Mythologized

One day, The One Who Has NoName, but is called by ManyNames was walking along the ground. He came upon a girl hiding in the flowers, a smile on her face engraved. NoName stooped low and hand offered, saying,

“Why hide you in the flowers?”

“I wait for my daddy,” said she, grin everlasting.

“Your daddy am I. Go to my house, and there wait.” Scampered she, away, flowers knit into hair.

On walked NoName when melody, ear enticed. Giving careful listen, and following slowly, into the center of melody and music did NoName walk. There was found music. Music fresh, music crisp, music clean. Leaning low to the Earth, the source of the sacred song, and plucking the fruit of its noise, NoName inquired allowed the source of the joy sound.

A voice quietly wove its answer through the notes and the vibrations, saying, “I myself am both the source and the noise.” NoName thought for a moment, and then reaching into the air plucked a girl from the melody, then saying,

“Quick! Run to my house! There you can play, and make joy real!” The girl ran to her new home.

Realizing self to be among the caves, NoName followed the sound of strange quiet, sadness therein. Walking silently for not too long, for NoName had to simply follow the soundlessness to the most isolated part of the cave, there was found a girl quietly weeping her soundless weep. NoName sat beside her and said,

“There are those at my house with who you will be friends.” With hesitation, the girl looked at NoName and slowly walked in the direction home.

So in one day was it said that “NoName gave me a dad” and “from music did NoName create me” and “NoName has given me friends.” It is in this way that NoName began to be called ManyNames.

The Daily Dime: A House on the Lake

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The desert sun beat down. There was no life for miles, though there were scant signs of life once present. The desert traveler had learned many miles ago to quit turning his head. His scorched neck could no longer abide the twisting, and his addled senses could no longer abide the turning. The traveler's eyes had almost become useless vestiges. Reminders of what it was like to see.

The traveler had to stop to rest his legs. He fell to his knees and heard loud snapping, an obvious indication that he was very much in need of water. The hulking traveler bent over, resting his hands on his knees. He hated not being able to put anything at rest in the hot sand without igniting. After a brief stop, he stood straight and tried to stretch his back, but everything about him had become so dried and stiff that he was afraid he'd cut himself open.

Resigning to the stiffness, he trudged on.

After hours of silent walking, he began to see the sun dried and heat bleached corpses of his brothers. Friends and family, all of them. The traveler briefly regretted having no water to spare for tears for his brothers. He did stop at one body and gingerly lifted the hand out of the sand. He held it and looked into the dried sockets where eyes should have been.

“I'm so sorry. We feared drought, and it took us through a desert. Soon I'll be dead like you.” The traveler held the hand, and started to choke on what should have been tears, but came out as dry coughs and sporadic heaves. Dropping the hand, he kept walking. The dogs of despair and hope raged in him. He tried to run, but couldn't tell if he was running or if it was sun insanity. The dogs raged deep within his chest, causing his body to wrack with spasms and sobs.

The traveler fell to the ground and yelled at the desert floor. This seemed to quiet the dogs fighting in his heart. Despair satiated with the realization that he would die. Hope satisfied that he would die only after fighting. The traveler stayed on all fours for a moment while the violence of the dogs subsided. Then he cursed himself for falling into the sand. It was a struggle to stand, and more than his feet had been burned. His hands, which he'd been careful to protect, were burned, as were his forearms, knees, shins. Or rather, the equivalents thereof.

After much effort, he was able to ignore the pain that coursed through his entire body and trudge through what he was sure were to be his final steps.

His steps were much slower now. Much more pained. The traveler couldn't even lift his head enough to see what was in front of him. He was so convinced of his coming death that he didn't notice when he was up to his knees in water.

He stopped and thought.

“It's got to be an illusion,” he said. Not wanting to miss a chance at water, something he very badly needed, he scooped his hand into the puddle and brought it to his mouth. He felt water in his mouth, and felt it around his knees.

“If this is a hallucination,” he said, “it's as good of a place to die as any.” He set himself heavy in the pool and pushed, trying to push his feet into the sand when he noticed a body partially submerged a few feet in front of him. He leaned forward to get a better look.

It was an elderly woman. Gaunt and pale. He shook his head out of remorse for the woman and proceeded to go about his business.

A hand and a shriek reached up and grabbed him at the shoulder, and the woman scrambled to him. He scooped her up into his massive limbs. She was much closer to death than he was, though it was a very close race.

“Are you a tree?” she asked. “You feel like a tree. There used to be trees here.” He nodded.

“I am a tree.” The woman seemed to relax against his bark.

“At least I die in the arms of a tree,” she said. He nodded. She looked back into his eyes and spoke, “I'm not really this old. I'm young as far as lakes and trees are concerned.” He nodded.

“Me too.”

“I only look old because I'm dying. All my sprites, nymphs and spirits left. I'm all alone.” The tree watched the lake's face droop, mouth bent into a frown. “You look like you would have been a handsome tree. Trees don't travel often. If you want, you can have what's left of my water.” The tree nodded.

“I would thank you for your gift and put it to good use.” He continued to hold the lake as he dug his roots deep into what was left of the lake bed, trying not to be too eager to drink up what was left of her water. She smiled up at him as he dug. “You know, you look like you would have been a beautiful lake.” She chuckled slightly.

“You should have seen me. This land used to be a forest, you know. But there was a fire, and all my spirits left out of fear of the fire. But being a lake, I'm tied to the land. The trees all died from the fire or from exposure. A few tried to leave, but they were too damaged by the smoke and the heat.

“After that, I became a desert and started to die.” The tree nodded.

“I passed my dead brothers a few miles ago. They left our home in the swamp because some animal spirits told us a plague was coming to the swamp and we needed to leave. They left in a hurry, but I stayed as long as I could. We didn't know that there was a desert at our borders.”

“At least we don't die alone,” said the lake.

“At least we don't die alone,” said the tree.

“And,” said the lake, “we can hope the rain comes by. She might be able to save us. I think she's obligated, especially since I used to be a forest.” The tree nodded hesitantly.

The pair stared in each other's eyes for a short while before sleep overtook both of them.

A short time later, the desert was covered in clouds, and a light thunderstorm touched the surface of that rock for the first time in a decade.

With each drop, the lake looked younger.

Please Accept My Humblest Apologies

So, since Ireland, I've felt an unusual amount of motivation, but working in direct contravention to my motivation, my mind has nothing with which to be motivated. Which is weak. Lame.

As such, I've decided to sort of push my mind into gear. I've turned one of my journals into my manuscript book, and I'm going to dedicate to one and only one manuscript. The book isn't written. Far from it. As of tonight, I have almost two pages of story to its name. However, this is the foreword I plan to put in front of the book.

*

In the grand tradition of books and the written word, it is my understanding that books share two common denominators. The first is words which are often constructed in a way so as to communicate ideas and concepts and, if one is lucky enough, emotions.

The second thing books share is the foreword. I've never entirely understood the purpose of the foreword. It seems to me to be the stage on which the author sets his piece and makes an illusory case. This case is the one he presents which makes it seem as if you don't like or disagree with his book, the fault is your own and not his.

He sets up an apologetic for his book. A defense designed to help you understand the book and hopefully be sympathetic to the author's goal and perhaps overlook a few oversights.

So the author apologizes for his book.

In the grand tradition of apologies and literary apologetics, let me say sorry.

Sorry.

I'm sorry for the contents of this book. Every word in here might not be true, but it's certainly truth, and I'm sorry things have to be this way. I'm sorry that things don't have to be this way, but are. I'm sorry that so many of us feel powerless to change us, and those that feel they have power often lack direction.

I'm sorry that this is happening to your brother. I'm sorry that it's happening to your dad, and your coworker, and that kid you made fun of in high school. I'm sorry that it's happening to me, and I'm sorry that it's happening to my friends.

We're sorry that it's happening to us.

However, to simply apologize isn't enough and is practically nothing. It's merely step one. I hope that this book, an illusory tale of smoke and shadows, makes up for the apology and actually helps to change things. Maybe it will help show a way to change.

Let's find a better way to be.

The Daily Dime: Strength.

it's been awhile since i've made a story. this is the big push before ireland, however. let's "get it on." also, this is my monday story. i just highly doubt i'll have time to write/post this monday, but i didn't want to miss it. as such, here y'go!

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The boy lie dying.

Cancer had ravaged his eight year old bones, and had been eating a hole for the past two months into his stomach. His 36 year old mother cried two year old tears, and his 15 year old sister nursed one year old anger. His 43 year old father absent for the last 7 years of his adolescent life.

The boy lie dying, and the boy lie silent.

His mother sat down next to him and grabbed his hand. She pressed it to her mouth, kissing as if the harder she kissed, the healthier her son would become. He opened his eyes and smiled.

“Hi mom,” he said calmly.

“Hey baby,” she said. “How do you feel?” she asked.

The boy shrugged and then responded, “I feel alright. I'm thirsty.” His sister handed him water and he drank. After a moment he gave the glass back to his sister and then spoke.

“I talked to daddy.” His mother almost dropped his hand.

“You what? Son... he hasn't been around for a long time. I think you might be confused,” rationalized his mother. He shook his head.

“No. It was daddy. He told me he was sorry for leaving. Told me to tell you that he was coming back home, but it won't be for a long time. He hopes that you'll forgive him.” His sister stopped in her deep sobs and looked with disbelief at her little brother. He looked back at her, craning to see behind his bed and said, “Daddy says he's really proud of the way you've turned out. He doesn't know he is yet, but he will be. He also said he'll buy you a car when he comes home. A red one.” The boy's sister turned his back on him as she cried harder. The boy turned back around to look at his mother. She smiled at her son and stroked his hair.

“Honey, mommy has to go talk to the doctor's really quick. Can I get you anything before I leave?” he shook his head. “Do you hurt anywhere?” he shrugged his shoulders and said,

“I'll be alright.” She nodded and then left the room, closing the door behind her. A few minutes later she came back and resumed her perch on the chair next to the bed. The boy's sister was on the other side, kneeling at his bed side holding his hand, her head resting on the bed at his side. His mother picked his hand back up. She sat in silence for a minute.

The doctors cautioned her that the boy was probably in his final moments and that he was most likely suffering hallucinations. The result of his body releasing hormones into the blood stream and the various medicine cocktails flowing in his bloodstream. His mother was prepared for many things, but the loss of her son was not one of them. Her shaking hand began to stroke the side of his head, running her fingers through his hair.

“It's OK to cry,” she said. “You don't have to be strong. You can cry if you want to.” Two years the boy had fought this battle with cancer, and not once had he cried. Not once had he complained, questioned, criticized or resisted. He complied with every treatment given him, and never had his good humor wavered. Her voice cracked as she said, “why do you have to be so strong? You don't have to be so strong!” The boy looked at his mother and yawned.

“But strong is all I know how to be,” he said. Then he closed his eyes and he slept.

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a story a day. details: http://dailydime.ning.com/

The Daily Dime: Alex: Serialized.

and i'm back in on the daily dime. a warning on this one: it's pretty, um, questionable in just about every direction. it's got "mature" content. so, you've been warned.

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Alex opened up a light tunnel and began searching for a destination. Someplace far away and decidedly different. His outstretched hand casting and directing the tunnel. He turned towards the east extending the tunnel with his thought and will.

Alex watched his window expand, then watched as land seemed to rush at him through his large rounded window entrance. He couldn't help but thinking of stretching some kind of quantum mechanic slinky across the landscape every time he opened up a light tunnel.

Alex stopped. He could feel that he was staring at an alley way somewhere in roughly Chicago. What he was seeing terrified him. He saw a woman pinned to the ground, a cord around her neck and face broken. Her blackened eyes were stained with both tears and blood. Pinning her there and securing the cord around her neck was a man attempting to mount her. The man had a mask and although Alex knew what he was seeing, he had to put it out of his mind.

Alex mentally marked this spot, and went to his room to grab a few items. First he bragged a blanket off of his bed, and the camera off of his headboard. He was preparing to open the tunnel again when he saw his baseball bat leaning against his wall. He grabbed it thinking to himself, “I might need this.”

Alex faced the same eastern direction and let his feelings reconnect him to what he had witnessed. Not much had changed in the thirty seconds since he'd first seen it, except now he saw a second form. Alex was unsure if that form had been there the whole time and it was just out of view, or if it was a new figure. Alex watched this figure taking a sick self pleasure while waiting for his turn. Again, Alex had to put the reality of what was happening out of his mind.

Alex steeled his resolve and jumped through.

He landed between the assailant and trapped girl combination, and the one man pleasure cruise. Alex snapped a picture of the guy and kicked him secure between the legs before he had time to react. This one had not been as smart as to wear a mask.

Having dealt with the first one, Alex turned his focus to the assailant. Having evaluated his options, he picked what he thought to be the best. He wanted to avoid any striking movements that might cause the attacker to increase his grip on the cord around the girl's neck, so Alex decided to give the attacker a taste of his own medicine.

Alex threaded the bat through the crook of his elbows and then pulled th bat against the attacker's neck and pushed his head down into it.

Immediately, the attacker let go of the cord and the girl, sputtering and choking. Alex put his weight down onto the attacker preventing him from standing up.

The girl looked behind her at Alex, and then rolled over to a sitting position.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she spat. Alex's gripped lessened as he stared at her, confused. Just then a loud whistle blew and the alley became flooded with light, and a voice shouted,

“CUT!” and, “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

Alex released his grip and stood up. He looked around the alley and saw that it was actually a staged alley. He could see cameras and at least 20 milling around the set, clipboards in hand.

“I thought... I thought she was being raped,” stammered Alex.

“Well, I'm not! It's an art film, dipshit!” said the girl peeling off her black eye makeup. “Who is this dickweed?” she asked pointing at him.

“I HAVE NO FUCKIN' CLUE. WHO LET HIM ON HERE? WHERE'D HE COME FROM?” asked the voice that Alex assumed was the director. Alex looked around the set and saw on-hand medical staff attending to the two men.

Alex felt confused and a little scared. Alex tried to mumble out an apology, but instead just decided to go back through the tunnel he came through.

Alex emerged in his bedroom, feeling drained. He laid down on the bed and realized that he had dropped his belongings on the set. Alex rolled over onto his side and pointed at the wall, opening the tunnel back up. When he looked in, he saw that the set was full of people. Too full for him to be able to go back and get his stuff.

Alex felt broken and stupid. What should have been a lifesaving act of bravery on his part turned into an act of pure foolishness. More specifically, it turned into an act of beating up two male “adult film stars,” or as the girl put it, “art film” stars. Alex didn't so much feel like going out anymore, much less going anywhere far. He kicked off his shoes and fell asleep, trying to forget about his camera, his blanket, and his bat.

The Daily Dime Super Short Sunday: Messiah

i had this typed up before midnight last night, but only in my word processor. i completely forgot to post it. so, her it is, a little past the deadline.

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I'm just another in a long line of messiahs. Those that came before me were messiahs, as will those that are to come after me. My responsibilities are those that are to be expected of any messiah: heal the infirmed, forgive sins, love others and completely revolutionize the system. It's what everyone before me did, what those around me are doing now, and those to follow will do, but sometimes, I just wonder if I can do it, or if I'll be crushed by the weight of it.

I just don't think I can do it.

The Daily Dime: Truer Than Fiction

For information on the Daily Dime and those that contribute, hit this: http://dailydime.ning.com/

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“Don't worry, I'll call you as soon as I get there,” she said. I could tell as soon as the words left her mouth that it was an empty promise. A salve to her conscience, complete disregard for mine.

“Please do,” I said. I could feel the ball in my throat, the sting in my eyes. She hugged me again. I hugged back. Maybe a little too long and a little too hard. “I love you so much,” I whispered into her ear.

“I love you too,” she said back. We released, and I looked at her. Despite all the crap she had sent herself through, she still looked beautiful, like Egyptian royalty.

“I'll miss you, but I think this is better for you,” I said. She nodded then she said that she had to leave. I said goodbye and walked to my car.

I sat in my car in the church parking lot. One of the last times I'd ever go to church coincidentally, though this drama had nothing to do with attendance.

I sat in my car, feeling empty. Feeling that though there were nothing left, it would all be spilled out. I fought so hard to keep the tears in, but it was a fight worth losing.

I didn't want to be in a car in the parking lot at church bawling, so I left. I couldn't go to the house yet. I couldn't let my family see me as I was: an emotional wreck on the verge of meltdown. So I drove. I drove for 30 minutes, and I screamed, and I cursed, and I fought. For 30 minutes I refused to accept the truth reality had whispered in my ear. “Nevermore.”

My defenses cracked, and I cried. I cried and I couldn't stop. I turned on the radio and heard REM's “Everybody Hurts.” We sang, and I cried.

I finally got home, and there was mom, waiting. She asked what had happened and I told her exactly how I felt.

How much I had loved the girl, and for no good reason. I just loved her with an ineffable expression, something that, the more I tried to define it, the less accurate it would become. I just wanted her to be loved, and I wanted to be the one doing the loving.

I told her that no matter how far she strayed, I was always praying for her. When she left me for a guy who has yet to provide one good reason why he should live, I prayed for her. I prayed she wake up to the shit this bastard put her through.

When she got addicted to drugs, I prayed for her freedom.

When she was arrested, I prayed for her reform.

When I heard nothing, I prayed for everything.

I told my mom about how much I'd prayed, and the few times I'd cried, and now my prayers are being answered, but she's going away.

“It isn't fair,” I said. “I held out so much hope for her, and offered so many prayers, yet I feel like I'm being gypped, and I know I shouldn't. I should just be happy for her, and I am, but I... I don't know. I just feel like crap.”

“You're happy for her, but sad for you, right?” I nodded, and then I started to cry... again. And then mom did what mom's do best: she hugged me and comforted me. Told me that there weren't any words that could make me feel better, but to take comfort in the fact that she hurts with me.

Mom cried with me.