Karma of Cupid

Ages come and go, ceaselessly without fail,
History and prophecy the lives of mankind's tales.
And lo another story starts to flow
As across the land the wind doth blow...

Meh, the wind. The West Wind was always such a showoff. Most of the winds on this planet aren’t even His direct creation anyways. But regardless of where they came from, this particular wind just happened to be from that overrated minor meteorological deity, and he’s trying to be a flirt. He tries to slide his icy fingers seductively around the necks of busy men who walk, ever so briskly, in their designer cashmere and wool. He caresses every exposed leg of women as their strides tease… each step a wink, wink, wink, beckoning and inviting with flashes of flesh. He playfully tosses up leaves and dances high above the streetlamps like children throwing back their heads and laughing with pure joy. But he can’t hold a torch to me.




I’ve gone by a lot of names over the years. Eros, Amor, Desire, Love, Passion… But you’d probably know me best by that ridiculous name they gave me a few thousand years ago: Cupid. And before you ask, no, I’m not some naked baby with wings holding a bow and arrow. I’m actually quite normal looking; you’d probably not peg me for any sort of mythical god at all. But yeah, I make people fall in love. Or rather, I put them in the position to fall in love. If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my time here on Earth, it’s that you can’t make these infernal humans do anything. They’re worse than sheep. Seriously, I’d know. Oh, and you know how I said I was normal looking? Well, I guess that’s not quite true.

Women love me. I mean, really love me. See that group of women over there? Yeah, them, at the coffee stand on the corner. Watch this. All I have to do is walk by. And watch, I’ll even hide my face behind this newspaper.

And it’s true; they can’t help but look. Every misting eye, every quivering lip, every nervous rubbing of hands, every stretching of neck… each action screams their every thought. This man walking by is in every way so… so… perfect. His coat seems to simultaneously hide and accentuate the magnificent physique unseen underneath. The red of his tie pokes through just so… burning with the passion of a thousand flames. His coat opens, and the bespoke black suit underneath speaks of impeccable taste. A glimpse of his shoes is an invitation to warm summer nights spent drinking wine by candlelight on the Italian Riviera. His BELT…

See what I mean? They LOVE me. It’s like that wherever I go. But I can’t help but encourage them a little bit. Hold the newspaper for a second, will you? Maybe a little smile as I walk past…

Ladies.

And see? Look over my shoulder. They’re staring right? One of them fainted? She’ll be alright, don’t worry. Her friends are already picking her up by now, aren’t they? Happens all the time. Let’s just keep walking.

You might be wondering what I’m doing here, if my entire existence is just a hedonistic hunt for hips and hearts. Well, you couldn’t be further from the truth. You see, the fact is that my Love, my Reason for Being, my One and Only, my Happily Ever After is out there, and it’s some cruel joke of the Fates that I’m still looking for her.

Back home, my Mom is the most beautiful being – person, goddess, whatever – on that silly mountain we gods hang out on. Word had it though that she rejected the head honcho himself, and ol’ thunderbolt didn’t take too kindly to not getting his way. He put a curse on my Mom saying that one of her kids would be doomed to live a life linked with lost love. Great. Guess who that turned out to be? I was born with some, well, powers of persuasion of a certain amorous type, and soon after reaching adulthood was banished here to Earth. Just before I was kicked off the mountain, big Z pulled me aside, made a cloud come over, and formed it into the face of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I can still hear the words he spoke to me next…

Q, YOU’RE A GOOD KID, AND I HATE TO DO THIS TO YOU, BUT A CURSE IS A CURSE. YOU CAN’T COME UNTIL YOU FIND HER. SHE’S HUMAN, BY THE WAY, SO YOU WON’T HAVE LONG TO MEET AND WOO HER. OH, HER NAME IS… WELL HER NAME DOESN’T MATTER, YOU’LL KNOW HER – SHE’S A PART OF YOUR SOUL.

And with a swift godly kick, I was sent tumbling down our Olympic mountain to land here on Earth.

Some people back home have hypothesized that if I make enough people fall in love I’ll get a chance to come home – some sort of Deistic Duty thing. But I don’t think it’s that simple. You see; even though I’ve had a million women throw themselves at me, offer me their spirits, their skirts, their skin… I feel nothing. I know my Soul is out there, and I’m waiting for her. I can sense her out there; maybe not even born yet, maybe living next door to me. Who knows. Maybe she’s waiting for me. At least, I know I’m waiting for her. For my Soul.

Ah, here we go. My humble place of work. Watch your step. Yeah, sign in at the desk. It’s okay, she’s with me. Oh, hold that elevator will you! 29th floor please. What? Oh yeah, I thought I told you already that I work for Young Singles Monthly. I’m a writer. Advice column. On Love, of course! Well, what if they’re right? What if I get to go back home after helping a few thousand people fall in love? Even though I know I’ve got to wait for my Soul, it can’t hurt to cover all my mythical bases, and what better way to reach the masses than the number one read magazine amongst men AND women 18 to 25 years old?

His desk is the perfect storm of comfortable clutter and orderly organization. Stacks of manuscripts cover the surface, written by hand with a flowing script. A hundred photos of picturesque travel destinations cover the walls, each one eerily empty of people. Everything is either high tech or designer – his flat screen monitor seems just a bit bigger and thinner than anyone else’s, and his chair looks like a concept out of next decades DWR catalog. Everyone looks up and smiles as he walks by… Men with a touch of admiration in their eyes, and women with a quite obvious lingering stare that travels up… and down… him as he passes. And he knows it. He gives me a wink as if to say, “I told you so” as he pulls a chair for me opposite his desk, hangs his coat on a rack that was surely once an exhibit piece at some MOMA somewhere, and settles into his chair.

I’m so glad the Times has taken an interest in my story. But before we continue, I need something of you. Put down that pad. I need to know. Look at me; look me in the eyes. Do you believe me? Do you believe I’m Cupid?

It’s hard to stare into those eyes. They’re equal parts fire and ice; passion and fury, hope and hatred. My heart stops… my breath catches… my life waits for his to move forward. He may be no god, but he’s definitely… different.

Ahhh see. You don’t do you? Well, I’m not surprised. You humans have such a difficult time believing anything supernatural even exists. You’re all so good at explaining things away. You’ll hold onto the smallest grains of impossible hope; you’ll throw millions of dollars away at the Lottery with a 10 billion to one chance at winning; you’ll obsess over the smallest look a possible love interest might have sent your way; you’ll buy drink after drink after drink for women in the hopes that they’ll fall madly in love with you; but when it comes to believing in the supernatural – which let me tell you, is much more likely than any of those other things – you become the universe’s greatest cynic. But maybe you’ll change your mind soon.

So I know you’re dying to see my writing. Don’t worry; you’ll get what you need soon enough. In fact, here’s a good one for you to start with.

His fingers caress the different piles of manuscripts on his desk, until finally they settle on a particularly high stack. He gently slides his hand down, down, down, resting halfway down the pile. He closes his eyes, and the faintest smile crosses his lips as he pulls out a single sheet covered in his flowing script. He hands it to me, and the light in his eyes is equal parts pride, hope, and adventure. I look down and start to read…

How to Achieve the (Seemingly) Impossible

“It’s no secret that almost every young male’s fantasy is incredibly difficult to achieve. It’s a gigantically daunting feat, and I know that you think only a select few can pull it off. We are of course talking about landing two women at once…”

What? Don’t give me that look. This is Young Singles Monthly, not the Homebodies of America. The articles might be a little, what, racy, but it’s what’s on the mind of young people these days. And I’m just trying to help some young people out. But maybe you should work up to that one. In fact, here, take these articles. They’ll give you a good idea of the work I’ve been doing while I wait for my Soul to come my way. And if you can figure out how many people I’ve helped fall in love, or at least lust, that’d be a huge help. Because you never know, they might be right in saying that if I make enough people fall heels over head, I’ll get my passport stamped to go home.

So it’s been great meeting you… next week then? And I didn’t catch your name… Sarah? That’s a great name. It’s been a real pleasure Sarah. Let me walk you out.

And as he walks me to the elevator, I can’t help but notice something new in his eyes. Avoiding his direct stare this time I see the confidence and calm that comes only with, well, with minor deities… but there is something else. Something almost like… panic. Panic, yes, that’s it. He’s so scared he’ll never find her, never find his Soul. And he’s reaching out everywhere he can for help. Reaching out to me. I hold the stack of manuscripts, kiss him on each cheek goodbye, and turn to face him as the elevator doors close. This is definitely going to be an interesting assignment.

Coffee Shops and Watching your Mouth



“Coffee Shops are one of the greatest weapons in a young person’s attraction arsenal. They’re notorious for playing great and random nouveau tango bands, having comfy couches, and just the right amount of background sound and atmosphere to make your date feel comfortable. Plus, the best ones serve good booze. Guys, bring women here. They’ll feel safe, secure, warm, and will give you more credit than being some drunk frat boy who still takes women to bars with peanuts on the ground or with karaoke machines run by men with mullets who live in their vans. Plus in said Coffee Shop, chances are you’ll be more attractive to your date here than that sad single artsy kid over there writing emo stories, or the nerdy kid in the corner sketching furiously away in his designer moleskin. But please, Please, PLEASE make sure you don’t blow it. And the way you’ll blow it? You’ll do what this guy is doing RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME RIGHT NOW, at my local Coffee Shop where I’m writing this very article. Ready? Just STOP TALKING for a change! Women are by nature great communicators. From an early age men communicate with onomatopoeia and sound effects; women communicate through words and complete sentences. Don’t fight nature. When you sit down with a woman at the Coffee Shop of your choice, you’ll be under a lot of pressure to have a conversation. This is a good thing. Conversation is good. But you MUST let her talk! The more you speak, chances are the more you’re going to come across as:



a) A pompous ass

b) A nervous twit

c) An egotistic prick




And we’re all guilty of it. It’s actually OKAY to not fill every moment with meaningless chatter. Ask her questions, and listen for God’s sake. If you’re at a break in the conversation, take a drink of coffee. Smile at her. Engage someone at a nearby table in conversation, smile at your date, and ask them slyly about her. Ok, don’t check your phone – that’s rude. But don’t revert to talking for talking’s sake. The more you keep your mouth shut, the more likely you’ll find something out about her, and let her be intrigued by who you are. When all else fails, comment on other people together. Or listen to the music together. It’s one of the best ways to make a connection without speaking… think Javier Barden taking Vickie to listen to Spanish guitar. There’s something amazingly powerful about two people sitting side by side observing the same thing… together. So you see, there’s a million things you can do, none of which include YOU, the man, talking endlessly. So go make it happen!



And one more thing about coffee shops… Ladies. If you’re the type of girl who finds yourself sitting at a bar, drinking that drink that some guy (who you definitely aren’t in to) bought for you, sitting through a ten minute conversation with him because, well, he did buy you that drink… if you’re one of those girls, dreaming of why there’s no more good men (not nice guys, Good Men)… put your drink down and look across the street at the Coffee Shop and the young man sitting outside bringing life to paper with his pen. He’s the one you want. And guys, if she comes over to you? Don’t blow it…”

Here you go Sarah, here’s your coffee. So you’ve started reading my articles? Great. I’m glad you decided to meet up again. What’s that? No, I haven’t seen my Soul today, thank you very much. I’m very sure I’ll know it when I see her.

At the very mention of his Soul, the glow of confidence in his eyes winks out for the briefest of seconds. His hands twitch nervously as he adjusts his tie. His jaw clenches, his foot goes tap, tap, tap as double shots of fear and adrenaline rush through him. And then it passes; if you weren’t looking for it, you’d never have seen the reaction. But I see it. I want to ask him more, but today, I’ve got some ulterior motives. You see, there’s this guy, and I could use the help of a real life Cupid…

Oh really? A guy huh? And now you’d like some help? Of course I can help. I am the expert on helping people find each other, remember? So who is he? A regular at your gym? And he works in your building… interesting. And have you had any interaction yet? Just smiles in the hall? That’s definitely a start. Do you care if he’s married? I’m sorry, I’m sorry; don’t look at me like that. You never know, there’re some vicious women out there. Not like you Sarah. Ok. I think I have just the solution. Why don’t you give this a read…

He hands me an envelope from out of his briefcase. It’s sealed and dated, as if he already knew he’d be giving it to me today. As if he knew a thousand years ago I’d be asking his advice. The corners of his eyes smile with all the confident joy in the world, and I start to think that there’s something to him being more than human. As he gives me the envelope, he brushes my hand briefly, and I’m not ashamed to admit that my heart skipped a beat. His lips match the smile in his eyes, and he shakes his head laughing.

Oh, Sarah. You’re so… ah. You remind me a lot of what a little sister would be, if I had one. Just read the article, and let me know how it goes with your young man. Next week then? Next week it is. See you soon Sarah.

The Gist of it All… How to Make Him or Her Fall For You



“Call me old fashioned, but there’s something to be said about the classic romantic notion. You know the dance, the one you’ve seen Mr. Grant and Ms. Kelly, Mr. Bogart and Ms. Hepburn do on the silver screen. It’s about men being Good Men (not nice guys, not safe boys, not anything to be trifled with) – full of adventure, intrigue, chivalry, and good old fashioned masculine strength. It’s about women being Good Women (not nice girls, passive chicks, or hot flirts) – full of beauty, strength, joy, and faithfulness. Call me old fashioned, but this is the heart of attraction. It’s innate in every human, these classic ideals. So where are you going to meet Mr. or Mrs. Right? This is the easiest and most important part – Anywhere! Never shut yourself off from the opportunity to meet someone. Grocery stores, gyms, libraries, traffic, on the escalator, coffee shops, the bus, I don’t care. Get in the practice of meeting people outside of bars. Just smile and say hi, and you’ll be amazed at how well it works. But now for the nitty gritty… just how are you going to catch the object of your affection? The truth of the matter is, it all depends on what kind of person you want.



Women, I’ll talk to you first. Do you want a Good Man, or a good time? Now, you can’t have both. If you’re looking for one, you’re NEVER going to get the other. If you want a good time, it’s pretty easy. Show off what you’ve got. If you’re a good looking girl, make it obvious to anyone who can see. Be aggressive, and approach any guy you like. Touch him a lot – personal contact is a powerful tool for you. Keep your conversations light – let him brag about himself. Ask him to buy you drinks, dinners, designer purses. Chances are he will – it’s pretty easy for a guy to spend money instead of spending emotion. And there’s a million men out in the world for you to find who’ll show you a great time. Be careful though, finding a man for a good time means just that; don’t expect him to be quality. And no, you won’t be able to change him after you’ve been together for a while. And you’re not going to find a Good Man either; they’ll be watching how you act, and will be repulsed. Sure, you might get a few dates out of a misguided Good Man, but soon enough you’ll be wondering why it seems like all the men in your life fall so short of those Good Men who just came and left.



Oh, so you want a Good Man then? But you’re worried. You’ve been raised to think they’re nice guys: boring, passive, submissive, and weak. But we’re talking about Good Men – guys who prioritize adventure, passion, strength, power, and true love. They’re everywhere, but the way to land them is quite different. Subtlety is the key, be it in dress, winks, or speech. Everything you do should be to inspire intrigue and adventure in the men around you. I know it’s frustrating, and it might seem like you’re being passive, but that’s hardly the case. If you see a guy out that you like, make eye contact, smile, do whatever your best move is, but be inviting to him so that he’ll come talk to you. And if he doesn’t? Chances are he either lacks the brains or the guts… and it’s better to figure that out now, rather than later. If he still doesn’t see you, you can always do the proximity alert. Move around the room so that you’re standing near him. But still, let him talk to you. And once you’re talking, let the natural fun and joy in your life come out. Be classy, not crass. Laugh and smile, and enjoy the adventure that he’s hopefully spinning for you. Be memorable, unlike any other women he’s going to meet tonight. And from then, you’ll be well on your way. Inspire adventure in him, and if he’s a true Good Man, he’ll deliver. If he doesn’t, have the presence of mind to get out. You’re much too important to waste your time.



Men. What kind of girl do you want? You want a One Fun Night? Easy. Put on the Uniform (jeans, button up striped shirt untucked, and black dress shoes). Go to your nearest young people’s bar. Find the girl attracting all the attention in the world to herself. She’ll usually be:



a) Riding the mechanical bull


b) Dancing on the bar


c) Surrounded by ten guys and loving every minute of it


d) Wearing the smallest outfit of any girl out



If a girl passes any two of these criteria, you’re good to go. How’re you going to pick her up? Here’s the difficult part – you’ve got to put her in her place. Actively act like you’re not interested… heck, even slyly insult her. But at the last second, when her insecure mind is wondering why she doesn’t have any control over you, flip it around. Punk the other guys who are around her, take her to a new location, buy her plenty of drinks, and you’re all set. If you feel masochistic enough to actually date a girl like this, Zeus help you, but your wallet is going to suffer. You’re going to have to constantly keep her wavering, wandering attention on YOU, and enough will never be enough. My best advice is get in, get out, and get on with it. Oh, and you’re not going to change her either. So stop thinking it right now.



Ah. But how to find a Good Woman. This is a tough one, as I really think there are a lot fewer Good Women out there than Good Men (sorry!). The best thing you can do is recognize what it is in women that you want, and put yourself in places where those types of women are. Pretty soon you’ll get really good at avoiding the obvious One Fun Nights, but it’s going to take a lot of searching to still find a Good Woman. Be assertive, be charming and intriguing. Live life with passion, and share that passion with women in your life. Never be cheap, but never think that you can buy affection. Be the Good Man that you are, and hold on to the women who can appreciate and are attracted to those qualities of yours. Ask yourself, does she inspire adventure in you? Does she make you a Better Man? If she doesn’t, it’s time to move on. There’s no magic bullet, but strong self awareness is the best tool you can have. Good luck…”

Another margarita? Ah yes, you are working, I suppose. Oh, so did you read it? Great, great. Look, I’m sorry Sarah, but I’m little bit distracted today. You can tell? Yeah, well. I met her! Sarah, I finally met her! I’ve found my Soul! And she’s so, so Beautiful, Sarah. I wish you could understand. I’ve just waited for so long, and she’s finally here. Where did I meet her? I’m kind of ashamed to say it, but at a bar. But you don’t understand, she’s different. She was only dancing on the bar for a second, and I swear, she’s quite deep. We talked about all sorts of things – from art to music to travel. Yes, of course I got her number. Who do you take me for? We’re going out this Friday. I’m so excited Sarah, my Heart’s been waiting for so long…

I’ve never before seen pure joy and excitement embodied so perfectly in a living being as him right this second. He can hardly sit still he’s so happy. Everything he says is something about her, about how her hair is just so, how her laugh is crystal clear, how her eyes are the deepest sea of green… and yet, I can’t help but be worried for him. In the few weeks I’ve known him, he’s been nothing but the confident and charismatic image of masculinity that could care less whether a woman wanted him in her life. And now that he’s found his Soul, he’s as giddy as a school child. And after everything he’s said about her, she doesn’t sound THAT good for him…

But Sarah, you don’t understand. She’s so much like me. Sure she gets a lot of attention from men, and yes, so what, she loves it. But it’s just like how it is for me. Women throw themselves at me everyday… how can I blame her for anything different. Yes, I know she’s human and I’m Cupid. What does that have to do with anything? Don’t look at me like that. She’s my Soul, Sarah!

His phone bounces along the table as it announces a message. A message deemed unimportant enough to require the sacred breath of life, the breath of Love that comes from our lips. A message so un-special that it carries all the ambiguities and clumsiness of the basic building blocks of our language. A text. His usually sure hand shakily grabs the phone. His face falls.

Hmm. That’s okay, I guess. Apparently she has to work this Friday night. Oh well. But that’s good! She’s career oriented. She’s got her head in the right place. She’s… well. She’s my Soul.

A long breath in. A longer breath out. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been waiting thousands of years for your Soul.

But enough about me. Tell me about your smiling gym guy. Oh he talked to you? That’s wonderful Sarah! Proximity alert? Yep, knew it. At a coffee shop? Perfect. And you’re going out this Friday? Well I’m glad somebody is. No, I’m not bitter; you’re going to have a great time. I have a good feeling about this one Sarah. Let me know how it goes. Next week then? In the meantime, here’s another piece for you to read… maybe it’ll help you on Friday. But I’m confident in you, Sarah.

Joie de Vive



"The Joy of Life. Ask a hundred people on the street, and 99 of them will say that of course, that’s what they’re striving for. And that last guy who said no is actually talking to a fire hydrant right now, so don’t even put too much into what he says. A Drama Filled Summer. No one in their right mind would ever say that that’s what they want. Yet take a look at a hundred relationships around you. Are the majority filled with two people enjoying the pure Joy of Life? Or are they creating Drama Drama Drama… I think you already know the answer.



But what isn’t known is WHY. I’ve seen relationships a few weeks old create the most massive pyrotechnic displays of emotional outbursts. How can there even be that much fighting when there’s been such a short amount of emotional investment? Why do people stick around and crave Drama when it’s obviously (well, obvious to everyone else) unhealthy? Here’s the answer: Because at the end of the day, we’re all hungry.



We feed on emotion. I don’t care how many of you out there have made it your solemn vow that you’re better off alone – you’re not fooling anyone. Everybody gets as hungry emotionally as they do physically. And I’ll bet there’s more emotional eating disorders out there than physical ones – people making their hearts take part in fasting, binging, purging, gluttonizing, or becoming vegetarian. (Not that I have anything against vegetarians, but someone who chooses to take part in some emotions and not others can’t be trusted).



There’s a lot of hungry people walking around out there. And as soon as they smell blood, as soon as they sense that their hearts are on the verge of being filled, they reach for junk food. They create the easy drama that keeps a relationship going. They feed on the high fructose corn syrup of emotion. They malnourish themselves on empty calories. And as soon as they sense their food source is slipping away, they sink their teeth in deeper and refuse to let go.



So what’s to do? Easy. CALM DOWN. Wait for the meal to be served. Enjoy all the courses that your relationship has to offer. Whether it’s an ala carte and quick lived or a fantastic 21 course pairing menu and meant to go the distance, enjoy the meal as it comes to you. Embrace the Joy of Life. For God’s sake smile. Leave the Drama and junk food out. Eat, drink, and be merry."

Here, take your burger. Sarah, I have to tell you! We went out Sarah. She finally called me at the last minute on Saturday night and we went out. Yes, it was great! We got into a tiny little argument at first about… well I don’t even remember what it was about. But it doesn’t matter. I took her to a great dinner, and we had some drinks afterwards. A couple of her friends joined us as well for drinks, and I got to know them pretty well when she was off talking to some of her other friends who happened to be there. They were interesting guys, I guess. She ended up going to a house party of theirs, but it was just as well, since I had to write a new article. Here it is. I…

I can’t believe what’s become of him. His normally impeccable style is sloppy – his tie is undone, his shirt untucked, his shoes mismatched. His eyes have huge bags under them. The panic I’d caught glimpses of before is wilder than ever, burning coals threatening to consume him; threatening to consume us all. He pushes a tattered pile of papers towards me. His normally flowing script is replaced with angry scratches… and there’s tear stains and holes everywhere. I take a quick look down. I can barely make anything out, except for a few words about Faith and Forever, about Weariness and Wariness. And as he rambles on, his eyes take the briefest break from their panic… and in that instance there is only the sadness of a thousand eternities.


…but she’s really quite perfect. She’s my Soul. I hope she returns my call this week… But wait, Sarah! What about you? How’d it go?

IT WENT GREAT Q. FIRST CLASS WORK, CONGRATULATIONS. I THINK THAT’S AN EVEN MILLION.

The man sitting at the booth across the way had just put down his paper and started talking to us. He was dressed in an all white linen suit, and carried the air, the respect, that only comes with… well… Major Deities. He’s easily the most pompous human I’ve ever met (and I haven’t even met him) but I can’t help but stare. He has so much power, power that he’s not using. Maybe he’s right… maybe there is a Cupid; maybe there is a Zeus.


AN EVEN MILLION. I NEVER THOUGHT YOU’D MAKE IT TO THIS POINT, BUT YOU’VE DONE IT. YOU’RE DONE. YOU’RE FREE TO COME HOME. YOUR MOTHER MISSES YOU SO MUCH… AND YOUR CURSE IS FORGIVEN. COME ON HOME.

But… big Z. She’s here. My Soul is here! How can I leave my Soul behind? She’s everything I’ve ever wanted, and she’s…

Q, MY BOY. REALLY? I KNOW YOU’RE CURSED IN LOVE, BUT THIS IS RIDICULOUS. COME HOME. THINK OF ALL YOU CAN DO HELPING PEOPLE FIND LOVE FROM THE VANTAGE POINT OF OUR MOUNT OLYMPUS. AH… BUT I GUESS IT IS YOUR CHOICE...

And at that moment, it became more than just a story, just an article for me. He’s opened up my life to the possibility of love. (And what better gift is that?) But this man, this real life Cupid is faced with the biggest decision of his life. There he is, Zeus in the flesh, holding out his hand to him. Cupid licks his lips, prepares to open his mouth. It’s as though the whole world waits in anticipation of his lips caressing the Breath of Love… Of the power of words standing ready to seal his fate in either immortality or Love (such as it is) with his Soul. But as we all lean forward to bear witness to this monumental decision… one that has been played out a million times a day… a breeze, a Wind really, comes flirting though an open window to pick up his reply. And I smile. He really is Cupid. It’s the right choice, and worthy of being carried out on the Wind…


...And so the wind doth blow across the land,
Taking with it the grains of Time's sand.
Another tale closes its pages
Until opened again by history's sages

Read more!

Sam Logan

Ages come and go, ceaselessly without fail,
History and prophecy the lives of mankind's tales.
And lo another story starts to flow
As across the land the wind doth blow...

The wind carried an interesting mix of scents – fresh mown grass, the salty spray of the ocean, and the fading wisps of incense from the funeral. There were smiles as well as tears during the service, but all of Sam’s friends said that the ceremony was exactly as he would have wanted it. He lived a “full and complete life”, they all said, full “of love, of laughter, of memories”. He had raised three fine boys; he was a loving and devoted husband, he was a friend to anyone in need. He was the man people looked up to and taught their children to be like when they grew up. And yet, Sam Logan had hardly lived at all. He died taking a single step along his life.



Sam Logan was unlike any other human being ever to exist on this earth. There was one man, a librarian known as H. d’T., who came close to Sam’s condition, but Sam’s uniqueness in this universe is concrete. For some strange reason - be it Fate, a curse, some divine lesson, or an unfortunate genetic coincidence – Sam did not live life like you or I. He had no concept of “yesterday”… but it’s not what you’re undoubtedly thinking. There was no amnesia, no memory issues. His memory was just fine; it just only told the future. You see, Sam lived his life backwards; while everyone else was content to let gravity pull the sands of time down through our hourglass lives, Sam was forever climbing up the flow. When he lay down to sleep at night, it wasn’t tomorrow that woke him – it was yesterday. Yesterday was brand new to him and only him, while tomorrow was just a memory of his day before. And if you’re as confused as I was when I first heard his story, well, don’t worry; you’ll see in a moment what I really mean.

The last of the dirt fell on his coffin, and soon the setting sun bid its final adieu to Sam’s life. The darkness of night soon had its chance to welcome Sam’s lifeless body into the final embrace of Mother Earth… and then it happens.

March 16, 2054
An alarm rings and a hand reaches out to quiet its attempts to wake him. Sam laid in bed for a while, confused by where he was. Who was he? Where was he? Who is this woman laying next to him? What is my name? WHO AM I? He tried to get up, but found his old body just didn’t want to respond anymore. The woman next to him, Constance, stirred from her sleep and rolled over. They had been married for 46 years now, and after 46 years of marriage, you don’t have to be awake to know something’s wrong with your Love.

“What’s wrong Sam?” She asked softly. Her eyes are as clear a blue as the day when they first met.

Sam said nothing. He didn’t know what to say, what to think. He didn’t even know who this woman was next to him. With a feeble yell, he hoisted himself out of bed and stumbled down the stairs, only to find himself staring at an unknown hall in an unknown home. He lurched disoriented out the door into the morning light. Sensations bombarded him – sounds smells, sights, feelings, emotions. It’s too much to make sense of all at once, and all he could do was collapse onto his front porch. Constance held him as he lay in her arms, shaking like a newborn baby, trying to make sense of this complicated world around him. She rocked him slowly with all the love a human can give, but he couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see anything. For hours they lay there. Occasionally Sam’s fit of sobs would die down and be replaced by bursts of anger. He’d scream and yell with the panic and fear of a newborn child, and Constance would do her best to comfort him. Evening finally fell, and Sam slowly drifted off to sleep. What a way to live the last day of your life. What a way to live the first day of your life.

March 15, 2054
An alarm rings and the same hand reaches out to shut it off. Sam laid in bed again, confused by his past. He has a day’s worth of memory this morning; he can remember the confusion, panic, and terror of his first day on this world. He fought the urge to run screaming from his bed like he had yesterday, and instead tried to focus his spinning mind on what he knew. “Okay. What’s going on? Who am I? Who is this woman next to me? Let me try to talk to her. How do I talk?” Slowly Sam opened his mouth and tried to speak, but nothing came out. He was thinking about this too much. Constance rolled over onto her side, and opened her clear blue eyes with a smile.

“Good morning Sam,” she whispered softly. And then, before he knew what was happening, Sam responded. “Who am I?” He didn’t mean to say these words, they just came unconsciously from within.

“What do you mean, who are you?” She said with a smile, “You’re the most loving husband, devoted father, grandfather, and human I’ve ever met.”

“I don’t remember any of it. I don’t believe you. I don’t know you, I don’t know who I am, I don’t know anything”. There was panic in his voice.

Slowly Constance’s smile faded. “Are you being serious honey? This isn’t funny.” She sat up in bed and looked Sam in the eyes.

The remaining day was a blur of sobs, tears, and wails. Constance took Sam to the hospital fearing all kinds of mental diseases and dementia. There were lots of men in white coats. There were many tests. There were many drugs. And all the while Sam was just trying to find out what the hell was going on. He was starting to peace it together. Apparently his name was Sam Logan, and he was 73 years old. He had a wife Constance, some kids, some grandkids, had a job, was retired, was involved in his community. And yet he couldn’t remember it all. The men in white coats talked a lot about “advanced stages of dementia, hallucinations, multiple personality disorders, amnesia” and a whole lot of other things that Sam had no idea as to what it was all about. The odd thing is, Constance didn’t seem to remember his outburst and confusion and time spent on the porch yesterday. No one seemed to know anything about yesterday. As the evening came to a close, Sam was being admitted to the hospital for observation during the night, and to “make sure he doesn’t do any harm to himself”. The men in white coats tied him to his bed, and the screams of anguish and confusion filled the hospital halls long into the night.

March 14, 2054
The alarm rang again. With a start Sam jumped up out of bed. His own bed. Why wasn’t he at the hospital? His sudden action had woken Constance, and she rolled over sleepily.

“Constance.” It was as if he was trying out her name for the first time.
“Yes dear?”
“What did we do yesterday?” There was almost no fear in his voice.
“We went and visited Jason, remember? Is everything alright?” Now concern started to creep into her voice.
“Everything is fine. I just… I just feel a little ill is all.” He had no idea who Jason was. One of his kids maybe? Grandkids? Who knew.

Constance made Sam breakfast, and he ate slowly. Everything was a new experience to him – his only memories had been of the last (or was it next?) two days – not a whole lot of events to base life on. These, what are they? Eggs? Eggs. They’re delicious. Sam decided he liked eggs. After breakfast Sam took a walk outside his house. Constance insisted on joining him, especially since he wasn’t feeling well, but Sam needed to be alone. His thoughts bombarded him as he walked along. Okay. So apparently something very strange is going on. No one around me seems to have the same memories I have. Nothing I did yesterday had any effect on today. How come? And why did Constance say that we went somewhere yesterday and we clearly didn’t? I haven’t known her that long but she doesn’t seem like the lying type.

The rest of the day was lived in a somber haze. Sam sat and talked to Constance. He didn’t say a whole lot, but he listened, and tried to keep it all straight. She knew something was wrong with him, but she just chalked it up to him being a little ill. If he was still acting strange tomorrow, they might just have to go visit the doctor. He ate – and decided he likes pot roast a lot too. Evening gave way to night and his mind was spinning with everything he had learned today. It still didn’t make a whole lot of sense to him, but maybe tomorrow would be better.

March 13, 2054
“Wake up honey,” Constance was already dressed and walking around the room. “We’re going to go see Jason today. Remember?” She smiled with her pure blue eyes sparkling, and Sam sat up quickly.

“Um, okay.” Sam was taking the attitude that if he could just follow along and go with the flow, things might work out better.

It turns out Jason was their oldest son. He had two children of his own, and the sight of this family brought Sam almost to tears. The children came running out to meet Sam and Constance as soon as they opened the door. Jason stood with his arm around his wife and smiled slowly. There was pride in his eyes; he was proud of his kids, proud of his wife, proud to be his Dad’s son. There was so much love contained in one small area, and Sam couldn’t believe he had not a single memory of any of this.

They spent the day there, playing with the kids, talking about the weather. Even though Sam couldn’t remember a day of raising his boy or seeing his grandchildren be born, he couldn’t help but think that he had done alright. His son was a good man; he obviously loved his wife and his kids. Hopefully this whole memory thing would sort itself out and things would be back to normal.

As Sam lay down to sleep things started to make sense. Yesterday, I asked Constance what we had done the day before, and she said what we had done today. I have to remember to check the date tomorrow. I have an idea what’s happening...

2050 - 2054
And so Sam slowly began to realize what was going on. For some strange reason he was moving through time backwards; every tomorrow brought simply the day before. Bit by bit Sam pieced together who he was, and learned all of the things from the past that he hadn’t yet lived. It was odd to start everyday already knowing the future, and he often had to work hard to keep track of what he said or how he acted, but the truth of the matter was it didn’t really matter that much. The beauty of living backwards is that nothing he ever did in his waking moments had any effect on the past, so even if he spoke his mind one day, it was forgotten on the next.

Sam was in fact a great upstanding human being. Everyone kept telling him that. Everywhere he went he couldn’t escape the countless praises on his past accomplishments. Which was all well and good, but the truth of the matter is, is that in Sam’s mind all those past accomplishments could well have been some other person’s deeds. With no memory or recollection of the past, Sam had trouble finding a way to justify his supposed actions. He didn’t understand the motivations behind the apparent selflessness and devotion to family and friends. Granted, he loved the rewards, admiration, and respect he gained, but he was hard pressed to think that he’d be as selfless as everyone told him he was. And besides, he had a little secret.

It’s a funny thing when you can act out without any sort of consequences at all. It started out small; he’d say something less than flattering to Constance, put her into a mood, and not have to worry about it at all the next day. He could eat at the finest restaurants without paying, and never be any worse the wear. It wasn’t even about the money, it became the experience. He could curse and make babies cry, make his own family shun him, and then on the next day, everything would be fine. This was Sam’s secret – that little by little he began to enjoy acting out against society’s norms, just because he could. And bit by bit a part of his soul began to die as it became less and less about bending rules, and more and more about seeing the joy of cruelty.

It was starting to affect him. He missed the day Jason’s son was born. He hardly ever talked to his sons or wife anymore. People were starting to notice a change in him as well – of course it never really mattered since going to sleep seemed to reset everything for the prior day, but people looked at Sam with disappointment and disgust. “I guess you can’t always believe everything you hear,” they’d mutter.

2010 – 2050
The years became a blur. Sam discovered all of the mind and state altering substances that can make you feel incredibly good at the cost of great physical harm to the body. That is, great physical harm if you travel through time normally. To fund his daily fixes Sam discovered how truly easy crime is. Cash is really easy to find if you’re willing to forgo the consequences. The sins of the flesh soon consumed Sam as well; any type of pleasure can be found if you’re willing to pay the price. Constance would leave him almost daily, but each morning she’d be there again, blue eyes shining with pure love. Retirement came and went, but Sam never went into work. He was fired more times than he could remember. Sons came home from college, went to high school, played sports, learned to drive, learned to tie their shoes, were born. And Sam never really took part in any of it. All that mattered was that he get his daily fix and figured a new way to paint the world dark with cruelty.

His wedding day was a disaster. Constance left him at the altar after he decided to adlib a few lines. He never proposed on the day he was supposed to; he sold the ring for drug money. He dropped out of college, he failed his job interviews. His parents disowned him. Many times. With the life that Sam had lived, there was no way his funereal would have an ounce of the happiness or respect like the one that had opened his life; no one would come at all.

September 17th, 2010
Today was the day he was supposed to meet Constance for the first time. He’d heard a thousand times of how they’d first met:

It was a cold and wet September night. There was an opening of a new art gallery downtown, and the featured artist was a product of one of Sam’s philanthropic projects – bringing art to the inner city youth. The gallery was crowded, and Sam of course arrived fashionably late. He entered and began his mingling with the assorted artists from the program and other benefactors, but before he had broken into his first social circle, his eye was caught by the most beautiful display of artistry he had ever seen.

It wasn’t oil on canvas; it was flesh on bone. She held a plate of hours'dourves and her uniform was well pressed. Sam hated eating at these things, but he went over anyways. He smiled at her, took some toasted meat pastry, and made his way over to his student’s piece. He pretended to study the art, but it was eclipsed by the light behind him that he knew was the only sun he wanted to stare at, even if it meant being blind forever.

“It makes me feel alive.” Constance said as she nodded at the piece. And the way she said alive let Sam know that she understood it. He turned to her and looked her straight in the eyes. “I know the feeling. Pure beauty.” Their eyes never released their embrace.

Everyone had left long ago, but still Sam and Constance stood talking. Eventually the lights shut off, and Sam walked her home, sharing an umbrella the whole way. He walked her to her door, said good night, held her hand for a second too long, and waited until she disappeared into her home. Sam had the biggest smile on his face from that day forward, and he ran home on feet fueled by love.

It was cold and wet this September night. Sam grudgingly got dressed for the gallery opening. He was already high. He stumbled into the gallery loud and obnoxious, yelling greetings and criticisms to anyone who would listen. He saw Constance in the corner holding her platter, and walked over to talk to her.

“Hey. Gimme some of those.”

“Uh, sure thing sir.” She kept a tight smile as Sam gruffly grabbed some hours'dourves with his bare hands.

“So how about you and me cut to the chase and get out of here?” Sam could care less about tact; he knew his past already.

“Sir, I have a job to do.” She moved away from him and tried to make her way to another group, but Sam reached out his hand and grabbed her shoulder.

“Look Constance, I know the way this works, you’re coming home with me.” There was force in Sam’s voice now, and violence.

“Excuse me, is there a problem here?” A well dressed gentleman, Robbie, came between Sam and Constance, and Sam recognized him as another of the philanthropists who supported the program. Sam wheeled away angrily and stormed off into a corner cursing under his breath, leaving Constance’s savior to try to console her as best he could.

“I am so sorry about that miss; I don’t know what gets into Sam sometimes. He’s quite different today for some reason; he’s usually a great guy. Usually so full of laughs, usually so alive. That’s what matters in this world, being alive.” Constance could tell by the way Robbie said alive that he understood. Their eyes never released their embrace, and Sam saw the two of them walk out together at the end of the night, arm in arm.

September 18th, 2010
Sam woke up the next morning with pain in every part of his body. His head felt ten sizes too big, and his stomach was rapidly freeing itself of anything it could find inside. His body shook, his eyes wouldn’t focus. This is very strange. There was a message on his phone. Something about causing a scene at last night’s gallery opening. He looked at the calendar sitting over his desk. The 18th. Something is seriously wrong here. Its actually tomorrow. In a panic Sam leapt from his bed, tried to stop the world from spinning, fell, and crawled to the bathroom door. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening…

September - December, 2010
People don’t really change overnight. You’re lucky if you can change at all. Sam was having a particularly rough time of it. Living over fifty years a certain way with no consequences whatsoever really makes you inhuman. The next months saw him pay the price for his lifestyle of selfish cruelty. He lost his friends, lost his job, lost his soul. And all of these were for real this time. He’d call Constance every so often, even though she hadn’t given him her number he still knew it by heart. He’d stop by to visit and see her in Robbie’s embrace, laughing. Everyday grew darker and darker. Everyday Sam died a little more.

2011
It was a random day. Sam lay huddled against the cold on a park bench. He’d finally lost it all. He sobbed into his hands at his losses. His beautiful wife Constance. Gone. His noble children. Gone. His grandkids with love in their laughter and joy in their hearts. Gone. All the lives touched by his hard work in the business world and community. Gone. He looks up at a man dressed all in grey – grey slacks, jacket, shirt, and hat – who is sitting next to him on the bench. It’s Fate.

“You know, the world’s not right right now.” Fate talks like a normal person would. Not exactly what Sam was expecting. “You’ve cut one too many threads out from the tapestry of life.”

“Who cares.” Sam wasn’t too interested in talking, even if it was with a minor deity. “I’ve lost it all. I can’t get back. There’s no way. It’s too late.”

“Let me let you in on a little secret.” Fate looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching. “There is only one single destiny every human has and must follow. It’s true. But that destiny is simply the destination. The road to there is unknown to everyone, even me. But you, son, you’re not even heading in the right direction. You remember the last day of your life? You remember your funeral? You need to get back there lad. I don’t care how you do it, but you need to get back there. And quickly; I know the good you can do, the good you’ve done, Sam. Get back on that road.”

And with that, Fate was gone. Sam looked around to see if anyone else had seen his conversation, but there’s no one around. Did he dream this whole thing? Was this just another hallucination brought on by the drugs he had taken? Who knows…

Sam walked aimlessly through the streets trying to clear his head. He walked and walked, and slowly the setting sun tried to put its close on another day. But something was wrong. He could feel it. He looked behind him and saw two men who looked up to no good. Living as long as he had and in the way that he had, Sam had a nose for guys who looked like they were up to no good.

The two toughs brushed past Sam and approached a couple walking up ahead. Sam ducked behind a parked car as one of the two men proceeded to pull a gun on the couple. The woman screamed, the man raised his hands in calm surrender. The two men were anxious. This was taking too long. They screamed for money and valuables. The man holding the gun swung with malicious force on the gentleman, laying him out cold in the street. Again the woman screamed, and it was here where Sam realized he knew that scream all too well.

He came running out from behind the car. He didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know what he’d do; all he knew was that he needed to save Constance. He leapt at the first man, tackled him to the ground, and rolled off just in time to be deafened by a blast from the pistol. Not the smartest types, these two up to no goods. With one holding a smoking gun and the other lying still after bearing the full force of the blast that was meant for Sam, Sam’s luck instantly doubled. In anger the last of the assailants turned his gun on Robbie lying on the ground, fired two shots, and then began falling from the force of Sam jumping on his back. Somewhere in the distance Fate turned his head and adjusted his hat, and the assailant fell on the curb letting Sam hear the bones of his neck crack below him.

All the while Constance was screaming. She lay on the ground sobbing, and slowly Sam fell to his knees and joined her. They held each other for what seemed like hours, until she spoke.

“I’m just glad to be alive”. Sam could tell by the way she said alive that she understood. Her pure blue eyes are glazed in tears, but their embrace with his eyes never broke from that day forward.

Fate put his hands in his pockets, started to walk, and whistled a tune that was caught by the rising wind.


...And so the wind doth blow across the land,
Taking with it the grains of Time's sand.
Another tale closes its pages
Until opened again by history's sages

Read more!

Ewark Landflyn

Ages come and go, ceaselessly without fail,
History and prophecy the lives of mankind's tales.
And lo another story starts to flow
As across the land the wind doth blow...

The wind brought its winter chill that afternoon, as it had for centuries past, and would for centuries to come. High atop a rocky cliff, a lone figure stood oblivious of the wind and its chill. Ewark Landflyn was indeed quite a spectacle to behold. His broad shoulders, bare despite the cold, were framed with enough muscle for two men, let alone one who had seen less than a score of name days. His entire muscular body spoke of power and speed, with a grace of movement uncommon for one so large. His hands were tough and rugged from his work as a stone mason, but the strength of his hands could not hide the dexterity and gentleness that was there as well. His legs were as two tree trunks, immovable and solid. Indeed, this young man's physique seemed to be sculpted from the Maker himself, though at first glance it was hardly ever noticed, for his face was a twisted mask of ugliness. His mouth was crooked and too large, with misshapen teeth poking through whenever a supposed smile crossed that grotesque face. His nose was entirely too large, and badly proportioned. It hung off center and cast odd shadows upon his countenance. His cheeks were low and plain; his eyes tilted at odd angles, their black light dull. His hair was wiry and stuck out in all directions, with many knots and curls that would never come out. And worse of all, along his face ran a single white scar as long as a hand. Idly, the young man traced the path of the scar from his eye to his opposite cheek as memory unbidden caught him unaware.



"Hey! Let her go!" A young, remarkably ugly boy screamed at the man on horseback. The adolescent atop the midnight steed laughed maliciously. How could this ugly excuse for a human speak to him?

"Do you know who I am, dog?" He sneered cruelly as he tightened his grip on the girl struggling behind him on the horse. "I am of the house of Tend, and you, ugly dog, are not fit to lick my horse's hooves. The Wanderers will pay a pretty purse of gold for this girl. She is young yet..."

With surprising quickness for a boy so young, the ugly child leaped at the girl's assailant, causing him to lose his grip on her. The girl fell awkwardly from the horse, ran a few paces and fell, and lay still.

"You foolish dog!" The figure on horseback roared. "How dare you defy me! Now taste the wrath of the house of Tend." With that, the figure drew his sword and slashed viciously at the young boy. The boy leaped back as quickly as he could but caught the tip of the sword full across his ugly face. By now, the help someone had called for was starting to arrive, and the young man on horseback knew his advantage was lost.

"We will meet again, dog," he said through clenched teeth as he pointed the sword into the boy's bleeding face. "We will meet again, and I will destroy you."

As the sound of horse hooves faded away, the boy stumbled over to where the girl lay. He turned her over and gently brushed the hair back from her face. Her closed eyes opened, and when she saw the face looking down upon her, she screamed and ran, leaving only a shocked ugly boy crouching in the road...

The memory of the girl's scream still brought pain even this many years later. Ewark shivered, though it was from the cold, he told himself. As he stood on the cliff, he looked down at the town of Alverian below him; the home he had come to know after his parents had died. The Holy Man of the town, Jon Abrams, had taken Ewark into his house here in Alverian, and cared for him as his own. Jon was a good man, spreading the teachings of the Maker to anyone who wanted to listen, and often times to those who really didn't. Jon was one of the few people who did not mind the oddity that was Ewark's face; to him, the Maker gave whatever He wanted, and that was the way it was.

A grin passed across Ewark's distorted face. Tonight was Winter's Eve, when the Queen's beautiful daughter Jennette left the castle in the city proper and danced with the rest of the people in Alverian, where she had grown up. She was born a common girl, but when her mother married King Souran, her life changed dramatically. The king so loved his wife's daughter he decreed her name day to be a holiday, and so the first Winter's Eve was born. Now tradition held that during wedding ceremonies everyone in attendance save the bride would wear a mask, which made sure the beauty of the bride was unmatched. These same masks were worn during Winter's Eve celebrations as well, in the hopes that young men and women would find love before the night was through. Each year at midnight, everyone would take off their masks and find out who the people they had danced with, sang to, and told stories with actually were. On many occasion sworn enemies ended up learning they had spent an entire evening of happiness with each other, and it was not uncommon to see them marry before the end of the year.

Ewark loved to dance, and was quite good at it too, but he could never take part in the weekly celebrations of Week's End. The taunts and jeers the other children hurled at him when he had tried to celebrate with them on his first Week's End still echoed in his mind. But tonight was different. Tonight, he would wear a mask to cover his ugly face, and none would know who he was. He was a bit of a legend at Winter's Eve celebrations, though none knew it was the ugly man. Each year he dazzled the crowds with his dance and song, winning the competitions almost every year. His fame mattered little to him, however, as all he cared about was the princess Jennette. She was masked, like everyone else, but Ewark knew her. Each year he knew just by the way she walked the young woman in the green, or young woman in the blue, was the true love of his life. Whenever he danced, he danced for her, and whenever he sang he sang to her. Of course, she probably had no idea who he was. He was just another masked young man dancing with her. And he never had a chance to talk with her after midnight, when everybody removed their masks, for fear he would face a scream of horror, or even worse a smile of pity. Each year he had left the celebrations at midnight, and watched everyone from the shadows of the edge of the town circle. He watched lovers depart hand in hand, or steal kisses in the moonlight. He watched the shock of people learning other's identities, and then fall laughing into each other's arms. But most of all he watched Jennette. He watched her talk with other young men, for she always attracted a crowd of men who seemed a bit too handsome, looking too fine in their clothes. Ewark would always despise these men, who looked too good to be seen doing much of anything. He knew their sort; they spent their time looking down their perfect noses at common folk, and doing nothing that could hurt their spindly arms. Unconsciously Ewark rubbed his own crooked nose and laughed. They would never last a second if they had to survive for themselves. But still, his Love liked their company, and he wished he could be among them.

"This year will be different," Ewark resolved to himself, "This year, I will talk with Jennette at midnight, and I don't care about those other dainty men who may try to take her from me." But he had resolved this every year, and every year he spent midnight watching her from the shadows. Perhaps this year would be different, however, for this would be Ewark's last Winter's Eve in Alverian in a long time. Tomorrow he left to join the Guardians of Honor, an elite group of soldiers who served King Souran and the kingdom. Tonight would be his last chance.

With a start, Ewark realized he must be getting home soon if he wished to take part in the celebrations. He grabbed his shirt from where it hung on a rock and put it on as he ran down towards town. He arrived at the house Jon Abrams shared with him, and almost knocked the Holy Man over in his rush to get inside.
"Careful, young Ewark!" the grey haired man said as he did his best to avoid falling, "I may be the Maker's servant, but I am not immortal! What has you in such a hurry today? Ah yes, it’s the Winter's Eve celebration, isn't it? I remember back when I was young, well, of course, we didn't have Winter's Eve then, but we did have dances every week on Week's End, just like now. Well, there was this pretty young thing named..."

"Yes, yes," Ewark quickly interceded. The Holy Man tended to share his past experiences at great length quite often. It made for good teachings during services, but ordinary conversations could run long. "Well, it is my last Winter's Eve, before I go. I should get ready."

"Ah yes, tomorrow you join the Guardians of Honor. It’s amazing one so young as you was accepted. But then again, I have never seen anyone work at the sword with such fervor. I once thought you would succeed me as Holy Man, but I can see you have other plans."

"If ever I give up the sword, Master Abrams, I promise you I will be a Holy Man." In effect, Ewark was saying he never would be a Holy Man, and Jon knew it. Ewark truly did work with the sword like no other. It had become his life's goal to serve the king as a Guardian of Honor, and he could hardly believe that tomorrow he would actually be able to wear the blue and white uniform of the Guardians. He had already passed the brutal tests of strength and cunning, though none thought one such as he could do it. He glanced at the sword hanging on the wall behind him.

"Why do you persist with that weapon, Ewark?" Jon asked suddenly. "It is just cold steel, you know. Nothing more. People are what matter in life. The Maker made people to live life with emotion, desire, and purpose. A piece of steel cannot do any of that."

"Yes, but does a piece of steel laugh at you, point fingers, or scream in terror?" Jon was taken aback by Ewark's sudden outburst. The Holy Man answered softly, "No, it doesn't."

"That's right," Ewark said more quietly, under control once more. "The sword is constant. It will not fail you. It will not betray you. It cares nothing for you, and so can never disappoint you. It is the ultimate friend."

"But can a piece of steel keep you warm at night, Ewark?"

"No," Ewark said softly. "I suppose not. Well. Enough of this. I have to get ready for the celebration."

The sun was just beginning to fall as the masked men and women gathered in the town circle. With a sudden shout, the group of musicians who had traveled from the castle started a happy tune on drum, flute, harp, and strings. The masked group let out a cheer and started dancing. Men and women danced with each other, twirling and leaping in time to the music. There were fast songs, and there were slow songs, but throughout them all, the masked people laughed and cheered with as much enthusiasm as when the celebrations first started. Ewark, who looked just like everyone else for a change, laughed and cheered louder than the rest. His dance steps were faster, his leaps higher, his spins more dazzling than any around him. He danced with many women, and each was taken aback by his skills. He danced with anyone who wished to, but all the while he kept his eyes open for the princess Jennette. He searched the mass of crowded dancers as best he could, but it was hard to concentrate on dancing and looking at the same time. He changed partners more times than he could count, and just when he thought he might not see Jennette until most of the evening had passed, there she was.

There was no mistaking the golden hair, like a waterfall from heaven pouring out its riches that hung behind the mask. Those green eyes stared deep at any who looked at her, and her body was as close to perfection as the Maker allowed. Her eyes smiled at him behind her mask, and he took her hands in his and danced like had never danced before. They worked intricate steps across the town circle, moving faster and faster in time to the music. Soon, a circle formed around them, as everyone watched in awe as two bodies became one twirling whirlwind. The crowd stamped their feet and clapped their hands in time to the music, all the while giving shouts and cheers. The couple moved and spun faster and faster, their steps growing more and more intricate until their feet were a blur. Jennette threw her head back and laughed, the most beautiful sound ever heard; a sound that made the playing music seem like a raucous noise. Ewark's black eyes flashed with joy, and for a moment he forgot who he was. It seemed to him that they were the only two people in the entire world, and the cheering crowd of masked spectators was a distant whisper in the back of his head. The musicians finished the song with a flourish, and Jennette embraced her dance partner, still breathing hard and laughing with excitement. "Find me at midnight," she whispered to Ewark, squeezed his hands, and then slipped into the crowd. Ewark stood smiling under his mask and felt as though he could leap mountains. He had never been so alive before, and it was a feeling he wished to hold on to for as long as he could.

Jolted from his inner thoughts, Ewark found himself being presented with a crown of the purest white lilies by the town mayor himself, a short, stout man who was one of the few people unmasked. "Congratulations, lad," he said with pride, "That was a fine piece of dancing. Though the night is young, I doubt we will find a better dancer than that exhibition tonight. You remind me a bit of myself when I was young." Laughter rose from the crowd; it was hard to imagine the mayor and all his girth dancing at all, let alone with the skills Ewark had just displayed. The mayor laughed as well, but continued in his booming voice, "I present to you this year's Winter's Eve Champion of Dance!"

Ewark bowed gracefully, and in the midst of the cheers of the crowd, he looked for Jennette. Upon finding her, he removed the crown of flowers from his head and placed it on her golden hair with the gentleness of a newborn lamb. He took her hand, and together they bowed to the crowd. The mass of men and women cheered harder than ever, then came together for another dance as the musicians started again.

There was much dancing that night, and Ewark found himself being the choice of countless women who wished to dance. He never declined any request, though he never did dance as hard as he had with Jennette. As the evening wore on, the sun fell below the distant mountains, and the circle's torches were lit. With the shadows growing longer and longer, shouts from the crowd called for the competition of song. While there was dancing every week on Week's End, the competitions of song came only during Winter's Eve, and some of the townspeople prepared months ahead. The music finally stopped, and the tired yet happy crowd found places to stand and watch the competition of song with expectant eyes and ears. Men and women both sang songs of all types, ranging from humorous ditties that left the crowd roaring with laughter, to heroic tales of heroes long past, to sweet soulful songs of love.

Though everyone wore masks, it was easy to learn of people's identities by the songs they sung. The song about letting loose the pigs in the king's garden had to be Alven Cortan, the town mischief-maker who always had a guilty grin on his face. The ballad about the final march of Lord Cholmish's army so long ago had to be Elayne Gorli, the town historian. And the song telling the story of the creation of the world could be none other than the Holy Man Jon Abrams himself. But the crowd was left wondering when a young man with wide shoulders started a song about his true love:

As I search for her, I walk on stones
As she lives her life, she walks in the air
I search the skies to find my love
In the hopes that together we will live there

But she walks with angels...
But she walks with angels...
But she walks with angels...

I draw out my heart on paper with pen
With verse and rhyme I try to say how I love her
But my words fall short of what I intend
Besides, she could never love the heart of a soldier

For she talks with angels...
For she talks with angels...
For she talks with angels...

I live my life afraid of the light
The light that shows who we really are
For she is so much above me in every detail
That I could never be with her, not by far

She walks with angels...
She talks with angels...
She is my angel...
But I am not hers...

As Ewark's melodious voice let the final note drift away into the night, the crowd was completely quiet. Here and there a tear fell among both the women and men, but most merely stood trying to catch the fading beauty of the song. Ewark looked out at the masked multitude in front of him, and caught the eye of his beloved Jennette. Even from a distance, he could see her green eyes flash in the torchlight, looking at him with wonder and amazement. He looked down quickly, and shuffled awkwardly away from the many inquisitive eyes trained on him. As if his movement released the crowd from its shocked state of awe, they burst into a roar of applause, and the night was filled with cheers. Ewark bowed graciously, and was almost knocked over by the girth of the mayor as he ran to Ewark carrying a crown of roses.

"Amazing! Absolutely amazing!" The mayor bellowed, "Who is this man to win both the competition of dance and be Champion of Song as well! Amazing! Well done, my boy. I'm sure the ladies are always at your door, eh? Reminds me of myself." Again the crowd roared with laughter. Ewark only smiled grimly under his mask. If only they knew the real truth. He accepted the crown of roses, and joined the crowd as the musicians prepared to play the last dance of the night. It was a slow, melancholy tune, yet beautiful; the mood set no doubt by Ewark's own song. He looked for the only woman he really wanted to dance with, but could not find her. A sudden sinking feeling took his heart as he searched the masked faces of the crowd, but relief flooded over him immediately as a touch landed on his shoulder. He turned to see his angel standing there, her eyes afire and lighting up her mask. She fell into his arms as they swayed this last dance, his last dance for a very long time. He resolved to find a way to take leave of the Guardians of Honor and make it back to Alverian for Winter's Eve as many times as he could. He tried to hold onto this moment as long as possible. He could feel everything about her. The subtle smell of her perfume, the softness of her hair on his neck, and the grace of her movement with his all filled his senses. But the eternity that seemed only to last for a second ended with a final crescendo of notes at last, and the dance was over. Still Ewark held Jennette for some moments after the song had ended, both young people lost in the moment.

With that beautiful fairy's laugh, Jennette flung off her mask as somewhere a bell tolled midnight. The beauty that Ewark knew was under the mask was exposed now, and any man looking on that face would feel weakness in the knees. Her golden hair held back by the crown of lilies framed her face in a perfect manner. Her brilliant green eyes sparkled with joy; her mouth was a wide smile. Ewark was taken aback as he always was when he saw her. And though he had resolved not four hours earlier he would remove his own mask and join her at midnight, all courage fled him as he stared upon that face. With a hastily mumbled excuse, Ewark said his good-byes and almost fled out of the town circle. He could almost feel Jennette's eyes on him as he weaved his way through groups of people. He could not risk upsetting this night. He wanted fond memories of his last Winter's Eve, and he could not risk a ruinous end. So, like many years before, he watched from the circle's edge, among the shadows, as a group of men surrounded his Love. She was so beautiful when she talked, the way her hair fell about her face, the way her eyes sparkled in the moonlight. Ewark watched for a moment, then flung his mask into the darkness. He turned and walked off into the night, idly running a hand across the scar on his face. He needed rest. Tomorrow would be a big day.

-----------

King Souran had ruled the land of Dralnaria for many years, and with his Guardians of Honor, the kingdom's most elite soldiers, Souran kept Dralnaria peaceful and prosperous. Soon after a young recruit named Ewark Landflyn joined the Guardians, however, the nearby border land of Normen declared war on Dralnaria, causing a bloody conflict that lasted nearly five years. During those years, later called the War of Tears, many lives were lost on both sides. The Guardians, however, soon became legends. Their heroism, courage, and chivalry were a startling contrast to the dishonorable tactics of the Normen forces. The Guardians, one of the only forces where women fought side by side with men, were an extremely close group of fighters, and their sense of unity was unmatched. Guardians would give their lives for each other, and soon Normen forces fled in terror when faced with garrisons of Guardian forces. Countless stories of heroic proportion were played out on the battlefields of the War of Tears, but most of those stories were never recorded, and so lost. What is known in history, however, is that a small group of Guardians led an attack on the heart of the Normen stronghold in the capital. The small group was victorious in defeating the leader of the Normen –
Matuan Tend – and so an end was finally reached to this bloody war. With the war over, many Guardians found themselves serving near their hometowns, helping to rebuild cities and towns that were razed during the war. The small group of soldiers that lead the attack on the Normen capital were praised for their valor, and were commissioned to serve the king himself in his palace.

Ewark liked working in the palace, and he was glad the war was over. He had buried too many of his friends and not enough of his enemies during the past five years, and it was good to be back in his home country. He had finally found what he had been looking for among the Guardians of Honor: a sense of belonging. None of his brothers or sisters in battle cared what he looked like. It was only skill with the sword and knowledge of battle plans that mattered. During the war he had almost forgotten what a monstrosity he really was, and if there was one bad thing to returning home it was the stares and jeers people threw at him in the streets. Of course they only did so when they thought Ewark wasn't looking, but he knew.

Even with the war over there were still rebel forces of Normen troops who refused to believe they had lost, so the Guardians had stayed in major cities to offer protection. Ewark still remembered his joy at his unit being assigned to the palace; perhaps he would have a chance to see his beloved Jennette. Surely the blue and white uniform of the Guardians would impress her. But on the few occasions when Ewark had a chance to catch a glimpse of the princess, she looked at him no more than she would look at a stone pillar. Of course, Ewark had never tried to talk to her. His courage on the battlefield was incredible, but when faced with the woman he loved, he was as a bird in front of a lion.

One autumn morning, Ewark and his unit were called to the king's chamber with news of a secret mission. The princess needed to travel to the city of Lyceria, where all future rulers studied for half a year to learn proper court procedures and how to act as royalty should. This journey was grounded in tradition, and though young princes and princesses hardly learned anything new anymore, it was still customary to study the six months at Lyceria. It was a chance for the future rulers of all the lands to learn about each other and see who their royal peers would be. Lyceria was located in neutral territory; of all kingdoms and yet of none. To travel to Lyceria from Dralnaria, however, risked ambush from Normen rebels and brigands. It was for this reason Ewark's unit was called to the king's chamber. They were ordered to secretly escort the princess to Lyceria, drawing no more attention to themselves than normal travelers. The king ordered the entire unit, save one, to scout the area in front of the princess and her one protector. In doing so, less attention would be focused on the princess while still providing a valuable scouting party ahead.

"And you, Ewark Landflyn, are assigned to protect the princess Jennette personally. I have heard stories of your skill with the sword, and I can think of none better than you to guard her honor." Ewark's heart leaped at the king's order, but he calmed his face and merely raised his fist to his shoulder in salute. He turned on his heel with the rest of his unit and walked out of the chamber. They made their preparations quickly, as they meant to depart at once. Every soldier changed out of his or her uniform and donned simple clothing, but still wore their swords under their cloaks. The horses the unit mounted were seemingly ordinary, yet showed remarkable strength in leg and chest. Each soldier carried enough food and water with them for their weeklong journey, and the horses frisked in their eagerness to be on their way.

As the unit bid their farewell to Ewark, they rode of at a quick pace in order to get far enough ahead to scout. Ewark reigned his own horse to the other side of the palace where he had been told to await the princess Jennette. His heart raced in anticipation of seeing her again, and his palms quickly turned slick. He waited outside of the royal stable, pacing his horse back and forth in impatience. Odd, he had never been impatient for anything before. Still he turned back and forth, and the thought crossed his mind that he was at the wrong place. He was just about to leave at a full gallop when he saw Jennette leading her white stallion out of the stable.

She looked more beautiful than he had remembered, if possible. Her beauty had matured in the five years since they had last danced, though her green eyes still held the same spark and her mouth still held the same smile. Ewark flashed her his crooked grin, and his dark black eyes seemed to have a spark of their own.

"If you are ready, my lady," Ewark said quickly, "We will be on our way."

"Yes, of course." She answered briskly and a bit coldly while gracefully mounting her horse. "Lead the way, good sir."

The two traveled for the majority of the day without speaking. Ewark would steal glances at Jennette, but he knew she looked only ahead at the road. It was really a silly idea, that she would fall madly in love with him just because they spent a week traveling together. Quite silly indeed. He was still a hideous monster from the neck up, and just because he had a different job changed nothing. The few times Ewark tried to start talking by asking questions, the princess would smile politely and answer, but not offer any real conversation. And so they continued in silence until the time came to make camp for the night. Ewark cooked some of the provisions he had brought, and the two ate in silence. Ewark's sullen mood of defeat seemed to be affecting the princess, for she decided to retire early in preparation for the next day. Ewark scouted out the area, and finding nothing of note, retired himself. This trip was turning out to be the worst possible he could imagine.

The next day was more of the same. They traveled at a quick pace, without talking. Again when evening came, they stopped and made camp. Again they ate in silence, but tonight Ewark pulled out a small silver flute he carried and started playing after dinner. He was still disappointed in the way his Love was ignoring him, so he played a mournful tune. He lost himself in his music, as he often did, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Jennette staring wide eyed at him.

"That was the most beautiful thing I have heard in a long time," she breathed, "I have always wanted to learn how to play an instrument. Do you think you could teach me?"

"Of course, my lady," Ewark said quickly, his heart racing, "It would be an honor. Here." He handed her the silver flute, and pulled out a second, wooden one from his pocket. "Now, if my lady would place her fingers just so..."

"Please, good sir," she interrupted, "Call me Jennette. I am no more human than you."

"Of course, Jennette. And please, I am called Ewark. Ewark Landflyn. Now, if you hold the flute like this..."

The two sat in the dying light of the fire, Ewark showing Jennette how to make the flute make sounds pleasing to the ear. They both laughed over her first few attempts, but her skill increased dramatically, and by the time there was no light left to see by, Jennette was able to play the scales, if a bit shakily. Ewark congratulated her on her success, though she blushed and said it was the teacher. She looked so beautiful when she blushed. As Ewark lay down to sleep, he found his heart still racing. He tossed and turned, but could only think of Jennette. A smile was permanently fixed on his face, and though it may have been a trick of the shadows, with the smile his face did not look half-bad.

The next day it was as if a spell had been broken. As they traveled, they laughed and talked about anything and everything under the sun. Jennette wondered at the chances that they had both come originally come from the same town of Alverian. They caught each other up on news of the town: of the new mayor; the death of Holy Man Jon Abrams, the Maker rest his soul; and the building of a new library. The hours flew by, and the road was filled with the sounds of laughter as both soldier and princess rode happily. That night, Jennette and Ewark again practiced the flute after dinner, and Jennette's skill again increased dramatically.
Together they played a duet of the same mournful tune Ewark had played the night before, but with the two instruments twining together the mournful melody seemed to carry a hopeful undertone. When they had finished, Jennette handed the silver flute back to Ewark and said, "Thank you so much, Ewark. You have no idea what this means to me."

"Keep it," Ewark said as he closed her hands around the flute, "It suits you. Keep it and remember me."

"Thank you." She dazzled him a smile, and slipped the flute into a pocket. She reached up suddenly and traced the scar running across his face. "How did you get this?"

"It is an old wound," he said quickly, pulling away. "It matters little how I got it. Its origin doesn't change the fact that it is there." His face softened as quickly as it had turned hard. "I'm sorry though. It stirs up bad memories, is all."

"I understand." She seemed genuinely concerned and sympathetic. "Scars are no small thing. They hold an Age of memories."

"Indeed. Well, you should get some rest. We have another full day of travel tomorrow."

And so the pair traveled, talking and laughing as they rode during the day, stopping at night to play the flute and rest. Four days had passed since they had left the castle, and all went well, until one fateful evening.

The day had passed like any other, taking them through a large forest. But when the time came to stop for the evening, Ewark felt as though something was wrong. He could not explain it, but something was just out of place. He had always had Feelings like this, ever since he was young. He could look at people, and know certain things about their future. He could Feel when an accident would take place. He knew when someone's loved one had died. These Feelings were few and far between, but they had served him well during the War of Tears. And there was no mistaking the Feeling now. As Ewark and Jennette came into a clearing, they caught sight of many large shapes on the ground. Ewark dismounted, and to his shock found the bodies of twenty men and women half buried in the leaves. With a sinking feeling he realized it was his brothers and sisters of the Guardian unit sent ahead to scout. As tears sprang unbidden to his eyes for his fallen comrades, he drew his sword and leaped about, searching for their attacker. The bodies were still warm, and the culprit could not be far away. Among the bodies of his friends lay large twisted bodies of monsters, seemingly half man and half bear. There were over forty such bodies lying about. Ewark had heard of the Normen using such monsters in battle, but he had never seen them. Apparently the monsters only traveled in the woods, and most of Ewark's battle experience was in the Normen land itself, mostly desert.

Suddenly, a living version of the corpses stormed through the trees, heading straight for Ewark. It stood twice as tall as a man, its mouth a cavern of sharp teeth, its claws as large as any man's face. It roared at Ewark, and rushed at him with amazing speed, and Ewark barely managed to roll out of the way of its attack. He sprang quickly to his feet, spun, and slashed the monster in half. The two pieces fell to the ground, and the monster never moved again.

The woods stood oddly quiet, and Ewark wiped his blade clean on the grass. He looked down at his fallen brothers and sisters, and fell to his knees. They had understood him. They never once pointed or stared at his face. They trusted him. And now they were gone. On his knees, he raised his face towards the heavens and sang. He sang like he had never sung before. He did not sing words, but the mournful wails he sang seemed to speak more than words ever could. He sang of their many battles, and the courage all had shown. He sang of their victories, and their defeats. He sang of their spirits running free now forever among the clouds. He sang until he could sing no more, and when the final note echoed through the woods, he dropped his head to his chest and wept. He had never wept before, since becoming a man. And now he sat here blubbering like a baby.

He felt a hand on his shoulder but did not move. Jennette knelt down beside him and took his head in her hands. He wept into her shoulder for what seemed like hours, but when tears no longer came he looked up at her. She was so beautiful. Her green eyes flashed compassion, and her face was soft and sympathetic.

"Why didn't you ever come talk to me at midnight?" She asked suddenly.

"What? I don't know what you mean... What are you talking about?"

"Only one man I know ever sang like that. Why didn't you ever come talk to me during Winter's Eve?"

Before Ewark could respond, the thundering of hooves filled the air as a masked man on a midnight horse entered the clearing at a full gallop. He looked at Ewark and Jennette with surprise, but his eyes turned quickly to flames of hatred from behind the mask.

"How can it be that any of you survived? So be it, dog, I will finish you myself." With those words the man leaped off of his horse and drew his sword, advancing on Ewark. Jennette backed away from the two men as they began to circle each other, swords gleaming in the dwindling twilight. "I promised you once long ago I would destroy you. No one defies me and lives to get away with it. Prepare to die, dog!"

The masked man leaped at Ewark, and Ewark barely raised his sword in time to block the blow. The two men whirled and leaped, striking at each other viciously. Jennette could only stand and watch, fearing for Ewark's life. Ewark seemed to be the better swordsman, though not by much. The two men exchanged blows and soon the grass under their feet was trampled dead. They fought for what seemed like days, though it could not have been more than half an hour.

As if sensing his losing position, the masked man suddenly gave a yell of rage and feinted at Ewark, then rushed towards the princess Jennette. Ewark let out a wordless roar and dove in front of her, catching the hilt of the masked man's sword across his head. As consciousness started to fade out, he had the dim recollection of the man knocking the princess Jennette unconscious as well with the flat of his blade. As the masked man raised his sword for a deathblow on the woman, Ewark mustered the last of his strength and stumbled towards the man, plunging his sword through his shoulder. The man let out a cry of agony as darkness closed in on Ewark's world.

When Ewark awoke, his head felt it had been stuffed in cotton. Blood flowed down his face, but he climbed to his feet. The princess Jennette lay not far from him, but the masked man was nowhere to be seen. Ewark thought he had recognized that man, even with the mask, and absently felt his scar. He stumbled over to where Jennette was laying. Blood matted her golden hair, and by the now dwindling twilight he could see she was not breathing. He kneeled by her side, and as he had seen the Holy Man Abrams do before for a young girl who seemed at death's door, he put his mouth over hers and blew into her lungs. Again and again he breathed his own breath, his own life into his Love's chest, but nothing happened. He beat her chest to start her heart, and breathed more into her lungs. Tears again fell from his eyes unbidden, and somewhere in his mind the thought of crying twice in one day made him laugh. Still he tried harder, and just when hope seemed to be gone, she coughed, blood leaking from her mouth. She coughed again and slowly began breathing. Just as her coughing had started, a voice called out from the edge of the woods.

"You black hearted rogue! Unhand the princess! How dare you defile her in that way! You ugly perversion of a man, step away from her!"

Ewark looked up in time to see a soldier of the king's guards, not a Guardian of Honor, he noticed, racing towards him. Suddenly, Ewark realized what it must look he was doing. He half rose and started to speak but the guard swung his fist, sending Ewark once again into the blackness of unconsciousness.

-----------------

Crimes were not tolerated in the kingdom of Dralnaria. Any violent deed was punishable by death, and the severity of the crime only dictated how long it would be before the execution. Ewark was accused of telling the Normen rebels the path of their mission, leading the ambush, and attacking the princess herself. There was not enough evidence for the first two accusations, as there were no longer any living eyewitnesses. As for the last accusation, the guardsman's testimony was all that mattered. The protests of the princess held no bearing in the courts, as they said she "was unable to remember with clarity" as a result of her head wounds. When all was said and done, Ewark Landflyn was “granted” a life extension of a year and a day before execution, for saving the life of the princess of Dralnaria.

Ewark was not allowed to speak to the princess again, and removed from his position as a Guardian of Honor as well. True to his promise to Jon Abrams so many years before, Ewark became a Holy Man in the capital city of Caemeria, where he preached with such fervor people said it seemed the Maker himself spoke in place of Ewark. With all of the things deemed important in his life gone: the sword, the Guardians, and Jennette, Ewark immersed himself fully in his work as Holy Man. Many people turned their evil lives around as a result of Ewark's hard work and persistent teachings, and soon Ewark's name was known far across the land as a Holy Man who truly cared for his people. It seemed people had little trouble telling their problems to the ugly man, he seemed to be everyone's friend.

The sands of time slowly ran out on Ewark, and though his success, his sentence was neither lifted nor delayed. During the final year and a day of Ewark's life, Dralnaria saw the death of King Souran and his wife in a tragic equestrian accident. Foul play was suspected, though there was never any proof. The kingdom of Normen was becoming an increasingly dangerous neighbor, for after the death of King Souran it seemed the War of Tears was ready to flare up again. Young Queen Jennette ruled Dralnaria well enough, though she knew little of the behind the scenes operations a kingdom must employ in order to be successful. Rumor had it she had fallen in love with a Normen noble, and though his history was in question, she was completely besotted. In fact, it was whispered in the streets they were scheduled to be married soon, which would surely bring peace to the two nations. Though Jennette was marrying for love, it was obvious the Normen lord was marrying only for power.

Rumor finally gave way to fact, and the date for the marriage of the two kingdoms was set. As fate would have it, Holy Man Ewark Landflyn, on the eve of his execution, learned of his final duty as a Holy Man. He would be conducting the marriage between the Love of his life and the Normen lord.

The day of the wedding brought much excitement to mostly everyone. Finally the strife between the lands of Dralnaria and Normen would be over. Ewark stood in front of his podium and stared out at the packed building of nobles and royalty who would be here to witness history. He had conducted various weddings, though none made his heart sick like today. Since becoming a Holy Man, his Feelings of being able to tell the future only increased, and it was almost a daily occurrence when he could tell the fate of a couple walking hand in hand or know the day a random stranger on the street would die. It was at weddings when his Feelings were the strongest, and he could almost always predict what would happen in the life of the new bride and groom.

A hushed silence settled over the crowd as music softly began to play. The Normen lord walked stiffly down the aisle, followed by his retainers. As he approached the podium, anger flared up in Ewark's heart, though he kept it hidden. The man was older than Ewark, and had a look of arrogance cemented on his face. Ewark decided women would find him to be beautiful, an attribute he never understood why any man would desire. But what brought the anger from deep within Ewark's heart was the recognition of this man.

"We meet again, dog," The man said softly so only Ewark could hear, "I told you I'd destroy you. None trifle with the house of Tend and survive."

Ewark stared at the man, but instead of giving in to his emotions, turned to the congregation and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please don your masks according to custom. May the bride be the most beautiful in this room on her wedding day." And softly, so no one heard, "There is no need for masks. She would be the most beautiful in heaven's wedding chapel."

Everyone donned their masks, including Ewark and the Normen lord. When done, music again started to play, and the now queen Jennette strode gracefully down the aisle. She was dressed in the purest white, though the incredible dress could not compare to the picture of beauty that was the woman. Her green eyes sparkled with desire and excitement. Her golden hair was adorned with flowers, and hung about her face. Her lips were parted in that half smile she always wore, and Ewark could not help but stare. She stood in front of the podium and turned to face her soon to be husband. Ewark did not know how he did, but he conducted the ceremony without problem. As he pronounced the two man and wife, he was overcome by a Feeling.

This Feeling was stronger than any he had had before, and would serve to be his final. He could see the couple's entire future before him. Perhaps it was a final gift of the Maker on the eve of his death, or perhaps a curse. He saw Jennette forever loving this man, but he saw her love fall unreturned. He saw the many other women the Normen lord would secret behind Jennette's back. He saw Jennette weep for her husband's death in old age, her love forever true. He saw it all. And as the couple left the building, and the congregation as well, Ewark walked slowly outside.

Tomorrow he would die. He was going to die because he had saved his Love's life. And now she was going to give her love to someone who would never appreciate her, never return her love. Just as they had a year ago, tears sprang unbidden to Ewark's eyes. He looked out at the distant mountains, and slowly began to sing. It was a wordless tune, full of sorrow and loss. He did not sing for the loss of his own life, or even for the loss of his Love. He sang for Jennette's love that would fall unnoticed. It was for her that his tears fell. The sound of his song rode high on the wind, and seemed to remain there for a moment.

"Such a sad tune, my wife," the Normen lord said irritably, "Why such a sad tune on your wedding day? And this flute? It is not fit for a queen to play such things."

"Perhaps..." Jennette answered softly, "I learned that tune a while back, from an interesting man. I wonder whatever became of him?"

"Who knows?" the Normen said irritably, "But that is little concern for now. Throw the flute away, it is not fit for a queen."

"As you wish, my love." Jennette said as she tossed the silver flute over the side of their carriage. It bounced along the road until it lay still. The sound of her tune she had played just moments before still hung in the air, and it too rose on the wind, where it found Ewark's final cry. The two notes twined together one last time, and rode on the wind into the next Age.

...And so the wind doth blow across the land,
Taking with it the grains of Time's sand.
Another tale closes its pages
Until opened again by history's sages

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Aidan Masters

Ages come and go, ceaselessly without fail,

History and prophecy the lives of mankind's tales.

And lo another story starts to flow

As across the land the wind doth blow...

The wind really is the greatest audience in the world. It’s heard a million confessions of love, a million deceitful dealings, a million births, and a million deaths. It’s heard the voice of Shakespeare, of Lord Byron, of Keats, of Chaucer - all in person and in the flesh. And it hears the frustrated curses of a modern day writer, Aidan, who sits over an antique typewriter. For years Aidan struggled as a writer, receiving just enough recognition (never fame) to feed him – both physically and egotistically – and convince him of the most beautiful lie: that maybe being a writer was indeed what he’s called to do. Except, more often than not, he faces nothing but this: the empty desperation of a deadline and the gaping absence of a story filling his cavernous mind. But then, as he mutters under his breath four simple words, his life turns down a path that would change him forever, that would inevitably change all of us forever.

“I’d sell my soul…”

There was no crash of thunder, no sulfurous smokes of Hades, no chasms opening to the underworld. The romance and theatrics of Hollywood were His greatest creation; to convince the mortal inhabitants of Earth that the supernatural only existed with improbable fantasy made His work all the more easy. Anyone can turn away from temptation when it’s full in your face – humans are remarkably heroic when it’s obvious exactly how to be a hero. No, He had perfected his work on Earth long ago, how to make these humans do His bidding. Let them think His whispers are their own brilliant ideas. Let them hang themselves on their own rope. No martyrs here; just mix up some greed, a dash of hope, a healthy dose of paranoia, and garnish with some genuine nobility. And just to prove how everyday His work is, Evil incarnate came for young Aidan Masters with the ring of his cell phone.

“What is it!?!” Aidan snapped as he lifted the phone to his mouth. “This better be fucking important. I’ve got twelve chapters and three plots to write tonight; and unless whoever you are is calling to tell me that I’ve won either won the lottery or my editor has dropped dead, you’re wasting my goddamn time.”

There was a long pause on the other end before a shaky voice could finally speak. “Aidan, it’s about your father.” Even over the phone, Aidan could tell his mother was dancing the razor thin edge of sanity. “He’s in the hospital. He collapsed at work today and… and… he’s got lung cancer. The doctors said it today. He’s got lung cancer, and he’s got a week to live with the treatment that I can afford…”

Aidan didn’t know what to say. He didn’t really remember the words that he spoke, the conversation with his crying mother. It was like a dream; he could see himself cleaning up his typewriter and gathering the loose pages on his desk into a sad semblance of order. He watched with intrigue as he could see himself grab his coat and car keys, and run out the door. He watched himself drive to the hospital in the pouring rain; saw all five of the close calls that would have landed him his own bed and gown. He saw himself dash through the halls of the Emergency Room yelling at nursing staff that he was trying to find his father, can’t you idiots fucking do anything right. He saw himself, his hysterical mother, his unconscious father with more tubes and plastic attached to him than any person should. He saw himself take a vase of flowers and throw it with all his hate and anger across the hall where it shattered into a million little pieces. He saw himself staring at his father for the briefest eternity – all the time needed until the clarity of nothingness filled his eyes and let him coldly hug his mother, walk out of the hospital, drive home, and begin typing with renewed fervor.

Aidan has a secret. What he writes comes true.

In first grade his elementary school was closed for a week. The class bully who would always pick on Aidan was found on the playground choked dead from the chain on a swing set. It was ruled an accident.

In junior high Mel had Aidan’s heart. Aaron had hers. Aaron’s prom limo ran through a guardrail and off a mountain road. Mel didn’t have a scratch on her, and Aidan thought she was so beautiful at the funeral.

In high school her name was Josie, and at the expulsion hearings her mother was furious that her daughter would not only throw away her private school education by engaging in such lewd acts on campus with that Aidan boy, but to deny any sort of memory of the whole event… well, that was not her Josie!

In college we get away with a lot. No one ever knew why Aidan got away with more than most.

But there were rules. For some reason writing about family never had any sort of supernatural effect at all… Aidan could remember the hateful stories he’d write about his parents, wishing they would die after they grounded him from prom… but they always lived. He remembered writing about his sister coming into amazing wealth and finding love, but she died tragically at a young age – poor, destitute, and ever alone. Family blood runs thicker than any ink Aidan could ever put to paper.

And today, Aidan’s paranoia over what he writes tethers him to mildly interesting stories at best. To record the real stories flying through his brain would be disastrous. “But fuck it. Dad is dying; Mom can’t afford his treatment, so I need to make this deadline. You want a story? Fine. But don’t blame me when people start dying and lives are ruined. Whatever it takes to make money to keep Dad alive…” And he began to write…

“She was always running…”

She was always running down this hall. Her scrubs were covered in blood, and yet, no time to change. The ER is the focal point of the infinite inevitability of human mortality, the center of the maelstrom that is human life. People come here to die, whether it’s before, after, or exactly their time to go. Reality never works here – you save who you can, you condemn others to death; and since life and death is your job, it makes normal life completely abnormal. The Nurse could remember when she first started working here; she would leave the hospital knowing that each day was precious, that the fragile balance between life and death meant that each day should be lived to its fullest. But time wore her down, and the ferocity of death lost its bite – leaving nothing but the cold grey of a world that no longer held any sort of extreme at all. Life, death, what did it matter? It’s all just some shade of grey…

“There are always hysterical people at hospitals though,” she couldn’t help thinking to herself. She envied those that still do feel the polar opposites of the emotions of life. “Take this guy here.” She didn’t even make eye contact at the crazed young man screaming at her to tell him where his father was. “Remember when you thought life was that important? Ah well.” She just kept running, turning down hall after hall, handing out life, handing out death, going home and coming to work.

She was always running at home too: she was married, but she didn’t love him anymore. She used to believe once that Love was forever, that if there’s anything in this world that is steadfast and can weather any storm, it is Love. But the years had found the Nurse retreating deeper and deeper into her own heart, as he retreated deeper and deeper into the comfort of the bottle. She walked through the door of her apartment, exhausted from the day’s work, and saw him passed out on the kitchen floor. Wine bottles littered the ground. The place stank of urine, vomit, and death, and the tremors that wracked his body made his already pathetic form seem even less human. She turned and walked out of the apartment without even the slightest bit of emotion. This was normal. She was always running.

Why didn’t she leave him? Who knows. She didn’t need the money. She did need the validation. She didn’t need the affection; there wasn’t any from him, and besides, she could get any man’s attention she wanted. She did need someone to save. And if she ever saved him, well, then there wouldn’t be any reason to be with him. Someday, she always said, he’d change. And if he didn’t, well, she was strong enough on her own. She’d be just fine.

She had heard once in a song that all relationships end in one of two ways; either happy together or happy apart. Whoever wrote that was a fool. The true ending for any relationship, for all of life, is nothing more than the result of a thousand constant compromises and fear. It was compromises that let her drop out of medical school; it was fear that made sure she never went back. Compromises found her never taking that trip around the world; fear made her believe it was the right decision. Compromises kept her in a stagnant relationship; fear made sure she never followed her heart with that young man of promise so long ago. Fear and compromise, compromise and fear.

The saddest thing was she could see how the rest of her life would be. Each day is the same dull shade of grey: work, home, life. It’s enough to drive someone to doing something crazy. Enough to make someone run. And run she did…

Aidan looked up from his typewriter. His hands were cramping and ink smudged his face and hands. But there was a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there in years. He was writing life again… He paused for a moment, stared up at the ceiling, and then began with renewed fervor…

"Even with no siblings, he was never an only child…”

Even with no siblings, he was never an only child. Though most kids have their imaginary friends that they conjure up to keep them company, this Child’s fanciful friend was Death himself. Whether it was an ants’ nest or a stray cat, Death would whisper to him whenever he would go out and play. It was completely normal for him to see a life’s end, and for some reason the ending of lives tended to follow him around. And now at the ripe old age of twelve, misunderstood and mis-medicated, he walked home to see his step-father after school. Not like his parents would miss him anyways. Not like he’d miss the beatings.

The Child stood in the doorway of his step-father’s apartment and inhaled deeply. It was the welcome smell of death; in this case, equal parts urine, vomit, and alcohol. His step-father was passed out on the floor, laid out in a bed of wine bottles and filth. The Child knew his step-father’s wife was a Nurse, dedicated to helping people, but he had never seen her show any care at all. The Child slowly started cleaning up, stepping over the trembling and groaning body of his step-father. He never had any thoughts of self-pity, never thought that this was too much for a twelve year old. This was all he’d ever known, and Death smiled cruelly at him from the corner of the room, never once offering to help clean up.

He slept on the couch, if you could call it sleep. Terror would wake him in any number of forms. First there was the cold that the ratty blanket he lay huddled in couldn’t keep away. This cold was beyond the lack of warmth; it was the chill of despair and decay that sat deep inside his bones. It was the rising panic and mania that there is no cure, no solution, no way out of the life he had found himself in. Wrapping himself tighter seemed to hold the cold in instead of keeping it at bay.

Then there were the fits of coughing and choking coming from his step-father’s form on the floor. The Child could hear his step-father’s insides being torn apart, the body rejecting the very oxygen trying to keep life alive. He could almost taste the blood and bits of flesh that were for sure rising into his step-father’s throat. He tried to ignore the sounds, to tell himself that they would stop soon, but they never did. He used to try to help, to soothe him, to try to get him to drink something. Now, he just covered his head and shut his eyes so tight it hurt. If only Death would leave him alone, let him be an only child.

But the scariest terror that would wake him was the realization that this was all there was to life. When the cold grey dawn of the next morning would come, the Child knew he’d just be laying there with open eyes staring up at the ceiling. Death would be whispering in his ear again to do all sorts of terrible things, and if he was strong enough, he’d ignore them. Day after day after day would be the same. He needed a way out of this, a way to finally be alone…

Aidan didn’t even look up as he reached for a new ream of paper and loaded his typewriter.

“He was truly alone surrounded by a million people…”

He was truly alone surrounded by a million people. The Painter had left his tiny hometown to pursue his big dreams. Everyone was so proud of him. He was moving to the Big City to be a real artist, to be a Painter following his calling. He’d been here for a year now, and was getting by just fine. Friends from back home would call every so often, and someone was usually here visiting or on business or passing through while traveling. He’d met some new friends, gone out on a couple of dates, even met some fellow artists. But you’ve never met a man more alone. Each morning he woke with a dull sense of despair. It took all the effort in the world to get out of bed, even more to get dressed, and even more to open his front door. Most days found him lounging lethargically on his couch at home, watching a blank TV screen. He’d stare intently at his phone and pray for it to ring. If he was feeling particularly courageous, he’d call someone; maybe a friend from back home, maybe a business contact. He almost always would reach a voice mail. “Hey, let’s hang out sometime.” Nothing says alone like hanging up a phone.

Sometimes he’d go sit at a coffee shop. He’d order the biggest cup of coffee they sell, sit alone facing the door, and wait for someone meaningful to come inside. He’d watch smiling people laughing as they walked by outside, and wished that they were him. It wasn’t even uncommon for a pretty girl to smile at him and say hello. But he never felt like he was a part of it all. Instead, he’d feel sick from the coffee, sick from his loneliness, sick from the panic of dying alone. Sometimes when a new gallery was opening, the Painter would get invited. And more often than not, he’d make up an excuse to not go. “Oh, I’m actually busy that night. Me and a bunch of friends are going out.” “I actually have a date that night.” “Wow, I’d really love to go, but I’m super swamped with other stuff… next time for sure.” And he’d sit by himself in his room, completely alone.

He loved going to live shows. Concerts, the theatre, plays, even operas were all a chance to feel a part of something bigger. He’d always, always, buy two tickets. He told himself that by the time the show came around, there’d be someone in his life he could share it with. But he always went alone. He’d invite friends he knew couldn’t make it, just to pretend he’d tried. He’d go alone, be a part of a thousand person crowd, and get overlooked by everyone.

The Painter’s apartment was right next door to a hospital, and he was deathly jealous of the sirens that wailed through the night. Everyone riding in an ambulance was special for those fifteen minutes; you can’t be alone with people trying to save your life. Sometimes he’d sit in the waiting room of the ER and pretend like he was waiting on the news of a loved one’s fate. There was a certain sense of camaraderie that he shared with the others waiting there. He could make their pain his; and for a few seconds, he almost felt un-alone. Coming to the ER became a bit of a routine. And the scary thing was the Painter could see himself doing this for the rest of his life.

There was no crash of thunder, no sulfurous smokes of Hades, no chasms opening to the underworld. There was only a whisper and a suggestion He kept making to Aidan. “You must be doing the right thing. It’s for your father, who cares if this actually comes true. If it sells, you can save your father.” Aidan looked up again with the light of passion in his eyes. “If it sells, I can help Dad. Who cares if it comes true?” He smiled and looked over Aidan’s shoulder as he wrote. He liked them when they were like this, desperate, at wits end, and just starting to feel empowered. His work was really too easy sometimes. Hardly work at all when these humans kept digging their own graves. Aidan picked up his cell phone, dialed the hospital, and waited for the answer. “Yes, hello? Aidan Masters. Go ahead and begin the treatment on my father. I’ll have the money.” Excellent, He said, and slowly left the room.

The Nurse kept running from the grey: the grey of her life, of the lines between life and death, the grey of Her City. Perhaps it’s better to say that she wanted to keep running. But it seemed that for each step she took away from the cold of the Emergency Room, the cold of her husband, and the cold of her numb heart she found it easier to turn around and embrace what she’d always known. She hadn’t seen her son in weeks. She hadn’t slept by her husband’s side in months. She’d gone through the motions of smiling and winking and laughing with the people in her life, but deep inside all she wanted to do was to run away from it all, to cut through the grey.

And then one morning it struck her. This morning she would finally take a stand. She would escape by running no more: she would make a change in her life. She didn’t know what it would be, but today, today was the day. She drove to the Emergency Room with a renewed sense of purpose. Finally she was running, and it wasn’t away from anything at all, it was towards her destiny. She strode in with confidence and determination. Anyone who looked at her could tell that there was something about her today. A young man with paint on his nose looked up from a family he was consoling in the waiting room and eyed her with admiration. “I’ll bet she’s never alone”.

Aidan paused at his typewriter. What should the Nurse do…? She could quit her job, quit her life, and travel the world. She could save a thousand lives today. Anything to escape the numbness of her grey world. Or she could… Yes, this will do…

For so long she had been running from the cold grey futility of trying to change people’s exit from this life. Save a life here, give final comfort there – this was the life of her as a Nurse. But if there was a place where she could take control for once in her life, here, with life and death hanging in the balance, here is where there would be the most meaning. Here is the stuff reserved for the gods.

She grabbed the first chart that caught her eye, and headed into the patient’s room. “This’ll do…” she whispered to herself. “Room 408, your destiny is about to change…”

She rushed out of the room so that no one would see that she had been with the patient in his final hour, been the cause of the monotone death wail that came from the machine that so carefully recorded his every heartbeat. The pandemonium of nurses and doctors trying to revive him with crash carts and chemicals brought the smallest of smiles to her face. Today she had made a difference, had changed the fate of a person with finality.

Aidan’s cell phone rang, and its vibrations caused it to dance across the desk. It almost seemed alive. He ignored it. How much time had gone by? Hours? Weeks? It didn’t matter. He had to finish writing.

The Child sat at his desk at school, cold and disturbed. Death sat in the corner of the room, pointing at random flies and spiders, causing them to fall lazily to their deaths on the classroom floor. “He’s dying, you know. Your step-dad. Your mom too, every day she spends with him she dies a little bit more. You know that cough your step-dad makes?” Death put his hands to his mouth and the most retched coughs (a perfect imitation of the ones the Child would hear every night) filled the classroom for no one but the Child to hear. “That cough is the call for me to come and get him. I will someday, you know.” Another fly fell to its end as Death raised an eyebrow.

Tears filled the Child’s eyes as he looked up at the friend he’d always known and never been without. “Why don’t you leave me alone!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, causing the students around him to jump up from their desks in a panic. The teacher stopped her lesson with her own tears filling her eyes, and simply pointed to the classroom door. The Child slowly packed up his things and trudged out the hall.

He was supposed to go to the principal’s office he knew; he had been there countless times before. But this time, he didn’t care. He just wanted to be alone. He wanted to be free of Death’s whispers, of Death’s touch on his life. He followed his feet, out the building, out the front gate, out onto the street. It was here where…

“Where…” Aidan drummed his fingers on the desk as he struggled for a direction to take this thought. His cell phone beeped once letting him know he had a voice message. “Where…”

“Where the hell is 858 31st street?” The Painter muttered to himself as he scanned the buildings around him while barely keeping one eye on the road. One eye is never enough to see the whole road, much less a Child wandering aimlessly out onto a street. The squeal of breaks, the shriek of tires, and the sickening crunch of metal and bone filled the crosswalk and seemed to echo in the silence that followed. Unseen to anyone, Death shook his head, spat on the Child’s body, and disappeared.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god…” the Painter mumbled as he rocked back and forth, clutching himself in the driver’s seat of his stopped car. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god…” he opened his car door, and somehow managed to walk forward while shying away from the view that awaited him in front of his car. “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD…” There was blood everywhere. So bright and so red. Everywhere. “This can’t be happening oh my god oh my god oh my god. What the hell am I going to do oh my god oh my god oh my god.”

The Painter looked around in a panic. The street was empty. No one had seen the accident. No one knew his secret. He leaned over and stretched out a finger to feel the Child’s pulse. Nothing – the Child was finally alone. And then, in a flash of purpose - the Painter scooped the Child’s mangled body into his arms, tried to open the passenger door, dropped the body, cursed, opened the door, managed to prop the lifeless form upright in the seat, shut the door, cursed again as it caught on the body’s arm, pushed the arm into the car, quickly shut the door until it locked with a click, rushed to the drivers door, opened it, jumped in, and slammed it shut. No one had seen anything.

The Painter sat in his seat with both hands on the wheel, chest rising and falling quickly as he breathed deeply. He stole a glance over to his passenger, and then quickly looked ahead. He’d have to clean up. He sped off home, and soon was back at his car with a bucket of water and sponge. The car was soon clean, as was the body. He put some sunglasses on the Child’s corpse so random passerby’s wouldn’t notice, and headed off towards the hospital. He could drop the body there.

But something strange happened on his drive to the Emergency Room. The Painter kept looking over at the lifeless body in the passenger seat, and noticed he had done a good job cleaning. In fact, if you didn’t look too closely, the Child looked like any normal sleeping kid. The Painter could swear that people looked at him differently as he drove by. They could see that he was just a normal Painter with a normal Child next to him. And for once, the Painter didn’t feel alone. He had a passenger. He turned to drive through the heart of the city. The hospital can wait for now.

He didn’t know how long he drove, but eventually he knew that he would have to go to the hospital. He was quite sad, actually. This time with the Child had opened his eyes – since moving here he had prayed to cure his loneliness – but it had nothing to do with other people. It had everything to do with how he saw himself. From here on, he would make a true effort to reach out to the people around him, instead of being content to hide in his fear by himself. From here on…

His thoughts were cut short as the wails of sirens and flashing lights greeted him at the entrance to the Emergency Room. Countless voices yelled at him to get out of his car with his hands up. The Painter had never had a gun pointed at him, and panic again filled him as he climbed awkwardly out of the car. “My son is hurt!” He yelled fervently. “He needs medical attention!” He kept screaming protests about the Child, about who he really believed was his son. The screams fell on deaf ears though as he was handcuffed and pushed into the back of a police car. Someone had seen the whole accident; there are no secrets in this world. And as the Painter sat in the back of the police car, he couldn’t help but notice all the flashing lights, all the staring onlookers, all the news vans were here for him and him only. He was finally important to people, he had escaped being alone.

A knock on the door pulled Aidan’s eyes up from his typewriter. How much time had gone by? He stood up irritably and pulled the door to his apartment open. “What the fuck do you want! I’m writing here, I’m trying to save my Dad!” Aidan’s mother stood in the doorway, her eyes red and puffy from hours of crying. “It’s your father,” she said without emotion. She was completely spent of any feeling. “He’s dead”.

“But that’s impossible!” Aidan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I authorized the treatment; he’s going to be fine!”

“No son, he died early this morning. Why didn’t you pick up your phone? Apparently there was some sort of mistake in treatment. They’re looking into it. The hospital thinks it was negligence on someone’s part. Come on, we have to go to the hospital to sign some paperwork.”

As Aidan and his mother left the room, there was no crash of thunder, no sulfurous smokes of Hades, no chasms opening to the underworld. Ever so calmly He took his seat at Aidan’s typewriter and began to type with a constant, monotonous rhythm.

The Nurse held her son’s lifeless body close as she wept for what seemed like an eternity. The glow of the police car sirens faded away eventually, as did the curious onlookers. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t seen her son in weeks, the cruelty of the black and white reality she had to face was more than she could bear. Eventually the coroners came to take the Child’s body, and she walked aimlessly inside the Emergency Room. She walked up to the counter and began signing the paper work necessary for the death of a relative. “Funny,” she whispered, “that life ends…”

“…with just some paperwork”. Aidan muttered to himself. He looked up and saw a Nurse with the same tiredness of eyes that spoke of a loss greater than loss of life itself. She too was filling out the same forms as he, and something drew her to him. He put down his pen, walked over to her, and without a word gave her an embrace that spoke of the loss they both could share and had to endure.

A black moon rose that night over the Painter in his cell, the Child in the morgue, and the Nurse and Aidan sitting together at the hospital. In time Aidan would surely find out who the cause of his father’s death was. Surely the Nurse would find something to run away from again. But for tonight, they could share each other’s pain, and perhaps offer the smallest hint of comfort and deluded hope. And as the constant rhythm of keys pressed on an antique typewriter in an empty room fades slowly away, the last thing to hear them is simply the greatest audience in the world: the wind.

...And so the wind doth blow across the land,

Taking with it the grains of Time's sand.

Another tale closes its pages

Until opened again by history's sages

Read more!

Pan's Tale

Ages come and go, ceaselessly without fail,

History and prophecy the lives of mankind's tales.

And lo another story starts to flow

As across the land the wind doth blow...

The wind was a breeze really, and barely enough to cool young Pan. He was standing with a dozen other sweating boys, squinting in the scorching sun. The Heat of the sun seemed to be getting stronger and hotter every year, and today's Midsummer Day was even more unbearable than most. It didn't help either that he Pan was being forced to sing. He hated singing.

"Now, again from the top, Princely hopefuls!" Zimri was the oldest old man Pan had ever seen, and yet as frail as he seemed, the Heat didn't seem to be affecting him at all. His black jacket was closed, his shirt buttoned to the top, and not a drop of sweat was on his ancient white brow. He raised his conductor's baton once again, and with a sweeping motion started singing. His sonorously deep voice contrasted so strongly with the cracking of the boys as they tried their best to sing along.

My heart's been waiting

For the Love of my Life,

A princess is out there

Who'll be my wife...

And when will I find her I ask of you?

My one true Happily Ever After...

Zimri held the tone with magnificent precision, but the teens were less than perfect. Zimri shook his head with equal parts sadness and disappointment. There was a time when young Pre-Princes wanted to learn how to sing... these boys just didn't seem to care - they were so much more interested in sword fighting, riding horses, and killing dragons than learning about singing... and don’t even get started on their interest in dancing! As Zimri heard the last traces of his note fade away to the upper reaches of the Castle Triton's courtyard walls, it was suddenly picked up by the sweetest breath of honey Zimri had heard in a long time. Young Perfora was entering the courtyard, and it seemed the Heat could not touch her either. She was the best Pre-Princess pupil any of the teachers at Triton Castle had seen in a long while – and she was beautiful… the boys equally lost their tongues and couldn’t keep quiet around her. Her golden hair was perfectly curled, framing her perfectly beautiful round face. Her perfect blue eyes twinkled as she twirled her pink dress as she spun, and her voice was like the pure perfect sugar as she sang...

My heart's been waiting

Can’t you all see,

For a knight who'll come

To rescue me…

And I can't wait for when my Love so true....

Will lead me to Happily Ever After...

She gave a little giggle as she walked past the group of staring boys. She tossed her hair with practiced skill, and pouted her mouth as she put her hands on her hips. Her favorite course this term was definitely Flouncing and Flirting Class.

"Now, I really must have an escort as I walk to my next class. Which of you boys will be so kind?"

A couple of the boys clambered over each other as they raced to take hold of Perfora's arm, ready to walk with her to wherever she was going – be it class or the ends of the earth. Pan looked after them, and felt not even the slightest pang of envy.

"I really don't get it," Pan said to one of the boys next to him. "What’s the big deal with all this singing and dancing and boring artsy stuff we have to do? All so that what, we can be dragged along by girls like Perfora? I mean, she's beautiful, yes, but she's so... so..."

"Boring?" One of the boys talking to Pan laughed.

“Stuck up?” Another boy sniggered. He put his hands on his hips, lifted his eyes to the heavens, and raised his voice a few octaves, “Oh I really must get a brain one of these days, or I simply shall never be able to get a Prince. And then what ever would I do?”

One boy stood up for her. “Sure she's really not the brightest Princess in training I've met. Like there is such a thing, right? But Pan, that's why we're here at Triton Castle - to learn to be Princes so that we can live Happily Ever After with our One True Love. I can't wait until I rescue my Princess from her Tower!"

Pan hated it when people talked about One True Loves, Happily Ever Afters, True Love's First Kisses, and all sorts of those other things that meant so little to him. It was all make believe story book stuff anyways, and Pan was convinced that people who couldn’t see it that way were either trying to sell something or severely troubled in the brain. And besides, Pan was different from all the rest of the young princes-to-be. He wasn't royalty; not even close. In fact, Pan didn't even know who his parents were... Triton Castle was all he'd ever known and his earliest memory. Some said that Zimri himself had found Pan out in the forest and had brought him to Triton, but no one knew for sure. What was known was he was enrolled in the Pre-Prince program, where the early years had been great; Pan was amazing at horseback riding, at fencing, hunting, tracking, and even the simulated Dragon hunts. It was only of late when classes began focusing more on singing, poetry, and the dreaded dancing that Pan started to think that the life of a Prince wasn't for him. It had all been so exciting and adventurous at first; now, everything was so scripted and expected... there was no mystery in any of it at all.

As Perfora’s lingering presence finally passed, the students noticed that the ancient Zimri had managed to fall asleep while standing yet again; there was nothing left to do but dismiss themselves from singing class. There was no use lingering in the sweltering Heat any longer than necessary. As the boys milled around Pan walked aimlessly, but then brightened when he remembering that a guest lecturer was coming to their fencing class tomorrow. Apparently some famous Prince was going to teach them about real swordsmanship. In fact, he was so preoccupied with dreams of tomorrow’s class that it took him a second to realize how strange it was that while one second he had been walking, the next found him lying face up in the grass with a very sore shoulder.

“Hi Pan”. A mischievously grinning face was hovering over Pan. Her short brown hair hung down around her angled face as she moved to stand over him. Her green eyes were grinning too, and her little nose was wiggling just slightly like it always did when Lil was trying hard not to burst out laughing. Lil stood up and tucked her boy’s shirt into the trousers she always wore, and put her hands on her hips. “You know, you’ve got a long way to go to being a Prince if a little girl can still tackle you.” She pulled back a sleeve on her slender arm to flex her muscle; she was still trying so hard not to laugh. And so was Pan. She put out a hand to help Pan up, and Pan saw his chance.

Putting a mask of mock defeat on his face, he took Lil’s hand but twisted around at the last second so that it was she who was now suddenly flying through the air. With a little yelp she tumbled almost gracefully, and soon both of their laughter filled the courtyard as the two friends were standing up, dusting themselves off. Some of the other boys yelled encouraging words to either Pan or Lil over their shoulders, and Zimri almost stirred from his sleep. Lil was actually one girl Pan could stand to be around. She was an orphan like him, but rather than being enrolled at Triton Castle’s Pre-Princess program, Lil worked with the horses – her true passion. And, cementing her friendship with Pan was the fact that she shared the same sort of disdain for the Pre-Princess students like Perfora. Needless to say, the other females didn’t really like her much either. They would always speak so sweetly to her face, and then whisper words of venom about how she was so like a boy, what with the way she dressed and kept her hair ever so short. At first Lil tried to explain the difficulties of working with wild horses wearing a fancy dress or long hair, but recently she would just smile and say how very pretty they all where and that they simply must teach her how to dress and wear makeup someday.

“So, there’s some sort of guest lecturer in fencing tomorrow,” Pan said excitedly to Lil as they joined the crowds of boys and girls walking to the Great Hall for evening meal. “You should totally come! You know Lance would let you drop in on his class. Besides, you’re a better swordsman than most of the boys.”

“Swords-woman Pan. And I just might have to do that. See you tomorrow then!” She shot him a smile and a punch on the arm as they entered the Great Hall, and she ran off to join the servants’ table. Pan took his seat with his fellow Pre-Prince classmates, and dug messily into his food with voracious hunger.

In quiet contrast to the two handed feeding frenzy of the boys, tables like Perfora’s were controlled, quiet examples of etiquette. Silverware clinked softly on china; crystal rung as glasses were raised and lowered. The young women looked regal in exquisite dresses in all sorts of pale blues, yellows, and greens. Each of them had exquisite hair and makeup. Each was chatting politely and quietly to their neighbors, and each always had a napkin at the ready to catch the slightest spill or mess.

“So, I simply cannot decide on which Tower to choose!” Perfora in her pink dress was commanding the attention of the girls around her. “Graduation is coming soon, and we’ll have to decide what Tower to wait in until our One True Love comes to rescue us. I really cannot choose between the Dragon Tower, the Tower of Fire, or the Island Tower.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be caught dead in any tower with dragons or fire,” one beautiful Pre-Princess in green was saying gracefully, “just think of what that heat would do to your hair !”

There were nods and sounds of agreement from around the table, but Perfora tossed her head irritably and remarked, “Don’t be silly; the Towers we live in are magic, there’s no danger to us. Weren’t you paying attention in Distressed Damsels class? I just want to make sure of the Prince I want to attract, someone daring or cunning… and then we can live Happily Ever After!”

At a table on the other side of the Great Hall, Pan was talking around a mouthful of meat and gesturing with his fork and knife. “The thing I don’t get about Happily Ever After, if there even is such a thing, is where’s the fun? So yeah, you fight a dragon, climb the tower, rescue the Princes; that all sounds like a blast. But then what? A life of singing, poetry, painting, and dancing?” He shuddered. “I don’t think so. Sounds pretty boring to me…”

“But these boys are such… such… boys,” Back at the women’s table, Perfora was genuinely concerned. “My step-mum told me that she met her prince at school, but all these Princes in training are so childish. All they want to do is fence and ride horses and hunt. I hope One Day My Prince Will Come. Oh, I simply cannot wait for the day! He’ll write me songs and we’ll dance all day long everyday! Oh! Dancing! Ladies, have you heard the news? We’ll be dancing tomorrow in class! I simply cannot wait!”

“Oh but guys,” Pan was gesturing with a turkey leg, his eyes shining in anticipation. “We’ll be doing real live fencing tomorrow in class. I can’t wait!” A dozen full mouths made equally excited noises, and soon all talk gave way to the real mission at hand.

Dinner was soon over, and the young Pre-Princes and Pre-Princesses made their ways back to their rooms for sleep. Tomorrow promised exciting classes for both Pan and Perfora; sleep came slowly for each of them as they lay in anticipation of the next day.

********

“I can’t believe we have to dance…” Pan was standing in a half circle of nervous looking Princes in training, trying to look everywhere but at the half circle of beautiful Princess to be’s standing across from them. The tables had been stacked in the corners of the Great Hall (the Heat had grown again today, and it wasn’t safe to be outside), and Zimri and a half dozen other teachers walked around the room keeping any of the boys from acting on anything but their best behavior. Lil sat on top of one of the stacks of tables, her head resting on her knee, and watched the whole scene with a quiet grin. Pan looked over at her, begging her in his mind for her to create some sort of diversion so he could escape, but she only stuck her tongue out at him teasingly.

“Now young men!” The dance teacher was a plump Fairy Godmother with her hair in a bun. “The dance is an ever so graceful coupling between men and women. You must learn to feel the connection between you and your partner, to be very proper like the young gentlemen I know you are all trying to be. So, please step forward, take your lady’s hand, bow, and say ‘how do you do’”

Pan and the rest of the boys shuffled forward, took the hands of the women awkwardly, bobbed a bow that looked more like a twitch, and mumbled “howdyudo”. Pan looked up then to see a pair of crystal clear blue eyes set in a perfectly round face, curtained by perfectly curled golden hair, enhanced perfectly by a tiny wreath of pink flowers. Perfora dropped a curtsey in perfect unison with the rest of the girls in her line, and they seemed to speak as one with a clear and sweet, “How do you do?”

“Now men, take your right hand and hold her lightly behind the shoulder.” The Fairy Godmother was moving around the room repositioning the boy’s hands here, adjusting slouching stances there. “Good good! Now, just like we practiced: one step back, one step sideways, one step forward, and turn! Over and over again! Zimri, some music please?”

The old musician snapped awake from where he had been dozing, and began to sing in a deep and melodious voice.

Take your Princess by the hand,

Be sure to bring her along,

Lets all dance – don’t get the steps all wrong,

Twirl around and around like a magic fan,

As we sing this special dancing song!

It was much less than graceful. There was many a stepped on foot, many a stumbling embrace, but thankfully no one was seriously hurt. And what do you know, as time moved on, the couples actually began to get the dance. But Pan’s mind was elsewhere.

He was thinking about the special swordsmanship class later on that day. Dancing was so boring… after learning this one step, he found he didn’t even need to think about what he was doing as he repeated over and over again the same steps. It was so much simpler than any of the forms or footwork they learned in fencing. Perfora seemed to be enjoying herself though as she stepped enthusiastically to Zimri’s singing.

“Oh Pen!” she beamed. “Isn’t this so wonderful?”

“It’s Pan. And no its not. Stop stepping on my feet.”

But Perfora was in her own little world, doing whatever she pleased. And she did look good, even if it was at the expense of Pan’s toes. She was spinning with such flourishes (seemingly oblivious to Pan’s patient lead), and the untrained eye would say she was doing quite well. Dance class went on and on, and Pan danced the same dance with partner after partner, until finally the castle’s chimes signified dance class was over.

“Thank goodness! Time for sword fighting!”

******************

“As you no doubt have heard,” Lance, the Head of Arms Training was addressing his wide eyed Pre-Prince pupils, “we have a very special guest today. He’s an old friend of mine, and comes to us from a very Far, Far Away… Please give your respect to the ever fair, ever just, ever patient warrior - Art! He’s lived a full Prince’s life – found his One True Love, ran a Kingdom, and yet still never forgot how to use the blade.” Lance’s smile twitched briefly, and seemed forced as he embraced the other man. The meeting of their eyes was a cold stare that threatened to push away even the incessant Heat.

“How’s Gwen?” Lance’s lips barely moved, and his voice was barely a growl.

“Fine.” Art’s answer was little more than a whisper. He was a solid man, and the grey at his temples did nothing to hide his natural power and presence. Art’s face was weathered and strong, but his pale grey eyes held a sort of sadness that only comes with a lifetime of Love and Loss.

“Art is the finest swordsman around!” Lance had released his stare, and was addressing his students once again. “Listen closely to what he says; his knowledge and experience are truly impressive. Alright then, let’s break off now into groups…”

Soon the boys found themselves standing nervously in two half circles, facing each other. Each held his practice sword shakily in his hand, getting ready to do a much different type of dance than the kind they had endured just hours before. Lance and Art stood in the center of the circle explaining the drills and rules of today’s lesson. Pan looked across the circle to see who he’d be paired up with for the first part of today’s exercise, and was happy to see Lil’s green eyes winking at him from behind her sword.

“Just so you gentlemen can see what we mean, we shall now demonstrate.” Lance and Art squared off, their swords instantly at the ready. With perfect unison they stood up straight, raised their swords in salute to each other, and then returned to their crouching ready position, slowly circling each other and waiting for an opportunity to strike.

With a flash, the two figures met with blinding speed of both body and blade. The wilting grass between their feet was quickly trampled flat as the two men whirled and crashed into each other with a dynamic strength and grace that had all the boys staring intently. As suddenly as they had begun, the two men simultaneously separated, saluted, and turned to the two half circles of boys facing each other. “Now it’s your turn.”

Pan smiled nervously at Lil, and was glad to see that her normally confident grin was for once replaced with pursed lips that were just as intent and serious as he was. An eerie silence gave only the briefest of precursors to the intense clamor that followed; students tried their best to mimic and remember all of the teachings they had received this year; it was the only thing that could keep their partner at bay. Pan’s feet and hands moved so quickly they soon became a blur, and Lil matched them perfectly in time and rhythm. Back, sideways, forward, turning; around and around Pan and Lil moved, striking and blocking each other’s attempts to break guard. They soon had an audience, as first the other boys and then finally Lance and Art stood to watch the pair as they moved faster and faster together.

Art began to sing in a low, melancholy voice. Lance looking up sharply in surprise; then seemingly nodded assent to himself and joined in. No one else could hear them as they sung barely louder than a whisper, though oddly Pan and Lil seemed to step in perfect time to their melody.

A call goes out to the defenders of the land,

Who will be brave and come along?

Our swords will sing now the warrior’s song…

From the forest to the seas to the sand,

Take up arms to join your brothers strong!

“Hold!” Art stepped forward between the pair, who gladly welcomed the break and stood panting – thrilled with the exhilaration and exhausted from the effort. “Pan! Lil! Very well done. You’ve shown one of the key elements of the perfect engagement of the blade… that it truly is an engagement. You’ve both done well in feeling each other out; in understanding your opponent and becoming one with them will you find true success. You two must know each other quite well to be able to dance the blades like that…

Pan blushed and looked down as his fellow classmates jeered and whistled loudly.

“Yeah Pan, how well do you know little Lil!”

“Yes yes! Pan and Lil do spend a lot of time together, don’t they!”

“Now we know why Pan’s always talking so lowly about beautiful Perfora; he’s got short haired Lil on the mind!”

“Pan! Why didn’t you say you were so in love! Why don’t you go give her True Love’s First Kiss?”

And then Pan didn’t know why he said it. Perhaps it was because he’d always been an orphan, always wanted to belong. Maybe it was because he had just gone from being so admired at the blade a second ago to being made fun of now. Maybe it was because the Heat was getting to him. Who knows. But he said it.

“I don’t’ know what you guys are talking about. Lil just isn’t Princely material at all, is she; she’s just a mere stable girl!” Pan’s words caused the tense air to snap like a tightly pulled bowstring. Lil’s face crumbled for a second and then instantly hardened. Her green eyes were no longer grinning; instead, they were replaced with the dull shine of a star that has long since burnt itself out. The other boys laughed nervously and looked down at their feet; Lance was soon quickly calling for new drills and new partners, and dutifully Pan and the boys obeyed. Oddly enough, it was Art who seemed to take the whole outburst and interaction the worst… his grey eyes seemed to sink even further inward, and he did not pick up a practice sword for the rest of the afternoon. Neither Pan nor Lil caught each other’s eye for the rest of the session; neither did they ever square off to dance blades again. Before long, the Heat had become almost unbearable, and the boys found themselves saluting Art, returning their practice swords to the racks, and heading inside for evening meal. Pan lingered back to hopefully catch Lil on their way in, but she was in deep conversation with Art. Pan shook his head and followed his peers. He kept looking back, hoping to catch Lil’s eye, but she never looked up to see him. When she finally did turn away to walk back to her room, no one was lucky enough to hear her singing; no one heard the purest voice to ever grace this land.

Love is not what it seems,

Love can only kill your dreams…

There’s a fate I once pursued,

He’s killed it straight and true,

It’s not his dream…

*****************

Pan never saw Lil again while he was at Triton Castle; rumor had it that she had left with Art after his guest fencing lecture. Truth be told, in the years that followed she wasn’t really that missed - least of all by Perfora. “Well, she was such an odd little stable girl, wasn’t she? What with the way she dressed, and oh, her hair, it was ever so short and, well, it was such like a boy’s. She had potential, that one, but she’ll never be like us, oh will she, sisters?” Perfora was again engaging a group of beautiful Pre-Princesses as they gathered one last time before their most anticipated moment: Tower Selection and Graduation. “Oh, and I do think I have decided what Tower I’m choosing. It’ll most definitely have to be the Dragon Tower. Oh how I do want a Prince who is oh so strong and brave!” Where Perfora had just been sitting was suddenly a mass of pastel dresses and curled hair embracing and congratulating her.

“Oh I am ever so happy for you!”

“Perfora, I wish you all of the very best!”

“Oh Perfora, I do hope you find the most amazing Prince who can sing, and dance, and oh!”

In another room of Triton Castle - safe from the ever sweltering Heat - the boys, no; young men now, were as nervous as the women were excited. Their anticipation of the unknown found them giving last minute advice to each other before they rode on their mission to find their Happily Ever After.

“Right then chaps, ride hard and strong through the Forests of Fear, and don’t eat any apples!”

“And don’t believe the Wood Nymphs, no matter what they say!”

“Don’t take too long dealing with the Ogres; they’re stupid and slow. But watch out for the pirates!”

“And if you meet a Dragon…” Pan was so nervous he felt sick, but he still spoke with an excited fervor. “…if you meet a Dragon, you must be sure to stare it in the eye while you drive you sword into its heart; that’s the only way to defeat one!”

Each of the young men were dressed in shining armor, their swords sharpened and ready at their sides. They had gone through every course that the Triton Pre-Prince program had in store for them, and they were ready – ready to face all sorts of mortal danger in the hopes of finding their One True Love and living Happily Ever After. And soon they would ride. The door to the small room opened, and a silence fell across the young men. Lance entered the room and looked each young knight in the eye, silently giving his approval as he paced the floor.

“Today you become men!” His voice was deep and strong. “You’ll have the greatest adventure of your life – face the greatest of mortal dangers and rescue a Princess in distress. Your Happily Ever After begins today; enjoy it gentlemen!”

Filled with excitement for the adventure ahead, Pan for once forgot to think about how the rest of Happily Ever After was all singing and dancing. He raised his sword with his other peers and cheered the loudest of all.

Back with the young women, every pair of wide newly-made Princess eyes were staring up intently at the plump Fairy Godmother who was giving them last minute instructions.

“Now ladies! Each of you know in your heart where your True Love lies; if ever you lose hope, you must hold on to your hope that your Happily Ever After is soon to come! No matter what may happen to you, you must believe that nothing is more powerful that your True Love’s First Kiss. Now! Hold in your minds the Tower you wish to go to, and the face of your One True Love who will rescue you. And remember, when your Prince defeats all sorts of evil and shows such great bravery and arrives at the door of your Tower, you must remember all you’ve learned so you can make him fall so Deeply In Love.” The Fairy Godmother’s eyes shone with pride as she looked each Princess in the eye, silently giving her approval as she paced the floor. With a final stern smile, she clapped both hands twice, causing more than a few girls to instinctively stand up straight and fix their dresses. “Alright then ladies! Blithe Smiles and Lithe Limbs! Here’s to your Happily Ever After!”

And with the sound of a thousand church bells ringing in the Spring Time Wind, the ladies disappeared in a cloud of rose scented pastel smoke, each Magically carried to their Tower of choice, ready to wait for their One True Love to rescue them. Just outside in the courtyard of Triton Castle, the thunderous clamor of hooves announced the bravery and heroism of the young Princess as they rode out to seek their destiny, live their adventure, and rescue their One True Love.

*****************

“Can you believe this news?”

“It’s unheard of! Preposterous!”

“It cannot be! There is no way!”

Pandemonium had erupted in the Great Hall of Triton Castle. An emergency meeting had been called, and each of the teachers was reacting to the shocking news that was coming in from messengers from every corner of the Land: Princes and Princess were dying on their Adventures. Since the dawn of Time, as long as anyone could remember, the Adventures to find Happily Ever Afters had always been protected by the Magic of the land. The same Magic that kept Princesses safe in their Towers kept Princes from harm on their quests as well. But now it was changing… Princesses were dying in their Towers, and Princes were losing mortal battles with Ogres, Wolves, and Dragons. The greatest sages throughout the Land had their theories on what was happening; most blamed the Heat, saying it was breaking down the natural protections. Whatever it was, it was making what was normally a sacred and safe fact of life a very real threat.

“The elves report two more Princes felled by Dragons!”

“The dwarves give word that four of our Princesses have withered away in their Towers!”

“How can this be? The Magic has always held them safely!”

“Is young Perfora safe? How is she?”

Perfora, actually, was quite safe for the moment. She was very hot, yes, as the Heat pounded mercilessly on her Tower. And she was scared, as the Dragon outside was very real and very menacing. But she had Hope that her One True Love was coming soon, and so long as she clung to that, she felt as though she could survive another day. But she did wish that he would come soon…

Pan, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. He was much better suited to the adventurous life than some of his more, well, Princely peers. He had braved all sorts of dangers – Extremely Large Four Legged Vermin, man-eating forests, a couple of Sphinxes, countless Trolls, all just to name a few – and was triumphing through it all. Sure the Heat seemed to be especially harsh and was riling up the beasts quite a bit, but it was all what Pan had been trained to do. He wouldn’t change it for the world. But before long, the inevitable happened. He crested a hill and saw a tower coming into focus in the distance; that meant just one more battle before Happily Ever After. His sigh held a tinge of regret as he knew this part of the adventure would soon be over. The blood curdling scream of the most voracious, Heat maddened Dragon that anyone had ever heard soon brought a smile to Pan’s lips though.

For a second Perfora forgot the Heat and an equally bright smile lit up her face. What was merely a speck on the horizon was what she’d been waiting her whole life for; a Knight was fast approaching! Her smile was soon replaced with a shocked scream as the Tower window was filled for a moment with scales and teeth. She had never seen a real Dragon so close before, and all the hatred in the world filled its eyes as it seemed to stare for hours deep into Perfora’s soul. But in just an instant the beast was gone, beating its massive wings and streaking out towards the brave Knight with whom it would soon dance in battle with.

Now this was a challenge. Pan’s smile faded into concentration, and survival became the priority. Pan’s horse was long since dead – the Dragon had seen to that early in the fight – but Pan was proving to be a much more worthy opponent. Both beast and man had managed to score damage on each other, and while the Dragon was growing impatient – it was used to quick and decisive victories – Pan was biding his time, waiting for the Dragon to make a mistake. Flurries of wings met precise strikes of the sword; and while fiery breath scorched the countryside, Pan was managing to remain un-singed. But Pan was tiring. He had ridden for many weeks and battled countless monsters before this one. As the hours dragged on, Pan realized that even if fresh, no human can outlast a full sized Dragon. And soon, the inevitable happened – his foot caught on a random rock, and he fell to his back. The Dragon was on him in an instant, eyes mad with the Heat and teeth dripping with the anticipation of victory. Panic began to rise in Pan’s heart, and he started to shut his eyes to face his end. He could feel the breath of the Dragon on him. He could smell the power of death, taste its rot. But what he saw and heard came unbidden from memories of Triton Castle.

I’m holding a practice sword. I’m smiling.

Lance is speaking. “…you’ve shown one of the key elements of the perfect engagement of the blade… that it truly is an engagement. You’ve both done well in feeling each other out; in understanding your opponent and becoming one with them will you find true success…”

Lil is holding a practice sword. She’s smiling. Her eyes are so green.

One with your opponent. Stare a Dragon in the eye, sword through its heart. That’s the only way. One with your opponent. Sword through its heart. Her eyes are so green…

Pan’s eyes shot open and met the Dragon’s with a piercing stare, and in an instant the primal fury that drove the Dragon realized that it was facing its own mortal end. In an instant they were one; Pan saw what the Dragon saw. He saw how the Heat was driving all the monsters of the land to break the Magic protections that had held so long. He saw the deaths of countless Princes and Princesses, and the destruction of the old ways. He saw the source of the Heat. It came from… it came from the West. Far in the West. And it must be stopped. Everyone’s Happily Ever After depended on it.

And then it was over. Pan didn’t even remember driving his sword through the Dragon’s heart; their eyes were still locked as the fire of madness and Heat faded away from the beast’s eyes.

Pan’s mind was on other things as he climbed the stairs to the Tower. Perfora really was quite lovely as she stood there in all her beauty. And she really did do all the right things as she was taught: her hair was beautifully curled, her head tilted just so, her lips slightly apart, and her eyes shone like stars.

“Oh Pan! You were ever so brave to defeat that horrible creature! How can I ever repay you? Because well, well Pan, my heart… its been waiting…”

My heart's been waiting

Can’t you all see,

For a knight who'll come

To rescue me

And I can't wait for when my Love so true....

The air was silent as Perfora looking up at Pan expectantly, nodding her head to invite him to finish their song. But Pan whispered something completely different:

All is not what it seems,

It’ll soon kill our dreams…

There’s a fate I once pursued,

Now I know it’s not true.

I’ve got a new dream…

The silence was deafening. Perfora’s face started to falter, but she just barely managed to keep her sweet smile shining through tears. Pan’s mind was reeling. He had to stop the Heat from destroying their land. He must stop these monsters from hurting more people. The Magic must be restored; he must go West.

Perfora’s smile finally faded. It was replaced with shock and horror, and as Pan turned and walked back down the stairs without saying a word she finally broke from her Princess-like calm. He could hear her frantic pleas echoing after him as he made his way out of the Tower. Desperation filled her voice as he turned and started walking West.

“But wait! I’m a Princess! You have to rescue me! That’s the way it goes! Where’s my Happily Ever After!”

****************

In the years that passed, things never really were quite the same. Fear drove people to leave their villages to live in larger cities; and even then they weren’t safe. Attacks from Evil Monsters were always increasing, only adding to the number of lives taken from the Heat. Princes and Princesses weren’t even allowed to seek their Adventures anymore after completing their training; and even though they tried to make do and forget the dreadful times with extravagant dances, balls, and feasts, over time even these festivities couldn’t hide the fact that things were seriously wrong, and that life for everyone – humans, elves, dwarves, princes, and farmers - was resembling a prison.

But there was hope. There were rumors and legends about a rogue band of Knights who were out to fight the Heat. They were camped in the West doing battle each and every day, and many a Castle and city were saved by these brave and valorous fighters. These saviors were shrouded in mystery though; they escaped just as swiftly as they appeared – always in the nick of time to save the day but never staying long enough to be recognized.

But Pan had found his calling at last. Traveling West after leaving Perfora’s tower, Pan faced countless Monsters, each more powerful and maddened by the Heat than the last - where once rare, Ogres, Giants, Trolls, and even Werewolves were now commonplace. But any and all types of monsters were falling each day to Pan’s sword. And even Dragons began to fear the legend of the lone Knight who was hell bent on traveling West to stop the Heat. Soon the word of Pan’s solitary efforts spread beyond the Monsters he was defeating, and it wasn’t long before he was approached.

“Pan.”

Pan leaped to his feet, the lightest traces of sleep that he allowed himself to indulge in were falling quickly away as he drew his sword. How had he been surprised? He was never surprised.

Shadows began to take form around him, as men and women both stepped out of the trees and into the moonlight. Each person was armed, though their eyes held no malice for Pan. Their leader was speaking again.

“Pan. We’ve been following you for some days now. You fight well. The Monsters fear you. But you’ll get yourself killed if you keep on the way you’re going. The Heat is more powerful than you can imagine, and one dead legend won’t help our cause at all.”

The moonlight caused the speaker’s cold grey eyes to shine, outlining his powerful jaw and graying temples. As Pan’s eyes began to focus, a rush of relief rose in his heart as he recognized the man at once from his days at Triton Castle.

“Art! Everything I’ve learned about the blade has come from the lesson you gave! I owe you my life a thousand times over.”

“Then give it to me just once. Join our band. Our swords will sing now the warrior’s song, from the forest to the seas to the sand. Take up arms to join your brothers strong!”

And then the entire band of warriors who had been bringing their circle around Pan and Art closer and closer began to sing as one in a low and powerful voice.

A call goes out to the defenders of the land,

Who will be brave and come along?

Our swords will sing now the warrior’s song…

From the forest to the seas to the sand,

Take up arms to join your brothers strong!

“We’ve dedicated our lives to fighting the Heat, and protecting the lives of those the Monsters threaten to destroy. Join us Pan; you can do so much with us than you could ever do on your own.”

A flicker of movement caught Pan’s eye as he sensed a member of the circle turn and disappear into the forest. But nothing could have kept Pan’s heart from filling to near bursting with joy and anticipation. Finally he had a home; finally he had a cause with which his brothers and sisters would support him. He would be an orphan no longer.

***********

Every new day with Pan’s Family of Knights was the best day of Pan’s life. He met Princes and Princesses both who had thought as he did – that there was more to a Happily Ever After than a life of singing and dancing. They all shared the need and desire to live their Adventures and not be resigned to a prescribed life. He met Prince and Princess couples who had joined Art together; more often than not they had fought together against a Monster to rescue the Princess from her Tower. He met farmers, blacksmiths, tailors, and other common folk; Art welcomed everyone who was willing to lend their lives to protect others. He even met Mothers of some of the Princesses he knew from Triton Castle – there had been plenty of Step-Mothers to take over the lives of Dances and Feasts that they had left.

But what Pan loved most - beyond the battles with hordes of Monsters, beyond the fleeting glances of heartfelt joy and thanks of those they’d save – what he surprisingly loved most was the time just after dinner when the sun was stretching its final reach across the land, and everyone would, believe it or not, sing and dance. What was different about this singing and dancing than the singing and dancing that Pan so loathed at Triton? This was, well, real. The songs and dances that his new Family created were born out of true emotion – not the well-practiced steps or notes he learned in his youth. Each song and dance spoke of the Adventure each man and woman was living each and every day.

Pan danced more dances than he could count. He danced with Gwen, Art’s beautiful wife who had the same melancholy stare in her grey eyes. He danced with Isa, a smiling Princess who fought side by side with the largest and most powerful man Pan had ever seen. Ella was a Princess who always had a bit of soot on her nose from some Dragon she had once fought, but her footwork was so amazing she’d often lose her shoes she’d dance so quickly. Princess Rora was an incredible dancer and warrior both, though she usually danced early and went to sleep before anyone else. Gigi’s dancing was so good it seemed like it was from a different world, and her singing was just as good as her swordsmanship.

And then one night, Pan was turning and thanking his partner for an especially good dance when he found himself staring into the eyes of his new dance partner… and they just happened to be the most beautiful pair of green eyes he had ever seen. Her hair was cut short, but it framed her angled face perfectly. Her nose definitely wasn’t twitching with laughter now; she looked more nervous than he had ever seen her before. She took deep breath, and looked up.

“Hi Pan.”

“Hi Lil. I…”

“Pan, let me explain. I didn’t mean to run away. I mean, I did mean to leave, but I never meant to run. And when Art said that he wanted to invite you to join, us, I couldn’t stand it. What I’m saying is, well, Pan, I…”

“Would you like to dance, Lil?”

“Yes. I’d like that very much.”

And dance they did. And the connection that had caused them to dance the blades with such passion so many years before came back to them in a flood. They twisted and turned across the forest floor, and the voices of their Brothers and Sisters rose to meet their dance. Faster and faster they stepped in the embrace of their dance, and soon all eyes were on them.

Art and Gwen stood watching, and for a moment it seemed that the sadness behind their eyes lifted. Rora stirred from her sleep and tapped her foot in time to their dance. Gigi smiled sweetly with the most genuine joy, tucked her hands under her chin, and whispered, “oh, they are so in love…” Isa and her gigantic Prince nodded their heads approvingly as they watched Pan and Lil, and soon joined their dance with a similar passion. Ella kicked off her shoes and joined as well with her very charming Prince, and before long Pan and Lil were surrounded once again by all the Princes, Princesses, and common folk.

As the music faded Pan loosened his embrace slightly and looked down into Lil’s eyes. As her eyes slowly rose to meet his, both of their lips started to move in unison.

There’s a fate I once pursued,

Now I find it in you.

Let’s live our dream…

“It’s always been you Lil. I’ve always known it. You’re the only one who was living her very own Happily Ever After – you didn’t have to go to school to find out what it was.”

“Pan I…”

She looked up at Pan. Her nose was starting to wiggle, just like it did when she was laughing. Her eyes started to close, and as her head leaned forward, Pan felt drawn deeper and deeper into everything that was Lil. He could hear her heart beating faster and faster – or was it just his own? Her scent was all he could breath, her skin all he could feel. And as their faces drew closer and closer it was as if the entire world held its breath in anticipation of something truly Magical.

And in an instant, the moment was shattered. Lil’s body suddenly shook violently in Pan’s arms. Her eyes shot open with shock and pain, and as her body began to spasm Pan looked in horror at the arrow that was sticking out of her side. He couldn’t hear the rising roar of hasty battle around him. He couldn’t really comprehend why his Brothers and Sisters were scrambling and shouting to take up arms. He couldn’t see his comrades falling to unseen arrows. All he knew was that his world, his Happily Ever After was taken from him as quickly as it had been given.

Pan couldn’t really remember how the skirmish had ended, or how many Monsters there were. He was told later that they were Trolls, and that they had been followed for days – as if that was supposed to make him feel better. All he could remember was that it was over as quickly as it had begun, and that in an instant he was brushing Lil’s blood stained hair away from her lifeless green eyes. His tears fell onto her face, and for a moment it seemed like it was she who wept, that it was she who might have the tiniest spark of life. He knelt down and in a moment of desperation put his lips to hers – one final first kiss. But nothing happened.

Art put a hand on Pan’s shoulder. “True Love’s First Kiss? I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, Pan. Death is much too real.”

And Death really was too real – He took a part of Pan that night that and never gave it back.

*******************

Pan never did lead his Brothers and Sisters into battle quite like he used to, and in the passing months the legendary fear that his name would strike in the hearts of Monsters soon faded away. And as Pan’s skill and fervor faded, so much more did the relentless onslaught of the Heat increase. Attacks were incessant, and Art’s band of brave warriors was starting to lose battles.

Pan still remembered their first defeat. He had never led a retreat before in his life, and this first one had almost cost him his life. He hadn’t made any mistakes, really, but his mind and heart were a million miles away from the battle at hand. It wasn’t even that he thought that much about Lil… it was just he didn’t think or feel much at all. Art watched as the once magnificent Pan lost focus and drive, and knew the time for drastic action was now.

A change definitely had to be made if the Heat was ever to be driven back. The constant attacks had always had Art on the defensive, but he knew that there was only one way to end this with finality – to go West and shut down the Heat at its source. There would be one and only one chance to do this, and it would take a united effort from all the Lands in order to have the slightest hope of success.

Over the next months Art began secretly inviting the leaders of different cities, castles, races, and armies to meet one-on-one about a master plan for success. No one but Art was involved in the meetings, though all of Pan’s Brothers and Sisters watched anxiously as many a famous leader entered their camp to talk to Art in his tent. Pan saw cunning war lords, regal kings and queens, proud elders, and shifty spies. He even saw his old swordsmanship teacher Lance come meekly into their encampment; Art seemed especially cold when greeting him. Sometimes they would leave soon after meeting, and sometimes they would stay for a few days or even weeks. But one evening Pan had one of the biggest shocks in his life: he never expected to ever see her again.

“Oh why thank you for meeting with me Art, you are so kind. I was absolutely honored when you invited me. It makes me feel so good that you can recognize all that the Pink Princesses of Power have done…”

Perfora was dressed of course in her classic pink, but gone was the fanciful and naïve nature that had always surrounded her. Her face was still as sweet and beautiful as before, but it had lost the round baby-like qualities of youth and been replaced with a much stronger beauty. She was the leader of the Pink Princesses of Power – a group of young women who had decided to forgo any sort of “waiting around in Towers” business and taken to fighting the Heat and Monsters with their own hands. They had proven to be a valuable asset in the past few months, not only in driving away danger again and again, but also in giving everyone some much needed hope. When word that the Pink Princesses of Power were coming, you just had to smile. And what wasn’t to smile about? A group of beautiful women who were ever so nice coming to drive away an oppressive force was enough to push the Heat’s power away for a day.

“Oh that is such a brilliant plan, Art! There is not a doubt in my mind we’ll be able to help.” Pan watched as Perfora came out of Art’s tent with a brilliant smile on her face. “But you simply must allow me to travel with your so very brave men and women for a few days. It’ll be ever so wonderful!”

Art of course graciously agreed, and the bundle of pink joyous optimism settled into the camp. And her mood really did do wonders for morale. Everyone remembered what it was they were fighting for; everyone seemed to sing and dance just a little bit harder; and everyone seemed to laugh and smile just a little bit more; everyone, that is, except Pan.

Pan avoided Perfora at all costs. He didn’t know why he did, really, he just felt as though he should. It wasn’t the fact that he left her there in her Tower years before. It wasn’t because she had represented so much of what was wrong with time at Triton Castle. It wasn’t even because everyone thought that they would be the perfect couple if they would ever just speak to each other. But the truth of the matter was that Pan quite scared of falling in Love again. And yet he was.

Everything about Perfora seemed wrong… but there she was: beautiful, charming, and ever so good; and most recently strong, brave, and committed to defeating the Heat. Pan would start to steal looks at Perfora during their evening dances. She was quite graceful, and she made everyone around her laugh. He couldn’t help but be happy when he looked at her, though he often caught himself and quickly looked away when he found himself looking at her for too long. One such evening, Pan was sitting on the edge of their camp watching the dancing when Gigi approached Pan, asking him to dance.

“You know I haven’t danced ever since Lil died, Gigi.”

“Well maybe its time to start again Pan. Come on.”

She took his hand and led him out into the clearing where other Princes and Princesses were dancing. She moved her red hair out of her eyes, took Pan’s embrace, and coaxed Pan into leading them into a slow and simple dance.

“Lil was an amazing woman, Pan. She was. But she’s gone, and there’s nothing you can ever do to bring her back. I lost my Prince Robert a few years ago, and decided then to join Art. It was the saddest moment of my life; I didn’t think I could face that faceless day, but I know he would have wanted me to make something of my life, to keep moving towards my Happily Ever After.” Her eyes misted over for a second, and Pan opened his mouth to say something but Gigi continued. “I know it, Pan. It took so long to convince my Robert that Happily Ever After exists, but even he understood in the end. Pan, go dance with her. Your life is really one big adventure; don’t think you know how your Happily Ever After ends, because you don’t. Go dance with her.”

As the music faded away Gigi squeezed Pan’s hands for encouragement and led him over to where Perfora was sitting, ever so daintily. Pan looked at Perfora, dressed ever so perfectly in pink, and barely got the words out.

“Yes, I would love to dance, Pen! I had been hoping that you’d ask me soon. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other!”

“Its Pan.”

The most beautiful of smiles matched the clearest of laughs. “Of course I know your name is Pan! You take yourself oh so seriously don’t you?” She gave him a playful punch on the arm. It seemed like something Lil would have done. “I’ve never forgotten our first dance you know, back at Triton. It’s always been you Pan, I’ve always known it. You’re the only one who was living his very own Happily Ever After – you didn’t even have to go to school to find out what it was. And it wasn’t me, back then in the Tower. And that showed me so much about what I wanted… there’s so much more than singing and dancing and such! So thank you Pan, thank you ever so much. “

And as they began to dance, it seemed that time stood still. It was not at all like his dance with Lil, and yet so perfect still. She really was ever so graceful, and her spins and flourishes looked amazing. And even though she might not have followed his lead exactly, or done what he expected her to do, she moved with such joy and lightness that Pan couldn’t help but to smile. So what if every so often she’d step on a toe or two. So what if she didn’t take the dances so seriously. So what if she was someone Pan would never have thought he’d end up with in a million years… that was the point of life, the point of Happily Ever After, wasn’t it? They danced every single dance together that night, but soon it was all over. As they parted, Pan smiled for the first time in a long time. Perfora looked up at him with her clear blue eyes, gave him the biggest hug, and turned to join the other Princesses for the evening. Pan stood looking after her, her golden curls bouncing in the moonlight. She certainly did smell good. And she really was quite stunning. And who was he to assume he knew what his Happily Ever After would be? He had been fighting against a set vision of Happily Ever After for so long, he couldn’t even imagine that that might just happen to be what he was meant to live for. As he made his way back to the Princes camp, he found himself humming. He hadn’t sung for such a long time…

My heart's been waiting

For the Love of my Life,

A princess is out there

Who'll be my wife...

And when will I find her I ask of you?

My one true Happily Ever After...

***************************

Art was a skilled General, the best that this or any world has ever seen. His ability to lead and inspire was unrivaled, and his tactics were impeccable. His deep strike into the heart of the Heat’s stronghold in the West was an amazing success, as he somehow rallied Princes and Princesses, farmers and peasants, and Kings and Queens from so many different lands towards a common goal. And as the dust settled and the Heat was defeated, normal life was finally able to continue for one and all. The Magic that protected the land and kept its old ways was strong again.

And what of Pan? He went on to start his own Tower for Pre-Princes and Pre-Princesses, where he taught all sorts of things to anyone of any background – not just royalty. Yes, there was Singing and Dancing, and yes, there was Swordsmanship and How to Defeat Horrible Monster classes, but anyone could take any class – potential Princes and Princesses alike. And Pan’s Tower had all the best teachers one could ask for. Art often came to teach on leadership and the history of war; but only on days when Lance wasn’t teaching the sword. Gigi would often come to teach young Pre-Princesses and Pre-Princes how to sing and sew, and about the magic of other worlds so much like our own. Isa and her enormous Prince would teach the finer sides of dancing, and Ella would teach how to enchant common vegetables into powerful tools, while her charming Prince taught how to heal mortal wounds. Rora taught about the strange and magical world of Sleep, and how to keep from slipping into it for too long. It wasn’t long before Pan’s Tower was regarded as the premier place of learning, and the men and women who graduated from his teachings kept the land safe from Evil for generations to come.

And what of Perfora and Pan? Sometimes we think we know best about our Happily Ever After, and whether we should or shouldn’t have it. And most of the time we’re dreadfully wrong. Who we are is What we are combined with When we are, and no one learned that fact better than Pan. And yes, it makes me so happy to say that Pan and Perfora lived Happily, Happily Ever After. No, their lives weren’t perfect and prescribed, and yes, they had their fair share of trials and troubles, but anyone who knew them would say their lives were anything but ordinary… and that is the greatest compliment either of them ever wanted. When finally they left on the final journey for the Lands Across the Seas, hundreds of people joined to see them off, and thousands more celebrated wherever they were to gave thanks to how much their lives had been changed by everything they’d done. And as the winds filled the sails on their ship for their final journey, it too seemed to give thanks to the amazing couple who had changed so much about their world…

...And so the wind doth blow across the land,

Taking with it the grains of Time's sand.

Another tale closes its pages

Until opened again by history's sages

Read more!

My City

Ages come and go, ceaselessly without fail,

History and prophecy the lives of mankind's tales.

And lo another story starts to flow

As across the land the wind doth blow...

The wind grabs fistfuls of rain and flings it at my window, trying desperately to break it open and take over my room. It’s the same everyday, and I swear one of these days its going to get in. The cold grey of dawn is timid as it tries to maneuver around the dark clouds that cover this city. My City really, it’s the only one I’ve ever known; it belongs to me as much as it does to anyone else. I sit up half way in my bed and look over at the clock: 5:43. No use falling asleep again now. All that happens when you try to fall back to sleep when the sun is trying to wake is bring on the nightmares. And yet I know that they’re not even dreams, its just my mind and my soul realizing the same truth – that this is it, this is life. And I’m not who I wanted to be.

I lay in bed until my alarm rings to start another grey day. I remember a time when I used to love laying in bed before alarms went off. I remember I time when I used to lay with a Love in bed before alarms went off. Those were good days; I wonder what she’s up to now. Probably has a couple of kids, divorced, and miserable. And cold. Its so hard to fight the cold lately. Maybe the wind is winning the battle against my window, and everyday a little bit more of My City makes its way into my room. Or maybe my body is realizing the same conclusion that my mind and soul have been slowly coming to agreement over.

I lock up my apartment, open my umbrella, and merge my body into the steady flow of foot traffic that always seems to be so intent on walking somewhere. No one looks at each other, no one says a word. We’ve been taught for so long to look down, to keep our feet walking one step in front of the either, to just walk along the concrete river roads that cut through the concrete canyons of skyscrapers. I remember a time when I used to walk with my head up, to see the beauty in the people around me and the nobility of My City. I seem to be doing a lot of remembering today. I look down instead, and do my dutiful role of moving along.

I nod at the attendant at the parking lot where my car is parked. He doesn’t look up. I get into my car, and crack the smallest smile. Now this, this is a recipe for passion – 2 seats, Italian, Red. I start the engine, put the car in gear, and ease out of the parking lot. Again, a memory of the past creeps into mind of how I used to leave this parking lot – very sideways with lots of smoke – but today, easing it out seems best fitting to my mood. I merge my car into the steady flow of vehicle traffic that always seems to be intent on driving somewhere, and do my dutiful role of moving along.

Work is grey. Grey walls, grey floors, grey suits, grey people. I’m always happy to leave. I drive to a café a few miles uptown. Why do I come here and not to any of the hundreds of cafés that are within a block of work? Couldn’t tell you. Maybe it’s because a part of me wants to drive. Or maybe I just need to escape the sickness of where I spend exactly forty hours of my week. Regardless, I like this café. Impressionist paintings hang ghostly on the walls. People sit by themselves, with only their drinks for company. Dozens of people come to this place to be alone together. No one talks. Only the clink of a spoon or rattle of china on a table. Everyone is dreaming of finding someone, but they don’t even look next to them. Look over there, they’d make a good couple if they only realized they were sitting next to someone just as interesting and haunted as they are. Dozens of people alone together, that’s all that this city can offer. I think I’ll take my drink to go today, thanks.

Everyday is the same. Days become weeks, weeks become years, years become lifetimes, lifetimes become millennia, and millennia become… but wait a second. Something is wrong here.

Something is wrong this morning. Where’s the rain? I open my eyes and am almost blinded by a single ray of light piercing through the clouds. Apparently the sun has decided to quit being timid for at least one morning. I still take my umbrella with me outside though – force of habit.

Work is still grey. So grey in fact, it makes the rain fall on even this rare sunny day. I knew it, nothing gold can last. One of my co-workers is all smiles today; he’s getting married next weekend. Good for him. Another one of my co-workers is all frowns. He was fooled by the sun’s zealousness and decided to defy My City and not bring an umbrella. I offer him a ride home – he’s a good guy, and you could even call us friends. It’ll be good to break the routine anyways.

It’s raining pretty good now as we make our way through the city. Its dark too; power must be out. We drive in silence; the car is making all sorts of sounds that usually make me want to drive fast, to feel alive, to move faster than the rain, to escape the clutches of this city. But I do my part and just move along. The darkness completely surrounds us now. The only lights are coming from my headlights and that streetlamp up ahead. Streetlamp? Odd, there’s no power on this block, but that streetlamp up ahead keeps getting closer and yes, it is lit. It illuminates a bus stop, and there sitting in the cold and pouring rain is a pair of people; an old lady and the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.

First the old lady. She’s old. But not in that creepy way old ladies can be old. She’s the type of grandmother who’d warm up an entire house with the smell of chocolate chip cookies early in the morning. She’s the type who always has a gleam of a lifetime’s experience in her eye, and yet gives you the smile to let you know that everything you say to her is on hundred percent completely new to her. She is a mother, a teacher, a fighter, and a lover. I can only hope that I can find a woman that will grow old to be her. The fact that she doesn’t have an umbrella means that the coldness of My City hasn’t broken her down; she was fooled by the sun’s valiant attempt this morning to fight the grey.

Now I just want to set this straight for a second for you. I’m not the type to fall in love quickly or easily. But you have to understand that when I say that the young woman is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life, I mean it. I’d venture to say that she’s the most beautiful woman I’ll ever see. I’ve talked ad nauseam to anyone who’ll listen about my analysis of the attractiveness of women (it involves all sorts of complicated metaphors and triangles – a topic for another story) but again, understand when I say that this woman is beautiful on a completely different level. Even from half a block away in the pouring rain illuminated only by a streetlight and my headlights, she steals my heart. She’s not even looking in my direction but the whole world disappears around her. She’s not looking down, she’s not doing her part and moving along. She’s talking to the old lady next to her, and most importantly, she also believed in the sun’s promise this morning that she wouldn’t need an umbrella. I have a decision to make.

My co-worker asks why were stopping. I pause a second as I figure out what I’m doing. OK. 2 seater car. Co-worker. Sweet old lady. Beauty incarnate. One umbrella. I open my door and tell my co-worker to get in the driver seat. I step out into the pouring rain, pull the umbrella that I knew would come in handy today from behind the driver’s seat, open it, and walk over to the bus stop. I try not to look at the younger of the two women; I’m going to need the full capacities of my brain and be able to speak for at least a few seconds. I offer the old lady a ride with my co-worker in my car, tell him I’ll pick up the car the next morning, and sit down to share my umbrella with this smiling ray of light under a single streetlight.

We watch as my car speeds off into the night, leaving us with just sound of the rain on my single umbrella. I sneak a look over at this woman sitting next to me. She has a nervous smile on her face as she pulls a strand of hair away from her face. She thanks me for the umbrella and waiting with her this night. She says more, but I really can’t recall anything she said. All I can remember is the way she spoke, how her eyes were always smiling, how she would laugh at the things I’d say, how she’d make me think in ways I’ve never thought before.

The bus arrives. We let it go by. We keep talking. Her name is Alex. I like guy’s names on girls. She’s lived in this city all her life, and yet, she’s completely different from everyone in the city. She doesn’t look down, she walks with a bounce in her step, and smiles at people on the street. And talking to her makes you want to do the same. Minutes fly by as quickly as the busses and the hours, and I haven’t felt this alive in a very long time. I talk about art and architecture, about the infinite lives of everyday people, about cooking, about lying in bed awake before the alarm goes off to start another grey day. We laugh about how weird it is to sleep facing any way but west, and how strange music videos are at two in the morning. She tells me how watching the weather channel helps her sleep at night, and how she’s going to school but doesn’t know understand why people have to pay to learn.

And just like that, before I’m ready for it, she’s saying that she really must be on her way soon, but that she’d love to see me again and that I really should get her number. I fumble in pockets for a scrap of paper, write down her number, hold the door open for her bus uptown, and she is gone. I sit for a while longer with a smile that slowly grows from a twitch to a grin to a beam. I stand up, start walking home, and look up at the night sky. I close my umbrella and let the rain fall on my face. My City really is quite beautiful if you take the time to look at it.

The rain is mocking me this morning. It is reminding me how stupid it is to run home twelve blocks in the rain when you have the most valuable thing in the world - ink on paper - in your pocket and want any hopes of recovering it. I keep trying to make out her markings on the still soggy piece of paper from yesterday’s dream, but it’s a lost cause. I swear the wind is going to break through that window any day now. And honestly, I could care less.

I make my way to my co-worker’s apartment. As we’re driving to work he asks me how it went. The rain mocks me in my car louder than it did in my apartment. He’s nothing but supportive, but it doesn’t ease the pain.

Work is as grey as ever. I Google her name. Apparently it only works right if you know a last name.

Everyday is the same now. I leave the greyness of work with a small glimmer of hope that I might see her again. I drive past the bus stop where I saw her last, and she’s never there. Everyday I retrace my steps, and everyday is the same. That glimmer of hope gets smaller and smaller everyday.

My City is a dangerous place. It’s a living thing, consuming lives as in order to survive. Its not evil, its just what it does. It does plenty of good, its just dangerous. Never forget that.

The glimmer of hope is gone. Just as rare as a morning with sunlight, so was that fateful day a rare moment – never to be recreated. Today I go to my grey work with an equally grey mood. You know what I haven’t done in a while? I haven’t gone to go be alone together with the people at my café. It’s been so long since I’ve been there. I drive uptown, park, and reach for the door to the café. But it’s already opening.

Alex says that she thought I’d call before I came by, but to come on in anyways. I stand there staring at her outlined in the frame of the door to my café. I can’t move for what seems like hours. She takes my hand with that beautiful smile of hers and draws me inside and upstairs to the studios that are rented out above the café. She tells me that she was worried that I’d forgotten about her or thought she was a weirdo for talking to a complete stranger in the rain for hours on end. We walk into her room and she spins around with a flourish, saying that this was all hers - it’s not much, but it works. She tells me that she was just on her way out, but that we really should get a drink downstairs together sometime. The whole time I don’t think I said two words. I just watched her leave out the front door of the café, turned and looked up the stairs leading up to her room, and looked around again at all the people sitting in front of their drinks, looking down. Is this for real?

It’s most definitely real. The next weeks are the most amazing times of my life. My City really is beautiful, you just have to open your eyes, or have your eyes opened for you. That same café where I had drunk thousands of times before - alone together - with all those lonely people becomes a new painting on a new canvas. Everyday my grey work day ends with this single bolt of sunlight. Her stories become mine, mine hers, and together our laughter rises above the walls of the city.

The rain is falling outside my window, and I’m up before my alarm goes off. Alex is still sleeping by my side. I can feel her heart beating, her chest rise and fall as she breathes, her eyes twitching as she dreams her dreams of beauty. And yet, I still don’t dare fall back asleep. Though everything seems to be right in this world, my mind and soul still seem to be coming to their own conclusions; I still fear the nightmares that haunt between the hours of dawn and daylight. A line from a song comes to mind,

“…I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch,

But love is not a victory march,

It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah…”

Strange that in My City thoughts of love are synonymous with cold and broken. Try as I might to shake these doubts, they just keep on building. Who do I think I am? Who am I to think that I could be so lucky as to even feint at happiness? Who am I to bring down the life of this beautiful woman lying next to me? I’ve loved before, and look at how that turned out. Maybe there’s a reason why people walk with their heads down in My City. I told you, My City is a living, breathing thing. It consumes people’s lives to keep itself running. And it was about to consume me.

Alex noticed something was wrong with me in the weeks that followed. The sunlight that burst through my window so long ago had faded from my life – all that’s left is the cold and rain that keeps on coming every single day. Alex is her normal beautiful smiling self, but there’s a sadness behind her eyes now. I’m bringing her down; I’m consuming her love and life just like My City consumes me. Where once we’d talk and laugh about anything and everything, I’m now cynical and short. Drinks at the café are more in silence now; we’ve become alone together. I have to do something quick.

But not for me. For her. Its not fair for her. She doesn’t deserve this life I’m giving her. My mind and soul have already made their decision that this really is life, and I’m not who I want to be. She needs better. On my way home from the greyness of work I stop by an old friend’s place. I haven’t seen her in years; she was in school, I was working. There was no love back then. There was hardly a connection. And there wasn’t tonight either. She needed warmth and escape from the coldness My City presses on you; I needed an excuse.

I don’t know which is louder – rain falling from the sky or tears falling from eyes. I try to play my part and act like she had it coming. I try to make her hate me. I think I almost convinced her. She leaves my apartment with tears streaming down her face, but the light of love in her eyes isn’t quite gone. She knows what I did. Knows me too well she does. And she knows I won’t change, even though I am the world to her. I used to think that I was the noble one for loving something enough to let it go; but she’s doing the exact same thing. And doing it a hundred times better.

The crash of broken glass awakens me. The wind is howling into my room, and rain is soaking the carpet beneath my shattered window. I leap out of bed and look for something to stop the wind, cursing My City for finally letting the wind break into my room. Work is grey. The café is familiar. Alex doesn’t live upstairs anymore, I haven’t seen her in years. I doubt I’ll ever see her again. I sit down with my head over my drink, basking in the togetherness of being alone with the other patrons. I finish my drink, walk out the door, tighten my coat against the howling rain. The lights around me go dark; there must be a power outage. For a second I see a single streetlamp lit up on a dark block, illuminating a bus stop, but it too winks out after a few minutes. Nothing gold can stay. I walk home alone, and the whole time a voice whispers to me that it’s finally won; the voice of the wind.

...And so the wind doth blow across the land,

Taking with it the grains of Time's sand.

Another tale closes its pages

Until opened again by history's sages

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Welcome to the home of my Stories!

So, in response to everyone who's said that I should publish my work, I've decided at last to at least get my writings up on the web. Thanks Tan for getting me to take action!

Stay tuned, I'll be putting up new stories every few weeks or so. I'd love your comments on each one!
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