Gary wasn't afraid of anything.
Dark rooms, creaking closet doors, vaccination shots, timed multiplication tests - none of it bothered him. He checked for monsters under the bed and was disappointed to find only partnerless socks and dust. He took his time getting the winter jackets out from the crawlspace under the basement stairs, hoping he'd see something move out of the corner of his eye. He convinced his friends to play Ghost in the Graveyard in an actual graveyard.
Nothing scared Gary.
Except for one thing.
There was one thing that made him feel like a plug had been pulled out from the bottom of his stomach, filling him with a sick, swirling, slithery chill. It was something he never admitted to anyone. It was too embarrassing.
Gary was terrified - cold-sweat, buzzing-ears, teeth-tingling terrified - of the Brawny paper towel man.
For as long as he could remember, just a glimpse of that tanned, grinning torso turned Gary from a swaggering ball of energy into a huddled, shaking mess. There was something horrifying about the unnaturally broad shoulders, the eyes that didn't seem to really be focusing on anything, the white, white teeth that were just a little too big. It all added up into something that looked like a man, but which Gary was sure was only a thing. And he thought he could feel the baleful malevolence of the thing gazing at him through its dead, waxy man-mask.
As soon as he was old enough to stay home, Gary started refusing to go to the grocery store with his mom. He couldn't handle the paralyzing dread that dripped unrelentingly into his skin as they approached the paper-goods aisle. He hid in his room when she got home from the store, refusing to help her unload the groceries. She always grounded him for it, but anything was better than having to stow the paper towels in the darkness under the sink.
Once the wrapper was off, the paper towels didn't bother him. But Gary never took the last sheet off the roll.
He let someone else put a fresh one out.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Monday, August 5, 2013
Quicker Picker-Upper
I like to think that I'm immune to most advertisements. Usually, I can block out the near-constant bombardment of slogans, logos, jingles, and colors designed specifically to catch my eye and remind me to "Eat Fresh." Of course, this doesn't mean I don't notice them. There are some jingles that will live in my head forever. To this day, I cannot spell bologna without singing the Oscar Meyer song. What I mean is I don't really think they influence what I purchase all that much.
Except for one thing.
Bounty.
That's right. The only ad that worms its way into my brain and demands I purchase what it's selling is one for paper towel. It makes me believe, deep in my soul, that Bounty really is twice as durable as it's leading competitor, and is so strong, it can even be used when wet. What really gets me is those damn demonstrations. Seeing Bounty absorb all that weird blue liquid while the other, inferior, towel leaves behind smears it so compelling.
I know Bounty can't be trusted. I know other paper towels can probably perform as well or better. I know it's just part of grand marketing scheme designed to make me feel this way, but I don't care. Bounty is the only one for me.
Except for one thing.
Bounty.
That's right. The only ad that worms its way into my brain and demands I purchase what it's selling is one for paper towel. It makes me believe, deep in my soul, that Bounty really is twice as durable as it's leading competitor, and is so strong, it can even be used when wet. What really gets me is those damn demonstrations. Seeing Bounty absorb all that weird blue liquid while the other, inferior, towel leaves behind smears it so compelling.
I know Bounty can't be trusted. I know other paper towels can probably perform as well or better. I know it's just part of grand marketing scheme designed to make me feel this way, but I don't care. Bounty is the only one for me.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Magic Eraser
* * * * * All my memories GONE with just one swipe!!! July 29, 2013
By Carrie Dee
Size Name: 8-Count Box
I'm something of a serial mover--don't like to stay in any one place too long. Whenever I decide to head to a new city (or country--I'd go to a new planet if I could), the first thing I do is go to the store and buy a box of Magic Erasers. These things really are unbelievable, and so easy to use. You just wet it in the sink, squeeze out the extra water, and scrub away.
Scummy shower walls? Gone like magic. Perpetually water-streaked kitchen sink? Gone like magic. Scuffed floors from failed attempts to teach yourself how to tap dance? Gone like magic. Headboard-banged wall after you and that shithead from Dairy Queen went at it for a few weeks and then he never called you back? Gone like magic. Stained countertop from that time you brought the neighbor kids over to dye Easter eggs without their mother's permission and when she caught you the baby was so scared she knocked over her cup? Gone like magic. Ashy cabinet bottoms after carelessly burning photographs of your father and his significantly younger third wife? Gone like magic.
It all disappears so beautifully. I don't know how they do it. Anyway, Magic Erasers are perfect for anyone moving on in life. You can't take the past with you, and you certainly don't want the new tenants to see all those filthy remnants of your life. Mr. Clean's the best magician for the job.
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Friday, July 26, 2013
Tish & Leo (a vignette)
It was their dream house. Both of them had each grown up with fantasies of living in a house with secret passages and hidden doors, with buried treasure and dumbwaiters and sliding panels and trapdoors.
Tish and Leo found that dream home exactly one month after Leo surprised Tish with an antique engagement ring baked into a chocolate souffle. On weekends, the two spent their afternoons driving around town on old back roads, admiring the old brick homes and older trees that lined the sidewalks. Tish liked to make up stories about the families that lived in the houses, populating the buildings with flappers and ghosts and suppressed housewives and seances and mysteries and murders. Leo filled them with moonshiners and gangsters, with detectives, with elegant dinner parties gone terribly, satisfyingly wrong.
On one Sunday afternoon in September, the air still a little heavy with the last bit of summer haze, they found it. Leo saw the For Sale sign first. He yanked the car out of the lane and pulled up at the house's curb. Tish leapt out as soon as the car came to a halt. She stood in the yard with her hand outstretched and waiting for Leo's.
Three stories tall, swaddled in the shade of a dozen tall oaks, their house's doors and windows winked from beneath the branches like conspiratorial eyes. Tish stared at it and knew in her bones that it was meant to be theirs. She breathed in and felt the house breathing with her, felt its hollow spaces, felt the deep and secret rooms that matched the deep and secret places in her heart.
Leo locked the car and took hold of Tish's hand. He could feel her tension. She was trembling, resonating like a plucked string. Her face was suffused with something serene and heartbroken. She looked the way she sometimes did when Leo woke in the middle of the night, finding her sitting up in bed, staring at nothing, eyes open but still asleep. Leo thought he loved Tish best at moments like this, when she was far away and strange, warm and close but somehow impossibly remote, like the moon.
He reached out and gently brushed at her hair. She blinked and sighed. "We're home," she said, squeezing Leo's hand.
Three and a half weeks after that day, they were. The house stretched their budget, but they funneled money away from the big lavish wedding Tish's parents wanted her to have, and got married in the courthouse instead.
Every closet had a trapdoor that led to the attic, which was cobwebby and bright, lit by skylights and a big stained glass window. There wasn't a dumbwaiter, but there was an old laundry chute with little brass doors opening onto each floor. In the kitchen, the pantry door was molded right into the wall, no edging, with a piece of wainscoting going right across the middle of it.
Leo found the crawlspace. He edged between the brick exterior and the interior plaster walls, moving between the studs, catching glimpses of light through old picture frame nail holes. Tish nearly had a heart attack when a disembodied knock sounded from inside the bedroom walls. She chased Leo through the house, smacking the walls, following his self-satisfied boyish cackles from room to room. When he emerged covered in dust and drywall and spiders, Tish demanded to be shown the entrance.
They spent the rest of the evening haunting each other.
Tish and Leo found that dream home exactly one month after Leo surprised Tish with an antique engagement ring baked into a chocolate souffle. On weekends, the two spent their afternoons driving around town on old back roads, admiring the old brick homes and older trees that lined the sidewalks. Tish liked to make up stories about the families that lived in the houses, populating the buildings with flappers and ghosts and suppressed housewives and seances and mysteries and murders. Leo filled them with moonshiners and gangsters, with detectives, with elegant dinner parties gone terribly, satisfyingly wrong.
On one Sunday afternoon in September, the air still a little heavy with the last bit of summer haze, they found it. Leo saw the For Sale sign first. He yanked the car out of the lane and pulled up at the house's curb. Tish leapt out as soon as the car came to a halt. She stood in the yard with her hand outstretched and waiting for Leo's.
Three stories tall, swaddled in the shade of a dozen tall oaks, their house's doors and windows winked from beneath the branches like conspiratorial eyes. Tish stared at it and knew in her bones that it was meant to be theirs. She breathed in and felt the house breathing with her, felt its hollow spaces, felt the deep and secret rooms that matched the deep and secret places in her heart.
Leo locked the car and took hold of Tish's hand. He could feel her tension. She was trembling, resonating like a plucked string. Her face was suffused with something serene and heartbroken. She looked the way she sometimes did when Leo woke in the middle of the night, finding her sitting up in bed, staring at nothing, eyes open but still asleep. Leo thought he loved Tish best at moments like this, when she was far away and strange, warm and close but somehow impossibly remote, like the moon.
He reached out and gently brushed at her hair. She blinked and sighed. "We're home," she said, squeezing Leo's hand.
Three and a half weeks after that day, they were. The house stretched their budget, but they funneled money away from the big lavish wedding Tish's parents wanted her to have, and got married in the courthouse instead.
Every closet had a trapdoor that led to the attic, which was cobwebby and bright, lit by skylights and a big stained glass window. There wasn't a dumbwaiter, but there was an old laundry chute with little brass doors opening onto each floor. In the kitchen, the pantry door was molded right into the wall, no edging, with a piece of wainscoting going right across the middle of it.
Leo found the crawlspace. He edged between the brick exterior and the interior plaster walls, moving between the studs, catching glimpses of light through old picture frame nail holes. Tish nearly had a heart attack when a disembodied knock sounded from inside the bedroom walls. She chased Leo through the house, smacking the walls, following his self-satisfied boyish cackles from room to room. When he emerged covered in dust and drywall and spiders, Tish demanded to be shown the entrance.
They spent the rest of the evening haunting each other.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Secrets Secrets are No Fun
Georgie lived for secrets. She spent hours lying in wait, or standing, or crouching, in wait just to hear them. Mastering the quirks of the house, learning which stairs creaked and which walls were the thinnest. The servants never noticing a slip of skirt visible under the curtains, too eager to scandalize each other with tales of the night before. Her father too, was unaware, having drunk too much scotch with her uncle to notice that certain important papers were missing from his study. Her mother would often find her, edges blurred by dust, in the bottom of a wardrobe or packed neatly under a desk.
The mother thought it was harmless, Georgie was just a little girl whose hero was Sherlock Holmes. She couldn't see the menace in the blonde curls, looping there like a snake ready to pounce.
Georgie knew the power of secrets, knew that once you had them, the world became easier. As she grew up, she held her vast library of unknown information behind her eyes, and no one could see it lurking there, threatening to get out.
She saved them until her mother became insufferable, he father threatened her with useless marriages, the servants stopped fawning over the once adorable child. One sweltering afternoon, when rain hovered but never fell, she unleashed them like a hurricane, all together, one secret building upon the strength of the last, wind whipping them into an unstoppable storm of pain and guilt.
Georgie did not marry. She went to live with her brazen young aunt in Paris, in a house that was filled with it's own set of locked doors and shadowy corners. They didn't matter of course. She would learn their tricks, open them up, store their secrets in her ever shimmering eyes, her luminous hair. Waiting.
The mother thought it was harmless, Georgie was just a little girl whose hero was Sherlock Holmes. She couldn't see the menace in the blonde curls, looping there like a snake ready to pounce.
Georgie knew the power of secrets, knew that once you had them, the world became easier. As she grew up, she held her vast library of unknown information behind her eyes, and no one could see it lurking there, threatening to get out.
She saved them until her mother became insufferable, he father threatened her with useless marriages, the servants stopped fawning over the once adorable child. One sweltering afternoon, when rain hovered but never fell, she unleashed them like a hurricane, all together, one secret building upon the strength of the last, wind whipping them into an unstoppable storm of pain and guilt.
Georgie did not marry. She went to live with her brazen young aunt in Paris, in a house that was filled with it's own set of locked doors and shadowy corners. They didn't matter of course. She would learn their tricks, open them up, store their secrets in her ever shimmering eyes, her luminous hair. Waiting.
Friday, July 19, 2013
A Royal Advert
Her Royal Highness Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge seeks a full-time Lady-in-Waiting.
Candidates must possess a well-rounded education, impeccable manners, and the wherewithal to know when their opinion is truly needed. A strong sense of style is preferred, though an applicant's beauty should not exceed that of the Princess.
Must be unmarried. Must be comfortable keeping state secrets. Major duties will include running errands for and with Her Highness, entertaining Her Highness between engagements, consistently maintaining a calm and generally pleasant appearance and attitude, and otherwise assisting the Princess in any way she desires.
Experience with children is an absolute necessity. Because Her Highness must return to her royal duties almost immediately upon giving birth, care of the Royal Family's newest member will frequently fall to the Lady-in-Waiting.
As is only fitting, candidates must be citizens of the United Kingdom (ideally England). Ladies of noble blood preferred, but considering that the Princess herself was once a commoner, this trait is not strictly necessary.
Interested parties will please apply at http://www.dukeandduchessofcambridge.org/
Candidates must possess a well-rounded education, impeccable manners, and the wherewithal to know when their opinion is truly needed. A strong sense of style is preferred, though an applicant's beauty should not exceed that of the Princess.
Must be unmarried. Must be comfortable keeping state secrets. Major duties will include running errands for and with Her Highness, entertaining Her Highness between engagements, consistently maintaining a calm and generally pleasant appearance and attitude, and otherwise assisting the Princess in any way she desires.
Experience with children is an absolute necessity. Because Her Highness must return to her royal duties almost immediately upon giving birth, care of the Royal Family's newest member will frequently fall to the Lady-in-Waiting.
As is only fitting, candidates must be citizens of the United Kingdom (ideally England). Ladies of noble blood preferred, but considering that the Princess herself was once a commoner, this trait is not strictly necessary.
Interested parties will please apply at http://www.dukeandduchessofcambridge.org/
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
The Princess and the Wind
Once upon a time, in a kingdom by the sea, there lived a princess.
The princess was silly and a little vain, as princesses tend to be. They can't help it; they're raised in the midst of beauty, knowing they are lovely, knowing they are adored. In spite of her silliness and her vanity, the princess was nonetheless gentle and sweet, and everyone loved her dearly.
Even the wind that blew in from the sea was in love with the princess. It tried to show her its love, playing in her auburn curls and plucking at the embroidered sleeves of her gowns. It brought the smell of spices from distant lands to the castle. It filled the sails of the princess's royal schooner and teased the water into waves which the dolphins couldn't resist. It lifted the princess's bright paper kites high into the sky. It waved the kingdom's banners as she rode by during the royal processions.
But for all the wind's effort, the princess didn't notice. She was too busy falling in love with a handsome prince from the neighboring kingdom. The prince was also silly and vain, but he liked the way the princess looked at him, so he treated her pleasantly enough. It was not long before they were betrothed.
The kingdoms set about planning for the wedding. As buntings and streamers began to appear on buildings, the prince and princess could be seen wandering together.
One day, the princess walked hand in hand with the prince through the royal gardens. Her hair tumbled and twirled around her, tickling her nose until she sneezed and giggled. The prince frowned and pulled her back inside. He told her lady-in-waiting to start braiding the princess's hair into a tighter, more demure style, as was fitting for a noblewoman.
One day, the princess opened the windows to the palace banquet hall, savoring the exotic spices on the ocean air, but the prince complained that it was putting him off his roast boar. The princess shut the windows, and they finished their meal in silence.
One day, the princess took the prince sailing, but he turned green and hid in the galley until they reached shore. After that, they no longer went sailing. The royal schooner listed sideways in the harbor, the colorful banners trailing into the sea, slack and heavy with salt.
One day, the princess took the prince to the highest tower of the castle to fly kites. The little colorful scraps leapt into the sky, dancing like birds. The prince's eyes took on a steely glint. He let his kite climb higher and higher, daring the princess to beat his height. Her smile slipped a little, but being silly and vain, she let out a bit more string until her kite was higher than his. The game continued until the kites were nothing but specks against the blue of the sky. Suddenly, the last bit of string escaped from the princess's fingers and dashed away. The prince grinned triumphantly, laughing at the look of shock on the princess's face. He let go of his string and walked away, leaving the princess to watch her beloved kite drift away and vanish forever.
One day, the day of the royal wedding, the princess went to the stables to saddle her horse for the procession, but the prince said it was unbecoming for a princess to ride through the streets. He bought her a gilt carriage. She sat inside, hidden from her people and from the wind.
The wind helplessly rattled the closed shutters of the carriage. It rushed along the thoroughfare, making the banners and buntings twist and snap. It brought clouds rolling in from the sea. It whispered unhappily through the trees and whistled through the castle, looking for a way to save the princess. But all it found was empty rooms.
Sloughing sadly along the ground, kicking up little swirls of leaves and dirt, the wind trailed after the carriage. What else could it do? It was in love with the princess, and always would be.
The carriage swayed to a halt in front of the harbor terrace where the wedding would take place. The princess stepped out, clad in a gown as blue as the sea, her face hidden behind a golden veil. The wind hung back, stirring the colorful dresses and tunics of the wedding guests.
The prince stood looking dapper and bored. The princess walked slowly up the steps of the dais, finally coming to a halt next to the prince. She did not take his disinterestedly proffered hand. She looked so lost and alone that the wind couldn't help itself; it raced up to the princess and brushed tenderly at the tears falling softly down her cheeks.
In that moment, the princess felt the wind's love and knew its kindness. The wind blew the sorrow like dust from her sweet and gentle heart, and she turned to the prince.
"I will not marry you," she told him, pulling away her veil and letting the wind whirl it away. "I thought I loved you because I am sometimes silly, and I thought you loved me because I am sometimes vain." The princess reached up and shook her hair free of its tight, elaborate braids. "But now I know that you are only vain and silly, and that I can be something better." The wind rose joyfully and twined in her tresses.
The princess turned away from the dumbstruck prince, whose mouth was hanging foolishly open. She unhitched her horse from the carriage and mounted up to the cheers of her people. Their dear princess was back.
She rode off to the harbor, where the wind she loved was waiting to fill the sails of the royal ship, ready to take the princess wherever she wanted to go.
The princess was silly and a little vain, as princesses tend to be. They can't help it; they're raised in the midst of beauty, knowing they are lovely, knowing they are adored. In spite of her silliness and her vanity, the princess was nonetheless gentle and sweet, and everyone loved her dearly.
Even the wind that blew in from the sea was in love with the princess. It tried to show her its love, playing in her auburn curls and plucking at the embroidered sleeves of her gowns. It brought the smell of spices from distant lands to the castle. It filled the sails of the princess's royal schooner and teased the water into waves which the dolphins couldn't resist. It lifted the princess's bright paper kites high into the sky. It waved the kingdom's banners as she rode by during the royal processions.
But for all the wind's effort, the princess didn't notice. She was too busy falling in love with a handsome prince from the neighboring kingdom. The prince was also silly and vain, but he liked the way the princess looked at him, so he treated her pleasantly enough. It was not long before they were betrothed.
The kingdoms set about planning for the wedding. As buntings and streamers began to appear on buildings, the prince and princess could be seen wandering together.
One day, the princess walked hand in hand with the prince through the royal gardens. Her hair tumbled and twirled around her, tickling her nose until she sneezed and giggled. The prince frowned and pulled her back inside. He told her lady-in-waiting to start braiding the princess's hair into a tighter, more demure style, as was fitting for a noblewoman.
One day, the princess opened the windows to the palace banquet hall, savoring the exotic spices on the ocean air, but the prince complained that it was putting him off his roast boar. The princess shut the windows, and they finished their meal in silence.
One day, the princess took the prince sailing, but he turned green and hid in the galley until they reached shore. After that, they no longer went sailing. The royal schooner listed sideways in the harbor, the colorful banners trailing into the sea, slack and heavy with salt.
One day, the princess took the prince to the highest tower of the castle to fly kites. The little colorful scraps leapt into the sky, dancing like birds. The prince's eyes took on a steely glint. He let his kite climb higher and higher, daring the princess to beat his height. Her smile slipped a little, but being silly and vain, she let out a bit more string until her kite was higher than his. The game continued until the kites were nothing but specks against the blue of the sky. Suddenly, the last bit of string escaped from the princess's fingers and dashed away. The prince grinned triumphantly, laughing at the look of shock on the princess's face. He let go of his string and walked away, leaving the princess to watch her beloved kite drift away and vanish forever.
One day, the day of the royal wedding, the princess went to the stables to saddle her horse for the procession, but the prince said it was unbecoming for a princess to ride through the streets. He bought her a gilt carriage. She sat inside, hidden from her people and from the wind.
The wind helplessly rattled the closed shutters of the carriage. It rushed along the thoroughfare, making the banners and buntings twist and snap. It brought clouds rolling in from the sea. It whispered unhappily through the trees and whistled through the castle, looking for a way to save the princess. But all it found was empty rooms.
Sloughing sadly along the ground, kicking up little swirls of leaves and dirt, the wind trailed after the carriage. What else could it do? It was in love with the princess, and always would be.
The carriage swayed to a halt in front of the harbor terrace where the wedding would take place. The princess stepped out, clad in a gown as blue as the sea, her face hidden behind a golden veil. The wind hung back, stirring the colorful dresses and tunics of the wedding guests.
The prince stood looking dapper and bored. The princess walked slowly up the steps of the dais, finally coming to a halt next to the prince. She did not take his disinterestedly proffered hand. She looked so lost and alone that the wind couldn't help itself; it raced up to the princess and brushed tenderly at the tears falling softly down her cheeks.
In that moment, the princess felt the wind's love and knew its kindness. The wind blew the sorrow like dust from her sweet and gentle heart, and she turned to the prince.
"I will not marry you," she told him, pulling away her veil and letting the wind whirl it away. "I thought I loved you because I am sometimes silly, and I thought you loved me because I am sometimes vain." The princess reached up and shook her hair free of its tight, elaborate braids. "But now I know that you are only vain and silly, and that I can be something better." The wind rose joyfully and twined in her tresses.
The princess turned away from the dumbstruck prince, whose mouth was hanging foolishly open. She unhitched her horse from the carriage and mounted up to the cheers of her people. Their dear princess was back.
She rode off to the harbor, where the wind she loved was waiting to fill the sails of the royal ship, ready to take the princess wherever she wanted to go.
Friday, July 12, 2013
The Day the Ice Queen Married the Yeti
On day the Yeti married the Ice Queen,
the wind was warm and the grass was green.
No cruel winds dare muss her hair,
not while the whole of the North was there.
Atop her head, a crown of diamonds glow,
and if she was nervous, it did not show.
With dignity, she approached the aisle,
greeting the crowd with the ghost of a smile,
walking bravely forward towards the towering Yeti,
admitting that her hands were slightly unsteady,
but not from fear, rather anticipation
for she knew this was a celebration.
Many believed she married the beast
to save her kingdom, with wealth increased.
They feared for her life, thought he was a terror,
but the Ice Queen knew that this was an error.
The Yeti was kind, as pure as his fur,
it was he who declared his love for her.
So remember, the Queen has nothing to fear,
for in love, things are not always how they appear.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Excerpt from occultgeology.com's "A Complete Guide to Minerals and Their Mystical Properties" (c)2002 Jana Ravensilver Moonwitch, PhD
Diamonds have long been a source of fascination for man and womynkind. The hardest natural substance our mother planet has brought forth, they have been prized for their beauty, purity, and rarity.
Diamonds currently are valued for jewelry, electronics, and manufacturing. Since the early 1900s, diamonds have been the stone of choice for traditional engagement rings. They have come to symbolize, for popular culture, true love and everlasting fidelity.
Yet they also have one of the bloodiest histories of any gemstone. The violent struggles for control over diamond mines, the harsh conditions the miners work in, and the thefts, swindling, and murders associated with diamond jewelry have left this stone splashed with the blood of countless innocents.
Many famous diamonds have become so, not just for their fabulous lustre and exceptional size, but also for the rumors of curses they seem to attract.
Perhaps the most infamous of these unlucky gems is the Lednik Diamond, also called Morana's Tear*, which was found in 1949 in the now-abandoned Proklinat Mine of eastern Siberia. It weighed over 100 carats raw, and weighed 52 carats when cut and polished. The loss of weight was due to necessary reductions to capture a gem free from inclusions and faults. It remains, to date, one of the most perfect colorless specimens ever found, exhibiting flawless clarity and mesmerizing brilliance.
Since its first sale in 1950, Morana's Tear has had over a dozen owners. Five of its owners died of illness within a decade of obtaining the diamond; two committed suicide; one was murdered; two were victims of violent accidental deaths (one automobile collision, one drowning); and three suffered financial ruin (possibly due to the outrageous cost of purchasing the diamond).
Rumors of a curse began to spring up around Morana's Tear after it had changed hands twice. These rumors did not diminish collectors' interest in the stone, however.
Whether or not there is, indeed, a curse on this gemstone, may never be ascertained. Certainly it kindles insatiable greed and jealousy in the hearts of those who covet material items and the status they confer.
Ritual or healing properties:
Diamonds do not have any psychic or vibrational properties or powers of their own. Instead, they simply enhance the abilities of the user. For those pure of heart and strong in purpose, diamonds can help strengthen resolve and bring clarity of judgement. But for those who are filled with negative energy, it can be a dangerous crystal, magnifying and encouraging dark impulses. However, when paired with other powerful stones, such as rose quartz or sapphires, a diamond can enhance the properties of those crystals. Some people have reported an increase of psychic ability and sensitivity when scrying with a diamond.
Diamonds are powerful crystals that should be treated with respect and caution. Before performing rituals or casting any spells with diamonds, take time to meditate and center yourself. Calm your mind and let peace fill your heart. Empty yourself of jealousy, anger, and negativity. When properly harnessed, diamonds can grant great strength and intuitive clarity.
*Morana is a Russian folk deity, the agrarian goddess of winter and death. Even today, many Slavic countries still welcome the arrival of spring by burning or "drowning" effigies of Morana.
Diamonds currently are valued for jewelry, electronics, and manufacturing. Since the early 1900s, diamonds have been the stone of choice for traditional engagement rings. They have come to symbolize, for popular culture, true love and everlasting fidelity.
Yet they also have one of the bloodiest histories of any gemstone. The violent struggles for control over diamond mines, the harsh conditions the miners work in, and the thefts, swindling, and murders associated with diamond jewelry have left this stone splashed with the blood of countless innocents.
Many famous diamonds have become so, not just for their fabulous lustre and exceptional size, but also for the rumors of curses they seem to attract.
Perhaps the most infamous of these unlucky gems is the Lednik Diamond, also called Morana's Tear*, which was found in 1949 in the now-abandoned Proklinat Mine of eastern Siberia. It weighed over 100 carats raw, and weighed 52 carats when cut and polished. The loss of weight was due to necessary reductions to capture a gem free from inclusions and faults. It remains, to date, one of the most perfect colorless specimens ever found, exhibiting flawless clarity and mesmerizing brilliance.
Since its first sale in 1950, Morana's Tear has had over a dozen owners. Five of its owners died of illness within a decade of obtaining the diamond; two committed suicide; one was murdered; two were victims of violent accidental deaths (one automobile collision, one drowning); and three suffered financial ruin (possibly due to the outrageous cost of purchasing the diamond).
Rumors of a curse began to spring up around Morana's Tear after it had changed hands twice. These rumors did not diminish collectors' interest in the stone, however.
Whether or not there is, indeed, a curse on this gemstone, may never be ascertained. Certainly it kindles insatiable greed and jealousy in the hearts of those who covet material items and the status they confer.
Ritual or healing properties:
Diamonds do not have any psychic or vibrational properties or powers of their own. Instead, they simply enhance the abilities of the user. For those pure of heart and strong in purpose, diamonds can help strengthen resolve and bring clarity of judgement. But for those who are filled with negative energy, it can be a dangerous crystal, magnifying and encouraging dark impulses. However, when paired with other powerful stones, such as rose quartz or sapphires, a diamond can enhance the properties of those crystals. Some people have reported an increase of psychic ability and sensitivity when scrying with a diamond.
Diamonds are powerful crystals that should be treated with respect and caution. Before performing rituals or casting any spells with diamonds, take time to meditate and center yourself. Calm your mind and let peace fill your heart. Empty yourself of jealousy, anger, and negativity. When properly harnessed, diamonds can grant great strength and intuitive clarity.
*Morana is a Russian folk deity, the agrarian goddess of winter and death. Even today, many Slavic countries still welcome the arrival of spring by burning or "drowning" effigies of Morana.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Failed Screenplay
INT: A MOVIE THEATER.
Scott and Anya sit together, whispering over the previews.
Scott and Anya sit together, whispering over the previews.
ANYA
Oh my God! This is the trailer for the new Tarantino movie.
SCOTT
Oh, yeah. I heard that he--
ANYA
Shut up.
They sit in silence as they watch the trailer. Anya is riveted to the screen. Scott slurps his oversized soda.
CUT TO: MOVIE TRAILER
*****
INT: A CUBAN CUSTOMS OFFICE, 1950s - CONTINUOUS
The customs officer looks over Jedediah's documents.
MOVIE ANNOUNCER
He came from nothing...
CUSTOMS OFFICER
Where are you from? We get all sorts from Florida, but I have never heard of this place.
JEDEDIAH RICH
It's a small fishing village.
CUSTOMS OFFICER
You like to fish?
JEDEDIAH RICH
No. I have other interests.
INT: RADIO IN JEDEDIAH'S APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Shot of radio, pan out slowly.
MOVIE ANNOUNCER
But when destiny presents itself...
OLD TIMEY RADIO NEWSCASTER
All of Cuba's in a tizzy as Hannah Everett,
EXT: THE CALIFORNIA PALMS CASINO, HAVANA - CONTINUOUS
Hannah Everett emerges from a white Rolls Royce. Continue radio voiceover.
OLD TIMEY RADIO NEWSCASTER
the prominent socialite, arrives in Havana. Ms. Everett is the current owner of the notorious Poison Glory,
INT: A SAFE INSIDE THE CALIFORNIA PALMS CASINO - CONTINUOUS
Shot of diamond in the safe, pan out slowly. Continue radio voiceover.
OLD TIMEY RADIO NEWSCASTER
the world's largest diamond. But she may not own it for long--its previous owners have all
EXT: TROPICAL GRAVEYARD - CONTINUOUS
Hannah Everett tosses a flower onto a coffin about to be buried. Continue radio voiceover.
OLD TIMEY RADIO NEWSCASTER
suffered horrible, untimely deaths!
INT: JEDEDIAH'S APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Jedediah sits up straight in a high-backed chair, confident.
MOVIE ANNOUNCER
He'll take everything.
JEDEDIAH RICH
My name's Jedediah Rich, and rich is exactly what I intend to be.
CUT TO: MOVIE THEATER
*****
INT: MOVIE THEATER - CONTINUOUS
We hear a car exploding on screen. Anya's eyes widen. Scott reaches for her hand but thinks better of it.
CUT TO: MOVIE TRAILER
*****
INT: JEDEDIAH'S APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Jedediah sits in his high-backed chair. Pablo stands in front of him, pacing back and forth occasionally.
PABLO SANCHEZ
You know I'd like to get back at those rich white motherfuckers as much as the next guy, amigo. But how we gonna do it?
JEDEDIAH RICH
The California Palms is just a casino like any other.
PABLO SANCHEZ
Not so! No other casino has Diego Martinez. He don't let nobody fuck him.
JEDEDIAH RICH
Is that so? Plays hard to get? Well, we'll just have to court him first.
INT: CALIFORNIA PALMS CASINO FLOOR - CONTINUOUS
Diego walks up to Jedediah, who is standing near a blackjack table. They shake hands.
DIEGO MARTINEZ
Welcome to The California Palms, Mister Rich. Would that be the Charleston Riches? The Chicago Riches, perhaps?
JEDEDIAH RICH
Something like that.
INT: JEDEDIAH'S APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Jedediah's conversation with Pablo continues.
JEDEDIAH RICH
But make no mistake...
INT: CALIFORNIA PALMS CASINO BANQUET HALL - CONTINUOUS
Hannah approaches Jedediah. She raises her hand, he kisses it. She is all smiles.
HANNAH EVERETT
Mister Rich! I simply had to make your acquaintance. I swear your name's been whispered on the lips of every man and woman in this damned casino.
JEDEDIAH RICH
Ms. Everett, my name's not worthy to be whispered on lips as beautiful as yours.
HANNAH EVERETT
Oh! Don't be so modest. I'm sure--
JEDEDIAH RICH
Well, not yet, anyway.
INT: JEDEDIAH'S APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS
Jedediah's conversation with Pablo continues.
JEDEDIAH RICH
I'm walking out of here with that diamond, come hell or high water.
CUT TO: MOVIE THEATER
*****
INT: MOVIE THEATER - CONTINUOUS
We hear a montage of violence--gunshots, stabbings, screams, blood spatter, explosions, etc. Every so often Scott winces at the gore. Anya remains enthralled.
CUT TO: MOVIE TRAILER
*****
INT: CALIFORNIA PALMS CASINO EXECUTIVE OFFICE - CONTINUOUS
Diego sits behind his lavish desk. Jedediah stands before it, hands behind his back.
MOVIE ANNOUNCER
Michael Fassbender is Jedediah Rich...
DIEGO MARTINEZ
You are not so clever as you think, Mister Rich.
JEDEDIAH RICH
Oh, I don't claim to be clever. I'm just here to claim that diamond. It's my name. It's my fate.
DIEGO MARTINEZ
There's no such thing as fate.
Jedediah smirks
JEDEDIAH RICH
Well I guess you and me'll just have to agree to disagree.
INT: BACKSIDE OF BAR IN CALIFORNIA PALMS CASINO - CONTINUOUS
Jedediah and Pablo are ducked down behind the counter to avoid rapid, relentless gunfire.
MOVIE ANNOUNCER
...in Quentin Tarantino's...
JEDEDIAH RICH
Pablo, will you despise me?
PABLO SANCHEZ
What the fuck, man?!
JEDEDIAH RICH
When I fulfill my destiny, when I take that diamond, will I just be another rich white motherfucker to you?
PABLO SANCHEZ
No. You'll be my rich white motherfucker.
CUT TO BLACK SCREEN WITH TITLE
MOVIE ANNOUNCER
Poison Glory. Coming to theaters this Christmas.
CUT TO MOVIE THEATER
*****
INT: MOVIE THEATER - CONTINUOUS
Trailer ends. As the next preview starts, Scott and Anya resume their conversation.
SCOTT
Wow. That looks--
ANYA
Amazing!
SCOTT
Sure. God, your hair smells so good.
ANYA
What?
SCOTT
Do you ever feel like your life is a movie?
ANYA
What was all that about my hair again?
SCOTT
Doesn't matter. Answer the question.
Anya sighs, starts scrolling on her phone.
ANYA
I don't know. Sometimes I narrate what I'm doing in my head I guess.
SCOTT
No, that's not what I mean--although I do that, too. Like, do you ever feel like your life is scripted, though?
ANYA
Scripted by you?
SCOTT
No, by somebody infinitely better. By somebody Oscar-worthy. Don't you ever feel like things just fit together so perfectly that somebody must have planned it all out?
ANYA
Nothing's perfect. It's all messy.
SCOTT
Like maybe there are cosmic cameras filming your every move, and when you die you get to see it all again.
ANYA
I don't believe in fate.
Scott finally takes her hand.
SCOTT
And you've never wanted to?
Anya pulls her hand away.
ANYA
Not particularly.
Scott twists away from her and shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
ANYA
You're just too sentimental, Scott.
Scott says nothing, continues eating popcorn.
ANYA
I guess I just prefer all my sentiment to stay on the silver screen. I'm a practical person. To me, sentiment in real life just seems...I don't know. Gaudy, I guess. Like plastic columns painted to look like marble. In some place totally inappropriate and unnecessary, like a shopping mall.
SCOTT
You're not practical. You're heartless.
ANYA
Whatever. I'm going to go. I've seen this one before, anyway.
She stands.
ANYA
You know what? Fuck you. Good luck finding a leading lady.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
A Conversation Between Friends
"Oh my god! Did you see that guy just punch a girl!?"
"What? No."
"Yes! Straight up punched her in the face!"
"I don't believe you. Nobody punches people in the face. You've been watching too many movies"
"No, I haven't"
"Yes, you have. You stay up all night watching whatever's on cable, not even the good stuff. Just some B-grade, shitty remake of a shitty Katherine Heigel movie. It's starting to affect your brain."
"No, it isn't."
"Bullshit. Ever since-"
"Don't."
"Fine, but ever since then, all you do is watch movies and pretend your life is full of movie-worthy events. It's not. It's just a normal, crappy life like everybody else's. So that thing that we can't talk about happened. Get over it. Stop telling me a dude just punched a girl. Shut up and watch the damn band."
"I hate you sometimes."
"I know. I sometimes hate you too."
"What? No."
"Yes! Straight up punched her in the face!"
"I don't believe you. Nobody punches people in the face. You've been watching too many movies"
"No, I haven't"
"Yes, you have. You stay up all night watching whatever's on cable, not even the good stuff. Just some B-grade, shitty remake of a shitty Katherine Heigel movie. It's starting to affect your brain."
"No, it isn't."
"Bullshit. Ever since-"
"Don't."
"Fine, but ever since then, all you do is watch movies and pretend your life is full of movie-worthy events. It's not. It's just a normal, crappy life like everybody else's. So that thing that we can't talk about happened. Get over it. Stop telling me a dude just punched a girl. Shut up and watch the damn band."
"I hate you sometimes."
"I know. I sometimes hate you too."
Friday, June 28, 2013
Knucklebones, Cheekbones, Brokenheartbones
Wham.
Stars burst, checkerboarding across my vision. For a couple seconds, I can't hear the music or the roaring crowd, don't see the big green field or the stage. I forget that Jackie Ghost and the Busters are wailing their best song just twenty yards away, which is impossible since I've been dying to see them live since I was thirteen. For a second, I even forget that just eight seconds ago I was kissing Lola Ramirez, which is impossible since I've been dying to taste her chapstick-flavored lips since I was fourteen. I forget that three seconds ago I heard Lola's boyfriend Dustin make a small dry sound of shock, this little puff of grief escaping out of him like steam.
I forget. There's just me and the white sparks behind my eyelids.
Heat blossoms on my cheek like a firework - pretty colors and a dizzying moment of wonder before the loud pop of pain crashes over me. I zigzag backwards a few steps. Strangers' hands reach out to steady me, fingers reach gently toward my cheek, curl back again before they touch skin, and I can hear sympathetic hisses from between wincing teeth.
The stars melt and drip out of my eyes, mixing and burning with the bright coppery blood that's leaking down my face. My eyebrows frown but my mouth smiles, wide and stupid, bright and crazy.
I can hear Lola screaming at her boyfriend, her weird cello voice saying she can't believe he'd hit a girl, saying she can't believe she ever wanted to be his. He's surrounded by a tightening noose of people, strangers united in righteousness. He looks suddenly winded and small. He's not made to deal with confrontation. In the rocketship mess of my brain, I feel a little stab of pity, seeing him stand there, skinny chest and fear in a vintage tee.
My cheek throbs and there's a moment of vengeful Batman pleasure that snarls along with the muttering crowd. But there's a little of my blood on his wimpy knuckles, and he's standing puppy-huddled like he's under a helicopter search light, and he's radiating heartbreak and confusion the way you can tell some people are drunk even when they're just sitting quietly, and Lola is holding my hand, and I try to get my zipping kaleidoscope thoughts to line up into words.
They get away from me, though. They just sizzle and sway around my body, lodging somewhere in the small of my back, or in the sole of my foot.
I don't know what I would have said anyway. Sorry I stole your girlfriend sort of by accident? Sorry my face got in the way of your desperate hopeless rage? Sorry everyone thinks you're a jerk now? Sorry I'm actually the jerk but no one will think so because you hit me and that makes me a hero, kind of? Sorry Lola will kiss the cut on my cheek to make it better?
I really am sorry. All of me except the palm I'm sharing with Lola. That part's electric lemon happy.
He's shrinking like an octopus, withdrawing into a secret hole in the universe. But I can feel him, I know he's going to run from the crowd, about to try to outdistance Lola's scorn. I know because I'm him. Seeing Lola with Dustin and James and Heather and Luke and all the others, I was tired and wounded and vicious and weak, like him.
His eyes flick around, as harsh and afraid as gunshots, looking for a gap in the closing mob. They meet mine for just the skin of a second, and I'm so sorry that my whole body shakes like a struck wineglass, high and singing and sad. There's nothing much in his eyes besides an animal fear. He's got that air of cat sorrow - a furtive, flinching shame and anger.
And then he's diving away, and the crowd starts to smear after him, and a noise happens at my mouth.
"Stop."
Heads turn. Eyes stick me with needle stares. Lola's hand tightens on mine.
There's a long moment of nothing.
And then we all remember that we're at a concert, drinking expensive cheap beer, our feet getting sore, our voices getting hoarse from singing along to our favorite songs. Needles recede.
Just like that, everyone forgets the time that one guy punched that girl.
Except me, the lightning lemon feeling spreading up my arm and into my ribcage and down my spine and into my brain.
Except Lola, soft and tempting and dangerous beautiful.
Except Dustin, brokenheartboned and bloody-knuckled.
Stars burst, checkerboarding across my vision. For a couple seconds, I can't hear the music or the roaring crowd, don't see the big green field or the stage. I forget that Jackie Ghost and the Busters are wailing their best song just twenty yards away, which is impossible since I've been dying to see them live since I was thirteen. For a second, I even forget that just eight seconds ago I was kissing Lola Ramirez, which is impossible since I've been dying to taste her chapstick-flavored lips since I was fourteen. I forget that three seconds ago I heard Lola's boyfriend Dustin make a small dry sound of shock, this little puff of grief escaping out of him like steam.
I forget. There's just me and the white sparks behind my eyelids.
Heat blossoms on my cheek like a firework - pretty colors and a dizzying moment of wonder before the loud pop of pain crashes over me. I zigzag backwards a few steps. Strangers' hands reach out to steady me, fingers reach gently toward my cheek, curl back again before they touch skin, and I can hear sympathetic hisses from between wincing teeth.
The stars melt and drip out of my eyes, mixing and burning with the bright coppery blood that's leaking down my face. My eyebrows frown but my mouth smiles, wide and stupid, bright and crazy.
I can hear Lola screaming at her boyfriend, her weird cello voice saying she can't believe he'd hit a girl, saying she can't believe she ever wanted to be his. He's surrounded by a tightening noose of people, strangers united in righteousness. He looks suddenly winded and small. He's not made to deal with confrontation. In the rocketship mess of my brain, I feel a little stab of pity, seeing him stand there, skinny chest and fear in a vintage tee.
My cheek throbs and there's a moment of vengeful Batman pleasure that snarls along with the muttering crowd. But there's a little of my blood on his wimpy knuckles, and he's standing puppy-huddled like he's under a helicopter search light, and he's radiating heartbreak and confusion the way you can tell some people are drunk even when they're just sitting quietly, and Lola is holding my hand, and I try to get my zipping kaleidoscope thoughts to line up into words.
They get away from me, though. They just sizzle and sway around my body, lodging somewhere in the small of my back, or in the sole of my foot.
I don't know what I would have said anyway. Sorry I stole your girlfriend sort of by accident? Sorry my face got in the way of your desperate hopeless rage? Sorry everyone thinks you're a jerk now? Sorry I'm actually the jerk but no one will think so because you hit me and that makes me a hero, kind of? Sorry Lola will kiss the cut on my cheek to make it better?
I really am sorry. All of me except the palm I'm sharing with Lola. That part's electric lemon happy.
He's shrinking like an octopus, withdrawing into a secret hole in the universe. But I can feel him, I know he's going to run from the crowd, about to try to outdistance Lola's scorn. I know because I'm him. Seeing Lola with Dustin and James and Heather and Luke and all the others, I was tired and wounded and vicious and weak, like him.
His eyes flick around, as harsh and afraid as gunshots, looking for a gap in the closing mob. They meet mine for just the skin of a second, and I'm so sorry that my whole body shakes like a struck wineglass, high and singing and sad. There's nothing much in his eyes besides an animal fear. He's got that air of cat sorrow - a furtive, flinching shame and anger.
And then he's diving away, and the crowd starts to smear after him, and a noise happens at my mouth.
"Stop."
Heads turn. Eyes stick me with needle stares. Lola's hand tightens on mine.
There's a long moment of nothing.
And then we all remember that we're at a concert, drinking expensive cheap beer, our feet getting sore, our voices getting hoarse from singing along to our favorite songs. Needles recede.
Just like that, everyone forgets the time that one guy punched that girl.
Except me, the lightning lemon feeling spreading up my arm and into my ribcage and down my spine and into my brain.
Except Lola, soft and tempting and dangerous beautiful.
Except Dustin, brokenheartboned and bloody-knuckled.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
The Joke
What's black and white and red all over?
Your face after I punched it because you kissed Suzy Flanders behind the bleachers at the Homecoming Game. You thought I wouldn't be there because I don't like sports, but you forgot all about my big sister in the marching band. Ba-da-le-da ba-da-da-da-da dum dum went the drumline. Pow! went my fist, all comic-book loud and vibrant, straight into your formerly-perfect nose. I bruised my knuckles, but as the blood dripped over your lips I knew it was worth it. You became nothing more than a punchline, and my broken heart hurt a little bit less.
Your face after I punched it because you kissed Suzy Flanders behind the bleachers at the Homecoming Game. You thought I wouldn't be there because I don't like sports, but you forgot all about my big sister in the marching band. Ba-da-le-da ba-da-da-da-da dum dum went the drumline. Pow! went my fist, all comic-book loud and vibrant, straight into your formerly-perfect nose. I bruised my knuckles, but as the blood dripped over your lips I knew it was worth it. You became nothing more than a punchline, and my broken heart hurt a little bit less.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Palette
Red. White. Black.
These are Snow White's colors. Even idiots know that.
But what if on the day the Evil Queen was getting ready to put her devilish plan in motion, the only apple that her minions could find was a Granny Smith? And despite her yelling and threatening and then actually turning people into mice, she was stuck with a green apple?
People with black hair do not look good next to that shade of green. Snow White would look washed out and sickly.
She would have to be blonde, and probably tan as well.
The palette would be spring instead of winter. Snow White collapsing on the beach while the dwarves are off at their beach volleyball game.
It would throw everything off. The story would be ruined. Tiny, raven-haired children would be denied their only role model. The fairy tale world would collapse.
Next time, the Evil Queen should plan ahead, make sure she can get a Red Delicious. She knows the importance of color.
These are Snow White's colors. Even idiots know that.
But what if on the day the Evil Queen was getting ready to put her devilish plan in motion, the only apple that her minions could find was a Granny Smith? And despite her yelling and threatening and then actually turning people into mice, she was stuck with a green apple?
People with black hair do not look good next to that shade of green. Snow White would look washed out and sickly.
She would have to be blonde, and probably tan as well.
The palette would be spring instead of winter. Snow White collapsing on the beach while the dwarves are off at their beach volleyball game.
It would throw everything off. The story would be ruined. Tiny, raven-haired children would be denied their only role model. The fairy tale world would collapse.
Next time, the Evil Queen should plan ahead, make sure she can get a Red Delicious. She knows the importance of color.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Red Delicious
Darcie talked big. She loved attention, loved surprising people, loved riling up the haters.
She was shaped like an apple. Perfectly round, with little skinny legs and soft skinny arms. A pretty face perched on top of a happy-pumpkin-body. The kind of body you expect to see wrapped in a cheesy holiday-themed vest, teaching kindergartners. The kind of body you expect to see pushing the beverage cart down the aisle on one of the cheaper airlines.
But Darcie started fights in bars, laughing pink-cheeked and reckless at the mayhem. Darcie made jaded men blush. Darcie won Amateur Night competitions at the local strip club, Jugs. Darcie was shaped like an apple, all right - the apple that started all sin.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Die Young
Clarice looked at the next question on the career test:
27) Imagine you lived in a glass house. What sort of landscape would you prefer to see outside your windows?
A) Streets
B) Fields
C) Skyscrapers
D) Castles
E) Sea
F) Sky
What the hell kind of a question is that? First of all, streets and skyscrapers and castles aren't exactly landscapes. They are built upon land--by definition, not part of the land. Sea and sky aren't really land, either. Is this a trick question? Are you supposed to say "fields" because it's the only actual type of landscape in the list?
And what do landscapes have to do with potential careers anyway? If she selects B, does that mean she'd make a good farmer? If she selects C, should she become a Wall Street tycoon? Hell no. Clarice hopes the test isn't that transparent, but she wouldn't be surprised. For all their big talk, adults are fucking dumb.
Where's "dirt" on this list?
G) Dirt
That's what she'd select if she could. All Clarice wants to do is graduate from high school, move to a big city and end her life in some glamorous way, like a heroin overdose or slit wrists. She doesn't want to have a career at all. She doesn't want to grow old and tired and pathetic.
She selects C, since cities are the best place to die young.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
So it begins....
He liked to climb tall buildings.
Ascending slowly, flight by flight, each step an effort, his
lungs burning, thighs straining against the exertion, forcing himself to stop at
each landing to catch his breath. He liked the struggle, the slow plod upwards towards
the summit. The climb allowed him to forget his small life, how insignificant
he was to everyone around him.
When he got to the top, he would stand there, wheezy and
full of phlegm, gazing out on whatever landscape there was. Streets, fields,
skyscrapers, castle, sea, sky, it didn’t matter. It was the height he craved,
the perspective. At the top, everything made sense.
He wasn’t the man he normally was, translucent with silence
and doubt.
He was Alexander, weeping because there were no more worlds
to conquer.
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