I am currently working on a four part short story entitled Wisps. This is the opening of part one. (Happy Jason?)
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This is a tale that begins at the end, because that is where everything begins: at the end of something else.
Part I
White. Everything was white. Not shades of grey…just white. No shadows even. Just the vaguest hint of color formed the outline of an object if viewed from the corner of one’s eye, but upon being looked at directly, the color vanished.
He didn’t mind. The Hub was always white. The Order had been watching over it for eons. It was the nexus of all things, and never looked the same twice: sometimes it was a small forest pond, others an idyllic village…once, against all reason, it had been a vast library, the books filled with blank pages.
Today it was a field. Dejan pushed his way through the high wheat, watching as the white heads parted to let him pass. His hood was pulled over his face, and his hands wore black leather gloves. The only color in the entire Hub was the small bouquet of red flowers he had clutched in his left hand.
He climbed to the top of a small hill devoid of vegetation. The landscape stretched out for miles, an empty canvas. The sky was a pure, smooth cap on the rest of scene. He in his black cloak was an inkblot, tiny and insignificant. The only sound was the oppressive sound that can only be made by utter silence, a sonerous blanket.
He knelt down slowly, placing the flowers on the crest of the hill. The katana on his back bounced gently off of the grass as the tip of its scabbard hit the ground. He stared at the flowers for a few moments, and then turned. Behind him, his footprints were filled with fading color; the green of the grass on the hill, the brown of the mud in the field and the golden heads of wheat. Soon they would all fade back to white, as was the way in the Hub; when the Order came here, a bit of their world rubbed off on the Hub, momentarily granting it some of its color.
Supposedly, other beings came to the hub as well, via their own means, but Dejan had never seen anyone else in his forays into the Hub, let alone any creature. In theory, one could also sojourn to other worlds as well, though few of the Order ever attempted this, and the ones that had rarely returned.
He wanted to stay. It was so peaceful here in the Hub. If he returned, he would be forced to again face the insufferable hierarchy of the Order
He retraced his steps through the field, watching as the wheat heads glowed golden as he brushed them with his hand. He was walking towards the gateway, a hole between worlds. As he reached the portal, a swirling maelstrom of pale purple and blue, he stopped and turned around. He allowed his eyes to follow the fading color trail back to the hill, where the flowers sat. Their color had not faded.
It would never fade.
He could hold it back no longer. The tears came hot and fast now, and there was nothing he could do to stop to them.
Even after four years, the pain was still unbearable. Here, in this place, he had found solace. Here, in this place, he had found peace.
He threw back his hood, allowing himself an unblocked view of his surroundings. His blue eyes burned with heartache.
He ran, as fast as he could back the hill, colors radiating out from him then fading away. He dropped to his knees in front the bouquet, tears falling and staining the grass green. He fumbled in his belt for his knife, a long dagger given to him upon his induction into the Order.
He stared at the point for several long moments.
“Dejan Rashalla,” he spoke aloud to himself, breaking the silence, “You have led a tortured life. You have lost your one love. The Order has cast you out, treated you like dirt. Because that is what you are.”
He took a deep breath.
“And so, there shall you return.”
As hard and fast as he could he plunged the tip of the dagger into his chest, behind the ribs, into his heart. He had time enough to pull the blade and watch as blood poured from the gaping wound.
Then he was gone.
It is said that even the smallest actions have major repercussions; that the smallest ripples can become mighty waves.
And so it was with Dejan.
As the punctured heart gave its last few beats, Dejan’s blood flowed down the side of the hill. As it did so, color radiated out around the sanguine river, Dejan’s life giving color to the empty world. The same was true for the ground that surrounded his fallen body, as the grass grew vibrant.
Eventually, the blood stopped flowing and the stream stilled. The blood sank into the soil, but the color remained where it had been granted, and like the flowers, would never fade.
Dejan watched this all with a certain detachment –he was dead after all. His body was sprawled atop the hill, a broken machine which no longer could contain him.
Strangely, he still felt fear. Is this all there is? He still felt lost, heartbroken. My escape was nothing more than a deeper imprisonment.
And then, he was gone, truly gone.
He disappeared just before the second figure appeared in the Hub.
This week’s shuffle review. Three more songs, three different artists. Awesome ensues.
High energy is the word used to describe The 88, and this song is no exception. It has the feel of an almost-epic, with high-powered chords and riffs. For some reason, I can’t think of much to say on this song, other than I highly reccomend it, and its album, to anyone.
I would just like to wish all dads (my own included) a happy Father’s Day. I might even make a Mostly Harmless…if I am feeling really motivated…
One of my favorite things to do is put my Zune on shuffle and see what comes up. Often, I am somewhat surprised by what i have on it. I am going to, each time I do this, put it on shuffle and pick the first three that come up. This’ll probably be a weekly thing. So, here goes:
1. This is the Place – Red Hot Chili Peppers Album: By the Way Despite (or possibly because of) the blatant drug references, this is a superb song. It starts with a great bass riff/ drum line, before being overlayed with a synth and then Anthony Keidis. The lyrics flow nicely, and Ant’s voice, really brings the song together. The song is the third on the album By the Way, which is one of their best, if you ask this reviewer’s opinion.
2. Mariner’s Revenge Song – The Decemberists Album: Picaresque Many Decemberists songs tell a story. This one is no different. Clocking in at a whopping 8:40, this is a long song. However, the narrative, a quest for revenge that has come to fruition, brings it together, leaving no time to mope about the song’s length. Many have criticized (myself included) Colin Meloy’s singing abilities, as well as Jenny Conlee’s, but I am always able to look past the small flaws. For an excellent tale of revenge and passion, this song is a must.
3. ¿Viva La Gloria? (Little Girl) – Green Day Album: 21st Century Breakdown
The first time I heard this song, I thought I had suddenly switched to Mama by My Chemical Romance. The sound of the songs is very similiar, but that is where the all comparison has to end. Green Day’s acid lyrics make sure of that. There is a Spanish flare to the music accented by an almost Ska upbeat, albeit played on the piano. There is great contrast being the first verses (”little girl, little girl”) and the chorus (”run away”). Whether you like Green Day or not, this song is a must to listen to, and 21st Century may be their best album yet.
I don’t get it.
Depravity runs rampant, I suppose.
http://www.nydailynews.com/news/ny_crime/2009/06/05/2009-06-05_evil_teen_who_tossed_cat_in_the_oven.html
Just joined technorati.
Hoo-ah!
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another year has come to end. this has got to be the most painful moment of my life.
for thirteen years i have been surrounded by friends and amazing teachers, guiding me, molding my life. thirteen years: six in san antonio, and seven in georgetown. when i first moved here, in the sixth grade, i knew no one. i made a few friends, but i never really felt like i was part of any huge friendships…it seemed like everyone else had gotten to know each other in elementary school. things got better in seventh and eighth grade. in ninth grade, there was a bit of a reshuffling. i had dropped out of orchestra, so i almost lost touch with those friends i had made there. i made new friends, and kept the old too. i had a few girlfriends (allyson, jennifer, kelsea) and even a few almost-girlfriends (you know who you are).
tenth grade saw the move into the High School proper (notice the first use of capitalization). i still wasn’t in orchestra, but i had found art, and made deeper connections with people like jason and mrs. hendriex. latin introduced me to mrs. garcia and kaylyn. then there was newspaper. oh, newspaper. mrs. carr has become like my second mother, and i know that i will miss her more than almost any other teacher. jeremy and kevin were introduced to me here, as well as miranda (though that would be the next year).
eleventh grade i rejoined the orchestra, which i was inspired to do after i heard the last concert of our sophomore year. mrs. powers (another woman i shall sorely miss) wasn’t sure at first, but i held my own. there were times of joy and times of sadness, including what i have come to refer to as the “worst day of my life,” which i have determined only to tell rachel about if she remembers (twenty years from now). i said good-bye to nicole as she graduated early and flew the aerie for dallas. i thoroughly flummoxed mr. bartholemew and dr. meador, and enjoyed every minute of it.
And now, we come to the senior year. This has been a year of endings. It usually is. The biggest end is, of course, school itself…but there is so much more than that. It is the end of what can truly be called our childhood. As soon as we walk that stage, symbollically at least, we shall be grown. It was the end of a very long relationship. It will be the end of two very tight second (and third, but it is impossible to tell which is which) families: Orchestra and Newspaper. It will the end of inside jokes across the room. The final pages are being written now.
As I reach the end…I have realized something: I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave it all behind. But, alas, I must. There are a few things I dearly wish to keep with me, and I hope that they get to stay.
And so, I say my own, personal goodbye: Goodbye Miranda, Megan, Allyson, Rachel, Zach, Josh, Scott, Clayton, Klint, Kevin, Kevin, Kevin, Jeremy, Michael, Kayla, Kayla, Kenia, Cassie, Cassie, Kristina, Christina, Christian, Roselyn, Jason, Alana, James, Kaylyn, Paul, Ben, Kramer, Kyle, Clayton, Hillary, Chris, Barbara, Bailey, Travis, Djuli, Jordan, Jordan, Taylor, Megean, Kelly, Kelli, Jennifer, Brandon, Michael, Allison, Katelyn, Jacob, Jordy. If there is anyone I missed, sorry. It doesn’t mean that I have forgotten you, it just means that there are a lot of people.
Just because I am saying goodbye doesn’t mean that I will never see any of you again. I intend to. Think of the goodbye as a toast to the end of high school.
After all…this is only the beginning.
if you have read this, please post a comment below, here on the blog.
For the past few days the site has been in some downtime. It was due to an unavoidable 500 Internal Server error.
I moved to a different directory, with a spiffy new version of wordpress (WP 2.8b) and imported all posts. Comments and users are too big of a pain to even consider moving (i tried it last night, but it only resulted in lots of cussing).
For my entrecard advertisers, sorry for the downtime, and if you wish to have an ad freely placed, please contact me.
Grendel the monster, hating light, feasts in the mead-hall every night Hrothgar’s men fled, afraid to be killed, At Grendel’s sight their blood was chilled
From across the wave-kissed sea he came A mighty hero, seeking fame, Beowulf, he was named thus, He brought with him only men he could trust
Away he hid, hoping to catch Grendel as more men did he snatch With the strength of ten men, he grabbed Grendel’s arm and with a great CRACK! did do him much harm
Away the monster ran, turned tail and fled, he retreated home and there in defeat he bled Beowulf learns of Grendel’s much-hated mother, and is persuaded to kill this deeply despised other
The greatest hero of them all, would, by himself, bring about her fall. The great lake opened its mouth like a yawning old man, And let in Beowulf, who was hatching a plan.
He swam for years in that forsaken fey, he almost forgot the sweet light of day Finally he reached her, the great-bad Queen of Evil his weapons were worthless, and he seemed quite feeble
She bit at his helmet, his weapons from her hide bounced off, He was completely defenseless, and at him she scoffed He took up a giant’s life-reaper, and, cleft off her head with the sword in his hand.
The blade sang from the kill, it wanted more, as the Mother’s body fell to the floor. Unfinished business with the unclean one meant, he would kill more than the one for which he was sent
Above, on the surface, Hrothgar’s men all away turned their tread, The Prince of the Geats they thought to be dead Beowulf’s men had faith in him still they waited and waited, giving him their will
Oh Wyrd! How he found him, mangled and sore, blood oozing from where his first arm was tore. With a sickening CHUNK off came the beast’s noggin, Beowulf had given him one final floggin’
Like a submarine rising, Beowulf took to the run, and upward he swam, dispatched as he had of mother and son The long-lived Beowulf returned and was king of the Geats While he rules, many enemies he defeats
There is one left, who shall challenge him yet, and this dragon smiles at those who’d against him bet. The dragon on a rampage went, and in facing its fire many lives were spent
Beowulf took his men to the beast, who, all but one, fled to not be a feast. Like a brave man, he stood his ground, as, like turkeys, his men flew from around.
Wiglaf stayed, fear-stricken, but bold, As his king was flambéed by the great wyrm of old. Together they fought, side by side, until finally, bleeding, the fire-drake died
Wiglaf viewed the dragon’s treasure, guarded by fire, then returned to his king, who was about to expire Bewulf asked to be buried, where all men could see, then, giving a SIGH, he ceased to be.
With a POP, and a CRACKLE and SNAP, the funeral-tower was built and it made Beowulf’s mark on the map Beowulf was buried, along with the gold, So passed the mighty Hero-king of Old.
Hanging on the hook, Away inside its lonely corner of the room, My riding cloak stares blankly at the world, Urging me to seek adventure, Past the forest which outside my home does loom
Long have I been settled in, The wanderlust within me has died away, My adventuring soul wants rest and peace, I do not need the feel of the road, The cracked bridle bids me stay
Still, on nights, when the air is cold and clear I remember what life was like Many miles from here
I remember camping, Out beneath the stars, Whilst retreating from the day’s endeavors, And counting my new scars
Hanging on the hook, My riding cloak does sit, I do not feel that sorrowful pull, Once held ov’r me by the world, For, in this place, I fit
