And Then He Tried To Write

(This is not a story)

2010-03-22T21:22:00.001-07:00

(A note- I've really neglected all of my various blogging pursuits as of late, but I hope that this one might still live in some form, since I do continue to write and some of it is even worth sharing. So, please, send me good thoughts and gentle reminders and I might yet still steal some of your day sharing my thoughts and ideas. Ciao.)

The Starting Gunshot

2010-03-22T21:16:00.000-07:00

It starts with a gun shot.

Your arms are pumping, your lungs burning, your knees and feet and legs pulsing with the beat of the unforgiving pavement below. It is not about victory, nor about competition, but rather an unspoken desire seeded deep within your soul. Your eyes see nothing but fire and the crowd from which you emerge is a tidal wave and you are at the tip of its wake. The air screams past your ears, a high pitched squeal. The wind cuts your face. For a brief moment, you are truly and undeniably alive. Each step pushes you further than you've ever been before, your body at and exceeding its limits. Each breath you take rips you raw, providing increasingly diminishing returns. You are running out of time, out of energy, out of will. Maybe you should have exercised more. As the riot continues to rage, the mob passes over your collapsed body and soon you are consumed by the overflowing rage, stomping and stampeding blindly over you. When the time has passed, the morning crews will be cleaning overturned garbage cans, broken glass and your blood from the ground.

Cactus Plant

2006-10-08T12:15:00.000-07:00

(Note: This was written one night, (October 6th to be excact) after biking home to pick up the car on the way from one social function to another. The images had been in my head for a while, but suddenly they became a poem of sorts. I sat down immediatly upon getting home and wrote it out freehand. The very next day, I read it at an open mic poetry night. I'm not a poet, I'm a playwrite, and perhaps it shows, but I do like this poem. Please excuse the formatting, but, you know, it's one of those things.)

Cactus Plant

The day that she left me, my cactus plant died.
A round little bulb of green and thorns,
A gift, from her, a reminder of happier times-
To bring some life into this place, she said,
Something you won’t kill too easy, she smiled,
A joke. We named it ‘Harold’, our first child,
One last thing she took with her when she went.

I know it died because I had had one other, years ago,
Another gift, a cheap present, 3.98$ plus tax at some chain store, somewhere,
From a friend who wasn’t one long and wasn’t missed after.
This one was spherical and seemed to wish to burst
from the coffee tin in which it had been planted.
Its soft sharp curves seemed optimistic-
Like the bright flowers it bloomed in the first month,
Only to wilt and fall and then, never again.
I neglected it, and yet it still was green. I took a perverse pride:
First “It’s been weeks since I-“ and then “Watered it maybe once every month or-“
and so on and so forth until:
“Is that still there? I had forgotten it.”
Maybe a year without water, and still green by some miracle.
Only when I touched it, it fell away, collapsed into itself like a deflated balloon,
An empty husk revealing itself, the plant long since dead,
maybe since the first and final time those small buds bloomed only to fall to neglect.

I knew that my second plant lived because each time I would come to it,
Placed in the tiny window of my basement room, it would lean towards the sun,
Vegetation seeking luminous salvation from my dark dwelling,
My moonless hiding place.
And so, weary of a ruse like my last cactus plant, I would turn it,
And as proof of its will to live the next time it would have moved again,
Still stretching towards the only nourishment that would see it with any regularity.

It struck me as strange that one plant should live
While the other would die and take on the illusion of life.
Were I the cactus put under such condition, which would I be?
In the end though, I supposed it doesn’t matter
As regardless of their efforts,
both died.

It struck me then that the cactus is a hardy plant,
built for survival,
one that could withstand the harsh heats and chills of the desert lands –
lonely souls battered by the extremes –
and thrive without life,
without water,
over times that were as good as endless
next to my own
human
fragility.

And yet, when she left me,

we both died.

Secret Identity

2006-05-16T11:45:00.000-07:00

Note: This is the play I won first place in the Amateur Division of the InstaPlay. I only had 90 minutes to write it, so it's not amazing but I like it. I actually didn't finish the play, so there's a point where you'll find "***"- That marks the original ending. All I've done here is transcribe the script with minimal edits (mostly just chaning one of the characters names from Jayde to Jade, because that second spelling was part of a plot point I had already decided to drop before finishing the play, and then I've finished of the play after the asterixes. Enjoy!

(“Gerald”, a middle aged man – out of shape and more or less burnt out – sits on a park bench. He holds a bag of bread crumbs and throws them haphazardly onto the ground. Billy, a young man wearing a suspiciously cumbersome trench coat wanders around. He spots “Gerald” and carefully observes him.)

B: Do I know you?

G: (After a long penetrating glare) Don’t know where you’d get that idea.

B: Right. Okay. Just, uh, checking.

G: Right.

(Billy stands, unable to think of how to continue. “Gerald” throws some more bread crumbs. There’s quite a mess by this point.)

B: You know, you should really stop that.

G: Stop what?

B: What you’re doing. With the – what is that anyway?

G: Breadcrumbs.

B: Right, breadcrumbs. Uh, yeah. Please stop. You’re making a mess. That’s litter.

G: Is it now?

B: Yeah, it is. Please stop, before I have to, uh…

G: What will you have to do?

B: (He takes a moment to gather himself) Something we’ll both regret. Don’t push me old man!

G: (Another stage. Billy’s bravado drops) First of all, I’m not an old man. I’m 43. I’ve got decades left. Secondly, it’s not litter. I’m feeding the birds.

(“Gerald” returns to sprinkling his crumbs. Billy looks around.)

B: There aren’t any birds.

G: There will be.

B: There haven’t been any birds since

G: You don’t understand son. There will be birds. Eventually.

B: Right. Well, why don’t you just hold off with the mess there until they show up. Because you’ve really made a mess now and I can’t just ignore it.

G: Why would that be?

B: Because I have a responsibility to this park.

G: Is that so.

B: Yes it is.

G: Don’t you have anything better to do?

B: Well – uh – no.

G: You’ve got this whole park and there is NOTHING for you to do other then bother an old man who just wants to be left alone?

B: You just said that you weren’t an old –

G: I come here for a little peace and quiet and instead I get harassed because some little punk thinks I’m littering. Litter! And that’s the best you’ve got to do! Why don’t you just – I don’t know – go play on the swings or something?

B: Littering is a CRIME.

(At this last word “Gerald” gives Billy the ultimate stare down. Something is boiling inside him)

G: A crime? A CRIME???

(The throws his bag of breadcrumbs a Billy, rising to deliver his impassioned harangue)

G: Don’t talk to me about crime! I know everything there is to know! And if there’s anything you need to know it is that I would never commit a crime in a million years! I took a vow many years ago, a vow that I have never broken, a vow to defend the innocent, to protect the weak and to punish all evil doers! With my right hand I carried a million babies from burning homes and with my left I valiantly smote a million arsonists! With my right leg I kicked and toppled down a billion despots and with my left I saved a zillion galaxies by punting them away form harm! One of my eyelashes has stopped more “crime” then you’ve ever seen or are likely to see in your whole life! And that’s AMAZINGLY unlikely because of ME! For I am the fantastic, the might and awesome-
(Billy, who has been in shock since being hit by the breadcrumbs lets out a yell as he throws off his trench coat to reveal his outfit: Wrist bands, short shorts, a pair of beat up running shows and a jersey with the letters “RM” on the front. He quickly puts on a sweatband on his head and raises a water bottle)

B: ASSUALT!

(He quickly chugs back the water, and pulls out an MP3 player which he attaches to his armband and puts a pair of ear buds in his ears. He quickly beings running in the spot, “faking” several attacks on “Gerald”)

G: What the hell do you think you’re-

B: Villain, prepare to meet your doom! For today, today you have met RUNNING MAN!

G: Sweet Jesu-

B: I warned you, but you didn’t listen! Well, now you have to face my wrath! Prepare for a marathon beating!

(“Gerald” casually stands, brushes himself off, ignoring Billy’s increasingly frantic feints. He flicks Billy, who tumbles wildly offstage.)

B: Owwww!

Woman’s Voice: Was that really necessary?

(“Gerald” turns around as Ethel enters, a middle aged woman who is more or less his female counterpart physically. She shakes her head with disapproval.)

E: You could have killed the poor kid you know.

G: But I didn’t.

E: No, you didn’t did you.

G: I still follow my vow Ethel.

E: I know Ga-

G: Gerald.

E: Alright then. Gerald, I know that’s still important to you. What about the part that says “defend the innocent”?

G: He was being a jerk.
E: Really.

G: I was just trying to feed the birds.

E: Not that again! And what about protecting the weak? That kid didn’t deserve that “Gerald”, and you know it.

G: I guess you’re right.

(A young girl, Jade, in her teens, enters. She looks younger then she is and wears tomboyish clothes. She looks around for somebody.)

J: Billy! Billy? (She spots Ethel and “Gerald”) Hey, have you guys seen my brother?

G: That depends. Does your brother look like he dressed himself from a “Running Room” in the 70s?

J: That’s totally him.

G: I think he’s passed out by the tree over there.

J: Thanks man! (She sprints off)

E: Listen, we should probably get back home. We’re not exactly unknown and with you tossing people left and right…

G: No way. I came here to feed the birds and that is just what I’m going to do.

E: Great. Well, you just let me know how that turns out for you. (She goes to leave)

G: Wait! … I could use the company.

E: Alright. (She sits) You know, those breadcrumbs were for stuffing.

G: The birds need it more.

E: Do they now.

G: It’s a peace offering.

E: Why do you need to make a peace offering?

G: Because I made a mistake. It was wrong of me, and I want to make up for it.

E: And are you going to make things up to that kid?

G: He was really being annoying.

E: That’s an awful excuse and you know it.

G: I guess so. Still, what do you want me to do?

E: I can think of a few things. Anyway, here he comes so think fast.

(Jade and Billy re-enter, Jade holding up her brother. Billy looks pretty messed up.)

B: Get out of here Jade, I need to handle this on my own. Running Man fights his own fights!

J: I’m sure it was all just a misunderstanding, limping man.

B: This old guy needs to learn that litter isn’t a victimless crime! And I’m going to teach him that lesson! Lady, get out of the way.

E: Calm down son.

J: Wait a sec. Are you… And you! Oh- ohmigod! Billy, this guys just flicked you all the way to the other side of the field, right?

B: A lucky shot! Musta, uh, been really strong wind or something.

J: Billy you’re such an idiot. Wait right here! (She runs off)

G: Where is she going?

B: She knows when there’s going to be a rumble. Now old man, we finish this.

E: Hold up there cowboy. Mind if I ask was the getup is for?

B: I’m… I’m a super hero. Duh.

G: And what are your powers?

B: I can… uh… Listen, Batman didn’t need powers!

E: So you run around the park, protecting it from crime, with no powers.

B: Uh. More of less.

E: How’s that worked out for you?

B: Well, not so hot. I mean, in order to get the drop on bad guys, I need to wear that coat and it gets SO hot. And after months or wandering around the park with no crime… I guess I got a little carried away.

G: A little?

B: But I wanted to fight crime so bad! I want to be a hero! But there’s just no crime anymore.

E: Oh, we know.

G: You know why that is son? Because a little duo called Wonderful Man and Amazing Girl fought crime for 15 years and finally scared those criminals straight. So that kids like you wouldn’t have to live in fear. Or dress up in ridiculous outfits!

(At this, Jade jumps in, wearing a haphazard costume, mostly made form torn up garbage bags. She holds a garden rake!)

J: Alright big bro!

B: I can see your point.

J: C’mon!

B: I… I don’t want to fight anymore.

J: Who said anything about fighting? Don’t you know who this is? It’s Amazing Girl and Wonderful Man! If your really want to be a hero, these are the guys to learn from!

B: What??

E: He’s really not that bright, is he?

J: Nope.

G: Sorry kids, but we’re retired.

B: Why? Why did you retire?

J: Yeah, you guys were awesome! And then one day, you just disappeared.

(Ethel looks at “Gerald”. He stands and sighs)

G: Five years ago, it was mother’s day. Amazing Girl and I had pretty much beaten all the crime there was to beat. I had stayed up a whole week trying to figure out the perfect gift for my mother, who had given us our powers. She was a great scientist you know. I figured I could make her proud by showing her a great feat of science. My super brain came up with the perfect ploy- A statue of her, charged with a device that would prevent birds from desecrating it. A simple scheme that pushed the away from the statue, repelling them softly, completely humane. Well, that proved so popular that soon every statue and monument in the world used it. And then, then they put it on the Eiffel tower, in Paris.

My calculations, they had been small scale. When my great device was used on the tower, it was too powerful. Every bird in the world was shot into space. And so I quit. Because you see, the final criminal was ME. The murderer of all the birds.

B: That sucks.

J: It really does.

E: Oh. That’s why they all disappeared. I though we quit because there were no criminals left.

G: That too.

***

J: Ya know, you’d think there would be some sort of great imbalance in the eco system and whatnot if all the birds just up and disappeared.

G: Well, I guess we got lucky.

B: You call that lucky?

G: I guess you’re right. Anyway, that’s why I have nothing to teach you. I don’t even know what I could teach you in the first place son.

B: Well, I just wanted to impress girls. I figured if I could be as awesome as you were, then that would totally do it.

G: There are so many things wrong with that idea that I don’t even know where to start.

E: And besides, the girls would be impressed with “Running Man”, not Billy.

J: They’d be impressed with Running Man and his fantastic sidekick “Gardening Girl”.

B: Really Jade you look ridiculous.

E: Don’t give her a hard time. I know someone myself who put on a costume to help out her big brother.

G: And all this because of a name.

E: Pardon?

G: Didn’t you ever wonder Ethel? Why I decided to be a super hero? When our mother gave us our powers, we could have done anything with them. I could have been an athlete, or a scientist or any matter of things. I was destined for greatness. But the great gift that mother gave me was balanced against the great wrong she had done to me as well. My name.

E: It’s not that bad.

G: Hey, you’ve never been crazy about “Ethel”

E: Yeah, it is a pretty ugly name.

G: And how could I choose any path to fame when my name would follow? No, I knew that my only choice would be something completely unconventional. How foolish I was to choose the path of the Super Hero. It’s nothing more then a bourgeois fairy tale.

B: Does that even make sense?

G: Shut up, I read it somewhere. But no, the secrecy of a super hero was needed. For who could look up to a man named “Gaylord”?

(Billy and Jade look at him)

J: I thought my name sucked.

B: Billy is an okay name.

G: You see? And for that name, the birds paid the ultimate price.

J: Well why don’t you do something about it?

G: What?

B: Yeah, you and Amazing Girl had all sorts of adventures in space. Why not fly out there, find the birds and use all that crazy science in your brain to clone them or something? I mean, you guys stopped all the crime in the world. Bringing birds, you could do that on your spare time over a weekend.

G: You know what? Maybe you’re right.

E: We haven’t tried that yet, it just might work.

G: Thank you son, you’ve led me back onto the right path. How ever can I thank you?

B: Well, you could clean up all this breadcrumb mess.

J: I’ve got a garden rake!

(Gerald smiles, takes the rake and begins to gather the breadcrumbs. Ethel gives a little laugh. Jade and Billy step forward.)

J: Well Running Man, it looks like we saved the day once again.

B: Of course we did Gardening Girl. That’s what superheroes do!

A Moment Of Your Time...

2006-01-14T21:46:00.000-08:00

Decided it was time to change my profile picture. Sure as hell makes me look pretty damn happy, eh?

Chapter 2 (Part 2, Cont)

2005-11-21T16:23:00.000-08:00

His mother on the other hand had an off and on relashionship with a self proclaimed "cassanova" (Inconspicuously named 'Phil') who lived on my street. His house was a dusky bungalow, both inviting and creepy in a distinctly 60s fashion that I could never quite put my finger on, even reflecting upon it later. My only actual interaction with the man, beyond school yard rumors spread by pre-teens with an obsession with the word 'pervert' and the stange powers it gave them was a brief handshake at a neighborhood barabeque shortly after we moved into town and a brief glance, a secret moment of unspoken communication, a thousand pardons and guilty admissions several months later when my father returned home from the road and let him have it with a solid right hook to the head in return for his unwanted advances on my mother. Brian's mother had begun to see him shortly thereafter and was constantly on the rocks with him, more of less living there while occationally taking breaks to have sordid flings with men even worse then dear old Phil. To this day, whenever I hear the word pedophile (even though, as far as I know, he was not one) I picture his moustache. It was the stuff of nightmares or erotic dreams of the mentally disturbed.

Brian and I had come to an agreement some years before, at the genesis of our friendship. I would never ask questions about the various comings and goings in his family and he in turn would never question my seemingly random desisions at school or at play. This worked out fine for the both of us, and while it may seem strange to think of it this way, our friendship blossomed in our conspiracy of silence. To really stretch any sense of art in the prose here, you could say that we were nourished by the manure formed by the years of shit we simply ignored, rotting away underneath the facade of our typical male indiffrence.

Wow, someone should shoot me for just writing that.

Anyway, Phil was out of town on a buisness trip that week (Sex tourism in third world asia? Tongues wag!), his buissness now totally forgotten. Brian's mother was at another 'on' period with him, and things were about as stable as they ever got. I had made a point, ever since our shared glace, to never enter Phil's house when he was present, so the timing of everything worked out just fine for me. Our system was a machine of well-oiled perfection. I would start my jounrey by sneaking through a secret hole in my back yard fence, a tiny opening surrounded by rotted wood and nails threatenting tetanus. That opened up into a small thicket, which would eventually become a clearing and then an unsuccessful mini-mall. At the time however, it remained a thicket, and I would work my way through it, a hidden path discoverd through years of Brian's childhood, years which he quickly imparted to me as our friendship grew.

From there I would come to Phil's Fence, thick fence posts adorned in thick coats of a musky brown paint. I mean seriouesly, even his frikking fence was creepy! That fence also had a secret exit, although this one had been engeineered by Brian one day, quick work with a screwdiver and jigsaw, the result being a trap door of sorts. It was easy enough to find if you were looking for it, but who would be? After pushing through there, I would be in Phil's backyard, the home of a few clearly aborted attempts at gardening and not much else. From there, it was a quick jog to the back door from where I would administer our secret knock. Upon hearing my knocking, either Brian would let me in, or his mother, although she would usually let me in almost immediatly, not allowing me to finish the complicated staccato beat that Brian and I had pre-determined. She claimed that I was the only one who used the back door, so there was no need to wait it out. She didn't understand.

Promises Broken, Chapter 2

2005-11-14T15:40:00.002-08:00

I am both blessed and cursed with a core group of friends that have been with me since (at the latest) junior high. It is a blessing in that we have had many years to build our relationships and ease into having each other into our lives and a curse due to, amongst other things, the familiarity-breeds-contempt factor. Not to get this all off on the wrong foot here as my friends are just that, my friends, but occasionally when you’ve been around the same group of people for years and years on end you begin to wonder how much of your continued association is due to comfort and proximity rather then a genuine desire to spend time with each other. This isn’t a frequent sensation, but it’s there none the less.

A particular event from the 8th grade to this day personifies the dynamics and personalities in the group. It was the day before our junior high graduation ceremony and to celebrate we had all arranged to get together at Brian’s house. It was a school night; Yes, Junior High Graduation was just as lame as it sounds. It took place 2 weeks before the end of the school year and only served to make the grade 8 students unbearably restless for the end of the year, an error in forethought that had persisted for some time at my school. At some point you would think that one of the teachers might wise up to the fact, although memories of hidden hip flasks and secret smoke breaks lead me to believe that perhaps our teachers were as restless as we were at the time. There was a silent pact of sorts, large sections of the final periods of the day being filled with conversation or reading or any activity where we didn’t have to learn and the teacher didn’t have to teach, an arrangement that worked out well for all involved parties. In any case, at the end of the school day my clique formed briefly to run over the basic plan before regrouping later that evening.

Brian and I met in the 4th grade, I the new kid and he the outgoing joker willing to take a new charge under his wing. This was the last of my father’s semi-annual transplantations of our family across the country although I had no way of knowing that, so at first my acceptance of his kindness was more of an automated response. If you want to befriend me, that’s great. It’s not like I’m going to be around for long, right? With his infectious energy however, I soon found myself emerging from my shell and discovering a brave new world of chaos and confusion. Brian it turned out, moved around more then I did, albeit only around the city, a result of his divorced parents and their various questionable lifestyles. His father was what the generous would describe as “a character”, the kind that seemed to be attached to every sitcom family: The crazy neighbor who was always involved in some zany get rich quick scheme or blowing up something with power tools. His fascination with “beating” the casinos also put his finances in constant trouble, and as a result his lodgings were less then stable, in a constant state of feast or famine.

Chapter 1 (Cont, Part 3)

2005-11-11T16:16:00.000-08:00

In any case, the water levels had been high that year. People had been grumbling about the possibility of a flood, but nothing came of it. Still, the water had surged at its peak mere feet from the arches of the various bridges crossing the river and the various river walk footpaths had been well and truly submerged. As the levels had begun to ebb off, the damage done to the outlying area by months of raging current became more then apparent. While I hadn’t been back to the park in years it was clear that it was losing waterfront quite severely. The elements had carved out mini-cliffs along the water, large sections of former green space having fallen into the river and been carried off and broken down, never to be seen again.

I walked along the riverside, thinking of nothing in particular, stopping occasionally to examine particularly impressive damage: Trees half uprooted, buried drainage pipes revealed, that sort of thing. A slight breeze blew from the north but its bite was soft, merely brining a little color to my cheeks. As I continued to walk the sun fully set and my journey became marked only by the bright moonlight and the lights from houses on the other side of the river. The wind gained some intensity. It suddenly occurred to me that it had been quite a while since I had last seen any trace of another person, and took a moment to enjoy the solitude. Sure, there were the lights across the water, but they seemed so far away. For a brief moment there seemed to be silence: No cars, music, people… just a soft wind brushing against the water and trees, the last of the leaves softly rustling and occasionally surrendering to the inevitable and softly floating to the ground to join their brothers.

I closed my eyes and took a breath, a catharsis from the insanity that had filled the previous months. The world slowed down, if for a moment, and I allowed myself to feel completely contented. I don’t know what it was about that moment in particular. I’m not a nature-loving hippy or something. My solace is more usually found surrounded by friends and family, or engaged deeply in working. For some reason though, I went for that walk and on that walk had a true moment of relief. I don’t know what caused it, but I do have my theories. Perhaps it was simply the calm before the storm…

As I opened my eyes I saw a figure in the distance, like me walking upon the edge of the parkland, coming around the bend atop a ridge carved out of the terrain. As the figured advanced I began to pick out features in the moonlight. Medium length hair flowed in the breeze, light bounced off a leather jacket. Soon a profile emerged: An attractive girl- Do you mind if I don’t go crazy with descriptions? The last thing I would want is to go into all the nitty gritty physical crap only for you to say “What? That’s attractive?” I wouldn’t be crushed or anything- hell, everyone is entitled to their opinions – but it would kind of derail where I’m going with this thing.

See, here I was going along, telling a story somewhat proficiently and now I screw it all up by getting derailed by this. Maybe I just want my story to come across more universally. Already I feel like I’ve said too much about myself. I would rather that the reader be able to identify with me and what I’m saying. But hell, I’ve already screwed that up. First of all, your name is probably not Blake, and then there’s a slightly-higher-then-fifty percent chance that you’re not a guy either. And actors? I’ve really segregated myself from any target audience, haven’t I? Well… no, I’m getting too worked up now. Please, concentrate: Tell the story now, that would be a good idea, right?

So right- I’m in the park, walking alongside the river when I see an attractive well dressed female walking towards me, also alongside the river. Suddenly several things happen at once: The girl notices me and waves, revealing astonishing smile, a flight of geese fly above us, seemingly signaling some divine event and half way across the city a close friend places a package in a dumpster downtown.

Half of a second later more thing happen all at once: I fall surprisingly quickly in love, she falls surprisingly suddenly as the ground beneath her gives way and blocks away from the previously mentioned close friend my father unexpectedly suffers a heart attack at the age of 55.

Chapter 1 (Cont, Part 2)

2005-11-07T16:08:00.000-08:00

But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself. Hell, maybe I shouldn’t have even started the way I did. I’m no good at these things, really. Have I missed anything important? Well, shit! I haven’t even told you anything about myself. Where to start? Okay… I’m an actor. That’s pretty significant, not right now, but later, later that will come up. Oh, and my name is Blake. I’m deathly allergic to cats, require at least 8 hours of sleep to properly function and I enjoy, despite my complete and utter lack of skills, playing video games. I live in Winnipeg, a city smack dab in the middle of Canada, significant in that it is close to nothing of significance.

But again, I’m getting ahead of myself.

The problem with telling a story is that you never know how much you need to share in order to make your whole tale make sense. Sure, I could rant on and on about all sorts of background information endlessly, but I’m libel to go off on plenty of tangents that have nothing to do with the story as it is, so better that I at least make the token effort to reign myself in. So, the question becomes a simple matter of deciding exactly how to frame what I want to say. I’ve already well and truly messed up any chance of creating a different ambience then my inane ramblings (sorry), so all it comes down to is thinking about what you need to know.

So, let’s check the facts here. So far, from what I’ve told you (dear reader), you know that:

A) My name is Blake
B) I am an actor
C) This story takes place in November
D) It has something to do with a girl.

Those of you who were taking particular attention will probably have seen that love has something to do with the whole thing, although I can’t think of many stories worth hearing that don’t. Even more attentive readers might have figured out that it has something to do with promises, or more specifically broken promises (not quite, but close enough) from the title. Wait, am I even allowed to make reference to that? Hell, maybe the title will change by the time I’ve finished this. Are there rules about this? Am I being a little too meta-story? See, I’m just not very good at this.

Anyway, that’s what is known for right now. Honestly, that’s not a lot. I’m sure in the hands of a more able narrator you would already be filled with information, but I’m afraid to say I’m the best you’re getting. Hell, maybe my slower pace will just allow you to better digest the nuggets of wisdom and wit that I’m soon to be lobbing at you. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Too bad I didn’t think about that before I started off on all this ranting, I might have saved myself some trouble and looked somewhat competent. And now here I am making self-loathing comments instead of telling a story.

Let’s try to get back on track, shall we? Here, let’s start with a certain day in November.

I honestly can’t remember what the exact date was (my memory, right?) but it’s not really important. This was years ago, and I was walking through St. Vital Park on a particularly warm evening. I remember pondering at the time if global warming had anything to do with the weather, and then wondering why no one talked about global warming anymore and if I should be worried about it. I don’t recall why I was at the Park- I had moved a few years before away from St. Vital, a suburb that practically defined what a Canadian suburb should be: Quiet, clean and polite. The biggest cause of concern was a few roaming bands of tweens on skateboards, occasionally causing some petty vandalism or hosting noisy parties after stealing away some of their oh-so-observant parents liquor. I grew up there with my parents, although my “wild” days were spent in front of a Nintendo or novel rather then discovering my adolescent body’s tolerance for alcohol.

Maybe I was back because of my history: The park and I had seen some good days together. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that my happiest moments were spent there (we’ll get to those later), but I did have some good times, memories worth keeping. Nothing too special: Skating on the man-made park with friends in the winter, playing Frisbee in the open area on hot summer days, one special day in 9th grade, reaching second base with Shelly Stevens deep in some hidden corner of the various thickets strewn around the park. Good memories. Happy memories.

I won’t bore you with more of that. All that really need to be known about St. Vital park is that it is a park (obviously enough) that is against a river. At this point I suppose I’ll have to back up a little bit: Remember when I said Winnipeg was not noteworthy? Well, that’s not entirely true. Along with being surrounded by a whole lot of nothing, it does have a few other points of interest: It is very close to being the geographical center of Canada (useless but true), and it is probably one of the only places in the world that might benefit overall from global climate change. As it is, Winnipeg is subject to weather between -40 and 40 Celsius (a quick Google later would reveal to all you followers of Fahrenheit to be the equivalent of -40 and 104. Don’t know where you crazy folks got the extra 64 degrees, but there you are) and that kind of weather means that ANY change can only be for the better. In fact, Winnipeg’s only real natural disaster fear is flooding, as the city is built around the Red and Assiniboine River, which converge right by down town. You see what I meant before? Did you need to know all that? Probably not, but at least I know that I’ve done my part to fill you in on the incidentals.

Promises Broken, Chapter 1

2005-11-06T11:12:00.000-08:00

I should start with some sort of preface, but I’m afraid to say that I’m no good at these things. I don’t know if I even need to point that out, really, as I’m sure it will all become far too evident should you choose to stick with me. In any case, maybe the best thing to say is that I have a horrible memory. Kind of an unfortunate condition for a storyteller, but it’s still a story I want to tell regardless of my various handicaps (Oh yes, I have others, but I figure I’ll only bother you with them as they come up). I really wish it were something I could blame on drugs or blunt trauma to the head or something exciting, but sadly there’s nothing unusual to be said about my condition. I remember things poorly. That just reminds me, I need to send some forms in my suitcase to my tax guy. Should I do that right now before I forget again? No, I’m building some sort of momentum; let’s work with this.

So yes, I have a bad memory. By this, I mean that in general I simply forget things. Honestly, it’s more of an issue in everyday life. I’m famous for having to take not one, but two extra trips to the grocery store to pick up items forgotten. That doesn’t happen often, but it’s not something most other people have to deal with on even a semi-regular basis, so I feel it does a decent job of showing what kind of person I am when it comes to my memory. As far as remembering the past, which is what this whole thing is about, it’s like that too. Oh, I can remember the shape of things, but many details get lost in the cracks. Maybe I’m just trying to find an excuse for whatever inconsistencies or blatant errors that find their way into all this. Who knows?

Oh, and that tax guy thing? That’s classic me as well. For some reasons, while my memory is a piece of shit, my brain does choose to hold on to various little things and spring them on me seemingly randomly. That’s usually the reasons for those occasional third trips to the super market. Sometimes in the middle of the second I’ll suddenly remember want to try out some recipe that I managed to jot down while watching some cooking show on some sleepless night. But you know what? Those aren’t really good examples of what I’m trying to say. Those things are useful, at least somewhat.

No, I’m really trying to say is that I’m prone to go off on ridiculous side tangents (much like this whole pre-amble is shaping up to be) and I should hope that you might be able to bear with me. In any case, you’ve been warned, so I’ve done what I can do.

Maybe I should get on with the story.

Most of it takes place in November.

November, to me, is a sadly underestimated month. It has Remembrance Day, and then what else? And it’s not like Remembrance Day is a grand occasion: The ever declining amount of veterans (fingers crossed here) observe it as a vigil to their fallen comrades, but as the new generations (of Canadians at least- In case you were wondering what the hell Remembrance Day is, it’s a Canadian holiday in the middle of November celebrating the sacrifice of war veterans) are born away from war, it becomes more of a practiced ritual and less of an actual tangible event. Halloween colors October, and December is… well, fairly obvious. Does November deserve to be used simply as extra shopping days until Christmas? No, I think not.

I see November as an anvil. (Please, bear with me.) In my mind, November is the month where relationships are broken. Sure, spring is the season of new love, and in that light November is the month where that love is tested. Just enough time for the cracks in relationships to begin to show and looming family holidays make November the prime check point- Go no further until you’ve had a chance to think things over, this is your last chance. November is the month where couples weigh the chance of spending the holidays alone against the burden of buying presents and, lord forbid, spending time with whoever their lack of foresight managed to shack them up with. In that regard, Valentine’s day is less a about love then it is a celebration of surviving the hellish onslaught of stress testing that is December and January. November is the anvil that relationships are placed upon to be hammered upon by their built up history. At the very least it should be. I can personally think of several family dinners that could have been well served by a carefully observed November months before.

Maybe that’s just part of the way I am. I’m aware that the way I think is far from the normal for a lot of people. I don’t know why my thoughts go in this direction, only that maybe November has just revealed it’s true form to me amongst the corpses of failed pairings and twisted husks that were formerly called love.

That… that happened in November.

If only I could take that back.

Promises, Broken - Prelude

2005-11-01T12:12:00.000-08:00

More then anything, I remember her face.

There’s not much left of the surroundings. The ground was hard (concrete?), I remember that much, and the air cold, leaving a slight sting in the air, both crisp and cumbersome. The sky, black with a few stars breaking through the cloud cover. Other than that though, not much remains. Except for her face. Her face, and her words.

Her eyes, light blue, the few rays of moonlight bouncing off them, quivered, threatening tears at a moment’s notice. Her nose, wrinkled cutely, but distressed. And her lips, red from the cold, quivering too, mouthing the words that I will never be able to shake, as long as I live.

“Don’t leave me. Promise me that you’ll never leave me.”

The rest is less clear in my head, as awful as that sounds. I held her, I’m sure of that, and I told her many things. That I loved her, that I would be there for her, that I would never leave. I lied.

And I’m sorry. So very sorry.

And So It Begins Again (Non Writing Post)

2005-10-31T16:27:00.000-08:00

Well, "Sadness" certainly didn't go anywhere. Don't worry, it was a shitty story.

I've decided to participate in the National Novel Writing Month competition again. My story is titled (for now), "Promises Broken". I think I have a much better story, so let's see if this one can actually get written. The fun starts tomorrow...

And Happy Halloween!

Conflict (Cont 5)

2004-11-16T08:36:00.000-08:00

As Andrew pushed the door forward the sound of the Professor's lecture began to pour out into the hallway.

"... it, which is excatly the kind of thing that I'm looking for. Now, people have, for thousands of years, continued these traditions with-"

As Andrew finished pulling the door open, it's hindges chose to betray them, giving a horrible screech that filled the classroom. The Professor, mid-sentance stopped and looked directly across the room, right at him. Jason gave a small wave while Andrew simply lowered his head shamefully. Karim peered at them through intense eyes, and gave his small moustache a quick rub, a habitual gesture.

"Ahhh, thank you gentlemen, for deciding to join us. I trust you are both aware that my class still begins at 1:30?"

"Yes."

"Well then, provided that you don't have a good excuse, then the two of you have just volenteered for the presentations on Wednesday, as we have already completed the sign up. Now, please take your seats."

Andrew felt like slapping himself. The class had been working towards a few weeks of presentations, where each class member would spend half a class breaking down a myth archetype. He had really been falling behind, and hoped to sign up for later, as he hadn't done any work at all on the project, other then bitching about it to anyone who would listen. It was Monday, and trying to get the project done would require an obcene ammount of work in a very short time. He couldn't help but give Jason a bit of a scowl, although he realized that they probably would have been late anyway. The rest of the lecture was spent thusly, brooding over the situation. There was nothing for it, except to somehow find the time for it. Wasn't he done with this kind of crap in highschool? Jason's calmness agitated Andrew even more, as he sat leaning back, casually doodling along the margins of his notes, as per usual. Andrew suddenly realized that he hadn't been listening to the last 5 minutes of lecture. That's when he looked up.

A girl ran screaming into the room.

Conflict (Cont 4)

2004-11-13T13:08:00.000-08:00

As Andrew turned the corner around the divider, he did not find any porn, but did see the expected sight of Jason peering over Eliza's shoulder as she dutifully typed away. Something about multi-national corperations... Andrew couldn't read too much of it. His past expirience with blackout had given him more then enough of his share of social conciousness, thank-you-very-much, and the whole thing had started to just blur together in his head. Eliza paused, peeked over her shoulder and gave a quick nod.

"Hey Drew."

"Liza."

Andrew quickly grabbed Jason's shoulder and began to pull him towards the exit.

"Come on, we are really going to be late if we don't get out of here!"

"Oh, come on. Can't we be a little late? We're witnessing history here my friend, this is the woman that is going to change the world!"

Andrew sighed. "This is all interesting and everything Jason, but if we walk into that damn seminar late again, Dhaliwal is going to flip out."

Eliza stopped typing again and swiveled her chair around. "Are you guys still getting that poor teacher pissed off?"

Jason gave her a light pat on the shoulder. "Eliza, it's not my fault if that man doesn't understand that University is not about education: It's about meeting the people you will use to network for the rest of your life!"

She looked up at him, brushing off his hand. "Good lord, tell me you just didn't say that"

Andrew grabbed Jason again and pulled even harder. "Ignore this idiot. He's got some weird plan that he won't tell me anything about and if you let him he'll drop little "teaser" hints all day in hopes that you're even a little bit interested."

Eliza nodded, then pointed at her watch. "I'm sure. In any case, shouldn't you two be off now? I can't get any work done with you hanging out anyway."

Andrew pulled again "Come on Jason, leave the poor woman alone. I sure she's had enough of your 'help'. Besides, we have work of our own to do."

Eliza smiled and gave Andrew a quick wink. "Yeah, well you boys try not to work too hard now. Oh, and before I forget, Andrew, I sent you an e-mail. Check it out and get back to me, okay?"

"Will do. Will do."

Jason gave a deep bow. "Always a pleasure, my lady"

"Yeah, yeah, get the hell out of here!"

Karim Dhaliwal taught a seminar course called: "Man and Mythology". Andrew, who had enjoyed Greek Mythology in highschool decided that it might be a fun elective. Jason claimed the same, although Andrew suspected that having somone whom he could easily get class notes off of probably had something to do with it as well. Neither plan ended up working out: Man and Mythology, Profssor Dhaliwal took great pains to explain, was not about actual "popular myth", but the achetypes that were present in all great stories. A long disscussion about Star Wars had kept the pair in the class, and by the time they noticed that they were in over thier heads, the withdrawl date had passed.

The Professor was prone to go off on long tangents as well, which due to both their usual irreverence and his rather thick indian accent made the class sometimes less then desirable. Was it any surprise then, that the pair occationally missed a class or two? Sadly, unlike some professors, Dhaliwal took great offence at that, and so Andrew and Jason had found themselves at the wrong end of more then a few dressing downs that would have put the most hard-core drill sargent to shame.

Andrew hurried Jason along, up the downtown streets, throught the throngs of University students coming and going with the last class change. The downtown campus was small, at least in square footage, but had been given addition after addition, which had turned a once simple college into a thriving University with a mish-mash of acheitechture creating a maze of corridors and stair caises which did quick work of intimitading any newcomers. Having been at the school for 4 years, Andrew and Jason were beyond that point, but even still could not avoid the various gridlock of stumbling students on the main channels through the escalators. Instead, they would have to make thier way up 5 flights of stairs, and then to the other side of the main building before reaching thier class. Time was ticking.

Andrew had bumped a little too hard into no less then 5 people when they finally arrived at the classroom door, which was closed. This was a bad sign: Professor Dhaliwal made a point to close his doors once the class begun, and on more then one occation locked them in order to make his point. Fortunetly, this time they were not, and Andrew motioned for Jason to be silent as they continued onward.

Conflict (Cont 3)

2004-11-05T16:48:00.000-08:00

Anthony moved as if to say something, and then thought better of it. This was an old fight and one not likely to end anytime soon. He glanced down and found his page again. He looked up, thumbed his nose almost unconsciously, and then sighed.

“You know where he is”

“Thanks man, I really appreciate it.”

Andrew did know, as a matter of fact. This was not the first time Jason had disappeared on him, nor would it be the last. The Dragon’s Den had originally taken up just one space in the strip complex that it was located into. As business was driven out of the city center and the arcade prospered, it slowly began to take over the neighboring spaces. At this point, business was not great, and large sections of the arcade were sectioned off since the owner couldn’t afford to fill it with games. Some of the sections were being used by a few groups: A dungeons and dragons game was apparently played pretty regularly, and the space had been rented a few times to host local area network (LAN) parties. Andrew had once attended one, but the smell of 20 guys with 20 computers getting agitated while virtually killing one another was something he did not envision wanting to experience again. Other sections had become permanent headquarters for some small organizations: An anime club had a small section where they kept their video library, a few local artists used another section to showcase some of their work. Finally, there was Eliza.

Eliza had gone to school with Andrew, and they had shared the same group of friends, albeit on different sides. She was a quiet girl, and Andrew really didn’t know much about her during that time. When they graduated, Andrew spent a year with his father in Indiana, while she apparently went to tour Europe. When they returned home and went to University they naturally gravitated towards each other in their classes, as most of their friends were now a year ahead or had begun full time jobs. Andrew had once called it the summer of great change: Both of their time away had changed them, him getting the shorter end of the stick.

While Indiana just frustrated Andrew, cemented his dislike for both southern hicks and his father, Eliza had used her time away to remake herself. Her ears now had several piercings, along with one in her nose and navel (one for each country she visited) and her formerly plain, long hair had been chopped down to a short do, which featured regularly changing colored highlights. Whereas Andrew had gained a bit of a paunch from 12 months of fast food and bad cooking, Eliza had become quite fit, now a regular hiker.
Andrew got a bad haircut, which went away, and a long scar, which while luckily hid mostly by his hair, didn’t. Eliza traded in her old glasses for a small trendy pair (from Paris? Italy?) which both showed of her green eyes, and gave an intellectual edge to her style. Andrew was an older, fatter, more pissed off version of himself. Eliza was transformed into... to be blunt, a very hot woman. If you’re into that type.

Andrew wasn’t. Well, not so much. His buddy Jason on the other hand was. If it wasn’t for Jason, Andrew and Eliza probably would have quickly drifted apart after finding their bearings at school. Jason had other plans. Andrew and Jason first talked a few weeks into classes. Andrew was in several classes with Jason, who usually sat with a girl. He quickly made himself known for being very vocal, and while offensive, a pretty funny guy. The girl was usually pretty quiet, usually smiling gently at whatever Jason was spewing out. One day, Andrew walked into class and sat near Jason, who was for the first time alone. While the rest of the class slowly filed in, Andrew found his reading (The Princess Bride, 4th time through) interrupted by a hand on his desk. He looked up to find Jason staring at him.

“You’re going to be my friend.”

Sarah was the girl’s name. She had decided that university wasn’t for her, and dropped out. They didn’t know this at the time, and it’s not important now, but it will be later, so try to remember. Andrew and Jason found that they shared many interests (videogames, books, the fall of western civilization, if there is such a thing, ect.) and made fast friends of each other. When they later met for a coffee and Eliza passed by, greeting Andrew, Jason made Andrew promise that he would introduce them. The story goes on for a while after this, but suffice to say that hilarity ensued.

This all resulted in Jason, Eliza and Andrew spending a fair amount of time with each other, and at one point or another being involved with Blackout, Eliza’s pet project. Her time in Europe had led her to the conclusion that advertising was a bane on human existence and brought about nothing but pain and misery. She enlisted her fellow international development and theatre students (double major, both honors) as well as Andrew and Jason to her various initiatives, movements and protests. This amounted to a lot of black paint, several brushes with the law, minor press coverage and a stern talking to. It turns out that painting over advertisements isn’t legal, and you’re-lucky-that paint-washed-off-or-you’d-be-in-shit-young-lady can be said many times over a small period of time. Eliza did however become a bit of a folk hero, and used her notoriety to host a webpage, blackout.com, which was basically a forum for fellow disenfranchised citizens to discuss plans and discover what exactly is and isn’t legal.

Anthony was apparently very interested in finding out if Eliza had any other intersecting piercings, and so he managed to talk his dad into giving her a cheap place to host her site, which was run off the arcade’s own network. Irony of ironies, while teenagers played LAN games of Counterstrike and Doom 3, along those same network cables, various anarchists and shit stirrers discussed problems in society and why videogames where destroying youth culture. Isn’t the world an awesome place? The far corner of the LAN room was blocked off by a small divider wall, and if it was between 1-3 on a weekday and Anthony’s long frame wasn’t poking out from behind it, then it was a pretty safe bet that Jason would be there, over Eliza’s shoulder as she worked on updating the site, writing her next rant, or surfing for porn.

Or, you know, whatever girls do when they're just wasting time on a computer.

Conflict (Cont 2)

2004-11-04T13:50:00.000-08:00

This was the third time that week that Andrew had chosen to stop by the arcade on the way to his University classes, and despite.. actually, because of the fact that it usually made him late, it would not be the last. Exiting the dark cavern that was the entrance to the arcade, he adjusted his glasses, while tossing his light brown hair away from his eyes. The sunlight shining down was a bit of a change from the arcade, and took a little adjusting. The sidewalk was pretty empty, a few people wandering some distance away, downtown to do some shopping, or on a break out to get a coffee. Andrew stretched, his small frame letting loose a few cracks and pops from the tension of the previous game. Andrew caught his reflection in the window of the next store. He sighed. Most people would have described him as “average”. Frankly, he would be inclined to agree. At the moment, he felt like the amalgamation of every early 20s, university student, white, middle class, male in existence. His default emotion was apathy, broken by bouts of depression or frustrated anger. Oh, and the world sucks, in case you didn’t know.

If you pushed a little further, you’d also probably find that he didn’t really feel that way most of the time, and was only in such an agitated state because of a few select reasons, but few people seemed willing to push further. The name of the game was coasting, and he was doing pretty well at it, all things considered. If you care for that kind of thing.

Andrew stopped suddenly. Behind him, there was the distinct absence of noise, which clearly indicated that somewhere between the back of the arcade and the sidewalk he had lost his companion. The lack of another reflection in the window helped too. This was not so much surprising as annoying. He quickly checked his watch, noticed that a new lateness record was about to be achieved, and decided that he had better be quick about finding Jason. Not that he had any difficulty imagining what had happened to him, mind.

The heavy wooden door gave off a medieval vibe, which Andrew supposed was the intent, seeing as how the sign above the doorframe claimed the establishment to be called “The Dragon’s Den”. In the upper right corner a red winged lizard breathed fire across the sign, while a small armored figure took cover in the lower left. Sadly, the effect was quickly ruined by the cheap lighted signs found on the other side, describing various party prices, hourly rates and featuring ads for products that were not sold in the arcade. Oh, and there was graffiti all over the door as well, which was equally effective at dispelling the illusion. Nobody in the middle ages randomly wrote ‘fuck’ on buildings, did they? The lanky teen, still stuck in his book failed to make any indication of noticing the chimes on the door ring as Andrew reentered.

Andrew had been coming to the Dragon’s Den since he was in grade school, albeit not very often, usually just for birthday parties and whatnot. Unlike most arcades, it offered a pay by the hour option, which worked out pretty well for his friends parents who could toss the party there for an hour or two of peace. He had always imagined when he was young that when he went to university he’d attend he downtown campus, simply because it was located a block away from the arcade. As he grew up, his attraction to the arcade waxed and waned, as other arcades opened and closed, home game systems were bought and broken and as his own interest in videogames shifted. It had won him back the previous year when a new owner took over and imported a bunch of off-the-wall Japanese imports, but now most of them were mastered or in serious need of repair, and Andrew almost felt as if his interest was merely conditioned. Always have to check, see if anything is new, check if his high scores are still holding up, play a game or two. The teenager behind the counter finally looked up from his book.

“Asshole, didn’t you just leave?’

Anthony was the owner’s son, and he and Andrew had spent the great deal of time both of them had in the arcade to grow a great dislike for each other. Andrew mostly just resented the fact that Anthony had such a great, easy job, and spent a great deal of time telling anyone who would listen how much it sucked, while Anthony… well, as far as Andrew could tell, Anthony was just a disagreeable asshole who didn’t like anybody. That may or may not have also had something to do with Andrew’s occasionally standoffish nature. Who can tell about these things? Besides the arcade, the two also often saw each other at school, as they both were in the same Calculus and History class. Their relationship wasn’t helped out much there, as Andrew took the role of resident apathetic slacker , passing by the seat of his pants while Anthony was the resident math prodigy, and never afraid to let you know about it.

This had all come to a head a few months before at the start of the school year, when Andrew was talking to a girl in the history class whom he had been in classes with before. Both of them were taking the class to fill out some pre-requisites, and Andrew was just finishing a particularly embarrassing diatribe (with his back pointed to the door) when he suddenly learned that Anthony was taking that class as well. Stories would later differ, but he mentioned something about “a smart ass ugly jerk wad” which became a bit of a point of contention. Both of them were also interested in the poor girl in the story as well, which led to even more tension, and inevitably, more. In the end, Andrew had a black eye (just recently healed), Anthony’s long nose was put crooked (to stay) and Heather Mayers decided they were both jerks (and still does). Between that time and this one, their attentions had moved past each other, although it would be a great exaggeration to say that they now got along. Needless to say Andrew took every occasion to call Anthony ‘man’, something he for some reasons hated (“Come on, man!” “Jesus fucking Christ! STOP IT!”) and Anthony, for some strange reasons, remained hostile towards him.

Conflict (Cont)

2004-11-04T09:12:00.000-08:00

The larger man began to taunt his fallen opponent, raising his arms to the sky and letting loose with a manic laugh. As the sound echoed into the distance, he raised his axe, preparing for a killing blow, when his opponent flew to his feat, and with a battle cry charged once again. This time the smaller man was quicker, and delivered a telling blow to his opponent’s chest, stunning him with the force and ferocity of the hit. The tables suddenly turned, the other man began assailing his adversary with a hail of blows and cuts, each one steadily battering down his opponent more and more. Brief and sad attempts at reversals were made, but each one failed, and the next would have less skill and energy. Finally, the smaller man took a step back, raised a blade to the sky and let loose a chant that pierced through the night.

A bright glow suddenly encompassed him, first covering his blade, then his entire body. As the chant rose to its climax, a bolt of lightning flew towards the blade, striking it in a rain of sparks and fire. The small man quickly plunged the dagger into his enemy, and its effects were quick: The wound quickly expanded in the barbarian’s chest, burning and shooting forth with electricity. He let loose a horrible death cry and then fell to the ground, well and truly dead. The smaller man turned to his side and gave a small smirk, as above him in blood red, large words began to float reading: “EXECUTION! +20,000,000 POINTS!”

------

“Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit!”

“God, you’re such a poor loser”

“Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit!”

“Come on, we’ve got half and hour before we’re supposed to be at the hall. You’ll do better next time, I’m sure”

“Shit! I fucking HAD you!”

The dimly lit arcade was a cacophony of various noises, bleeps and bloops, Japanese pop songs and a million digital death screams. Aesthetically, the room had probably seen better days, but as far as arcades go it was in pretty good shape. Columns of classic cabinets were intermittedly broken by a larger “gimmick” game – one equpiied with a realistic sniper rifle, or motorcycle or dance floor or taiko drum. Andrew pushed his way past a few street kids, well on their way to destroying the controls on a particularly frustrating fighting game, while Jason trailed him, periodically stopping by nearby machines, sliding his hand into the coin return slots, hoping to get lucky. The cabinet they left had quickly become occupied by another one of the urchins, who made quick work of losing, and now it taunted them as they departed, muscle-bound warriors beating the ever-loving crap out of each other in demonstration mode, while a deep voiced narrator informed passersby that “This is the fight of the century! Dare you enter the tournament of the GODS?!”

As the pair made their way to the front of the arcade, the machines began to thin out to a few next-big-hit games and a few rows of change machines and dispensers of various snacks and drinks that were probably not the best thing to have around thousands of dollars worth of electronics. A small island floated in the middle of the floor, manned by a lanky teenager who busily poured through a text book, seemingly unaffected by the constant noise around him.

“We’re out of here. See you later man.”

“Hummm.”

Chapter One

2004-11-02T09:07:00.000-08:00

Conflict

It had finally come to this. Slowly, the two forms circled each other, breathing heavily; readying themselves for what was now inevitable. They were both warriors, fighters, representatives of their people, and now it was time for them to fight to the finish. The larger one smiled as the rain began to fall, lightning streaking through the sky, thunder cracking through the relative quiet. He pulled himself up to full height, at least 7 feet of pure muscle and rage. He wore little more then a loincloth, now soaked with the blood of his fallen enemies. His body proudly displayed the scars of thousands of bouts, and the huge gleaming axe in his right hand promised more of the same. Savage war paint adorned his face, which was now an image of pure fury, ready to witness the violence his body was primed to commit.

His opponent was a smaller man, but no less dangerous, either in skill or in appearance. However, instead of muscle bulk, this second man was tight and lithe, his body moving with an almost snake-like fluidity, ready to strike and snap at a moments notice. The twin daggers he held in each hand gleamed in the moonlight; horrible barbed things that promised to rip and tear down to the bone. He wore a simple tunic and trousers; they too also covered with the blood of previous foes. His long hair and beard blew gently in the wind, while his face gave no indication of any emotion whatsoever. This man was dangerous. He was ready to kill.

A moment of pause, respect amongst those about to engage in the intimate act of killing each other and they began. They had met two times previous, worth battles both. Each of them had won the day on separate occasions. However, this was to be their final encounter, and that they both knew. For a while they lingered a fair distance away from each other, taunting and feinting, attempting to get a read of the others movements, remembering their previous battles, what worked, what to avoid. The smaller man made the first move, rushing in under the guard of his adversary. His opponent was quick however, and repelled him with a swift kick before his daggers could do their work. It was then the larger man’s turn to rush in, his axe sweeping downwards in a mighty blow. This too was avoided, narrowly, by a quick jump out of the way.

Suddenly the smaller man was close again, and with impossible speed his daggers plunged into his opponents body, over and over again, blood hemorrhaging under great pressure. A swift kick brought the larger man to the ground. With a scream, he bounded back to his feet, and let loose a mighty roar. Without warning, the smaller man found himself held between two massive hands, and then suddenly assailed by a hail of head butts, smashing the berserker’s massive fore-head into his own, drawing more blood and sickening sounds of bone hitting bone. Finally, the behemoth raised his enemy over his head, and threw him to the ground, his neck making a sickening thud as it smashed into the ground.

Sadness- The Beginning

2004-11-01T15:16:00.000-08:00

It begins.

-------Prologue--------

An Early Tale:

Before there was anything, there was the three. They were three brothers, whose names have now sadly been forgotten. They decided one day, when their wives were out, to make something to alleviate their boredom. The first and eldest brother made a dark void, filled with an exquisite bounty of nothing. His siblings clapped and for a while they sat and enjoyed the beauty of the creation. After a time however, they grew tired, and decided to add something to the void.

The second brother took fire and passion and fear and anger, all that which burned and exploded, and concentrated them all together into light. At first, it overwhelmed the darkness completely, filling the void with a blinding brilliance, but he then thought again and reduced the light to tiny points, pricking through he darkness, spread sparsely around. The three brothers agreed that this was indeed an improvement and smiled with glee and the new development.

When they tired of that, the third and youngest brother, who was unfortunately impatient, began to put things together quickly and set forces into motion. The light and darkness danced back and forth, and new objects hurled through the space, smashing into each other, creating, destroying, transforming. The chaos threatened to destroy the entire project, when the first brother took control and added laws, and rules, and structure. Suddenly the void had form, and the chaos worked in a beautiful tandem with the laws. This was certainly not at all what they had set out to create, but the brothers were delighted with the discovery and admired it for a long time. A very long time.

As their wives had not yet returned, the brothers became bored yet again and decided that they would yet again add to their creation. They refined it and expanded it, however something seemed amiss. Suddenly one of the brothers had an idea. While his siblings continued with their endeavors, he took some of the raw matter from their creation and began to play. Instead of something large now, he worked diligently and intently, focusing on small details until he had formed a tiny sphere, almost inconsequential. When he was finished, he called to his brothers who stopped what they had been doing and examined what had been created.

We know not which brother came up with the idea, only that each of them was delighted with it: This sphere would be called a planet. They would create scores of them and toss them into the void. These planets would belong to the balls of light, and would dance in their radiance. In turn, the light would continue to move and a beautifully choreographed ballet would play out in their creation. And so they began with their new project. Thousands, then millions, then billons of planets were introduced into the space, and then more, until the brothers had produced countless planets, each different and suited to their dispositions. The first brother created planets that were simplistic, but beautiful in their simplicity. The second chose smaller planets which flew with great ferocity, some even refusing to be tied to the rules of the light. Finally, the third brother made planets which themselves were ruled by powerful inner forces, were winds and storms shaped and reshaped their surfaces, while gasses and powerful energies burst through their crusts and created constantly evolving terrain. All of this held into their project and they all agreed that what they had created was more then any of them could have ever dreamed.

Then, something peculiar happened. Something no one expected.

Two Hundred Words

2004-06-12T21:07:00.000-07:00

Andrew walked as fast as he would manage without looking like he was trying to run away. He was, obviously, but people might wonder why someone was booking it through the rather crowded mall, and then they might notice the black clad suits silently stalking after him. People didn’t need to notice stuff like that. It usually upset them. More often, it panicked them. Both things Andrew didn’t need. As inconspicuously as he could manage, he checked behind him, feigning a look at his watch. This didn’t exactly work out, as he had none, but he tried not to think about that. They were still there, and gaining. This did not bode well. Andrew could feel sweat begin to gather on his brow and he knew that he didn’t have much time yet. The exit loomed 200 yards away, and each foot felt like a mile. Another ten steps, another look back. They were closer. Ten steps, look. Closer still. Ten steps, and one of them had begun to reach into his coat. Now or never. Screw the rules. Andrew waited for another ten seconds, as a large couple passed by, and then did it.

Time seemed to stop.