The wind picked up and the waves began white-capping, turning turbulent where once there was calm. The sky stripped his robe of blue and put on a a gray mantle so that the clouds turned dark and mischievous. The rain began to drop in sheets, pounding the little ship with force beyond reckoning. Flannery called all hands to the deck, yelling through a fierce snarl. The crew lashed everything down and prepared for a long day. With a grim smile creasing his face, he braced himself as water came over the tall bow. Things were getting ugly.
The onslaught continued for 3 hours while Ho'okele pushed through the storm, taking on water and creaking in the wind. Three good men were lost over the side and one, Crow's Nest Johnny, lost a hand when the rigging went super tight. He fell 12 feet and managed to land on all 3s, keeping his newly formed stump, still bleeding, over his head. The rest of the crew worked hard in slickers, all drenched from head to foot with rain and salt-water.
As they made their way out of the storm, cheering went up from the men, happy that they made it though the worst of it. McTavish mopped his face with a semi-dry towel and looked into the sunlight, happy.
7.07.2008
7.03.2008
Ho'okele
This might be an extended series. I want to write in something specific, but I need to lay some framework, I think. At any rate, the title and name of the ship means "Navigator."
They toiled against the ropes, lashing the sail and making fast for a quick run along the islands. Ho'okele, as the ship was called, could maneuver well enough to hold her own, had 12 cannons and a captain that took little from anyone, but demanded all his men had. He stood at the wheel of the ship, looking over his most prized possession -- and the substance of his dreams. Pipe in hand, he nodded to the wheelman and stepped onto the deck.
Captain Jay McTavish was not the ordinary seaman. He was squinty in one eye, this is true, but that is where the similarities between himself and the stereotypes ended. With hair in his face and pockmarked hands, he looked more the impoverished boy of old London than a sailor of fortune. The sun caught him in the face and he pulled his right forearm up as a shield, yelling out for more speed and less jabberjaw from his crew.
His first-mate, Kevin Flannery, was 20 years the captain's elder. He deferred with the knowledge that McTavish was a better captain, let alone a better man. With gray eyes and chin stubble, Flannery stood out among the young men he was mate over. He chewed heaps of tobacco and was prone to spitting over the side, causing streams of black to run along the outer hull of the ship -- eventually forcing crewmen to hang over the end suspended, old toothbrushes in hand to keep the old girl clean.
They moved along at a good clip, slicing through the water and heading West. Flannery had joked earlier that they would all fall off the edge of the map and into the Great Abyss. "As long as I go down at sea," McTavish replied, "I'd be happy indeed." But now, hours past the islands with no sign of slowing, Flannery began to question the realism of his jest. No one had been this far out -- and he didn't want to be the first one to make the trip.
"Captain," he said, standing at McTavish's side.
"Aye."
"Can I speak plainly, sir?"
"Sure. Speak your mind, Kevin. Speak your mind."
"Well sir. Here's the thing. No one's been out this far West before."
"And..."
Flannery looked down at this point, rubbing the stubble along his jawline. "And I don't know what's going to happen, Sir. I mean, where are we going?"
"No one knows what's going to happen, Kevin. And frankly, that's why we're going. We could go to Singapore, if you'd like, or Alaska, but where's the fun in that? We head West till we make land, or die trying."
"..."
"You're a might scared, aren't ya?"
"Aye, Captain. A might."
"Well, don't go telling the crew then. Don't want morale to drop because my first-mate got a case of the frights. You understand me?"
"Aye aye, Cap'n."
"Flannery?"
"Yes?"
"Think of the adventure." McTavish's eyes sparked with the light of youth, standing at the bow of the ship, ready for whatever the sea had to throw at him.
And then the weather changed.
They toiled against the ropes, lashing the sail and making fast for a quick run along the islands. Ho'okele, as the ship was called, could maneuver well enough to hold her own, had 12 cannons and a captain that took little from anyone, but demanded all his men had. He stood at the wheel of the ship, looking over his most prized possession -- and the substance of his dreams. Pipe in hand, he nodded to the wheelman and stepped onto the deck.
Captain Jay McTavish was not the ordinary seaman. He was squinty in one eye, this is true, but that is where the similarities between himself and the stereotypes ended. With hair in his face and pockmarked hands, he looked more the impoverished boy of old London than a sailor of fortune. The sun caught him in the face and he pulled his right forearm up as a shield, yelling out for more speed and less jabberjaw from his crew.
His first-mate, Kevin Flannery, was 20 years the captain's elder. He deferred with the knowledge that McTavish was a better captain, let alone a better man. With gray eyes and chin stubble, Flannery stood out among the young men he was mate over. He chewed heaps of tobacco and was prone to spitting over the side, causing streams of black to run along the outer hull of the ship -- eventually forcing crewmen to hang over the end suspended, old toothbrushes in hand to keep the old girl clean.
They moved along at a good clip, slicing through the water and heading West. Flannery had joked earlier that they would all fall off the edge of the map and into the Great Abyss. "As long as I go down at sea," McTavish replied, "I'd be happy indeed." But now, hours past the islands with no sign of slowing, Flannery began to question the realism of his jest. No one had been this far out -- and he didn't want to be the first one to make the trip.
"Captain," he said, standing at McTavish's side.
"Aye."
"Can I speak plainly, sir?"
"Sure. Speak your mind, Kevin. Speak your mind."
"Well sir. Here's the thing. No one's been out this far West before."
"And..."
Flannery looked down at this point, rubbing the stubble along his jawline. "And I don't know what's going to happen, Sir. I mean, where are we going?"
"No one knows what's going to happen, Kevin. And frankly, that's why we're going. We could go to Singapore, if you'd like, or Alaska, but where's the fun in that? We head West till we make land, or die trying."
"..."
"You're a might scared, aren't ya?"
"Aye, Captain. A might."
"Well, don't go telling the crew then. Don't want morale to drop because my first-mate got a case of the frights. You understand me?"
"Aye aye, Cap'n."
"Flannery?"
"Yes?"
"Think of the adventure." McTavish's eyes sparked with the light of youth, standing at the bow of the ship, ready for whatever the sea had to throw at him.
And then the weather changed.
Downpour
This could be a continuation of a story I read on "The Fabian Society" called "Anhedonia."
And then came first rain. The pitter-patter against the elms kept her ears strained in the otherwise quiet of the night. The scent of it rose from the sidewalks, forcing her to throw back the covers and shut the window lest she begin to unravel in happiness. She had been stoic for so long, she could not imagine what this feeling was building within her.
At breakfast, it was still raining. Her cool doll's voice cracked in conversation over the table and the typical "O yes" she would resound was inadequate and somehow lacking. She scraped her plate into the trashcan at the thought and calmly, blankly, walked outside.
She smiled at the downpour as it caressed her head and wet her shoulders, her feet, her nose. The heavens welcomed her back into humanity while she walked on, drenched but unashamed.
And then came first rain. The pitter-patter against the elms kept her ears strained in the otherwise quiet of the night. The scent of it rose from the sidewalks, forcing her to throw back the covers and shut the window lest she begin to unravel in happiness. She had been stoic for so long, she could not imagine what this feeling was building within her.
At breakfast, it was still raining. Her cool doll's voice cracked in conversation over the table and the typical "O yes" she would resound was inadequate and somehow lacking. She scraped her plate into the trashcan at the thought and calmly, blankly, walked outside.
She smiled at the downpour as it caressed her head and wet her shoulders, her feet, her nose. The heavens welcomed her back into humanity while she walked on, drenched but unashamed.
7.02.2008
Dawn Patrol
They sat on the water in full wetsuits, only six feet apart, quiet in the calm of near-morning. The sky was the deep concrete gray before dawn and the lights from the oil rig could still be seen from shore. Alain had gotten up at 4:30 this morning, tossed his board in the pickup and drove the hour down to San Onofre. Jeter was already there to meet him, double-fisting cocoa and leaning against his beat-up corolla. His wetsuit was already half-way on and he wore a tattered sweatshirt over his chest. The cocoa was handed off and both men set to work dressing, pulling out boards, getting leashes ready, applying the last bits of wax.
They stood down near the high tide mark and Alain glanced over his shoulder, his hair whipping toward the sea. The windsock was pointing in a southerly direction.
"Decent off-shore wind today," he said.
"I know, right? The faces should hold up pretty well."
They continued to stand on the brink of eternity, watching the waves, gleaning their pattern and deciphering their code. When the set finished, they put arms in their suits, zipped the backs and plunged in, sliding the boards along the surface of the water. Jeter jumped on top of his board first and started paddling hard with both arms.
"Freaking cold."
"Haha."
Both boys now sat on their boards with hair matted against their scalps, waiting for the next set. It was these times, as much as the actual surfing, that brought them together. Alain put his hands in his armpits and pulled his elbows close to him. Jeter brought his legs up on the board knees nearly to his chest and huddled in anticipation. Both could see their breath.
They didn't need to wait long. As the sky turned purple, the new set arrived. "Incoming," Jeter muttered. He slid to the tail of his board, egg-beatering in the water spinning the behemoth 180 degrees. Alain followed suit in a similar action. They went flat out, beginning the slow paddle that picked up momentum as the wave approached. Adrenaline coursed through them as they were pulled up and away from land. With 2 more heavy strokes, Alain was the first to pop up and stand. "One," he called out.
Jeter cut next to him, smiling hard. It's going to be a great morning, he thought.
They stood down near the high tide mark and Alain glanced over his shoulder, his hair whipping toward the sea. The windsock was pointing in a southerly direction.
"Decent off-shore wind today," he said.
"I know, right? The faces should hold up pretty well."
They continued to stand on the brink of eternity, watching the waves, gleaning their pattern and deciphering their code. When the set finished, they put arms in their suits, zipped the backs and plunged in, sliding the boards along the surface of the water. Jeter jumped on top of his board first and started paddling hard with both arms.
"Freaking cold."
"Haha."
Both boys now sat on their boards with hair matted against their scalps, waiting for the next set. It was these times, as much as the actual surfing, that brought them together. Alain put his hands in his armpits and pulled his elbows close to him. Jeter brought his legs up on the board knees nearly to his chest and huddled in anticipation. Both could see their breath.
They didn't need to wait long. As the sky turned purple, the new set arrived. "Incoming," Jeter muttered. He slid to the tail of his board, egg-beatering in the water spinning the behemoth 180 degrees. Alain followed suit in a similar action. They went flat out, beginning the slow paddle that picked up momentum as the wave approached. Adrenaline coursed through them as they were pulled up and away from land. With 2 more heavy strokes, Alain was the first to pop up and stand. "One," he called out.
Jeter cut next to him, smiling hard. It's going to be a great morning, he thought.
6.27.2008
The Radio Shack Guy
Daniel loved himself very much. Probably too much. Growing up, he had a tendency to get the girl -- until they realized how obsessed he was with running his own hands through his hair. Now, five years after graduation, he worked at the neighborhood Radio Shack as the guy who specialized in making his clients feel weak and uneducated. Every morning before leaving for work, he would stand in front of the mirror and say, "You are somebody. You are a Greek god. You are the stuff legends are made of." He got the idea from a self-help book he had read when he was in high school, but tweaked it just enough to make him believe the words.
To his friends and casual acquaintances, Daniel liked to call the store he worked at "the office." As in: "I had to run down to the office last night. Forgot something important." or "So this guy comes into the office today: total and complete idiot. I had no idea people could be that dumb." He would also call the people that came into the store "large clients," or "small-timers" depending on whether or not they were obese or merely window-shopping. This made the people sound wealthy or inept, thereby forcing Daniel into a role of superiority.
When friends became intrigued at his stories, he would say he was in the "Networking and Technology segment, working for a national corporation." Should any other questions arise as to his profession, he employed smoke and mirror tactics, became unbearable and made the other person feel as though they had betrayed his honor by asking.
In his spare time, Daniel played the latest MMORPG. The down-side was that he wasn't very good, and felt the need to lie about his ranking. As a result, he also spent a lot of time researching everything related to the game so he could sound like he knew what he was talking about. Living on the couch of his mother's one bedroom apartment, he told those he met that he was subletting his home and staying in the guest house as a way to supplement his income.
Daniel was eventually fired from the Shack for, as his boss put it, "being a prick." When he got to the guest house, he picked up his phone to dial a friend and vent a little. He scrolled through his phone book, reading each name, noticing that none of these people had ever called him. He couldn't remember the last time Allison, Andrew or Barack rung him up to let off some steam. He never went to the movies with Casey, Eileen or Fisher. He couldn't even recall who Fisher was. It was then he realized he was friendless, a liar and a git.
For the next 2 years, Daniel cried himself to sleep.
To his friends and casual acquaintances, Daniel liked to call the store he worked at "the office." As in: "I had to run down to the office last night. Forgot something important." or "So this guy comes into the office today: total and complete idiot. I had no idea people could be that dumb." He would also call the people that came into the store "large clients," or "small-timers" depending on whether or not they were obese or merely window-shopping. This made the people sound wealthy or inept, thereby forcing Daniel into a role of superiority.
When friends became intrigued at his stories, he would say he was in the "Networking and Technology segment, working for a national corporation." Should any other questions arise as to his profession, he employed smoke and mirror tactics, became unbearable and made the other person feel as though they had betrayed his honor by asking.
In his spare time, Daniel played the latest MMORPG. The down-side was that he wasn't very good, and felt the need to lie about his ranking. As a result, he also spent a lot of time researching everything related to the game so he could sound like he knew what he was talking about. Living on the couch of his mother's one bedroom apartment, he told those he met that he was subletting his home and staying in the guest house as a way to supplement his income.
Daniel was eventually fired from the Shack for, as his boss put it, "being a prick." When he got to the guest house, he picked up his phone to dial a friend and vent a little. He scrolled through his phone book, reading each name, noticing that none of these people had ever called him. He couldn't remember the last time Allison, Andrew or Barack rung him up to let off some steam. He never went to the movies with Casey, Eileen or Fisher. He couldn't even recall who Fisher was. It was then he realized he was friendless, a liar and a git.
For the next 2 years, Daniel cried himself to sleep.
6.26.2008
The Interview
Now was the time he wished he had a new car. The old Beetle had creaky seat-belts, no air conditioning and a radio that consisted of AJ's whistling over the hum of the motor. But the car had been given to him, free of charge. It was a love/hate relationship.
"Jesus," he thought. "I'm sweating though my shirt. And I never sweat." He had a job interview today -- the first of it's kind. It was the sort of position his folks would be proud of.
Perspiration beaded his brow and the nice-and-neat spikes he took so long on this morning were now anything but "nice-and-neat." He began whistling Darth Vader's entrance music in "A New Hope," his foot heavy on the accelerator. He found his exit and came through the green light at 35 miles an hour.
Then he was broadsided by a truck full of oranges.
"Jesus," he thought. "I'm sweating though my shirt. And I never sweat." He had a job interview today -- the first of it's kind. It was the sort of position his folks would be proud of.
Perspiration beaded his brow and the nice-and-neat spikes he took so long on this morning were now anything but "nice-and-neat." He began whistling Darth Vader's entrance music in "A New Hope," his foot heavy on the accelerator. He found his exit and came through the green light at 35 miles an hour.
Then he was broadsided by a truck full of oranges.
6.25.2008
Rect
Meta series, Part III
He awoke in a limo and dressed in a gray suit. She was humming something old and slow to herself. It became clear that he had been in this sort of stupor before, waking from a similar dilemma just a few hours previous. Upon coming to clarity, he tried the door and found it locked. Resigning himself finally to his fate, he rested against the leather seats and asked no questions. He supposed this wasn't technically Rect's first impression of Mason, though the memory of that whole meeting was more than a little foggy.
They walked into the large, stone tower. Silently, the two ascended 3 flights of stairs landed in a room of glass. No one paid them any mind.
That was nearly an hour ago.
The man in front of him sat tall and proud in his leather-bound, antique chair. He was corpulent, with a black-rimmed monocle, a white-on-white suit and had the hook of a cane hung over the mahogany desk. He drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk continuously.
"I see you made it here safely, Mason."
"And you must be Rect."
"Indeed. Do you know why you're here? Or do you need a bit of a refresher?" Rect laughed heartily then, unexpectantly, and the fat around his eyes bounced grotesquely.
"Um ... yes. Yes. I do need, what did you call it, 'a refresher.'"
The man got up from his desk, hobbled slowly over to within only a foot or two of Mason, and extended his left palm. "I trust your insignia has healed." Mason could see the same logo reflected on Rect's hand as was on his own. The larger man squinted his eyes for just a second and the brand began to glow. Without warning, Rect let out a gasp and his clothes fell to the floor. With a pop, a tiger stood where the man had been moments before.
"No," Mason said. "That can't be real."
The cat prowled around momentarily, yellow eyes fierce in the afternoon sunlight as it shone through the window. Again, it closed its eyes and Rect stood in its place after a moment.
"I am finding it more difficult to shift these days, so you will have to excuse the time it takes. But as you can see, based on that insignia in your hand, you are one of us." Fury gave a quick and dirty smile while Rect stood behind a semi-permanent wall to cover his nakedness.
"One of who? You mean I can shift? Is that what it's called?"
"To answer your latter question, yes. You can shift. It will take time to learn, though. Your genealogy makes it pretty plain, though the first time we found you in form you were very confused and had to be tranquilized to keep calm. Fury has been nursing you."
"And the first question?"
"O yes. Right. We are the Meta."
He awoke in a limo and dressed in a gray suit. She was humming something old and slow to herself. It became clear that he had been in this sort of stupor before, waking from a similar dilemma just a few hours previous. Upon coming to clarity, he tried the door and found it locked. Resigning himself finally to his fate, he rested against the leather seats and asked no questions. He supposed this wasn't technically Rect's first impression of Mason, though the memory of that whole meeting was more than a little foggy.
They walked into the large, stone tower. Silently, the two ascended 3 flights of stairs landed in a room of glass. No one paid them any mind.
That was nearly an hour ago.
The man in front of him sat tall and proud in his leather-bound, antique chair. He was corpulent, with a black-rimmed monocle, a white-on-white suit and had the hook of a cane hung over the mahogany desk. He drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk continuously.
"I see you made it here safely, Mason."
"And you must be Rect."
"Indeed. Do you know why you're here? Or do you need a bit of a refresher?" Rect laughed heartily then, unexpectantly, and the fat around his eyes bounced grotesquely.
"Um ... yes. Yes. I do need, what did you call it, 'a refresher.'"
The man got up from his desk, hobbled slowly over to within only a foot or two of Mason, and extended his left palm. "I trust your insignia has healed." Mason could see the same logo reflected on Rect's hand as was on his own. The larger man squinted his eyes for just a second and the brand began to glow. Without warning, Rect let out a gasp and his clothes fell to the floor. With a pop, a tiger stood where the man had been moments before.
"No," Mason said. "That can't be real."
The cat prowled around momentarily, yellow eyes fierce in the afternoon sunlight as it shone through the window. Again, it closed its eyes and Rect stood in its place after a moment.
"I am finding it more difficult to shift these days, so you will have to excuse the time it takes. But as you can see, based on that insignia in your hand, you are one of us." Fury gave a quick and dirty smile while Rect stood behind a semi-permanent wall to cover his nakedness.
"One of who? You mean I can shift? Is that what it's called?"
"To answer your latter question, yes. You can shift. It will take time to learn, though. Your genealogy makes it pretty plain, though the first time we found you in form you were very confused and had to be tranquilized to keep calm. Fury has been nursing you."
"And the first question?"
"O yes. Right. We are the Meta."
Fury
Meta Series, Part II
When he comprehended her nudity, he turned away, sheepishly eyeing a swatch of discoloration in the shower tile. Then he realized she could see his buttocks through the glass slider and he became fidgety, asking questions and shifting his weight back and forth over his feet.
But she wouldn't tell him much more than he could have figured out on his own. When he asked a question she didn't want to -- or couldn't -- answer, she only remained silent. At last, she said, "We changed your name. We branded you. We welcomed you to 'the team.'"
"What if I don't want to be on 'the team?'"
"Oh, you do. We're sure of that. Positive, in fact." He turned his face to her and she looked strongly into his coal-black eyes, smiling jaggedly. She lifted her left palm to reveal a nearly-exact replica of the brand he carried. His stomach lurched and he shivered under the hot water, looking away.
She stepped into the shower, still smiling when they locked eyes for just a second. He promptly got out and grabbed himself a towel. "So let me get this right," he said through the terry cloth as he ran it quickly through his hair, dripping wet onto the linoleum. "My name is now Mason." The towel found itself wrapped tightly around his waist. He didn't know where to turn, so he walked into the living room, soiling the carpet and yelled from just beyond the doorway.
"Uh-huh"
"What?" He craned his neck toward the opening of the frame, but kept his eyes averted.
"Yes. Come back in here. You can't hear me."
"No," he said. "I'll be fine." Of all the things Mason now was, "fine" was not one of them. He began pacing back and forth over a 5 foot area, tramping down the thick flooring. He bit his nails until they bled. "Your name is ..."
"Fury."
He stopped in his tracks, unbelieving. "Seriously? Fury?"
"Yes. You've hit the nail on the head."
"What was your name before ... this?" He spread his arms wide for emphasis, even if she couldn't see it. His towel slipped just a little and he readjusted quickly.
"What was yours?," she asked.
"Wait, what?"
"Your name. What was it? Before ... this, as you just said." He could hear her smiling through her words. It didn't calm him.
"It was ..." His mind raced for some thought that would bring a name to his lips, but none came. "Dammit, I don't remember!" The panic began to rise in his throat, like sunlight. "Is this some kind of cruel joke? I'm in my apartment, for Chrissakes! How can I not know my own name? Are you a ... a ... mind-wiper?"
"No. Nothing like that." She chuckled and water filled her mouth. She swallowed. "Once you make the Crossing, unnecessary information like the name you carried in your past life vanish. You only keep what you need. Since you have a new name, there is no need for the old one. But I am getting ahead of myself."
"Wait. What do you mean by 'the Crossing?' Why would I want to cross anything? What the hell is going on?" He heard the water turn off and the slider open until it hit the opposite wall with a thud.
"Where are the towels?"
"Uhh... under the sink. Tell me about this 'Crossing.'"
"Not to worry, partner." She rummaged under the sink until she got what she was looking for. He quickly tossed on some pants and shirt, opting for some running shoes behind the door. "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." She came out of the bathroom, hair boltered to her head and her body covered. Mason backed away from her, keeping his distance.
"We have a busy day ahead of us."
"Why do you say that?"
"We're going to see Rect."
"I'm not going anywhere with you." He backed up to a corner, hands raised. She quietly went to her bag and pulled out a small, black gun. "What in the name of hell is that?" His voice cracked over the last syllable.
"Just something to quiet your nerves." She shot him with the tranquilizer gun and all went black.
When he comprehended her nudity, he turned away, sheepishly eyeing a swatch of discoloration in the shower tile. Then he realized she could see his buttocks through the glass slider and he became fidgety, asking questions and shifting his weight back and forth over his feet.
But she wouldn't tell him much more than he could have figured out on his own. When he asked a question she didn't want to -- or couldn't -- answer, she only remained silent. At last, she said, "We changed your name. We branded you. We welcomed you to 'the team.'"
"What if I don't want to be on 'the team?'"
"Oh, you do. We're sure of that. Positive, in fact." He turned his face to her and she looked strongly into his coal-black eyes, smiling jaggedly. She lifted her left palm to reveal a nearly-exact replica of the brand he carried. His stomach lurched and he shivered under the hot water, looking away.
She stepped into the shower, still smiling when they locked eyes for just a second. He promptly got out and grabbed himself a towel. "So let me get this right," he said through the terry cloth as he ran it quickly through his hair, dripping wet onto the linoleum. "My name is now Mason." The towel found itself wrapped tightly around his waist. He didn't know where to turn, so he walked into the living room, soiling the carpet and yelled from just beyond the doorway.
"Uh-huh"
"What?" He craned his neck toward the opening of the frame, but kept his eyes averted.
"Yes. Come back in here. You can't hear me."
"No," he said. "I'll be fine." Of all the things Mason now was, "fine" was not one of them. He began pacing back and forth over a 5 foot area, tramping down the thick flooring. He bit his nails until they bled. "Your name is ..."
"Fury."
He stopped in his tracks, unbelieving. "Seriously? Fury?"
"Yes. You've hit the nail on the head."
"What was your name before ... this?" He spread his arms wide for emphasis, even if she couldn't see it. His towel slipped just a little and he readjusted quickly.
"What was yours?," she asked.
"Wait, what?"
"Your name. What was it? Before ... this, as you just said." He could hear her smiling through her words. It didn't calm him.
"It was ..." His mind raced for some thought that would bring a name to his lips, but none came. "Dammit, I don't remember!" The panic began to rise in his throat, like sunlight. "Is this some kind of cruel joke? I'm in my apartment, for Chrissakes! How can I not know my own name? Are you a ... a ... mind-wiper?"
"No. Nothing like that." She chuckled and water filled her mouth. She swallowed. "Once you make the Crossing, unnecessary information like the name you carried in your past life vanish. You only keep what you need. Since you have a new name, there is no need for the old one. But I am getting ahead of myself."
"Wait. What do you mean by 'the Crossing?' Why would I want to cross anything? What the hell is going on?" He heard the water turn off and the slider open until it hit the opposite wall with a thud.
"Where are the towels?"
"Uhh... under the sink. Tell me about this 'Crossing.'"
"Not to worry, partner." She rummaged under the sink until she got what she was looking for. He quickly tossed on some pants and shirt, opting for some running shoes behind the door. "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." She came out of the bathroom, hair boltered to her head and her body covered. Mason backed away from her, keeping his distance.
"We have a busy day ahead of us."
"Why do you say that?"
"We're going to see Rect."
"I'm not going anywhere with you." He backed up to a corner, hands raised. She quietly went to her bag and pulled out a small, black gun. "What in the name of hell is that?" His voice cracked over the last syllable.
"Just something to quiet your nerves." She shot him with the tranquilizer gun and all went black.
The Scar
Meta Series, Part I
He rolled out of bed a little forlorn and feeling as though he had been run over with a truck. Twice. He stumbled into the bathroom, hand pressed hard against his temple. A clean linen bandage was tied around his left palm. He felt of the long bruise that extended down the right-side of his ribcage and his eyeballs throbbed in agony.
Ugh, he thought. What the hell did I get myself into now?
He took a furtive glance over his shoulder and saw an unfamiliar blond, fast asleep and breathing heavily. Her form made quiet waves under the white bedsheets. There's no way she would be waking any time soon.
He blinked away the sleep in his eyes, entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. Steam began to rise toward the ceiling. Unwrapping his hand, he stared, startled at the revelation: this was no ordinary cut of the palm. This was a brand of some sort -- some burn that had all but healed, leaving scar tissue in the shape of a perfect circle encased inside a diamond. Inside the circle was the letter "M."
This isn't normal, he thought. Confusion began to set in as he washed up, letting the hot water peel away the layers of dead skin and dirt. He couldn't recall the last week. This was his apartment, his shower, his person. But the woman in his bed. The scar. The headache and ringing that began to build in his ears. All foreign.
"Mason," she said as she stepped into the doorway. He didn't notice her disrobing as he jumped at her voice. "You forgot to wake me."
"That isn't my name," he said.
"It is now."
He rolled out of bed a little forlorn and feeling as though he had been run over with a truck. Twice. He stumbled into the bathroom, hand pressed hard against his temple. A clean linen bandage was tied around his left palm. He felt of the long bruise that extended down the right-side of his ribcage and his eyeballs throbbed in agony.
Ugh, he thought. What the hell did I get myself into now?
He took a furtive glance over his shoulder and saw an unfamiliar blond, fast asleep and breathing heavily. Her form made quiet waves under the white bedsheets. There's no way she would be waking any time soon.
He blinked away the sleep in his eyes, entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. Steam began to rise toward the ceiling. Unwrapping his hand, he stared, startled at the revelation: this was no ordinary cut of the palm. This was a brand of some sort -- some burn that had all but healed, leaving scar tissue in the shape of a perfect circle encased inside a diamond. Inside the circle was the letter "M."
This isn't normal, he thought. Confusion began to set in as he washed up, letting the hot water peel away the layers of dead skin and dirt. He couldn't recall the last week. This was his apartment, his shower, his person. But the woman in his bed. The scar. The headache and ringing that began to build in his ears. All foreign.
"Mason," she said as she stepped into the doorway. He didn't notice her disrobing as he jumped at her voice. "You forgot to wake me."
"That isn't my name," he said.
"It is now."
Hurt
Sometimes I forget how good songs are until they are spun again. Here is Johnny Cash's last video, "Hurt" -- a Nine Inch Nails cover.
6.24.2008
Yay speeding! Boo tickets!
So, I got 2 speeding tickets in one week. In one road-trip, actually. I can't say I blame the cops for pulling me over. I mean, I WAS indeed speeding. However, one of the cops was a REALLY nice guy -- he even asked me to think about becoming a member of the CHP -- while the other was just, well, a jerk. Really, I just found it ironic that I can speed in the city where there are tons of cars, but not in the country, where it is really safer to travel at such speed -- nothing to wreck except you, your car and maybe a picket fence. O well. Guess I've learned my lesson.
6.09.2008
Pop-Culture Christianity
Ugh. Where to start? I hate the fact that the Gospel is being repackaged to "fit" a generation of teens and 20-somethings. Christianity isn't something designed to be "cool" and it shouldn't have to fit into the pop-culture box in order to be accepted. Either one of two things should happen: God impresses Himself on the heart of an unbeliever so that the man submits his life to that of Christ and His kingdom; or He does not do so and the man is abandoned to the judgment that is destined him. Harsh, I know, but that is reality.
I do not think that there is something we can do to make Christianity look better. Eating grapes in a New-Age fashion instead of drinking juice at Communion, using modern metaphors BECAUSE we think the metaphors of the Bible are "out-of-date" (someone really said that), or using our HUGE trucks plastered with NOTW as a religious advertisement are all examples of "cooling up" our religion.
The God of the Gospel is the same yesterday, today and forever and no amount of effort on our part will change the way God operates with His people.
Hear me out: I am not saying we should give up electricity, let the sinners die where they fall, or become Bible-thumping corner hooligans. Not at all. I AM saying that we should focus on our own spirituality, not on the outward extravagances that make up the person we would like the world to think we are; we should clean up the reputation of our churches, our pastors, our ministers -- not by making them more "acceptable" to the outside world, but by keeping them accountable for their own holiness.
What I have noticed happening at times is that the message is being tweaked so more butts are in pews. "God is Love," while true, is not wholly-correct if not taught that He is also a jealous, righteous and angry God. We ignore the parts we don't like -- and even tweak the parts we do -- in order to make Truth look more appealing.
We are to be ministers, missionaries, pastors, etc. -- not truth-benders. I will not sacrifice the kernel of veritas that has been given me so that I can make God look cooler.
I do not think that there is something we can do to make Christianity look better. Eating grapes in a New-Age fashion instead of drinking juice at Communion, using modern metaphors BECAUSE we think the metaphors of the Bible are "out-of-date" (someone really said that), or using our HUGE trucks plastered with NOTW as a religious advertisement are all examples of "cooling up" our religion.
The God of the Gospel is the same yesterday, today and forever and no amount of effort on our part will change the way God operates with His people.
Hear me out: I am not saying we should give up electricity, let the sinners die where they fall, or become Bible-thumping corner hooligans. Not at all. I AM saying that we should focus on our own spirituality, not on the outward extravagances that make up the person we would like the world to think we are; we should clean up the reputation of our churches, our pastors, our ministers -- not by making them more "acceptable" to the outside world, but by keeping them accountable for their own holiness.
What I have noticed happening at times is that the message is being tweaked so more butts are in pews. "God is Love," while true, is not wholly-correct if not taught that He is also a jealous, righteous and angry God. We ignore the parts we don't like -- and even tweak the parts we do -- in order to make Truth look more appealing.
We are to be ministers, missionaries, pastors, etc. -- not truth-benders. I will not sacrifice the kernel of veritas that has been given me so that I can make God look cooler.
5.28.2008
5.19.2008
Sonnet XII
Not newly written, but worth a post, I think.
O Lovely, do not weep for me –
your salty tears will do nothing
for this poor boy’s heart and
you’ll build up only a well to
die in. This absence will not
be too long, my glorious girl,
and the miles will build
an intimacy like winter. I will
go, always facing the enemy,
heart always held in your
baker’s hands and glowing.
Fly the flag of our deep affection
over the fortifications in your soul
and tell them of our deep resolve.
Destroying/Building Never Felt So Good
I have no apologies for my lack of writing. I have had little to say. With that, we move onward...
This past weekend, I got a chance to do some ministry with CA. It was called Urban Plunge, we worked with Youth With A Mission (YWAM) and delved into the inner-city. Some people called it a missions trip, though there was little missions work done; it was called an outreach, though that doesn't seem to apply, either. In all honesty, it was more like ministry to those already doing the missions work full-time -- I would definitely call it inreach more than outreach.
That said, on Saturday we woke early and got out to the Pico/Union district in LA. I got to demolish plaster in a building erected in the 20s -- I mean all walls and ceiling in 2 rooms. By the time I was finished, i was covered in white from head to foot, happy as a clam and sore -- very sore. While there, I made a friend in Lukas -- a guy a couple of years older than me, and with a mind for construction (also like me.) We pulled out plaster, chicken wire and floor molding. Az did a great job in helping and getting her hands dirty -- I was very proud.
Next day, arose early again and cruised out to First Evangelical Free Church. There, our team covered multiple projects in a place called The Nehemiah House. -- It is used as a shelter for young adults, a home for the worship pastor and all around cool commune of people. The house was built in 1895 and it shows. Not only is the architecture beautiful, it is in a state of dilapidation and needs repair.
Lukas and I were given the task of drywalling a basement wall. We pulled all posters, shelving, etc. off of it, tore down the old fiberboard construction and erected a new wall made of sheetrock. It took all day, but Az helped with the mudding and taping. All said, it was about 288 square feet, minus the doorframe. We placed the new electrical behind the wall, and cut in slots for the water piping to come through. It was very productive.
Anway, erecting things like that is something I greatly enjoy. 1 Thes. 4:11 makes it a point to tell us to lead a quiet life and to work with our hands. In destroying something of no use, or of danger, and in creating something of beauty and utility in its place, I feel as though this is how things are supposed to be. We are supposed to be doing these things all of the time. So, Lukas and I are going to go back to First EV Free and help out some more. We don't have details yet, but it should be good.
Honestly, I just enjoy working with my hands. I am not writing about my experience to brag, but to get it out. Working like that gives me time to ponder the eternal -- I think a lot about God, Christ and His godhead, and His ability to construct something beautiful from the damned. Its funny, but it puts things into perspective -- in placement of a sinner, God has erected a saint. The metaphor is imperfect, but it is one that stays with me.
This past weekend, I got a chance to do some ministry with CA. It was called Urban Plunge, we worked with Youth With A Mission (YWAM) and delved into the inner-city. Some people called it a missions trip, though there was little missions work done; it was called an outreach, though that doesn't seem to apply, either. In all honesty, it was more like ministry to those already doing the missions work full-time -- I would definitely call it inreach more than outreach.
That said, on Saturday we woke early and got out to the Pico/Union district in LA. I got to demolish plaster in a building erected in the 20s -- I mean all walls and ceiling in 2 rooms. By the time I was finished, i was covered in white from head to foot, happy as a clam and sore -- very sore. While there, I made a friend in Lukas -- a guy a couple of years older than me, and with a mind for construction (also like me.) We pulled out plaster, chicken wire and floor molding. Az did a great job in helping and getting her hands dirty -- I was very proud.
Next day, arose early again and cruised out to First Evangelical Free Church. There, our team covered multiple projects in a place called The Nehemiah House. -- It is used as a shelter for young adults, a home for the worship pastor and all around cool commune of people. The house was built in 1895 and it shows. Not only is the architecture beautiful, it is in a state of dilapidation and needs repair.
Lukas and I were given the task of drywalling a basement wall. We pulled all posters, shelving, etc. off of it, tore down the old fiberboard construction and erected a new wall made of sheetrock. It took all day, but Az helped with the mudding and taping. All said, it was about 288 square feet, minus the doorframe. We placed the new electrical behind the wall, and cut in slots for the water piping to come through. It was very productive.
Anway, erecting things like that is something I greatly enjoy. 1 Thes. 4:11 makes it a point to tell us to lead a quiet life and to work with our hands. In destroying something of no use, or of danger, and in creating something of beauty and utility in its place, I feel as though this is how things are supposed to be. We are supposed to be doing these things all of the time. So, Lukas and I are going to go back to First EV Free and help out some more. We don't have details yet, but it should be good.
Honestly, I just enjoy working with my hands. I am not writing about my experience to brag, but to get it out. Working like that gives me time to ponder the eternal -- I think a lot about God, Christ and His godhead, and His ability to construct something beautiful from the damned. Its funny, but it puts things into perspective -- in placement of a sinner, God has erected a saint. The metaphor is imperfect, but it is one that stays with me.
1.24.2008
Such an American
We as Americans work more than anyone else on the planet. We are workaholics. I feel like I am beginning to "fit right in" to my own culture -- I have gotten a second job.
On top of my 40 hour a week position at Prime, I am also throwing freight and driving a truck for a courier service at night, M-Thursday. Here is my schedule:
0830am -- Wake up
930 -- Leave for Prime
1030 -- Begin working
0300pm -- lunch!
0700 -- Get off work and drive home
0800 -- Get home; nap until 0820
0830 -- Leave for work
0900 -- Begin working
0330am -- Get off work
0400 -- Go to sleep
All of this to say, please pray for me. I don't want to burn out, but I need to pay bills and make ends meet. I went to my primary boss yesterday and asked for a raise. He is working on it.
On top of my 40 hour a week position at Prime, I am also throwing freight and driving a truck for a courier service at night, M-Thursday. Here is my schedule:
0830am -- Wake up
930 -- Leave for Prime
1030 -- Begin working
0300pm -- lunch!
0700 -- Get off work and drive home
0800 -- Get home; nap until 0820
0830 -- Leave for work
0900 -- Begin working
0330am -- Get off work
0400 -- Go to sleep
All of this to say, please pray for me. I don't want to burn out, but I need to pay bills and make ends meet. I went to my primary boss yesterday and asked for a raise. He is working on it.
12.03.2007
My Prayer Today
Sometimes I write out my prayers, especially when I am at work and taking time to close my eyes lends people to believe that I am sleeping. This particular one sort of encompasses some of the things that I have been learning about because of Brennan Manning and his passionate messages -- that is why I am posting it. Please do not consider these words Pharisaic, as they were not intended to reach anyone else's ears but God's.
My God, this poor boy has been ransomed by your grace and, with downcast eyes, I realize your love is like the oceans with their dark and wondrous depths. Teach my heart to pray in silence, my mind not to wander, my feet to be sure in each step of the journey. You have met me in the deafening quiet of my faith and you mix it with your blood, knowing how weak I am. My Father, I am not of the substance of heroes, but I pray you would use these rough and calloused hands for your kingdom. May I be a blessing to others, even as you have been a blessing to me. Lord, I want to know how to love unconditionally: teach me to pray for my enemies, to make space for your depth in my shallow self, to give my heart to you more fully. God, steal your glory back from me, for I do not know what to do with it, even as I try to rob it from you. Thank you for your goodness, for your incomprehensible nature, for your ruthless, unmitigated grace.
My God, this poor boy has been ransomed by your grace and, with downcast eyes, I realize your love is like the oceans with their dark and wondrous depths. Teach my heart to pray in silence, my mind not to wander, my feet to be sure in each step of the journey. You have met me in the deafening quiet of my faith and you mix it with your blood, knowing how weak I am. My Father, I am not of the substance of heroes, but I pray you would use these rough and calloused hands for your kingdom. May I be a blessing to others, even as you have been a blessing to me. Lord, I want to know how to love unconditionally: teach me to pray for my enemies, to make space for your depth in my shallow self, to give my heart to you more fully. God, steal your glory back from me, for I do not know what to do with it, even as I try to rob it from you. Thank you for your goodness, for your incomprehensible nature, for your ruthless, unmitigated grace.
Sonnet VI
Sonnet VI
Barefooted, you tread the soft soil
damp earth of my self, quietly --
too quiet for words, or sighs
or breath – you come into the
center of my bosom like a phantom
and your hands reach up my trellis
counting the worn and tattered leaves;
I am growing warm underfoot.
With your eyes made of honey
and lips tasting of blood, your
silent invasion has caused a ripple
across my country-side; there are fires
where there was once peace. My damp earth
self is flooded with flame.
Barefooted, you tread the soft soil
damp earth of my self, quietly --
too quiet for words, or sighs
or breath – you come into the
center of my bosom like a phantom
and your hands reach up my trellis
counting the worn and tattered leaves;
I am growing warm underfoot.
With your eyes made of honey
and lips tasting of blood, your
silent invasion has caused a ripple
across my country-side; there are fires
where there was once peace. My damp earth
self is flooded with flame.
11.14.2007
Sonnet V
Sonnet V
I awoke with clear and honest eyes
to you -- the embodiment of soft parts
and soft words, to your singing in warm hallways --
to corridors smelling of your handiwork.
With your voice, the bread rises with the sun, golden,
the cherries sweetly drain at mid-day,
the potatoes murmur in their boil at dusk.
But your crowning lies in the after-glow
of pumpkin-spice along the apple-pathways,
plucking fallen fruit from the orchard floor
and dusting each as a child before they
rest in soft-piles at the road-side.
How we dance in the honeysuckle goodness of your
hands, how we take in solid joy by the mouthful.
I awoke with clear and honest eyes
to you -- the embodiment of soft parts
and soft words, to your singing in warm hallways --
to corridors smelling of your handiwork.
With your voice, the bread rises with the sun, golden,
the cherries sweetly drain at mid-day,
the potatoes murmur in their boil at dusk.
But your crowning lies in the after-glow
of pumpkin-spice along the apple-pathways,
plucking fallen fruit from the orchard floor
and dusting each as a child before they
rest in soft-piles at the road-side.
How we dance in the honeysuckle goodness of your
hands, how we take in solid joy by the mouthful.
11.13.2007
Sonnet IV
Sonnet IV
Naked, your body has the fullness of the horizon
The roundness of your breasts like the curvature of the world
where heaven meets earth and the
sea casts its shape.
In the Autumn twilight, I see you nude with poppies
and laurel, with the brown clay of our youth,
with fire and flood in your eyes.
Naked, you have traveled into my dreams, and naked
you rest there,
cupped like a dove in the palm of my hand
lying quiet in the hollow of my abdomen
My naked and lovely queen, how
your form calls to the glory of
the world.
Naked, your body has the fullness of the horizon
The roundness of your breasts like the curvature of the world
where heaven meets earth and the
sea casts its shape.
In the Autumn twilight, I see you nude with poppies
and laurel, with the brown clay of our youth,
with fire and flood in your eyes.
Naked, you have traveled into my dreams, and naked
you rest there,
cupped like a dove in the palm of my hand
lying quiet in the hollow of my abdomen
My naked and lovely queen, how
your form calls to the glory of
the world.
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