The Postmodernists

Sadness

2008-07-17T02:07:00.005-05:00

water stops
now and then
to collect thoughts
and things
dropped in passing

Breathe

2008-07-17T02:00:00.004-05:00

a lost watch
keeps time still
even as
creation
consumes
its creator

Dawn Beckons

2008-04-03T11:56:00.004-05:00

the query
captured from rooftop
slowly unfurls
to fall freely
and gather
rearranged

When

2008-03-24T05:26:00.005-05:00

It is now two and a half years since I left the United States. I write stories when I have time, grow older because there is nothing better to do, and spend the rest of my time reading or thinking or doing those bothersome chores which I try desperately to avoid. In two days I will be twenty six and this means nothing to me. I would not call myself an optimist, but I never would have anyway. The dreamer is dead, and that leaves only a pragmatist, and no one really cares what he thinks. In the back of my mind I still wonder, but I no longer allow that part to dream. What sense is there in forsaking what my mind knows for what my heart feels?

A few things for those who would like to know:

I submitted a few stories to two online magazines and await their reply. It's the first time, hopefully not the last.

The novel is moving along, though still slowly.

I'm considering extending a short story about an old man into a novella.

My newest short story in development is about zoos and animals, and people tend to like these things.

Straight Talking

2008-03-05T19:00:00.005-06:00

I'm gonna be honest with you, there's a lot to do here and we've gotta figure out exactly what's worth doing, and what's not. Now I don't want to take you by surprise on this, and I hope you'll forgive me for being a little direct, but where I come from we don't waste time by tip-toeing around the issue, otherwise nothing would ever get done. That's the problem nowadays, people want to just mozy on about their business without ever touching on the real problem - I guess they fear it would be a bit uncomfortable. Maybe that's why people find me such a difficult person to talk with, I don't operate like that. If I see something I don't like, I'm gonna pounce upon it and get right down to it. There ain't much sense wasting time otherwise.

Does he always talk like this?

Only when he's drunk or self-righteous.

Beyond The Great Wall

2008-02-22T14:55:00.002-06:00

No sooner had the workers completed the monstrosity, than people felt inclined to move past it.

Retribution For A Day Gone Horribly Wrong (Part 2)

2008-02-21T04:30:00.008-06:00

Too little sleep and too much coffee are apparently the necessary ingredients for a shitty mood. That and menstruation. Or so I hear. Personally, I find it best to avoid the subject altogether.

Retribution For A Day Gone Horribly Wrong (Part 1)

2008-02-21T01:42:00.008-06:00

fuck you miles davis
empty your spit valve

Writing

2008-02-05T00:20:00.002-06:00

It is simply one word before another until the point is made.

Children Of Sea And Basin

2007-08-10T05:30:00.000-05:00

unnamed ships
never dock
nor come to bay
leave by shadow
like moonlit bottles
unwashed
unresting
despairing
shamed
hurried past
disparate shores
though wandering
with aim

Black, White and Brown

2007-07-13T21:17:00.000-05:00

The crowd surged forward, pushing up from all sides, pulling with a sway, a rhythm. They were truck drivers, school teachers, fast-food and government workers. Hurting families, single parents, alcoholics and drug addicts. A common purpose and need drove them, rising in a fragrance of sweat and desire. Some danced, some sang, some just came to see why.

It looked like rain but no one cared.

The whole scene felt like a tent revival, a circus sideshow, a melodious carnival filling the air with a sense of hope. There were children, parents, grandparents. Christians, Muslims, Hindus and Jews. Black, white and brown mingled together like a handful of earth in a child's hands.

Banners waved above the singsong chants and scatter step walk. Hands clenched together stretching along divided streets around bends and curves. Traffic stopped. School children rode alongside on bikes, running to the front and back for a glimpse of what was happening.

They had marched their way out of the ghettos and projects, low-income housing districts and government housing, up though the boulevards, out of the city, and into the suburbs. From the windows of cookie cutter houses, wide eyes peered out trembling with fear from misunderstanding. The police had come long before, attempting to redirect their route. But the crowd passed by, walking on in peace.

"Hey, Reyes, I think I see your cousin." Officer Randolph Philips yelled to his partner.

"Fuck you, Randy."

"Really though, you ever wonder if anyone you know is in one of these?"

Officer Martin Reyes looked out into the crowd. He saw their faces, but looked past their joy to a pointless purpose. An elderly woman and her grand-daughter passed by. He envisioned the image in the corner of a pompous, left-wing newspaper emblazoned with words like a life insurance ad, HOPE FOR TOMORROW.

"Hey, you okay over there?"

"Yeah, just thinking."

Officers Reyes and Philips watched the crowd move on, lifted the barricades, and proceeded to the next point. In the car, Randolph resumed, "So what do you think this is all about anyway?"

"Same old shit. We're poor. We're neglected. They have what we don't."

Officer Philips laughed and said, "Damn man, no sympathy vote?"

"Look. I'm all about a person getting ahead. But you've got to fucking work at it. You can't just expect people to lie down and let you get what you want. My mother was a single mother raising four goddamn kids. She never asked for handouts."

"Chill, just trying to make small talk. This might be the shittiest job we've had, babysitting the inner city."

"But that's what I'm saying. Nothings being done here. It's a bunch of lazy fucks mucking up traffic so they can get on TV and bitch about being poor."

"Look man," said Officer Philips before being cut off.

"No, you look. These people are being force fed a bunch of bullshit. Pity us, look at us. Well, here we are. And we see a bunch of slackers wearing FUBU and Hilfiger waving banners around about reparations, reputations, or whatever. You want to talk about poor? Go to fucking Africa, Vietnam, Columbia. You'll see poor. People drinking water from the same hole they shit in. These people bitch about wiping with one-ply when their neighbors got Charmin."

"Alright, I get your point. Calm down. Leave the anger to outside."

The crowd was angry. But they were not violent. It was the anger that wells up inside a person from being looked down upon, cast off, set aside as though inferior. It was the anger that inspires a person to stand up, get out and make their voice heard. The anger was healthy and it breathed a tension that needed release, required an answer. And so they walked on.

When they finally came to rest, the crowd was at the top of a hill in Evermeadow Park overlooking the suburbs and the city. In a final act of preparation, someone had arranged a makeshift stage of shipping crates and plywood. On top stood a podium, a mike, and a couple of speakers. Off to the side a small generator hummed and sparked the stage to life as the crowd gathered round, finding their place amongst the field and trees and street.

"Now that's nigger riggin' if I've ever seen it," said Officer Philips. "Ten bucks says that if we ran those serials they'd turn up stolen."

Officer Reyes looked to Philips but did not respond. He felt bitter, cold, strange and out of place. As he worked to set up the barriers around the park, the words repeated in his head. He heard in Philips another voice, prejudice disguided as jest. It was moderate at best, but somehow that made it even worse.

"How many people you think are out here?" Officer Philips asked.

"Who knows?"

Some said there were hundreds, others thousands, tens of thousands, standing together as one. They had grown as they came and rested in harmony awaiting the words of another amongst them.

From the heart of the crowd a man moved forward with a simple disposition. His walk was matter-of-fact. His face filled with immense joy and purpose. And his heart raced with a sizeable thunder that seemed to leap out before him like an advancing guard. The crowd parted as he walked, making way for their spokesman, thier prophet, thier voice.

Stepping up to the podium, he looked out across the vastitude and smiled.

"Look at this guy, some MLK wannabe," said Officer Philips, squinting his eyes for a better look.

He was neither young, nor old. He was not a politician, though his words traveled with moral climate beyond the weathered masses to the doorsteps of justice. For when he spoke it was like honey. When he yelled it was like thunder.

As he breathed to speak, the crowd died down and all that could be heard was the slow hum of the generator. Officer Reyes leaned over the barricade with an odd sense of expectation.

"Brothers and Sisters, Mothers and Fathers, today you have joined in a march that began at the dawn of civilization. We stand gathered here not as an angry mob, but as a nation in need. This is not an invasion, but an invitation. An invitation to take part in the most significant advancement in the history of our great nation.

The crowd responded with applause and cheers.

"We live in a time of great responsibility, faced with many challenges. Our greatest enemies are not those with guns or weapons of mass destruction. Our greatest enemies are apathy, fear, and distrust.

Applause.

"These sentiments are being spread through every medium conceivable. They are fed like sugar to our young, our children. They are fed to us like sweet wine which devours from within.

From the crowd came Yes and Amen.

"From these sentiments come their fruits, which are the continuation of our mutual disassociation; unspoken segregation and racial prejudices.

"Are we a nation united beneath the banners of freedom and opportunity? Or are we divided along lines of race, religion, and income?

"Sisters, Brothers, Mothers, Fathers, we are a nation in constant transition. We choose to embrace our cultural evolution, to encourage its development in benefit to all, or else be devoured in its wake.

Yes. Amen.

"The search for equality begins today in the way in which we view one another. For what is most evident, is the separation amongst the poor according to the color of our own skin. We must be diligent in our pursuit of justice, to remove the dividing lines which separate us. We must remind ourselves, that poverty and injustice are not limited to one race, one sect, one color. We must remind ourselves that happiness is not equated to wealth.

An uproar. The man stepped closer to the mike, his voice rising.

"The health of a nation must not be measured by the wealth of its rich, but by the opportunity of its poor.

Louder. Yes. Amen.

"We must no longer allow the banners of freedom and democracy to be waved as excuses for terror and tyranny.

"There are those who have robbed our nation of its rights, who have plundered our great nation's trust in the pursuit of greed, who have squandered our children's inheritance as they pillage our neighbor's.

The response from the crowd was deafening.

"If we are to save our nation, then we must not be afraid. WE MUST STAND!

He was yelling now. The sound of his voice boomed from his lips, beyond the mike, beyond the speakers, beyond the crowd and down into the city.

"Here we go," said Officer Philips, "it's I have a dream all over again."

"Shut the fuck up, Randy."

"WE MUST STAND for a nation that will not pawn off its young in expense for its fears!

YES! AMEN!

"WE MUST STAND in defense of our freedoms and liberties, our hopes and our dreams!

"WE MUST STAND in affront to leaders that lie, cheat and steal in support of those which do the same!

And for a moment it was as though heaven and earth stood still, as he paused and came forward one last time to the mike. His voice still booming, though settled from its thunder. Officer Reyes leaned even further trying not to miss a word.

"Mothers, Fathers, Sisters, Brothers, we seek not charity but change. We aspire to virtue in the stead of violence. And as we continue on this march, as it has continued before us, we must not denigrate our goals by succumbing to violent whims. Though the axe may fall at our necks, we must stand firm in our benevolence, lest we justify...

Silence.

The man had been blown back from the mike as though thrust by the hand of God.

At first no one moved, no one spoke. Then, with eyes wide and hands outstretched, fear surged through the crowd like a shockwave. Screaming, yelling, falling, running, the crowd broke apart and trampled its hopes beneath its retreat. Mothers clutched children to their breasts. Men scrambled over each other to escape their darkest fear.

"Holy Fuck!" yelled Officer Philips. "Reyes, call for backup."

But Officer Martin Reyes could not hear him. He was already running toward the center, the apex. His heart racing, his mind ablaze with protocol and procedure. When the shot had been fired he bolted from his position, scanning the horizon in search of a gun, a glimpse, a glimmer of a face that might be responsible.

No one heard the shot. No one saw where it came from.

When he finally came to the podium, Officer martin Reyes found that not one single person had stopped ot help the man. He kneeled beside him, boots resting in blood as he looked about to ensure that they were safe. A second later he pressed his hand against the wound to stop the bleeding, but blood kept pouring out, pumping between his fingers onto the earth below.

The man's eyes were full of fear and pain, face flush, lips red with his own blood. Arms outstretched and lifeless, he looked to Officer Reyes and smiled. "It's okay, Brother. They can't kill hope."

On the news that evening the entire broadcast was focused on the death, MAN SHOT DURING SPEECH.

But there would be no discussion on the breadth of his actions. No discourse concerning his unifying words. At most, the crowd was reduced to images their flight, his importance limited to the odd circumstances of his death.

That night Officer martin Reyes sat in bed unable to sleep, watching footage and memories blend as he wept for reasons unknown.

Across town, Officer Randolf Philips hugged his wife, tucked his children into bed, and drank a bottle of beer.

And as darkness settled over the city, shadow reclaimed the light of dreams, for there would be no justice; the poor would be poor, divided and uncertain, hidden beneath dim, lit streets as death walks amongst them.

In Pursuit Of Truth

2007-07-13T20:54:00.000-05:00

what do you believe
in
if not in god
pursuit
where is comfort
of truth
if not his
the question
who proclaims
must be asked
I am
with the purpose
holy
not to be right
now
but to be challenged

The Craft

2007-06-27T23:06:00.000-05:00

I dig deep into buried past to draw out tempestuous memories, dark lined dreams and mysteries, like old friends without introduction, though these be unwelcome, cluttering spaces with exposed wanton, cobwebbed corners of untouched time, revealed by harsh light, reflecting from puissant mind, mine those tortured hallows, idle days of fictitious revelation, of delusional discovery, from which I'm still recovering, continually overturning, whilst learning new methods, ways distinguishing truth from lies, eyes betrayed by ghosts in mirrors, ever clearer through constant scrutiny, that self-deception creates frightening enmity, between two halves of sides aligned, formed divide, and hopes revealed in script and character, creation's painful labor, thought to reality, inspiring hearts in trepidation, as hand crafts stories bold from flesh and sinew and bared bones.

The Testament

2007-06-19T21:23:00.000-05:00

pull out the propositions
statues of limitations
listless and irritated
faceless yet imitated
powerless
profane
projecting from parchment
black on white
to men
to women
to kids
to
this
the mind
synapses
fired
impulses
rewired
cooperation
required
even if
uninspired
product of repetition
collective indecision
culture from collusion
from pen
to paper
to product

The Graduates

2007-06-12T17:26:00.001-05:00

white wash
stone face
street dead
silent

bourgeois meat
daily served
requests filled
directly

mexican men
african girls
indian food
discreetly

packaged new
resale class
highest bid
rising

cold eyes
dug deep
black face
mine

The Mountain

2007-06-04T18:07:00.000-05:00

Faith sits and turns and listens to the wind lift along piano strings. From first to last, fourth to fifth, all or none, or one. Like steam from her tea the notes rise in lines of key and color twisting weightless in the air. And for a moment she is drawn into the aural and aromatic storm, lemon from tea, pine from walls, fireplace and piano shimmering in chromatic dissonance. Taken back to a time and place where brushstrokes created tension, emotion, and perspective, she falls into paint and looks down along lines where once was meets what is.

In that instance she is a mountain cradling two young lovers, cupping her hands to hold the waters they sit by. Her eyes become setting sun, her breath like wind and wishes to draw the two together. And yet, try as she might to change her view and reflect upon their faces, the faint remembered joy is washed over in shadow as the wind and room which drew her there pull her back once more.

Gripping the arms of her rocking chair, Faith traces the intricate valleys carved by her father’s hands, smoothed over by time and the oils of her fingers. The rocking chair moans in support as she rises, swaying as she walks to the window and breathes a heavy sigh. In the condensation she draws her index finger along the canyon rim, the last line of light and first shadows rise. Her own eyes stare back in reflection. And through the milky pane Faith watches the frozen mist pass through the aspen leaves as sky turns red and sun sets behind the cottage.

“Hello, old friend.”

The wind and mist rise.

“No, no. Don’t get excited.”

Air calls through rafters, floorboards, and strings.

“Shh... If you quiet down I’ll sing for you.”

In the stillness that follows there is only the sound of her breathing, soft and rhythmic, and the crackle of fire that jumps and glows like dusk. “Well then,” she whispers, moving to the piano.

In an act of spontaneity Faith spins beside the old upright, giddy and ungraceful, nearly stumbling over the stool. Balancing herself with a hand upon the key guard she laughs. Then sitting down upon the stool she attempts composure as images of her foolishness replay and prompt more giggling.

The wind starts.

“Okay,” she says. “Hold your horses.”

Brushing her thin nightgown, Faith lifts the key guard and readies herself to play. The ivory keys and brass pedals are cold to the shock of her fingers and the balls of her bare feet. But Faith is not easily dissuaded.

With her left hand she begins the piece, a broken arpeggio walking the rhythm, setting the tone. She hums to the key and warms her voice while peering outside for inspiration. The land is steeped in shadow, and the light from the fire fades into pines and aspens beyond her window. She recalls things that have been lost along the way, the pieces that fall in stride, unnoticed but recalled later, the faces and names that lay in the wake of our path.

Then with her right hand she sweeps into the chords, complementing with counter rhythm and familiarity of the space, the keys, the mahogany that as a child she would look into for long passing moments, searching for patterns amidst the dark wood grain. Sound fills the room, amplifying the warmth as it reflects and soaks into wooden walls, the light of the fireplace dancing, the rocking chair unmoving. And with a voice that projects much larger than her tiny frame suggests, she begins to sing.

I’ll become like rain
and wash your broken bones
to find that which I’ve lost
the ash
the space
we shared
you made

Soon you’ll call my name
still written on the stones
though hid beneath a storm
the last
the place
we shared
you made

Striking keys she brings the piece into its chorus, staccato beats like marching drums, as the room quakes and her voice trembles. Faith closes her eyes to the room, the window, the wind and the fire. And allows the chorus to speak through her.

Sound, the trumpets brightly
Watch, the storm that’s growing
Feel, the hour is coming
when I’ll lay my hand upon your
Face, the winds I’m sending
Home, the place you made we
Love
that burns
that falls
and fell
into
our
Hearts, the place you made we

The last word is lost in a cacophony of sound as Faith whispers beneath the final chord and wind erupts from beneath her feet and overhead, teasing the flames and the hem of her gown, threatening to draw up the floorboards, overturn the rocking chair, and cast the roof into the night. And Faith, wrapped in her delightful whirlwind, laughs and smiles, taking a bow before her imagined audience, and is carried away in the joy of it all, beyond the canyon rim, through the golden aspen leaves and evergreen pines, over the rivers and plains and forests, into the heart and moment of a young girl placing a timid finger upon a piano key.

The Author

2006-12-19T23:54:00.000-06:00

Placing his head within his own hands, the Author wept and cried, "Everything I create is always lesser than what is."

He touched the paper and tears bled with ink.

I have shed nothing, he thought, but this is shed for me.

The Backpacker

2006-06-26T09:45:00.000-05:00

Once, as a backpacking guide in Colorado, I had the unfortunate experience of watching strep throat sweep through our camp. We were a small, tightly knit group of guides and support staff, and worked hard to maintain health within the community. Whenever someone did get sick, they were usually confined to their room and had limited contact with the others. As well, the rest of the community was put on alert and given strict instructions; sing happy birthday twice while washing your hands thoroughly. Despite the precautions, I woke early one morning to find my throat clenched tightly about itself and burning with fury.

A handful of antibiotics.

Go to bed.

Don't come out till you feel better.

I spent the next few days drinking lots of water and eating soup in bed. Not long after, the antibiotics took effect and I began to feel better. Within the week I was healthy again and ready to go back out on the trail.

Our route that week was a long trek through a rising valley, lined by a shallow creek that would eventually feed the Rio Grande. In early summer, one could see the snow atop the peaks, which would melt and slowly gather in hopes of pouring out into the Gulf of Mexico. Of course, due to dams and irrigation, the waters no longer reach the Gulf. Instead they are mainly shed by evaporation as they rest atop the harsh earth of the southwest in fields or behind dams. The water which does reach the Gulf, mainly rain or spring water from Mexico and Texas, is reduced to a slow polluted trickle which at times never reaches its end.

Yet, whatever may dam the waters which flow, it is always refreshing to find them at their source. To take young boys into the mountains, where they are reminded that life can be much simpler and compact, where they are filled with the awe of their own manhood, is to create moments which are fashioned as mountains weathered only by God Himself. And that was our destination, the Source Itself, where the air became thin and the thick trees were left deep in the valley below.

From the very beginning, my guide partner, Allen, and I kept a strong watch over the boys, making sure that their health was always in mind. From time to time we would hear a grumble or complaint, but never anything that would give us a cause for great concern. In fact, we made good progress, and, nearing the base before our peak, we stopped beside a series of pools and falls, and allowed them some time to rest and play within the mountains care.

As we paused, I began to feel a surge of pain within my right ear. I knelt down with my hand clutched against it, informed Allen of the situation, and decided to radio in to the camp for more experienced advice.

A handful of pain relievers.

That night I laid down with my ear towards the ground, hoping that whatever was creating the pain would slip out in my sleep. The stars above danced freely about the darkness, uninhibited by manmade lights. Trying to think of anything beyond the present pain, I traced the paths of satellites amidst the dim colors of distant planets and became a child in the cradle of the valley.

The following morning I rose to the bright white of moonlight, direct from its source as well as that which cascaded off the snow capped peaks surrounding our camp. The trees and tundra on which we slept were all filled with an ambient gray-light which illuminated our gear and bags. It was early, as it had to be in order that our group might ascend the rising wall before us and be at the peak near sunrise. Always sluggish in the morning, I shook the sleep from my eyes, and did a few sit-ups in my bag to get my blood flowing again. I felt the pressure on my ear building again, and took a few more painkillers.

Though I was sluggish, the boys were even slower getting moving. It took quite a bit of encouragement, and a few choice words, to get them ready. By the time we started moving, the amber glow of a rising sun was building itself behind the divide. Allen and I took note, and pushed our group to get moving quickly.

Our ascent was slow and tedious, hampered by the thick brush that grows about the base of peaks, and the faded trail, which at times disappeared beneath our feet. Eventually though, we reached a gentle sloping plateau overlooking a high lake before our final approach. Spirits were high, though tired, and most of the boys teemed with excitement of seeing the top. Toward the back however, one of the boys, Dan, a kind-spirited boy with dark curly hair, began to complain of headache.

“A little further. We’ll be quick, then turn around and head down. Stick with us.”

Dropping our packs near the main trail, we moved up toward the peak together. Small patches of yellow flowers, which had just begun to come forth in the late spring of Summer mountains, surrounded the melting patches of snow that laid about our path. Dan, still complaining of pain, became the point of reference for the group as I moved him to the front to walk with Allen. We would reach the top as one or not at all.

The group moved forward with one step after another. Occasionally the boys would see what they believed to be our destination and push harder, only to find that they had experienced what we commonly called a false peak; an illusion created by the mountain’s shifting slope. Regardless, they continued their march until we eventually spotted the cairn that marked our goal.

“Steady, Dan. A few more paces and you’ll see what all of this effort has been for.”

In the final steps of our ascent the mountain dropped from our view and revealed the expanse of the Earth. The mountains stretched far beyond the limits of the eye as sun and sky swirled in motion and color. Before us, a vertical drop of some one thousand feet descended into a valley which would send its waters to the Pacific Ocean. Behind us, the spotted trails and rocky waters which hoped to find the Atlantic. For a moment we saw the hand of God upon the Earth and waters, rising and dividing them in his grasp. And in it everything was in perfection.

Our first sign of trouble rose from behind the ridge standing opposite our view. A large darkened plume billowed its way toward the sky as distant thunder signaled the birth of a storm. We were high, far from tree-line, and would have to cut our celebration short if we were to beat the coming storm. I called to Allen to confer with him on our situation.

“Looks like we’re gonna have to get going. You heard that right?”

“Yeah. This isn’t exactly what we’d hoped for. Probably should have tried to make better... Hey, where’s Dan?”

I spun around and searched the group for Dan’s wild hair. Not seeing anything, I looked beyond them to the patches of yellow flowers and snow. Dan was walking slowly back down the mountain with labored steps wavering to and fro about the path. It appeared as though he were having a hard time deciding where to step as there was no apparent trail to guide him. I turned to Allen.

"Gather the boys. I'm going to run down to Dan. Be ready to take out the radio and call in. First things first, keep the boys calm. We need to get off this peak, but we don't need them getting too worked up."

Louder and closer than before, another rumble of thunder sounded in the distance startling the boys. I headed down the peak, running, yet careful to not lose footing amidst the mixed earth of tundra, snow, and loose rock. By the time I got to Dan he was sitting on the ground crying with his head in his hands.

As I placed my hand upon his shoulder Dan turned around. His face was flush and his eyes were a glossy black surrounded by dark circles. Pressing two fingers against his wrist I found his pulse to be rapid and bounding, while watching his short and labored breaths. Lifting him to his feet, I began to ask a few routine questions.

“What’s your name?”

“Dan.”

“Where are you?”

“I... I don’t know. The flowers... so many flowers. Pretty flowers.”

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know. I want to sleep.”

I turned around to see Allen and the boys coming quickly off the peak. All of them were watching Dan and me, a few with fear in their faces. In the meantime, Dan had decided that the flowers were his primary concern and began picking a few at his feet.

“Pretty flowers. Look, they’re everywhere.”

“You’re right, Dan. You know, I’ve heard that there’re even prettier flowers down there. Come on, let’s get going.”

“Wait,” he said, reaching to grab another handful in the awkward uncoordinated swoop of his hand.

My mind was rushed. I needed to make a formal assessment, but with his present condition and the rapid degradation of the weather I made the decision to get him lower, and quick. Grabbing a flower, I placed it in his hand and then threw it over my shoulder. We moved slowly down the mountain, myself asking the repetitive questions as he occasionally spoke of pretty flowers and tried to reach for more.

Not long after we started moving Allen and the boys caught up to us. With no way to satiate their worried expressions, I told them the gravity of our situation. We would have to get down quickly, for Dan’s sake, as well as for the sake of the group. With Allen walking beside me, I brought him up to date with as much information as I could give him, and sent him and the boys ahead to gather the packs. While they worked, Allen radioed base camp and relayed the pertinent information.

Male.

Age 17.

A and O times 1.

Short, labored breath.

Rapid, bounding pulse.

Skin, pale and clammy.

Possible HACE.

Storm coming.

Moving down.

Over.

By the time Dan and I reached the boys they had divided our packs amongst themselves and were ready to move. We headed back down the trail to a split which had led us to our peak. Stopping near the cairn which marked the fork, I told Allen to have the boys spread out and head quickly for tree-line. At this point the clouds were directly overhead, a barrage of thunder sounding throughout the range as rain fell amidst the bright electric flash in our periphery. Regardless our tendencies, this was a situation in which we would have to presume the worst. Should lightning have struck, and we were huddled together in the open air of high altitude, there would have been no one left to save the rest.

At this point my memory becomes muddy in the rapid succession of events which unfolded before me. I remember watching Allen and the boys move down the trail in a disparate line marked by varying lengths of separation. I remember talking to Dan, the repeated questions and odd responses, shadowed by dark clouds flowing black and green as arcs of white light snaked their way to the ridge above. I remember seeing the line disappear into the valley below as I prayed to God. Amidst the chaos though, I recall the procedures which had been ingrained into us during our training, which, despite our mistakes or lack of faith, would prove to be the life-line of our trip.

In the end, my most vivid memory is that of coming upon the group sitting atop their pack chairs and spread amidst the first line of forest. By then the clouds had begun to break and blue sky could be seen trying to peek through. Dan had begun to come around, still slightly disoriented, but making progress as his breathing eased and his pulse steadied. Once again, Allen radioed base camp relaying Dan’s vitals and our position. By the time I gathered my pack and the boys were ready Dan was alert, and, though considerably weakened, able to walk on his own accord.

We moved deeper into the valley, beyond the landslide which had fallen since the last geological survey. Rocks had spilled into the valley, blocking the flow of the creek, and created a small lake. With time, the scar would heal and become indistinguishable from the rest, but for now it stood as a reminder of the immense force held within mountain walls.

Not far beyond the rock fall we spotted a level patch of green mountain grass up from the trail. We told the boys to make camp as Allen and I conferred upon the days events. Once the tents were up, we had Dan take out his sleeping gear and lay down. He fell asleep immediately.

Allen and I prepared the boys lunch as the sun came into view and played within the moving clouds. While the water boiled, I felt the pain in my ear surge again and took some more painkillers. This time however, the pain did not subside. Instead, it grew to the point of a piercing sensation, as though the Devil himself were pushing an iron rod within. My eyes began to water and my stomach turned. Allen took note and radioed in.

Having been with us through the events of the day, base camp was somewhat surprised at the change of our situation. After filling them in on Dan’s improved status, Allen handed the radio to me. I told them what I knew. It hurt like hell. We discussed a few options, but in the end they decided that I should come in that day and see a doctor the following. I was crushed.

After handing the community gear to Allen, a med pack and some rope, I had the boys circle up. I told them what was going on, that I had to head in, and that I would see them in camp. I could see in their eyes the odd confusion that comes when one of the people you have looked to for solace in difficult times becomes frail. After a few hugs and some words farewell, I turned and moved toward the end of our trail.

We had come a long way that day, but still there were a few miles between our camp and the trailhead. With each step the pain in my ear flared and reminded me why I was leaving. My walk was long and lonely, but inevitably led me to where I should be.

At the trailhead, I met Dale and the red four-dour F350 from base camp. Without much to say, I climbed into the truck, leaned back against the seat, and tried to rest despite the pain. The truck hugged the road as we twisted and wound our way past the Rio Grande Reservoir and back into the valley where our camp lay. I was greeted by a couple of the in-camp guides and the camp director.

A handful of pain relievers.

Try to sleep.

That night, my head buried in my pillow, the pain became so intense that none of the painkillers brought any relief. Unable to sleep, I consulted with one of the guide team leaders, yet came away without much more than a few kind words. Back in my room, I began to rock back and forth upon the floor as the pain seared its way through my head. Then, unexpectedly, I heard a loud pop, as fluid and blood began to pour out from within, followed by a momentary silence which quickly gave way to a monotonous ringing.

Later I would ride with Dale to Alamosa, nearly 100 miles away, to learn that my ear had burst due to a buildup of fluid caused by my unremittent case of strep throat. Of course, it had been my own carelessness, having not completed the entire cycle of antibiotics.

Thus, for nearly two months, I lived with almost no hearing from my right ear, and even longer with limited recognition because I had decided for myself when I was healthy.

In the end, I would remember this as the time when I stopped listening to God. Whether He ceased to speak or not, I cannot say, for I have since turned my deaf ear toward Him.

The Unicorn

2006-01-24T23:14:00.000-06:00

James approached the Unicorn and asked, "Have you ever heard of Science?"

Troubled, the Unicorn replied, "Yes, James. I know of Science. It is world unto it's own."

"Then tell me, Unicorn. I wish to know more."

"Only this, James. The trouble with building worlds is falling in love with the inhabitants."

The Doctor

2005-11-29T22:43:00.000-06:00

One day a doctor came across a woman lying naked in the street. Kneeling down to cover her with his cloak, he recognized wounds which needed attention and decided to carry her to his clinic. And so, he took her into his arms, and began to walk.

Along the way the doctor heard many passersby make comments towards him. At first they were mere whispers, but, as he moved closer to the clinic, their voices grew in severity.

"You! Why are you carrying that woman?"

"Because she was lying naked in the road and was in need of help," said the doctor.

"I have seen her before, she is a prostitute. Why bother?"

"Because she is a prostitute she is undeserving of help and love? If it were your daughter you would think differently. Yet because she seems to have no relation to you, you place guilt without remorse. Shame on you," said the doctor.

"Can you believe a man would disgrace himself by carrying a naked woman through the streets?"

"Disgrace? The only disgrace is that we can walk by someone naked in the street and do so much as to only avert our eyes," said the doctor.

Clouds overhead began to come closer and cast long thready shadows on the crowd of onlookers. The doctor kept moving, listening to their complaints, and thinking what a shame it was that not one person was willing to help him. And then it happened.

The woman awoke with such a jolt that the doctor nearly dropped her. He looked down and began to say something, but, before he could utter a word, she began to scream.

"LET ME GO!"

"Lady, I am a doctor. I found you naked and wounded in the street and have been carrying you to my clinic."

Again, she yelled, "LET ME GO! Don't touch me. I don't want anyone to touch me."

"Lady, please, allow me to at least clean your wounds. You will owe nothing."

At first, it appeared as though she would calm, yet when she saw the crowd she pushed away from him and landed in the street. Looking up she yelled, "WHY WOULD YOU BRING ME HERE?"

"Because this is where my clinic is."

"But these are the people who hurt me. They're all around me." Turning to the crowd she cried, "You wretched liars. Each one of you. I have listened enough to your deceit. I will no longer be your whore. I was told I would be a wife, but look what you have made me. YOU MADE ME THIS! Look, long and hard. Do you remember the words you spoke? Do you remember how you drew me to your bed? Do you remember how you left me, only to return and leave me again? DO YOU?"

The entire crowd moved back and became silent. Yet the doctor remained.

"Lady, it is apparent that these people have hurt you, but you must be attended to."

"And what do you suppose you can do for me," asked the woman.

"I have already told you, I can make you well. But the wounds on your body are not the only ones you have suffered. There is a wound upon your heart which must be healed as well."

"And how will you heal my heart?"

"Lady, you are a beautiful woman. You are deserving of much more than this crowd and what they have done, but you must be willing to forgive them. That is where healing of the heart begins."

"You say this as if it were easy."

"I do not pretend that it is easy, but it is what must be done. They are wounded too. The pain they inflicted was only a result of them casting their wounds upon someone else."

"Who are you that you can speak so easily of these things?"

"I am a man who has learned of healing through his own wounds. I live here, as a doctor, because there are many who are sick. It is through this understanding that I can speak to you."

The woman looked down at her own nakedness and began to cry, "You speak of things as though words were the solution to every problem."

"Lady, come with me. I will give you a new dress, good food, and a warm bed. I will clean and work your wounds and ask nothing more of you. But, for the sake of your heart, you must be willing to forgive these people."

"HAVE YOU HEARD NOTHING! THEY DID THIS TO ME!"

"Yes, I have heard, and I see with my own eyes the suffering of people ashamed of their wounds. And I will say this, to recognize the wound is only the first step. If we only see the wound and do nothing to clean it and allow it to heal, it will only become worse. This is simple medicine."

A young man came out of the crowd with tears in his eyes, shaking, undoubtedly full of pain. He moved slowly towards the woman and spoke, "Lady, I have seen those who have hurt you, and because of that I stand a witness. I am a tailor, and I will make you a dress."

A woman approached and spoke, "I am a baker, come take what you need."

The crowd began to come forward and speak.

"I am a farmer."

"I am a rancher."

"I am a banker."

Then a young boy came forward. His unkempt hair shook in the wind as he walked toward her with unwavering grace. He approached the woman, placed his head upon her shoulder, and rested a cup in her hand.

"You look thirsty," said the boy.

The woman looked up to the doctor and saw a man standing with presence and promise. Her heart shook with emotion as she contemplated the words he had spoken to her. Then, turning her head slowly, she looked to the people.

The Oasis

2005-11-07T06:11:00.001-06:00

The oasis stared towards the clear blue sky and reflected upon it. Not far from where he lay his three closest friends looked down on him shaking their heads. It had always been this way; blue sky, clear water, three shaking friends.

On common days the sun shone hot and the wind bore down upon his face causing small wakes to roll from shore to shore. However, upon occasion he would arise to the sound of distant winds. For a moment the sky would shout with glory from atop an unseen mountain announcing the arrival of rain. The oasis treasured these moments. In fact, he lived upon them from year to year.

Then, one year, the sky's voice did not come. While it was rare enough to hear its voice and feel its power, the oasis knew that this year was unusual. He began to feel himself withdraw from his companions but there was nothing he could do to stop it. As he did so their heads shook harder and harder, swaying with heated winds. But, alas, the oasis still retreated. As time went on he first lost the ability to touch them. Then, he lost sight of them. Eventually, he could no longer hear them. The oasis stared towards the relentless blue sky and questioned it. He heard no reply.

As days wore into weeks and months the oasis saw many travellers pass by. He began to lay dark and still, brooding as visitors would stop. When asked for a drink he would stare back in anger until the onlookers walked on. Embittered by his hopelessness, the oasis turned his eyes toward heaven and saw a small bird.

The little bird landed next to the oasis, and, as many before, asked for a drink.

"No," said the oasis.

"But why," asked the little bird.

"I am old and drying up," said the oasis. "Now please, leave me alone."

The little bird hopped about and seemed prepared to fly away when it turned and asked, "Why are you drying up?"

"The rains have not come in a long time and the sky refuses to speak," said the oasis.

"Ah," said the little bird. "There is your answer. You have recognized the sky as the one who replenishes you. But, there is a river which flows deep beneath you and rises to fill your shores. Search down within, you will find it. True, it is the sky who sends the rain to flow, but it is the spring which keeps you fresh."

The oasis searched within and spoke, "little bird, your words are true. You may drink from my shore, but I cannot assure you that it will be refreshing."

"Oasis," said the little bird, "you are not the only one who gives life."

With that the little bird dropped a seed on the shore and drank.

The Foreigners

2005-10-26T05:48:00.000-05:00

They had travelled half-way around the world to discover that their fears would always follow. Life was not any easier and waking up was only more difficult.

The King

2005-10-18T10:48:00.000-05:00

The Assyrian camel-trader eyed the Grecian spice-maker and said, "You know, your King really messed things up for everyone!"

"My King? It's not exactly like I had alot to do with it," said the spice maker.

Just then another Grecian walked up and shouted, "It would have been fine if he'd been able to finish the job!"

The Question

2005-10-18T10:09:00.000-05:00

The boy looked up to God and asked, "If you do not change, why must I?"

"Because," said God, "in the end, that difference will make you most like me."

The Darkness

2005-10-17T08:29:00.000-05:00

There once was a boy
who crawled in a cave
searching for a great treasure.

He hoped for a prize
of silver and diamonds;
wealth beyond any man's measure.

Standing prepared,
quite healthy and able,
he descended beyond the preceded.

But, in the end,
despite preparation,
his greed nearly had him defeated.

For far down below
he fell and he lost
the light which had led him thus safely.

There in the dark,
mind drifting away,
he swore he heard voices singing:

"All the day we fall and stray
hoping for the light of day.
Tender hands and softened knees,
reminders of our dread disease
which curses still our lives and dreams,
and leads us far from our sole needs."

The Wanderer

2005-06-15T17:37:00.000-05:00

The plough, made useless since the ass was sold, leaned against the tired wood shed. Reaching inside, the father withdrew an aged shovel; the head worn from rocks and hard earth. Passing the shovel to his ten year old son, he pressed back inside to reach past the last remnants of hope, five sacks of cornseed, and removed an iron hoe.

"Well boy, here's to preparing for next year."

Having no animals to alleviate the work, the father knew that they would, at best, only be able to prepare about an acre a day. Even then, preparation on the entire field would require three weeks of arduous labor leaving them hard pressed to complete it in time for the raining season. The father's eyes stayed on the horizon as faint glimpses of sunlight breached the distant line.

"Boy, uncover. We need to pray."

The son's grey weathered cap fell to his chest. His father began, "Lord, you know our task. You know our plight. We don't have need for much, but we could use some strength and time. Amen."

Arriving at their twenty acre plot the father bent to the ground and removed a handful of soil. Working the earth within his palm and between his fingers he looked towards his son and gave an approving nod. Early morning met the still sun as the boy attempted to break open earth while his father worked to create straight narrow rows for planting. As sweat beaded against the son's brow he asked his father, "Papa, when is Momma coming home?"

The father continued to work the earth attempting to hide his pain from the boy. Three years had passed since his wife left. It had been a hot summer day and all that remained of her existence, a small note: "I take leave my dear until further notice." He had never shared that with his sons. The result of her leaving placed his life in shambles. Bill surmounted, depression set in, and his soul ached from shame poured upon him by suspecting neighbors. Having avoided such questions for so long, he knew that he would eventually have to share the dilemma with his son.

"Boy, I don't believe your Momma is coming home."

Silence was the sole response. Placing his shovel once again upon the dry land, the boy watched a small tear fall from his eye, down to his hand, and trickle to the earth. For the boy it was not so much the news that was shocking, but the detachment of his father's response. Pulling back on the handle of the shovel he ran it again into the ground. With ever increasing ferocity he attacked the hardened soil in an attempt to control his growing rage. Then, with one gross pull of the handle, SNAP! The boy fell to his knees and began to scream, "WHY! WHY! WHAT DID YOU DO!"

"Boy, I myself have had no consolation but for a few words she left."

He reached into his shirt pocket and removed the worn page. Recounting the words to his son, he kneeled down beside him and placed his hand on his shoulder.

"I know that I have hurt you boy, and I don't despise you for crying. But we have to continue or else greater problems than those of the past are going to come. You might not understand that, but I need you to pick up what remains of that shovel and do what you can with it. I'll see if I can't fix it before sup tonight."

For the weeks that followed the boy said nothing to his father. Each morning they would rise, eat, pray, and work till dusk. The father counted nothing against his boy but asked the Lord to mend their brokenness. Then, early one morning, a black car drove down the long dusty road to their house.

"Boy, stay here."

The father approached the car, his hand shielding his eyes from the unnatural light. The boy watched as the side window on the sedan rolled down and his father leaned in to talk. Then, as abruptly as the car came, it drove off leaving a trail of dust rising towards late stars. When the father returned the boy asked no questions, the father gave no words. In familiar silence they walked towards the field.

Three days after the arrival of the black car the father and son finished their preparation work. The days that followed were marked by spreading of seed and covering. As the last day closed the father stood by his son and motioned that he would begin praying, "Lord, we've done the planting. We ask now that you would do the growing."

Six weeks after planting the crop the father stood upon sun baked earth looking for any sign of rain or clouds. Following the warm spring the sun had been relentless and the sky had brought forth nothing for the field. The father contemplated what he could possibly do, but the nearest creek beds were a mile away and dry. Reaching into his pocket he removed the tattered note left by his wife, knelt to the ground and buried it under the clay. He feared all hope was lost.

That afternoon the black car returned. The boy sat in the house as his father walked outside to talk with the hidden. After a few moments the father walked in and fell to the ground. With one hand on the wooden floor, and one on his chest, he began to weep loudly. Upon seeing his father cry, the boy walked to the place where his father knelt and laid upon him. Together they wept and embraced.

"I'm sorry Papa. I'm sorry I have hurt you."

"No, my son. You have not forsaken me. You have done nothing that I would not have expected. It is I that must apologize. I have lost everything son. There is nothing more I can do. Nothing."

The boy listened but did not understand. The words were clear but their meaning remained hidden to him. Slowly their weeping ended and they rose to sit at the small table. Three empty chairs, two bowls of boiled potatoes and a small loaf of bread awaited them. They ate in silence, neither having the words to comfort the other. After they were done, the boy looked to his father and asked, "Papa, shall we pray?"

"Son, I have no more words for the Lord. But, if He listens, may He know our pain and send comfort."

Days passed in quiet and disdain. One evening, as the boy gathered a small pail of water and a potato for dinner he noticed a man approaching on the road. Noticing that the man was still a long ways off, the boy walked towards the house to tell his father. Upon hearing the news the father stepped outside to watch the stranger. Even from afar it was clear that the man was a drifter. Hard times did not rest solely on their home.

After a few minutes the man came close enough for the father to gather a better judgment. The man's clothes were tattered, his hair matted against his head, no shoes were upon his feet and his only obvious possession was a satchel hanging from his shoulder. However, despite his immediate appearance the man appeared to be in good spirits. As he came within fifteen yards of the home the father called out, "This is private property. We ain't got no work."

"No worries, sir. I'm just passing through. I was hoping that I might be able to ask you for a place to lay down before I continue in the morn. I don't need much, and I promise to be of no consequence."

The boy moved in behind his father's legs and peered out towards the man. The father let out, "How do we no you ain't trouble?"

The boy looked up to his father. "Papa, who is he?"

"Sir, all I have is my word and what is within this satchel. And I assure you sir, neither will be used against you."

The father looked down to his son hoping for some response to the man's statement. Instead, the boy stared back with equal bewilderment. "Well stranger, there's a shed in back. You may need to move some things, but it should be sufficient."

The man gave a nod and walked around the back of the house. As the sun settled upon the horizon the father and his boy sat down at the table. They bowed their heads, but before the father could pray the son asked, "Father, should we offer that man something to eat?"

The father lifted his head and looked deep into the eyes of his son. They barely had enough to feed themselves, but he considered that the boy's heart was willing, so he obliged, "Yes, son. I'll go ask him if he is hungry."

The father walked around back of the house toward the shed. He approached the shed with utmost caution, and even considered turning back and telling his son that the man had politely refused. But, rather than allowing his fear to get the better of him, he pressed on. As he moved closer to the door he heard the man say, "Daddy, I ask that you would bless this man and his son. May you give them all that they need and return more in blessing than what they have given. Speak kindly to them tonight. Amen."

Waiting a moment, the father knocked upon the door to the shed, "Sir, would you care to join us for dinner?"

The door opened and the man peered out to the father, his eyes seeming to search for the cause of such kindness.

"Yes, I would love to join you and your son. But first, may I ask, shy is it that I see a plough but no animal to work it? Why is it that you have empty sacks of seed but no corn?"

"Stranger, you are a bold man, and you ask of me hard questions. We have fallen upon hard times. The ass I sold to buy the seed this winter, and the rains have not come to grow our crops. Worse still, my debts have amounted to a point that if the crops do not come, I will be forced to forclose by the bank. But I am certain that your life has had it's own sorrows and you are not in need of bearing mine. Come, join my son and I. Let us not be troubled by this life's worries."

The two men entered the house to find the table prepared. The son sat at his usual spot and looked towards the men in hope of approval.

"Well done, son."

Taking their seats, the father looked to the man, "Would you pray for our meal?"

The man bowed his head and began, "Daddy, I thank you for these kind souls and the meal that you have given each of us. Please, give us strength from these bowls, give us grace, and bless these souls. Amen."

The three ate their meals in the ambient glow of lantern light. For a while no one said anything, they only spooned the warm food their bowls. Then, the boy looked at the man and asked, "Why do you say Daddy and not Lord?"

"Because the Lord is our Daddy. He is our perfect father. I only say that because it seems the most truthful to me."

The father contemplated the man's words for a moment and asked, "Don't you think the Lord deserves more reverence than Daddy?"

"Oh, but sir, there is great reverence in saying Daddy. Because I never had a father who loved me as well as he, it is with complete reverence that I call him Daddy."

Once again they sat in silence. The father and son thought over the man's words and the man watched the warm glow of the lantern. After a few moments the man rose from his chair and began to speak, "I thank you kind gentlemen for this meal and stay. If I might excuse myself, I would like to get some rest for the morning."

That night the father had a dream. In his dream the waters of the earth came open and poured upon the land of his home. Rains fell, creeks flowed, and the crops grew. It was a beautiful sight. In the distance he saw a silhouette approaching the homestead. The darkest cloud seemed to hang over the shadowy figure and followed as it approached. As the shadow came nearer, the house began to shake from thunder overhead. Then, an opening appeared in the lighter clouds and sunlight shone down upon the house. The shadow disappeared and the cloud moved around the house. The father awoke to hear a rapping of window panes.

Walking to the window, the father looked outside to see the familiar lights of the black car. Yet this time they were not approaching but leaving. It was as if they had already stopped and left. Waiting a moment to make sure they did not turn around, the father closed the panes and turned back to his bed.

The following morning the father woke up to the sun. It was the first time in a long while that he had slept so late. Walking into the living area he found his son seated at the table. In front of him was the satchel that the man had carried.

"Papa, what is this?"

The father walked out back to the shed and opened it only to find it empty. Returning inside he opened the satchel and found an envelope marked "RAIN". Inside the envelope was a note and money. The note read: "You have fed me and clothed me with shelter, thank you." Counting the bills, he found that the amount was sufficient to cover his debt and more.

"Papa, what is it?"

"A blessing son, a blessing."

The Adventurer

2005-03-29T15:21:00.000-06:00

There once was an adventurer who appeared brazen, energetic, and full of poise. His entire life seemed in preparation for the journey at hand, and nothing was going to keep him from accomplishing it. At least that’s what he thought until he found his horse dead.

Staring bleakly at the immobile beast, the young adventurer pondered why fate had decided to impart such an act upon him. Was this recompense for some unknown fault? Did someone harbor ill will towards his journey? How could fate be so cruel? The relentless assault of questions upon his ego left him torn and despondent. This was not going to be an easy journey.

Gathering his things, a light load prepared for a long journey, he decided to make the best of his situation. Taking the advice of an older friend, he returned to the place he had started from in hopes of determining where he should head next. Upon arriving, the common question was always, “Weren’t you leaving?” Others would ask what had happened to his horse, and the adventurer would always have to reply that he didn’t really know. This further thrust the young adventurer into hopelessness exacerbated by a sense of failure. While adventurers are romanticized, failed adventurers are regarded without much respect. For what is an adventurer if he has no adventure?

Minutes and weeks passed slowly. The adventurer spent much effort seeking counsel regarding his course of action. But, rather than finding leading, he found that people’s words often left him wanting. Long days were spent reading, listening, and watching. Songs played, thoughts progressed, and a stream of doubt flooded the young adventurers mind. In his state of solitude, quiet whispers of silent counsel began to edge at his will and quicken his regress. His soft spoken deceivers began to speak well of his situation, and encouraged him to seek more solitude.

Taking heed of his council’s words, the young adventurer began building a town founded upon thoughts and ideals. The entire city was built as a means of comfort and hiding. Many doors led to many buildings whose sole purpose of existence was to give the adventurer silence. However, much to the council’s dismay, many wandered effortlessly into the adventurer’s town. While some aided the adventurer in building his city, some seemed to chip away at its foundation, leaving the adventurer to repeatedly rebuild parts of the town. Eventually the council gave word to the adventurer that he might construct a wall to protect his solitude.

The adventure went to work gathering many stones, placing them along the perimeter of the city. If these wanderers were going to break his town, then he would have to keep them out. Slowly, piece by piece, he erected a formidable wall, high enough that no one would be able to enter the town except by a small gate that he and the council kept watch over.

Over time, the adventurer grew hungry. Outside the walls were fields, full of grain, and a translucent river, all that he needed to sustain him. And yet he found himself unwilling to wander outside of the walls in fear of being left vulnerable to other wanderers or attack. The council saw this and decided that they would be able to supply him with food. Yet the food that they supplied always seemed to leave the adventurer hungrier than if he had not eaten at all.

Occasionally, the few wanderers admitted to come in would bring him small morsels of food that would sustain him for a while. One such wanderer was a young woman whose presence brought a refreshing sentiment. Not long after she came, an older gentleman came with food that was good, yet difficult to eat. This greatly troubled the young adventurer, for the ones who brought him food were also the ones that brought ruin to his city. In desperation, he closed off the gates entirely, only allowing people to stand at the gate and talk to him through a small portal.

As the adventurer continued to build on his town, he noticed that his was not the only one. Nearby, he found that there were many towns much like his own, differentiated by only a few insignificant details. He also noticed that the wanderers had begun to throw satchels of food over the wall for him to eat. Occasionally the council would find one of these satchels and mix it with their own food. Upon eating it, the adventurer found himself complaining about the nearby towns and their apparent errors. From time to time he would pick up small stones and toss them as far as he could towards the other towns. Yet his efforts were in vain, the stones always fell far away from his target.

One day, waking up from an evening’s rest, the young adventurer peered over the wall and found that the group of wanderers had grown. The council advised him that an army was forming to siege the town, and that he should gather more stones and make the wall thicker. As he worked on the wall he found that the growing force outside was not so much attacking, as working together to bring the wall down. For each layer the young adventurer added, the group outside would remove one. This carried on for months until the adventurer ran out of room and materials. At this point he began taking apart the buildings within his city to fortify his wall. Yet the more he built, the more the army pressed on. Eventually he found that the wall had left him with nothing but a small place to stand for himself and the council.

Feeling trapped, the young adventurer began to panic. Looking over the wall, the army had grown to a considerable size, and was gathering together next to the wall. With nothing left to build with, near starvation, and only his council to listen to, the adventurer began to lose hope. Then one day, as he was listening to the advice given daily, he heard a familiar voice. Climbing up to look out over the wall, he recognized the young woman. Her voice was soothing and reminded him of a time when he did not have a wall, a town, or a council. Yearning to call out to her, the adventurer found that the council had climbed up the wall to subdue him. As he tried to speak, they clasped their hands over his mouth and carried him down.

The young adventurer began to lose all hope. He found his words withheld, his thoughts confused, and his hands tied. In this state, distinguishing between the council’s food and that which was sent over the wall became nearly impossible. At times he would plead with the council to let him go, only to find that his words would then be focused upon the army outside and the towns nearby.

Tired, bound, and empty of feeling, the young adventurer became desperate. A cry arose from his lips, and he called out for help. Suddenly, to his side, a small opening appeared in the wall and the older gentleman’s hand came through. Light then began flooding into the area surrounding the young adventurer, and more hands began pulling away at the wall. As the light flowed over the council, he found their words silent and his hands free. Next, the entire wall began to shake, and a great fire consumed all that was left. As the flames closed in on the young adventurer, he found that rather than being burned, he was filled with a sense of freedom unbeknownst to him ever before.

After the fire subsided, the young adventurer rose from the ashes of his wall. Drawing the sleep from his eyes, he looked towards the army and found that it stretched far beyond his immediate vision. The many faces that composed the army were young and old, familiar and unfamiliar. The further the faces were, the more unfamiliar they became. It was then that he realized, this was not an army sent to subdue him, but to set him free.