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It's writing challenge time, brought to you by the ever-awesome site of Indie Ink. New contestants always welcome; new feedback and comments always welcome; not meeting deadlines never welcome...
Welcome to week 12.
Week 12.
My Challenger: Miranda
My Challenge: whatever you write you must use onomatopoeia in it somewhere
Who I am Challenging: Random Girl
What I Challenged Them With: A life lesson learned from an *extremely* unlikely source/event...
Worth a Thousand Words...
Definition by Webster's,
Enlightenment by Nature...
"What's this?" the young woman asked as she brushed away the dirt and dust.
"Why, it looks like... Yes, yes, my child, you have found it!"
"What?!" She straightened and stepped back, unsure if this was one of those "Yes! Step back!" moments or one of those "Yes! Bring it here!" moments. The first were far more often than she liked to admit, let alone experience.
The man knelt down on the dirt and slowly lifted the item, holding it with tweezers. "I never thought we'd find any evidence, and here it is!"
"Here is what?" she half-whispered, seeing the reverence in his eyes, the stillness of his fingers as they applied the just-right amount of pressure to secure the thing between the metal tongs. These moments were indeed rare, explosive, sometimes good, sometimes bad, and she had yet to figure out which of these it would be. She thought back to the time when they had been on Ares, when a similar item bearing analogous markings had been raised from the red soil--and scattered to the wind once it was freed from the soil. That had been a bad, bad day for them both. Not to mention the ridicule and charges of imagined evidence that had followed them for months.
Now they found themselves on Terra, supposed mythological home to the Second. As she let her gaze sweep over the brown, dusty landscape, she couldn't help but wonder if the myths were just that--myths.
"Draga, this--this," he said, his hands now quivering as he gently carried the item through the flaps of the nearby tent, "will prove that I've been right all along--come, come, quickly, inside!"
She shrugged, and followed him into the darkness, where she watched as he placed the item into a protective shield, then sealed it inside, preserving the item--
"Paper!" he said, the reverence still in place. "With actual, hand-written letters! Do you realize what this means?"
"Not really..." she trailed off.
She stepped closer to peer at the item, knowing now that she could set off fusionworks and the thing--paper--would be safe. She leaned down, making out scratches of color on the pale yellow surface. "I take it those are the... Um, 'letters'?"
"Yes, yes, silly child!" He rubbed his hands excitedly, unsure what to do now that he had his proof, his vindication. Now that his hands had placed the paper into safety, they seemed to have minds of their own, rubbing together, waving about, running through his hair...
"Oh, when my colleagues see this..."
She tried to keep from rolling her eyes. "Any chance we can figure out what these letters mean?"
"Oh, how silly of me! Yes, yes, hold on..." He wandered to the left side of the tent, picked up their helmets, and handed hers to her. "We'll download all of my research now--it's a lot, so take the painkillers or you'll end up with a hell of a headache. Once you're ready, navigate towards the com in the rear of the reality and press the orange key. That's where the information is stored." Then he had his helmet on and his body, released from conscious thought, collapsed on the chair behind him.
She eyed her helmet. She hated these trips across the ether, especially so far from home. She'd heard of consciousnesses being lost, carried away on the lightwaves of the universe, never to arrive in any body, anywhere. The teacher may think it all superstitious nonsense, but there were just too many stories to poo-poo the idea entirely.
"What are you waiting for?" He was back, obviously, as he raised his helmet off and stood back up. "Come on, we have much work to do! Get going!"
She sighed, sat, and placed the visor over her head. Closing her eyes, she reached up and engaged.
And then she was there, in his office back on Yiu. She wandered over to the consoles at the back, located the orange button, and pressed her fingers deep inside.
The teacher hadn't been kidding about the headache, as information zoomed into her brain: thoughts; ideas; images; pictures; vids; other conscious matter. She half-stumbled back across the office, sat back into the ether-chair, and in nanoseconds found herself back on Terra.
She let out the breath she had been holding.
"Draga, see this--and this?" He was pointing excitedly at the "paper," picking out symbols that apparently meant something. She shook her head, willing the downloaded information to quickly disseminate so she, too, could act as excited as he was.
"Yes... Yes, I do see..." she mumbled as she stared, the scratches starting to form coherent, logical meaning. "But--"
"But?"
"Why-- I mean, what kind of civilization would try to place ideas in such a rudimentary form? I mean, all throughout the galaxy, all conscious minds work on images, pictures, intangible thoughts. What kind of being would use... You called them 'letters,' yes?"
"Exactly!" he cried. "These beings--they called themselves 'humans,' but you were taught 'the Second' in school--this was their main form of communication for centuries--eons, in fact! It's why they were classified as the Second. Their contributions to the races of sentients that followed are almost unparalleled, excepting, of course, the First. But that's hotly debated, as you know."
"With letters?"
"Yes!" he cried. "Evidence has been far and few between, granted. Once they perfected and harnessed the power of electricity, soon the hand-written word was replaced by the typed word, and then the light-scribed word, and so on. Most of this has been speculation, of course, as we only have our own records to fall back on to the earliest days of our races intermingling, near the end of the Second's time in this galaxy. By then they were so many millenia old, they had long since ceased with letters, written, typed, or otherwise!"
"But I fail to see how this archaic means of communication--"
"Think of this," he said, now thoroughly engaged in teacher mode. "Back into the recesses of time, long before our race, the Tenths, had even dreamed of space travel. We had long, long lists of images for communicating even the most basic of needs! The Second's had a few similar early cultures in which images served them instead of these letters--Cheenese, I believe they were called, something like that anyway--but even as we, the Tenth, were evolving almost in lock-step with the Second, they achieved so much more in such a shorter amount of time because they realized that not all images were viewed equally! Take our water picture, for instance. To some of the Second, it meant life, while to another Second it could mean wet, or where fish are found, or--"
"What's a 'fish'?"
"Never mind that! Don't you see? The Second realized that, until brain-transferring thought technology could be harnessed, where images and their conscious meanings could be sent to another leaving no doubt as to what was meant, they needed a system of communicating exact, specific, precise ideas!"
"So they knew in the future they would have brain-transferring thought technology?"
"Don't be stupid! Of course not! But through their evolution, they realized, unlike the evolution of our own cultures, that to create 'letters' to ascribe meaning in ways images could not, they had a better chance of communicating, which set the stage for them to be the Second! It was only by the merest of chances that the First came along before them! Fluke chance!"
She soaked all this in, melded it into the downloaded information she had received back in his office. "I guess I see what you're getting at..."
"Second, you know, was the culture that came up with the phrase, 'A picture is worth a thousand words.' And in that little phrase lies the whole of their successes!"
"Hmm..."
She stared at the paper, the first evidence of the Second's ancient form of "writing." Somehow she felt a bit dirty staring at something so old, as if it were beneath her to consider something so archaic as "grand."
She stared harder as her brain started making more sense out of more and more of the symbols. "Not much repetition..."
"No, and that was part of the genius. Twenty-six symbols, or letters, were all they needed to get even the most complex ideas across. Twenty-six! Compare that to our ancient image system thousands upon thousands of images deep!"
"What are these?"
"Those are 'numbers.' They sometimes used these symbols to shorten, or 'abbreviate,' if you will, so it would take even less letters to get the idea across."
"You have got to be kidding."
"Second was nothing if not succinct at times. Straight to the point, that's how they liked things. Something I think our species could take a lesson from." His eyes never left the paper, engaged in seemingly trying to memorize this document in case it's fate went that of the way the one on Ares had gone.
"And this--" he said, pointing at the paper behind the shield, "this is what truly made Second great."
She scanned through her brain database. "But-- that's not even... It's not..."
"Exactly!" he cried. "This is better than even I could have dreamed of finding!"
"These letters make no sense in that configuration though!" she cried. "How great can the Second have been if they couldn't even then get their letters in the right order? Or even the right combination of letters?!"
"Read the letters, don't simply stare at them," he urged.
"What? 'Read'?"
"You see this word? I read it as 'Brumrumrummmmrumrummmm'."
She stared at him blankly.
"If I read the entire line, or lines, I get the image in my head of thunder making noise over the horizon!"
"I don't follow! It's not a 'word' using their 'letters'."
"Oh, but it is, it is. One thing Second was great at was creativity. And realizing that sometimes even their known letters and words failed them when trying to get across an idea, they made it up!"
"What?"
"They knew what sounds each letter made. So they would throw the letters together to convey the sound! It's called--or at least I think they called that, an 'onomatopoeia'. When they threw letters together to convey the image they had no exact word for! Whether out of reverence for such basic sounds and noises I suppose we'll never know."
"Sounds like the silliest--"
"Oh, but it's not, and here's why," the teacher stated emphatically. "How would you communicate the quiet whisper of the wind? How would you know whether it was a breeze before a storm, or a breeze bringing relief to a sweltering day?"
"I'd just... Well, you just know. You look at the sky, you watch the weather vids, you..." She trailed off.
"Ah, but with a simple, quiet spelling of "sssshhhh through the trees," using the Second's letters, all humans knew! And if it was a 'fictional' story, they couldn't very well watch the weather vids to know what the human was trying to convey, could they?"
"Well, they could watch the vids of the story--"
"Not all stories had vids in their cultures."
"And you're sure they are worthy of such praise?"
"You have no idea..."
Previous Challenges I have answered:
[Week 1: All of Me] [Week 2: Child's End]
[Week 3: Seeking Bonds] [Week 4: Just So You Know]
[Week 5: Justice & Mercy] [Week 6: Tale of a Fateful Flick]
[Week 7: Hell or High Water] [Week 8: Streaming Summer]
[Week 9: Piss & Vinegar] [Week 10: Set It Free]
[Week 11: Four Horsemen, Three Gods, a Transgendered Devil, and Lazarus Under a Pear Tree...]
Over on Leitmotif, Ergo was having a discussion about Human Perfection, and how, while it is possible for man to obtain such a state insomuch as we understand it to be so from a certain perspective, others who come at life from the view of "man as fallen" or "man is wrong" conceive of standards of probability and impossibility. His take is quite nicely put, but I wish to follow the lines of argument on a more practical plane, as I tend to think in terms of practicality, or obvious and immediate application as such.
The reason I bring it up is because, in reading his post, my mind reacted to certain "tangents," shall we say, and thought I'd expound upon some of the thoughts and ideas this caused to happen in my mind.
1. Man Was Created Perfect in God's Image:
No, no, no, not that I believe this, but it is one of the "standards" to which a Christian (mostly literal, fundamentalist ones) is led down the road to the "fall" of man, or the insertion of the "sin" nature that prevents man from ever re-attaining his so-called perfect status within the realm that they believe their god intended. In a nutshell, god created man in his image (woman as an after-thought from a supposed spare rib [which in turn begs how a creature created perfectly could still be so when missing a rib]) and thus, in all ways possible in the realm of earth and its reality, man was, indeed, perfect. But, this perfection, as it were, left much to be desired, as anyone can tell from a simple, short reading of the Genesis account. So let's start with a definition of perfect,shall we?
Perfection: 1 : the quality or state of being perfect : as a : freedom from fault or defect : FLAWLESSNESS
Free from fault or defect. I think anyone would allow for that as a perfectly reasonable working definition, wouldn't you? But, then, if god created such a perfect man in his image, how was man able to be duped by so silly and naive a trick as the snake going, "Hmm-hmm, doesn't that fruit look yummy?" Now one could argue that, as Eve was made from only a rib, and Adam had the audacity to be created from scratch, she didn't have much of a shot, did she? Or perhaps, one could argue that being "perfect" apparently didn't include a working knowledge of good and evil, therefore she didn't know it would be wrong to disobey god and eat of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil (but then the whole "fall" story falls apart, as it were, for without knowing good and evil, how could she actually commit "evil" by eating from the tree?) Then there is the argument, the most logical one, as it were, that the story is just that--a story. Any critical look, using the working facilities of our supposedly god-given brains (which begs why more people don't use them) leads one to make supercilious leaps of logic and a suspension of disbelief that even B-rated horror movies can't attain.
Then there is the question of body parts alone, never mind the working facilities of brains that Adam and Eve couldn't employ even in a state of perfection. If their bodies were designed perfectly, in the image of sky god (although bodily structure is generally not considered to be in god's image--wonder why? Does the thought of god having a penis or a vagina really bother people that much?), how is it there are so many genetic defects, flaws, diseases, and such? If the body were truly "designed" and made "perfect," as a literal reading leads one to believe, no matter how disingenuously, how could the body then leave that perfect state simply from a working knowledge of the good and evil that was supposedly contained in a piece of fruit? Logically, if something is perfect, it cannot be imperfect, or even fall from that perfection, or it wasn't truly perfect from the get-go! We would also need to overlook the fact that if a perfect being created us as perfect beings who could not remain perfect, the being that created us (i.e., god) is also not perfect--after all perfection can not create anything imperfect.
Further, if one is to buy into the whole "perfect bodies" fallacy, where in the hell did the appendix come from? It has no function whatsoever!! (and if it does, someone needs to get mine back from the doctor who removed it when I was in ninth grade!!) One needs--again--to suspend disbelief in order to come up with plausible reasons as to why god, in his perfect design, would include a useless organ? (Never mind the extra rib that was used to fashion Eve!) Along those lines, one could supposedly argue the appendix was only used for eating "perfect" fruit (i.e., fruit not containing a knowledge of good and evil, or knowledge of snake anatomy, for that matter); or perhaps argue that we "micro-evolutionized" it away, which, in all actuality, a perfect body would have no need to micro-evolutionize anything away from anywhere--supposedly it's already perfect! (not to mention that, if the body evolutionized away from having an organ in a perfect body, wouldn't the body then be even closer to perfection as it figured out it didn't need said organ, thus negating the entire original premise of having a perfect body from the get-go?)
Then there are the countless mutations, birth defects, abnormalities--I suggest anyone who would like a firsthand glimpse, or better yet, an awe-inspiring account of the actual numbers that still carry on to this day of Cyclops's, webbed feet and fingers, double-headed persons, multi-eye faceted, hair covering, extra-limb carrying, tailed human births--live births!--that happen every day in our world pick up a copy of Mutants by Armand Marie Leroi. Subtitled "On Genetic Variety and the Human Body," it's a fascinating read! You've no idea! (And it's has pictures and illustrations!!) Point being, though, a perfect body wouldn't break down, wouldn't devolve into the hunks of junk we currently pull around against gravity, and there certainly wouldn't be over 100,000 miscarriages every year in the United States alone! God could have done a lot better with this "perfect state" he supposedly created us in, wouldn't you say?
Regardless, the "created in perfection" isn't a plausible working model, no matter which way you slice the pie. As to whether Ergo's greater point in his post, that perfection is attainable by man, I don't know if I follow it correctly or not. I may not be the brightest bulb (in fact, I know I'm not!), but I think even if you do buy into the whole "man is in sin" argument, it allows for a great read, so I suggest you check it out (and not because he links back to me in it! :D)
2. The Only Way for Man to Reach Perfection Again is Through Jesus.
Now, never minding the fact that we are now being asked to appeal to the very god that made us flawed (in that, what he gave us neither retained its supposed perfection, and even in our state of perfection, we simply needed to be asked and were indeed looking for something more than what had been provided), in the hopes that, if this radical cult leader form the zero-st century is correct and to be believed, he was again perfect, and died perfectly flawless, so that we can all join in happy bliss and ignorance with this creator for eternity (and I know some of you are cringing, as this would be your definition of hell! :D) A friend brought up a great point earlier in his comments on one of my older posts, and I agree with him whole-heartedly, that without a working knowledge of what evil, or bad, is, one cannot even begin to know what good is, and vice-versa! It is impossible for one to assess, for instance, the "goodness" or "badness" of a toaster, until such a day comes as a toaster stops working on you; but even then, you don't swear off toasters! You simply label that particular toaster as bad, and go out to buy a good toaster. Perhaps you may go so far as to label the brand of toaster as "bad," or, less than ideal, but toasters in and of themselves remain "good," not only because you have now experienced a "bad" toaster, but because having toast is, in your world, "good."
When it comes to fluid morality (and the other half of you that couldn't understand why we would think of heaven as hell are now up in arms over the very concept!), good is only as good, and bad is only as bad, as it affects us directly. True, one can hold to "murder" as bad without having been murdered, or having been a murderer--but murder has to have occurred within your realm of existence to be labeled so, otherwise you wouldn't even know what murder was, and without knowing what it was, it couldn't be bad. Morality is dependent upon human perception. It goes back to that wise old Chinese saying, "If a tree falls in a forest, but no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" Well, one wouldn't know unless one were there. And though one could reasonably argue about sound waves and vibrations and such that there theoretically was a sound, the sound itself is dependent upon your ear bones being there to catch the vibration, thus enabling there to actually be a sound! Without those bones in your ear, there isn't a sound, as nothing was contacted, or vibrated, as a result of the falling tree. As such, it goes back to "right" and "wrong." "Right" can only be "right" or "good" insomuch as there is a comparative "bad" or "not so good" in comparison.
Concluding, therefore, one could reasonably argue that naivete, or a non-working knowledge of right and wrong, could allow for a "state" of perfection; however, it is a mislabelling to use the word "perfection" in describing this state of non-morality. The opposite wouldn't be amorality, or bad, as this would imply a working sense of moral and good--this state would actually be ignorance. And in being naive or ignorant for eternity with a sky god that couldn't even keep your "perfect" bodies from breaking down and mutating, you have not attained perfection, you have obtained ignorance. Heaven could not possibly be a "happy" or "blissful" place unless one were well aware of the "hell" or "suffering" place with which to compare your existence as such. You can't know the beauty of a rose unless you've seen a rose and you've also seen a dead flower. You could know it is a rose if someone tells you, but unless you have something "ugly" or "plain" to compare it against, you don't know that you find it beautiful (and, even then, perhaps you don't find it as such, but instead see it as pretentious and gaudy, in which case you will still need a daisy or a buttercup to have a reference point).
Are you catching my meaning here? For a man to claim to be the way to heaven, you in actuality wouldn't be attaining heaven, insomuch as heaven is to be understood from a Christian perspective. You'd simply be attaining ignorance. And, I dare say, ignorance is to be found aplenty here on earth, and we are not in need of a place which would allow one to not have use of his faculties. For you'd only end up in nonexistence--which is where we're all going to end up anyway...
Cheers!
It's writing challenge time, brought to you by Indie Ink. New contestants always welcome; new feedback and comments always welcome; not meeting deadlines never welcome...
Welcome to week 11.
Week 11.
My Challenger: Barb Black
My Challenge: It was bound to happen sooner or later...
Who I am Challenging: Binary Footprint
What I Challenged Them With: It was a bright and sunny day after a dark and stormy night, and the scent of murder was in the air...
Four Horsemen, Three Gods, a Transgendered Devil,
and Lazarus Under a Pear Tree...
String theory is a developing theory in particle physics that attempts to reconcile quantum mechanics and general relativity. It is a contender for the theory of everything (TOE), a manner of describing the known fundamental forces and matter in a mathematically complete system. The theory has yet to make testable experimental predictions, leading some to claim that it cannot be considered a part of science. --Wikipedia
Setting the stage…
“Lazarus?” Jesus asked with an incredulous expression on his face. “Is it—is it really you?”
Lazarus walked up and gave him a big hug, then stepped back--and smacked Jesus across the cheek.
“What the-- What was that for?” He rubbed his cheek, the sting staying long after the hand had left.
“Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? Any clue as to what kind of fucked up existence you left me in once you ‘raised me from the dead’? Why I oughta--”
“Wait! Wait, hold on there big guy!” Jesus placed his hand against Lazarus’s approaching body. “Is that any way to greet the guy who brought you back from the dead to the loving arms of your two sisters? Who’s feet were washed by one of those same sisters? What is the matter with you? I’m Jesus Fucking Christ, for Christ’s sake!”
“Yeah, you brought me back alright. And I haven’t died since!” And then he punched Jesus senseless...
* * *
Death walked through the swinging double doors and plopped down on the nearest stool, which, unfortunately for him, happened to be right next to War.
“What took you so long, Bones?” War asked right before shooting back his lemon-drop.
“ ‘What took you so long, Bones?’” Death mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “You know very well what took so long. That god damned horse! I swear he’s on his last leg!”
War guffawed, spraying Death’s robe with spittle. Death’s face took on a disgusted look as he swiped at the small beads of liquid that peppered his garments.
“You know, you could just ask him for another one,” Famine said, looking up from the wine list.
“Yeah, if I could find that charlatan, I’d--”
“You’d what?” War practically shouted. “You’d crumble down into a tiny pile of bone dust before you even found the nerve.” He laughed again and signaled to the bartender for another shot while Death shot him an evil glare.
“Excuse me, bartender, you wouldn’t happen to have--how do I ask this?--a better wine list?” Famine asked, gesturing toward the brochure in front of him.
“What does this look like, the Pearly Gates Restaurant?” he sneered while pouring War’s next tumbler. “What you see is what you got.” He semi-slammed the bottle down on the bar and walked toward the other end of the bar where some demons chatted quietly.
“I hate coming to this place,” Famine sighed. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt either of you to go out for some fine dining every now and then.” He placed his elbows up on the bar and plopped his chin into his hands. “My horse for a fine bottle of Montrachet from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti.”
“Really?” Death looked up from his grumblings, an expression of delight.
Famine rolled his eyes and sighed again. Death went back to sipping his martini.
“What you boys need is a night on the town!” War declared, thumping back another shot. “Some raping, pillaging, perhaps a scream or two from some pretty young lass--” he stopped, glanced quickly at Famine, then added, “or lad, as the case may be...” fading off.
“Hey, where is Pestilence anyway?” Death queried as he reached across and grabbed the wine list from in front of Famine. “Wasn’t he supposed to have returned from... from...”
“Palau? He did. Yesterday. He said he needed a vacation to recoup from his vacation, however, so...” Famine trailed off.
* * *
Ring... ring... ring...
Pestilence placed a pillow over his head.
“That won’t do any good, you know!” a voice shouted from out in the hall. “I’m just being polite by ringing!”
“Go. Away,” he shouted from beneath his pillow.
“No.”
Pestilence shot up out of bed, inadvertently hitting Gabriel in the chin with his flying hands.
“Ow! You bastard!”
“That’s what you get for warping in here and shouting in me ears, ya twit!” He flopped back down onto his bed, pulling the covers up and over his head.
“I think you broke something,” Gabriel sat down, rubbing his jaw. “Geez, you got any Advil or something? This is gonna smart real bad in a few minutes...” He turned and poked at the lump under the satin sheets. “Hey, you, pretty boy. Pain reliever? Anything?”
“Go. Away,” came the muffled reply.
“No can do, hot stuff.” Gabriel stood up and yanked the blankets. “Aw, dude!”
Pest was still face down, head buried in a pillow… Buck naked. “No one invited you, and a peep show will cost ya.” He sat up, yanked the blanket from Gabriel’s now slack hands and disappeared once more.
“Dude, you so have to start wearing something to bed--what if I were Jesus... Or the Big Cheese himself?”
“Then they’d already know I was naked, wouldn’t they? Now scram! I have a party to be at tonight and need to sleep off last night’s...”
“Good point... Look, you think I like coming here and smelling your beer-piss breath first thing in the morning? No, I’m here because she sent for you.” He watched Pest’s head turn up--or what he thought was his head--and cock an ear in his general direction.
“She sent you to get me?”
“All four of you, actually.” Gabriel now appeared nonchalant and began wandering aimlessly about the room studying the brick-a-brack. “Something’s up or else she wouldn’t have--No way! You have Chevy Chase’s autograph? When did you get this?”
Pest flipped the blankets off and caught the picture just as Gabriel was dropping it to cover his eyes. “Oh yes, shield your eyes from the naked boy body. Jesus Christ, Gabe, get a hold of yourself. What are you, eight? Did she say what she wanted?”
“N-n-no. At least put a towel on or something!”
Pest reached up and yanked Gabe’s hands down from his eyes--which were squeezed tightly shut. He sighed. “Gabe? Gabe? Gabriel buddy-ol-boy? Anyone home? What does she want?”
“She didn’t--she didn’t-- Oh god, he’s still naked.” Gabriel turned his back toward Pest. “Listen, just be there in an hour’s time, alright? I have to find the rest of the riff-raff.”
“Will do...”
“And wear something... Anything... Clothes!” he shouted, slamming the apartment door behind him.
* * *
Where we find something is missing...
She sat on her throne, tapping her fingers impatiently.
“So sorry, ma’am, but he is coming, I promise you.”
“Listen here,” Death snapped, “while we’re waiting for party boy, can we talk about me getting a new horse?”
“What’s wrong with the horse you have now?”
“Oh, I don’t know, let’s see--I’ve only had him since the beginning of time!”
“And?” She arched her brow expectantly.
“And? And? Do you have any idea what it’s like to ride a sickly horse for one hundred thousand years? She trips over the tiniest pebbles, she’s always throwing up, she has the shits constantly...”
“As the prophecy was written, darling, you ‘ride upon a sickly horse,’ ” the Holy Spirit stated. “What do you want me to do? Rewrite the apocalypse?”
“But--but-- That’s over! We’ve been there, done that! The prophecy has been fulfilled!”
War giggled, “That’s right, you tell her, Bones!”
Famine smacked War lightly on the back with a “Hush!”
H.S. briefly glanced at them and then returned her attention to Death. “Yes, well, we’ll see...”
“We--we will? I’m going to get a new horse? Halle-frickin-lu-yah!” He lifted his dark robed and did a little jig. “I’m getting a new horse, I’m getting a new horse!” he sang giddily.
H.S. slapped a hand down, bringing Death sharply back out of his revelry. “We won’t see about that, you stinking pile of rot!”
War guffawed loudly this time, and even Famine seemed to have some trouble keeping a grin off of his face. Gabriel gave them a stern look.
“No… no, please! I can’t bear this! I just...” Tears started at the corners of his eye sockets.
“Gabriel, get that half-wit and get him now. I’m tired of all this lolly-gagging. We have important things to discuss.”
“Right away, ma’am.” Gabriel warped out of sight.
“And stop that sniveling! You’re Death, for crying out loud!”
Famine hugged Death gently and used a hankie to wipe the tears from his skull. War huffed and rolled his eyes.
A minute or two later, Gabriel reappeared--with Pest wearing only a towel.
“--in a minute, Gabe, I’m taking a shower... Oh, shit. Hello. Hello all. Holy Spirit, always a pleasure. I was just, ahh, cleaning up a bit, so sorry to have kept you waiting. I’ll just... Just wait over here... With my towel!” he growled that last part at Gabriel, who simply shrugged innocently.
“Fine, whatever. Listen up, you goofs. I have a report here from Lucy that says we’re missing someone.”
The four horseman stared at her silently.
“Didn’t you hear me? Someone is missing!” She paused. “Well? Have you anything to say for yourselves?”
War stepped forward slightly. “Uh... Begging your pardon, ma’am. Missing from where?”
“Hell, you bearded buffoon, someone is missing in hell!” she stood and shouted angrily. "You dimwits had one job--one job! You had thousands--no hundreds of thousands of years to prepare! You had legions of demons and angels at your beck and call, reports, data sheets, the latest technology that Father could buy, and SOMEONE IS MISSING!? Is this a joke? Please tell me this is a joke!”
War shrugged and stepped back into line, cowed and speechless.
“Impossible.” She rubbed her temple with one hand and flapped another one at Gabriel. “Bring in Lucy,” she replied before sitting back down on her throne.
“Yes, ma’am.” Warp. Warp. “Here she is, ma’am, at your service.”
“Lucy--”
“Lucifer, thank you.”
“Listen, Father made you woman, I don’t care what surgeries you’ve had done, so if I call you Lucy, you damn well better just answer with a ‘yes, ma’am,’ you hear me you maggoty little--”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lucifer curtsied sarcastically.
“Why you little sniveling--”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Gabriel interrupted. “The, uh, missing person?”
“Yes, yes, so sorry. I’ll snap your britches later, Lucy. But for now, I need to know how far you are on balancing the death book. Do you know who’s missing yet?”
“No, ma’am, not yet, but we are getting close. Let’s see here--“ Lucifer snapped his fingers and a large volume appeared on a lectern before him. “We’ve catalogued thus far 16,414,809,102 humans, 20,780,999,865,334 Martians, 23,001 Jupiterians--we’ve just started on them, you see--and 1,907,456,8--”
“So, you would say ‘no,’ then, in answer to my question?” H.S. asked, dangerously dripping sweet.
“No, we don’t yet know who’s missing.” Lucifer snapped his fingers again and the book and lectern disappeared. “But we’re getting there. It should only take--oh, I don’t know--20 more years to finish?”
“That’s 20 years too long!”
“Don’t blame me, blame what’s-his-face for not giving me enough assistants! I’m not the one who declared all creation done after six measly days, ya know.”
“Sorry, sorry, of course you’re right, but we’re all working within very strict parameters here and according to prophecy, the new heaven and new Earth--not to mention the rest of those miserable rocks--must be completed in fifteen years.”
“Well, perhaps if you approve overtime in the budget--”
“No. What I need is for four very clumsy, incompetent fools to find that last soul!” Her eyes whipped around and fell back onto the horsemen who had just begun to think they might be getting off the hook.
“Yes, ma’am!” War responded.
“Yes, ma’am,” Famine replied.
“Yes, ma’am,” Death said wistfully.
“You got it, H.S.,” Pest said.
“Excuse me?” H.S. began to angrily get up, but before she could say or do anything more, the four were out the door.
Outside the door, the four looked at one another.
“Meet you guys at the bar in one hour?” Pest asked.
“H.S. isn’t going to like that...” Famine replied, trying to secretly peek beneath Pest's towel.
“Listen, guys--” he said, closing his towel tighter around his waist to close the small gap on the side, “we’ve got twenty years--”
“Fifteen, Nancy,” War interjected.
“--so the least we should do is grab a pint and come up with a plan, yeah?”
“I guess this means no horse...” Death said dejectedly.
“Right guys, one hour, see you at the bar,” Pest said, running off down the street.
“Come on,” Famine said, and the three horsemen started down the block toward the bar.
* * *
Where the issue is brought to light...
"I'm... No, no, that can't be!" the son of God cried at the vast emptiness of what was once a full, thriving planet.
"Oh, you'd better believe it alright," Lazarus cackled, taking a swig from a just-opened bottle of Jack. He settled himself at the base of a nearby pear tree.
"No. No! I refuse to believe it! I'm Jesus Frickin'-Flippin' Christ! I can't do something that's impossible for me to undo! That negates the whole point of omnipotence!"
"Not to mention omniscience! Haha!"
"What are you blathering about? You drunken fool..."
"Oh, fine, fine! Blame me for my alcohol problems! Have you been stuck on this rotten rock for millennia?! No?"
"Listen, Laz--buddy. I thought I was doing you a favor, yeah? Bringing my bud back from the dead, making your sisters happy, all the while proving what a groovy all-powerful dude I was! I never meant--"
"Well, that's a fine kettle of fish, isn't it?"
"But regardless--when the apocalypse happened... I mean, really, all souls being raptured and judged and shit... Means all souls! Not 'all souls but those Jesus brought back from the dead once upon a time!'"
"Hey, yeah, wait--wasn't there that little girl you also raised from the dead?"
"Yeah... Yeah! Exactly! See? So this is all just a big mistake. She's obviously not around, eh? Therefore, it's just that the four horsemen missed you or something. See? Now come along--I may have missed the main event, but I can still rapture you, my friend! Haha! Perfect!"
"Uh..."
"Okay, okay, okay--put the bottle dow-- Laz... Put the bottle... Dammit!" Jesus reached over and wrestled the bottle from Lazarus's hands and mouth. "Shit! Look, this robe was made just for this occasion! Now it's got-- What is this again?"
"Jack Daniel's. A shitload better than that 'wine' you made for that blasted wedding, I'll tell you!"
Jesus grimaced. "It was my first miracle, give a god a break, would ya?" He turned and moved a few steps away from Lazarus. "Now, I'm not sure if rapturing hurts, per se..."
"I've dulled the pain--give it your best shot, J.C.!"
He rolled his eyes. "Another nickname... Fantastic..." He closed his eyes and spread his hands toward the sky. "Ali.... Oop!"
Lightning criss-crossed the skies, thunder rumbled and deep dark clouds rolled in from across the vast plains. Winds picked up and debris whipped up forming tornadoes. Hail began to fall as trees bowed in worship before the awesome power unleashed from the son of God's hands...
When Jesus lowered his hands and looked down...
"Hiya."
"What-- Dude!"
Lazarus pointed at the bottle near Jesus's feet. "Can I get that back?"
* * *
"Hey, there, laddies! Lookie over there!" War pointed from atop his stallion toward the horizon where a mass of swirling clouds dominated the landscape.
Famine looked up from his magazine, pulled his shades down with the magazine-holding hand while simultaneously raising his parasol. "Oh, my!" he declared. "What a hullabaloo that looks like!"
Pestilence barely stirred on his horse, busy applying tanning lotion to his golden, practically nude body. "Uh-huh..."
"Death! Look! What do-- Where the bloody hell is he now?" roared War.
Famine pointed a delicate, well-manicured finger toward the horizon behind. "He traded in his horse for a... Hmm... Has one wheel, pedals..."
War shook his head. "A unicycle?"
"Yes, yes, that's it! A nice shiny red one! Very chic, if I do say so myself," Famine replied. "I'd have joined him, but..."
"Afraid you'd break a nail?" Pest teased. "Hey--why'd we stop?"
"I think I know where our lost soul might be, lads. And it's that-a-way!" War reared up on his horse and bellowed toward a small figure behind them. "Come on, yer bag o' bones! Destiny awaits!"
Death, barely hearing the cry from so far, lifted one small, bony middle finger, dragging behind him the handlebars to a once brand-new-looking shiny red unicycle. "They just had to destroy all the roads during the tribulation... Goddamn waste..."
* * *
Death, breathless, exhausted, weary, crumpled at the feet of the gathered crowd, bringing the crowd on the hillside up by one. Jesus barley spared him a glance as he watched while Pestilence tried to give Lazarus leprosy.
"Really, this isn't working," Famine wailed. "His body just... just..."
"Let me take me axe to him!" War cried, obviously an argument he'd been using for at least half an hour.
Pest stepped back, wiped the sweat from his brow. "I dunno, Jesus. Whatever you did..."
"I didn't do anything! Well, I did do something, but this is obviously some devilish trickery!"
Whoom! Suddenly Lucifer stood before the small crowd, tapping his foot. "I resent that. Who is this wretched looking bugger anyway?"
"Lucy, this is Lazarus. Lazarus, Lucy... Can I get anyone some refreshment? I had special cupcakes prepared for the Tribulation Take Two, and..." Famine trailed off, realizing, perhaps, that no one would care about how he hand-decorated each cupcake either.
"It's Lu-ci-fer! It's no wonder you can't rapture a soul! Not a one of you can even get my fucking name right!" Lucifer stopped suddenly. "Lazarus, you say? Wait a moment..." He snapped his fingers and the lectern with the giant Book of Life appeared before him. He began to page through it rapidly. "Lafayette... Laguna... Lambert... Launcelot... Lazarus! Here we..." He trailed off, a puzzled expression forming.
"Yes?" Jesus asked.
Death got up, finally realizing that no one could give a crap about him. He walked over and stared at Lazarus quizzically.
"Well... It says here he did die, but then there's this asterisk by his name... I'm not sure... I need the appendix, I think..."
"An asterisk? What the hell's an asterisk?" Pest asked no one in particular.
No one answered him.
War, Famine, Jesus, and Lucifer were all peering at the Book of Life, all speaking over one another, pointing, shouting, arguing. Lazarus sat under a tree, nursing his bottle of Jack Daniels while Death watched, seemingly fascinated by one whom he ultimately could not have.
"What's an asterisk?" Pest asked again, and again, to no one in particular.
The shouting began to get loud by the book crowd. More books popped into existence around them as they grabbed them from the air, whipped open to other pages, pointed at other things, referenced other sources. Death took a seat beside Lazarus, who offered him a swig from the bottle.
Pest watched it all, scratching his head. Shrugging, he took a seat under the tree with Death and Lazarus.
* * *
Where we wrap things up...
The Holy Spirit rapped once on the door, then sat on the small chair beside the potted fern. She spared a glance for the magazine selection, then whipped out a communications device, deciding to use her time coordinating the new heaven and new earth while she waited. He would, after all, want an update.
A small cherubim opened the door. "He will see you now."
Holy Spirit rose, adjusted her flowing skirts, then walked through the door, head held high. "Your majesty," she said, bowing low.
When she received no reply, she glanced up. No one.
She turned her head to the left, then the right, still bowed, looking for Him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him just behind the door, his back to her. He was drawing on a...
"A chalkboard?" She gasped, realizing she had spoken before being spoken to.
"Hmm? What? Oh, Holy! So glad to see you, come in, come in!" God placed the chalk down into the tray, and walked over to hug Holy.
"Say, how are things? What's happening? How's the new earth coming? You know, I had some ideas about 'floating oceans.' Do you think that'll set physics back too much during the next round?"
"I... Uh..."
"And I'm also seriously reconsidering the whole 'cancer' thing. It seemed like a way to shake things up a bit this last time, but--I dunno, it strikes me as a bit too much of a downer, you know?"
"Er..."
"Oh! And I seem to remember something about a census being taken?"
Oh, now he was on her page! "Yes, sir, you see, it seems a soul was missed during the whole tribulation/white throne judgement/ rapture thingy, so we've been searching non-stop..."
"Oh, wait a minute!" God held up a hand, and Holy nearly choked on her words in her eagerness to obey his command.
"They've found him!" He declared.
"Found-- who, exactly?" Holy queried.
"The missing soul! Come now!" God grabbed her hand and--
* * *
"Ah, see?" God and Holy now stood before the two groups. Holy glanced at the drunkards under the tree, then over to the argumentative group on the other side of the small hill top.
"Dad! Dad! Thank God you're here--er, no pun intended." Jesus grabbed one of the books and charged over to where God and Holy stood. "See this? And this--"
"Yes--" Lucifer interjected, "but he is clearly forgetting Section 5, paragraph 3, by-law subsection 2(a) when he says that..."
"Silence!" God shouted, just as War and Famine were about to join in on the fray bearing down on him. "There. Hey, Lazzy buddy, can I get a swig of that?"
"Be my guest!" Lazarus stood up, offering the bottle to God. "One of your best inventions, if I do say!"
"Indeed, well. Now I can't wait to... Um... Hmmm..." He polished off the bottle. "By jove! Shit, I need to get some of this stocked in my rooms! See to it, Holy."
"Uh, yessir..."
"Now, about this whole 'missing soul' business..."
"Yes?" they all asked in unison.
"This is just further proof," God stated.
They gazed at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on.
"An exception to the rule, if you will," he started again.
Lucifer blinked. Jesus leaned forward. War brushed flies out of his beard.
"You see..." He trailed off. "It was bound to happen sooner or later..."
"What was?" Pest asked.
"What do you mean?" Jesus pressed.
"Sooner or later what?" Famine gasped, barely able to withstand the tension.
"You've all heard the riddle?" God posed.
"Riddle?" War stood there, perplexed.
"Is this a game?" Death asked.
"No, no, no. Not a game. A man's soul is at stake, you know. I take that very seriously," God stated emphatically. "However... Well..."
"Get on with it!" Lazarus jumped up, shouting. "Heard what riddle? What are you going on about?"
"It seems I can make a rock to big for myself to lift." He stood there, smiling, pleased with his statement "You know, I'd always wondered."
"Rocks?" Pest dead-panned.
"Wondered?" Jesus puzzled.
"I'm lost," Death said.
"Not literally, guys," God laughed. "No, you see, sooner or later, I would do something I can't undo! Here's the proof!" He pointed to Lazarus.
"Doesn't that... Er... Can we..." Holy Spirit motioned for God to follow her off to the side. She whispered vehemently, "This creates some very serious problems! For you. For us. For--" she waved her hands frantically in the air, "--all of this!"
"How so?"
"What?! What about omnipotence! Omniscience! Omnipresence! You've just negated all three of the biggies!"
"I'm God. I can do whatever the hell I want."
"Except rapture Lazarus."
"Well, there is that. It stands to reason, however, that if I can do anything, I can create a soul I can't rapture. And a rock to big for myself to lift!" He smiled.
"Do you even hear yourself?"
"I will. Sooner or later... Lazarus, how about another bottle of that Jack Daniel's, eh?"
Previous Challenges I have answered:
[Week 1: All of Me] [Week 2: Child's End]
[Week 3: Seeking Bonds] [Week 4: Just So You Know]
[Week 5: Justice & Mercy] [Week 6: Tale of a Fateful Flick]
[Week 7: Hell or High Water] [Week 8: Streaming Summer]
[Week 9: Piss & Vinegar] [Week 10: Set It Free]
You know you totally care. :)
It also comes complete with one of my earliest recorded drawings. (Total bonus, I know!) Apparently my grandmother Hughes kept this in a photo album detailing other chunks of my life, along with pictures and other miscellaneous bits and pieces of my academic "career."
In case you can't make it out, it translates as such (complete with eight-year-old spelling errors):
Little Stamp
I am a stamp. I am a stamp with a hourse on me. On, no! I am going in a mailbox! It is dark in here. Hey. What's going on. Soimething is moving. Hey, how come the stamps are big and I am little. Oh no, someone is picking me up. It says its from Mrs. Hughes to my Grandmom and Grandpop Hughes. Another mailbox? O boy. Shes opening me up. She read it. Now whats she doing. Shes saving me. Yey! The end
I know--I was too adorable for words--apparently. :)
It's writing challenge time, brought to you by Indie Ink. You know the drill: we writers swap challenges and write about them--we have until 11 p.m. on Thursday evening to meet these challenges or NASTY things happen! New contestants are always welcome to join by going to the link and signing up!
Welcome to week 10. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!
Week 10.
My Challenger: Blackbird
My Challenge: Why does your caged bird sing?
Who I am Challenging: Tara Roberts
What I Challenged Them With: Your oldest son has just become the first American Pope; your daughter has just become first female president of the United States; your youngest son is a well-known gay porn star known for his *ahem* size. And they're all coming home for a holiday dinner. Go!
Set It Free...His fingers caressed the cherry finish, delicately touched upon where the gold trim met the finely-sanded wood, eyes closed. He opened his eyes as he opened the box and watched as the metal bird popped up on its spring, listened as the haunting melody flowed to his ears...
He grabbed the black leather gloves from the top of the dresser at the side of the antique music box, pulling them on tightly, pleased at the snug fit, the sound they made as they slapped against his wrists.
Another bird to free...
***
"I'm so nervous!" Margaret hissed into the phone pinched between her neck and shoulder as she held up two very different dresses against her body. She stared into the full length mirror--the red one, the black one. The red one, the black one... "I haven't been out since-- Well, you know..."
She listened intently, then broke out in laughter. "No, no, no. Trust me, if this is another Peter, I am so not even sticking around!" Unconsciously, her fingers dropped the black dress onto the bed and immediately stretched over to her opposite shoulder, fingers tracing the faded scar that led from her ear down to her chest. As if realizing what her fingers were doing, she froze.
"No, sorry, what?" she asked as she eyed her fingers suspiciously, traitors calling forth the past she wanted desperately to forget. "No, um, no. At eight... Uh-huh... Yeah, I'll send a text when I get there..."
She laughed again at whatever the voice on the other end said. "And I'll call you when I get home... Probably about eleven or so if it's a good night... Uh-huh..." She lifted the red dress against her body again, admiring herself in the mirror. "I think the red one--less cleavage, more leg... No!... I swear, Gina, if you even--"
Bump!
She whirled around. "Wait!... No, no! Shh! I think I heard--"
Bump!
The other window. "Gina... Listen, I think--"
Suddenly her cat jumped out from behind the curtains, giving her a fright. "Sweet Jesus Mary and Joesph!"
"No!" she laughed, relieved. "No, Gina, it's okay! Just the goddamn cat scaring the bejesus out of me... No, no, everything is fine. Listen, I have to go or I'm going to be late... Yep, yep, much love."
Yet she paused. She closed the phone and walked cautiously over to the window and checked the locks. Her free hand once again trailed up to her ear, tracing the scar...
"Stupid cat."
***
He watched as she slid the dress down over her body, adjusting the straps as they lay on her shoulders. He watched her walk down the hall, stop in front of the mirror. She picked up two small earrings from a crystal bowl, pushed her hair back to begin placing them on her dainty lobes.
He watched as she froze when her eyes landed on the scars.
"Still frightened, I see."
She gasped, spun, dropped the earrings. "Who--"
"Margie, Margie, Margie..." He tutted her name.
"Margaret."
He glanced up into her eyes. "Sorry, what?"
"My. Name. Isn't. Margie." He saw the anger mingled with fear, and was pleased.
"Oh, you'll always be my Margie." He got up from the couch in the corner, clasped his gloved hands before him, and slowly began walking toward her. He grinned as she started backing up the hall, bumping into the table, not wanting to turn around.
"Don't be like that, Margie," he said, slowly closing the distance. "I've missed you, you know."
"Stay. Away." Bump, trip... "Stay back, Peter." The tears were free-flowing, the rage all too evident.
"Now, come, Margie. Don't make this difficult. I can see it in your eyes. You've missed me too."
She fell, tripping over the not-yet-tied straps of her heels. "Stay. Oh my god. Peter, I swear..." She choked on her words, struggled to get back up, to not turn her back on him.
"And the singing. Oh, how I've missed your singing... Come, now, Margie. Shall we make music once more?" He pulled out a knife from his waist band, and he saw how it reflected the light from the kitchen straight into her eyes--her now wide-open eyes, wet with tears, lit with--excitement?
"Oh, yes," Peter grinned. "I see you have missed me. But as my therapist said, if I love something, I have to let it go.
"I'm here to free you, Margie. For one last time, we shall make music, and then you shall be free."
"Peter... No... Please..."
"Oh, come now, my sweet. I shall miss you as well. But enough of this chit-chat. Shall we go to your room? Begin our final lesson?"
She cried, great weeping bouts, collapsed on the floor. "Peter..."
***
He closed the lid when he returned, silencing the mechanical bird. Picking it up, he carried it over to the china cabinet at the other end of the room. He opened the beveled glass doors, admiring the craftsmanship, and then adjusted the other music boxes on the shelf, making room for Margie's. Once it was placed just so, he took the lock of her hair and placed it on top. It's brilliant blond color the perfect accent against the cherry wood and gold trim.
Tomorrow he's have hit the antique stores again, to find a new music box.
A new bird.
Previous Challenges I have answered:
[Week 1: All of Me] [Week 2: Child's End]
[Week 3: Seeking Bonds] [Week 4: Just So You Know]
[Week 5: Justice & Mercy] [Week 6: Tale of a Fateful Flick]
[Week 7: Hell or High Water] [Week 8: Streaming Summer]
[Week 9: Piss & Vinegar]
The writing challenge continues from Indie Ink. You know the drill: we writers swap challenges and write about them--we have until 11 p.m. on Thursday evening to meet these challenges or bad things happen! New contestants are always welcome to join by going to the link and signing up!
Welcome to week 9. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!
Week 9.
My Challenger: Jen O.
My Challenge:Write about something that makes you very uncomfortable. Maybe it's a style you're not comfortable with or a subject. Jump out of the box.
Who I am Challenging: Karla V.
What I Challenged Them With: The life and times of purple...
Previous Challenges I have answered:
[Week 1: All of Me] [Week 2: Child's End]
[Week 3: Seeking Bonds] [Week 4: Just So You Know]
[Week 5: Justice & Mercy] [Week 6: Tale of a Fateful Flick]
[Week 7: Hell or High Water] [Week 8: Streaming Summer]
Full of Piss and Vinegar...
(This moment of clarity brought to you by Websters.)
The definitive moment in my life of "discomfort" had to be when I was about eight. My knee hurt. HURT. My mother handed me some Tylenol, and mentioned something about growing pains. After all, I had outgrown my older brother by the time he was two and I was one. And never stopped. I'm assuming I was in a constant state of "growing pains," but then again, there were six other kids running around her house, only four of which were also her children. The Tylenol was handed to me at breakfast.
By noon, my knee was the size of a softball and I was writhing in pain. PAIN. A few phone calls later and the other mothers whose children my mother had been babysitting were there to get their kids so my mother could take care of me.
Oddly, from within the screaming haze of pain, I had an urge to pee.
The three mothers standing there knew I was in no position to walk the twenty feet to the bathroom. So they lifted me up, carried me to the toilet, pulled down my pants and underwear, and said, "Okay, pee."
I no longer had to pee. Something about three old women, one of them your mother, balancing you on the commode, trying to not move your now-larger-than-a-softball knee, scares the piss right back up into your bladder. THAT, my friends, is:
I'm pretty sure that's when I passed out. I woke up once, on a stretcher, in a pure white hallway, next to an extremely old man in a wheelchair, patting my hand.
I woke up again one month later, much to my parents delight.
***
Ninth grade. More pain. Stomach-centered this time. I head to the nurse's office. Crawl, more like. Gripping my stomach.
I had awoken that morning with pain. My mother handed me some tums. That was at breakfast.
Now it was about noon, and the Tums, for some reason, were not working. The nurse glances up at me: "Do you think this could be related to the cold you had last week?"
To this day, I don't remember having a cold the week before. I also don't ever remember having a cold that involved stomach pain. But that could just be me.
Suddenly mom was there, and off we went to the hospital. She mentioned something about me being "green." I was on the floor of the passenger seat, not caring too much one way or the other.
The hospital sent us to a doctor's office. I know I heard mom yelling. But then we were back in the car to an office some miles down the road. An apology left her lips for every pot hole she hit. But remember, these were Pennsylvania roads. They're made of pot holes.
At the doctor's, he sits me up on a table--and yanks my pants down as I lay curled in a fetal position.
"Doctor?" my mother practically screams. "What are you--"
"Now just relax, Jason. I have to check to make sure your appendix hasn't burst. This... well, this may hurt."
There were not any words for that pain. It was also very
My appendix had, indeed, burst. I also pissed myself a bit.
We raced back to the hospital.
They let us stay this time.
***
There isn't much in this world that makes me uncomfortable anymore. (Don't tell the silverfish...) I like to think of myself as a "go-getter." (Not that I always do...) If I have something to say, I usually say it, regardless of who may or may not be listening. (Although I will say it diplomatically when the occasion calls for it...)
One day, back in bible college--yes, you heard that right, bible college--a group of us were walking down one of the roads when I suddenly announced: "I have to pee." One of the newer girls in our group practically fainted. Another friend piped up: "It's okay, Jason. She's just not used to you yet."
Until that moment, I hadn't been aware that I was an acquired taste.
***
There were other near death experiences. Other moments involving pee. Granted, there were also some that did not involve pee, but what's a story without a bit of piss and vinegar? (I heard an old lady say that once...)
But when it comes to being "uncomfortable," it won't stop me. That, of course, makes my husband uncomfortable.
But that's a different story..."The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off."
--Gloria Steinem
It boggles my brain...
Okay, maybe "boggles" is too strong a word. After all, to truly "boggle" the mind, one either needs to be unable to wrap one's mind around it, or, in fact, own a boggle. (Oops! My bad--those were Popples! Tomato, to-mah-to...)
So there's this woman who is dying. Her husband refuses to let her get a blood transfusion. Why? you may ask? Good question!
He's a Jehovah's witness! Or, was a Jehovah's witness. And she never went. But he's pretty damn sure she believed what he believed, even if he no longer believes in the whole enchilada--just the parts of the enchilada that would save his wife's life! From the article:
“I love Candy. I told them to do absolutely anything to save her life except give her blood or blood products,” Bruce Huff said.
Bruce Huff was baptized as a Jehovah’s Witness several decades ago, and although he only sometimes attends church now for health reasons and does not consider himself a member, he still shares the beliefs of the church. According to the official website of the church, www.watchtower.org, the belief is based on their interpretation of the Bible, especially Acts 15, which reads to “keep abstaining from things sacrificed to idols and from blood” and Leviticus 17 which reads to “not partake of the blood of any flesh.”
[...]
Candy Huff never considered herself a Jehovah’s Witness but shared his beliefs, Bruce Huff said. He said they had talked many times about the blood issue and thinks she would not have wanted transfusions.
“I know my wife better than anybody. She always wanted to do what is right,” he said.
Why...
Wait... Blood pressure...
Okay. (In through nose, out through mouth, in through nose, out through mouth...) If Bruce hadn't claimed "religious reasons," say, his excuse was "Just because"; or "My toaster would want it that way"; or "God told me so in my hair dryer this morning." You would all (hopefully) simply think "Nutcase!" and do what the hospital did--file a petition to have someone else make her medical decisions. (The hospital won, by the way. Candy is expected to live only because her aunt isn't a blooming idiot...)
But because he has "religious reasons," we are expected to grant his wishes? Hospitals shouldn't give the care needed?
As a complete and off-topic aside, I also don't understand why vegetarian substitute meat products are shaped like meat and advertise that they taste almost like meat. If you are against eating a piece of chicken, why would you want a tofu stick shaped like a drumstick???
Dear American Religious Peron(s),
Citing "religious reasons" no longer cuts the mustard. I don't care if it has to do with blood transfusions, same-sex marriage, abortion, taxes, tithing, or where you "believe" my soul is going.
Obviously there are so many religions because no one can agree on what means what, who meant what, who wrote what, and on and on. Granted, our constitution of these United States grants you the permission--nay, the right--to believe that fairies knock over your trash cans at night while unicorns shit rainbows after rain storms. Be that as it may, simply stating "It's what I believe God says" or "I believe that's what Jesus would want" simply means you have given up custody of your brain.
Next time you feel the urge to say "Because God says blah blah blah," add the phrase, "through my blow dryer this morning" or "was engraved on my toast this morning" after your sentence--or even before it, if that will help point out the idiocy of your argument all the sooner!
Let's have a practice round:Original: I don't believe God would want same-sex marriages.
Updated: I don't believe God would want same-sex marriages because he told me so through my hair dryer this morning.
Do you see? Want another example?Original: God has moved me to tell you that you are going to hell and that you weren't ever really saved.
Updated: Engraved on my toast this morning, God moved me to tell you that you are going to hell and that you weren't ever really saved.
I think you get the picture, right?
So the next time you feel the need to stake out a position on, say, universal health care for all the people of this nation, and why you think it's the wrong path for our nation, do us all a favor: Use your brain to come up with logical, reasonable arguments to support your cause. Not a book written two thousand years ago, and not because it's what your pastor said last Sunday.
You are a thinking human being. Or, at least, you're supposed to be. Please prove it.
Sincerely,
Jason
The writing challenge continues from Indie Ink. You know the drill: we writers swap challenges and write about them--we have until 11 p.m. on Thursday evening to meet these challenges or bad things happen! New contestants are always welcome to join by going to the link and signing up!
Welcome to week 8. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!
Week 8.
My Challenger: Tobie
My Challenge:Most memorable summer.
Who I am Challenging: Katri
What I Challenged Them With: A James Bond quote from Die Another Day: "Sex for dinner, death for breakfast." Tell me a Bond-ish type story incorporating this quote as the theme of your story.
Previous Challenges I have answered:
[Week 1.] [Week 2.] [Week 3.] [Week 4.] [Week 5.]
[Week 6.] [Week 7.]
Streaming SummerMost memorable summer.
Hmm. Most memorable summer? Or, perhaps most memorable summer?
Yeah. Huh.
"Life is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so. Drink up, the world's about to end." --Ford Prefect
Oh-oh-oh! Most memorable SUMMER!?
No?
"If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance." --Bern Williams
Heat. Oh, yes. Brilliant rays of heat shining down nonstop. That's summer!
But it's only memorable if it's really hot--like "Wow, I have stepped out of the frying pan and into the fryer!" hot. But how often do you really say to yourself that it's that hot? Most people talk about frying their eggs on sidewalks. I once talked my sister into doing that--through the phone. I wasn't around to see it actually happen, but then again, she, too, seemed disappointed in the results of that experiment.
Probably for the best. That would actually make it too easy to solve world hunger in places like Africa, where they have the heat and the eggs, but not enough money to buy a top-of-the-line teal-colored toaster oven--let alone having an outlet to plug it into. (Yes, I do believe that is a typical American view of Africa...)
"A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the lawn mower is broken." --James Dent
And no, this time I have no idea who I am quoting, but I definitely like the sound of that--the lawn mower being broken, I mean. Which, in actuality, wouldn't be making a sound so much as it would be a vacuum of sound, you know, with the whole "not working" thing. So, I suppose what I'm saying is the most memorable summer now includes silence. Which, supposedly, is golden.
But not in the monetary meaning. That would also be too easy. But then again, having silence so rarely in my life, between the dog, the cat, the husband, and the neighbors, perhaps silence is about as rare, but it's still not something I can deposit into my checking account, so...
Where were we?
(How do you like that for alliteration!!)
Summer. Not just any summers, but memorable summers. And not just those either, but the MOST MEMORABLE SUMMERS.
"It's not that bad. I'm not saying I'd like to build a summer home here, but the trees are actually quite lovely." --The Dread Pirate Roberts
Yes, a tall order indeed. Is it memorable in a bad way? A good way? Or memorable in all it's mediocrity? As I've had a lot of those. Mediocre ones, that is. Well, to the outside observer I should say. Mediocrity should be in the eye of the beholder. But when was the last time you "beheld" something? Either you're holding it, or you're not holding it--it reminds me of learning about "future perfect tense" in grammar class: "You will have been holding an object." Because that rolls right of the tongue, eh?
It's apparently genetic, tongue-rolling. I think we five sib's did a tongue-roll-test once, when one of us actually had the audacity to learn something at that brick building Mom called a school--the same school she had attended as a child. (I should say something here about falling apples,shouldn't I?) There we were, all five of us,tongues hanging out, trying to roll and curl them up. I'm pretty sure we were all able to make that happen, but I'm also pretty sure that's how we all ended up getting chicken pox at the same time as well.
We shared everything. Which is why I no longer do. It's definitely a conscious choice. My friends know this. When we go out to eat, I order what I want to eat. They order what they want to cut up and portion about onto everyone else's plates to share with one another the various choices of delectable's found in the menu. I'm not a food orgy person. I order it, I eat it, and if your fork nears my plate, be prepared to lose it. And perhaps a finger as well.
"I read The Civil War Infantryman, which talked about making 20-mile marches in the dead heat of summer in wool uniforms, then sitting down to eat salt pork. I'm sleeping in air-conditioned hotels, with good food every day and, like, a made-to-order omelet station. Who am I kidding about how difficult this is?" --Kyle Brady
And yes, I just totally quoted a football player. The American version, not the European version, which just goes to show that, hang out with your father and brother's enough, you pick up a thing or two besides chicken pox. Also makes you glad you weren't a soldier in the civil war, eh?
I'd say we're off-topic at this point, but I'm not sure I ever really was. Summer, however, means warmth. The only time I'm ever warm, truth be told. Even now, my house at 70 degrees? Fingers feel like ice, toes crimped up under my feet as far as they can go...
"I'm Mister Heat Miser, I'm Mister Sun. I'm Mister green Christmas, I'm Mister Hundred-and-One!" --Heat Miser
I wish. But then again, I get this from my mother--she, too, is Fingers-Cold-as-Ice Woman. I get almost everything from her, from my personality to my body aches and pains. My father contributed to my hair color, but they had to split the difference on my eyes. His were green, mom's were brown, so I have shitty-hazel. Call that a compromise, 'cause I don't.
But then again, he also made me remember that "sports" exist--see above ramblings. Honestly, though, the Europeans have the right idea. At least in their version of football, feet have a lot more contact with the ball then anything else. But, we being American, we had to rename that "Soccer."
Of course, like summer, soccer players are HOT. And that would definitely make for a memorable summer...
Hmm... Soccer players...
Where were we? (Goddamn alliteration again!!)
Ah, yes. Most memorable summers. Yeah. I had some. What's it to you?
To sum up: - We can solve world hunger with euphemisms
- Silence cannot be bought
- Grammar sucks
- I can so roll my tongue, which keeps some people in my life quite happy
- That person is neither a football or a soccer player
- I don't share my food
- I have shitty-hazel eyes
And every summer kicks ass. Because it's hot--like you could fry your eggs on the sidewalk kinda hot. And then share your sidewalk omelet with a soccer player from Africa...
Yeah, that would be a kick-ass memorable summer...
The writing challenge continues from Indie Ink. You know the drill: we writers swap challenges and write about them--we have until 11 p.m. on Thursday evening to meet these challenges or bad things happen! New contestants are always welcome to join by going to the link and signing up!
Welcome to my week 7. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!
Week 7.
My Challenger: LifenBits
My Challenge: You take the train from California to Seattle and have to deal with a tsunami.
Who I am Challenging: My Plaid Pants
What I Challenged Them With: Here are the lyrics to one of my favorite songs, "Pulling Heaven Down" by Blue October. Tell me what your favorite song is, what it is about the song that speaks to you... You could even incorporate this into a fictional piece if you so desire.
Previous Challenges I have answered:
[Week 1.] [Week 2.] [Week 3.] [Week 4.] [Week 5.] [Week 6.]
Hell or High WaterEarthquake in Hawaii--Depressing... Click. Ugh... Economic Depression Still On... Click. Woo-hoo! Another "behind-the-scenes-story" about the royal wedding--puh-leeze!
Eric snapped the laptop shut and left his gaze drift out the window, feeling more than listening to the soothing rhythm of the train as he stretched out his legs and rested his neck on the blue-patterned seat.
Click-click... Click-click... Click-click...
Like a heartbeat, he thought. Twelve hours in, and he was pretty sure they had to be over the Oregon state line by now. He never quite realized until now just how far he had moved when he left home in Seattle for the great life in L.A. How long had it been since the space needle graced his horizon? Fifteen--no, wait. Sixteen years?
Sixteen years... He wouldn't even be thinking about this now were it not for the blasted phone call. Fucking technology. Intrusive as fuck, really. Gone were the days where months and years could roll by, noting nothing more than the changing seasons that affected your world and only your world. When what the neighbors were up to was big news.
He let his gaze drift upward, taking in the majesty of the Rocky Mountains... Were they even called the Rocky Mountains here? Or are these the Cascades...?
When mountains just used to be mountains--those were probably the days. Except for that nasty Donner party incident, of course.
"They're certainly beautiful, aren't they?" a wrinkled old lady one seat away practically whispered.
"Excuse me?"
"The mountains. Every year I make this trip, and every year, they just seem so much..." She shook her head as though there weren't enough words.
"Mountain-ier?" He suppressed a smile. His girlfriend had recently told him his least attractive feature was when he laughed at his own witticisms--especially when they weren't all that witty.
But she cackled like a witch finishing a nasty revenge spell. "My, aren't we the funny one!" She clapped her hands in delight. "Yes, 'mountainier' is an adequate word!" Her shoulders continued to jump up and down in now-silent laughter.
He tugged at his shirt collar. It wasn't that funny. He smiled and nodded, then turned his attention away toward the view out the window once more.
"You see, this was my honeymoon," she continued.
Sweet Jesus, not one of these people... Eric pulled his polite smile out of reserve just as his head nodded back toward the old bird. "You don't say?" Your husband was El Cheapo?
"Yes. Seventy years ago, that was. Of course, the train wasn't this fancy, or this fast. But then again, the sleeper cars were so much nicer, and the dinner cars? Oh, even New York City restaurants today couldn't begin to compare!"
Eric nodded again, turned away, put the smile away, and prayed for that to be the end. Aren't old people supposed to be sleeping on train rides? Or--in a home?
What if she escaped from her home! He glanced sideways, but didn't see any kind of hospital bracelet dangling from her wrists. But he knew he saw that on an episode of Golden Girls once. Or was it Designing Women? The fact that he was even thinking this was proof he really needed to take the remote control away from Savannah more often. It was his big screen television, after all. The one he went to law school for, was in debt up to his eyeballs for, why he worked 12 hour days, six days a week for. What did she do all day? Yoga? Granted, she had a killer bod, but that was certainly not work. Not the kind of work that earned you the remote control on Sundays, that was for damn sure.
"--and he said, 'Mildred, it's okay, everyone gets a little travel sick at times!' Oh, how I laughed. So that's when I told him we were pregnant! Right here on this very same train route!" She sighed the sigh of the old and senile and content. "That was our third time on this trip, you see."
"Hmm." There, he thought. Get the hint, grandma--not in a chatty mood here, trying to sleep and relax!
"So, Mr...?" the old gecko hinted.
"Oh, sorry. Eric. Eric von Grueben." He held out his hand which she gingerly accepted and shook.
"Mildred Pierce. 'Von Grueben,' eh? Sounds so dignified! What a glorious name!" Mildred replied, before starting up that insane sounding laughter once more. "I, well, before I was a Pierce, I was a Buttz. Can you believe it? Mildred Buttz. Oh, how I loathed my father for years for that name!"
"Hmm."
"But really, how mad could I stay at him? So I decided to be mad at my grandfather instead!" More laughter.
Someone overdosed on their happy pills this morning. Eric shifted in his seat, becoming more uncomfortable the more she babbled.
"Are you traveling alone?" Mildred queried. "Such a trip up the coast is always best enjoyed when in good company, I always say."
"Yes, hmm. Would you excuse me for a moment?" Eric started down the aisle, toward the dining car. If you can't beat 'em, go drink. That's what I always say.
***
As he closed the door behind him, shutting out the bustling noise of the wind created by the speed of the train, he noticed something odd. Everyone was glued to the television sets over the bar area.
What the... He pulled up a stool and flagged one of the bartenders. "Ginger Vodka, please. What's going on?" he then asked, motioning toward the television sets.
"Huge earthquake, man!" the young man replied as he broke out a glass and some bottles. "They say there's a mega-tsunami heading right for the west coast!"
Eric laughed in spite of himself. "Oh, okay then." He left a ten on the counter and ambled closer to the screen behind the gawkers.
"...and U.S. officials are warning the entire west coast, particularly those areas north of Bandon, Oregon, all of Washington State, Vancouver Island, all the way up through the Alaskan pan handle. Get to higher elevations..."
"Oh, come on. That kind of stuff--"
"Shh!" one of the others turned, finger to lips, with an angry stare.
"...at least a 40 foot wave is expected to hit around 10 a.m. Pacific time, starting at it's most southern point near the Oregon/California border..."
"Whatever," Eric said to no one in particular. Tsunami's on the U.S. coast--bah! He took a seat at the table opposite the bar, once again taking in the mountainous view.
"Those, young man, are the Klamath Mountains," Mildred stated as she sat down across from him.
"Oh, uh..."
"I remember one year the train broke down right about this very spot. So Walter and I decided right then and there to go see that big waterfall they have. After all, no one knew when the train would be repaired anyway, so we hired a driver to go to the park, found a hotel. I think that was the first--and only--time we didn't make it all the way to Mount Vernon. That's where his family originally hailed from, you see."
"Uh, yeah..."
"But we had fun nonetheless!"
"Hmm."
"Mr. von Greuben, could I trouble you to get me a Tom Collins?"
"A wha-- Oh, yes, uh... Tom Collins?" Eric sat up and walked the three feet to the other side of the dining car and flagged down the bartender from the television once more.
"It's not often you see a young man having a drink with his mother," he replied. "Very sweet, if I do say so."
"Oh, no," Eric replied. "She's not--"
"Hey, Gabe! Look at that!" shouted someone, and the bartender turned to stare at the television. "Sweet Jesus..."
Eric also turned. Video images were flashing across the screen of what had apparently used to be Hawaii.
What had used to be Hawaii...
"Holy fuck..." he muttered.
"Oh, Mr. von Greuben?"
Eric waved in her general direction, never turning to look, a dismissive gesture if he had ever given one before. The current video was being taken by helicopter, showing the spewing volcano of Hawaii as it apparently was being deluged by masses of water...
...as you know, Mauna Kea, Hawaii's tallest volcano, which was thought to be quite dormant, stood at 13,796 feet above sea level. It unexpectedly and terrifyingly blew it's top off today, so who knows what the elevation is now, but the giant crater it has left is being pummeled by the waves the volcano itself created when at 5:15 pacific time, the volcano erupted with a ferocity...
"Mr. von Greuben."
He still didn't turn to look, but as he went to wave at her dismissively once more, he ended up slapping her in the face. "Oh, wha--"
"Eric Stiles von Greuben!" came his full name from the lips of this old, withered stranger.
And he turned to look.
"How--" Mildred Pierce no longer stood before him--well, it was still Mildred Pierce, only it wasn't Mildred Pierce... His brain scrambled and reached for a sane, reasonable, logical way to rectify this conundrum and arrived at complete failure in nanoseconds. "Wha-- I mean, how--"
"Time is of the essence, Eric. And before that time arrives, I'd like my Tom Collins! It's been ages since one of those graced my lips. Now, chop-chop!" Gone was the sweet my-life-was-so-sweet-and-boring old lady, and in her place stood a listen-or-die old commando.
"I think that's the sweetest thing you thought of me all morning," Mildred said as she gently took the glass from Eric's quivering hands.
"I--" Eric stammered.
"Sit down, you spoiled brat." She gestured toward the chair opposite herself, then smoothed her own skirt beneath her legs as she sat herself. She leaned forward and, with a straw, began sipping on her drink, eyes closed, lips forming a smile as they sucked down the alcohol. "Whew!" she replied, eyes wide, as she released the straw from her mouth. "They certainly make them stronger these days!"
Eric plopped down across from her as his brain began to function once more. "Who are you, and how do you know my name--my full, actual name?"
"Oh, Eric... Let me try to summarize this quickly and neatly. I'm what you call your Last Chance Angel, or, as I like to say, your Hell or High Water Angel." She laughed, slapping her withered hands on the table. "Very appropriate for today, I think. Oddly enough, I'm also your grandmother on your mother's side, but I passed on before you came along. Shame, seeing as how I probably could have whipped some manners into you before this time came." She sighed and brought her glass to her lips.
"You're a loon," Eric stated flatly. "Why do I always get stuck on trips with the batty ones?"
She stared balefully at him over the rim of her glass, her lips never leaving Tom.
"I'm going back to my seat. Good-bye, crazy."
"Eric. Listen carefully now. In exactly half an hour, that wave is going to come crashing up the Oregon coast. It will easily travel up through the Rogue River canyon, wiping out every city and town--and train--it comes across."
"Whatever--"
"Twenty-nine minutes. That's how long you have to make your case."
"Excuse me?"
"Why you should continue to live."
"I'm going back to my seat. Don't follow me, you old bird."
She waved. "Last chance, Eric. Another Tom Collins, please, barkeep."
***
He kept glancing at his watch. Couldn't help it, really. Hell or High Water Angel--Ha!
But if it were true, he had just under 10 minutes to live now.
Eric wiped the sweat from his brow, glanced at the Rolex again. He picked up his laptop. Just send a quick email to Savannah--tell her to enjoy the big screen. He quickly slapped it shut again. A morbid, from beyond the grave email? Was he really buying into this crap?
Why did he always get stuck with the crazies on these trips?
"I thought I was a 'loon'," Mildred said, setting herself down beside him.
"Why me? Why aren't you torturing some other poor sap?"
"That sounds like 'buying into this crap,' if you were to ask this loon," she replied, her eyes looking past him toward the mountain range beyond the glass.
"That's a nice parlor trick, pretending to read my mind." He wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs, then ran his hands through his hair. "You could probably make a few bucks doing that back in the dining car, you know."
"Oh, Eric," she sighed. She folded her hands in her lap and stared at them intently. "What can I say? I don't like this anymore than you do. But the fact remains, you need to tell me, truly and honestly, why your life should be spared this oncoming disaster!"
"Why don't I see other people having these conversations with other passengers, eh? If this is true, doesn't everyone get a chance to say why they should live? And, anyway, why should anyone have to die! This--this is preposterous!"
She patted his leg. "Let me tell you a story," she said, "to help explain this a bit. Now, you see, there was once a man who had three daughters: Victoria, Veronica, and Virginia."
"Are you kidding me with this?"
"Hush. Now, all three girls were special in their own way. Victoria could play the piano like nothing doing. A genius on the keys. Veronica had a sweet, gentle soul and a way with animals. Could even heal the warts on a toad. It was whispered it was witchcraft, but it wasn't. And lastly there was Virginia. Slow, stupid, 'touched,' I think was another word for it. She wasn't stupid, mind you, just a bit slow, but more talented than the other two sisters combined--she was just never given the chance, and she had no desire to outshine her sisters, such was her deep and abiding love for them...
"Anyway, disease struck the family--the entire town, honestly. The doctor came to their home, but had only enough medicine to save one of the three little girls. The father was torn apart, wracked with guilt and grief. After all, how can one choose? They were all three his daughters! But choose he had to, and choose he did."
Silence.
"Well?" Eric asked, trying to suppress his exasperation.
"Well what?"
"Which daughter did he choose?"
"Eric, that's not the point."
"What?! You're telling me I only have three minutes, give or take, to live, to tell you why I deserve to live, like I'm on trial or something, and you want me to solve RIDDLES?!"
"Sometimes you remind me so much of your father." She sighed. "Listen, the point is, sometimes we are given seemingly impossible choices. Call it fate, destiny, luck--whatever. But, having been given this choice, of whether or not you feel you are even worthy of being given such a choice, will you make the choice? Take the choice?"
"I'm still not sure I understand."
She suddenly placed one arm in the air while placing the other directly on Eric's chest. "It's coming," she whispered.
"Wha--"
"The water is coming. There, look." She pointed one crooked finger out the window, rearward, toward a gap between the distant mountains. "The water comes."
"But--I'm not ready! I'm not ready to die! I'm only thirty-five, for fuck's sake!" Eric was screaming now, full panic mode.
"Who ever is? Eric, look, I'm not the one in charge of deciding whether or not you do, in fact, get to live through this. I'm only a messenger, the vial of medicine in the doctor's bag, if you will. Just give me a reason--any reason, be it honest and true, and I will do what I can to make sure you do not die today."
"Isn't not wanting to die reason enough?"
"I don't know. Is it? Only you know the answer to that. Is not wanting to die reason enough to live? For you? For anyone?"
"I'd like to think the fuck so!" Eric shouted.
"Anything else you'd like to add to that?"
"The train--it's speeding up!" Eric noted hopefully. People were now rushing through the aisles between the seats, not that there was anywhere to go. Panicked conversations floated past Eric's ears, with one another and on cell phones.
"The conductor has been told the water is coming, but he can't go fast enough soon enough. Its too late for the train, and for most of the people on it," Mildred said sadly, shaking her head. "I'm not sure who gets to live and who gets to die. All I know is I was sent to ask you. You, Eric. Why should you get to live?"
"I-- I don't know." He slumped back down into his seat and stared at the panicking passengers around him. The sobs and screams as people saw the water rushing up from somewhere behind the train. Mobs of people were now rushing mainly forward, shoving and pushing their way toward the engine.
Mildred placed her hand on Eric's. "I'm sorry, my grandson."
"I'm going to die, aren't I?"
The train lurched. The lights flickered. People screamed. A quick glance out the window. and Eric saw the ground beginning to lift away--or was that the train simply beginning to lean sideways off the tracks as the water lifted and slammed it?
As he turned his head to once again speak to Mildred, he noted he was now quite definitely looking down toward Mildred. He grabbed the railing, the arms of his seat, anything to keep from falling on top of her. She seemed quite unfazed by any of it. She still wore a faintly sad smile.
"I DON'T WANT TO DIE!" he screamed over the noise.
Water suddenly seemed everywhere. He no longer knew which way was up. All noise was silenced through the filter of water in his ears, over his head. He felt his body slamming into objects, people, things. He tried to focus his eyes on something, anything, his hands grabbing and grasping for something solid, something not wet, something not moving...
Grasping for life, come hell or high water...
