louderback @ 10:42am: She’s Dead
Nothing brings you back to living in a fairy tale like a good hard does of reality.
She's dead.
My wife, my redhead. My son, my beautiful boy. My father, the rock of my faith. All dead.
My job didn't last long. I didn't want to do it anymore. They took the car, they took the house. They wouldn't pay me anymore. They there’s something wrong with my mind.
She's dead.
The mission was cool and all and I didn't mind sleeping there much. It was kinda dirty.
She's dead. They're dead.
I left the mission when they kept stealing my clothes while I slept. It is actually safer down by the park. Not in the park, but outside it. Usually there's a store somewheres with a big dumpster. Just push it out a little and you can sleep behind.
She's dead.
I don't feel like walking all the way to the park every night. I like the street right here downtown. I can find a door somewhere that is open or a place out of the cold. I usually get better food here too. People give you a lot. I tell them about her a lot.
She's dead.
After a while They stop looking at you. I'm pretty dirty I guess. I notice that little kids avoid me now, even the little high school types. I try to do what I can. I sleep inside most of the time now. There's a telephone building that is unlocked. It hums all night. She used to hum while she worked.
She's dead.
I'm usually hungry now. I don't move around much. People won't talk to me anymore. They don't even listen. I try to tell them something, so they'll help. So they know.
She's dead.
I don't try to talk to them any more. They don't care. Nobody cares. They should. I think they should. I need to tell them - about . . . Her.
I need to do something. I don't remember what. There's something I have to remember. It is about - them. Them . . .
I have to go somewhere. Where do I need to go? Nobody will tell me. I need to get to . . . Where, no, I mean who? I'm not sure. I need. I remember. No. I don't remember. I . . . I. You. I don't know . . .
I don't care . . .
I don't care . . .

louderback @ 3:54pm: I remember
In response to the writing prompt: “area codes”

I Remember

I remember this kid, couldn't have been more than five, who was brought in my first day in the emergency room. He had tangled with a lawn mower somehow and his father had his severed arm packed in ice and his stump tied off with a tourniquet made from a cable tie. The doctor tried for an hour to re-attach that mangled hand and arm but the kid just gave it up. The father pounded his head against a glass door and nearly broke it.

A couple of years ago a woman came shrieking into the lobby, claiming demons were drinking her blood. Security grabbed her, and the intern on duty bundled her off to a psychologist under mild sedation. The psychologist sent her back asking us to remove the several dozen leeches from her back.

Sweet old Mrs. Bailley saw us about once a month just after her social security check came in. She used the cash to buy a bag of candy and then pigged out. Her blood sugar went through the roof every time and she got so sick she had to call 911. She did it every month. She got to be a regular. One of the orderlies got some flowers for her every time she came in. She even brought a little bag with her each time and showed us all her grand children, the new babies in the family, and told us all the gossip. Last month, the strain was too much. After we gave her the usual insulin and left her to rest, she just lay down and peacefully died. She didn't get to show her pictures this time.

Some guy with a crazed look ran in the front door, slammed past security carrying his twelve-year-old daughter shouting, "Code blue! Code blue!" He watches too many hospital shows on TV. They're just called a "code" around here. The girl was dead. The doctor examining her found traces of barbiturates and heroin. He also found signs of sexual activity. When he told the father she was dead and asked about sex and drugs, the guy pulled out a gun, put it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. It took half an hour before he coded.

Sometimes I hate working here, in my area, codes are memories.

louderback @ 6:28pm: Sixteen
When you were young and I was sixteen our days were filled. We spent them lavishly and our love for one another could withstand any test. You worshiped me, hung on my words, demanded my presence, my opinion on all things, my participation in every little game you played. I was glad of it.

The difference in our ages gave me all the advantage. I was the "experienced" one. I used you. You wanted to please me. I abused you, you were a little afraid of me. You did what I wanted, when I wanted it. You wanted to.

You hung with me through High School, though I ditched you often enough. You thought I was ashamed to introduce you to my friends. I just thought it was uncool. Right up to my Senior year you thought I was the coolest guy that ever lived. Some distance was growing between us. You didn't really step back, but we both knew what was going to happen.

I went to college. I left you behind. We phoned a while, then let it slide. You followed me to college, but it was not the same. I had different friends, I had a new girl-friend and you didn't get introduced. When we met it was no longer glad smiles and a warm embrace, just a casual glance, a nod, a civil recognition of one another.

Out of school, living our lives, our paths cross. We speak briefly, strangers now. We don't call. We don't write. Contact is uncomfortable, not fun, not the joy it had been. The love faded, the camaraderie, the need for each other vanished.

We are just strangers now. Strangers who happen to share some history. You keep in touch with my parents as much as I do, but we seldom see them together. They tell me how you are and I guess they report on me to you. We have nothing in common any more.

What happened, baby brother? Where did we lose it?

In response to the prompt: “Sixteen”

louderback @ 8:41pm: Just Like A Kiss
Just Like A Kiss...

Just like a kiss to change my mood in a moment. She kissed me welcomely at the movies and turned a horrible mood into one of anticipation.

Just like a kiss to change my day in a moment. A peck on the cheek at the end of the day let us sit down to dinner at the end of what had been a horrible day and enjoy it as though it was the best day of our lives.

Just like a kiss to change my heart in a moment. She whispered "I love you" through a kiss and nothing in the world mattered as much to me as she. No thing was as important to me as marrying her.

Just like a kiss to change my year in a moment. She kissed me and told me she was pregnant and my head spun in circles for a year.

Just like a kiss to change my world in a moment. She said we needed a new life for our child and kissed me. In six months we I was a realtor in the Midwest and she worked in a department store.

Just like a kiss to change my soul in a moment. My father was dead and she kissed me to console me. It warmed me and took the pain away.

Just like a kiss to change my life in a moment. She kissed me and said that my age and my bald spot didn't matter. I stopped worrying that she would ever leave.

Just like a kiss to change me in a moment. She kissed me passionately and every time I was a bashful fifteen year old no matter how old I got. I never forgot that ever.

louderback @ 10:34pm: Short Story: Fantasy: 6k: Hunters

Hunters

Part 1: Interlude

     Hawk and Arlo swam, splashing, and circling one another in a pool so clear it had no color but that of the sky. At the North end of the pool water fell from above. To the left it provided a pounding stream and at the right a mist barely more than a misty fog.

     Arlo rose from the pool and stood to the left letting the water pound the aches and tiredness from his wiry body. He was five-and-a-half feet tall and perhaps one hundred ten pounds. His hair was long, straight, and black. Brown eyes looked past a nose with a high prominent ridge over small, neat mouth with cherry-red lips. His face was narrow with a small chin. He had longish ears. He would have had an elfin appearance had he not been so dark. As he scrubbed himself he looked at his friend who had chosen the right-hand side of the falls.

     Hawk and Arlo were of a size but Hawk weighed nearly fifty pounds more. He sometimes complained of being overweight but he was built broadly and carried no obvious fat. His auburn hair was short. He shaved it close to his neck and ears to keep it from catching in the trees and brush when he hunted. His nose rested above a wide Cupid's bow mouth. His eyes were dark brown. He had the square chin that bespoke the firm character of a man of the land. The mist collected on Hawk's shoulders and rolled in rivulets down his body making slight chills even as the sun warmed him. His torso was a sculptor's find. Broad shoulders lay back above a spine as straight as a birch and solid as an oak. His chest was strong above his stomach, a twin ridge of washboard muscle.

     While Arlo admired his friend's physique, he was glad to forgo the work it took to maintain it.

     Together the boys moved to the grassy bank. Arlo took a knee and placed one hand on the ground. Rivulets of water ran from his feet, from his hair, across his body, until it ran off his hand into the grass leaving him dry. "Now me," said Hawk impatiently.

     "I should leave you to dry on your own." Arlo knelt, placed his left hand on the ground and his right on his friends belly. Water traveled across Hawk's skin to Arlo's hand then across his body to the ground until both were dry. As the boys combed their hair with their fingers, Arlo said, "That's too convenient. How did I manage before I could do it?"

     "You were lazy before you could do it. I'm sure you found a lazy way to do it then." Arlo straightened his arm, raised his palm to show the flat of it to Hawk and thrust toward him. Hawk looked shocked, bounced backward a couple of feet and stumbled into the water.

     Hawk climbed out. He spluttered, "When did you learn that?"

     "When I learned the other, actually. The Mage found that I had dripped a spot of water from my hair on one of his books and threatened me if I ever did it again. Then he set me to moving furniture much too heavy as a punishment. He had to teach me that push so that I could move it. I can pull, too."

     "Does the Mage ever teach you anything just because you're his apprentice?"

     "No, he considers an apprentice to be just another house servant, but one allowed to touch the books. I'm not even allowed to read them - not that I could."

     "You can't read?"

     "Of course I can read!" Arlo was slightly miffed, "It's just that they're all written in some language that hasn't been written or spoken in thousands of years." While they spoke the boys dressed. Their attire was distinctly different.

     Hawk first drew on a collarless green shirt of a stiff, almost fibrous material. The sleeves and cuffs were close fitting, designed not to catch on underbrush or other obstructions. His pants laced up the sides with thin leather string. They were of glove-soft leather from a deer he had himself slain and tanned. Hawk's boots were of similar material. They rose to mid-calf where the leather was very pliable and soft. At the ankle and on the sole the leather was reinforced and rigid to protect his feet. He laced these boots from ankle to top with leather straps an inch wide and tied them at the back in a hard knot. Over all this he added a narrow tabard of a dark dusty green. It had no insignia, not unusual in a young man as yet unmarried and not yet ready to pledge to a house or a village. He wrapped a belt nearly two inches wide around his body twice. To one side he affixed his short knife. Its blade's length was no more than the width of his palm. To the other he tied his long knife, the blade of which barely missed being a short sword.

     Arlo's clothing was strikingly different. He began with his shoes. They were little more than hardened soles with straps affixed. These straps wrapped around his ankles and up his legs to just below the knee. There he tied them at the front with an ornamental knot using string of dyed and polished leather that laced through the straps. The rest of his clothing consisted of a single strip of bright red cloth. It was about two feet wide and more than twenty feet long. It was made of a gauzy material quite silky to the touch. It draped about his shoulders, wrapped about his waist, and tucked here and there to make a loose toga-like garment. It provided comfort and great mobility and had an elegant appearance. Above his heart, Arlo pinned a sigil, the sign of the House of Corvus, that being the Mage's house, of course.

     "I'd best get back to my chores. If I don't the Mage will find some terrible, subtle way to torment me for not spending every hour of every day attending his comfort." Hawk laughed at the familiar complaint. "Myself, I'm headed East for a day or two. There is a hart there I've seen trace of. It is a big buck and I want to bring him back. We need the meat and I want the hide."

     "Go then, hunter, and return swiftly with your prey."

     "Fare well apprentice, learn swiftly and well." It was their tradition to part so mocking in staid tones the solemnity of their elders' habitual words of parting.

Part 2: Tedium

     Arlo's time passed both swiftly and slowly. The routine of his work was tedious and seemed to last much longer than it did. The few duties assigned to him that he enjoyed seemed much too brief. A significant amount of his time was consumed carrying water from the creek near the manor. He carried drinking water for the mage and for himself. The servants of the house carried their own. A small amount of water was needed for experiments. He also carried bucket after bucket for the hot bath the mage insisted upon every single night. Once done with carrying water, he had to boil it before it could be used - the mage insisted on it - then pour it out into glass carboys to cool. This done, he spent time gathering kindling and dry leaves for the mages small laboratory fires. Arrick, the mage's steward and the other house servants tended the fireplaces, but the mage always had some cauldron boiling or some great glass retort steaming or dripping out some esoteric substance while seated above tiny tabletop fires.

     The most enjoyable duties for Arlo were also, in many ways, the most arduous. The mage assigned his apprentice one room then another in the manor to clean and organize. Each room was a library and each was covered in the dust and grime of half a century or more. Still, Arlo loved his work in these rooms. Per his instructions, he removed all the books from the shelves which he then dusted and polished to perfection. He dusted the books then, even to opening them and dusting interior pages where age or poor binding had allowed dust to gather. As he cleaned the books he found that it was sometimes necessary to recopy pages or entire books. Rebinding was also a common task. When all the books were restored to a pristine condition he would mark the shelves with categories. The books he placed appropriately. The boy took pride in his work and felt genuine ownership of the task. The mage had told him that this work was to be done because the books were to become his. In the future, he would read these books. Nobody could remember everything in every book, so it was needful that Arlo be able to find a book when he wanted it. The mage had his own system and could send Arlo after any book he had categorized in his youth. Any in rooms Arlo had refurbished would be the boy's responsibility to find - and find swiftly if he knew what was good for him. Arlo was taking his refurbishing to extremes with each room, stripping and polishing the floors. Sometimes he pulled up large portions of the floor and replaced the boards so that it would be level or so that it would not creak. The furniture in the rooms was always of the massive sort found throughout the manor, but even here Arlo made a point of seeing that tables were level, that chairs did not rock, that doors hung level and closed snugly. He thought of himself as the owner of these rooms and wanted them to be perfect. The mage had lived in the manor for one hundred fifty years that people knew about; likely he was the one who built this manor over the site of the old one. The mage who had lived there and might just be this mage was reputed to have lived in that house for nearly three hundred years. When the time came, Arlo might live in this manor or one like it for just as long. Though his chores kept Arlo busy, his mind returned now and again to Hawk. He had expected his friend to return to the manor at the end of the second day with a large deer and an even larger exaggeration of his hunting prowess. The third day passed with little concern. With Hawk, "a day or two" almost always meant precisely that, but any hunter might pursue his quarry some extra distance and need some extra time to get home.

     After the fourth day, Arlo became mildly concerned. He visited the village of Dunwalt. Every mage seemed to generate a village around him. Visitors would call on any mage, seeking his services. Unless the mage was willing to host them, and the mage of Corvus Manor was not, an inn grew up. Farms appeared to supply the inn. Generally a grocer became the intermediary between the farmers and the inn, supplying wagons and carts to bring in produce or haul home the goods that produce bought. Wagons and horses brought about stables and a smith, and so on and on until all the businesses of a village were present. The village, of course, gave its allegiance to the mage and received his protection in return. So when Arlo entered the village he was deferred to and received graciously until it was learned he was on his own business and not that of the mage. Though the change in attitude was appreciable, it was slight; Arlo would be the mage one day. He became more nearly "one of us" from the village than "one of them" from the manor.

     His first stop was at the village store to see if Hawk had brought in meat in the last day or so. Ordinarily the manor got first choice of anything Hawk brought in, he was given a stipend to insure it was so, but when the village was in need, Hawk sometimes cared for his friends first. The mage had no objection. Finding that Hawk had not visited, Arlo visited Aunt Magen, the matriarch of Hawk's family. She had not heard from him for more than a week. She somewhat snidely suggested he seek him out across the street, and dismissed Arlo with the same imperious manner he saw daily in the Mage.

     "Across the street" was the home of Rura. In the tongue of her Southlander parents, Rura meant both "moonlight" and "love". Though she was two years his junior, Hawk had fallen in love with her, appropriately, underneath the moonlight of a harvest celebration. Horrifying the conservative, obstinate, and exaggeratedly orthodox population of the village, Hawk had openly declared his love for her. Though the mores of Dunwalt would hardly permit them each other's presence, they managed occasionally to look upon one another and to exchange a polite sentence. Nobody in the village doubted that they would be wed. None of the young men of the village even considered crossing Hawk to change the possibility.

     At the home of Rura, the house of Fatine, he spoke to Grandfather Alda. He assured him that Hawk had never set foot in his house and would not until the appropriate time came. He winked. That made Arlo wonder just what he was being told, but he concluded that Hawk was not there or that if he was nobody was about to admit it.

     While in the village, a rare enough event for Arlo, he could hardly forgo a visit to the inn. He took the opportunity to partake of some cooking other than his own and listen to the village gossip while sipping a mug of ale. The gossip was of little genuine interest to him. He cared not at all for the state neither of the potato crops nor which good wife was seen in the wrong place at the wrong time. One piece of news did leave him a bit disturbed. A couple traveling from Wains, a city some twenty days to the East and another ten North had a tale to tell of a narrow escape from bandits. They had been beset but thinking quickly, they had cut the reigns of their pack animal and galloped away. The bandits seemingly were content with the animal they could take without a chase and did not pursue.

Part 3: Resolve

     After a meal and a second mug of ale, Arlo returned to the manor. He decided to worry "constructively". The mage was often lectured him on the subject saying he spent much too much time on matters over which he had no control. Better to deal with that which could be controlled and plan for things that might reasonably happen.

     Arlo sought out one of the rooms he had not yet cleaned, a room of maps. He sorted through the mage's distinctly odd filing system until he thought he understood it then searched out the maps he wanted.

     There were three. The first was likely useless. The date on it put it more than five hundred years old. It lacked much detail anyway. A detailed map was available, but all the notations on it were in a language he couldn't understand. The third map, the most modern one, less than eighty years old, was close in correlation to the more detailed map and its notations were readable. Working between the two maps, he began drawing a new one. He marked the line of the road that he knew from traveling it personally. It was little altered from either of the maps. The three small creeks shown on the most detailed map were not on the other, but he drew them in on the assumption that even if they were dry, the creek beds would still be discernable. The river, the one that fed the manor's pool where Arlo and Hawk had so recently swum, was marked and it's course to the East clearly visible. Arlo had to make a decision. To travel north of the river if Hawk had traveled south meant they were almost certain to miss one another. There were few river crossings indicated on either map and Arlo knew from the village and from traveler's talk that the availability of these was different as the seasons changed. Knowing nothing of hunting and the habits of beasts, at least non-magical ones, he was at a loss. Searching back and forth between maps, he finally found, on the oldest map, the least detailed, some small drawings of what might be deer and thin lines that he thought perhaps meant game trails. If the beasts had held to this habitat for half a millennium then they would be south of the river, between it and the road. South it would be.

     On the morning of the sixth day of Hawk's absence, something that seemed to bother nobody else, Arlo prepared to seek his friend. When he had asked the mage the day before if perhaps he could use his vision to seek Hawk and see if he was in trouble, the mage dismissed him quite casually, "Your playmate will return in good time. Get on with your chores."

     "Playmate" indeed. Arlo had been more than slightly angry over the word but, he hoped, had not shown it. The casual dismissal of his concern did, however solidify Arlo's resolve. He would hunt for the hunter.

     Arlo worked rapidly through his chores, the hauling of water and the gathering of kindling. Those things would be noticed immediately if not done. Once they were completed, he retired to his room and changed clothes.

     He put on a gray shirt of much the same fabric as that worn by Hawk, a coarse linen-like and fibrous cloth that would not be easily torn if caught by a branch or a thorn. He laced up a pair of leather pants made for him by his friend and noticed that though they were only a year old, they barely fit him. They were almost uncomfortably tight. He found a pair of boots with hardened soles and laced them tightly. They were waterproof, or nearly so, and would protect his feet against sharp rocks. To this he added a leather pack made in a flattened square some two feet by two and about half a foot thick. He slung its long strap over his shoulder, tied off to the corners and had a handy sack to carry a bit of food and a decent blanket. Then he went to the kitchen in which he daily-prepared meals for himself and the mage. He took a small amount of fresh food, a larger amount of dried beef and fruit, and found a few items he thought might be useful. He had no hunting knife so there was a wicked carving knife and another smaller one he decided to take from the kitchen. So equipped, he left, as surreptitiously as he was able and set off to the east in search of Hawk.

Part 4: Hunting the Hunter

     Arlo was thin and wiry, but also strong from his daily labors. He was not a skilled woodsman or huntsman but, as any man of his village and station, he knew the basics. Alternately running and walking, he traveled east remaining south of the river and close to it in search of hunter's paths or game trails. For the rest of the day he found few of either. None of them led east. As the sun set, he looked for a likely spot to spend the night. He saw a glimmer of light reflecting off water as he walked and he followed it to a small spring that fed a trickle of water that doubtless fed the river. Beside the spring he found a spot where grass had been matted. This looked like the sort of spot Hawk would choose and this almost-not-a-camp his sort of place to lie in for the night. Hawk had expounded at length to Arlo about his preferences in hunting. Some hunters lit a great fire and slept beside it not just for warmth but also to keep animals at bay. Hawk preferred a less intrusive, subtler camp. He rarely built a fire. He did not cook while hunting preferring to live on what he could find in the forest and on dried meat he carried with him. Lacking a fire, he just bedded down near a supply of water and wrapped himself tightly in his blanket to keep any small creatures from joining him for warmth. As to larger beasts he had his own method of keeping them at bay. Before sleeping he would walk the perimeter of his tiny camp and make water as he walked. He would circle his entire camp if he could. The scent of his urine told animals that a large carnivore was near. Arlo laughed at the reminiscence but did the same.

     He awoke to the rose light of morning. He drank his fill at the small spring then packed to go. He had no more fresh food. He had packed little, having no way to preserve it, but dried meat filled his belly.

     Traveling with at least a little confidence that he was on Hawk's trail he soon came across a game trail that led eastward. He found and followed several such throughout the day.

     Toward evening he ran out of trails to follow. Lacking recourse he just continued east. Shortly after sunset he found another suitable camp. There he repeated the previous night's actions and again slept dreamlessly awaking to a rose sky.

     Running east he at last found the game trail he had been following the previous day, or one like it. His sense of urgency was growing. He was in his third day of travel. He had seen no certain sign of hawk and was beginning to wonder if his friend was back at the Manor having a hearty laugh thinking of him. After all, it was now nine days since Hawk's departure from the manor. If he was not at home his circumstances were dire.

Part 5: The Bandit's Camp

     The sun was westering and Arlo considered turning back. After all, he had traveled as far to the East as Hawk was likely to have come. As he slowed, walking quietly to rest and consider the matter sounds came to him from the forest ahead. Men's voices laughed deeply and raucously swore. Arlo slowed, moved off the game trail and did his best to move silently forward. Though unskilled in stalking he approached without being noticed. He moved slowly down the bank of a small dry stream and climbed extremely slowly up the opposite side.

     As his eyes rose above the level of the bank he peered through some low bushes. He saw a situation that in an instant told the full story of Hawk's troubles. Before him, Arlo saw a bandit camp. There were five of men. The obvious leader wore ten rings on his fingers, a dozen chains of gold about his neck and odd bits of elegant clothing. He watched Hawk across the too big, too bright, campfire. To one side three shabbily dressed men, obviously thugs threw dice. It was from them that the laughter and the cursing emanated. Behind them was an imposing man wearing a breastplate. That he wore it even in repose marked him as a soldier, as did his shield and long greatsword. He had restless eyes and a hard look about him.

     Across the fire from the bandit leader, hawk sat with his back to a small tree. His hands were behind him, doubtless bound behind the tree. His feet were bound loosely before him with a single light cord.

     Arlo moved infinitely slowly to a position where he was certain he was out of the bandits' line of sight. Once positioned there, he waited until Hawk was looking in his direction and bobbed up once just above the shrub before him. Hawk, wisely, showed no reaction other than to look away. Arlo was nevertheless certain he had been seen. He and Hawk had peered into one another's eyes for a brief moment.

     Arlo receded to the streambed and moved around the camp with utter slowness and silence until he was as nearly behind Hawk as he could manage. Remaining concealed, he could, from his vantage see that hawk's hands were bound. The bandits had used a single light cord. Hawk could seemingly free himself. Arlo thought swiftly and decided there must be something else binding Hawk. Was it magic? Arlo thought not. None of the men had any indication of the talent about them. Those with it could sense others of their kind. What hold then? He thought for what seemed forever. At last he decided he would have no choice but to free his friend and rely on his actions to develop the situation.

     Arlo moved forward very slowly, a plan beginning to form. Then he halted. He saw at the feet of the bandit leader Hawk's bow and quiver. Was this what kept Hawk in place? Was the bandit a bowman? Damn! Indecision beset him. Should he go with his original plan to use his magic to push the bandit leader into the dry streambed behind him and rely on the confusion to let the two of them run? Should he instead get Hawk's weapons into his hands?

     The bandit stirred as though to rise and Arlo's instincts overwhelmed his planning. He stepped into view and struck what he thought was an imperious pose. With an exertion of his will he fed the bandits' fire. It grew hotter until it burned with the blue-white heat of a forge fire. Its flames rose to the height of a tall man. Posing again he crooked a finger at the bandit and made motions as if hauling on a rope. The bandit, shocked, stumbled forward taking step after step resisting to his utmost. At last he fell forward into the conflagration before him. As he screamed, Arlo raced to Hawk and slashed his slender fetters. Hawk rose and dove nearly in a single motion across the clearing. He grabbed his bow and quiver.

     The three bandits that had been throwing dice stood benumbed as their leader thrashed and crawled on the ground. Screaming, he was unable to smother the flames that burned him. Behind them the soldier-like bandit slung his shield on his arm and drew the long greatsword from its sheath at his back. He advanced slowly toward the two boys ignoring the other bandits entirely Hawk nocked an arrow and aimed at him. The man stopped.

     By now the leader had collapsed and was a silent smoking corpse. The erstwhile dice players looked at the two boys before them. These bandits were hard men. They were brawlers accustomed to taking what they wanted. Two boys, even a bowman and one with a hint of sorcery about him did not intimidate. The man nearest Hawk, a bald bullish and fat-bellied bruiser drew his weapons. He shambled into a run with his two long knives outthrust. Hawk loosed. The thug dropped in mid-step and moved no more. There was an audible snap as the arrow broke off when his body met the ground.

     Arlo, in the same moment, struck a dramatic pose and made a clawing motion at the two remaining dice throwers. Making tugging motions as though reeling in a kite he intoned in what he hoped was a sinister voice "I can pull the soul from your bodies!" Feeling Arlo's sorcerous pull, the men began immediately to plead. Arlo released them. He gestured dismissively and they fled.

     Only the soldier remained. He looked hard at them, threw his shield across his back and returned his sword to its sheath. He turned to the horses picketed on the far side of the camp. Mounting one and leading another he departed.

     "Hurry!" said Hawk, "There is a woman prisoner."

     Arlo now understood. Hawk's compliance had been the price of the woman's life. They searched quickly. Sadly they found her dead. Hidden behind the spot where the horses were picketed her body lay concealed by underbrush. She lay stiff and cold. The damage to her body was ugly. The expression on her face indicated she had not died easily.

     "They made me hunt for them in return for her safety." He pointed to some trees where Arlo saw three deer hung by their heels, gutted and skinned, ready to butcher.

     "They lied."

     "Arlo, they were bandits. I thought they lied. But could I take the chance?"

     "No."

     "Let's bury her before it gets dark. She deserves a burial, but I do not want to sleep in this place."

     Arlo said, "Let's get rid of the dead bandits. They should not lie near her."

     "Yes."

     The fat knife wielder took all their strength to move. They dragged him to the edge of camp and rolled him into the dry streambed. When they took hold of the burned bandit leader, both were surprised and dismayed at his quiet sighing squeal of pain. They could see no bit of him not reduced to char. Both found it hard to believe that he lived. Hawk cast about and quickly found his knives. He carefully thrust his long knife between the bandit's ribs, into his heart. He made no noise. They dropped him into the streambed, rolling him atop his evil confederate.

     "Animals will cleanse this place of them," said Hawk. "She won't have to be near them."

     "Who was she?"

     "I don't know. They never called her anything but "the woman" or much less flattering things."

     Arlo exhaled a slow and thoughtful breath.

     "Arlo, you can draw. Can you draw her likeness that we can show it to travelers in hope her family may know where she rests?"

     "Yes. The thought does you honor, Hawk."

     "Do you need to draw her now?"

     "No. I can do it once we are home. I will never forget her face."

     With no tools for the digging, the boys used their hands to scoop out a shallow grave. They placed her there in a dignified position and covered her. They took the time to cover her grave with a cairn of rocks to protect her remains from scavengers.

     Taking the three horses that remained, they each mounted and loaded the deer Hawk had taken onto the other.

     Arlo asked, "Do you know the shortest route home?"

     "Yes, let's go this way." They rode away from the bandit camp and did not once turn for another look.

Part 6: Homecoming

     They rode for perhaps two hours at a walking pace. They continued well past nightfall. They wanted to travel some distance from the site of the day's vile happenings.

     "How did you find me Arlo?"

     "Luck, mostly. I traveled East along the river following game trails that went East. When I saw no game trails I just continued east. You said you were traveling in that direction and I thought that the game might be close to the river. It was just luck that I heard the bandits and didn't stumble unawares into their camp."

     "East?"

     "Yes."

     "Along the river?"

     "Yes."

     "The river is a good forty miles North of here. We are near the main road where it forks to the South to the Southlands highway and North to Wains. The bandits were preying on travelers near the fork."

     "Uh…"

     "You were LOST!"

     The boys looked at one another. Hawk's face bore a hobgoblin grin. Arlo felt himself blushing. Together they broke out into howling laughter that lasted until they were both nearly in tears.

     Practically exhausted from laughing, they made camp. Hawk built a fire because he feared the deer carcasses would attract predators. They both walked the perimeter alerting the animals of the forest that large carnivores were present. They then picketed the horses as near the fire as possible and slept close to them. At least, they slept as much as they could. Arlo dozed, waking often. Whenever he was awake he saw that Hawk was too. Hawk hardly slept at all.

     In the morning the boys mounted and headed toward the road. They reached it early and turned west. It took them the full day and well into the evening to reach Dunwalt. They did not halt there, though the boys discussed stopping at the inn. Rather, they turned their horse's noses toward the manor and pounded on the door shortly after midnight.

     Arrick the mage's steward was quite angry at being awakened at such an hour until he saw the horses and deer the boys brought. The manor got its pick of such things and Arrick already planned on taking two of the horses and the best of the deer. More horses would make the manor richer and the work easier. From the look of the deer, they were quite large and would supply good eating for some time.

     The stable boy was summoned and the horses led away. Arrick and the boys each took a dear carcass across their shoulders and took them to the larder to be butchered in the morning. It was then, finally, time for sleep.

     Arlo led Hawk to his own room. There was but a single narrow bed, but Arlo found enough blankets and soft quilts to build Hawk a well-padded mattress on the floor. Arlo offered his friend the bed, but Hawk, accustomed to sleeping on the ground was quite content with his pallet of quilts. Arlo, for his part, welcomed his own bed like a lover returned after a long absence. Both boys slept soundly and dreamlessly.

     They were awakened by the smell of food. Someone had entered and placed on Arlo's table a large covered platter. Hawk was surprised at this because his hunter's habits should have awakened him when anyone at all approached. He had been very tired.

     The platter, once uncovered, held a whole roast chicken. New potatoes floated in chicken gravy. Patis, the manor's chef had also included a largish loaf of soft crusty bread and her wonderful feather-light biscuits. There was also a generous supply of precious butter and cool fresh milk. The boys ate avidly, enjoying each bite. Arrick was evidently pleased with Hawk's bounty of deer. When they were done they looked at one another and frowned. The time had come to account for themselves to the mage.

     They delayed the confrontation as long as they possible. Both cleansed themselves at the basin in Arlo's room, washing off the stink of the road as best they could. Hawk brushed and cleaned his clothing making little improvement. Arlo changed from his "hunter's" garb to his usual red apprentice's garment. In the end, they could delay no longer. They walked as slowly as they were able through the several corridors to the mages room.

     As apprentice, it was Arlo's privilege to enter without knocking. Today, due to Hawk's presence, they paused before the massive portal, knocked quietly, and waited.

     The mage's bass voice called through the door, "It's about time you woke. The afternoon is near gone." It wasn't. By Arlo's estimation it was, at most, slightly after midday. They entered, and paused at a distance, not precisely fearful but plainly unsure of themselves.

     "Approach," said the mage "your troubles are not that great."

     Looking slightly embarrassed they stepped forward to a conversational distance. The mage looked them over, looking each of them in the eye for a long time. "Tell the tale," he said.

     Hawk began, Arlo interjected as needs must, and between them they gave a full, if rambling account of the events of the last eleven days. When they were done, the mage leaned back in his big chair looking like an angry monarch on his throne. Again and at length he looked them, one at a time, in the eyes.

     "Hawk, you are a huntsman and have skill in the woods. It was stupid of you to allow the bandits to capture you. How did it happen?"

     "Mage, I don't know. I was standing, bow drawn, aimed at a deer when I just went black. The knot on my head says I was struck from behind. I don't know how anyone was able to sneak up on me. I was out for a long time. As much as a day, I think."

     "There is a lesson there. Even when intent on your quarry, remain aware of your surroundings. You could have as easily been killed as taken prisoner."

     "Yes."

     "Still. You showed spirit. You handled yourself as well as you could. You showed honor and a spirit I respect. Take this…" here he held out a silver sigil of the house of Corvus precisely like the one Arlo wore, "if you will."

     Hawk was slightly taken aback. The acceptance of the sigil would in many respects determine his future. Alliance with the mage's house would guarantee his safety in many circumstances. In the village it would lend him prestige. It would insure he would never again go hungry. It would also assure that his marriage to Rura; already almost an absolute, it would become an unquestioned certainty. He bowed, stretched out his hand and took the sigil. "I am honored." So saying he pinned it over his heart as he had seen Arlo do. "You will keep your stipend. You may also reside in the manner if you choose."

     "Yes. I mean, please, I would like to do that."

     "I will speak to the steward. He will find a room for you now and a bigger space when you marry."

     Hawk found himself reddening. He tried also to control the smile that seemed destined to spread across his face. "Thank you."

     The mage now turned to Arlo. "Stupid boy!" Arlo retreated half a step at the angry tone and the loudness of it. "You risked all your training, your years of learning, and my trust in you as apprentice to dash into the woods alone with nothing resembling a coherent plan. You might have been killed! You might be lost still!" Arlo actually trembled at the mage's anger. "If this had not come out well, I would thrash you! As it is, you have inconvenienced me endlessly. You are days behind in your chores. The servants of the house have had to do your work. Properly, you should have persuaded me of the need for your actions and allowed me to help. I could quite easily have scried Hawk's location and sent half an armed village to rescue him. As it was you endangered his life and your own."

     Arlo began a stuttering apology.

     "Silence," the mage interrupted, "no apology is appropriate; it shows weakness in a mage, or in his apprentice. Your loyalty, ingenuity, and hardiness speak well of your adventure, but it was ill advised at best and stupid at the worst. Return to your chores. I will think of lessons to improve your judgment."

     The boys retreated. Hawk thumbed his sigil toward Arlo and smiled. Out of the corner of his eye, Arlo caught just a glimpse of something he never thought to see. On the mages face, there was a glimmering, just a hint, mind you, of a smile.

louderback @ 9:08am: The Bone GIants

The Bone Giants

     Cord walked slowly uphill from the creek where he had drawn water all his life. His hip hurt and when he put down his bucket he sighed, almost groaned, with relief. He poured the water into the basin next to his home. Once a sturdy house, it was a leaning, leaking, lean-to that had nearly become a hovel.

     It had been a year since he had performed his duties. The lapse weighed heavily on him, but his age and health prevented him. All the years of his life he had carried six buckets up the winding path to the top of Stone Mound where the Bone Giants were embedded in the stone as though the stone had grown around them. Each day he had washed them, polished them to glistening whiteness, and kept weeds and growth from obscuring them.

     Sadly, no more. A year ago he had fallen. His hip healed poorly and he could no longer make the trip. He could still see the giants - barely. They glistened as white as ever but he felt somehow that their neglect might show to a stranger. At the beginning, when he was a lad, there had been fourteen of them. They called themselves keepers, Keepers of the Bone Giants. They lived here with their families and made a small village. Some thought them mad, but as was - rarely - explained, the land was good, the creek was never dry and the village prospered. What matter if they kept the bones?

     As he poured his bucket into the basin, he felt a pain, a light-headedness that he had long feared. He knew his time was on him. His great sadness was not that he would die, but that he was the last Keeper of the Bones. He fell, his back to the wall, and looked on the Bone Giants as he died.

     He did not die. Down from the hill along the winding path he had traveled all his life came the Giants. They travelled in single file, their great, long arms swinging in rhythm. They traversed the path in moments it had always taken him a quarter of an hour to climb.

     They stood around him, a circle of bone. Though he had no flesh, the tallest of them spoke to him, "You are the last?"

     "I am," Cord whispered.

     "There must be another." Reaching down, the giant took Cord in a hand as wide as his torso. His arm broke, ribs creaked. "You are killing me!"

     "No."

     They strode, the seven of them, Cord and the six Bone Giants to the creek where Cord had always drawn water. Five of the giants stepped into the water and began to dig. They flailed and swirled and flung aside the muddy bottom until they had uncovered a bed of fine stone flecked with bits of silver and gold.

     "Trust," said the giant that held him, and thrust Cord under the water until he lay flat against the stone. Cord could not but panic but calmed almost instantly when he realized that he could breathe.

     For hours he lay there, the sun traversed the sky above him and the Bone Giants stood about him immobile. He looked at them as he never had. They were not the bones of men. The legs seemed short for their great stature. Their arms longer than a man's would be even if of such a height. Their heads were enormous in proportion to their bodies, with bulging foreheads and jaws that jutted forward as though for chewing or biting. They were of a perfect smoothness, too perfect to truly be of bone.

     Lost in his thoughts he found himself surprised when he heard the word, "Rise." Cord did so and learned that he was no longer himself. His name was no longer Cord, he was "Patience". He knew the other giants' names now too. The tall one that he felt was the leader was Will; the others were Knowledge, Fury, Death, Strength, and Temperance.

     Will spoke, "There must be another," and Patience knew that he meant another keeper.

     "Follow," Patience told them, "I know where to go."

     In single line, arms swinging, their seeming slow pace eating up ground at a deceptive rate the Bone Giants followed Patience to a pleasant place of low hills along the same creek where he had drawn water for years. Sheep grazed there and some dozen shepherds tended their communal flock. Near the water, small houses were surrounded by gardens and women and children went about the business of the day.

     Panic struck them all at the sight of the giants. Will called in a tone that Patience felt could command the very stone and sky if he chose "Come!"

     As the shepherds came down from the hills and their families gathered around Will spoke to Patience "Tell them," and strode away.

     In a flash of images, Patience knew what he must say and why. More Bone Giants would be born, Justice, Night, Day, Sky, Fire, Water, Earth, Magician, and thousands more. Their numbers would increase all the years of the world even to the end of time. Then, an army more formidable than any ever to have walked the earth, they would be the protectors of mankind. Their enemy lay deep beneath the waters of Ocean. Buried in the mud, sleeping until the last day of the world when it would wake to devour all. Sea Serpent, the Great Dragon, whose name was Oblivion.

     Patience led the village to the place where he had lived. For a year he lived among them, brought their things from their own village, led their flocks to a new home, helped to plant new crops. Each day he taught them and their children the duties he had known. He ingrained in them the rituals he had learned as a child. And at the end of a year he left the Keepers of the Bone Giants and strode up the winding path to his own niche where he would abide until world's end.

louderback @ 7:21pm: Warrior Mage


Warrior Mage
Chapter 1 - Assassins

Three men on rooftops watched a fourth as he walked casually toward his home. They were two assassins and their leader for this assignment, Ardin of Dolmor. The two assassins were archers, new to the guild, and of no interest to Ardin. This was an initiation of sorts for them, and a test for their target. If Sathid, the new Mage to the court of Onold of Lewen, and their target, was killed, the assassins could advance. If he did not die, Ardin would learn something about the man he had contracted to murder.


Ardin raised his hand and waved. Two arrows flew from two rooftops on opposite sides of the street a rehearsed five-count apart. Below, the mage turned his head and the first arrow missed him, seeming to brush his cheek in passing. The second arrow arrived just as the mage turned sideways. It also seemed to barely brush its intended victim in passing.

Sathid turned and ran a few steps back to where the first arrow lay on the ground. He picked this up, struck a pose like a javelin-thrower and spoke a harsh syllable. The arrow rose from his hand to above roof height, turned and falconed downward toward the man who fired it. He ran. The arrow followed him in his course across the rooftop, swerving and eventually coming in front of him. He stopped. The arrow mongoosed into his chest, the motion swifter than if it had been fired from a bow.

Ardin returned his attention to Sathid the mage. He was continuing on his way, apparently unperturbed by the attempt on his life. Signaling a return to home to his remaining cohort, Ardin left the roof.

Chapter 2 - Reconnaissance

Five days later, Ardin of Dolmor, skilled assassin and leader of his own band had amassed enough information about his target to begin assessing the requirements for filling what began to look like a very difficult contract.

The team was gathered to discuss the information gathered about their target. Gadin worked as a guard inside the Citadel. He had gathered a surprisingly large amount of information. Ardin wondered if that was somehow suspicious. "The mage arrived here, and was presented at court the same day, last year the day before the King's birthday celebration."

"What does this mean Gadin?" Ardin's tone was schoolmasterish, a tone he affected when dealing with his subordinates. It gave them the illusion that he was teaching them, not just using them.

"That he was expected. He could not have and arrived and presented on the same day otherwise."

"And..."

"And... that he wanted to be present at the birthday celebration. He had to be presented at court or he could not have attended."

"Good, we have some history. What has he done since?"

Adros spoke; he was the swamper at both the inn and the tavern nearest the Citadel gate. Guards and the non-nobility of the court often frequented both. "He's done damned li'l since he 'rived. He's made no friends. He has nuh enemies other than them anyone has j'st bein' at court."

"What does he do with his time?"

"He's a quiet 'un. T'sort 'at never uses a full sentence when a word'll do. He practices sword and 'is dagger-work wit' tuh men-'t-arms of the Citadel. Once a week he goes out to the city."

"What does he do in the city, Adros."

"Nuhb'dy f'r sure knows. T' guards think he's a mistress some'eres 'cause he comes back some'at bedraggled. He n'vr stays out overnight, though. He allus comes back in t' early hours."

"Nobody know of a certain where he goes?"

"I followed him." This was old Isgrig. "He visits a house in the Street of Triumphs. Second from the corner on the east side where it meets the Jeweler's road. Nothing special about the house that I can see. Belongs to an old man named Corvus Jae. Never saw Jae. There’s a woman the neighbors think is his daughter that is about the mage's age. Maybe it's her he visits."

"Have you seen the woman? What are her habits? What is her name?"

"Nobody knows the woman's name. Goes out to market early every morning, early even for marketing. Still dark when she gets to the vendors stalls."

Ardin thought for a moment, "What does she buy?"

"Does it matter? Who cares what vegetables she buys?"

"*I* care. Knowing what she buys might tell me how many she is buying for. It might tell me if Corvus Jae is in good health. It might tell me where he is from. How does she dress?"

"Dresses well. Not richly, but like a woman with a stable income."

"Her dress is Northern? Southern? Is it like that of a local?"

"Local. Clothing seems used, not old."

"Who has been watching our mage?"

"I," Mubrin spoke. "He's a man of rigid habits as near as I can tell."

"Yes..."

"He rises with the sun. He um… eats breakfast in the kitchen. Standing up. Um…always a pair of boiled eggs, some bread, and some fruit. He goes from there um… to whichever courtyard is being used for um… military training and participates as a new recruit."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He trains in the same um.. skills the new recruits are learning. I haven't seen this. The Recruits say so. They um… they also say he seems as skilled as their instructors at times."

"What else?"

"His dress is rather um… consistent."

"Consistent?"

"Courtiers are peacocks, you know that. Um… they wear a new color every day and must have a new cloak each um… time a leaf touches their shoulder. He wears the same clothes at all times. Um… it is mended. It is mended um…expertly, but it is not replaced at every turn."

"Does he appear at court in mended clothes?"

"He does not um… appear at court, it seems."

"When he is done with his fencing and such how does he spend his day."

"Um… is morning is mostly spent reading. He gets a book from the royal library where he is a daily visitor and um… climbs the South wall of the Citadel where he reads while um… sitting in the sun."

"... and watches the road from Bairne."

"He returns his um… book to the royal library then returns to the um… kitchen for a lunch same as his breakfast. In the um… afternoons he climbs the tower on the Street of Victories that lies at the corner of the Caravan Road. It’s um… the tower of a merchant named Ithis or um… Iskis. He stays there until um… quite late. A meal is um… delivered to him from the castle kitchen by a boy named um… Raudel Deen. The boy leaves the food in the vestibule and um… takes away the previous day's platter."

"That sounds useful. Learn what you can of the boy. We may be able to use him."

"I will. Um… there is um…more"

Ardin gestured...

"He wears um… armor. Always."

"Explain."

"I have never seen him um… out of the one outfit he wears. He um… must have other clothes but he uses them um… seldom if he does. He wears that mage's cloak at all times, even um… in the heat of the day. It's not quite a um… standard mage's cloak, though. The color is off and um… the design too."

"That tells you..."

"Um... he's not a standard mage?"

"Perhaps." or, he thought, "He's not really a mage at all" To Mubrin he said, "You said he wears armor."

"Um… yes. Everything is red, but it is um… blood red, not mage's scarlet. He wears a um… mail-shirt, um… enameled red scale-mail, very closely stitched and um… extremely high quality from the look of it. I jostled him on the road and um… got a good look. He wears a sort of um… tasset on each thigh, a bit short and made of hardened leather. It looks um…study. He wears military boots, but not um… standard stuff, much heavier in the shaft and with side welts um… battle gear. The um… vamp looks to be of enameled um… metal too."

"He seems prepared to do battle physically as well as magically. What magic have we seen him do?"

"Um… the recruits at the Citadel say a lucky blow um… angered him one day and that his blade um… burst into flame before he left all angry. Um… apart from that, your own account of that um… arrow trick is all I know."

"Isgrig, you know the mage in old town. Take him some good ale from our supply and see if he'll talk to you about the meaning of that blood-red color for mages. Ask him about the pattern of his cloak too. Have Mubrin draw it for you. Everyone. Keep watching him. I want to know who his friends are. I want an angle on the boy. I want to know who Corvus Jae is and who the woman who lives with him is and what her relationship to Sathid might be."

Chapter 3 - From the South

Sathid descended the curving kitchen stairs. Servers rushed by him, smiling briefly as they passed. It had taken a while to accustom them to passing him. At first, as he descended to the kitchen, they would stop and turn around or attempt to back down the stairs in front of him causing some spectacular collisions.

As ever, bent, gray, Gethel had his plate ready for him as soon as he entered. His bread was hot, the butter just beginning to melt. She somehow knew the moment he entered the stairwell. That was why he ate in the kitchen. The servants knew things about the Citadel and the people in it that no spymaster would ever learn. Sathid sat on the end of a bench and pulled off his gloves. As he began to peel his eggs, he noticed that his usual apple had been replaced with a small bunch of grapes. Unusual, that, Gethel was as constant as the desert wind that peppered the city eternally from the West.

He had only just cracked his egg when Gethel bustled up, took it from his hand and deftly peeled it in four quick strokes. She grumbled all the while, "Two eggs ever' day, and still can't peel 'em." She peeled the second egg, scraped the shells into her apron and bustled away like a chiding hen after a wayward chick. The truth was, Sathid peeled his eggs slowly, lingered over his breakfast, because the endless noise, the conflicting smells, the servers and cooks rushing in chaotic dance like warriors on a battlefield made him nostalgic for his apprentice days. Apprenticed to the mage clan he had done every job there was to do in a castle before he was allowed to commence his studies. A sip from his goblet surprised Sathid. He had crisp, very clear apple juice instead of the usual water. He popped a grape into his mouth and was pleased by the combination of tart and sweet. Leave it to Gethel to turn a peasant meal into a chorus of taste. Where did they get the grapes?

As he stood to go, Gethel tempted him, as always, "Will you have a sweet?"

He turned and played the game they always played, "Grandmother, I would burst if I had a bite more." He turned away.

"This is special, a new confection!"

He turned again, saw chocolate squares dusted with a brownish powder and decided it might just be special, "Then I will try one." Gethel had already turned away and turned back with an almost shocked expression, "Because you importune me so resolutely. Because it is you, beautiful maiden, who asks. Because your pastries are so light that they might be swept away upon the next breeze." Heads were turning his way. The staff had never seen him so talkative.

Old Gethel blushed bright red. She had been neither beautiful nor maiden for half a century and had never been much flattered even then. She offered the plate of pastries with a slight bow that just missed being a curtsey, "If Milord please."

He popped it into his mouth. It was a simple chocolate sprinkled with dust from a crushed kavi bean. The flavor was one he had experienced, but kavi was unknown in Lewen. It was special, indeed.

Gethel was already receding; the kitchen staff was already beginning to smile at her and prepare remarks at her expense. Loudly, to be heard above the din, "Beautiful Gethel. May I have another?" His earlier remarks had caused a number of looks and some snickering. His unprecedented request and his obvious flattery of the woman all of them thought of as an old battle-axe or worse caused a local silence in the kitchen.

"Milord may have what he will," she offered her pastries and her almost-curtsey again.

Sathid smiled at the double-entendre and wondered if Gethel was aware of it. "Grandmother. This is delightful. Have you a secret to this?"

"Not me, the new cook's boy. Undercook he makes us call 'im. He just started this week and brought a bag of black beans with 'im. He calls 'em kavi beans. He's just another cook's boy though, black beans or no."

"From the South no doubt."

"Don't bring your mage's ways into the kitchen. How would you know that? He *is* a Southerner. Of Solan I think he is."

"Lovely Gethel, there have been only two caravans arrive this month, both from the South. Any new cook's boy would likely be from those would he not?"

"Well, when you put it like that... Here I thought you'd done something clever!"

"Much of magecraft is noticing things. I suspect in your kitchen you are regarded as clever yourself. What’s this cook’s boy’s name? That would settle where he is from."

"Oh, go on. You are just angling to get another pastry! And… I think he is Hamir dru. That would certainly be a name of the South."

"It would indeed, so we have learned that kavi beans have come to us from the south.” She offered the plate again and he gestured it away, “Sadly no, I must go out. I thank you for an excellent meal," He turned and departed for the courtyard.

Heads shook and snickers slithered out over broad smiles as he departed. Gethel rapped her knuckles on a nearby table "What are you all looking at!"

Sathid climbed the South wall of the Citadel. There he looked down onto four courtyards. They were put to various uses, as they were needed. Today the Westernmost was set up for archery practice. That suited him well. He headed back to his rooms for his bow.

In the West courtyard, he approached the Sergeant who would be teaching that day. It was Grof of Canid. Sathid and Grof got along well. Grof had retired from the army a commander and re-enlisted as a sergeant to teach, a role he enjoyed. He also took Sathid's injunction to "treat him like a recruit" seriously, for which the mage was grateful. It was hard getting the other teachers to treat him as other than a mage. It is hard to learn how to fight when people are trying hard not to hurt you.

For two hours, they took turns firing at the butts across the courtyard. They practiced individual accuracy, volleying, and firing from various formations. It was useful practice for Sathid. He was an adequate archer but out of practice and in need of considerable refinement. The last hour of the training was quite interesting to Sathid however.

Grof called out, “Take off your quivers. Put ‘em over here! Get back in line.” They obeyed and once they were aligned Groff shouted out, “You’ve fired you last volley. Your quiver is empty, your last arrow spent. What ya going to do with your bow?”

Near the end of the line, one recruit tossed his to the ground and drew his sword. Grof charged him. As he ran, he drew his dagger and cut his bowstring. Reaching the recruit, Domin, he swung the end of the bow and caught him squarely on the nose. Domin, to his credit, swung with his sword, but Grof blocked it as with a quarterstaff. He pushed Domin back with the tip of the bow against his throat and took a broad swing that smacked flat against the recruit’s ear. Domin retreated. Groff got close, rapped Domin’s sword hand and saw his sword fall to the ground. He rapped him again against the forearm with the haft of the bow, Domin fell back again. Using the recurve of the bow, Grof pulled Domin’s legs out from under him. As he fell, he slashed across the recruit’s face with the string of the bow, leaving a cut.

“Get up. I’ll look at that cut before you go.” Grof moved to the front of the line, turned and addressed them. “I do NOT recommend that ya do any of the things I just did. I did make the point, I think, that the bow is not useless just because ya have no arrows. On the battlefield, the amount of time between the moment when ya drop ya bow and draw ya sword could allow someone to kill ya. In a tight place, ya bow is as strong and as hard as a quarterstaff. Ya can strike with it, defend with it, and disarm with it. Never throw away a weapon in battle until ya can pick up another one. He stepped back, “Shield exercises tomorrow in this courtyard. Sergeant Merku. Dismissed!”

louderback @ 6:09pm: The Giant of Capsheaf Crag

         I've been the keeper of the lighthouse since my thirtieth year. The eldest son of my family has been the lightkeeper since the time of the father of my grandfather's grandfather's grandfather. That sounds a great many years, but the lighthouse has been here far longer.
         I came to my post early. Most of us become lightkeeper about the time most men retire, but my father's illness took him young. Because of that I have done my duty longer than most of my predecessors, a full five and forty years.
         My long tenure as lightkeeper nears an end. I'll send for my son soon and he will take my place. Before I leave here, though, I have three duties I must perform. Tradition says I must stay a year with my son as he learns the life of the lightkeeper, and that I will certainly do.
         The second duty involves the library. The lighthouse offers little to leaven the solitary existence of the lightkeeper but the library. It is a remarkable one, ancient as the lighthouse and large, over five thousand volumes. I vowed in my first days here to read them all. I am near to completing that and I feel my life would have an enormous failure in it should I not complete my task. I have less than fifty volumes to go.
         My last duty is both public and a secret. As a matter of tradition, each of my forefathers has kept the lighthouse logbook. In it we record each passing ship, the weather of the day, and anything we might see that seems worth recording. I have been diligent at this and I have done something my forebears did not. I have read every logbook in the library.
         My public duty will be to turn my logbook over to my son and to have him start his own. The secret duty I must perform is one in which each of my predecessors has indulged, though none of them wrote of it. I break with tradition by writing of it now. Each of them, as will I, reviewed every page of their logbook and removed certain references to a secret that we keep. I will do this and, as they did, I will hide the stolen pages in the wooden casket in the library wall. I will tell my son, when his time comes, to do the same.
         The secret is the Giant.
         My father did not tell me of him, could not perhaps. He wrote of him, so I know that he knew.
         I first discovered the Giant with my hearing. One day but a few days before my first winter in the lighthouse, I heard a sound carried on the wind. It was faint and the wind brought it to me only occasionally. It was, though, unmistakable. It was weeping. Unmistakably I heard bitter and inconsolate weeping carried to me on the raw winter wind.
I stood for hours seeking the point from which that crushing sound emanated. It was crushing. Hearing it I was near to weeping. It continued through the night and the next day. I walked circles around the light leaning this way and that, straining my hearing to locate the source of the sound. It took me days, and in all that time it never abated. Not for an instant did it cease.
         The sound came to me from Capsheaf Crag. Capsheaf is an irregular yellow outcrop of rock fixed tight between earth and sky. It over-tops the distant cliffs to the South and is higher than any point that can be seen from the lighthouse. It lies beside the glacier that creeps down from Widow Mountain to the East. That glacier has finally neared the sea in my lifetime. I will not live to see it reach the water, but the water, on occasion reaches it.
         I first knew of the Giant by his absence. The weeping stopped. It took years for me ever to see him. He comes before the first day of winter and bears in his hand a great spray of the blue flowers that grow on Widow Mountain. He sits upon Capsheaf crag and stays there immobile, weeping, until the winter goes. Even when he is present, I cannot really see him. He seems made of the same stone as the crag. I can only tell that he is there because twice a year the shape of the crag is different. It changes when he arrives and again when he departs. And of course, there are the blue flowers.
         The blue flowers live in his hand through the harsh winter weather. Only the winds may steal a few petals to shower them across the glacier. When he goes the petals blow away painting the snow blue for a moment and then they are gone until he returns.
         Why he comes I cannot say. Why he weeps so inconsolably is something about which I can only guess. But I have read the logbooks. The first lightkeeper in my family, the father of the grandfather of my grandfather's grandfather heard the weeping. The Giant's sorrow has lasted more than two hundred years. When my family assumed the duty of keeping the light the family of the earlier keepers took the logbooks. I wonder if they mentioned the Giant?
         In reflecting on the Giant's sorrow have often reflected on my own. I raised my son alone. His mother, my only love, died of giving him to me. I could think of no other woman after her. My son gave me solace else I might have wept my life away as bitterly as the Giant. I wonder if he makes his pilgrimage each year for love? Are the flowers a tribute to a lost love? A gift in case she might return?
         The winter ended last week. He has gone again, and the weeping with him. His departure was followed by a massive storm, one of the fiercest in my memory. It came ashore near Capsheaf Crag and the waves, more than thirty feet high at times, washed far inland. The wind blew away the last vestiges of snow and the blowing spray washed all the land. The wind and waves chiseled away at the glacier too.
         As the sun set I looked across the ocean to Capsheaf Crag and the glacier and I saw what I think no man has ever seen. The setting sun illuminated the glacier, the glacier scoured by the storm to a crystalline clarity. It was blue. It was a wall of ice made up of a million blue flower petals as deep into the glacier as the sun could penetrate. Those petals if freed to float upon the wind would make a path across the sky to exceed the mightiest river in all the world.
         How might I compare my emotion to his? Is sorrow not utterly hollow, incapable of defining what the Giant must feel? What word could define the feeling that left behind a river of flowers frozen in a glacier of tears?

louderback @ 3:52pm: An Old Sketchbook
An old sketchbook      I found an old sketchbook in my attic. I thought little of it at the time and put it in the "trash" pile. Hours later, I carried a laundry basket of trash to the curb and exhausted plopped it down for the "spring clean up" crew to haul away. There was that sketchbook on top. I turned back to the house, stopped, turned back, snagged the book, and headed for the sofa.
     A cold drink in hand I flopped, gloriously tired, on the sofa and started thumbing through images over 40 years old.
     The first page was horrid. Disembodied and hideously disfigured faces stared back at me. I remembered the frustration of trying to draw faces. These were my first attempts at a realistic representation of a person. I was not yet twelve when I started drawing them. It was quite a long time before I improved.
     The back of that page was better. Long-legged horses cavorted on the page. They circled around a huge-bodied beast that had the virtue of being a three-quarter view instead of a profile. It showed a little imagination at least. The next page was devoted to hooves, tails, saddles and a few ears. Some were actually pretty good.
     With a flip I moved into the realm of automobiles. Funny, but every car in the world seemed to have a spoiler on the tail and a scoop on the hood. In the corner, crowded out by all that horsepower was a bicycle. The wright brothers would have been proud of it.
     Another bicycle occupied much of the next page. It must have been dead, as birds circled it all over the page. You know those birds, the "V" birds that don't actually require much drawing. Alone, at the top of the page and separated from the birds, was a perfect Halloween bat, lacking only the string to be completely unconvincing.
     Did I draw all these close together? How separated in time were these? I can't remember. Did do then as I do now and sometimes fill in an empty spot on a page? Was I this prolific in those days? Moving from bike to bird to bat? Was that the "b" page?
     The next page moved away from the "b" theme, well… perhaps. There was a torso that was entirely too muscular to be a real man. There were half a dozen hands with bulging biceps and very small hands. Elbows seem to have been a problem for me back then. Shoulders too. Must have been reading too many comic books, every figure was entirely too fit to be anything but a superhero.
     The next page was torn out. With a flash, I remembered it. Odd what sticks in your mind. It was a "naughty" page. I drew some nudes. Men and women that certainly not were anatomically correct. But then, what did I know at that age. I remember drawing a woman in lotus who would have been unable to rise (or stand if she did) endowed as I had her.
     After the missing page, landscapes seem to have captured my attention. Trees and bits of trees, some flowing water, a bit of grass. Rocks of course, studded the page. Lots of rocks studded the page— and the next. I must have gone through a rock phase.
     Crosshatching and hashing seems to have entered my repertoire at this point. Perhaps a new artist had interested me. There were a good many fantastic shapes and amorphous designs. I wonder if this was my "Steve Ditko" phase? Certainly the next few pages showed signs of surrealism.
     I flipped Forward and things just stopped. More than half the book was blank. Why did I quit? Did I get a new book? I know I continued sketching… have continued to this day. I flipped backward.
     The last picture was a portrait. Full-faced. Shaded, rendered well, altogether well executed. A notation at the bottom read "as the Silver Surfer". It took me a moment to realize I was looking at my own face.

louderback @ 2:57pm: Freewriting - Mary

Mary

She strode in, the very picture of humility. If you can think of a tsunami as humble. Her presence was like the crash of a tidal wave onto a seaside village. Everyone was devastated. Nobody was unaffected. Nobody would ever be the same.

She had black hair the color of a raven whose wings shine blue in the sun. It was long and she wore it tied up bandit's mask of a rag that went well with the many bits of jewelry you found here and there when you examined her. Her clothes were invariably black and ornamented with touches of silver. I've never met anyone who could pull off the "gypsy princess" routine, but if she had tried, I'd have bought it — from her.

She showed up every night around midnight. Every man in the place held his breath until she arrived. Every woman waited too. You'd think they would have hated her for her effect on their men but it wasn't so. Not even in the beginning was she their rival or their enemy, but their friend.

She sat alone at a table in the back for about ten minutes. Finally Warren, our resident maestro of nine-ball had the courage to approach her. Damn my sour piss-yellow soul that it wasn't me. She invited him to sit. Gil magically appeared with drinks — it would take something supernatural to pull Gil out from behind his bar. She and Warren talked like old friends for half the evening with every eye in the place on them then he got up and took a stool at the bar. I surrendered the stool to which I was considering being surgically attached and sat beside him. Microeconds later, Gil joined us. "Who is she?" was my question. "What is she like?" was Gil's. I guess my question stemmed from my old cop instincts kicking in, because I didn't care who she was. From the very depths of my soul, there was nothing I truly wanted to know more than what she was like. I wanted to know her habits, her voice, her every quirk. I wanted to know what she ate, what she liked, what she wanted that I might satisfy her every whim. I wanted to know what she looked like rising from the water, tousled from a restless night's sleep, sweaty from love-making, relaxed beneath a tropic sun. I wanted to know what in God's name I could give her, do for her, somehow please her, that she might love me.

Warren's only response was "Talk to her." He said not another word — for several days as far as I know — but rather sat and watched the parade.

Every night for a month, this wonder of creation joined us in our seedy bar and we bought her drinks and lay our souls on the grimy bistro table before her that she might know us — somehow love us… maybe one of us at least.

When my turn came, I was one of the last, she held my hand and said to me things nobody will ever hear. I felt blessed that she held my hand, she had rarely touched anyone else. She knew me before I spoke to her the things I'd never before told anyone, and never again will. When I'd poured out myself into the unfillable cup that was she I found that she could love me, did love me.

She entered our lives on the 7th of May and on the 3rd of June we sat expectantly watching the door and were disappointed.

Warren said her name was Mary. Is that the name for love?

louderback @ 11:34pm: Freewriting: Shore Dweller

Shore Dweller

I like living by the water. I've never been a beach person, really. I don't like baking on the sand. Heat simply exhausts me in an unpleasant way. Neither am I a sailor. I do well enough on boats but have no enthusiasm for them. Zipping about on fast boats seems pointless, I don't care one way or other about fishing, and as a means of transportation, there's usually a better way.

The thing I like is the smell and the sight of the ocean. Even a large enough lake incites in me the feelings that I enjoy. There's a "connectedness" to the shores of a large body of water that draws me to it. It is at the shore that the earth takes definition. If there were only sea, the world would be formless. If there were no sea, the earth would be a less auspicious place, and more aptly named.

Stand at the edge of the ocean and here is food, here is animal life in tremendous variety, here is vegetation, shade, and the confluence of climate that is most desirable. I read once that more than eighty-seven percent of the human race lives within fifteen kilometers of running water. We are shore dwellers. I am.

louderback @ 9:46pm: Freewriting: Lament

Lament

We watched him ascend, knowing in our hearts we would not see him return. Brave we thought him. Valiant and foolish, vain perhaps we thought him. Some though him unequal to the task, that his courage was false and would fail him in the end, but it was not so. The hundred-odd of us who lived in the village in those days and were overshadowed by the old fortress that was the source of so much woe could not believe that he was any different than others who had entered there. He was different. For five days we stood vigil while witchlights played behind the gaping holes in the fortress walls. We heard the banshee wails and indecipherable cries that sounded like a man in torture. Crashes as of walls tumbling, and a rush as though a dam had burst tumbled down the hill as boulders of sound to torment us.

When all had been silent for a day and a night, we left. Thinking his a valiant death, we left and went about our business, fearing the reprisal from the fortress that we knew would come. The ogre would descend. Homes would be crushed flat, and lives snuffed like candles in a storm. Some fled to the forest, but most simply waited. There was no outrunning the monster, nor escaping him if he chose you as his prey.

A'noon of the seventh day, Stehan, son of Han the woodwright, came shrieking into the village. We thought the Ogre upon us, as, in a way he was, but not as we expected. Out of the foothills, down the lane that was our main street came Ardulf, dragging one leg and stumbling under the weight of his trophy. He bore across his shoulders, like a deer taken in the forest, the head and the attached shoulder and arm of the Ogre. He stood as solidly as he might in the center of our small village and flung his grotesque trophy to the ground. In a second he fell beside it and was unknowing.

At the end of seven days we buried Ardulf where he fell. We dug deep and placed the Ogre at the bottom of the pit. Then we laid a floor of pine logs and piled it high with sweet scented flowers before we lowered Ardulf to his grave. None may walk through our village without seeing the stelae and honoring he who slew the Ogre. Ardulf had no family that we have discovered, no heirs, no legacy save that the lives of one hundred souls and all their descendants will know his name and keep it for as long as there is voice to sing his praise and memory to know his name.

louderback @ 2:59pm: Freewriting Grumbles from the Grave
Grumbles from the grave. Night watchman at an old cemetery is a lousy job. No matter how unimaginative or stolid you might be, you eventually start hearing night noises. The guy before me did. They guy after me will.

Seems like it is worst at Midnight. Of course, the fluff-brains would call that traditional and want you to believe it had to do with astrology, the position of the stars, the moon's orbit, or what-have-you. I think it's crap. I just think that is the time when the world's grip on reality is at its weakest. I think that's all it is and nothing more.

The world is what most people believe it is. When everyone is awake and thinking, nothing supernatural or disturbing happens. When everyone is asleep, dreaming, using that monkey-brain at the back of the one we use all day, the one that just reacts, fears, scrambles up its tree to howl, that's when the stuff that we can't believe during the day comes out. We believe a lot of things deep down in the dark that we don't believe in the light of day.

So when I hear grumbles from the grave I don't doubt my senses. I don't panic either. I just walk on by and let the restless ones do what they have to do and I try to cope with the problems that affect me during the day. I right the occasional tombstone. I re-seed the grass that mysteriously dies. I report the "vandalism". Occasionally, I shout at kids that stumble onto one of the really active graves, but unless they do so I just let them sit down in the back corner where they think I don't see them and let them spook themselves.

I just work here. It's not up to me to fix the world.

louderback @ 2:58pm: School Smells

One of the things I always hated about school was the abundance of smells that I found unpleasant. Just walking in the door there was always that floor wax smell mixed with leaves and wetness from people dragging crap inside on their shoes. It had a sticky quality and a musty sharpness too. Head for your locker and you get surrounded by other students. There's a symphony of vile odors for you. Stinky shoes, hairspray, grotesque floral perfume, sweat, the body odor of that guy that showered annually, even the cigarette stink bleeding off the teachers who were toxic with nicotine. There's nothing as annoying to me as a female who smells like a bowl of fruit instead of a woman. Walk past the drinking fountain and you smell the acrid rust/hard water smell that is still somehow not bad enough to keep you from drinking there. Pass the bathroom and you experience olfactory pangs that you feel all the way to you bowls. Some time in the day you're going to have to go in there and smell the shit and urine stink overlaid with sanitizing hockey pucks and blue water aromas. In middle school, the locker room was there. That is a special situation. Foul shoes, perspiration soaked cotton, socks with a special dusty quality to their reek. Overlay that with deodorants while one group or another is dressing or undressing and you get special nuances of vileness. Then of course there's the classroom. The music room smells of nerves and wood polish. The home room reeks of chalk, bubble gum, and irritability. Study hall has a smell of sweat from those who don't think they need to shower after gym if they're only going to study hall, and of markers underlining in books that have already been marked to death. Then of course there was the unique affliction of the cafeteria and the rooms near it. I'm not even going to go there.

louderback @ 4:12pm: Freewriting: The Room
The Room
I did not recognize the place in which I woke. I was in pain. I was in considerable pain. My legs did not work and though I saw no evidence of severe injury, they afflicted me with pain that felt like broken bones and crushed or lacerated flesh. My arms felt better, but every joint from shoulder to fingertips felt as though it had been stretched to its breaking point. My breathing was labored, the ache with each intake of breath told of broken ribs. It took a considerable time for me to take inventory in this fashion and it was only after that I took stock of my surroundings. There were walls around me. At least I could not see any great distance and there was no visible horizon. If I seem questioning on so elementary a matter, accept that my eyes were blurry and that the walls had no visible joint with ceiling or floor and exhibited nothing resembling a corner. The boundaries I was experiencing were nacre-like in that they had that mother-of-pearl sheen and pinkish rainbow of iridescence. They were, however, of a …well, stolid nature. One cannot look at the surface of a wall and determine its thickness, but looking on these walls one knew, beyond doubt, that they were solid— dense and impenetrable. The floor, ceiling, and walls were identically featureless and the sloping smoothing of the edges (appreciated manually, as I was lying near a wall) left me with a somewhat dizzying and disorienting discomfort around the eyes when I tried too hard, or too long, to focus.

louderback @ 11:31pm: Freewriting: the boarding house

I knew my days at the boarding house were numbered. I knew it the first day when Mrs. Reedy introduced me, and my fellow new arrival Paul to Mrs. Bainbridge in the hallway. She drew a sharp distinction with both word and tone, informing Mrs. Bainbridge that I was the new Boarder and Paul was a roomer. You could hear the capital "B" in Boarder and the implied "only" in (lower case) roomer. Why it mattered to her where Paul took his meals, that being the distinction between a boarder and a roomer, I cannot imagine. My needs for meals were simple and I would likely be taking only breakfast at Mrs. Reedy's — something I made quite clear to her. I nevertheless learned after a few days that I had earned her silent ire by not appearing for lunch or supper. "Boarders," I was told with proper capitalization and emphasis by a fellow Boarder, one Willis Dover, "typically appear at the meals for which they pay." According to Mrs. Reedy, I paid for three meals a day and she would, therefore, set a place for me (and prepare and discard uneaten food) at all three meals. This knowledge was dispensed with the soup as Mrs. Reedy presided over the evening meal from her throne-like chair at the head of the table. This rigidity was typical of the woman and was, as I was to learn, only the tip of the iceberg.

louderback @ 1:27am: Freewriting: the enormous ship

The ship was astoundingly large. I watched it approach through the main viewport. While any ship can seem overwhelming when it is close and spans the entire horizon, this ship kept reminding me of its size in subtle ways. It was more than a kilometer distant and still crowded us. The ships coming and going constantly from its landing bays were the size of a mining asteroid, many times the size of the ship in which I stood, and seemed flit about its ponderousness. The body of the ship was rotating, slowly to my eyes, but I knew that that was illusion. At its outer rim, the gravity created by centripetal spin was heavier than that of Jupiter. I suppose the awe I felt for the craft was somewhat diminished by the ridiculous, to my eye, colors she was painted. The command cabin at the top and the thrust nacelles at the bottom were painted a vivid red. The main body of the craft was alternately striped with primary red, vivid yellow and a rather squamous green, giving the whole ship rather the aspect of an enormous spinning top painted to resemble a circus clown. An extremely large, ominous, rather sinister circus clown…

louderback @ 6:50pm: Freewriting, The Jewel City

I stand on the roof of the tallest of ten thousand towers. Facing west, the estuary is a perfect "V" kept so by walls of white adamantine lining the river bed. Behind me the sun rises and shadows of translucent towers made of gemstones and quartz add multicolored tints to the water. I turn to take in the Jewel City, Agla Tamon Amon, Jewel of the Thunder River. The towers are arranged artistically, not for flow of traffic or any other sort of organization. The Jewel City is like a flowerbed tended by a fanatic gardener. The streets are all but unseen in this light and nobody moves at this hour. As the sun rises to my right, topping the mountain that shields the city, mighty Tamon Amarth, it lights the Jeweled Falls. They spring from some immense underground source near the treeline of the mountain. The waters run less than a mile before they come to the Cleft. There they rush out across the Diamond Barrier, a huge vein of quartz bigger than a stadium and burst into the air where they fall almost exactly half a mile to the very floor of the Valley of Thunder whence the Thunder river makes its way to the sea. As the sunrise turns the Diamond Barrier pink I face to the South and look upon the fleet that lies there. Sixty thousand, Dromunds, biremes, triremes, even quinqueremes lay at anchor surrounded by a dozen or more smaller ships to attend them each. Altogether one hundred thousand ships and more than million men lay waiting to take my city. They were but the most recent such army. They were not the largest.

louderback @ 8:01pm: Freewriting: I dreamt of her
I dreamt of her. Long black tresses framing an elfin face. Her eyes are big and brown, her lips a perfect bow that reveals brilliant teeth when she laughs that way. Her musical laughter can freeze me in my step. She is a sorceress, her magic can ensnare my thoughts. She is a poet whose verse can cage my soul. Her song's demanding rhythm can make my spirit dance in joy or dejection, but only to her tune. Her dance makes my blood pound and my heart race until I live only for her movements. I am a captive. I am soul-bound. I dreamt of her. I dream of her. I would give my reality to make her flesh that I might be her slave.

louderback @ 7:11pm: Freewriting: The cold

The cold is numbing. The wind permeates my body. The warmest clothing is as nothing against this chill. It is somehow worse because I am blind. All went white — then black— hours ago. Was it hours? How long have I really been out here? It seems like days. I have eaten three times. Is that one day? Could it not be only a matter of hours, since I crave nourishment so ardently in this Hell of ice. Is it perhaps longer? I can't trust any of my other senses, why should my perception of time be unaffected? I've been able to keep moving through sheer force of will and the reasoned conviction that if I stop I will die. I think I have been moving in a straight line. I know I have been able to follow the line of cliffs I saw when I was still able to see. I remember that they pointed as directly as I could tell toward my old encampment. The gear there could save my life. Tents, heaters, food, radio gear, and medical equipment. I will lose my toes, of a certainty, probably my feet as well. I suspect I'll lose some or all of my fingers. I hope they are functional enough to allow me to do some first aid on myself. The forecast called for -30° temperatures and 30mph winds. That means I could be experiencing effective cold of nearly -80°. The others left before me. Perhaps they made it before the snow came. Maybe they're out looking for me. Maybe the things I stumble against are huddled bodies. There is no way for me to know. I'm not certain I'll even know the camp if I ever reach it. I hear a sound! A pounding fluttering noise! It sounds like a helicopter! No. No helicopter could fly in this. More likely an avalanche. Maybe I'll be buried. It would be quick.

louderback @ 10:16pm: Freewriting: At the bar

The bartender brought me my usual. Instead of having an office, I'd been occupying the same stool for about twelve hours of each day for the last five years. He had no trouble remembering what I drink, nor when I drink it. I start the mornings with tea. He bought a teapot and keeps oolong stocked just for me. After noon I switch to water with a lime. Most people think it is a Gin and Tonic. I don't disabuse them of the notion. By supper time I start on Beer. The bartender has Dortmunder Union on draft for my convenience. Nick treats me well. I keep investing in the bar. I currently own my bar stool and about 10 percent of the place.

That has come about slowly, but seems to be an inevitability. I need to be "find-able". I'm a PI. Private Investigator. I am at the bottom of the heap where such things are concerned. I'm forever following spouses afflicted by sexual narcolepsy. They keep falling into bed. I'm an expert at the cheesy set-up, the not-quite-illegal entrapment, the art of skulking, and the casually incriminating conversation. Where PIs are concerned I do the stuff nobody else will touch. That's why I can afford a bar stool and not an office.

The fact that the wealthy need somebody to do the unmentionable is why I own ten percent of a profitable bar.

louderback @ 2:22pm: Freewriting: Subway

          I stood next to a woman on the subway. She was one of those heavy sour-faced people. She wore clothing too weighty for the season. She bore it as armor against the world. It kept the gaze of others from touching her skin. She lived in isolation in the most crowded city on the planet.

          I lived deep inside my skin too. We all do. It is just a matter of how much we expose ourselves. We hide behind names, clothes, personae, or floppy hats. I knew a man who hid himself with a brightly colored vest and a huge umbrella. He was important enough that people called him "penguin" behind his back but never to his face. I wanted to buy him a monocle. I should have.

          The rhythm of the train as we pass stations, the flashing lights, the bumps of the tracks and the sway and murmur of passengers' conversation is hypnotic. I hear it every night and it makes me drift into the same state of distant, quiet loathing. The subway is a dirty place. It is filled with people that were clean ten hours ago. Now they stink, no matter how they try not to. They stand too close. They touch you. They don't have to but they always do. It is always the one you don't want near you. You always know they're going to do it. I see one coming now. I know he's going to do it. He's walking to the back of the car. Why? What earthly reason has he got to move?

          He's bald. He's wearing a vest and carrying his coat. Who wears a vest in the summer? His tie is ugly and twenty years too wide. He's got to be fifty, young enough to know better, but too old to care. He's bulky with middle-aged fat. He was muscular once, probably thinks he still is. His shoulders are too broad for his shirt, probably too broad for his coat. I'll bet he can't button it probably. That's why he isn't wearing it. He looks like an off-duty bartender. Probably a business man in the third phase of his career, the part where he tries to live on his past accomplishments and is really on the skids.

          He is weaving between the other riders, shouldering his way. He moves to the other side of the car. If he stays there he'll miss me, but I know he's going to come back this way, He's going to give me the ass. It is inevitable. He won't look at me; the young ones do that. The old ones look at me until they get close then turn around.

          Yes. He's crossing the car this way. I knew he'd come past me. He's here. He stinks. Stale aftershave. Way too much stale aftershave and sweat come rolling off him. He smells like socks and sore feet, too. I can smell some fear, some anger, and a little bit of lust in the background. He's got a girlfriend somewhere. Here's the turn, a neat pirouette, clean as a dancer and he rubs his ass against my thigh. He doesn't have to, there's room for him to get by. Damn! Why do they do that?

          He's past me now.

          Sour-face is grinning at me. She saw it happen. They never rub on her. She could feel my discomfort. I watch him as he moves to the back of the car. He finds a seat back there. I'm surprised. He actually had a reason to move. Over the murmur I hear him chatting up a granny-lady. He seems a pleasant enough sort.

          Sour-face watches me with skeleton teeth. She has blank eyes. My stop is not far now. I'll be glad to be away from the subway. The streets aren't much better, but the hypnotic lull of the train leaves me feeling dirty every day. People here seem to be droned-out, leveled to a common strain of unsavory yeast-remains in the brew of the city. I feel like the subway is a strainer that never gets cleaned.

          Two stops before mine a kid gets on. He's trouble. His eyes don't even see the train. He's somewhere else in his mind and his plan has already taken him beyond whatever he's going to do. He's jerky and nervous. People step away. It is obvious to everyone. He moves to the middle of the car. He's too close to me. Damn. I can't go anywhere. Sour-face looks at me, skeleton teeth grinning in fear this time.

          Kid pulls a knife and shouts something incoherent. He grabs a skinny old man and demands his wallet. Asshole. Hasn't he heard of video? The old guy digs for his wallet and sensibly digs all the cash out hands it to the kid keeping the wallet. Kid grabs it, pushes skinny and moves toward me. Skinny in a lightning moves I'd never have expected, trips Kid and sends him sprawling. I put my foot down on the kid's hand and his knife goes spinning. Sour-face snatches it up and it disappears. Kids up like a jack-in-the-box screaming, looking for the knife, and everyone just ignores him. It's a little scary watching him rant. He takes a while to realize he isn't going to get his way. He looks around, sees that everyone is watching him, sees that everyone knows his face, and realizes things didn't work out. I think the kid is maybe thirteen. He turns to skinny and with kind of a disgusted stiff-armed gesture hands him back his money. He goes and stands by the door.

          At the next stop he bolts. I get off too. I'm one stop before mine but I can't stand the train anymore. I'm going to walk home. I need a different rhythm, a different set of lights. I need some night air, I need to walk the streets, and I need to get out from underground.

          Yeah, like the streets are whole lots cleaner.

louderback @ 9:38am: Freewriting: pastoral

      I used to wander the hills of a morning. I'd ride out when the sun rose until I found a likely spot to tether my horse, a place with lots of greenery, some shade, and a bit of water near enough. I'd tie him there and strike off on my own.
      These excursions had no purpose save solitude. I hungered for it in those days, though, honestly, I had it in abundance. I would climb the gentle slopes in search of vantages I'd not achieved. I sought out new views, as is so common a goal of youth. I found them often enough, or so I felt.
      By noon I was fatigued enough that I would open the small sack of food I carried with me and enjoy a bit of fruit and some bread. A wedge of cheese was a treat. Such meals I hardly noticed at the time. I look back now and regard them as I would a feast.
      Afterward I slept, stretched wide upon grassy banks beneath shade trees. Cool breezes for a lullaby - quiet sounds of the wood accompanied me to my sleep. I think I may have rested there better than any time in my life.
      The dreams I dreamt there are lost to me. They were fancies of the most pastoral and bucolic sort. I remember nothing of them save the happy tone and satisfying feeling left behind upon awakening. I dreamt, I am sure, of the sky and of the clouds, not of some catacthonian beast. No monsters plagued me then as now they do and simplicity was my theme, not the complexity that haunts my thoughts in these times.
      Those simple days of youth are lost to me. I surrendered them gladly, and too soon, as is always the way with youth. We strive for the things we think we want not knowing what we have.
      I traded my horse for an automobile and my leisurely days for hard hours of schooling. In time I traded schooling for work and work for business.
      My simple meals became meetings and those simply vanished in time. The quiet reflection of a nap on a grassy knoll was replaced with planned exercise and, quite rarely, with yoga and meditation. My dreams were of a different ilk for many years. I dreamt not of things that left me happy on awakening but of accomplishment and of strife that left me struggling in my sleep and exhausted after.
      I lived the good life, I am told. I was a success. I was envied. I had money and a measure of power. Influence on the world around me was mine and people did obey me when I felt it was important. All the things that I felt I should fight and strive for I achieved in good measure.
      And now I'm old. My health has failed. I am blind; my body is no longer really under my control. I can walk, but it is an effort. I have returned to the home of my childhood. I cannot ride a horse or I would do so and go again out into the fields and try to recapture once again one of those moments of my youth. Sadly I can't accomplish that. I find that I neglected to make any true friends in all my years and that here at my end I am alone. I have a nurse. I can pay her to lead me out into my yard. Nothing I say will induce her to take me out into the fields and help me find a hillside where I might lay upon the grass. It would not be "good" for me. She is not my friend. She does not love me. She is my caregiver.
     So I will live however many years are left to me in sight of those hills but I will not see them. I will live within walking distance of a quiet grassy knoll where I might nap but I will never walk there. I will sit quietly in the sun within dreaming distance of my childhood dreams but I will never dream them again.

louderback @ 3:10pm: Ferryman

There are days when I am only lonely. Usually it is worse than that. The spiral stairs that lead down into Hooley's place is symbolic of the downward path the denizens are on when they find this bar.

Hooley's bar is a stop on the way to the depths. Few stay long. Those that do are barnacles on the scarred hull of the scuttled ship of life. We cling and take our nourishment from something long dead and steal a little from passersby. It is as vile as it sounds.

My particular scam is avuncular fellowship. I'm the friendly old reprobate at the end of the bar. I'll buy you a drink and cadge six or seven from you before you realize you're doing most of the buying. I'll talk your ear off, be your best friend, give you good advice and take your money with a friendly arm around your shoulder while I push you through the trap door or shove you out onto the street and into the storm. Oh, and if I can I'll take your coat.

I serve a useful function. I strip you of the last of your useful possessions and all that meaningless cash before you hit rock bottom. I enable you to find your way to the gutter so you can surrender the things of this world and move on to the next. I save you all the beatings and muggings you'd suffer if you still owned much of anything of value. I ferry you to the ferryman after a fashion.

I'm not the worst to be found here. Hooley is far worse than me. He stands behind the bar and orchestrates it all. He serves his poisonous drinks and steers you to the different parts of the bar based on his expert assessment of your condition. Newcomers go to see Charming. She's a prostitute only by courtesy. She never actually sleeps with anyone. She's charming. She chats, she drinks, she strokes the ego and the occasional thigh. She takes your money and steals your thoughts. She leaves you weak in the knees and stupid as can be. When you leave you're not fit company for man nor beast. Hooley pumps you full of black bile and sends you to her again and again until you're too weak to be of use to her and then he serves you a still stronger concoction.

When you're drinking that fuming brew, you wind up at Junior's table. Junior's the gambler. Of course, nothing that happens between you and Junior is a gamble. It is all tremendous fun, a spinning game of joyous revelry and laughter while your money whirls away, while your car is sold, your house is mortgaged, your marriage vanishes, your job disintegrates. While everything you own turns to cash, then to chips, then to chips that belong to Junior, you laugh and smile. Then you begin to cry.

Hooley takes you back, serves you a sweet liqueur and introduces you to Old Horace. Horace has been everywhere and done everything. He knows everyone. He can help. He gets you on your feet. He's your friend. He gives you a pill to prop you up. He gives a pill to let you sleep. He finds you a place to live. He finds a friend who loans you some money. A month goes by. You call your mother and cash in your bonds. Another month goes by. You call your brother and your uncle and get a loan. Two more weeks go by. You sell your burial plot and cash in your retirement fund. After two more weeks, you sell your kids college funds and get rid of that plot of land you were going to build on. Then it takes a week. Those coins your son collected? Sold! Then it takes three days. The stamps? Sold! Day by day, item after item, gradually it all goes.

Then Hooley introduces you to me.

There're days when I am only lonely. Then I meet people like you. I work my scam. I do my little song and dance. I make my living and cling to my semblance of life. Knowing people as they spiral past me makes my life worse not better. I am the ferryman's ferryman and it frightens me. I wonder who will come for me one day and how I'll know him when the time comes. I've never seen anyone escape, I don't know that it'd give me any hope to see it happen.

louderback @ 9:20am: The Burning

Bonfire Mound

Bonfire Mound stands near the center of a remarkably level, grassy, plain. A level plain in Kansas is hardly a rarity, but Bonfire makes the twenty-mile circle it centers a unique feature of the land. These days the locals all say of the name, if asked, "Bonfire Mound? The indians used to light fires up there." Some also say, "Spring and Summer, on the longest day and the shortest, that's when they lit their fires."

They did not. My grandfather knew that they did not and he told me so. His tales of his visits with the children of the old Chiefs have stuck with me all my life. One bit of information he passed along always seemed much more a warning than just a tale. He believed. I believe. "When that mound changes, it's time to burn it again. That's what they told me. That's what I'm tellin' you." said Grandad, "You remember it Chad."

Bonfire Mound is remarkable in many ways. It is a sixty-foot cone flattened at the top as though you had miniaturized a mesa. It is near to perfectly circular at the base and the top is as near to a perfect, level, circle as you can get. The sides are nothing but dirt covered with dry-baked bitter grass that never greens no matter the weather. The grass is a tight net around the mound. There are no gullies, no washes down the sides of the cone. The wind has not eroded the mound in any fashion that I can discover. Bonfire Mound sits, unaltered, a symmetrical pylon in the center of a plain. And so it has for all my life, my father's lifec and my grandfather's.

This summer, the grass on Bonfire Mound died. I passed near the mound in the spring and it was as it had always been. Two months later, the grass was gone, save for some clinging clumps that floated in the wind. In the course of another week, the mound was completely bare. I began making weekly trips to photograph the mound.

Once the grass was gone, the wind took over. The wind for weeks seemed unusually strong, unusually consistent, ever from the southwest, ever blasting away at the mound. Slowly, small gullies, slender crevices, long depressions, began to appear in the mound. The first hard rain expanded these, deepened them.

By the end of summer, the mound had become a spire. The flat top of the mound seemed unchanged, but the sides were near-vertical and it seemed more a pillar than a mound.

more to come...