32 replies to this topic

[PachucoDesigns]

Does anyone here write anything other than fanfiction that they'd like to share? Is anyone here published?

[CloudMountainJuror]

I'm sure that someone on here is. I'm not one of them, but I'm certain that we have at least one published author on here. If not...well, then, sorry to disappoint.

[PachucoDesigns]

I'm sure that someone on here is. I'm not one of them, but I'm certain that we have at least one published author on here. If not...well, then, sorry to disappoint.

I've heard mention that someone here was a playwright, but I don't remember who it was.

[Greed-Sama]

I've heard mention that someone here was a playwright, but I don't remember who it was.

That'd be me.

Right now I'm working on a short story that I'd like to publish next month.

Edited by Greed-Sama, 16 April 2012 - 02:37 AM.

[desaix]

Yes and, um, sort of? I have three complete (and several partial) novel manuscripts in various stages of limbo (editing, slush pile, being held by a publisher with no firm publication date, that sort of thing). Though I'm about to start self-publishing a serial of short stories\novelettes\novellas (no markets among traditional publishers for serials, novelettes, or novellas, so the only route IS to self-publish... though developing what I need for this operation to be done right makes me wonder if I can't do the same for others, so this may lead to me becoming a publisher myself) that will definitely be coming out later this year. (once this venture is started, I should be able to resume my fanfiction, btw, assuming I have time).

[PachucoDesigns]

Very good, that's what I like to hear. Either of you have anything you'd like to share?

[Greed-Sama]

Very good, that's what I like to hear. Either of you have anything you'd like to share?

Um I can put my first draft in a spoiler tag, though it certainly isn't up to snuff with my standards.

[PachucoDesigns]

Um I can put my first draft in a spoiler tag, though it certainly isn't up to snuff with my standards.

Rarely is it ever, if you can't call it finished. Perfectionism is a necessary attribute in the art, I find. That, and an efficient process.

Edited by PachucoDesigns, 16 April 2012 - 02:49 AM.

[Greed-Sama]

Have at it. I apologize for the spacing I do, but I just don't feel like fixing it for a spoiler tag.

Umm...leave comments if you'd like. I'd prefer it if you do actually.

Violets --Click here to view--

Violets

“Mister, can I help you?”
I’m lost in thought. For the past twenty minutes my mind has been attempting to memorize every detail of this violet’s petals. Its aroma. Its velvety texture. Its physical composition. For the past twenty minutes, I’ve been trying to reacquaint myself. Trivial things that people grow accustomed too and then take for granted, but are still to appreciate from time to time. Unless I make a conscientious effort, I barely remember they exist.
But here I am, trying to find a tangible detail to embrace, or at least one that I can tie into emotionally. Reciting the biological structure of any plant is an easy task. Three basic structures: the roots, the stem, and the fruit, but in the grand scheme of things factual knowledge never measures up to its relative counterpart.
“You know, I see you in here every year on Valentine’s Day. How come you’ve never bought anything?”
My attention is diverted and my time’s been wasted, lost down the drain.
The frail and withered voice of this woman is synonymous with her own physical stature, but in spite of it, she’s still earned my aggravation. She probably doesn’t even remember, but she’s asked me this question before, annually in fact. Ever since she was a little girl making her way through the fragile adolescence. Can’t really blame her for senility. Comes with the territory.
“I’m waiting for the right time,” I say.
Her eyes are blank and I laugh with a pinch of ridicule thrown in. My words weren’t meant to be cryptic, but it serves my purpose, regardless. People are little more than a nuisance to me nowadays. Their good actions are of little consequence to me, but actions on the opposite end of the spectrum are downright disgusting.
Hell, if I were to describe human nature as being a pendulum, something that swung back and forth between extremes with only the illusion of moving forward, it’d have to be taken for absolute truth. The whole of the population is forgettable. Generalizations speaking of course.
“Sonny, it’s best not to waste time. We only have so many minutes on this Earth before the Lord calls us back to be with him.”
I shake my head, disappointed by the display of ignorance. Sifting through my leather wallet, I hand the woman a crisp twenty, pick up the violet, and exit the flower store. I drop it out of my hand, and let it fall to the scarred surface of the sidewalk. The bottom of my shoe meets with the plant’s petals smearing it out of existence.
If there really is a God, he abandoned me long ago.

-oooo0oooo-
“If you’re going to sit here and distract me, the least you could do is help,” she said, throwing the dirt at my face.
I slapped my hand down, changing the majority of the soil’s trajectory, and brushed off any remnants from my clothes. There was no malicious intent in Meg’s actions, the opposite in fact. My wife just happened to be a tease when she was laboring in her pet garden.
Her shoulder-length, auburn hair that glowed in the setting sun. The light freckle situated at the corner of her right eye, disappearing whenever she smiled. Soft skin imprinted with a farmer’s tan. Dirt-stained knees. This was her element, and I loved every moment seeing her in it.
Pulling up my slacks to a respectable level, hoping they would avoid the impending dirt bath, I slid off the wooden fence and joined my wife, squatting beside her, in the toils of the fields.
“So what are we planting this year?” I asked.
She cocked her head to the side and laughed, “We?”
“Well, yeah. I figure if you’re going to complain, then I should be-“
She kissed me with her rosy and supple lips, “You’re such a dork. I rather you sit there and keep your hands off the plants. They didn’t do anything to you.”
“You act like I’m going to systematically kill them off or something.”
The forceful lift of her right eyebrow made me throw up my hands in a defensive gesture and fall back onto my posterior.
“Okay, okay. I don’t have the best green thumb, but that doesn’t mean-“
The unwavering face and the powerful silence she wielded evoked my surrender.
“Fine, you win. I’ll just sit here like a good husband and cheer you on from the sidelines.”
Her lips broke out into a predatory smirk. She patted my head, took me into a full kiss, and then pushed me onto my back.
“It annoys me that I can never get anything done when you’re around,” she said.

-oooo0oooo-
“Doc, I know I’m no medical expert, but that can’t be right,” I said.
The doctor nodded his head in agreement and then handed me his clipboard, “See for yourself. The data baffles me just as…no probably even more than you.”
“Did you double check the results?”
“I ran test after test myself. I haven’t micromanaged like that since I was working in research removing the tumors off lab mice. I can guarantee you that everything’s accurate.”
The laugh that followed was a blur between maniacal and sane. I buried my face in my palm and continued delving into insanity. Even though I couldn’t see the doctor’s face, I could only imagine the level of distortion present. It wasn’t everyday a patient broke down in his office. But no matter what I showcased, he remained silent.
After ten minutes the laughing transformed into mixed tears of happiness and sadness. Anger and frustration began to flood in, as the swirl of emotions became a whirlpool of destructive forces. And then it all stopped.
I looked up at the man whose gaze never left my figure. He was seated back in his chair, the tips of his fingers meeting.
“I’m sorry, Matt,” I said, “You shouldn’t have had to see me like that.”
“No need to apologize. I couldn’t even imagine what you’d be going through.”
“You think this will ever go away? I mean, I have a feeling that living without aging isn’t exactly what it’s cracked up to be. Not to mention what Meg’s going to think.”
“Well it’s not just aging. Your cells replicate themselves with an astonishing degree of speed so basically you heal almost instantaneously, and they appear to be immune to pathogens as well.”
I forced out a heavy sigh. I knew the prognosis that I was being handed. True immortality. “Then what do you think I should do?”
“I don’t think I’m qualified to give you those answers. “

-oooo0oooo-
The usual bustling city came to a halt that night. It had been called at 3:04 a.m. The white blanket had been pulled over her corpse, eyes shut for the last time. I had planned to spend the remainder of the early morning alone on top of the hospital’s roof, looking out at the brightly lit downtown district. Nothing could be more relaxing than feeling the bitter wind lash its way across my face.
Besides the clothes on my back, I carried a lone violet that I had harvested from her garden. It seemed like years were passing as I sat completely motionless, minus my fingers, which were smothering the flower’s stem out of existence as I rolled it back and forth between my thumb and index finger. A pair of wandering headlights snapped my attention back to reality.
I stood up and made my way to the building’s edge. Assuming the pavement was fifty feet below and ignoring air resistance, it would take about seven seconds to crash into the bottom. It wouldn’t help. Suicide was an impossible feat for me. I was imprisoned on Earth, and for the unforeseeable future, I would remain that way.
Meg never blamed me for what happened, though. Never hated me because her life was stolen and mine could never be taken or given. In fact, she was envious that I would get to learn all of the world’s secrets. According to her I would get to experience things that people could only imagine, and from where I stood that much was true.
What she failed to realize was in the life span of a typically human, someone could experience enough to feel content at the hour of their death. Or maybe she did know, and died plagued with a mind of regrets. I would be unable to forgive myself if that had been the case. I guess it was a blessing that I would never be able to know the answer. The only blessing I would be allowed. It wouldn’t be long before this cycle began anew.
I heard footsteps behind me, and turned my head to assess their origins.
“You’re really not supposed to be up here, Mr. Spence,” said the lithe figured doctor standing in the stairwell of the roof access. Her voice was soft but soothing, and I recognized it well. She had been the one to help my wife through the early stages of her diagnosis and her chemotherapy and through the final stages of her life.
“Suppose you’re right, Ms. Potter,” I said, “But I don’t really feel like listening, today.”
“I could always call the police.”
“Do what you have to, I’m not stopping you.”
I turned back to face the empty city and then took a seat, letting my feet dangle off the ledge. The doctor took her place by my side, and an arrogant smirk crawled its way onto my face.
“I thought you were calling the cops,” I said.
“I’m not that great at bluffing.”
“Kind of obvious, hm?”

-oooo0oooo-
“You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” Elissa said, breathing in the moisture that the thunderous waterfall was pumping into the air.
“Well I got tired of looking at rolling hills and plains,” I said as I gently rubbed the back of my head, “So I thought we could use a change of scenery.”
“It’s wonderful!”
My heart was beating at an abnormal rate, as the adrenal glands in my body secreted enormous doses of the “fight or flight” compound. Fifty years did nothing to temper the nervous wreck that I sometimes became when putting my heart on the line.
I situated myself beside my significant other and stared at the water, watching as volumes after volumes plummeted to the river below. The liquid properties of dihydrogen monoxide were a good distraction. I was astonished that Elissa hadn’t noticed my incessant need, following a sense of deep paranoia that I had lost some valuable contents, to reach for my right pocket.
“Would you stop fidgeting so much, you’ve been doing this the entire way here,” Elissa said, “And you’re making me nervous.”
I was forced to turn my head away from her. The blood and warmth in my cheeks would have been a red flag to my intentions, and I couldn’t have that. Not yet. But the time for the perfect opportunity was drifting away. Slowly slipping my hand into the jean pocket, I enclosed my hand over the velvet jewelry box that contained a silver ring encrusted with diamonds.
I held a laugh in. Graphite and diamonds are both made out of carbon. The only difference is in the reorganization of the molecules and their bonds. One can break easily; the other is the hardest natural substance known to man. And yet diamonds drive women crazy.
When proposing to Meg, I had been a classy gentleman. We went to a prestigious restaurant, ordered the finest wine, and then when the time came, I knelt on one knee and offered the engagement band to my beloved’s hand. This time would be completely different.
At least proposals would never get boring for me.
“Elissa, will you marry me?” I asked, popping out the piece of jewelry and holding it directly between her humble green eyes.
She grabbed the ring but dropped it before she was able to slip it on her finger.
“Oops.”

-oooo0oooo-
With Elissa’s left arm intertwined with my right, we waltzed down the alleyway between the opera house and the local museum of history and science. Even though the path was dark, drowned in black by the shadows of the looming buildings, we felt like we could take on the world. I, at least, would remember this moment forever.
Not a single of my failures or a single of my accomplishments could overshadow the creation of life. Discounting the achievements of modern science, bringing a human child into the world required one man and one woman. During the intimacy of a couple’s courtship, two human haploid cells become a zygote, and from that union, life is born.
And in nine months, my wife and I would bring a tiny infant into this world; one of the last events of human nature I had yet to experience. For the first time in fourteen years, I felt the exhilaration of living.
“What did you think of the show?” Elissa asked. “The tension was almost palpable. To think that Oliver transposed into an opera could work so well. Too bad the fire alarm went off at the very end.”
Movement in the distance caught my eye, and I was stranded incapable of replying. A man dressed in tattered rags and street grime began his approach. In the time span of six seconds, he and I would confront each other, face to face. I did not need experience to tell me the likely outcome.
“Get behind me,” I said. Elissa complied.
I had been mugged once, before I had married Elissa or Megan, before my skin and body began to grow back within instants. In giving the thief the benefit of the doubt, I was proven wrong. And unlike now, I could have died. It was either my money or my life, and like the naive kid I once was, I gave the robber my wallet only to have a knife lodged into my sternum. An inch to the right and it would have severed my aorta causing me to bleed out. It would have saved me a ton of heartache had that been the case.
Filthy robber couldn’t even do his job right.
There was a moment where I laughed internally as the man revealed his .357 magnum revolver and plunged the barrel into my chest. The hammer had already been pulled back. I guessed desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Your money or your life!”
“Do me a favor and get lost,” I said as I grabbed the man’s trigger hand and secured it firmly against my person. If the gun were to fire, it would go off where I wanted it. I wasn’t about to let a stray bullet harm my wife or unborn child.
With his mobility severely crippled, I aimed a low kick at the man’s shin and then twisted his wrist outward, forcing him to loosen his hold on the firearm.
The man stepped back and began shaking his head back and force. He then spun around on his heels and sprinted off in the opposite direction, “I ain’t going to jail, brah!”

-oooo0oooo-
The chilling silence mixed with my surging thoughts created a potent combination of debilitating numbness, but to me it was a saving grace that served to isolate and protect. The void became a tool to repress the sight of the crying masses, dressed in grim black, repress the feel of a smooth yet firm mahogany husk created to protect its contents form the constant strain of weathering and withering, and to repress the words that I had prepared all week to recite with a distant but familiar voice.
Death shouldn’t be able to hold so much power over the human race. It’s the body’s natural tendency to cease functioning. What lives must die. In order for humankind to gain anything something of equal value must be lost, and in exchange for mortality, humans are gifted the ability to see and appreciate beauty.
Too bad I seemed to be the exception.
“At the end we are allowed eternal peace. Think of it as our reward for suffering through the agony that this world seems to offer in plenty. This woman was not perfection by any means because there is no such thing, but those that were close to her will mourn her passing. Elissa was a beacon of light in this dark and cruel plane of existence. There are many out in the audience who would attest to that…”
The words shifted to the background. I could feel the melancholy energy pulsate, as if it originated from an epicenter of unfortunate event, much like fire. But it had a form of its own, a perpetually flowing and changing force that shaped our lives into a rollercoaster of highs and lows, sorrow the only constant, even in the most joyous of moments. It would hang over the apex, acting as a looming reminder of the inevitable fall.
“…even though we can’t halt time, we can utilize it to the best of our abilities. May she rest in peace.”
With a final breath, I ended the eulogy, laid a pile of crushed violets on her still chest, and took a seat in the front pew of the church auditorium. Elissa might have been a pious individual, but God abandoned me long ago.
I felt a cold hand caress my shoulder, but did nothing as the young woman whispered in my ear, “Your ex-wife was a beautiful woman.”
Yes. Yes she was.
-oooo0oooo-
If death were a function of time, the slope of the graph would mirror compounding interest rates. It was a charade that I was becoming intimately acquainted with. At each fleeting second, people that I knew were passing from this life to the next at an unprecedented rate. The death of friends and the death of spouses no longer disturbed my sleep.
Watching my son clamor for life with each breath, every hack and cough a reminder of the undeniable truth that he wouldn’t be leaving the hushed hum of the medical monitors except by body bag, was another story. It wouldn’t be long.
A parent forced to say farewell to his offspring.
If God exists he really has abandoned me.

[PachucoDesigns]

Have at it. I apologize for the spacing I do, but I just don't feel like fixing it for a spoiler tag.

Umm...leave comments if you'd like. I'd prefer it if you do actually.

Violets --Click here to view--

Violets

“Mister, can I help you?”
I’m lost in thought. For the past twenty minutes my mind has been attempting to memorize every detail of this violet’s petals. Its aroma. Its velvety texture. Its physical composition. For the past twenty minutes, I’ve been trying to reacquaint myself. Trivial things that people grow accustomed too and then take for granted, but are still to appreciate from time to time. Unless I make a conscientious effort, I barely remember they exist.
But here I am, trying to find a tangible detail to embrace, or at least one that I can tie into emotionally. Reciting the biological structure of any plant is an easy task. Three basic structures: the roots, the stem, and the fruit, but in the grand scheme of things factual knowledge never measures up to its relative counterpart.
“You know, I see you in here every year on Valentine’s Day. How come you’ve never bought anything?”
My attention is diverted and my time’s been wasted, lost down the drain.
The frail and withered voice of this woman is synonymous with her own physical stature, but in spite of it, she’s still earned my aggravation. She probably doesn’t even remember, but she’s asked me this question before, annually in fact. Ever since she was a little girl making her way through the fragile adolescence. Can’t really blame her for senility. Comes with the territory.
“I’m waiting for the right time,” I say.
Her eyes are blank and I laugh with a pinch of ridicule thrown in. My words weren’t meant to be cryptic, but it serves my purpose, regardless. People are little more than a nuisance to me nowadays. Their good actions are of little consequence to me, but actions on the opposite end of the spectrum are downright disgusting.
Hell, if I were to describe human nature as being a pendulum, something that swung back and forth between extremes with only the illusion of moving forward, it’d have to be taken for absolute truth. The whole of the population is forgettable. Generalizations speaking of course.
“Sonny, it’s best not to waste time. We only have so many minutes on this Earth before the Lord calls us back to be with him.”
I shake my head, disappointed by the display of ignorance. Sifting through my leather wallet, I hand the woman a crisp twenty, pick up the violet, and exit the flower store. I drop it out of my hand, and let it fall to the scarred surface of the sidewalk. The bottom of my shoe meets with the plant’s petals smearing it out of existence.
If there really is a God, he abandoned me long ago.

-oooo0oooo-
“If you’re going to sit here and distract me, the least you could do is help,” she said, throwing the dirt at my face.
I slapped my hand down, changing the majority of the soil’s trajectory, and brushed off any remnants from my clothes. There was no malicious intent in Meg’s actions, the opposite in fact. My wife just happened to be a tease when she was laboring in her pet garden.
Her shoulder-length, auburn hair that glowed in the setting sun. The light freckle situated at the corner of her right eye, disappearing whenever she smiled. Soft skin imprinted with a farmer’s tan. Dirt-stained knees. This was her element, and I loved every moment seeing her in it.
Pulling up my slacks to a respectable level, hoping they would avoid the impending dirt bath, I slid off the wooden fence and joined my wife, squatting beside her, in the toils of the fields.
“So what are we planting this year?” I asked.
She cocked her head to the side and laughed, “We?”
“Well, yeah. I figure if you’re going to complain, then I should be-“
She kissed me with her rosy and supple lips, “You’re such a dork. I rather you sit there and keep your hands off the plants. They didn’t do anything to you.”
“You act like I’m going to systematically kill them off or something.”
The forceful lift of her right eyebrow made me throw up my hands in a defensive gesture and fall back onto my posterior.
“Okay, okay. I don’t have the best green thumb, but that doesn’t mean-“
The unwavering face and the powerful silence she wielded evoked my surrender.
“Fine, you win. I’ll just sit here like a good husband and cheer you on from the sidelines.”
Her lips broke out into a predatory smirk. She patted my head, took me into a full kiss, and then pushed me onto my back.
“It annoys me that I can never get anything done when you’re around,” she said.

-oooo0oooo-
“Doc, I know I’m no medical expert, but that can’t be right,” I said.
The doctor nodded his head in agreement and then handed me his clipboard, “See for yourself. The data baffles me just as…no probably even more than you.”
“Did you double check the results?”
“I ran test after test myself. I haven’t micromanaged like that since I was working in research removing the tumors off lab mice. I can guarantee you that everything’s accurate.”
The laugh that followed was a blur between maniacal and sane. I buried my face in my palm and continued delving into insanity. Even though I couldn’t see the doctor’s face, I could only imagine the level of distortion present. It wasn’t everyday a patient broke down in his office. But no matter what I showcased, he remained silent.
After ten minutes the laughing transformed into mixed tears of happiness and sadness. Anger and frustration began to flood in, as the swirl of emotions became a whirlpool of destructive forces. And then it all stopped.
I looked up at the man whose gaze never left my figure. He was seated back in his chair, the tips of his fingers meeting.
“I’m sorry, Matt,” I said, “You shouldn’t have had to see me like that.”
“No need to apologize. I couldn’t even imagine what you’d be going through.”
“You think this will ever go away? I mean, I have a feeling that living without aging isn’t exactly what it’s cracked up to be. Not to mention what Meg’s going to think.”
“Well it’s not just aging. Your cells replicate themselves with an astonishing degree of speed so basically you heal almost instantaneously, and they appear to be immune to pathogens as well.”
I forced out a heavy sigh. I knew the prognosis that I was being handed. True immortality. “Then what do you think I should do?”
“I don’t think I’m qualified to give you those answers. “

-oooo0oooo-
The usual bustling city came to a halt that night. It had been called at 3:04 a.m. The white blanket had been pulled over her corpse, eyes shut for the last time. I had planned to spend the remainder of the early morning alone on top of the hospital’s roof, looking out at the brightly lit downtown district. Nothing could be more relaxing than feeling the bitter wind lash its way across my face.
Besides the clothes on my back, I carried a lone violet that I had harvested from her garden. It seemed like years were passing as I sat completely motionless, minus my fingers, which were smothering the flower’s stem out of existence as I rolled it back and forth between my thumb and index finger. A pair of wandering headlights snapped my attention back to reality.
I stood up and made my way to the building’s edge. Assuming the pavement was fifty feet below and ignoring air resistance, it would take about seven seconds to crash into the bottom. It wouldn’t help. Suicide was an impossible feat for me. I was imprisoned on Earth, and for the unforeseeable future, I would remain that way.
Meg never blamed me for what happened, though. Never hated me because her life was stolen and mine could never be taken or given. In fact, she was envious that I would get to learn all of the world’s secrets. According to her I would get to experience things that people could only imagine, and from where I stood that much was true.
What she failed to realize was in the life span of a typically human, someone could experience enough to feel content at the hour of their death. Or maybe she did know, and died plagued with a mind of regrets. I would be unable to forgive myself if that had been the case. I guess it was a blessing that I would never be able to know the answer. The only blessing I would be allowed. It wouldn’t be long before this cycle began anew.
I heard footsteps behind me, and turned my head to assess their origins.
“You’re really not supposed to be up here, Mr. Spence,” said the lithe figured doctor standing in the stairwell of the roof access. Her voice was soft but soothing, and I recognized it well. She had been the one to help my wife through the early stages of her diagnosis and her chemotherapy and through the final stages of her life.
“Suppose you’re right, Ms. Potter,” I said, “But I don’t really feel like listening, today.”
“I could always call the police.”
“Do what you have to, I’m not stopping you.”
I turned back to face the empty city and then took a seat, letting my feet dangle off the ledge. The doctor took her place by my side, and an arrogant smirk crawled its way onto my face.
“I thought you were calling the cops,” I said.
“I’m not that great at bluffing.”
“Kind of obvious, hm?”

-oooo0oooo-
“You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” Elissa said, breathing in the moisture that the thunderous waterfall was pumping into the air.
“Well I got tired of looking at rolling hills and plains,” I said as I gently rubbed the back of my head, “So I thought we could use a change of scenery.”
“It’s wonderful!”
My heart was beating at an abnormal rate, as the adrenal glands in my body secreted enormous doses of the “fight or flight” compound. Fifty years did nothing to temper the nervous wreck that I sometimes became when putting my heart on the line.
I situated myself beside my significant other and stared at the water, watching as volumes after volumes plummeted to the river below. The liquid properties of dihydrogen monoxide were a good distraction. I was astonished that Elissa hadn’t noticed my incessant need, following a sense of deep paranoia that I had lost some valuable contents, to reach for my right pocket.
“Would you stop fidgeting so much, you’ve been doing this the entire way here,” Elissa said, “And you’re making me nervous.”
I was forced to turn my head away from her. The blood and warmth in my cheeks would have been a red flag to my intentions, and I couldn’t have that. Not yet. But the time for the perfect opportunity was drifting away. Slowly slipping my hand into the jean pocket, I enclosed my hand over the velvet jewelry box that contained a silver ring encrusted with diamonds.
I held a laugh in. Graphite and diamonds are both made out of carbon. The only difference is in the reorganization of the molecules and their bonds. One can break easily; the other is the hardest natural substance known to man. And yet diamonds drive women crazy.
When proposing to Meg, I had been a classy gentleman. We went to a prestigious restaurant, ordered the finest wine, and then when the time came, I knelt on one knee and offered the engagement band to my beloved’s hand. This time would be completely different.
At least proposals would never get boring for me.
“Elissa, will you marry me?” I asked, popping out the piece of jewelry and holding it directly between her humble green eyes.
She grabbed the ring but dropped it before she was able to slip it on her finger.
“Oops.”

-oooo0oooo-
With Elissa’s left arm intertwined with my right, we waltzed down the alleyway between the opera house and the local museum of history and science. Even though the path was dark, drowned in black by the shadows of the looming buildings, we felt like we could take on the world. I, at least, would remember this moment forever.
Not a single of my failures or a single of my accomplishments could overshadow the creation of life. Discounting the achievements of modern science, bringing a human child into the world required one man and one woman. During the intimacy of a couple’s courtship, two human haploid cells become a zygote, and from that union, life is born.
And in nine months, my wife and I would bring a tiny infant into this world; one of the last events of human nature I had yet to experience. For the first time in fourteen years, I felt the exhilaration of living.
“What did you think of the show?” Elissa asked. “The tension was almost palpable. To think that Oliver transposed into an opera could work so well. Too bad the fire alarm went off at the very end.”
Movement in the distance caught my eye, and I was stranded incapable of replying. A man dressed in tattered rags and street grime began his approach. In the time span of six seconds, he and I would confront each other, face to face. I did not need experience to tell me the likely outcome.
“Get behind me,” I said. Elissa complied.
I had been mugged once, before I had married Elissa or Megan, before my skin and body began to grow back within instants. In giving the thief the benefit of the doubt, I was proven wrong. And unlike now, I could have died. It was either my money or my life, and like the naive kid I once was, I gave the robber my wallet only to have a knife lodged into my sternum. An inch to the right and it would have severed my aorta causing me to bleed out. It would have saved me a ton of heartache had that been the case.
Filthy robber couldn’t even do his job right.
There was a moment where I laughed internally as the man revealed his .357 magnum revolver and plunged the barrel into my chest. The hammer had already been pulled back. I guessed desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Your money or your life!”
“Do me a favor and get lost,” I said as I grabbed the man’s trigger hand and secured it firmly against my person. If the gun were to fire, it would go off where I wanted it. I wasn’t about to let a stray bullet harm my wife or unborn child.
With his mobility severely crippled, I aimed a low kick at the man’s shin and then twisted his wrist outward, forcing him to loosen his hold on the firearm.
The man stepped back and began shaking his head back and force. He then spun around on his heels and sprinted off in the opposite direction, “I ain’t going to jail, brah!”

-oooo0oooo-
The chilling silence mixed with my surging thoughts created a potent combination of debilitating numbness, but to me it was a saving grace that served to isolate and protect. The void became a tool to repress the sight of the crying masses, dressed in grim black, repress the feel of a smooth yet firm mahogany husk created to protect its contents form the constant strain of weathering and withering, and to repress the words that I had prepared all week to recite with a distant but familiar voice.
Death shouldn’t be able to hold so much power over the human race. It’s the body’s natural tendency to cease functioning. What lives must die. In order for humankind to gain anything something of equal value must be lost, and in exchange for mortality, humans are gifted the ability to see and appreciate beauty.
Too bad I seemed to be the exception.
“At the end we are allowed eternal peace. Think of it as our reward for suffering through the agony that this world seems to offer in plenty. This woman was not perfection by any means because there is no such thing, but those that were close to her will mourn her passing. Elissa was a beacon of light in this dark and cruel plane of existence. There are many out in the audience who would attest to that…”
The words shifted to the background. I could feel the melancholy energy pulsate, as if it originated from an epicenter of unfortunate event, much like fire. But it had a form of its own, a perpetually flowing and changing force that shaped our lives into a rollercoaster of highs and lows, sorrow the only constant, even in the most joyous of moments. It would hang over the apex, acting as a looming reminder of the inevitable fall.
“…even though we can’t halt time, we can utilize it to the best of our abilities. May she rest in peace.”
With a final breath, I ended the eulogy, laid a pile of crushed violets on her still chest, and took a seat in the front pew of the church auditorium. Elissa might have been a pious individual, but God abandoned me long ago.
I felt a cold hand caress my shoulder, but did nothing as the young woman whispered in my ear, “Your ex-wife was a beautiful woman.”
Yes. Yes she was.
-oooo0oooo-
If death were a function of time, the slope of the graph would mirror compounding interest rates. It was a charade that I was becoming intimately acquainted with. At each fleeting second, people that I knew were passing from this life to the next at an unprecedented rate. The death of friends and the death of spouses no longer disturbed my sleep.
Watching my son clamor for life with each breath, every hack and cough a reminder of the undeniable truth that he wouldn’t be leaving the hushed hum of the medical monitors except by body bag, was another story. It wouldn’t be long.
A parent forced to say farewell to his offspring.
If God exists he really has abandoned me.

Will do. I've left a couple of my works here, as well, in my thread in the blog section. Readers from youtube accounts dedicated to scary stories and creepypastas did readings of them, and there will be more to come. If you're interested, that is.

[Greed-Sama]

Will do. I've left a couple of my works here, as well, in my thread in the blog section. Readers from youtube accounts dedicated to scary stories and creepypastas did readings of them, and there will be more to come. If you're interested, that is.

I don't do readings...er Youtube readings. But I will be more than gladly to read what you've written.

[PachucoDesigns]

I don't do readings...er Youtube readings. But I will be more than gladly to read what you've written.

Very well done. Misanthropically profound, a refined and distant cynicism. Very nice character development, great narrative. I like it. I'm reminded of Tuck Everlasting, somehow.

This is a piece I wrote a while ago entitled "The Owl."

The Owl --Click here to view--

My name is Jake Whittaker. I turned ninety-years-old a week ago today. It's funny; you go through life knowing that old age will catch up to you, and you still wonder where the time went once it does. At least, that's what the other folk around the retirement home say. I know exactly where my time went.

I've seen the world from many perspectives, everything from the rose-tinted glasses of youth to an old man's tired cynicism. I've learned a great deal of things in my day, but even for someone of my years, some things will always remain a mystery. There are things in life you just get comfortable with, even without an explanation. You just accept them, and you even come to expect them. You stop to think about it every now and then, wondering if there's an answer, but you eventually stop trying. It is what it is, no changing it. No need to. For me, that thing has been around for as long as I can remember. I've walked through life with a very strange companion.

My grandfather died in the fall of 1931. It wasn't anything tragic. It was just his time. He survived until he eventually became senile; his life was already over, as far as I was concerned. Sure, I was sad to see him go, just the same as any other little boy would be. But I watched him fade away, and I knew he wasn't my grandfather anymore. He just wasn't in there. He was gone. So, I didn't cry at his funeral; I had done plenty of that once I realized that he had forgotten my name. I just said my goodbyes and washed my hands of it. I did a lot of remembering, though. I remembered all of the things about him that mattered to me. I remembered all of the quarters that he pulled from behind my ear, all of the walks in the park, and the short games of catch before he'd start complaining about back pain. You know, the simple things that made him my grandpa.

I especially remembered his stories. He had a million of them, most of them far-fetched and funny, and all punctuated with his own laughter. He liked to think that he was the next Mark Twain, but he wasn't as witty as all that. He was just a silly old codger. Still, we all liked to listen to him ramble on, and that was enough for him. The stories I recall most, though, were not the silly anecdotes. In fact, they weren't even stories. Not really. They were more like obscure references, the kind you might hear about La Llorona, the Tooth Fairy, or the Boogey Man. The ones I grew up with were about...the owl.

There was a difference between the owl and those other creatures, though. All of these other creatures you hear about, they're urban legends because there's always a story behind them. Not the owl. Grandpa never told us what the owl was, where it came from, or what it did. The owl was just...the owl. The references were never consistent, either. We didn't know if we were supposed to fear it or feel safe because of it. One night, he'd tell us not to be afraid of monsters under the bed because the owl would keep them away. Another day, he'd tell us not tell fibs or eat candy before dinner, because the owl was watching.

My older brother, Jeffery (who passed away five years ago, God rest his soul), stopped believing in the owl after grandpa died. He just wrote it off as another of the old man's tall tales. I believed, though. I had always believed, and I knew for sure after the wake. Everyone took turns walking by his open casket to say their final goodbyes, commenting on how peaceful he looked and saying he was in a better place, the usual remarks for the occasion. And then, it was my turn. I was only nine years old, and I still hadn't reached my growth spurt, so I had to stand on my toes a bit to see. The first thing I saw was grandpa's face in profile, exp​ressionless and pale, and it choked me up the way you'd expect. It was also my first experience with death, so I was much too disturbed to look for long.

Then, I saw something that no one else seemed to notice. Or, if they did, they didn't make any mention of it. It was tucked away discreetly between the sleeve of his coat and the casket's white silk lining, protruding no more than an inch between them, just enough to grab my attention. It was a feather. It was long and beautiful, a tuft of snowy white down at the base of the quill, pure silver-white with faint stripes of gray along the vane. It seemed so deliberately placed, but I hadn't seen anyone else put it there, and I had been nervously watching the line of mourners move ahead of me the entire time. I almost reached for it, but I knew it wouldn't be proper. For a moment, I forgot about my grandpa. The feather was all I could see, and I felt numb. Nobody else saw it, and nobody would believe me if I told them, but I knew. I knew where it came from. It belonged to the owl.

That night was a restless one for me, the first of many. It was a long time before I could sleep comfortably again, because that was the night when it first paid me a visit. In the moonlight, I could just make it out. It was perched on a tree branch just outside my bedroom window. A large and striking great horned owl, entirely silver in appearance; even its beak and talons were a sort of dull gray. I couldn't see its eyes, as they were sunken in dark hollows. Its crown feathers hung at a lazy slant, and it didn't make the fidgety gestures you would expect from a bird. Its only movement came from an occasional, slight twitch, or a light rustling of its feathers in the breeze. It never moved an inch, never made a sound, and it never looked away. It stared though my window, directly at me, the entire night.

I've seen it outside my window every night since. Sometimes it's on my windowsill where I can see its every feather, sometimes across the street in a neighboring tree, but always near enough where I can see it. It was there when I lost my virginity, and I lay awake staring at it as my partner for the night slept soundly in my embrace. It was there during the first night I spent in my first apartment, an apartment in downtown Los Angeles, far from where anyone would expect to see such a bird. It was there on my wedding night, watching me from the window of our new home while I held my bride close. It was there on the night my wife gave birth to our first son, and I caught a glimpse of it from the corner of my eye, staring at me from the waiting room's small window. Once, I was hospitalized overnight with a terrible flu. The room had no windows, but I knew the owl was watching. I could feel it. It was perched outside in some nearby tree as always, peering at me through the walls.

It has always been there, whether or not I think to look for it, always waiting patiently. Waiting for what, I didn't know. Truth be told, I still don't know. Never a hoot, nor a screech. It never moves, and it never looks away. In the later years of my life, I think I began to understand my grandfather a little better. I understood why he told us those stories, why he tried to make us believe in the owl. I found myself doing the same for my grandchildren. He must have believed, just as I had, that he wouldn't have to feel so alone if someone else knew. It was a quiet call for help.

I can't tell you how much sleep I've lost to the dreadful sight of the owl over the years, but I eventually learned to cope. The thing about being haunted is that you adjust to it, but you never really get used to it. Does that make sense? Things wouldn't seem quite right if it wasn't there as usual, but it's always nagging you in the back of your mind. You can never ignore it, even if you want to. So, instead, you try to live with it. You try to make peace with it, and it becomes a routine. For a while, I even tried to interact with the owl, though I don't know what compelled me. Perhaps I wanted to understand the thing, or just to see it do something, anything, other than sit there in silence and stare at me. Maybe I'd teach it some tricks, to fetch my slippers or deliver letters. The thought made me laugh.

I would often approach the window to open it, thinking maybe I could pet the bird, but it always fluttered away into the shadows before I got too close. Not for long, though; it would always return once I gave it an acceptable amount of space. Sometimes I would place a chair across from the window, at the distance the owl allowed, of course. I would sit in that chair and talk to the bird, telling it about my day, my troubles, and my dreams. Sometimes I'd tell it jokes, though I knew it would never laugh. I had hoped the owl was listening, or maybe that it would respond somehow. It never did. It just sat perfectly still as always, watching me patiently.

The owl has been my strange companion, even during these final days of my life. It has never left me, no matter how much I wished that it would. I've been sick lately, and I know I don't have much time left. The nurses know it. The other residents know it, and I think the owl knows it, too. Since I became ill, around the time of my birthday last week, its behavior has changed. It has begun to move, an anxious little shuffle, and it tilts its head from time to time in that impossible way unique to an owl. I can see its eyes now, dull amber beads and pupils wide with anticipation. I think I've even seen it smiling, if you can imagine an owl's lipless version of the exp​ression. I dare not imagine what it means, though I think I can guess.

I can see it outside my window even as I write this story. I sat down at this table to tie up any loose ends, to go over my last will and testament one more time, and maybe write a few letters to loved ones before I lose the chance. Instead, I chose to write about the owl. I just want someone, even if only one person, to know the truth. In the end, I only have one question on my mind. Will someone find the feather in my casket, too? I hope it isn't my grandson. I hope he didn't believe the stories, or he may be the owl's next obsession.

[ciardha]

Some essays published in an obscure little magazine, long out of print, many years ago.

Had three pieces of poetry published in a county wide school publication my senior year of high school. (Only person who had three poems in there too, and my school's county system was then the 7th largest in the US...(haven't written poetry since college though, my creative impulses just stopped going that direction for some reason...)

Wrote an unpublished novel back when I was 18-21. I probably still have the old composition books I wrote it in- but I wince to think of how juvenile it would look to me now, and thus have no desire to hunt for them... (yet my father- who was, and still can be, a rather stinging critic, pronounced them "naive but promising" at the time, so who knows... I have vague fond thoughts of the characters I created.)

Wrote a few articles for the online magazine Sequential Tart several years ago...

Been a blogger since the late 1990's- joining Live Journal in spring 2001... When I enthusiastically get into a fandom my blogging either gets strongly centered around the fandom or drops off- the later because I spend too much time on forums

Wrote a couple of pieces for cultural programs I hosted at work... (one about ABJ dolls, the other about how some historical types of Japanese costumes have been depicted in some anime and manga- want to go back and massively expand the later sometime and publish it online. Created a Powerpoint presentation on the history of sequential art in Japan this year at work- that was fun and I want to expand that one too- I stopped at the apprentices and followers of Tezuka in any detail (ran out of prep time, sigh...).

I am still leaning toward, when I hope to retire from full time work (in 2026, when I'll be 60 and have put in 28 full time years as a librarian and can retire) and truly have the time to devote to it that I want, to create a fictionalized multi volume family saga somewhat inspired by the life altering actions several of my ancestors. I've been playing around with this idea since my early 20's...

Edited by ciardha, 16 April 2012 - 05:29 AM.

[PachucoDesigns]

Some essays published in an obscure little magazine, long out of print, many years ago.

Had three pieces of poetry published in a county wide school publication my senior year of high school. (Only person who had three poems in there too, and my school's county system was then the 7th largest in the US...(haven't written poetry since college though, my creative impulses just stopped going that direction for some reason...)

Wrote an unpublished novel back when I was 18-21. I probably still have the old composition books I wrote it in- but I wince to think of how juvenile it would look to me now, and thus have no desire to hunt for them... (yet my father- who was, and still can be, a rather stinging critic, pronounced them "naive but promising" at the time, so who knows... I have vague fond thoughts of the characters I created.)

Wrote a few articles for the online magazine Sequential Tart several years ago...

Been a blogger since the late 1990's- joining Live Journal in spring 2001... When I enthusiastically get into a fandom my blogging either gets strongly centered around the fandom or drops off- the later because I spend too much time on forums

Wrote a couple of pieces for cultural programs I hosted at work... (one about ABJ dolls, the other about how some historical types of Japanese costumes have been depicted in some anime and manga- want to go back and massively expand the later sometime and publish it online. Created a Powerpoint presentation on the history of sequential art in Japan this year at work- that was fun and I want to expand that one too- I stopped at the apprentices and followers of Tezuka in any detail (ran out of prep time, sigh...).

I am still leaning toward, when I hope to retire from full time work (in 2026, when I'll be 60 and have put in 28 full time years as a librarian and can retire) and truly have the time to devote to it that I want, to create a fictionalized multi volume family saga somewhat inspired by the life altering actions several of my ancestors. I've been playing around with this idea since my early 20's...

Very impressive, ciardha. Perhaps you should dig up that old novel? I have some old writings myself. I cringe, too, reading through them. But, it does remind me of what I was thinking and allows me think on how I have evolved over time. Sometimes, it even lets me pull out and refine old ideas with promise. Do you write any fiction now, by chance?

[Catwho]

I wrote a novel and spent a year trying to find an agent. I got to the "this looks great but it's not a good fit for me" stage 5 times.

Then I got accepted to graduate school, and I decided to put my book aside for a few years until I could attack it with fresh eyes and fix all the flaws it apparently has...

[ciardha]

Very impressive, ciardha. Perhaps you should dig up that old novel? I have some old writings myself. I cringe, too, reading through them. But, it does remind me of what I was thinking and allows me think on how I have evolved over time. Sometimes, it even lets me pull out and refine old ideas with promise. Do you write any fiction now, by chance?

Fanfiction from time to time. I have a long history of writing fanfiction - First ones that I recall was some short pieces for a couple of original characters I created while I was a member of the Elfquest Fan Club in the mid 1980's. I have no idea if I even have anything other than the character drawings in a notebook somewhere. I think I only wrote what were essentially long drabbles in a letter to a friend in the group, because he requested the characters stories.

First serious fanfiction writing started in early 1993- Gambit and Rogue of X-men comics. Started putting my fanfic online in early 1997. Was one of the favorite writers in that shipping group- even won over a few of the less rabid Rogue/Magneto shippers with my fanfiction. cowrote a couple of pieces with two of the other Gambit and Rogue shipper favorite authors (still good friends with one of those two ladies- she keeps me informed on when Marvel swings back to doing Gambit and Rogue shipping arcs. And I tell her she ought to start reading Naruto, with how well Kishimoto writes and builds toward a ship that has everything we both like in fictional romantic couples, but she says she's too old now to relate to 16-17 year olds. She's kind of a fan of the anime of our childhood and youth though- Heh, get her talking about Racer X of Speed Racer and she sounds as much an anime/manga fan as me. She also liked the Yamato series. Which reminds me, I have to tell her how good the live action movie was...)

Done fanfics in various other fandoms since then, including Naruto.

But serious original stuff, just planning in my head- that fictionalized family saga keeps drawing my interest, so I channel it into even more research on different time periods in American history, how people lived, what people were saying and writing about pressing social issues of those times, gender and social class role expectations (while not anywhere near as rigid as the old European class systems, the US did indeed have definite social classes- including within racial and ethnic groups [not just across racial and ethnic lines where they faced prejudice as well as classism] and role expectations within those classes, and you can still some remnants of that even now, and building anger amongst the middle and lower economic classes about that- history repeats itself... ) pop culture of the times, etc...

By the time I write those novels, publishing companies may be gone and it will be all e-books- with lots of easy avenues to getting your book out to the public. (Easier to get published, but no one will be able to live on the money made from the sales of their novels alone, even the most popular authors....)

[PachucoDesigns]

Fanfiction from time to time. I have a long history of writing fanfiction - First ones that I recall was some short pieces for a couple of original characters I created while I was a member of the Elfquest Fan Club in the mid 1980's. I have no idea if I even have anything other than the character drawings in a notebook somewhere. I think I only wrote what were essentially long drabbles in a letter to a friend in the group, because he requested the characters stories.

First serious fanfiction writing started in early 1993- Gambit and Rogue of X-men comics. Started putting my fanfic online in early 1997. Was one of the favorite writers in that shipping group- even won over a few of the less rabid Rogue/Magneto shippers with my fanfiction. cowrote a couple of pieces with two of the other Gambit and Rogue shipper favorite authors (still good friends with one of those two ladies- she keeps me informed on when Marvel swings back to doing Gambit and Rogue shipping arcs. And I tell her she ought to start reading Naruto, with how well Kishimoto writes and builds toward a ship that has everything we both like in fictional romantic couples, but she says she's too old now to relate to 16-17 year olds. She's kind of a fan of the anime of our childhood and youth though- Heh, get her talking about Racer X of Speed Racer and she sounds as much an anime/manga fan as me. She also liked the Yamato series. Which reminds me, I have to tell her how good the live action movie was...)

Done fanfics in various other fandoms since then, including Naruto.

But serious original stuff, just planning in my head- that fictionalized family saga keeps drawing my interest, so I channel it into even more research on different time periods in American history, how people lived, what people were saying and writing about pressing social issues of those times, gender and social class role expectations (while not anywhere near as rigid as the old European class systems, the US did indeed have definite social classes- including within racial and ethnic groups [not just across racial and ethnic lines where they faced prejudice as well as classism] and role expectations within those classes, and you can still some remnants of that even now, and building anger amongst the middle and lower economic classes about that- history repeats itself... ) pop culture of the times, etc...

By the time I write those novels, publishing companies may be gone and it will be all e-books- with lots of easy avenues to getting your book out to the public. (Easier to get published, but no one will be able to live on the money made from the sales of their novels alone, even the most popular authors....)

I tried my hand at fanfiction once. Though, it wasn't truly fanfiction, since the characters and setting were completely mine. Warhammer 40K, lots of room for creative license since there really is no dedicated storyline that follows any particular character. Even still, it wasn't for me. Dabbling in a world created by someone else is just not for me, especially when it comes to anything romance related.

I'm made to recall when Twilight fans blamed Stephen King for being jealous of Stephanie Meyer's success. lol I never laughed so hard.

So, anyone else have anything to share?

Here is something else I put together, the intro piece to a novel I'm currently writing entitled "Colin's Bishop."

Colin's Bishop - Intro --Click here to view--

“I have spoken with a legend.

He was a cantankerous, old Irishman living in a cramped, rundown apartment on Miramar Street. He was eccentric and troubled, as brilliant men tend to be. He often grumbled and muttered to himself, and he disapproved of this 'godless generation.' He chastised the youth, called them disrespectful. He complained of sex and violence in the media, called them shameless. He nagged of inflation and how candy bars were once no more than a nickel. He even complained about the bothersome noises of the big city, and he longed for the peaceful hills of the old Leesiders.

Colin McMichael was a cranky old hermit, but I swear that I saw a faint glimmer of happiness in his eyes as he lovingly cradled that ebony bishop in the palms of his hands.”

-- Thomas Klein for the New England Chess Inquirer, November 1998

It was a wet day in March when Sean took his lonely walk through the Kings Chapel Cemetery. The thoughts on his mind were heavier than the day’s rainfall, which had by then slowed to a light drizzle. Even now, in his thirties, he had never attended a funeral. He had never even set foot in a graveyard, let alone deliver a eulogy. It was something he had never expected, nor even considered. When you're growing up, he thought, you just assume that your parents will live forever.

Now that the time had come, he found that he was neither sad nor afraid. At most, after the awkward heart to heart with his father a few nights before, his feelings were left unprocessed and sour. Perhaps that was why he chose not to join the line of mourners to the burial plot, or why he chose not to dress for the occasion.

He wore cheap tennis shoes, stone-washed blue jeans and a dirty jean jacket over a black University of Massachusetts hoodie, all slightly wet and muddy from the walk. He knew that the service would be formal, given the respect his father had earned over the years. The reputable people in attendance were sure to think it inappropriate; some may even think it was out of spite for his father, but that wasn't true. At least, he didn't think so. The psychology of these things escaped him.

In truth, Sean had been questioning if he should even bother to show up. Had someone asked him to attend a week beforehand, he would have said no. He likely would have scoffed at the idea, but things had changed. He had his father's legacy in his left jacket pocket, a precious heirloom he had been mulling over for many sleepless hours. A few moments of heartfelt sincerity could wash away years of bitterness in a way that he did not expect.

Sean's walk through the cemetery was long and depressingly scenic. He passed more than a few weeping willows and short ash trees overhanging more than a few headstones. Some were new and pristine marble or granite lined with flowers and widows tears. Some were ancient and filthy, watching over some forgotten ancestor, the engravings worn, and clearly unvisited for more than a century. He even saw a few of the cliché wooden crosses one would only think to find in ghost stories or children's haunted houses. Unlike their cartoonish parodies, these crosses were disturbingly real.

Lost in thought, he wandered over the grassy hills, footsteps crunching in weeds and remnants of trimmed underbrush. He accidentally stepped over a few graves along the way, and after the third, he decided it was best to stick to the paved pathway. Sean wasn't a religious man, but some things just sent an unpleasant chill down his spine. After all, he didn't like the idea of someone walking over his grave, either. Shuddering, and with hunched shoulders, he pulled his hood over his head and stepped down to the pavement.

Toward the end of the path, in a treeless and open patch of land, he saw where the mourners had gathered around his father's place of rest. The service had already begun, the preacher speaking at the podium over a small crowd of lowered heads; one of them belonged to his mother. Being so late certainly wouldn't help the amount of frowns and glares he was sure to receive.

As he stepped up to the gathering, he saw them dressed in the formal wear he had expected. Most wore the traditional black of mourning; a few sober browns here and there, but nothing disrespectful. It was definitely a coat and tie occasion, and just as he knew he would, he stood out from the crowd in a very crude manner. The stares and whisperings of disapproval came right on cue, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t there for their sake.

Sean buried his hands in his pockets and pretended not to notice the glowers. Instead, he focused his attention on the warm voice of the preacher. Father O'Leary, a stout and stern, yet kindly man of the cloth, was an Irish immigrant from the Short Grass County of Kildare. He had spent much of his youth in Dublin as a bartender and womanizer before turning to God, and he met Sean's father there many years ago. They had become close friends, and they grew old together.

Father O’Leary was a dear friend of the family. He was there the day that Sean was born, sitting in the waiting room at his father’s side, and just as nervous. He had performed the baptism, and had been there every step of the way for Sean’s journey toward manhood. Even after Sean had abandoned his faith, Father O'Leary had been there as a sympathetic ear during times of hardship, and a second father figure to share pride in his success. He saw Sean's father as an older brother, and he saw Sean as a beloved nephew. Father O'Leary was a good man.

Despite all of their common history, however, Father O'Leary conducted the service with a stalwart heart. He had promised to send his dear friend’s soul to the gates of heaven with proud integrity befitting such a good Catholic man, and he delivered. As grim as these affairs tended to be, he was an old hand in their practice. He delivered his readings with the composure and compassion of any Sunday morning sermon. Without tears, he recited the words with bold authority. Unfortunately, to Sean’s later shame, his mind had been wandering too much to pay the reading the attention that it deserved.

“God has made everything appropriate to its time,” Father O'Leary declared, “but has put the timeless into their hearts so they cannot find out, from beginning to end, the work which God has done.” He spoke the words with conviction, and without lowering his gaze. He turned his eyes to Sean and paused, that same caring look with which Sean had become so familiar. Sean returned a blank, conflicted glance of his own. The father smiled half-heartedly and continued.

“I recognized that there is nothing better than to rejoice and to do well during life,” the Father continued, “Moreover, that all can eat and drink and enjoy the good of all their toil -- this is a gift of God.” Father O'Leary certainly hadn't lost his touch. The man's voice just seemed to make sense of the world. It was the voice of a man who would give no advice that wasn't from experience, nor inspire a belief in which he had no faith himself. It was a voice of age and wisdom.

“I recognized that whatever God does will endure forever; there is no adding to it, or taking from it. Thus has God done that he may be revered, “ he concluded, “What now is has already been; what is to be, already is: God retrieves what has gone by. This is the Word of the Lord.”

“Thanks be to God,” the mourners replied in monotone, some through sniffles and sobs. Sean’s reply was the distant last, quiet and hesitant, like waking from a daydream.

Father O’Leary closed the book gently and with humility. He stepped down from the podium, and he placed his hand on the casket lovingly as he passed. “Goodbye, my friend,” he said almost in a whisper, “You gave my life direction, and I never thanked you. I’ll be here for your boy now. So rest in peace, and I’ll be meeting you at Saint Peter’s gates.” He smiled as he walked away, and he approached Sean with open arms. Sean met his embrace.

“You seem uncomfortable, my son,” Father O’Leary said, “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. Everyone would understand. I’d understand.”

“No, no…,” Sean replied shakily, “I…I have to. I have to do this. I have to confront this; I can’t leave this chapter in my life open forever.”

“You’re doing the right thing, boyo. Your da would be proud.” Father O’Leary patted Sean’s shoulder approvingly. “Don’t worry about these people. Any of God’s children are rightly welcome at a gatherin’ of His affair, with or without a fine black suit. Tell your da’s story to God, my son. He’ll be listenin’ with an open heart, to be sure.”

Sean nodded and stepped up to the podium with a lowered head, slowly and awkwardly. He ran his finger over the gold stenciled cross on the bible cover, reminiscent of younger days. He looked up at the frowning faces in the crowd of mourners; even his mother wore a look of disapproval. His relationship with her had been strained in recent years. He lowered his gaze and cleared his throat.

“My father…,” he began. He hesitated for a moment, a pang of stage fright in his gut. He gripped the precious charm in his jacket pocket, and he continued. “My father…was a man of faith. He was a man of tradition, and a proud man of Eire.”

Edited by PachucoDesigns, 22 April 2012 - 02:58 PM.

[NaruDeeds]

If Press Releases, eMagazines/newsletters and a crap load of marketing material counts then I'm published. But I don't count that myself

[PachucoDesigns]

If Press Releases, eMagazines/newsletters and a crap load of marketing material counts then I'm published. But I don't count that myself

I would say that it does, on a professional level. Anything creative? Or strictly marketing?

[NaruDeeds]

All marketing. It's one of the many reasons I enjoy writing fanfiction. It's creative writing, and I don't have to be 100% flawless on grammar. A very nice change of pace!