The Dream

"My name is John O'Connor and I have been dreaming."


I think it was right after the accidents that the dreams started occurring. It was always the same dream and I always woke up at the same time. I always woke up in tears.

In my dream there was a man and while I can make out every feature of his face and figure while dreaming, I always wake with just the memory of a shadowy figure with a white coat. The dream is a choppy composition of scenes that randomly jump and skip (like most dreams, it seems). At one point I'm lying in a hospital bed completely alone, unconscious. Then there is the shadowy figure and we're sitting together in a cafeteria or some place like one. Then it's back to my hospital room and there is a bed next to mine but I can't tell who is in it. But it hurts to know that it's there. I feel guilt. Then the shadowy figure is speaking to me and all I can remember upon waking is that he's speaking of mirrors. Strange, considering I can't look myself in a mirror, because I know the man in the mirror is responsible for my pain. I can't stand to see the pain, loss, and guilt that I know that man is going through to.

I woke up crying that morning. That was usual. It had been three months since the accident and I had had the dream every night that I can remember. My dreams felt more real to me than this world. I was living in a haze, refusing to accept the world as I had made it, knowing that the world was irreparably a much less beautiful place than it used to be. I use to find so much joy in the simple things...sunsets, flowers, stars, trees, even grass. But that was a long time ago when we held hands and walked through empty fields. My mind naturally started drifting to her and I shut my brain down.

My world had no more color. Literally and figuratively.

I thought it appropriate that the accident left me partially blind, unable to see most colors, living in a haze. That's exactly how I felt on the inside. My world was gray and hazy not because I lost sight...but because I lost so much more. I shut my brain down and concentrated on my ceiling. I used to know every crack and discoloration, but now it was hard for me to make out such details. My world went by in a haze, foggy with no life. It was like I was dead but I wouldn't accept it. In the end, maybe this was more true than I realized.

My life, if you could call it that, went on after the accident. I was a writer of science fiction novels, the popular author of a series dealing with quantum physics and time travel. I didn't have to leave my house to do that...However, my stories lost passion...I didn't have anything in me to write. I tried to write again but nothing came out right. I couldn't put words together, the sentences came out jumbled. Even reading the stories I wrote before the accident, I found my work to be dull and nonsensical. My life was meaningless.

What an utterly depressing statement to make, and yet...yet it was the truth. I had never been a suicidal person. I had never had to deal with feeling less than too important to kill myself. I loved myself to much. Perhaps that was what had lead to the accident. No, not perhaps. I KNEW that was what lead to it...but anytime I stopped to think of it, I would shut my brain down, zone out, and an hour, two, several hours would pass by and I would finally realize that I was doing nothing.

So, yes, thoughts of suicide crept in. I had nothing left to live for, and I certainly didn't battle with this pride, with this love of self...I hated myself. I hated myself and as one naturally does with something that they hate...I tried to remove myself. I saw it as justice, retribution for taking from the world something beautiful and leaving it with a harsh stain of human existence like myself.

The first time I tried to kill myself I went about it perhaps too half heartedly. I had rope lying around and so it was easiest for me to contemplate a hanging.

My house had a balcony that overlooked the main foyer and was the first thing you saw as you walked in the front door. With no emotion whatsoever I went about devising a noose and anchoring the rope well to the balcony, and placed it about my neck. With no fanfare, without a note to the rest of the world (I didn't want pity like so many others. I wanted to leave), and with much selfishness, I admit, I flung myself to the first floor. The last thing I heard before the world went from gray to black was a satisfying snap. However...

I heard voices, frantic, in my head. Something about holding on, not giving up, staying alive. They sounded so real...so close.

I woke up lying on the floor of the foyer. My neck had not snapped. I had not choked. The rope gave away and snapped as I fell, apparently. I had neither bruise on my neck nor burn from the rope. I sat there and zoned out. I didn't care that I lived and I wouldn't have cared had I not. I was so caught up in myself, albeit in a far different way than before, that I decided to go to bed and try something new tomorrow.

I dreamed again as I knew I would. I woke up in tears as I knew I would. I lay in bed not moving...as I knew I would. I was so apathetic that I didn't want to get up from my bed even to terminate myself. That's how I had come to think of it, as a termination. I was an unproductive employee in the business of life, and I needed to be fired, needed to have my contract...terminated.

This time I would put a little more effort into it, not because I wanted myself ESPECIALLY dead but because I was even getting tired of trying to kill myself and hoped I wouldn't have to keep it up. It was quite exhausting.

This time I decided to fill the tub with ice water, numb up my arms a little bit, and bleed out. So I did that. I dumped a few buckets of ice into the tub as the water ran and pulled a razor out of the medicine cabinet. I wasn't sure where the razor came from. It was an old fashioned straight razor and I knew it to be sharp. I was almost grateful to be seeing in gray at this point because I could never stomach the sight of blood.

I plunged an arm into the freezing cold water and let it sit for a moment...two moments. Then I plunged the other one in gripping the razor. I took a breath, expelled it, set the razor to my wrist...and pulled it to the crook of my elbow. I hadn't foreseen the inevitable problem of being unable to grasp the razor with the cut arm to cut the other, but that didn't seem to be too important as already I was blacking out. However...

I heard the voices again. I found comfort in those voices because they seemed more real than the gray life I was living...well, not living so much as trying to leave. Again I heard voices telling me not to give up, to hold on. I heard a voice echoing the word 'mirror'...And then I heard a new voice, wholly distinct from the others. I do not know what the voice said, but somehow I knew what it meant. I felt such guilt when I heard this voice, not only for the accident...but for the extreme selfishness that I had been clinging to for the past three months. And even before that...Somehow I knew that I SHOULD die, but that that sentence didn't belong to me to carry out.

I woke on the floor. The razor was gone and I didn't have any discernible marks on my arm.

It puzzled me somewhat, but I didn't think too long on it. That day was the first day since I had come home from the hospital that I decided to leave my home and venture outside. I didn't know where I was going, I just wanted to go. So I started walking.

I wasn't sure where I was going to go but I decided that I was hungry and that I should eat so I walked down the street to a nearby cafe. I just started eating when he walked into the cafe. A startling recognition hit me full force and I drop my fork to the plate. This was the man from my dreams! I knew it to be true, that this was the man I had been haunted by for all these months.

I couldn't bring myself to say anything as he took his seat across from me. He merely looked at me and said, "John O'Connor."

I nodded wordlessly.

"John O'Connor, you are dead and don't even know it."

I had no idea what this man was talking about. I knew that I should know who he was. He looked so familiar!

"What do you mean?", I asked. Did he know about my suicide attempts?

"What I mean is, the nature of Time is such that what is going to happened has happened, and what has happened is yet to come."

Well that did absolutely nothing to clarify for me what he was trying to say. He could see the obvious confusion on my face.

"You see", he explained, "Some people believe that time is a circle and that it is infinite. That is why history repeats itself, more figuratively than literally. Yet again, some people believe that time is linear and that there is a beginning and that it just goes and goes and goes and that even when everything dies time will keep moving forward."

"But in reality," he placed a finger on the table, "Time moves in a spiraling motion." He drew his finger in a circling motion slowly coming to a point. "It has a beginning and it has an end."

I furrowed my brow at him. "Who are you?"

He extended a hand, "Thaddeus Thistle. Dr. Thaddeus Thistle."

I almost laughed at him, but I couldn't. Dr. Thaddeus Thistle was the main character of my most popular series of books. He was the professor of quantum mechanics and all that hoopla responsible for time travel. They were fluff novels. Only die hard fans or science geeks read my books.


But...This man DID look like I envisioned Dr. Thistle. THAT'S why he looked so familiar because I KNEW him, but only subconsciously, only in my head.

"That's not your name." I stated matter-of-factly.

"I beg your pardon?", he said, staring at me through horn rimmed glasses.

"Dr. Thaddeus Thistle is a character from a book. You're not him." I said smirking.

"Look, sir, I'll show you my identification." he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

I already had it in my head that he forged ID's but when he showed it to me I started to doubt even myself. It certainly looked real enough. It showed the same man, slightly younger, staring into the camera. The ID proclaimed him the professor of quantum physics at a nearby university.

"Bullcrap!", I said. I stood up to leave. The man claiming to be Thistle stood to intercept me and said something that stopped me in my tracks.

"You can still save her."

I blinked several times rapidly. I started to hyperventilate. I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing. I sat back down and said, "What did you say?"

"You can still save her." He repeated.

I closed my eyes and a storm of memories assaulted me. I nearly started weeping at the sudden deluge of pain that came with the memories but I simply kept my eyes shut as tightly as possible.


Thistle watched me silently.

"Tell me about her." he said.


I didn't want to. God knows I didn't want to remember, let alone speak about it!...about her...But I did. I found myself telling the entire story...

"Her name was Lily and I loved her. I always loved her. But I could never tell her. We went to school together, to college together. And even when we were apart, we never lost contact. She occasionally dated around but only recently got serious with anyone. They dated for six months and he proposed. She accepted. I never saw anyone. My heart was for her and her alone, but even when I heard that her relationship was getting serious I couldn't tell her for fear, the fear! I tried to be happy for her, tried to support her. I was such a coward...The night of the accident was the night she told me that they were getting married and that she loved him. The way she looked at me...almost pitying, like she knew how I felt about her. Maybe she did...I wanted to tell her that night, right then that I loved her, that marrying this man was a mistake, that I could make her so happy. But I couldn't say it, any of it. I couldn't say any of it...We were on our way to dinner, a habit that we got into at the beginning of college. We would talk about classes, teachers, projects, dreams...I would talk about my stories, the books I longed to write. We ate together once a week almost without fail. It occurred to me that we would have to stop. What man would be content knowing his wife had dinner with another man every week...I had been in denial, I realized that then. I somehow assumed that no matter how long she dated that we would simply end up together. I don't know if I was arrogant or naive. I was stupid either way. She was so beautiful that night...everytime time she looked at me, I would stop breathing...So beautiful..."

I stopped talking for a minute. I knew that I was rambling, that I was all over the place, but...I hadn't talked about this with anyone, ever. I hadn't even let myself THINK about it and now it was all coming out in one, stumbling, tear ridden sob...I took a breath.

"After she told me that she was getting married, that she loved him, a thousand thoughts fought to find room in my mind. It all hit me at once, you know? The fact that I would be alone, that we would never eat dinner like this again, that...she would give herself to another man, love another man intimately...and for the rest of her life. I was dazed and I zoned out. The last thing I remember...A car coming head on---Lily yelling my name---the screeching of tires as this car swerved to avoid hitting me head on..."

I was openly weeping by now, my words coming in jumbles with interjections of sobbing.

"He swerved to miss me, and hit the passenger side...dead on. Lily was killed nearly instantly but I was only hospitalized for less than a week. The driver of the other car was drunk and unhurt."

I wiped the tears from my face.

"If I hadn't zoned out...if I hadn't been so wrapped up in myself...I would have seen the drunk driver! I could have saved her life! She would still be here if it wasn't for me! If I had only told her I loved her...if she only knew. But there are no second chances and my world has no color."

I put my head in my hands. "It's been three and a half months since Lily...died." I choked on that word. "Her fiancee has already met someone else." I added bitterly.

I fell silent, unable to say anything else. Dr. Thistle had been silent up to this point, only listening, now and again nodding. Finally he spoke up and said, "There ARE second chances, John. What if I told you that there was a way to go back, to save her?"

"Look," I said, suddenly getting angry, "I don't even know who you are, or what you want. You are not who you say you are because I WROTE you, wrote about you. You. Don't. Exist! Who are you?! Huh?!"

Thistle cleared his throat, "I'm a doctor, an inventor, and a messenger. You may call the university if you doubt my credentials."

So I did. I sat there across from him and looked into his eyes as I called them. He looked honest, kind, but still...He couldn't be who he said he was. A soft, pleasant voice came on the line, "River Ridge University, Front desk. How may I help you today, sir or maam?"

"Uh, yes, ma'am. Do you employ a Professor Thaddeus Thistle at your university?"

"Hold on one minute, sir, and I will get you that info, 'kay?"

"Sure." I said. Thistle sat quietly and patiently as I sat there tapping my finger, waiting to hear confirmation that no Thistle had ever worked there.

"Ok, here he is. Science department, um, quantum physics, whatever that is." She laughed.

My breath caught. I managed to stammer, "Uh, how long has he been there?"

"About three years, sir. Does that help you? Sir?"

I wordlessly hung up the phone. "I don't understand..." I started.

"Maybe you read in the paper that River Ridge was getting a new professor and simply liked the name." Thistle said. He smiled.

"Fine. Whatever...What do you want?" I went along with it. After all, that must have been what happened, right? I just didn't remember it.

"Do you remember what I said about Time?"

I nodded.

"Well," Thistle said, "there are many different theories on Time and parallel universes and dimensions and all that rot, but the prevailing one is that time is a spiral, not unlike a fingerprint. Each one is unique. Each branches in a miniscule way slightly to one side at some point to account for a seperate decision that we made in the 'path' of life."

I nodded. I hadn't heard this one exactly, but I had done enough reading and writing to know that it sounded not unfamiliar.

"Well, if there are an infinite number of choices that we could make then, theoretically, there could be an infinite number of alternate universes, or, in the very least, a very VAST number of others. Well, if there are so MANY then it stands to reason that in SOME of them, we make the exact same decisions there that we have HERE. In essence, there MAY be alternate universes that have the same "fingerprint" if you will. Do you still follow?"

"I think so." But I was unsure. I had the gist of what he was saying though. Then he lost me with what he said next.

"It is commonly believed that Mirrors are merely a reflection of us, that they show us truthfully, unbiased as we actually are: a product of life and of our decisions. BUT I submit that mirrors are ACTUALLY windows into these alternate universes that have the same "fingerprint", that it shows another us that has merely made the SAME decisions. And, yes, in that way it IS a reflection, but have you ever wondered what would happen if the man in the mirror moved when you did not?" He smiled. "That's besides the point. If mirrors ARE merely windows that open into the same point in this ALTERNATE world, then what if we could open a point somewhere else. What if, instead of walking AROUND the spiral of time, we walked towards the center onto the next SWIRL of time? Or, what if we walked backwards?"


I understood, kind of.

"If these alternate universes with the same 'fingerprint' lay on top of us, (I say on top to give you an idea. Really, there is no 'on top' or 'beside' us outside of space. We use this idea to make sense of it.) then perhaps these windows can be manipulated towards the inner circles of our own spiral, or, to go further back in time, away from the center? THAT'S what my colleagues and I have been working on."

It was all alot to take in. I still wasn't sure I could believe this man. He WAS who he said he was, but that didn't mean he wasn't crazy. Still, there was something in me that wanted to believe him.

"I'm still confused as to why you're telling me all of this, Dr. Thistle." I said.

"We have this device. We have the MEANS to bend the windows of time and step backwards or forwards...but..."

"But you don't have anyone who is willing to test it out?" I guessed, "You don't have anyone to take in with the idea of reliving the past and having a second chance."

He nodded, silently.

"You have nothing to lose, John, and everything to gain. We've been watching you and we know that there is nothing in this world for you, that the only thing you long for is a second chance, for Lily." he said.

He was right. I HAD already tried to kill myself, hadn't I? What could this take from me that I hadn't already tried to take? If the man was full of it then what did I lose? At this point disappointment was a laughing matter. So I decided to humor him, to see if he WAS full of crap.

"Ok," I nodded, "I'm in."

"Good," he said, "be at this address at nine tonight." He slipped me a paper with the address. Warehouse district, of course. A perfect place to be tortured and murdered. But I was fine with that too, wasn't I?

Dr. Thistle rose from his sit, shook my hand, and walked away without another word, leaving me sitting there, wondering if I should even start to hope. No, I wouldn't hope until I had seen this 'device' or whatever it was.

I showed up at the warehouse with five minutes to spare. What was the worst that could happen? It would turn out to be some practical joke and I would be left with nothing except an idea for a new fluff novel? I didn't really care. At this point, just getting out of the house was an adventure that made life ALMOST bearable.

It was dark when I drove up and the warehouse didn't exactly look inviting. There were no lights on inside or out but I could see well enough to park my car and find the door. The atmosphere that greeted me inside was similar to the world outside, dark and uninviting, but I could see a faint light at the end of the warehouse. It was a huge cavernous room that was empty except for the far end. Something was set up that I couldn't really make out, partly because it was dark, mostly because I was partially blind. I could hear voices though so I knew that I was not alone.

"Dr. Thistle," I called out.

"John, my boy, down here." the voice called from the far end. I could see faint movement.

I walked down to the far end and was greeted with the sight of a mirror connected to some kind of machine that had buttons and tubes and hoses and switches. The usual. I almost laughed. Thistle was standing beside it and grinning like a school boy. Beside him was a man I hadn't met yet but looked familiar. I didn't want to know. He probably had the same name as someone I wrote about.

"So this is it?", I said, rather dumbly. "Well, let's get this over with."

"Ah, a man of action," Thistle said, "I like that!" He moved over to a computer that was set up beside the mirror. He pushed some buttons, moved to the machine and flipped some switches, twiddled some knobs. The usual. I chuckled under my breath. This was something RIGHT out of a science fiction novel.

But then something happened and I stopped smiling.

Lights came on around the mirror and as I was looking at myself in it, the picture changed. Just like that. The mirror's glass became almost liquid and the reflection it showed was not a reflection at all. Now I was looking at an empty warehouse. Then it changed again and I saw Thistle setting up the computer IN the mirror. But he was not moving OUTSIDE of the mirror. He was still standing at the computer, pecking away at the keys. Then the mirror changed again and I saw myself with Lily.

I stopped breathing.

It was the night of the accident and I was walking Lily to the car. She was smiling nervously and I could see myself gawking at her.

My lips started quivering. I was about to start crying just seeing her. Either this was a sick joke, or...or this was EXACTLY what Thistle said it was.

Finally, Thistle stepped away from the computer and turned to me.

"Ok, John. Whenever you're ready just step into the mirror."

I looked at him, unsure. I looked at the mirror. I took a deep breath. What was the worst that could happen? Then I stepped into blackness.

"John? JOHN?" A familiar voice. I loved that voice.

I was in the car and we were going to dinner. Wait! I was in the car?! I looked at the passenger. Lily. My heart stopped. "Lily," I managed to stammer.

"What? What is it John?" she asked.

"I...I don't know. Where are we?", I was disoriented. Gradually, I remembered. The wreck!

"I was trying to tell you that I had news and you just zoned out on me, tard." she laughed.

"What news?" I asked. When did it happen? How long after she told me did we get into the accident? I racked my brain.

"He proposed, John!"

"Lily, there's something I have to tell you." I said, scanning the road ahead, looking left and right. "It's important."

"What is it, John? Did you hear what I said?" She asked. I looked at her. I still saw in gray, but I could still see that she was so beautiful. Oh, but she was beautiful!

"Yes, I heard you. You can't marry him, Lily, because I love you, Lily. I always loved you and I should have told you long ago but I didn't and now it's almost too late, but I love you!" The words came tumbling out, words I had always wanted to say but in my
cowardice I could not.

I looked back at the road. Lily was silent at first. Then she sighed and said, "I know, John."

"What?!" the word nearly exploded from my mouth. "What do you mean, 'you know'?!"

She grew quiet. I risked a second to look over at her. She couldn't look at me.

"I wanted you, John. I wanted you for so long, but...but you never said anything. You wouldn't make a move, John! I couldn't stand that! It was obvious how you felt, but you wouldn't do anything, not even when I started dating other men. You...I couldn't wait for something that wasn't going to happen. He makes me happy, John, and I said yes."

So that was it, huh? I was going to lose her a second time. But I told her!

"No, not this time," I murmured.

"What?" Lily asked, "What did you say, John?"

And that's when I saw him. It was a black SUV that was swerving a hundred feet ahead. Then it was in my lane.

"Not this time!" I shouted and spun the wheel.

Time slowed down. The driver of the SUV, in his drunken state, tried to swerve. My tires squeeled. His tires squeeled. And he hit my side...dead on. Like it should have been.

That was the last thing I heard, the squeel of tires, and the scream of a beautiful woman, the most beautiful woman. Then it all went black...

I head familiar voices. A steady beeping noise. Then a feminine voice, "Doctor, I think he's waking up!"

I opened my eyes and saw color. That was the first thing I noticed. Then I noticed a heart monitor, tubes coming out of my mouth, tubes coming out of my body. The ugly bluish-green of the hospital was beautiful to someone who couldn't remember the last time he saw color.

The hospital room was suddenly alive with life as nurses and doctors crowded in and moved about with professional excitement. Tubes were removed, machines taken away, and the silent jubilee of one who has returned from the dead filled the room.

What had happened? I tried to ask but my words were a muffle. Painkilling drugs inhibited my thoughts and the only thing I could manage to say was Lily's name over and over.

Finally, the bustle subsided and a doctor walked in.

"John? Are you with us?" he asked.

I managed to nod.

"Good!" He smiled. "I'll be back in a few minutes with some water and then maybe you'll be able to talk."

He came back into the room with a bottle of water and some apple sauce.

"This was the best I could get you for a snack." He said, apologetically. "Hospital food." He shuddered then laughed.

"We thought you might not wake up, John, but here you are!" He laughed again. "Three months sleeping and you finally decided to rejoin us."

What?

"Three months?" I croaked.

"Yes," the doctor said, "You've been in a coma for three months. Twice your heart stopped beating altogether and we had to bring you back. I was sure that you weren't going to come back. I don't know what happens in comas, but you must have had tremendous will power to make it after that."

My heart stopped twice? Shivers went down my spine. I had tried to kill myself twice.

"Where's Lily?" I demanded, suddenly.

"She's on her way, John. She's been in here every day with you. From what I understand, you saved her life. You swerved to take a drunk driver on your side and because of that Lily escaped with only minor cuts and bruises."

"John? John!" Oh, that voice! How I loved that voice! She ran to my side and leaned over and hugged me hard. I never wanted to leave that embrace!

"Lily!" I started crying right then. I didn't know what to say. She was alive!

"What happened?" I asked.

"I was telling you about my engagement. Don't you remember?" She asked. "Then a drunk got in our lane and you swerved." She started crying. Tears of joy, I supposed. We were alive!

"Did I say anything, Lily?"

"Well, you got really quiet, and then told me that you were happy for me, that you supported me."

I was confused. I didn't understand. Had I told her or not? I didn't know.

"Lily. I need to tell you something, something I should have told you a long time ago."

She looked at me.

"Lily, I love you. I love you more than life itself. You are all that best and bright in my world. Without you, my world would be a gray haze not worth living. You are color in a black and white world, laughter in a time of mourning, Lily, you are a rose in a world of weeds, a diamond in a world of rocks, and I. Love. You." I finished in tears, praying it was not too late.

Lily started crying. "I love you too, John. So much. I thought you would never tell me. I thought I would live life just getting by. My fiancee got angry at me for spending so much time here at the hospital with you. We fought a few weeks ago and he broke it off. That's when I knew, I couldn't settle for anything, or anyone else."

We hugged and I didn't let her go.

When I got out of the hospital I tried calling River Ridge University. They've never had a Dr. Thistle in their employment. The warehouse was still there and still very empty, and to this day...well, I don't know what happened in my dreams, but I do know one thing:

I found my second chance and I seized it. I held onto love and I never let it go.

The Bard's Song

The Bard's Song

Far away, past the moon, in the Realm of the Immortals there is a king. This King's name is Iestyn. King Iestyn had no queen, but had a son, Iósua, Iósua ap Iestyn. They had had the kingdom for as long as there had been a kingdom there. King Iestyn would always rule there for as long as there was a kingdom, and there would always be a kingdom. This kingdom lived in peace. It's only enemies had long ago been banished or destroyed. Everyone in this kingdom was joyous, and everyone felt the love that Prince Iósua and His Bride, Caitlynn.

But it had not always been so...There had been war many years ago. A poet had lead an army against the King's men. He had failed, but both the Realm of the Immortals and the Land of Men felt it.

He was the chief minstrel in King Iestyn's court. His name was Baird and He took his job seriously, wrote his songs with pride. There was no king like Iestyn, he knew this. He wrote daily of the King's Justice, and Mercy. He knew well of His Grace and of all His laudable attributes, His Righteousness, Love for His people. He was a Holy King, Powerful and Meek, Worthy of all praise and Humble.

He knew all of this, wrote of it constantly. Ever since he had been a minstrel he was to write of the King. The King's Son was the same way. Both worthy of any praise that he could write. And he could write it well. And when he sang. Oh, the people were amazed! They FELT his words, knew them for truth! He could bring tears to the eyes of those listening, or, if he wanted, joy, peace. He could make them FEEL the song.

What would happen if he sang of himself? Would the people love him as they loved the King? More, perhaps? He often wished he had a bard to sing of his praises. Did he not deserve it? Once this thought occured to him, he was not the same.

He would stand in the court of the King, the people hushed waiting for his clear, pure voice to sing of the King, to FEEL the King's praise, to join in...And he would wish they were waiting to hear him for him! Not because he sang for the King! Resentment started building in Baird. He knew the crowds adored his song, but adored his song more because of their adoration of the King, the One Whom the song was about. So he wrote his own song. He never sang it around others, only when he was with himself. Ah, how he loved this song!..

One day he was singing this song to himself when he was approached by two of the King's guards. Captains both, one was Michael and the other was Bryan. He quit singing.

One of them spoke, "Baird, the King wants to see you."

Baird did not worry. The King was constantly wanting to see him. Usually it was so he could sing his praise. But what if someone had overheard his song? No! Impossible. They would have been captivated, he was sure of that! So he went with them.

He entered into the King's court and bowed before the throne. He looked up at the King. Iósua stood at His right. Both the King and His Son stared at him with melancholy eyes. What was going on?

The King stared at him and Baird knew in that moment that the King knew! He knew of the song! How could that be!

Suddenly, the King's eyes turned from melancholy to a flaming fury! He stood and with a shout shook the whole palace. Baird fell to his knees in fear.

The King spoke and it sounded like thunder, "I have heard your song, Baird! It sickens me and I cannot have you in my presence any longer!" His Voice rumbled on long after He spoke. "That which you will do, do quickly!"

Baird could not immediately stand. Michael and Bryan picked him up and escorted him through the court, out into the great hall, and then threw him into the courtyard. Baird still lay there, the King's voice resonating in his head. He felt sick.

Who did Iestyn think He was to throw out His chief bard? The people loved him and needed him! Well, if the King wanted no longer to hear his voice, perhaps someone else would.

So he sang his song for the people, for the King's men, for anyone who would listen, he sang, and this is the way of it...

I will ascend to the heavens!
I will set my throne above Iestyn's stars!
I will sit on the mountain of the Immortals assembly!
I will ascend above the highest clouds!
I will make myself like the Most High!

And he sang it so powerfully! It repulsed most of the Immortals who heard it, but there was a group that was wooed by the bard's song. It was a group roughly a third of all the King's men. They were lulled and wooed until the bard's song became their song as well, until they wanted to ascend as well, until they wanted what the bard wanted. Baird was their king and they loved him, or was it that they loved his song, made it theirs?

They were ready to fight, to war with the King! And so they did. The kings men went to war with the bard and his men. It would have lasted for eternity except that the Iósua ap Iestyn strode out onto the battlefield and met with Baird.

"You must leave.", he said simply.

The bard did not respond.

"You will go to world of men, there you may sing your song all you like. You will not take your name with you. You are no longer Baird the Poet, you will be Diabhall the Cursed. The Immortals you take with you will no longer resemble immortals, but will become cursed creatures that follow you. They will share your domain and they will be called Deamhon. If they like your song, they may swear allegiance to you. If they do, they are yours."

Diabhall stared at Iósua with dark eyes. He grinned a malevolent grin.

Iósua continued, "Somewhere in the land of men is my Bride-to-be. I warn you now, if you touch her, I will kill you myself."

And with that, Iósua ap Iestyn and His army cast Diabhall from the Realm of the Immortals and cursed them to walk the earth.

Several Years Later

Land of Men

They did listen to his song. Men and women loved it. They were struck by the beauty of Diabhall. He was tall and pale, he had fair hair and the deepest, bluest eyes. The sun seemed to shine off of him and nearly, NEARLY reflected some kind of glory....a perverted glory, but it appeared glorious to Man.

Everywhere he sang his song, men and women swore him allegiance. He sent his Deamhon's about with contracts and anyone who heard his song signed their contracts willingly and kept them. They never thought about them again after that, didn't care. They just wanted to hear his song. So he sang, the Deamhon's sang, and man sang.

The Land of Man had been a veritable paradise, but now it was fallen. Darkness covered the land, depression reigned, but men everywhere clung to the song of Diabhall.

And Diabhall rejoiced...but it wasn't enough. He was not worshipped as the King was, or even as Iósua was. He wanted more. No, NEEDED more! He was relatively happy knowing that Iósua's so called 'bride-to-be' was his now. He didn't know which woman it was, but there was no woman that HADN'T half killed herself in the rush to pledge herself to him, the fair haired beauty. Diabhall and his voice...they loved it.

Still...it just wasn't enough.

One day, a man presented himself to Diabhall in his court.

"Diabhall the Cursed! Your time is fast approaching." The stranger said.

Diabhall hissed. How did he know that name?

"Who are you to address me as such in my court? Bow to me when you speak, man!" He commanded the stranger, but the stranger made no move.

"BOW!" Diabhall's clear, pure voice distorted into something completely different.

Still, the man made no move.

Diabhall started to sing.

"Silence!" the stranger boomed. Diabhall was surprised to find himself complying.

"Who are you?" He asked. The stranger stepped forward into the light.

"Well, well...Iósua ap Iestyn. You surprise me by coming to the Land of Man to visit me. I'm flattered. Have you chosen a wife yet? I'd love to violate her. I probably already have." He smirked.

Iósua said nothing. He stared at Diabhall. Diabhall quit smirking and glared right back.

"I have chosen a wife. The woman called Morna. She resides here. She cooks and cleans." Iósua became quiet. He did not finish saying what else Morna did here.

Diabhall did, however. He burst out laughing, a pure laugh, nearly child like, but chilling. His blue eyes twinkled.

"The whore you mean?" He laughed again. "Morna!" he called. "Come here!"

A small woman seperated herself from the rest of the crowd that always gathered in Diabhall's Hall. It was a mixture of men, women, and Deamhon's, all of them there to hear Diabhall sing, to enjoy themselves with normally forbidden pleasures. And Morna was one of them.

She was beautiful, or so it seemed. It was hard to tell for her dark brown hair was in her face, she was dirty and in need of a bath, and her clothes were torn and dirtier than she.

"Come here, love." Diabhall cooed, in that beautiful, silk voice of his.

Iósua bristled, but said nothing.

Morna approached Diabhall smiling widely. She stood at his right and looked from Iósua to Diabhall. Diabhall stared at her for a moment then leaned over an licked her face. Then he kissed her full on the mouth. She kissed him back and greedily stroked his face with her hands.

Iósua looked away, saying nothing, his lip quivered either from rage or grief. One could not tell. Finally, he looked back at the woman he had chosen. She stared back at him. Diabhall was grinning.

"She listened to my song and liked what she heard. She has pledged her allegiance to me. However, I'll let her know what you want." He turned to Morna, "This man says He wants to marry you. What do you think of that?" Morna looked at Iósua, looked him up and down. He had not stepped out of the Realm of Immortals in resplendent beauty. He was plain looking, like any other man. Except his eyes... She turned back to Diabhall.

"Does he sing?" She laughed and Diabhall laughed with her. Then he leaned forward and kissed her again.

Iósua felt sick.

Morna looked back at him, the smile fading on her lips. She stared into his eyes. There was something about this man, something she couldn't see, but perhaps this man would show her. Iósua stared back at her without a word. She didn't look away, couldn't look away.

"I have chosen you. Will you be my bride?"

Morna suddenly realized in that moment that, yes, she did want to be this man's bride. Against all reason...She nodded. And then she was falling. Diabhall stood above her to strike her again, but he didn't.

"Go to your room, whore. You forget who you pledge allegiance to." He muttered. Morna got up, cast one more look back at Iósua, then fled from the court.

Iósua stared at Diabhall with dark eyes. "What will you take for the woman?"

Diabhall thought about it and said, "Return here tomorrow and I shall tell you my price."

So Iósua left. Night time came, the sun fell, cold came, the sun rose, and still it was dark on the land. Iósua showed up as promised.

"Have you decided your price?" He demanded of Diabhall.

Diabhall nodded, smiling darkly. "Yes. I have."

"Well, what is it?"

Diabhall spoke slowly, "If you want the woman you must become Mortal. Drop your chains of immortality and walk the earth for life. Then you may be with the woman."

Iósua looked down. He sighed and looked back at Diabhall with sadness in his eyes. "Let it be as you have said."

Diabhall looked gleeful, "Are you mortal?" he asked. Iósua only nodded.

Diabhall laughed, "Grab him!"

Instantly two of his Deamhon's were on Iósua and forced him to the ground.

"Iósua ap Iestyn, you are a fool! I never took you for a fool, but here you are in my hands as a mortal. And for a woman! No, a whore!"

Diabhall kicked him in his face as he bent over. Iósua gasped, blood pouring from his nose.

Diabhall leaned down and peered into his face, "You will pay for your love with your life!" He spat on him.

"Nail him above the court doors! I want everyone to see him as they come in to sing." Diabhall grinned menacingly.

And so it was done to Iósua as it was commanded. The two Deamhon's dragged him over to the tall arch and drove great spikes through his hands into the wall. He dangled there, his feet hanging just into the doorway, gasping for air. Diabhall smiled. At last, now he was feeling glorified. He would make him listen to him sing for as long as he lived. And that wouldn't be too much longer.

People came and went. They sang as they came and they sang as they went. They ridiculed the hanging man. The smacked his feet and they spat upon him. Until one morning they came in and his body was still.

Diabhall grunted, he hadn't lasted as long as he had hoped. Perhaps he would just leave his body there for a little while longer. First things first though. He looked around the court until he spotted what it was he was seeking out. A spear. He hefted, stared at Iósua for a minute, then shoved it into his heart. Blood spilled out and soaked his clothing, poured over his body, and onto the spear. Diabhall dropped it before it could get on him. He stood there for sometime just watching this dead man bleed. Once immortal, the son of a great king, often sung about, was now in his hall, dead.

Diabhall left.

Diabhall sat in the tallest tower several days later. He was composing another song, a song about the death of an immortal. He had accomplished the impossible! Men would hear of this and laud him as the Immortal King! And suddenly he wanted to see the body again. So he got up and wandered down the steps, singing as he went, his pure, clear voice paving the way for him.

He stopped singing as he entered the court. There was no body here. Morna was here as well, she was looking around just as confused as he.

"Morna," he called,"where is the body?"

Morna didn't say anything she merely shrugged.

"Has no one seen the body of Iósua ap Iestyn?!" He screamed. He had made a mistake! Something was going on that shouldn't be going on, and he didn't know what! And then he saw him. He was standing in the doorway, glowing, exuding a brilliance. His clothes were still horribly bloody, but he himself looked no worse than the day he had showed up in Diabhall's court.

Diabhall's lip quivered in fear, sweat rolled down his face.

"You made a mistake, Diabhall." Iósua said, "I don't belong to you. I'm not yours to do with that you will. I deserved no death."

Diabhall saw Morna and lunged for her. He was stopped by two glowing Immortals.

Iósua approached Diabhall. Diabhall backed up until he fell and was scooting backwards across the floor. Iósua kicked him onto his back and peered down at him.

"You cannot touch her. You have already done with me whatever you wanted and have lost your right to do with her whatever you want. She is mine now, and you...you have broken our agreement." Iósua smiled, "Do you know what that means, Diabhall? It means you die, and I win."

Diabhall's face contorted with anger. He screamed. His fair hair caught fire, and his blue eyes turned red. He lost his glow and turned ashen, then turned dark. His beauty fell from him and his voice became hoarse. He yelled anyway.

I will ascend to the heavens!
I will set my throne above---

"Silence!" Iósua roared. Diabhall fell silent. He sat running his hands over his dark skin, his cracked, dirty finger nails flitted through his stringy burnt hair. He started sobbing.

Iósua walked over to Morna who was staring at him. Iósua started glowing more. "Morna, you are no longer his. Your death is mine and now my life is yours. I chose you, I bought you, I love you. Will you be my Bride?"

Morna nodded vigorously, she was crying. She had lived a life of pain and didn't realize it until this man showed her kindness. She lived a life of guilt but didn't know it until this man offered forgiveness. She was dirty.

"I have seen who you were Morna. But I see that no more." He dipped his hands into the blood on his clothes. He wiped a streak on her forehead, both her cheeks, and then her chin. "All I see is my death and your life. You are no longer foul, you are no longer his. You are mine and you are beautiful. For that, I call you Caitlynn" He embraced her.

When they finally let go he marched over to Diabhall. He glowed ever brighter and brighter the nearer he got. Diabhall turned his eyes, he could not stare at Iósua. He was too bright!

Iósua leaned down to Diabhall and whispered, "I told you if you ever touched her I would kill you." Diabhall started whimpering.

Iósua yelled, a guttural cry for the pain that Diabhall had inflicted on Caitlynn. A crack formed in the ground and it ran the link of the room. With the horrible sound of rock being rent into two, the floor slid apart to reveal a huge, black fissure, a chasm into nowhere. Diabhall whimpered more.

Then Iósua drew back and kicked Diabhall into the gaping hole. Diabhall screamed as he fell. His scream continued long after he was lost from sight. Then suddenly there were more than just the two Immortals. There were hundreds! Those who had pledged allegiance to Diabhall fought alongside the Deamhons, but they were simply not powerful enough.

Michael yelled, "Go mbeire an Diabhal leis thú!"

At this cry, the Immortals glowed brighter than ever and rushed the enemy into the pit, until they fell alongside Diabhall. And there they remain to this day, falling for eternity.

No one remained in the room except for the Immortals, Iósua ap Iestyn, and Caitlynn.

Iósua walked over to Caitlynn, embraced her, and whispered, "I will never leave you nor forsake you." And then they stepped from this land into the Realm of the Immortals.

The End.

The Futility Of Insanity II

I am still alone in this Kingdom of Beauty. Do you know what happened when I was turned down? When you so hastily refused to join me in this paradise? When you crushed my heart?

I was sitting in the shade of a magnificent elm, and watching the clouds, lost in my own world. My beautiful world. My insanity.

As I was staring at the clouds, something changed. The wind picked up, and there's never more than a gentle breeze in my Kingdom. The wind picked up but I could not feel it. I could only see the affect it had on my beautiful world.

The tree I was leaning on was uprooted and it knocked me to the ground. The wind carried it I know not where. The wind was howling and still I could not feel it on me.

The clouds turned dark and ominous. I screamed at the sky to stop! I commanded it the wind to die, but to no avail! The wind screamed back, and the clouds released a torrent of rain, rain so strong it plastered the grass to the ground and stung upon hitting me.

Then the temperature dropped. The rain turned to ice, and the grass was frozen solid. Every step I took the icy grass would tear gashes in my feet until I could no longer move.

I lay there for some time unconscious, unaware of the damage being done. The wind picked up, the ice fell, and the mountains withered away.

Then it was night.

I woke up shivering. The grass was no longer frozen, in fact, it wasn't really there any more. The wind broke the frozen grass stems so that they lay scattered in the field.

It was no longer raining, and the wind had died down. It was abominably dark. The stars themselves seemed dead and muffled. The moon was still full, but it was a reddish color and the face seemed to scream in agony.

I walked for hours, stumbling over uprooted trees, and slipping in the grass. I shivered all night for the temperature had dropped far below normal. I walked until I came to the edge of a precipice. Though it was dark I could see over the water, and I could hear its roar, a horrible sound.

The water was frothy, smacking up high against the cliff. As far as I could see, gigantic whirlpools were forming in the deep parts of the ocean. They would spin off into nothingness and then reform with a scream. I could hear the roar, and I wept.

I wept for my Kingdom of Beauty.

My beautiful world.

My insanity.

The Futility Of Insanity

It's a beautiful world.

No, not the one we live in. The one we live in is full of death, disease, despair, and depression. It's rank with heartache. No, the world we live in is not beautiful, but I will create a world for you, dear, a world that we can live in happily.

I can see it now. In fact, I am there now.

There is no life, no civilization, nothing.There is only rolling fields of the purest green, trees in full bloom. Towering mountains dominate the land. The sea is gentle, never swelling, never rough. The sun is covered by clouds of all hues, and of all colors. The sky is red, no, now it's orange and yellow, now it's purple. At night thousands of stars lend their light to a dark land. The moon is always full and it's face reminds me of you. There are thousands and hundreds of animals. All types, but all gentle.

But I am alone.

I am left alone in my world, to run and dance through the fields and meadows, to leap off the huge cliffs, and embrace the warmth of the ocean. I am alone to enjoy the coolness of the crisp night. I am alone to spin under the sun until I collapse. I am left alone to rule this veritable paradise, but I AM alone.

Will you join me?

Will you accompany me through the fields and meadows? Will you join me in my blessed Kingdom of Beauty? It's so simple. All it takes is love and a little bit of insanity. Take my hand, please. Come with me, follow me. My heart beckons you, do not break it. For if you break my heart, you destroy my world.

My beautiful world.

My Kingdom of Beauty.

My insanity.

My Own Personal Gallows

He sits on the bench inside the town jailhouse, rotting away, hoping he'll die before he stands on the platform, and wait his turn in line for the gallows.

As he sits he hears the now familiar sound of a rope pulling taut and the strangled, attempted breathing of a man on death row. He sighs.

He wonders why he is here, what series of events, what circumstances led him to this spot, this exact spot. He would weep, but the time for weeping was long past. He had spent all his tears wetting the dirt floor of his too-small cell. He recalls the circumstances. Murder.

As he sits and ponders and thinks about his crime, he hears another rope, another life leaving behind a notorious legacy of wanton murder, and he knows that he's not so far back in line, not so far back that he can't make amends. But he's tried already. He is sorry.

He thinks back on his crime.

It was a warm day, unseasonably warm. A slight breeze rolled around and whipped up small dust devils. The General Store stands silent, no one coming in, no one leaving it. The buildings to the left and right, mostly boardinghouses, also stood silent. It was one of those days. It was one of the days where the only activity is across the street in the saloon.

Men, fresh from the mines or just off work, all gather around telling each other stories over beer. They tell of indians and attacks and murderers being strung up. They tell tales of justice and lawlessness, and their hearers take it in

Other men are in there swallowing down their pain. They drink to forget because remembering hurts and pain is the one thing they can't help. Except to drink. He was one of them.

He drank to forget the offences met out against him who knows how long ago. His only love had left him. Left him for a deacon (and son of the pastor) from the little churchhouse around the corner. They ran off only He knows where.

He orders another shot of whiskey and downs it, and the more he downs it, the more he remembers. He doesn't forget, but remembers. And the more he remembers the angrier he gets. And the angrier he gets, the more he wants to track down that low-life, scum of a deacon, and take back what was rightfully his.

He downs another one. He listens to the raucous laughter of the men behind him, now telling coarse jokes. For all he knows, they could be telling the story of ol' what's-his-name's wife who ran off with what's-his-name the deacon. More laughter. And the more he hears the laughter, and the more he downs the whiskey, the more he wants revenge. Yes, that's what he wants. He can feel it in his gut. It's a cold, hard feeling that screams for death. He drinks even more. Finally, when he can no longer drink another, he leaves.

The laughter follows him through the swinging doors and he stands in the middle of the street, remembering, remembering and hating. He walks and stumbles down the street. The street, barely lit now by the moon because he has been in there for hours and didn't quite realize it, stretches off before him. Beckoning to him to follow, to follow and to kill.

He walks back to his room at the boardinghouse. He walks and crawls his way up the stairs to his room and passes out on his bed. It's morning when he wakes. HE has a headache but he's still determined. He remembers last night, and that cold, hard feeling in his gut has not left. So he straps on his gun. He roots through the drawers of the little table by his bed until he finds what he's looking for.

A note. A note from her, from that no good hussy who ran off with what's-his-name the deacon. He almost laughs. It tells him right on the envelope where the note came from. A little town only about thirty miles from where he is now. He crumples it up and throws it on the floor. He leaves.

He grimaces as he walks down the stares. He has a killer headache from his evening at the saloon, and every step down he takes it sends a jolt of pain through his head. Finally, he reaches the ground floor and walks out in the street. He winces then too, for the light is bright and doesn't help.

He wastes no time saddling his horse and setting off. He didn't even buy provisions for the trip. Maybe he knew then that he wouldn't be coming back. Maybe he didn't care what happened to him as long as he killed that low life deacon.

He reaches the little town after dark. He ties his horse to the hitching post and enters this towns saloon. It's just like the last one. Raucous laughter, filthy language, and stench of cigarettes and alchohol permeate the room. He walks through a cloud of cigarette smoke and sits in a stool at the bar. He orders a shot and some information. He inquires after ol' what's-his-name the deacon. He asks about newcomers. Anyone who may have come in the past two weeks. He rewards the bartender well, and ponders the information he has been given. A place, a name, and a room number, more then he ever could have wished for.

The place wasn't hard to find. It was just down the street from the saloon. It was nestled between the general store and a church. Figures, he thinks. He walks into the boardinghouse and up the stairs. He enters the room quietly. It's dark, but he can see who occupies the bed. He recognizes both of them. He draws his gun, but he wants that deacon to see just what's gonna happen. He wants him to stare down his barrel and taste the fear in his mouth. He wants him to know how it feel when he loses everything.

So he wakes them up. He speaks, "Hello."

The figures bolt up in bed and turn the light on. The man in bed gasps because not two feet from his head is a barrel, a dark orb of death that seems to howl out the words "I'VE COME FOR YOU!"

Then an explosions shatters the night air. The peace has been broken. A scream, shrill and feminine, accompanies the following silence, which wasn't so silent.

The man leaves. He doesn't make it far before he's picked up. Three months later he sits on a bench in the jailhouse, listening to the sound of life after life being ended, and he is sorry. He's not sorry because he wants to live, he truly is sorry, remorseful, penitent, because he knows he did wrong.

Then, it is his turn. He stands up on the platform. It seems like a stage to him, and, in some ways, it is. There is a jeering crowd in front of him, screaming for his death. He closes his eyes. He ignores the voices of the crowd, the voices of the judge, and then he hears a new voice.

"Wait," it calls, "Don't hang him."

He opens his eyes and gasps. It's the pastor. The father of the deacon who ran off with his wife. He thinks the man has come to prolong his life, to make him live in agony over the decisions he made. But he hasn't.

The pastor walks over to the judge, the man who had the power to kill, the power to say a word and cut off his breath for eternity. The pastor whispers in his ear for sometime. The judge looks shocked. They argue for a few moments, and then stop.

The pastor walks up the steps to the gallows, and removes the rope from around the neck of his sons killer.

"You are free now," he says, "Go and sin no more."

The man stares at him in astonishment. What had he said to the judge to convince him to let him go? He was about to die, but now he was free. What had happened? He is silent though. He doesn't ask. He simply walks off the platform with tears in his eyes. And as he is walking away he hears the sound, the sound of a rope pulling taut, the sound of a life ending, and he stops. He turns around slowly.

The pastors body sways. His life has gone out of him. He no longer lives. The man wept. An innocent man had died in his place so that he could go free. The father of the man he killed had given his life, so that his son's killer could live.

He wept, and then he went and sinned no more.

The Art Of Unreality

My hand, grasping the pen loosely, traced figures lightly upon the notebook, a tribute to the nothingness in my mind. My hand ached with a purely mental ache, the ache to write something, to write some form of art; nothing normal though, anyone could write a poem or story. There is a capacity within each of us to do anything mediocre. But that was not my objective. My objective was to write something superior to the words of a poet, to write with an elegance and eloquence and fervor unknown to the sidewalk performer. My objective was to create words and worlds that drew her into it, something that grasped her with the reality of unreality.
I sighed. Was it within me to write beauty? I glanced at the notepad. There were a few hearts, some indefinable shapes that somehow seemed to contradict the laws of mathematics. But there were no words, nothing intelligible anyhow. I concentrated. I thought about her, how I felt for her, but still nothing came to mind. I longed to tell her of nothing, of everything. Why could I not do this? Ah, what was this? I had some spark of an idea and began jotting it down. I looked at it. I growled. It was some half-insensible, sentimental piece of garbage. I crumpled it up and threw it down.
I leaned back and let my mind wander. It wandered over unexplored planets, through the outer reaches of the galaxy, until it finally came to rest somewhere in the realm of impossibility. It landed in the world of Love, where everything goes right, and the ending is always happily ever after. That truly was the realm of impossibility. In my life I had never had the propensity for happily-ever-afters. They never worked for me, in my writing, or in my reality. The ending was always some butchered, horrifying truth.
How was love created, I wondered? What was love, and what was the purpose? I half imagined a figure dressed as an executioner. He was standing over his victim who looked about to die. A figure in the shadows sighed.
“Look. Tell us the truth of the matter or we will be forced to play our last card, our last act of torture for which you will want to die because the pain is so great.” (What it was the poor devil was to confess was beyond my writing capabilities, but whatever it was, it was obvious that he wouldn’t give it up.) He sat silently. His head bowed.
The interrogator in the shadows nodded to the executioner. The executioner left the room but returned momentarily carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows. Cupid (for Cupid it was, though he looked nothing like the little baby. Instead, he was a menacing almost demonic looking man) threw back his hood and smirked. He drew an arrow from his quiver and deftly set it to the bow. He grinned maniacally and stared down the shaft of the heart-tipped arrow. He let it fly and it thunked into the poor devil’s head. The victim groaned. Cupid and the mysterious man of the shadows left. The poor devil was left alone with his fate which truly was horrible. He left the place and fell in love, and forever ever after was in constant pain for that love, that ultimate act of torture.
I grinned. It was too close to reality and people don’t read books to immerse themselves in reality. They want to be set down in a world that has a happy ending. They want to live a lie for some short period of time, because that period in their life of that lie is far less painful than the reality.
I sighed. Yes, a lie was far less painful than the reality. So why did I always feel the need to write about truth, about pain, and about love? Was I some sort of emotional masochist? Would I be able to live a full life if I wasn’t in pain? I had done something wrong somewhere. Life was not supposed to be like this. Or maybe I only thought that because of my miserable failures.
I groaned and sighed almost at the same time. I couldn’t do this. There was no way I could write of something wonderful when I didn’t even believe myself that there was anything in anyway redeeming about love.
I unconsciously ran my hands through my hair to make sure there were no arrows sticking out. That would have been so much simpler. Drawing an arrow out of my skull was easier than giving up love. Well, giving up love wasn’t the hard part. The hard part was getting over the one I loved. I wanted to. I had no reason to love. If only there were an arrow to pull out, how much simpler it would be.
I was in a paradox. I wanted to give up love and write of it at the same time. Ah! Life would be so much easier of there were one gender, and everyone reproduced asexually. Why must there be love? Why must there be some sort of universal torture on all man kind? To love love would be sadistic, for love is pain and to love pain is sadism. Something was dreadfully wrong. Had I screwed up in any way? Of course I did. I fell in love. And now, now I was desperately trying to climb out. It seemed, though, that I was swimming further in. There was no answer. One thing I knew; I could not write this love story. I could not write anything of anything that had to do with happily-ever-afters. I needed Someone else. I needed an Author Who could write love in the most unlikely stories.
“Ok God. Here’s the pen. I tried to write romance, but it became horror. You write the story, I’ll enjoy it.”
I got up from the bench and walked away, already feeling a little lighter. Life was easier if you didn’t have to worry about the story.

No, Not Yesterday

To Do List


Call Mom.
CHECK

Breathe.
CHECK

XHave A Great DayX


Well, the couch was rather comfortable. To get up would mean to face the harsh reality that seemed to be the sole element of his life. He thought hard.

As I thought, he thought, I can’t think of a worse day than this. This year, anyhow.

He sighed. He rolled over.

He thought briefly about crying but knew it would take too much effort and that there was no one to care.

Beep.

Great, he thought.

The answering machine kicked on.

“Hey, this is Josh. Apparently I was not around to answer the phone. More than likely I just didn’t want to talk to you. Go away.” Beep.

A perky female voice came on.

“Uh, Hello, Mr….. Ah! Mr. Royston! Yes, this is, uh, Jamie with the First National Bank. We were just calling to let you know that you are bankrupt. Have a great day!” Beep.

He cried then.


Meanwhile in the Galactic Death Ship Zargon


“Are you sure they won’t mind?”

The voice belonged to Rae Squittlebottom, a short Thingian from the aptly named Planet Thingy, a large planet on the opposite side of the Solar System. His skin was a pale green color. And what hair he had was a light gray. His left nose was slightly bigger and runnier than his right one and his center eye protruded a little further than the other two. As Thingians go, he wasn’t half bad looking. Except for his height. The Thingian was no more than Q units tall. Rather embarrassing when the other Thingians were at least K units tall.

He disguised his height with his voice. It was rather deep for a Thingian. He lived by the old adage, “If you speak with enough authority they’ll die.”

Or was that, “If you kill them they’ll die”? He couldn’t remember.

The question in question was directed to his companion, another Thingian named Sqond Qundlenoodel. He was an average Thingian. A hair under above K units with a tuft of white hair protruding from his back.

Sqond, known as Sqindel to his friends, looked lazily at Rae. “What?”

“I said, ‘Are you sure they won’t mind?’” He repeated himself.

Sqond chortled. A strange sound for a Thingian. It was used as a laugh but sounded more like a Tringleezian death scream. Only not as loud.

“Of course they won’t mind. The general consensus seems be in agreement.”

“And what would that be?”

“Well,” Sqond began, “They seem to think that this is something of the worse day ever. A real gorth of a day.”

“Ah, I see.” Rae replied. Sqond doubted very much that he did.

“Anyway,” Sqond continued, “One of them, a man named Val Moore, says that it will happen anyway.”

“What?!” Rae exclaimed. “How does a complete ozone layer deplete itself naturally?” His voice was laced with incredulity.

“It doesn’t.” Sqond replied. Then he chortled again.


On Planet Earth


Josh woke up and that was quite possibly the biggest mistake of that afternoon.

He groaned when he remembered the call that came in earlier. He was afraid to ask himself just how much worse the day could get.

Honestly, he didn't think it could. Of course, that was what he thought before the phone call.

He sighed. He tried going back to sleep. If he was lucky he wouldn't wake up until...

If he was lucky he wouldn't wake up.

The phone rang.

He groaned. He reached across the bed to the phone on the nightstand. The caller ID read "Andrea Kolchek".

Well, he thought, unless she's calling to tell me she hates me this day just might get better.

He answered. "Hi. Please tell me you're not calling to say you hate me."

There was silence for a minute. And then her voice came on the line.

"Um, no. Actually I was wondering if we could meet somewhere."

"Always." he replied.


One Hour Later


"Hi." Andrea said.

Josh's smile was shy as he replied.

They started talking and didn't stop for some time. For Josh, this was heaven. He almost forgot to eat as he watched her talk. Oh, and if we hadn't mentioned it before; Josh was in love with this girl.

Time passed. The food slowly disappeared.

"I suppose you're wondering why I wanted to meet." she said.

"Well, I was a little curious and a bit leery too. This is honestly one of the worst days of my life."

"Well, um, I don't know how to say this." She looked not a little unsure of herself.

Josh quesitoned her with a glance.

"It's hard to explain," She said in defense of herself, "I can't just blurt out the fact that I'm in love with you." She blushed.

Josh was astounded. He couldn't say anything for a few minutes. When he finally found his voice he was able to tell her that he loved her too.

His day was finally looking up. No, check that, his life was finally looking up.

They embraced. It was ten minutes before they pulled apart. They looked into each other's eyes and laughed.

Josh leaned in to kiss her...and at that exact moment the Thingians decided to neutralize the ozone layer of the earth.


On The Zargon


It was Rae that spoke up first. "Whoa." There was silence."Look at it burn."

And indeed the planted was burning up. It started at the poles and worked its way up (or down depending upon which pole it was) until they met in the middle. First there were widespread floods. Until the water was evaporated. Then the planet just seemed to wither away until there was nothing left but a rock.

Sqond spoke up. "Let's do that again!"


On The Earth



A Few Moments Previously



To Do List


Hold Rally.
CHECK

Make Movie.
CHECK

XConsult ExpertsX


Hug Tree. [Pending]



Val Moore stood in the grove of elms in his backyard. If you stood close enough you might have heard baby noises as he talked to his trees.

"It's ok. Daddy gon' protect you. Yes he will. Would you like a hug?"

He embraced the tree. "There, there. Everything gon' be alright."

He was still hugging the tree when his Chief of Staff ran up to him. He was out of breath and could barely speak. "Mr...*pant*...Mr...*wheeze*...Mr. Moore...*inhale*..."

"Did I not tell you to refer to me as the Lord of Whales?"

"*gasp*...Sir...Sorry...*pant*...Poles...melting..."

"Yes? What do the polls say?"

*No, sir...*inhale* ...poles..."

"Poland? Ah, how are they?"

"*wheeze*...Sir...Ice caps...melting..."

"You mean...?"

"Yes, sir..."

Val looked astounded. He couldn't believe it. Then he jumped up with excitement.

"You mean I was right?"

The man could only nod.

"I was right! This is an important campaign issue. If the people see I am right they will vote for me," he started pacing as his Chief of Staff stared at him, "Abortion! That's an important issue. Yes. I will support choosing. It's a woman's right after all." He patted the tree. "Poor whales..."

Then a thought seemed to occur to him.

"Wait...the ice caps are melting...the ozone layer is...gone?"

The Chief of Staff nodded grimly.

"So...this is it...no more saving the whales or...hugging the trees...just..."

There was silence as the two men looked at each other. Neither spoke.

"Would you like a hug?"

The Chief of Staff nodded grimly.

Then a wave of fire overtook them both and they were annihilated.


On The Zargon


"Wow. That was amazing. What do you want to do now" Sqond asked his companion, Rae.

"I dunno. That kinda made me hungry."

"Ok. Let's grab some food and see if we made it on the Night O'Clock News."

It was indeed on the news that night. The Galactic News Network (GNN) had quite a few things to say about the Thingians who invented the Gone! Ozone Reduction Emitter (GORE). It was quite a galactic hit.


Later That Day



To Do List


Test GORE.
CHECK


"Hey, Rae, can you believe that guy thought that could happen naturally?"

They chortled.