont to remind him. Yanking the thought as a weed for fear of it rooting is his tender psyche, he quickly responded. "I'm worried that what I once knew I've forgotten and what I once knew is that everything matters, no matter how insignificant. I once knew that we paid for everything in the currency of time and nothing went without cost, a price, of money once exchanged that could never be refunded." John placed the shirt on the bed and leaned over, his eyes level with hers. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Ariel stared into his large deep eyes and without a blink of hesitation said: "You're saying if you don't hug me right now and tell me you love me, that my bank account of hugs and I love you's will always be one short."

John opened his arms to match his smile. Ariel wrapped his neck with little arms like vines. "And dad, one more thing."

"What's that Sweetie?"

"Mommy told me her bank account was full."

----------

Commentary and Reading posted on the Podcast page: Revenant

Audio can also be found on iTunes: Story Podcasts

541. Never

"Are you just gonna stand there?" asked Em. Trev hesitated. "Pick her up."

Trev lifted Mairi into his arms, her legs hanging loose, neck cradled in the crook of his elbow. Between lips dry and cracked she managed one word: "Never."

Zoe held Von's finger like a child to parent, lying in bed white with the eerie stillness of the infirm. Through lips dry and cracked, with eyes opened to another world, she spoke in a paper thin whisper. "If I see Ceru before you, I'll tell him how much you love him."

On the nightstand, Rog's comm blinked. Lost in the space of union divine, memories of one betraying the physicality of the other, eyes open, to the movies of his mind. Yul was too high to care, too lost in lust to wonder.

Kyra stood before the ocean, her chest matching the gentle swells. The watchet sky, endless as the hazy horizon. Licking her lips, an odd copper taste in her mouth. Reaching forth, her white fingers returned crimson bright, her gut tight in intuition.

"Dad?" asked Ariel. "Are you okay?"

John nodded, listening to the last message on his comm, sender unknown. "Your friends are in trouble. You've been warned."



---------

The head Chatelaine stood before the new class. We have, she said, many rules, and in time you will learn them all as the wind learns the path between the trees. However, as the full moon bows before the rising sun, we have one rule above all others. She paused, eyes glassing the room, looking through the new recruits. Mairi sat straight, hands placed evenly on her desk. The Chatelaine continued. Never become attached to a client. Placing her hands behind her back, she repeated. Never.

Audio on iTunes

A few folks have reported they are unable to listen to the new audio on my Podcasts site (see post below). In an attempt to offer an alternative way to listen, download and subscribe, all the new audio is now available on iTunes. Click the link below to go to The Story Podcasts page.

The Story Podcasts on iTunes

A Snowball and A Sennet

Picked up a new mic today: Blue's Snowball as seen above. To christen my new toy, a reading of Sennet and Theandric--click the links below. Enjoy.

Sennet

and

Theandric

I've also added an enhanced reading of Capiche?, which is to say, as I became Trev in the reading, I allowed him the freedom to embellish the prose--perhaps my favorite kind of reading and an insight into Trev like we've never really had before. Highly emotional.

A reading of Her Patroon added too. I feel like a kid at xmas. :-D

An enhanced reading of As If Janus posted. Worth the effort this one is. Powerful. Enjoy.

My first rough attempt at working in multiple sound tracks. Listen to Coin for a fun render of Taboodja in voice character.

Paintings and Sketches

Although all the paintings and sketches I've done are on this blog and can be found under the appropriate labels, I've created an album that groups them all together (along with a few variations not seen on this site) and can be viewed as a full screen slideshow or one at a time. To view, click on this link: Story Characters

I've decided to also build an album of non-sketched Story characters, which can be found at this link: Non-sketched Story Characters  (there are more of this images than I imagined so consider what you see a work in progress--I'll keep adding images as time permits until the album is complete)

Other albums are also on the drawing board such as Locations and Objects. Stay tuned.