ForgottenRose.com

Book of Songs

2011-10-08T22:20:00.004-04:00

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Sam and Sam

2011-10-08T22:20:00.002-04:00

Coming Soon ...

My Own Little Box - Poem

2011-07-25T13:13:00.002-04:00

My Own Little Box

I am trapped inside

This small wooden box

It's covered in chains

And bolted with locks

It's cold and lonely

I'm running out of air

I scream out for help

In my darkness and despair

My nails are split

Way down to the skin

As I scratch to get out

Away from my sin

People pass by me

Without looking my way

I ask them to help

And I beg them to stay

"Save me!" I scream

"I cannot get out!"

But the box stops my words

They can't hear my shout

Do not leave

My naked soul here

To be tormented by demons

To be haunted by fear

Oh, God! Someone come help

Please set me free

Or at least make a hole

So I can look out and see

Let me see the man

Who has locked me inside

Who has stolen my gift

And has beaten my pride

There's a crack in that board!

And my eyes find its light

To look for my murderer

But there's no one in sight

I only gaze at a mirror

Sitting alone on a shelf

I look at my captor

As I stare at myself

Brown Eyes - Poem

2011-07-25T13:07:00.004-04:00

Brown Eyes

(For Kelly and Lennie)

I’m told You shed Your Blood

On a tree at Calvary

But can I see Your brown eyes

Shed a single tear for me

You promised to hold me close

You’d never let me fall

But You seem so far away

Do you hear me when I call

Do Your brown eyes swell with tears

When You hear me cry Your name

Do You look at me in pity

Or do You only see my shame

I often wish to ask You

Can a God’s heart ever fail

When He sees His child lying there

So weak, so torn, so frail

Jesus, do Your brown eyes

Ever shed a tear for me

Shall I ever rid this pain

Will I once again be free

Do You see the tears I shed

As they’re falling down my face

Will I ever see Your comfort

Shall I ever feel Your grace

Jesus, do Your brown eyes

Look down at me with love

Or have I fallen so low

To see me from above

I need to know You love me

I need to know You feel

Take this heart inside me

Its pieces will You heal?

Jesus, do Your brown eyes

Ever shed a single tear

When You watch us in our torment

When You see us cry in fear

I know You died to save me

You poured out all Your life

Your heart was broken as mine is

On that day of sacrifice

Be with me, Lord Jesus

So I never feel alone

Until the day I finally see

Your brown eyes with my own

A Love Song on Father's Day - Poem

2011-07-25T13:05:00.001-04:00

A Love Song on Father’s Day

Holy is the Father

Who sits enthroned above

Everlasting is Your mercy

And endless is Your love

Always have You known me

Before I was conceived

Victory You’ve given

Even ‘fore I first believed

Endless is Your wisdom

Perfect are Your ways

Never shall my lips

Fail to give you praise

Loved so much You gave

The perfect sacrifice

You gave to me Your Son

His blood the purchase price

Forgiving me of sin

You grant me righteousness

And even though I falter

You love me nonetheless

To You I write these words

To You this song I sing

Happy Father’s day

My Abba and my King

Ever shall I love You

Forever You are mine

Resting in the promise

That I am ever Thine

The Ballad of Pepper Slamowitz

2011-07-25T12:38:00.007-04:00

THE BALLAD OF PEPPER SLAMOWITZ

(Screenplay For 8 Page Comic)

Story/Characters by Jesus Marquez Written by derrick Stahl (New Edited Version - The older one was too long. We had to shorten things a bit, and change the page layout.)

---------

PAGE 01

Page Setup: I pictured a splash page. An angled bird’s eye view of the arena (on the left of the page) with tons of people gathered around it, and a long line of people forming down the page toward the “camera.” Story-boxes could be used along the top and right side of the page.

01.
      Pepper is walking toward the arena, the line of people on his left. He’s getting a few nasty stares from some of the guys. A murmur follows him, words attacking his back as he passes.
     MISC. PEOPLE FROM THE LINE: “Yeah, just go ahead and skip to the front!” “What a jerk …” “Hey! Back of the line!”

02.
     Pepper, not even registering that the shouts are at him, sees a kid with a notepad. He holds out his hand, palm out, like an apologetic “stop” motion.
     PEPPER (TO KID): “Sorry, no autographs before the match.”

03.
     The kid gives him a funny face, not extending the notebook in the least.
     KID: “Who are you supposed to be?”

04.
     PEPPER (UNDER HIS BREATH): “Gah! … little brat.”
     Continues to walk on toward the building.

PAGE 02

01.
     A guard at the side door halts Pepper as he tries to go in. He’s holding a clipboard (with a pen attached by a string to the top of the clip).
     GUARD: “Name, please.”

02.
     PEPPER: “None other than … Precious Pepper Slamowitz!”
     Pepper yells this dramatically, striking a pose. (I see stripes and dramatic effects in the background, like in cartoons when someone does something like this.)

03.
     GUARD: “Huh, that so?”

04.
     Guard looks at the list on his clipboard, not at all impressed by Pepper’s shouting or pose.
     GUARD: “Pepper … Pepper … Oh, here, I have a Penney Slamowitz. A Mrs. Penney Slamowitz. One of our female wrestlers, I’m guessing. She your sister or something?”

05.
     PEPPER: “It’s Pepper! Do I look like a girl to you?”

06.
     A cockeyed glance. The guard points at Pepper’s head with the pen.
     GUARD: “Well, with the long hair and all, I could see how the confusion--”

07.
     PEPPER: “Just let me in!”

08.
     The guard swings the door inward with one hand, waving Pepper through with the other (in an exaggerated, bowing, sweeping motion).
     GUARD: “Yes, ma’am.”

PAGE 03

Page Setup: I see the left side of the page being a locker room with a few rows of tall lockers (maybe double lockers … Pepper’s can be on the bottom, next to a smelly floor drain or something). Most of the lockers look empty, a few are missing their doors, one of them has a mousetrap inside it. The locker room is old and run-down … a moldy, smelly place that definitely needs a cosmetic pick-me-up.
     There are a few benches bolted to the (broken, cracked, and some missing) tile floor, in between the rows of lockers. A bulletin board hangs on the back wall, displaying the night’s matches.

01.
     Upon entering the locker room, Pepper immediately gets verbally assaulted by the arena’s producer. He takes a dramatic stare at his watch. He has veins that look like they’re about to pop from his temples. Spitting though his clenched teeth, he begins to yell.
     He points a stocky finger toward the door.
     PRODUCER: “You’re late, Pepper! You were supposed to be out in the ring nine minutes ago!”

02.
     PRODUCER: “Making the fans wait for you only works if you’re the one they came to see! And with your lazy attitude, girly haircut, and lackluster fighting, that will never happen!”

03.
     He gets right in Pepper’s face, still screaming his head off. A little of his flying spit lands on Pepper’s cheek.
     PRODUCER: “I’ll give you about three seconds to change into that sorry excuse you call a costume, and even less time to get your worthless carcass out there on that mat!”

04.
     Turning away, his shoulders slumped, Pepper sighs under his breath. Defeated, Pepper goes to his locker and grabs his gear.

05.
     Story jumps to Pepper walking beside the ring. He sees his opponent, a very old and pitiful looking man, standing in the corner of the ring. He's wearing (what looks like) a bath robe, with the name "Geezer McPleaser" embroidered in fancy letters next to the breast pocket.
     Three young, beautiful, drop-dead-gorgeous women are flocking around him (on the floor by his corner). The intentions of the women are obvious by their positions (leaning through the ropes to touch him, rubbing their fingers on his cheek, etc.) and the amount of close attention they’re giving. One of the girls, a blonde, is sitting close (almost on top) and is playfully running a fingernail down Geezer’s cheek.
     A walker is positioned next to the ring, two legs capped with bright, yellow, fuzzy tennis balls. Behind the small group, you can see an oxygen tank on a dolly, with nose-tubes hanging loosely at its sides.

06.
     Pepper is completely disgusted, as you can see by his face. It almost looks like he’s about to hurl.
     PEPPER: “Gah! That’s disgusting! He’s, like, a hundred and eight!”

PAGE 04

01.
     Geezer looks over, throwing off his robe. Geezer is wearing what looks like an old one-piece bathing suit out of the early 1900’s, with knee-length leggings and a “suspender style” top. He is a very old man, skinny and sickly looking (with a body like Mr. Burns from The Simpsons).
     Spit flies from his open, tooth-deprived maw as he yells.
     GEEZER: “This is who’s been making us wait?! You cross-dressing hobo! I’ll teach you to make an old man wait. Now I’m gonna’ miss Matlock!”
     [Hahaha … can we really put that in? -d]

02.
     BLONDIE: “Come on, baby, don’t get too riled up during the match …”
     OTHER GIRL: “Yeah, you promised to wrestle with us after the fight!”
     All three giggle.
     [You can change Blondie’s “baby” to whatever pet-name you want. -d]

03.
     Pepper climbs through the ropes to get into the ring.
     PEPPER: “You’ve got to be kidding …” *Sigh* “I better go easy on the old man.”

04.
     The bell rings! We see a clock (you can pick what time it is), and then see the big hand changed by about three minutes. The bell rings again!

05.
     Back to the ring. Pepper is on the mat with Geezer standing over him. Geezer is pinning Pepper’s shoulders down with the front two (fuzzy tennis ball) legs of his walker!
     PEPPER: “How did this happen?!”

06.
     Geezer is back in his corner, breathing deep from an oxygen mask, while Pepper shambles out of the ring and back to the locker room.
     MISC. PEOPLE FROM THE CROWD: “You suck!” “Get a haircut!” “Worst. Match. Ever.” [Hahaha, I think that’s funny. Would we get sued for it? -d]
     It seems as if everyone is laughing at poor Pepper, his head hung low. A man in the crowd, heartbroken, who looks down on his luck, as if he spent his whole lifesavings just to come to this match, mumbles to himself. (The reader needs to feel sorry for him.)
     POOR LOOKING MAN: “I want my money back …”

Page Setup: This last part can just be a word box (or flag-looking thing, you know what I’m talking about?) If you have the room, maybe you could put the word-box over a few “snapshots” (Polaroids? Hah!) of shower or sitting on the john, or whatever.

07.
     After a heartbreaking and humbling defeat, Pepper returns to the “safety” of the locker room. He hides himself in the back of the bathroom, trying to wash away his shame with a shower, and trying to submerge his defeat like the swirling mess he just flushed down the toilet.
     Hours later, after building up the courage to show his face again, Pepper emerges from hiding … only to slink out the back exit.

PAGE 05

01.
     Pepper, back in his normal clothes, is walking down a back alley. He has an envelope (addressed “Wrestling Commission for Mrs. Penney Slamowitz”) in his hand and is looking inside. There is a ten and three fives. The bills look used and crinkled. The ten has a V-shaped cut on the corner, making the 10 look like 1U.
     PEPPER: “Gah! Only twenty-five bucks …?”

02.
     Coming from the backside of the arena, Pepper finds himself walking down dark, gloomy-looking backstreets. He’s passing a dead-end alley, marked with a crooked “Barber St.” sign hanging from the brick wall. Pepper notices something out of the corner of his right eye.
     It appears to be a large mass of shadows--a silhouette of four robed men (one of them really short), surrounding a woman--all huddled about halfway down the alley.
     PEPPER: “Huh?”

03.
     Over Pepper’s shoulder, the reader will see that the woman has her back against the brick wall, fending off the men with a swinging purse. She is now recognizable as the blonde that was hanging around Geezer.
     PEPPER: “Hey, won’t ol’ Grandpa Geezer be a little upset that you’re running around on him?”

04.
     Pepper’s comment brings five heads swinging in his direction. The shortest of the robed men has a disfigured face, almost non-human. Pepper is a little stunned. His arms go out to the sides in surprise, his knees a little bent, and he just stands there in shock.
     Blondie takes another swing with her purse, connects with the side of one of the taller one’s head (due to the fact they’re all staring at Pepper).
     BLONDIE: “What are you doing?! Help me, you klutz!”

05.
     Pepper rushes forward, plowing right into the middle of the group, and tumbling the robed men like bowling pins.

06.
     As one of the men is falling to the ground (his arms and legs flailing about), Pepper grabs him by the ankle and swings to his right (like a left handed batter). Like an awkward baseball bat, the man slams into one of the others.

07.
     Pepper releases the man’s ankle, and both of the robed men hit the far brick wall and slump to the ground, one crumpled on top of the other.

08.
     During this initial confusion, Blondie hikes up her skirt and hightails it out of there! (Leaving behind a shoe? Maybe one of the big-heeled, stripper-looking ones? A dead goldfish in the see-through heal?)

PAGE 06

Page Setup: Save the right edge of the page for the portal. This will lead into the portal being on the left side of page 07. It will look like Pepper not only got sucked through an “even flowing” hole, it will look like he got sucked right through the paper and onto the next page of the comic.

01.
     The third tall man, caught completely by surprise, takes a fist right in the middle of his nose. He falls straight back, “flumping” spread-eagle onto the ground.

02.
     As the man falls, Pepper (and the reader) is able to see that the short man has retreated to the back end of the alley. Facing toward Pepper, the man stands just before (and below) a metal fire escape on the back wall. He has his arms raised in front of his chest, his hands and fingers only a blur of motion as he calls upon some kind of thaumaturgic power.
      He seems to be talking to himself.
     SHORT MAN: “Oh man, the boss ain’t gonna’ like this. He’ll kill me if I don’t bring ‘em back a sacrifice.”

03.
     He giggles to himself, a weird smirk across his face.
     SHORT MAN: “If I weren’t already dead, that is.”

04.
     Pepper steps over the man lying unconscious on the ground before him.
     PEPPER: “What …?”

05.
     The short man looks up at Pepper, a mixture of glee and madness shining in his eyes. He starts to talk to himself again. A portal opens up behind him (full with the Kirby Crackle effect, if you so desire).
     SHORT MAN: “But this one’ll be better anyway. The boss prefers the sacrifice to be a virgin!”

06.
     PEPPER: “Wait, what?! What makes you think I’m a--”
     But the rest of his sentence is cut off as he’s pulled into the portal.

PAGE 07

Page Setup: The back end (and opposite facing) portal is on the left side of the page. I see it set up as a mirror image of the portal from the end of page 06. (See “Page Setup” notes from page 06.)
     Part 01 can be just the overlapping background of the page, not a panel. Parts 02-A and 02-B could even take place inside part 01. (Make sense?) So 01, 02-A, and 02-B would just be one big section all combined. All three should not take up more than 1/4 of the page.

01.
     Pepper falls through the portal, landing face-first. A cloud of red dust and ash, caused by his hard landing, puffs up into the air. He is in a very large cave, the “ceiling” so high it is hard to see. Mountains of pointy rocks, lakes of lava, and smoke are everywhere. Rocky stairs are leading off into weird-shaped openings, or leading off into the distance, miles and miles away.
      And waiting in the gloom of all this, there stands a giant beast-looking creature. He is looking down at Pepper with sadistic mirth.

Page Setup: Parts 02-A and 02-B can be the same panel. Have Pepper and his words small on the left side, while the Main BG can be large, and have his words kind of “echoing” over Pepper’s.

02-A.
     Regaining his senses, Pepper begins to stand on trembling legs, noticing his surroundings for the first time.
     PEPPER: “Huh … what is this place?”

02-B.
     MAIN BG: “I saw thee fight my minions in the other realm. I couldst use thee to advance my plans.”
     A wicked smile.
     MAIN BG: “Or I can waste thee as a sacrifice. Thou may choose.”

03.
     Pepper looks up to see the speaker … and his eyes go wide. Tentatively Pepper stutters.
     PEPPER: “W-what do you want f-from me?”

04.
     MAIN BG: “Kneel unto me, and I will grant thee the greatest desires of thou heart.”
     A short pause.
     MAIN BG: “In return, thou shalt be my servant.”

05.
     Pepper’s eyes narrow, his eyebrows coming down, as he truly thinks about this.

06.
     He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing back toward the portal.
     PEPPER: “I want to be famous … back home, that is. I want to have it all. Money, fame, girls … everything! The greatest Luchador to ever enter the ring!”

07.
     (Little side box.)
     SHORT MAN: “Girls? I though he was …”
     Shrugs his shoulders.

08.
     Pepper starts to lower a single knee, ever so slowly.
     When Pepper’s knee is only an inch of the ground, the Main Bad Guy speaks.
     MAIN BG: “Yes, thy requests art fulfilled. Thou shalt, for all time, be my--”

09.
     At the last possible moment, pepper springs up and forward. In a powerful uppercut, with full follow-through, Pepper punches the main bad guy right in the man-beads.

PAGE 08

Page Setup: The first 1/3 (or maybe even half, if need be) will be used to show Pepper going back through the portal. The rest of the page will be a splash of Pepper in the arena.

01.
     The main bad guy’s eyes cross, along with his legs and hands, as he semi-kneels in pain. A shrill squeal escapes from his ugly maws.
     Meanwhile (in the background of this scene, running away from the “camera” with his arms raised and flailing) Pepper has turned back toward the portal and is running like away like a little girl!

02.
     A shout can be heard from the background.
     MAIN BG: “Capture him!”

03.
     He points a wicked, curling finger. Right before Pepper reaches the portal, a second shout echoes through the cavern.
     MAIN BG: “I will have vengeance, mortal!”

05.
     Pepper jumps up, using the short guy’s ugly bald head as a stepping stone, and vaults himself through the portal. To freedom!

06.
     The remainder of the page will be a splash of Pepper standing in the middle of a ring. His arms are raised in victory, gold belts around his waist and hanging over his shoulders. His mask and costume are of the same design he had used on pages 02 and 03, but are made of much better material and look more “professional.”
     The stadium is filled to almost overflowing with cheering fans. Banners with Pepper’s name (finally spelled right) on them are handing from the domed ceiling and balconies. Confetti and streamers are everywhere. Gifts, flowers, and plush toys are being thrown at Pepper, and they lay all over the ring’s mat.
     And Pepper is truly happy.
     … for now.

07.
     In a small section at the very bottom right tip of the page, we show a hand reaching through a portal.

The End

Samson: Judge of New York

2011-07-25T12:36:00.005-04:00

SAMSON: JUDGE OF NEW YORK

("Screenplay" for a Comic that Never Saw the Light of Day)

Concept/Characters/Art by Jesus Marquez

Written/Characters by derrick Stahl

---------

Shot of Gerry’s church, like the last remaining beacon of hope in a dying world. It’s sitting by itself in a beautiful lot, surrounded by grass with a little parking lot nearby. The double doors on the front invite you to enter the peace that it promises. A stone wall can be seen off in the distance, at the rear of the church’s property.

The camera starts to move around the church, showing a small marquee sign by a quiet little street. “JESUS SAVES YOU MORE THAN CLIPPING COUPONS.” Most of the letters seem “off.” A few of the E’s are backward 3’s, there are 0’s standing in for O’s, and the multiple letters seem to be taken from a couple different fonts, as if the Gerry had to mix and match his “leftovers” just to spell something. The sign’s message hasn’t been changed for a while, allowing the wind to tilt a few of the letters. It’s still readable, though, and that’s good enough for James, Gerry’s son who’s in charge of the sign.

And then the peace comes to a sudden halt, like the giant foot from Monty Python smashing down on a happy, singing canary. Static breaks through the air, and a woman’s voice soon follows. “This news just in … it seems as if the--” A quiet moment; she’s holding back a sob. “I’m sorry, ladies and gen--this is just too terrible.” Calms herself. “It seems,” she repeats, “the virus we have been discussing all morning has finally broken free. I’m getting reports that all of New York city has been labeled as a quarantine zone.”

And the church still stands, unchanged by the troubling news that’s floating through the airwaves. The back of someone’s head appears on the screen; they’re moving toward the church. You soon see that it’s a small group, made up of four people: Gerry, Pierre, Kizzie, and Anderson.

“It’s just around the corner, everyone,” Gerry says, panicked and sweaty. For the time being he is leading this small ragtag band, momentarily taking the job away from Pierre. The group comes to a stone wall that’s positioned at the back of the church’s lot. A large iron gate, two doors rounded at the top, blocks their path. It’s rusted and looks impossible to open. Gerry’s eyes go wide. How could he have forgotten about the gate! “I’m sorry,” he stumbles. “I forgot this thing was closed last summer.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the path they had just traveled. He starts to look around at the group, fearing what he has to tell them next. “It’s pretty far to get around--”

“I don’t think we have that much time,” Pierre butts in. He glances back into the woods behind them. “Those … those things were right on our tail.”

Anderson makes his way to the front of the group, politely pushing past his friends to make room for his great size. “You’ve gotten us this far, Reverend,” he said, sizing up the gate. He grabs one of the doors at the seam, straining with all of his might to swing it open. “Shepherds can’t worry about little things like a gate,” he says through clenched teeth. His face is red, and veins stand out as he exerts all of his strength.

“And it’s such a shock the door wasn’t already opened for God-boy,” Kizzie sneers, obviously scared, continually looking behind her back. She’s cradling her left hand, blood staining her shirt. “If God’s looking out for us like you said, wouldn’t He have put a little oil on the--”

The gate scrapes open just enough for everyone to squeeze through. Anderson bends over, panting and rubbing his sore hands. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his red palms.

Pierre returns to his rightful role. Stepping up, he places one hand on the opened gate, and waves everyone through with the other. “Come on, quick now.” He looks at each individual as they slip through the gate one-by-one. He looks back toward the woods. “I don’t think we’ll be safe for long. Let’s go,” continuing to wave everyone through … as if they had anywhere else to go.

Anderson sucks it in, barely fitting his barreled chest through the opening. A small, square item in his breast pocket gets snagged by the door. With a grunt, that I’m sure Anderson would have rather been a curse, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a Zippo-like lighter. With the lighter in hand, he finishes squeezing through the gap. Surely anyone even a fraction larger than him would not be able to fit. Pierre is the last one. As he gets on the other side of the wall, he gathers everyone together and, as a group, rush toward the church.

“Through the front door and down the steps,” Gerry instructs Pierre, winded by even this short sprint. He holds out his palm, halting Anderson, separating them from the other two. Catching his breath, the Reverend whispers, “I’m not exactly sure what you and Kizzie got yourselves into out there--” He pauses to look over at Kizzie’s destroyed left hand. “But take care of it outside. I don’t want that … evil inside the church.”

He looks truly apologetic. “We don’t need the blood and mess inside either,” he says, more to himself, before joining Pierre inside.

Anderson takes Kizzie to the side of the church, next to a pile of firewood and a large stump that was obviously used as a cutting block. “Let me see your hand,” Anderson says to the woman. Kizzie is hesitant for a moment, still cradling her injured appendage to her stomach, the blood stain on her shirt even larger now.

Anderson waves his fingers, the “come on” signal. Slowly, tentatively, Kizzie holds her hand out for Anderson to see.

And oh, goodness, is that thing nasty! [Is that what you wanted me to write? -d]

“I think you know what needs to be done,” Anderson says. He reaches for the machete that Kizzie has hanging from a sheathe on her belt. She doesn’t stop him.

Taking his lighter, Anderson starts to hold the open flame under the blade of the weapon, moving the fire back and forth on a six-inch section of the blade.

“Will that really help any?” Kizzie asks, trying to get her mind off what’s about to happen.

Anderson shrugs his massive shoulders. “It’s what they do in the movies,” he admits. “A good swab of alcohol would help sterilize this thing better, but …” He glances up from his work. “… we don’t really have a ton of options here.”

Kizzie glancing around nervously. “Don’t they have alcohol in the church?” she asks. “The, uh … last commandment supper thing they do.”

Anderson smiles. “Communion?” he corrects. “It’s called grape juice, sweetheart.”

He flips closed the lid to his lighter, placing it in one of his pant pockets. Taking off his shirt (hence why he didn’t put the lighter back in his breast pocket), Anderson rips off a strip of cloth and ties it around Kizzie’s arm, right above the elbow. “That’s the best tourniquet I can come up with at the moment.” He sets the remainder of his tattered shirt aside to use later as a bandage. “Now when we’re done, and I know it will be difficult, I need you to hold still as best you can. There are four things I need to clamp shut, two of which are arteries. If you move, they may recede too far, and I won’t be able to get to them.”

“And how do you know all this?” she asks, once again holding her injured hand close to herself.

Anderson shrugs again. “I guess serving as a medic in the war was good for something.” He raises the machete. “Are you ready?”

“… no.”

Shaking his head, Anderson reaches for Kizzie’s arm, grabbing her at the wrist. “That’s not quite the answer I was looking for.” He holds her arm down on the wooden stump, readying the blade.

“This will hurt like hell,” he tells her.

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t believe in hell then, huh?”

Twitch of the head. “This may have you changing your mind.”

And the blade comes down! Thok! Right through the arm and into the wood beneath. The blade is ringing, stuck into the cutting block, with Kizzie on one side, and Anderson (with an extra hand) on the other.

Kizzie flops to the ground. Anderson quickly works on her arm and bandages it, picks her up, and carries her back to the front of the church.

Standing inside, Gerry and Pierre were witnesses to the most blood curdling scream the church had ever heard. What they didn’t know was that Kizzie had screamed as the blade was coming down, for she blacked out the moment her hand was gone.

And the peace of the church’s interior is destroyed as Anderson (carrying Kizzie) bursts through the doors, joining the other two ravaged “warriors,” and together they stumble down to the basement. The basement looks much older than it should, as if it had been pulled out of the middle-ages. It is dark and filled with weird, shifting shadows. No one notices the faint light sources, but it wouldn’t come as a surprise if the whole dungen-esk basement was lit by open candles.

There’s a painting of Paul and Silas in a jail cell, chained up by their hands and feet. They both look happy, their heads back, and are obviously singing their lungs out. Gerry reaches for the painting, touches one the chains by Paul’s feet, and then quickly retreats. The wall opens back, revealing a man-sized tunnel or “hallway.” The group squeezes down the walkway, coming to a different room.

It’s large enough to fit them all, but it wouldn’t be comfortable for long periods of time. The left and right walls are hidden behind bookshelves, there is a round table in the center of the room, a large rug on the floor, and a small couch resting against the front wall, next to the door.

There are three men waiting for them in the room. Li is sitting in a wooden chair against the back wall, his arms and ankles crossed, as if he had been stretching out for a nap. DD is sitting at the far side of the table, facing the door. A few piles of books and papers cover the table’s surface. There is a single lamp sitting on the middle of the table, and surprisingly it lights the room quite well … considering its size, that is. James is sitting in a chair that is pulled back from the table a little, and is leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees. He would be able to see what DD is working on if he sat up a little, but he doesn’t seems to be that interested anyway.

Anderson lays Kizzie on the couch, grabbing the attention of all three men inside the room. Li is the first to stand. “What happened?” he bursts out.

“You didn’t come back with any food?” James chimes in.

Li steps toward the front of the room. “No, to Kizzie! Is she all right?”

James looks over with a puzzled look, as if just now realizing the woman was injured.

“One of the things!” Pierre spits.

“They bit her!” Gerry finishes.

DD lowers his glasses. “What! How long ago? Do you get rid if the--”

Li: “Is she going to be okay?”

Anderson (to DD): “I took care of the infection.”

Li: “What happened to her hand?”

James: “So we still don’t have any food?”

Li (to James): “Shut up!”

Gerry: “Everyone, please! Let’s give her some rest.” He looks over at Anderson. “We can answer questions later.”

Static and a woman’s voice fill the air once again. “… I repeat, the whole state of New York has been completely closed off. Apparently the virus has spread more than we initially thought. The bridges and highways are down …” A TV can be seen on one of the shelves against the right wall. The reporter shakes herself, trying to calm down. A few tears can be seen slipping down her cheeks. “It’s not clear if the downed bridges are from terrorist attacks, but it--” She slides a few papers across her desk as a tiny square image appears in the top right corner of the TV screen. It’s too small to correctly see what it’s a video of, though. “I’ve never seen anything this bad,” the reporter cries. “It may go against what we’re allowed to say on the air, but may God save--” The word “MUTE” flashes on the bottom of the screen above a volume bar.

DD is holding a tiny remote in his right hand, pointing it across his body at the TV. He looks up at the group who is standing at the doorway. He singles out Gerry. “I hope you don’t mind, Reverend, but I rummaged through a few of the books you have down here.” He holds up an old, dusty, damaged, soft covered, black book. It seems to be a Bible, but one could not be so sure. “And I think I have a plan …”

Machinations: The Journal - Novel Preview

2011-07-25T12:35:00.005-04:00

MACHINATIONS: THE JOURNAL

(Novel Preview)

By derrick Stahl

---------

February 2^nd

God, help me. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this, but here I go.

I’ve finally decided to start a journal. I never really planned on doing anything like this, but I get so bored just sitting around here in my airship. If I don’t write down the things that go through my head, it’s bound to explode sooner or later. Cort and Quinn don’t make things any easier. They are constantly whispering things into my head, making me insane. Maybe if I can write down some of the things they tell me, they’ll go away. I hate these voices.

I don’t plan on letting anyone read these words, but I also didn’t plan on writing them in the first place … so who knows? Let me start off by telling you a little about my past and myself. I’ll keep it short, not because I don’t want to bore you with history, but because I hate it.

My name is Satheal Pnume. That’s about all I can tell you without having to stop and think. Sad, isn’t it? But it is so hard to recall and read my thoughts. The scratching of a madman on the wall of a dark cavern from thousands of years ago could more easily be read. I think as I write and vice versa, but rarely do the two become one. My pen almost never writes what my mind is thinking. And no matter how poetic and beautiful my mind can make a thought, my pen can hardly match it. But let me try.

[The remainder of chapter one is in the process of a re-write at this time. Sorry.]

April 5^th

I sat alone in the pub, drinking my problems down. The bartender was walking around the place, picking up trash from the night before. As I tilted my head back to finish the last remaining drops of my sanity, the tiny bell on the door started to jingle. The bartender and I both turned to look.

A dark-skinned man, taller than the barkeep and myself, slowly walked into the pub. His black cloak seemed to fill the room as he walked in, its torn edges waving with an unfelt and unmoving wind. His eyes scanned the room, stopping when they fell on me. He looked at me with his scarred face, not moving or saying a word.

I set down my empty glass, getting to my feet. The stranger smiled as I got closer. “Saébel?” I asked.

He put his hands behind his back, softly nodding his head.

He’s still a wanderer, so I offered my home to him once again. He immediately agreed, coming back to Machinations with me once we finished our drinks.

This page was taken from parts of chapters 01 and 02 of

Machinations: Satheal’s Journal

By derrick Stahl

www.ForgottenRose.com

The Untitled Book - Novel Preview

2011-07-25T12:34:00.003-04:00

THE UNTITLED BOOK

(Novel Preview)

By derrick Stahl

---------

The air picked up, moving the dust in circles around his feet. Tears ran down his face as he continued to scream up to the clouds. His life hung in the balance of his troubled mind. He yelled to the invisible force, which drove the wind so wildly around him. Someone, something had to be able to hear his plea. That was his only hope at least. That someone could hear.

***

No.

Let’s not start the story there. I have enough time and enough paper that we can back things up a bit. Besides, life is too short to tell a person’s story by starting at the end of it. So the only logical course of action is to back up the clock of time and start at the appropriate point.

I am here to tell you the story about a sad little boy, named Dain Winters. There was nothing really special about Dain. He didn’t have any magic powers, he couldn’t fly; he was normal. He was just as normal as you and I. Dain was born into this world just like anyone else, and he died just as normally. My job is to tell you about all of the troubles that cluttered Dain’s life between those two critical incidents. So without further obstructions, let me begin.

Here, there are no rules. There are no laws, no right or wrong, no set morals, and in majority … no sin. This planet is held together by its people’s well being. Everything you do is judged only by yourself, no one else. A person’s conscience is what determines his or her own personal rights and wrongs. If you feel bad after you’ve done something, it falls into the category of being wrong. If you feel fine afterward, then no one can judge you but yourself. The only consequence here on this planet is your own tormenting mind—that little voice most people like to call a conscience.

You would think that a planet full of no consequences would end up in total chaos. But that is not so--not yet anyway. There are people who are good, and there are people who are bad. But who is to determine what is bad and what is good? I try not to categorize people, but catch myself doing so sometimes--like just a second ago. Who am I to judge another’s actions? I can say that their conscience is not strong enough. Or on the other hand, I can say that mine is too strong. No one can really judge what is right and what is wrong, who is good and who is bad. It is all strictly up to one’s own opinion.

Sin plays no part on this planet. It’s brought up in a few of the people’s religions, but as an overall, sin does not exist. With nothing to discipline sin with, such as consequences for your actions, sin disappears. And with sin gone, the gods that accompany themselves with it seem to vanish as well.

But I’m starting to get off of the subject that was at hand. Let me get back on track and start again.

***

Dain stood in front of the dead girl’s body. He was holding a blood-covered knife in his left hand and was wiping sweat off of his forehead with his right. The girl’s body was hanging from a chain-linked fence, arms spread in a cross shape and tied down. Her feet dangled freely a few feet above the basketball court’s concrete surface. Dain backed up, tripping over a basketball that was sitting on the free-throw line. He landed on his back, throwing the knife off to the side so he wouldn’t cut himself. He lay there on the court, staring up at the dark storm clouds that were scheduled to completely cover his neighborhood later that night.

Breath was hard to find and didn’t come easily. His lungs scrambled back and forth, in and out, trying to grab onto any small gust of air Dain would let down his throat. His mind ran wild with unimaginable pictures and questions. The girl¾who was she? What happened? Dain tried to put his thought in order, but failed. He shut his eyes, taking deep breaths and let his mind slow down.

The rain started to fall, making tiny circles on Dain’s dark blue jeans and navy colored shirt. A few drops clung onto his hair, making it stick to his face. He slowly got up, now in control of his breathing. But his thoughts were nowhere near being domesticated. He kicked the basketball off to the side of the court next to the knife. They both lay by the sidelines next to each other.

Dain pulled his dark hair away from his eyes, supporting it behind his ears. The crucified girl’s dead, open eyes stared at him with fear and hate. Dried blood had formed a trail down the side of her face, from the bottom of her hairline to the top corner of her lips. She had two large bloodstains on her yellow, flowered dress, and a cut that zigzagged across her left temple. Dain took a step closer.

His mind started to run wild again. What was her name? He didn’t know. How old is she? She’s no age; she’s dead. Did he know her? No, he did not. What was he doing there?

Dain’s gaze shifted from the dead girl’s body to the fence’s gate on the other end of the basketball court and then back again. What was he doing here? Why not run off before someone saw him? Saw what he had done! And what if someone already had

But she’s only a girl. She has parents. An angry parent wouldn’t resist, not even for an instant, to pull a gun on their daughter’s murderer if they were given the chance.

Dain turned and started to run for the open gate. He left the girl, the knife, and the basketball behind as he ran home.

***

Maurice Boroughs came in through the back door and walked across the room, taking a seat next to Dain at the lunch table. Both of them meet here every school day to catch a ride on the bus. It’s a lot easier taking the bus than trying to drive over to school every day. Weekday traffic has gotten terrible, and the two boys value both their cars and their lives.

“What’s wrong with you?” Maurice asked. He flung his book bag up on the table, letting it land with a heavy bang. “Looks like you didn’t get any sleep last night.”

“I didn’t.” Dain sat there, not looking over at Maurice as he spoke. “Didn’t even go to bed last night, actually.”

“Why not?”

“Too much on my mind.”

“I know how that is,” Maurice said, pulling a test review out of his bag. He flipped through the first couple of pages and then started to read parts of it in a whisper to himself.

They still had fifteen minutes until the bus showed up. Dain sat there, unspeaking and unthinking. Maurice sat beside him, reading to himself and twisting his brain in knots, trying to remember everything for that day’s test.

“All right you two.” It was a woman’s voice. Dain looked up to see who it was. “The bus is here. Let’s get a move on.” It was the lady who watches the younger children. The kids’ parents drop them off here, pay the woman, and then leave for work. The childcare woman always takes the money--usually in the form of a check--with a huge smile and a thank you, and in return makes sure all of the kids get on their busses safely and on time. “Hurry, or the bus will leave you! I don’t know why you even come here. You both have cars!”

Dain got up, brushed past the woman, and headed for the door. Maurice packed up his book bag in a hurry, flung it over his shoulder, and then ran after Dain, catching up as they stepped outside. The storm had come in like it was supposed to, and a steady downpour washed the top of the dully yellow painted bus. The two teenagers sat down towards the back as the bus started to take off.

Dain sat by the window, Maurice right beside him. The bus was full, like always. Dain put his elbow up on the windowsill, leaning his head on the top half of his arm. He sat like that for almost a minute until he felt the cold wet spot on his sleeve. He let his arm drop down from the window. Part of his sleeve was soaked. A small crack in the window was letting rain drip in, forming a puddle on the windowpane. Dain slouched down in his seat, resting his arms between his legs.

He closed his eyes, letting his mind settle down again. He tried not to pay any attention to all of the noise coming from the other kids (most of them were a year or two younger than Dain), or to the fact that Maurice’s baggy coat sleeve was brushing up against his arm whenever the bus hit a bump in the road. He failed at not paying attention to either of them. The kids seemed to be louder today than ever, and if Maurice’s sleeve brushed him one more time¾how many bumps can there be on one road? Dain held his palm to his forehead, putting pressure where it hurt. He had one of the worst headaches of his life. He would kill for some aspirin. Kill again? Wasn’t the little girl at the basketball court enough?

The bus came to a stop. Dain looked over the top of the seats to the front windshield. A bright and glaring red light stared back at him. Cars started to pull out in front of the bus and across the intersection. It was taking forever to get to school today. And the leaking window, the loud kids, Maurice’s sleeve, and his headache were not helping the trip go any faster. He closed his eyes again, slouching even farther down into the seat. If the trip won’t go fast, at least he’ll get some sleep. He couldn’t believe he was actually looking forward to going to school today.

A scream came from the seat behind Dain and Maurice. It was ear piercing. Dain sat up, turned, and was about to yell at the kid to shut up, but stopped. The kid was staring out of the side window, mouth hanging wide open.

“What do you think happened?” another child asked.

Dain turned to look. The basketball court! The bus had come to a red light right beside the place Dain had been last night, the place where he held the bloody knife and tripped over the ball, the place with the dead girl’s body.

“I don’t know,” another child answered. “Do you think someone got killed over there?”

The owner of the basketball court had put up warning tape around the fence and the goal post. He also strung some of the tape in the circular shape, holding it up with orange cones, around the basketball and knife. There was no doubt he was just waiting for the city’s cleanup crew to come and dispose of the body.

“Look! Is that a person?” A girl on the other side of the bus came across the aisle of the bus and stood beside Maurice. Her eyes tried to focus on the patch of yellow that was hanging from the fence on the far side of the court.

“I think so!” a boy yelled. “It is! It is!”

The girl screamed, and Maurice pushed her back over to her side of the bus. All of the kids were in an uproar. Everyone was screaming: “It’s a body, it’s a body!”

Shut up! Dain’s head was about to explode. He took quick glances around the bus. His heart pounded in his chest, almost feeling like it was in his throat. He felt like all of the kids were staring and screaming at him. Forget the dead girl’s body, they were staring at him! He pulled his feet up onto the seat and buried his face into his knees.

Red turned to green and the bus started moving forward again. As the basketball court got out of sight, the children’s attentions eventually turned to other things, and their voices got quieter.

“You okay?” It was Maurice’s elbow, not his sleeve that brushed Dain’s arm this time.

Dain looked up. His eyes were red around the corners from holding back tears.

“What’s the matter? You’re acting like you killed her or something.”

They know! They all know!

Dain just stared at him, holding back the tears that were fighting to get out. One did, and it ran down his face, falling from his chin and onto his knee.

“Did you?” Maurice asked, lowing his voice.

Dain just sat there. Another tear rolled down from his eye, falling to his knee once again.

“This isn’t good.”

These pages were taken from the beginning of

The Untitled Book

By derrick Stahl

www.ForgottenRose.com

Sweet, Sweet, Special Sauce

2011-07-25T12:33:00.010-04:00

SWEET SWEET SPECIAL SAUCE

By derrick Stahl

---------

     Satheal stood at the counter, his mouth watering as he stared up at the picture of a Super Sloppy Deluxe Bacon Cheeseburger with Special Sauce. He licked his lips, waiting for the woman at the cash register to acknowledge him.
     “Welcome to Sloppy Mike’s,” she said after what seemed like hours. “What can I get for ya’?”
     “One Super Sloppy Deluxe,” he ordered. “Make it a combo, too.”
     “Would you like our Special Sauce on that?” she asked, punching in his order. “We only have it for a limited time.”
     Satheal wiped his mouth to keep from drooling. Sloppy Mike’s only sold their Special Sauce at certain times, using it as a commercial gimmick to draw in customers. It had been years since they sold it last, and Satheal was surprised he had been able to make it through life without the sauce for so long. “Yes,” he gasped. “Pour a ton of it on.”
     “Of course,” the woman said, smiling at his antics. She pushed a button on the register, causing the machine to spit out a hidden money tray.
     Satheal reached in his right pocket only to find it empty. No matter, the wallet must be somewhere else. He reached in his left--empty again! He let out a nervous laugh, patting his coat.
     The woman watched his movements as he checked and rechecked every pocket he had. Eventually Satheal allowed the truth, and the bitter coldness of reality, to hit him and gave up the search with an exaggerated sigh.
     “Is there a problem, sir?”
     Satheal’s face contorted as his mind sorted out all of the nasty things he wanted to say. He dealt with the fact that he wouldn’t get to have the Special Sauce ... oh, that sweet, beautiful sauce that Satheal needed like blood in his veins. His mind calmed, and he simply let out another deep sigh. His shoulders slumped down as he turned and started toward the exit.

***

     Satheal’s airship floated in a background of clouds, the bottom of its long and spiraled ramp resting on the ground just before his feet. He stared up has his vast ship, which he had named Machinations, before finally walking up the ramp.
     Satheal entered the kitchen area of his ship to find his long-time friend, Saébel, sitting at the table. There was a Sloppy Mike’s wrapper unfolded in front of him with drops of Special Sauce splattered all over. Saébel popped the remainder of the burger into his already full mouth, wiping his lips with his sleeve.
     “You won’ beweeve ha’ gud diff is!” he said, chewing with puffed out cheeks. A little bit of sauce escaped form his mouth to dribble down his chin. He swallowed, almost choking, as he pointed over to a woman who stood with her back turned. She was leaning over a steaming pot that rested on top of the stove. “Sara almost has dinner ready,” he said, his mouth finally empty.
     The woman glanced back at the two men. “I’m trying a new recipe,” she said to Satheal. “I hope you’ll like it.”
     Satheal faked a smile. His girlfriend was the best woman he had ever met, but her cooking could churn the four stomachs of a dead cow. “It won’t be any Special Sauce, that’s for sure,” he grumbled.
     Sara glanced back again. “What was that?”
     “Nothing, honey,” he said, smiling anew. “I’m sure it will be great.”
     Saébel stifled a laugh to help keep his friend’s relationship intact. “I hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed your wallet to get one of those new Sloppy Mike’s sandwiches.”
     Automatic fury filled Satheal’s eyes. He leaned across the table, moments away from spewing out death threats.
     He stopped short as Sara placed a bowl of her “new recipe” in front of him. Saébel lifted some of the soup with a spoon and then let it slowly ooze back into the bowl. “Good thing I already ate,” he said to Satheal.
     Satheal slowly shook his head, narrowing his stare. “I hate you,” he whispered.

***

     Satheal stood in the bridge of Machinations as it floated beside a two-story tall box positioned behind Sloppy Mike’s. He slid open one of the side windows to his left and leaned outside. A loud voice, distorted by static, blasted from the black box. “Welcome to Sloppy Mike’s,” it said. “May I take you order?”
     “One Super Sloppy Deluxe,” Satheal shouted back at the speaker box. “And add a lot of your Special Sauce.”
     There was a short pause. “Thank you,” the box presently responded. “Pull up to the first window for your total.”
     Satheal pushed a lever on the steering panel beside him, causing his giant ship to slowly bounce forward. He reached into his right pocket, pulled out his wallet, and then tightly wrapped his fingers around it. “You’re not getting away from me this time,” he said. He pulled out a small wad of cash, counting it over and over again just to make sure he had enough to pay for his meal. He got lightheaded as he stared down at the money, knowing that his mouth was only minutes away from tasting the sweet, beautiful sauce that his senses longed for. Satheal felt that getting his hands around a sloppy beacon cheeseburger ... drenched in God’s gift to food ... would fulfill all of his purposes in life. He could die happy after this meal.
     A young woman leaned out of the Sloppy Mike’s building. “Sir,” she said a little nervously, “I’m sorry, but I just found out that our Special Sauce promotion ended yesterday.”
     Satheal’s heart froze for one terrifying moment. He shook his head, knowing that he must have heard the woman wrong. Life could not be this cruel to him. He looked over at the woman, only to find her smiling back at him.
     Satheal’s face contorted as his mind sorted out all of the nasty things he wanted to say. This was his second pointless trip to Sloppy Mike’s, and he couldn’t control himself as well as last time. A simple sigh wouldn’t cut it; his anger needed more!
     “Dang it!” he yelled. He stood there for a moment, shaking his head and dealing with the facts. “You don’t have any left in there?” he asked, his voice raising in pitch as he turned his question into a plea for help.
     The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, but the promotion ended yesterday. I tried putting your order through, but my manager said we weren’t allowed to sell any more Special Sauce.”
     Satheal turned away from the window, holding back tears.
     “We do have one final promotion for the Special Sauce, though,” the girl said, running her eyes down the exterior of Machinations. “There’s an airship race on the thirty-first of this month, in the town of Korienth. Sloppy Mike’s is a sponsor of the race, so one of the first-place prizes is a year’s worth of Super Sloppy Deluxe Cheeseburgers ... with Special Sauce.”
     Satheal’s eyes went wide. “A whole year’s supply!” he said to himself.
     “Yes,” the woman responded, thinking it was a question directed toward her. One sandwich every month for a whole year.” She paused for a moment. “But if you aren’t going to order anything else, I’m gonna’ have to ask you to pull on through the ‘Fly-Thru.’”
     Satheal pushed a lever, causing his ship to lurch forward, and headed home with high hopes of winning a race--a race that could change his life forever … well, for one year at least.

***

     Sara walked up to stand behind Satheal after listening to him “fix” the mechanical and electrical workings of the ship for the past few hours. “Hey, hon?” she asked, trying to steal his attention away from a piece of equipment, which in his muffled words seemed to be known as a “blasted pile of crap.”
     Satheal took a short pause form what he was working on to turn toward his girlfriend. He slid an oversized monkey wrench into a pocket of his tool belt. The added weight caused the rim of his pants to sag down, giving Sara a lovely view of the elastic waistband that wrapped around his bright red boxers. He held a marred pencil in his teeth, although there were no papers or calculations to be found anywhere around. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “Yeph?” he asked, not removing the pencil from his lips.
     “You’ve been making all sorts of racket; banging on this, pounding on that ... not to mention what you've been yelling at your ship whenever you make a mistake. I was just wondering what you were doing. I mean, I’ve never seen you work on Machinations this much before.”
     Satheal grinned like a little child, causing the pencil to drop from his mouth. “Pack your bags, baby!” he yelled, “We’re going to Korienth for the big race!”
     Sara stood dumbfounded for a moment. “What do you mean ‘pack my bags’?”
     “You live in this stupid ship,” Saébel said, entering the room. He pointed back toward the hallway, saying: “I overheard when I walked by. But Satheal, aren’t we flying Machinations to Korienth?”
     Sara nodded her head in agreement.
     Satheal’s eyes darted around the room. "Yeah, well ... shut up, I have work to do!"
     “Pack our bags!” Saébel mocked. “What a moron.”

***

     Machinations hovered at the starting line, surrounded by thirty-nine other airships that had been placed in the “house-sized” category. Satheal and Saébel stood in the bridge of the ship, looking down at the crowd of people far below them on the ground. They knew Sara was down there somewhere, cheering them on.
     “I hope everyone’s ready,” a voice blared from the announcer’s box next to the starting line. “This year’s race is about to begin. The first person to make a complete lap around our city’s outer wall shall be titled “Champion.” Our sponsor is none other than Sloppy Mike’s ... where fast food is at it’s sloppiest!” There was a short pause. “Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” he said, raising a laser gun into the air. “Get ready and ...” He pulled the trigger, sending a red beam into the air which exploded into multicolor fireworks. “... go!”
     All forty airships shot forward, soaring through the sky like metal pigeons on speed. Satheal broke free from the cluster of other ships, rounding the first corner of Korienth’s outer wall. After straightening out for the first stretch of the race, he was able to glance around through the bridge’s windows to see the other ships. There were only two in front of him, leaving thirty-seven losers behind in his exhaust.
     Satheal pointed to a control panel to his left. “Saébel,” he called out. “Push that thing in!”
     Saébel stared at the panel, scratching his head as he looked at all the doodads that cluttered the instrument in front of him. He pointed to a big red button. “This one?” he asked.
     Satheal glanced over, afraid to take his eyes off the race for too long. “No, the green thing right there,” he said, pointing again. “The, umm ... you know, the conductor-ism power-thing ... er, generator suppress--”
     “You don’t even know what it’s called, do you?” Saébel said, eventually finding the green “thing” Satheal was talking about.
     “Just flip the stupid switch!”
     Saébel did as he was told, causing Machinations to speed forward. Satheal steered around the two ships in front of him, made the second turn, and then raced down the second stretch.
     The wheel shook in Satheal’s grip as they made the third turn, both of the men’s hopes rising with their inevitable victory so close at hand. “We’re winning,” they both shouted.
     The final turn was made; the finish line was in sight. Satheal’s mouth started to water as he thought about the year’s supply of Special Sauce cheeseburgers. Finally, his day had come.
     But out of the corner of his eye, Satheal could see a black shape starting to fill up one of the bridge’s windows. He turned his head to see a long and slender airship pull up beside him. The ship had a long balance on its front end, making the “nose” stick out by an additional thirty feet or so.
     Before he knew it, Satheal was momentary blinded by camera flashes as both ships crossed the finish line. The announcer’s voice filled the air again. “Winning by a nose is Black Bullet, followed by runner up, Machinations. Let’s hear it for our racers!” The crowd went wild with applause.
     Satheal fell to his knees, burying his face in his palms, not willing to let Saébel see him weep like a little schoolgirl.

***

     Satheal went up on the stage to shake the winner’s free hand, his other one full by holding a booklet of coupons to Sloppy Mike’s. Satheal was tempted to just clobber the guy, steal the coupons, and then run off into the night. But he somehow managed to plaster a fake smile onto his face and accept defeat.
     “Tell you what,” the winner said. “You go ahead and take the first coupon for being such a good sport.” He handed the top coupon to Satheal, adding: “It expires this month anyway.”
     Satheal couldn’t believe it. His fake smile was replaced by a real one. “Thank you,” he said, and then ran off toward his ship.

***

     The next day, Satheal found himself standing in line at Sloppy Mike’s. He looked down at the coupon in his hands, reading the printed words to himself. “One Super Sloppy Deluxe Bacon Cheeseburger with Special Sauce!” Today would be the end to all his suffering. The Special Sauce would be his, and everything in life would finally fall back into its rightful place. The world was beautiful once more.
     “May I help you?” the woman at the register asked. Satheal walked up to the counter, slamming the coupon down. He tried to order, but the excitement of the moment hindered his words to “Bacon ... Special Sauce!”
     The woman started to punch in the order. She paused as her eyes scanned the bottom of the coupon, her finger raising off the buttons of the register. “I’m afraid this expired yesterday. Today’s the first of the month.” She slid the coupon back toward him. “Is there anything else you would like to order?”
     Satheal’s face contorted as his mind tried to sort out all of the nasty things he wanted to say. But he just didn’t care about controlling himself anymore. He leaned his head back, took a deep breath, and yelled at the top of his lungs.
     “Son of a--”
     “Sir!” the woman called out, cutting him off. She pointed toward the exit. “I’m gonna’ have to ask you to leave.”

Elemental Desires - Novel Preview

2011-07-25T12:33:00.008-04:00

ELEMENTAL DESIRES

(Novel Preview)

By derrick Stahl

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“Kill him,” the king hissed, leaning back against silk pillows. His arms hung over the edges of his chair, allowing his hands to softly pet the concrete gryphons carved into the sides of his throne.

“Please, my lord,” Isaac began to protest, “may I ask what crimes I’ve done to deserve such punishment?”

Anger exploded as the king shot to his feet, his long cape flaring behind him. His ringed fingers balled into a fist, striking the begging man and sending him face first to the marble floor. “I am Menath Hue, king of Waas, ruler of all people and things living on my island! I will not be subjected to answering the motives behind my reasoning and judgments.”

Isaac looked up, his eyes filled with fear, his cheek stained with fresh blood. “My lord,” he said through swelling lips. But that was all he was able to get out before being struck again. Isaac’s head fell to the floor once more, blackness overtaking his sight.

King Menath walked back to his throne, glancing over at the seven officials sitting at their table across the room. Seaon, Master of the Guard, was the only soul brave enough to return the king’s stare.

Menath sat down, one hand pushed up against his forehead, the other rubbing war scars that lined his upright, pointed ears. A good-sized piece of flesh had been chipped away near the tip of his left ear. “Take him out of my sight,” he called out to the guards standing at the main entrance of the court. The two guardsmen started to walk toward the fallen Isaac but stopped when Seaon rose to his feet. King Menath looked over at him, puzzlement showing in his slightly raised eyebrows.

“If you will excuse my intrusion, my king, please allow me to personally escort this trash to the dungeon. I will see to it that arrangements are made for his execution tomorrow.” He saw that the king was not amused before adding: “I have some business to attend to down in those damp pits. It will make my trip twice worth the time.”

Menath closed his eyes, waving his hand to Seaon. Just be done with it, the waved hand suggested.

Seaon pushed in his oversized wooden chair and walked across the throne room. Past numerous columns, standing fifty times a man’s height, the Master of the Guard quietly walked across the tiled marble floor and helped Isaac to his feet. By this time the sentenced man was conscious again and was able to throw a heavy arm across the shoulders of his escort. The two men slowly made their way out of the courtroom and into one of the castle’s many hallways.

“I thought you would never come to my rescue,” Isaac whispered.

Seaon leaned close as the courtroom doors slammed shut behind them. “You are far from being a free man as of yet. I must sign you into the dungeon.”

Isaac started to pull away, his trust vanishing slightly.

“Listen to me, Isaac Mynn,” Seaon said, almost raising his voice. “In the countless years we have been friends, have I ever let any harm come to you?”

“No,” he replied, his pointed ears hanging limp on the sides of his face. “You have been faithful to Samantha and I, even before you wed the two of us together. I will listen.”

“Good. As I said,” Seaon continued, “I must sign you in. The king receives a report of all the names of new prisoners. If he does not see your name on that list tonight, I’m afraid my neck will be right beside yours on the cutting block.”

The two men rounded a corner in the hall, entered a bolt-covered metal door, and started to descend the spiraled stairs. Being alone now, Seaon was able to raise his voice a little. “But the list,” he said, “does not include why the prisoner was arrested or what their sentence was.”

“So you’ll sign me in and then send me home to my wife? I can’t thank you enough—”

Seaon started to laugh, trying to drown out the despair raging deep inside him. “I’m afraid it will not be that easy, my good friend. You see, I do not write the names. And I do not see a way that I can. So I’m afraid you will have to stay in the pits for a week or so.” He looked over at his long-time companion.

“I’m still listening …” Isaac was able to stutter.

“I will see to it that no ill treatment will come your way while you stay in the dungeons. You will receive warm meat and cold water two times a day and—”

“But what if the king wants to witness my execution tomorrow? What will we do then?”

“I shall simply tell Menath that you were killed early that morning. I’ll apologize for his not being able to see your demise and then move on with business. Once I tell him about the poor workmanship on the new swords being distributed to his guards, Menath will not think of you again.”

“It sounds like a decent plan. I pray that it will work.”

“Yes, my friend. Pray indeed.”

Menath Hue called the two guards away from the door a second time. They came close to his throne, bowing to their knees in submission. “You,” he said, pointing to the guard on his right. “I want you to take a message to the maid in charge of the living quarters for the queen and me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell her to ready my wife for me and to have her waiting in the main bedroom of the west sector of the castle. Do you know how to get there?”

“Yes, my lord,” he said, still keeping his head bowed. “I have worked in this castle for many years.”

Menath picked up his wine goblet, swirling the red liquid around. He brought up his arm and then stopped, the rim of the glass resting on his bottom lip. “Then go,” he said, the steam of his words frosting the edges of his goblet.

The soldier got to his feet immediately. “It would be my pleasure.”

“But why does the king want to kill me in the first place?” Isaac asked as they rounded the last corner that led to the dungeon pits.

“King Hue feels that his power is slowly slipping away from the eyes of his people. Your execution is a way to reassure himself that he still has power over his subjects.”

“I don’t quite understand,” Isaac returned.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, especially something deserving death,” Seaon assured. “Menath does things like this because he can. Because he’s—”

“Crazy?”

“In simple terms,” Seaon answered, “yes.”

“That’s far enough,” a voice said from down the passage. The two men stopped.

“I bring a prisoner. Sign him in and then let me escort him home for his last rights.”

Isaac looked over in surprise. “To see my wife?” he asked. “Sir, I thank you with all of my—”

“Silence, you dog!” Seaon snapped. He brought his fist around Isaac in a flash of skin and cloth. His closed fingers caught the prisoner in the ribs, stopping before causing any serious pain. Isaac fell to the rock-paved floor, coughing and holding his stomach.

The three soldiers down the hall watched in amazement. “… such speed,” one of them was able to stammer out.

“If you speak out of turn again,” Seaon continued, “I may just have to change my mind about the whole ordeal. And if you do have a wife at home, I think she would like to see you once more before you die.” He looked down at him, pity filling his eyes. Isaac lay on the floor, released a mocking cough of pain and then looked back up to Seaon, a tiny smile spread over his lips. “Now sign him in, quickly,” Seaon said, looking back up at the guards. “I haven’t got all day to wait for you!”

“Yes, sir,” one of them responded, turning toward a table with an open book upon it. “What is the prisoner’s name?” the guard asked.

Before Isaac could take a breath, Seaon gave him a fake kick to the chest and barked: “Speak when a guard asks you a question!”

The prisoner pushed his acting talents to their limits with a coughing gasp for air. “Yes … sir,” he said. He looked at the guard down the hall and called out: “My name is …” he choked up on his words, wheezing and holding a palm to his breast. Seaon rolled his eyes; his friend was a terrible actor of pain. “… is Isaac Mynn,” he finally said.

The three guards turned and started to walk toward Seaon and Isaac. “I’m sure you know the rules,” the guard on the right said. “Two fully armed soldiers must accompany any prisoner during their last rights.”

“Even during the sweet parts,” the guard on the left sneered. That brought a small laugh to them all, save Seaon and Isaac.

“Tell me where the prisoner lives and I will escort him home,” the guard in the middle said.

“I think not,” Seaon responded quickly. “He is my prisoner and I will take him. If any of you have a problem with that, you may talk to my supervisor about it.”

“And who might that be?” the middle soldier asked. “Unless it’s the king himself, I’m afraid you can’t take this prisoner home by yourself. We have strict rules about—”

“You think I don’t know the rules?” Seaon yelled. “I wrote half of them!”

The guards stopped in their tracks, still a few yards away from the two men. “Seaon, sir … is that you?” the guard on the right asked. “It’s been so long since you’ve paid the dungeon a visit, we all have forgotten your voice and face.”

“It is none other,” he said, holding his position.

“Forgive us, sir. We didn’t know that you—”

“Nonsense!” the guard in the middle yelled. “I don’t care who you are! Even if you wrote the rule, I still can’t let you break it without higher authority.” He stared at Seaon; dirty sweat from working down here in the pits fell from his stubble-covered cheeks. “I’m curious as to who this ‘Supervisor’ of yours is, old man.”

Seaon smiled, holding back most of the laughter that bubbled up in his throat. He pulled back the right side of his gray cloak, revealing a three-foot long broadsword hanging from a sheath on his belt. “I present this old man’s supervisor,” he said. “His name is Bruce and he has a terrible doubled edged temper.”

The middle guard reared his head back in defiant laughter, the sweat flying off in all directions. The remaining two guards blinked, missing Seaon’s reaction. The laughing stopped abruptly. The middle guard let his head flop forward until it rested on the shining blade that stuck out of his neck.

Seaon looked over to the guard on the right. “‘Such speed,’ I believe you called it earlier,” he said, retracting his weapon from the dead man’s throat. “Do I still need two escorts to take this prisoner home?”

“No, sir,” they both responded with a small salute. “But if he doesn’t return within a day,” the right guard said, “we are not able to stop a search party from going out after him.” He took a breath and then added: “And for you as well.” He jumped back, waiting for another swing from Seaon’s blade. None came.

“I understand.” Seaon wiped his blade off on the fallen man’s clothes and then sheathed it. He looked down at Isaac. Small spatters of the guard’s blood covered the top of his head, making tiny red dots in his white hair. “Come along,” he ordered.

King Menath swung open one of the large double doors of his bedchamber. The heavy studded oak door hit the wall with a soft thud, shaking the elaborate portraits of his forefathers that hung there. They were all ugly—though the paintings were nicely done, the people in them were nothing to look at. Large and bulky men were the trait in the Hue lineage. “We can grow ‘em big and strong, but we can’t seem to put a hint of beauty in them,” Menath’s father had once told him. The thought brought a faint smile to him that never reached his lips.

“Pria told me that you wanted to see me,” a woman’s voice said, taking hold of Menath’s attention. Danielle sat on the bed, her back to the door. She was wearing a favorite sleeping gown of Menath’s—long, white, and see-through if the light shown just right. “By the way she stated the message, I guessed you wanted to try and conceive an heir again.”

Menath closed the door behind him, bolting it shut, and walked over to his wife. He stood behind her, waiting for her to turn … waiting for her to submit.

She did, slightly turning her neck and flicking orange-blonde hair off of her slender and long ears. He remembered the day he first saw her. She had worn her hair pulled back that day, her strong ears pointing toward the heavens, the tips of them almost towering above the top of her head. In her younger days, Danielle was beautiful. Most of those qualities still shown though the years of hardship and pains, but they were fading quickly with age. Menath ran his large fingers down the side of her left ear, remembering the love he once had for her.

The love he had!

“So many years and still no children,” he said in a low and frightening tone.

“Yes, my lord, I know.” She started to tremble. “But I think tonight may be the one we have been waiting for.”

Menath brought his hand down from her ear and across her face, leaving red marks behind on her light skin. “You are not here to think!” he yelled. “You are here for one reason only! And for years you have failed at the simple task that was given to you!” He raised his hand to strike her again.

“I’m sorry,” she begged. “My lord, tonight I will conceive your son!”

He looked down at her, lowering his arm, and untied his cape. “You had better do so,” he said. “Now get undressed.”

A knock at the front of the house brought Samantha Mynn running to the door. She swung it open, not caring about the wind and rain that stormed into her small home. Two men stood in the doorway and she threw her arms around them both, pulling them inside and out of the weather.

“I was worried you might be dead,” she yelled, kissing Isaac all over his face.

“No, my love, not yet anyway. Seaon still has a lot to work out before I’m home for good, I’m afraid.”

“What do you mean?” she said, taking a step back to look at the two men.

Seaon closed the door and bolted it against the wind. “Why don’t we have a seat by the fire and talk it over,” he said. And then added: “That is … if you don’t mind, Samantha.”

“Don’t be crazy,” she said with a smile. “Go have a seat and warm yourselves while I make you two some hot tea.”

“That would be wonderful,” Seaon said, kissing Samantha on the cheek. “It is good to see you again, my dear.” He took off his cloak, hung it on a wooden peg by the door and met Isaac by the fire.

The house wasn’t elaborate by any means. It was a nice and simple one-room home with a separated section for necessaries and a waist-high wall separating the bed from the rest of the house. Seaon walked through the kitchen area, across the main room, and then took a seat on the fireplace’s upraised hearth. Isaac sat on a padded couch with a wool blanket wrapped around his legs and feet. He was staring past Seaon and into the fire, a slightly disappointed look on his face. Seaon looked over, seeing that the wood was starting to dwindle down. He looked back at Isaac and said: “I’d like to help with that also, but I’m a water man myself.”

Isaac laughed. “I know. Perhaps I’ll have you fill the tub for me tonight … if I have enough time, that is. It would be a lot easier than trying to draw water from the well on a night like this.”

“I’m sure something like that could be worked out,” he said, nodding his head a little.

Seaon noticed the gratitude shining in the look from Isaac. He and Samantha were so compassionate, so loving. He was blessed to have friends like these, and he thanked God for them continually.

“Well,” Isaac said, “I won’t have you freeze as long as you stay in my house.” He lifted his arm, palm and fingers pointed toward the fire. His wrist made a slight twitch, making the flames by Seaon leap up and fill the fireplace again.

Seaon backed away from the heat a little; it was almost too much. “Thank you,” he said. “That is much bet—”

A high-pitched whistle cut Seaon’s words off in mid sentence. Samantha quickly picked up a kettle off of the coal-burning stove and set it down beside her on the counter. She poured some of the water into three mugs and then brought them over to the men. She set them down on the short wooden table that sat in front of the couch and then dropped a small white pouch-like bag into each cup of water. “You’ll have to wait a few minutes for the water to absorb the tea pack,” she said, handing one of the mugs to Seaon first and then to her husband. She looked at Seaon and then went on to ask: “So Isaac can’t stay home … what’s going on?”

Seaon leaned back against the wall, the fire still at his side. “I had to sign Isaac into the list of new prisoners for the pits. If I didn’t, King Menath would have noticed his name missing and suspect foul play. If we—”

“So you signed him in? That means he can stay here,” Samantha interrupted. “I mean, the dungeons are big … who would notice he was missing?”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Isaac reassured. “Seaon was able to bring me here only as my last rights.”

Samantha gasped, almost dropping her tea.

“But I will be home for good in a week,” Isaac quickly said. “If Seaon and I don’t go back in the morning, the dungeon will send guards throughout the city until they find me.”

“And me, as well,” Seaon added.

“Why does he have to stay there a whole week?” Samantha asked. “It can’t be just a day or two?” She took a breath and then added: “Maybe only a few hours?”

Seaon cast his eyes to the floor. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “One week is the shortest I’m willing to risk. If he’s there for any time shorter than that, questions will be raised as to why he was even jailed. A week is the shortest dungeon time allotted in the court.”

Isaac gloomily nodded his head in agreement.

“But you’re coming home?” Samantha asked, softly rubbing the side of her husband’s neck.

“I promise you he will come home,” Seaon said. He then stood up, turning toward the door. “Isaac, if you wish to take a bath, I’ll need your help heating the water.”

“Of course,” he responded, getting to his feet.

They walked to the small room that held the tub. Seaon lifted his left hand, palm up, and whispered an old spell in the ancient Wasson language. A small pool of water materialized in his palm, slid between his fingers, and fell into the bathtub. He did this a second time, and then turned his hand over, letting the water fall out of his hand in a steady flow.

While Seaon was busy with that, Isaac balled his hands into fists and then heated them until they were engulfed with flame. He held his hands under the stream of water that was falling from Seaon’s palm, heating it as the tub was being filled.

After a few minutes, their task was complete. White steam softly swayed up into the air from the surface of the water. “We do a pretty good job when we combine our magic,” Isaac commented as they walked back out to the main room.

“As always,” Seaon agreed.

Isaac walked back across the room and stood behind his wife. They both looked back at Seaon simultaneously. “Thank you for the help you always give to us,” Samantha said. “Will you honor me in having another cup of tea?” She looked up at her husband’s face only to see him smiling back at her.

Seaon laughed slightly. “Although that offer is hard to refuse, I’ll let you two have some time alone. Isaac, I will be back to pick you up in the morning.”

Isaac and Samantha turned to say their thanks, but stopped when they saw no one else in the room. Seaon’s cloak was no longer hanging on the peg. Isaac noticed that the door was unbolted so he got up to lock it.

As he slid the iron latch back into place, he said to Samantha: “That man can sneak around, move quieter than a cat, and disappear without a trace …” He smiled. “But he can’t latch a door from the outside.”

She came up behind him, throwing loving arms around his shoulders, and held him for a short while. “When the guards came this morning,” she said, almost crying at the thought, “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.” She turned him around and kissed him on the lips. “But I should have known God would bring you back somehow.”

“And what better man could He have picked than Seaon to do the task?”

“We owe Seaon our lives many times over, you know that.”

Isaac sighed. “I only wish we could think of somehow to repay him. Nothing seems to be enough.”

“I guess the only thing we can do,” she said, “is be the best friends he has. That’s all we can do really.” Isaac agreed. “But for right now,” she said, lifting her top lip to playfully show her teeth, “why don’t you go get washed up?” She ran a finger down the side of his face, stopping when she got to his mouth. “Once you’re done with yours and Seaon’s magic water in there, I have some magic of my own to show you.”

These pages were taken from the beginning of

Elemental Desires

By derrick Stahl

www.ForgottenRose.com

The New Wall Keeper

2011-07-25T12:32:00.002-04:00

THE NEW WALL KEEPER

By derrick Stahl

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     I watched the small flame spread to each of my fingertips, eventually finding its resting place in the middle of my palm. I tightened my fist around it, feeling its warmth and destructive power. The flame begged me to free it, to let it cause havoc and to damage its surroundings in a beautiful, yet deadly dance that would consume everything in smoke and ash.
     I shook my head, tightening my fingers around the flame until it was extinguished. My ability--my gift as some people call it--to use and control magic is what sets me apart from my men. Although no official rank has been given to me, I now reside as the third in command under the king. I have had thousands of brave men work for me, and sometimes even die for me, in the many years I have been in the king’s service. My job is to patrol the borders of the kingdom, keeping it safe from the many surrounding nations that might decide to attack at any given time.
     I looked down at my hand, slowly outstretching my fingers until my palm was flat. Tiny blue sparks lifted from my skin where the fire had been, drifting upward into the stale air around me.
     It was at that time when the door flap of my tent was tossed aside, allowing my second in command, Lord Taust, to step through. He saw me sitting at my small table, my wine goblet empty and my cot already made. Fear shot through his eyes as he saluted me. “Master Simeon, I apologize … I did not intend to be late.”
     “Late for what?” I asked him, wiping my palms over the legs of my pants, trying to get the scratchy feeling of spent magic out from under my skin.
     “You instructed me to wake you the moment I saw sunlight appear over the eastern mountains, master.”
     “So I did,” I agreed, the memory coming back to me at once. I looked past the young man, trying to adjust my eyes to the bright morning light. “I have not been able to sleep for quite a while,” I said to him. “My mind is playing tricks on me, disfiguring my sense of time.” I leaned back in my chair, grabbing the empty wine goblet beside my cot, and handed it to Taust. “What hour is it?”
     “It is still in the hour of the fourth watchman. Most of your men are ready to travel, the others will be ready soon.”
     “Good. Have everyone break down the camp and be ready to march within two hours.”
     “Of course, master. Shall I have half of the group carry the bodies, same as yesterday?”
     “The bodies,” I sighed, nodding my head slowly. “The reason for my lack of sleep ...” I looked over at the man, tears starting to swell in my red-rimmed eyes. “Yes. Assign two men per fallen comrade, just as we have been doing for the last few days. I only hope we will reach the castle by sundown,” I said. “Those men deserve proper burials.”
     “Under your command, sir, I’m sure we will reach the castle in notable time.” He switched my empty goblet from his right hand to his left, saluting a second time. “With your leave, master, I will take your cup to be washed and then round up the camp for your announcements. This is the morning you wanted Quinn to show everyone what he caught, correct?”
     I nodded my head. “I’ve waited too long to inform the men as it is.” I waved my hand, ordering Taust away, and soon heard his footsteps fade into the general clamor of my division rising from their tents. I lashed out my foot, toppling my table sidelong. I quickly turned to my cot, covered my face, and wept.

***

     Thirty-five of the finest soldiers stood at attention before me. Their faces were somber, their shoulders slumped, and their spirits crushed. I must confess I looked and felt the same as they. Their loyalty was the only thing keeping me sane at the time. An overwhelming sense of grief had taken over my mind, driving my judgment farther and father away when I needed it the most.
     There were fifty-four of us, counting Taust and myself, when we started our patrol of the borderlands three weeks ago. Now our numbers are cut by a third, our supplies are gone, and most of our weapons have been lost, spent, or broken.
     “All of you know I bring sad news once again on this morning,” I started off in a quiet tone. I noticed a few of my men lean closer in an attempt to hear me, causing me to raise my voice as I continued. “Most of you were present at the time, fighting alongside Lord Taust, Quinn, and myself. Many who fought are not standing among you today, though.” I glanced over at the small clearing to the right of the camp, focusing my eyes on the eighteen shapes that lay side-by-side on the ground. I swallowed my feelings, trying to find a lost reservoir of strength deep within myself.
     “But I know a few of you were patrolling the lands and missed, what I hope to be, the last time any of you must watch friends being killed. I’m sure most of your questions have already been answered, but now I will try to answer all of them.” I placed my hands behind my back and started pacing in front of the men, not wanting to look at any of them. My shame and grief were too much.
     “At sunset two days ago, our company stumbled into the midst of a beamon--a beast I thought was fictional until I laid eyes upon it.” A gasp rose from the men at the mentioning of the beast’s name. “To dispel some of the rumors I have already heard going around the camp, I will tell you this: the beamon did stand at three times a man’s height, it was roughly shaped like a bear, and it did have the color of a fading sun, with a royal hue of purple around its muzzle and paws.”
     “But Master Simeon,” one of the men called out, “I saw the giant bear’s red coat myself. Surely this can’t be the beast you mentioned.” The man let out a nervous laugh. “I mean, I use the story of beamons to scare my children into going to bed early. They’re just old tales.”
     I stopped pacing and faced my party. “And I thought that myself,” I replied. “The red you saw was not its coloring, but blood. The beamon we fought was wounded, soaked in her own blood and close to death.”
     “But it killed so many!” a few of them yelled.
     I closed my eyes, breathing in deep and slow. “After camp had been set up, I was shown something that proves my report to be true.” I held my hand up toward Quinn, turning most of the company’s attention to him. “I think it’s time to show everyone,” I said.
     Quinn walked to the back of the camp and stood beside a tarp-covered shape. He grabbed the edge of the covering and slid it off. Underneath sat one of our supply wagons, modified into a large makeshift cage. A young beamon lay trapped inside its bars. The beast was lying on its side, its light yellow chest rising and falling with every faint snore that escaped its purple nostrils.
     A general murmur spread across the party, their terrified voices blending together to create a mass of clamoring noise.
     “Quiet!” I hissed. “The beamon was given a strong sedative when it was caught, but that was two nights ago. It could wake up at any time.”
     The men fell back into attention, most of them muttering apologetically. They stood looking at me, but were unable to resist an occasional glance back at the sleeping creature.
     “Quinn was able to trap it after we killed, what I believe to be, its mother. I judge that is why we were attacked the other day. As with any bear, a mother separated from her cub becomes berserk, attacking anything in its path. It was a cruel twist that fate placed on us, but at the same time it was nature acting as it always has.
     “There is no need to fear the young beamon as long as it stays sleeping behind those iron bars,” I said to my company. “The creatures do not breathe fire--or use any type of magic for that fact--as I’ve heard some of you saying. Although the mother occasionally raised herself up on her hind paws like a normal bear, she did not run on two legs like a man, but rather on all fours.” I waved a hand in front of my face, clearing my mind. “But everything happened so quickly that my details are limited. I don’t wish to dwell on this subject longer than what is needed, so I will continue ...”
     My soldiers stood at attention, faithfully awaiting the further bad news they knew was at hand. “Most importantly, our food has been ruined. That is why I have been leading us back toward the castle for the past few days. We will return home and report to the king, because I can think of no other alternative. The defeat of the large beamon took a heavy toll on our weapons. A lot of our swords and shields were broken, and most of our arrows spent. Therefore, no hunting is to be held until we get back to the castle, for we still have one final fight.”
     “The Wall Keeper!” a few of the men gasped in slight panic. The others followed suit quickly after.
     I sighed, nodding my head. “I’m afraid so,” I said, not knowing what else to tell them. “We’re not expected back for another two months, so I fear that all four Wall Keepers shall be in place.” I pointed behind me, through the woods in the direction we must take. “We have a hard road to take this day, and an even harder obstacle waiting for us at the eastern wall. But you are brave and fierce men,” I called out. I took a deep breath, readying myself for my next statement. It was the first time I had ever lied to one of my soldiers. “And I have no doubt that we will be successful.”
     A small cheer came from them, their hearts uplifted by my lie. If only they could see the shame I felt within my chest. I motioned for them to stand at attention, and they did so. “Just as before, two men are to be assigned for each fallen comrade,” I said. “This includes myself.”
     I turned and started to walk back toward my tent. “Finish breaking the camp down, and get ready to march. I want to reach the castle by sundown.”

***

     The setting sun fought to keeps its place in the western sky, causing the distant castle to appear in a pinkish haze. I stood, leaning my weight against a nearby tree, and gazed across the numerous hills that stretched out before me.
     The beautiful castle was finally within eyesight. I sighed, longing to free myself from the hiding place at the edge of the woodlands, and race for the walls of my home. But I knew better than that ... for somewhere out in those grassy plains the Wall Keeper waited.
     Taust came to stand beside me, interrupting my thoughts. “Master Simeon,” he said, “the men have laid the bodies to rest off in the distance, along with the beamon cage.” He looked into the dense forest to my left, nodding his head in the direction of the party. “We are all awaiting your orders, my lord.”
     I looked over at my second in command. “The men have done well today,” I told him with an honest smile. “Tell them to set up camp and to get some rest. Tomorrow is when the real struggle begins. We shall wait until then to finalize any plans.”
     Lord Taust saluted, turned, and disappeared into the shadows the setting sun had started to cast through the trees. I called out to him.
     “Yes, my lord?” he asked, turning back.
     “Warn the men to stay inside the woods.” I stared out across the plains, trying to focus on the distant black image I knew to be the castle. “No one is to wander into the open.”

***

     Sunlight came from behind me, warming the small patch of open skin on the back of my neck that my armor failed to cover. I awoke to find myself sitting on the ground, still leaning against the tree I had been standing beside last night.
     Taust came and stood behind me, speaking softly in case I was still sleeping. “The men are ready, master.”
     “Good,” I said, the word sounding like a croaking frog. I cleared my throat. “Don’t worry about breaking down camp,” I said. “We can come back for that. In fact, we could even send servants to come get our belongings later tonight,” I said with a smile. “We’re finally home.”
     “I’m afraid we have already taken down the camp, master. We were just about--”
     “What hour is it?” I asked, almost yelling. “And why was I not woken before?”
     “The hours of the watchmen are over, my lord,” he answered quickly. “The sun is just now fully above the horizon.” He stood at attention, even though I could not see him behind me, and went on in an even voice. “I ordered the men to break down camp before you rose, master. I was coming to wake you now.”
     I shook my head. “Do not worry about it, friend. I apologize.” I raised my hand, allowing him to grasp onto it and help me to my feet. “Thank you for you thoughtfulness ... I need it on a day like this.”
     He saluted. “Of course, my lord. What are your orders?”
     I turned to find the camp in neat order, just as I had been told. Taust and I walked back into the woods and joined the waiting men. We all stood close, cramped together by the surrounding trees. “We have two options,” I started, looking around the group so I could see every individual. “We can either try to send a messenger around the Wall Keeper, or we can try to go through it.” I raised my hand to keep the party silent. “I feel that trying to rush the eastern gate and kill the Wall Keeper is a poor decision. We have very few long-range weapons, and I believe many of us would not make it.”
     “Then let’s send out a messenger,” Quinn called from the middle of the group. “I volunteer to go.”
     A sharp pain shot through my soul. Quinn was one of my best and (if it’s not too unprofessional to say) favorite soldiers. Sending him out to try and reach the castle unnoticed, although safer than charging the Wall Keeper, was still a task that had little hope of success. I looked around at the other men. There was no reason for me to say no, other than favoritism, and I could not make something up and lie to them like I did the day before.
     “So be it,” I sighed. “But you need to take one other with you.”
     “I will go, master.” It was Taust’s voice.
     “No!” I said, yelling it louder than I meant. I thought of something that wouldn’t be a lie, and yet wouldn’t raise questions among my men. “I need your sound judgment here with me,” I finally answered.
     “Then I will go,” one of the other men called out.
     I agreed, taking Quinn and the other soldier away from the main group. “I want you to take a sloping course to the south. Range your path out far enough to avoid the Wall Keeper here on the east side of the castle. But don’t venture too far south either, or you’ll have the southern Wall Keeper to deal with.”
     “Yes, my lord,” they both said, almost at the same time.
     “If you, or any type of message from you, does not return within one full day, I will assume your message was never delivered, and believe you two dead.” I looked at both of them closely. “I have already lost eighteen good men, I do not want to lose two more. Please stay safe.”
     They saluted. “I’ll see you again within a day, my lord,” Quinn said. They turned to leave, soon vanishing from eyesight as they traveled southwest. I guessed they would follow that route for half a day before turning northwest, eventually coming to the southeast corner of the castle, hopefully right in between the southern and eastern Wall Keepers.
     Taust came up beside me, interrupting my thoughts for a second time that morning. “I’m sure they will be fine, master.”
     I nodded my head. “I told them we would wait one full day, Lord Taust. Go tell the others they may rest until tomorrow morning. If they hunt, no one is to use any arrows.” I looked over at my second in command. “We may need the few we have left if Quinn fails.”

***

     The following morning returned with no sign from Quinn. My men had been able to catch a rabbit and a squirrel by throwing their daggers, but two small rodents were not enough to feed the thirty-four of us that remained in the woods. We were on our fifth day with no food, and some of the men were already starting to show signs of weakness. I had pushed them too hard on the journey two days earlier, and fatigue was spreading through the party faster than I could have imagined. My men needed food, and if we stayed in those woods too much longer, then all hope of ever getting past the Wall Keeper would be lost forever.
     “We’re moving out! Collect your weapons and prepare for war!”
     Surprise was the common look that spread across the men’s faces. Taust came up to me. “Master, surly a message has been delivered to the castle by now. All we have--”
     I pulled Taust to the side, yelling at him through clenched teeth, trying to keep my voice down so my men could not hear. “Quinn is dead! I gave him a day--more than enough time to reach the castle--and he has not returned.” I spun Taust on his heels so he was facing the party. “Look at them,” I hissed. “These men were made to fight ... but they need nutrition to do so. If we do not move now, then we will all die right here in these woods!” I pushed him away, sending him stumbling back toward the group of soldiers. “It is my job to do what I think is best,” I called out for all to hear. “If we must die, then I would rather go down in a fight while trying to reach my home--” I looked around at the pathetic faces of my men. “--than to starve to death in these forsaken woods.” I turned away to signal the meeting over. “Get your things, men. We’re moving out right now!”

***

     We slowly made our way across the grassy plains, heading in a straight line toward the castle. With a group this large, we would come across the Wall Keeper no matter what path we took. I didn’t see the point of trying to curve around to the south like Quinn had done. If these men must fight, then why exhaust them with a long march beforehand?
     I brought the company to a halt when we reached halfway between the edge of the woodlands and the castle wall. A few of my soldiers came up to stand beside me. “Shall we try firing a message over the wall, my lord?”
     “Having a message reach the castle is worth sacrificing an arrow,” I said. I quickly scribbled our situation down on a piece of parchment and gave it to a soldier. He tied it to an arrow, pulled his bow back as far as it would stretch, and let the message fly.
     The arrow soared into the sky, disappeared from view for a moment as it passed under the high sun, and then fell miserably short of its target. The weight of the parchment set the arrow off balance, causing it to plummet to the ground in an odd and twisting fumble.
     I rubbed my eyes, trying to get rid of the yellow spot in my vision that had been caused by staring up toward the sun. “As I thought. Do not waste another arrow. We will just have to--”
     There was a scream of terror from the men behind us. “The Wall Keeper! It’s coming!”
     In front of us and to the right, a giant beast sprang from its hiding place among the small hills. A gold-green dragon landed before us, its large claws tearing into the earth under its weight. The beast arched its back, revealing the two shackles that were attached to the base of its wings. A large chain trailed down the dragon’s back and lay across the open grasses, fastened to a large post that could not be seen from where we stood.
     The dragon’s jaws opened, displaying hundreds of teeth large enough to penetrate a man’s torso. A high pitched, rumbling roar came from its throat, causing some of the men to drop their swords and cover their ears.
     “Loose all arrows!” I yelled as loud as I could, not sure how many of my soldiers had been deafened by the dragon’s scream. “Aim for the eyes and the soft skin under its jaws.”
     A black swarm flew over my head—twenty or so arrows hitting the dragon all at once. The beast took a step back, but only long enough to realize the arrows had done no serious damage. A single black shaft dangled from the underside of the dragon’s mouth, swaying back and forth every time the beast moved. The dragon lowered its head, starting to mix the deadly chemicals in its throat that enabled it to spit fire, and then charged.
     The creature stopped short, turned sidelong, and flashed its large tail before us. Three soldiers were caught in the whipping furry and plummeted backward into the air like rag dolls.
     I released my sword from its scabbard, holding its long blade before me. “Surround it!” I called out. “Do not let it maneuver!”
     A large ball of flame shot from the dragon’s mouth. Calling upon my magic, I was able to follow the flame with a burst of water. Both the dragon’s fire and my magic collided with a soldier at the same time. He was momentarily covered with flame from the chest up, having an eyebrow and half of his hair scorched down to the skin, but he still had his life.
     The dragon screamed again, disappointed that its flame did not cause the desired effect. It stared at me, its throat muscles convulsing to create another ball of fire.
     “Attack! All of you--now!” We rushed the beast, causing it to lash out with giant claws and flailing tail. Many men fell victim to the creature’s defenses. Soldiers lay about with armor split, swords broken, and their life spilled out on the grass.
     The remaining men pulled back, fear for their lives overpowering their will to fight.
     The dragon turned back toward me, raising its neck to collect the fiery liquid it had been creating. I held out my left hand, feeling the scratching tingle of magic. I commanded the air around me to compact into a thick layer, creating an invisible shield that surrounded half my body.
     The dragon opened it jaws as I rushed forward. The flames struck my magic, reflecting off in all directions. I pushed my blade forward with all of my strength, its tip pressing against the inside of the magic shield in front of me.
     My magic flexed back and forth as flame pressed from one side and my sword pushed from the other. “You must hold for just a moment longer!” I called to the air.
     The flames started to fade. I released the compacted air from my command and rushed forward. My sword broke through the dissipating shield and buried itself deep within the dragon’s chest. The beast’s front claws immediately went limp, but its tail lashed out in one final attack, killing six more of my soldiers.
     Refusing to let go of my sword, I was dragged to the ground as the dragon fell. I lay on the grass in between the forelegs of the dead beast, the smell and sight of death overwhelming my senses. I closed my eyes, trying to catch my breath. After a while, I planted my boots on the chest of the fallen dragon, trying to pull my sword free from its leather-like scales.
     I was eventually able to free my sword, causing a stream of blood to pour from the creature’s wound. I stuck my blade into the ground, using it as a cane to pull myself back onto my feet. The body of the large dragon lay in a curve, encircling all around me.
     A black streak soared overhead, landing far behind me. One of my soldiers ran to retrieve the item, shortly returning with an oversized bolt from a catapult-bow in one hand and a note in the other.
     “Master Simeon,” he said. “It appears to be a letter from the castle. It says to stay where we are and that a beast-mage will be down shortly to call off the dragon.”
     I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony. “So Quinn did make it?” I asked.
     “It appears so, my lord,” he answered.
     I stepped over the dragon’s neck, freeing myself from its presence. Quickly surveying the battleground, I counted thirteen fallen soldiers. “Gather around,” I called to the remaining twenty. I searched their faces, not finding the one man I was looking for. “Where is Lord Taust?” I asked, a nervous smile spreading across my face. “He must be around here somewhere.”
     “He’s beyond that hill,” one of the soldiers said. “His armor, along with his chest, has been split open.” He waited a moment. “I’m sorry, my lord.”
     I took a deep and slow breath, sheathing my sword. After a while I spoke, my words only coming out as a whisper. “Let’s go home.”

***

     The king, accompanied by a beast-mage and Quinn, waited for us inside the eastern gate. I fell to one knee before the king, awaiting his condemnation for failure.
     “Simeon,” he said slowly, “Quinn has explained what has taken place, so please do not fear me. You have served me well in the past, and I’m sure you did everything you could to preserve your men.” He placed a hand on my arm. “Stand up, my friend. I expect a full report from you in the morning, but for now ...” He looked at the blood-soaked soldiers around me. “... it looks like your boys need some strong ale and a hot meal. I’ve already sent out messages to the local barkeeps to be expecting them.”
     A cheer came from the soldiers. They thanked the king before dispersing to the nearest pub. The king looked at me. “That goes for you as well, Simeon,” he said, turning to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
     I tossed my arm around Quinn’s shoulders. “I thought you were dead,” I told him as we walked toward the tavern with the rest of the men. “Where’s the other soldier I sent with you?”
     “He already went home to be with his family,” Quinn answered. “But as far as being dead ... we came close enough. We had to hide in the grass overnight because the Wall Keeper was in our way. Around noon today, the beast had spotted us, but a wayward arrow stole its attention. It charged off away from the castle, leaving the two of us to run the message to the king.”
     I laughed. “We were trying to reach a note to the castle walls,” I told him. “But our tiny hunting bows weren’t made for such things.” I shook my head. “And to think I almost told the men not to shoot that arrow.”
     I opened the door to the pub. “I think you deserve a free drink, my friend.”

***

     The king set my report down on the table. “What a tragedy,” he said, more to himself than to me. “You did the right thing, Simeon.”
     “Thank you, my lord.”
     “But I’m troubled by something,” the king said. “Such a small number of you were able to get past our defenses.” He looked over at me. “What if you had been an enemy?”
     “The Wall Keeper made enough noise to alert the guards within the castle walls, did it not?”
     “That is true,” the king agreed. “We would have had that wall swarming with soldiers by the time an enemy showed up.” He nodded, thinking. “So I suppose we need to capture another dragon,” he finally said. “It’s too dangerous to leave the east wall open for attack.”
     “I agree, my lord, but if I may make a suggestion--” I reached into my vest pocket, pulling out the key to the beamon cage. “I think I know one animal that would serve us better than any dragon. If the injured mother could kill so many of our soldiers, just think what a healthy male could do to our enemies.”
     The king smiled. “You have done well, Simeon.” He stood before me, clasping my hand. “I’ll give you a few weeks to recover, but then I want you back out in the lands.”
     A sense of importance swelled up in my soul. “Of course, your majesty. Patrolling the borders, after all, is my job.” I smiled back at the king. “I would be lost if I knew there were no more adventures awaiting me.”

New Year's 2009

2011-07-25T12:30:00.002-04:00

NEW YEAR’S 2009

By derrick Stahl

---------

New Year’s Day, 2009 A.D.

12:08 AM

New York City, USA

Mike Kanes sat in his one bedroom apartment, an arm draped around the shoulders of his new girlfriend. Although miles away from Times Square, Mike can still hear the shouts from the crowd gathered there.

Was Ryan Seacrest hosting that show again? Mike thought he had heard the infamous “Seacrest out!” … but he wasn’t sure. The past hour or so was kind of a blur.

He looked at the coffee table. Six beers—no, wait—eight—twelve? Hang on, how many coffee tables do I have?

Oh, who cares? That’s the point of New Year’s anyway, right? Throw a little party, get a little drunk … see how many different girls you can make out with …

Wait … did I just say that out loud?

“Hey, baby, where you goin’? Fine, get out! Slam the door, see if I care! Your sister’s hotter anyway.”

He shook his head. “Great. Just great.”

What was that all about? Mike stood on unstable legs, stumbling across the apartment to wash his face in the bathroom sink. He glanced in the mirror. The man staring back at him looked as if he’d seen better days. Matted hair, bloodshot eyes, flushed cheeks.

“You ready for the new year?” he asked the reflection. No answer.

“It’s okay.” He laughed to himself, unconvinced. “Today is a new start. Maybe I can finally get out of this crummy apartment … cut back on the alcohol a little …” He looked down the hallway to the recently slammed door. “… Find myself a new girlfriend.”

Besides, a year from now none of this is going to matter. Will he even remember the girl’s name? Will anyone from the apartment building remember him?

That’s the only thing New Year’s is good for anyway. Turn over a new leaf. Start fresh. Out with the old! The man staring back at him from the mirror didn’t seem impressed. New year, new starting point. Nothing more.

Right?

New Year’s Day, 1012 A.D.

Sunrise

Mesoamerica, Mexico

The young Mayan scribe pulled a pen from his headdress, dipping the tip in a clay inkpot. He started to draw on the parchment before him. He copies, line by line, the Long Count calendar the elders of his tribe had come up with.

He takes pride in his work, knowing his calendar will serve as a warning to the coming generations. His people are running out of time.

But this is the beginning of a new year. He has a new chance to study the night sky. The priests will study the stars with him, and maybe even use his calendar to help decide if the current celestial bodies are deserving of a ceremony.

This new year will bring an increase of human sacrifices. The gods must be appeased if his people are to receive rain and other blessings.

The Mayan stopped his writing long enough to watch the sun finally pull itself free from the sea’s horizon. He smiled. It will be a beautiful day to start off the new year.

The young scribe dipped his pen in the ink again and continued to write. In exactly one thousand years, the days of his calendar come to an end. The order of the world shall be forever changed on that date.

Will the people of that time take heed to his warnings? In a thousand years, will anyone even remember him … or still look upon his calendar for guidance?

Until then, he can use each new year to try and warn his people. He can use each new year to study the moon and stars. He can use each of his remaining years trying to please the gods. That’s what the new year is about.

Right?

New Year’s Day, 1 A.D.

Midnight

Bethlehem, Israel

Joseph, son of Jacob, knelt by a small mat on the floor, cramming the last of his extra clothing into a bag. A world-wide census had forced he and his wife to travel to Bethlehem a few weeks back. Since then Joseph had been able to locate a cousin who had a house inside the town, and who was willing to open up a room for he and Mary.

… And the Baby! Joseph thought to himself. There are three of us now. Not just two anymore. Joseph looked over at his wife, sleeping on a nearby mat … a tiny bundle wrapped in her arms.

His virgin wife had given birth to a son shortly after arriving. And things only got weirder from there!

Joseph finished with the last bag and carried it to the front of the house. He secured it to the side of a donkey standing just outside the front door. He patted the beast on the nose, feeling sorry for the poor creature. He knew the donkey was overloaded, but he didn’t have very many options.

Sweat ran down the sides of his face, causing his beard to stick to his cheeks and neck. He sacrificed a few moments, allowing the cool night breeze to calm his nerves.

The donkey nudged Joseph’s elbow, bringing him back to reality. He took a few deep breaths before heading back inside. Glancing around the room, Joseph searches one last time for anything he might have overlooked during his rushed packing. His eyes stopped as he looked down at his disheveled cot.

He thought back to the dream that had awakened him. He remembered the fear he had when first seeing the angel. The warning he was given. The urgency in the messenger’s voice. “Flee to Egypt! The Child’s life is in danger!”

Joseph knelt down by Mary, gently touching her face. She looked into his eyes, immediately knowing something was wrong. Standing, she gathered the Child close. As her husband led her to the front of the house, Mary glanced back toward the upper rooms. She wondered if Joseph had told his family they had to leave so suddenly. Hopefully they would understand.

Within moments the house, and the town itself, were disappearing into the shadows of night. The donkey was loaded with expensive, yet very heavy, gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh, so Mary walked alongside, carrying the Baby across her breast.

Joseph glanced back, and she could see the worry etched on his face.

“God is with us,” she assured him.

Joseph smiled at her. What a new year this was becoming. He had a new wife, a new child … and soon … a new hometown somewhere in Egypt! New Year’s is all about starting over, starting fresh! But if he remembered the Prophets correctly, this new year would only be the beginning. His new son would grow up to be the deliverer of Israel. The covenant between man and God, established in Moses’ time, would be altered forever … due to the events that started to take place this New Year’s.

But there were a few things Joseph did not realize.

He failed to see that Time itself would be divided upon this New Year. All events prior would be known as “things that happened Before Christ.” And anything after this night will be known as “things that happened in the Year of Our Lord.”

The Child his wife carried will serve as a warning for His people. They already knew of the coming Judgment, but He will show them the Way through it. He will offer His body as a Bridge to fill the gap between His people and God.

No longer will the nations have to sacrifice, trying to please the starry hosts. Because under this new covenant, the One who made the stars will be a sacrifice for the nations!

No longer will someone have to suffer the indignity of trying to forget that dark side of the leaf they were flipping over. Because now, that dark, dirty side of them cannot only be forgotten … but forgiven. “Starting fresh” pales in comparison to being “born again.”

Joseph tightened his grip on the donkey’s lead, guiding it around some loose gravel on the dirt road. He glanced back to his wife and the Child once again.

Will anyone remember his family’s plight two thousand years from now? Will the future generations look back at his newborn son and take heed of His warnings? Will they believe in Him to be their Deliverer?

In two thousand years, will anyone even remember his son’s name … or will they call upon it to be saved? Will people thank God for this very special New Year’s? Because not only does this night represent the beginning of a “new start,” it can mean the beginning of a “new life,” through Jesus Christ.

After all, that’s what New Year’s is all about.

Right?

Missing Cat

2011-07-25T12:29:00.008-04:00

MISSING CAT (Censored)

By derrick Stahl

---------

She picked up her bag and left. Just ******* walked out. She didn’t say anything, didn’t look at me … it was as if I wasn’t there. But I was used to that feeling. Invisible. Useless.

I listened as the door softly clicked shut behind her. She didn’t slam it. There was no need. I glanced at the door, but didn’t stare at it like I thought I should. I knew it wouldn’t open again. ****, I knew this moment had been on its way for longer than I cared to think about. It didn’t feel right, but it was expected.

I picked up the remote, turned on the TV. This didn’t feel right either; I turned it back off. Tried a magazine but couldn’t concentrate. I paced around, feeling the soft carpet massage the bottom of my feet through my socks. I refused to cry. **** her; she didn’t cry, so I wouldn’t either.

The phone rang. I stared at it longer than I had stared at the door. Voicemail picked up. A girl’s voice told the caller to leave a message after the tone. There was a short pause before an answering voice responded. It was my sister. She started to ramble on and on about her day as if the voicemail would respond. There seemed to be something wrong, hidden beneath her cheerful mask. I picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Oh, hi! You’re home. I was just leaving you a message.”

I grunted.

“Did you want to go get some ice cream?”

“Sure.” I tried to keep my tone level. Simple. “You’ll have to pick me up, though. I don’t have the car right now.”

She breathed out as she smiled, and I pictured her face. She was faking her smile. Facial expressions didn’t transfer through the phone, but I knew my sister well enough. “Give me a few mins,” she said, “and I’ll be right over.”

I was waiting at the door, stepping outside to meet her even before she pulled into the driveway. I got into her blue Honda. She looked at me and flashed another fake smile. I could tell she had been crying.

“Dairy Queen or Friendly’s?” she asked.

I shrugged, pursing my lips in a way to say, It doesn’t matter to me.

She drove. We sat in silence.

The woman at Dairy Queen must have been too busy to notice the fact two of the world’s saddest people just ordered the world’s happiest food. My sister held her strawberry sundae in one hand, and grabbed a few of my fingers with the other. She led me outside, plopping down on the round picnic table. I sat, placing my Oreo Blizzard on the table before me. I stuck the spoon in the top so I wouldn’t have to set it on the dirty table.

She looked at me, her eyes squinting some. She scooted closer, under the shade of the umbrella protruding from the table’s middle. Our hips were touching.

“Have you talked to mom?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Not for a week or so. Why?”

“So you haven’t heard about Jason?”

I shook my head.

She took a deep breath. “He left me,” she finally said.

My eyes flashed wide, but I didn’t know what to say. I tried to stammer something. “… I’m sorry.”

She sniffled. “It was kind of my fault anyway,” she said. “I knew that neighbor down the street had been leaving food out for him at night. And … and I still left the gate open. I knew better!” This last part was said much louder than the rest.

“Fickle,” I said, as if that should sum up the whole situation. “Why didn’t you just go get him back?”

She started to cry. I sat there, looking over at her.

“I tried,” she said, her words barely understandable. “But as I was walking over there … I saw … I saw--” She buried her face into my shoulder. The only thing I could think of was that I hoped she hadn’t gotten any strawberry on my shirt. Am I that much of an *******?

I kissed the top of her head. “What’d you see?” I croaked.

After a few minutes and a few tears she finally answered. “He’s dead. Some jerk hit him and then just drove off!”

Now I was genuinely remorseful … now that I knew the whole story, anyway. “I’m so sorry,” I said as if that would somehow magically help things get better. I hadn’t touched my Blizzard and it was starting to melt, the vanilla ice cream spreading across the table in a milky pool. “Was this today?”

She sniffled once more, lifting her head from me. “This morning, yeah.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said again.

We talked for almost an hour. I was able to eat some of my ice cream, but it was more drink than food by that time. It felt like the conversation was starting to get to the end, so I began to stand.

“Wait,” she said. I looked over at her, half hunched over. “Can we pray?” she asked. I slumped back down. ****. She could pray if she wanted to! My prayers don’t get answered. In fact, to help people out, I don’t pray … that way they at least have a chance of getting what they wanted.

“Sure,” I said, once again level and simple.

She smiled. It was a weak one, but real. She got a sheepish look. I knew what was coming. ******. “Would you pray?” she asked in a girlish innocence.

“Pray for what specifically?”

She thought for a second. “For whoever hit Jason. If it was an accident, then I don’t want to be mad at them … and who knows if they feel bad about it or not. If it wasn’t an accident … then … I don’t know. God will know, though.”

“Okay …” I glanced away quickly, collecting words in my head. “Close your eyes,” I told her. She promptly obeyed. “Uhm … dear God. Please be with whoever hit Jason this morning. Help them not feel bad if it was an accident … and help my sister forgive them. Help her with the sadness she’s going through, too.” This was so awkward! Why was I stammering like a grade-schooler? “And be with me too as I’m dealing with some things. In Jesus’ name.”

My sister whispered “Amen.” She squeezed my arm in a hug. “I should probably get you back home,” she said. I grunted and tried out a fake smile of my own. It must have been convincing enough.

I was soon back at the infamous door. I listened as my sister pulled out of the drive and drifted away. She needed a new muffler. Badly. I touched the door handle but didn’t turn it. What was in that house that I wanted? There was nothing left for me. I turned and stared out at the street. A car sped past. What a lucky cat, I thought sadistically. I walked toward the street, stopping when I reached the sidewalk. It was a beautifully warm day. The gentle wind played with the branches of a nearby tree just enough to bathe me in shade … steal it away again … give it back. Rinse. Repeat. I looked up at the sky. “So Lord, You made all of this, huh?” There was no answer other than the standing testament of creation. “Then why don’t You give a ****?” I tear stung my eye. That wasn’t right of me to say. I apologized in my head, but not mouthing the words. My sister hadn’t even asked me what my problem was. Did she even notice? Or was that selfish of me to even think? Her cat just died … she had enough on her mind already. But there I was again. Invisible. Useless.

But she did use me. So what if my prayer didn’t work? It made her feel better just by me praying it, didn’t it? Or was that in itself the answer to the prayer? I was confused. Who am I to even have the right to think about this kind of stuff?

A child of God, that’s who! Because I believed in something that’s been taught for thousands of years? That doesn’t make me any better than anyone else. So why would God love me just for that?

My mind told me, Because He can and because He chose to. And that’s reason enough.

I looked back up at the sky as if I would see God there. “This doesn’t make any sense,” I told Him. “How the **** am I supped to keep going when I … I don’t know. I don’t know anything! I can’t see. How am I supposed to do this?”

Again. No answer.

I sighed, glanced back toward the house. My chest burned, my heart leaving behind nothing but an empty cavern. I wish my sister would come back. I glanced down the road in a feeble attempt to trick fate into having her blue Honda round the corner. It didn’t work. I was alone.

You’re not alone. I shook my head, once again lifting my gaze toward the cloud-spotted sky. It was the perfect shade of blue. “God …” But I didn’t have anything left to say. The wind stopped, and I stood there in the sunshine until I felt my skin start to warm. I turned toward the house and trudged inside.

Up to the bedroom. My bedroom now. The air held a familiar scent. It smelled like “home” in a weird kind of way. Every home has it, but only one smells right to each person. I was depressed. I dropped chest-down on the bed, cross-ways so my feet hung over the side. My head was turned toward the wall, eyes still open.

I kicked off my shoes, but kept my jeans and shirt on. “Well God,” I sighed. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” There was a pause. “Thanks.”

Good Friday

2011-07-25T12:29:00.007-04:00

GOOD FRIDAY

By derrick Stahl

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     The hot tears sting my face as they fall down. When will they ever stop? My body is split … tears and cuts cover me, filling me with grief and pain beyond measure. What can I do to stop this pain? My clothes have been ripped, my head has been crushed, my flesh has been torn. How many more beatings can I withstand? My heart aches at the thought of losing someone ... I can see their name, but they do not know who I am. What else can I do to get their attention? This burden is almost too much to bear. The strain on my shoulders makes them feel as if the weight of the world is pressing down on my scarred back. My flesh hangs in tatters, ripped like my garments that were torn from my bleeding body. Blood covers me. So much blood. It's all I can see ... the sky is getting darker ... I know it's almost over.
     But there is a greater burden than the strips of flesh that barely cover my bones. There is a pain that reaches much deeper inside me than the physical pain that torments my body. My heart ... a place that can be seen by all if they open up to me ... splits! It tears like the flesh from my back ... it tears quickly, top to bottom, like the veil that kept you from my Father.
     Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?
     For the first time in all of eternity ... I am split, separated from my Father ... crushed like the broken heart inside of my battered chest. But I do it for you. Your name is in my heart, broken as it may be for the moment, but I am doing this for you. I love you ... and you will never fully understand how much.
     Follow me.

Through My Eyes

2011-07-25T12:28:00.002-04:00

THROUGH MY EYES

By derrick Stahl

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The psalmist Heman once wrote: You have taken my companions and loved ones from me; the darkness is my closest friend. I am justified in having inspired him to write those words.

I find myself in the garden, and I am alone. My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. My brothers have drifted away. They refused to stay with me in my hour of greatest need. They claimed to love me, but now their backs are turned. Was my trust misplaced?

My face is pressed into the dirt, and my breath escapes me in ragged gasps. I can’t stop the tears from falling. Everyone I have ever loved has turned away from me. I am so alone. I need to be held. I need my brothers to wrap their arms around me. Do they not understand my torment?

The blood has already started. It runs from my pores, mixing with the sweat on my brow. I’m so scared. Abba, I don’t want to do this anymore. Help me follow Your will and not my own.

I can do nothing but cry. Words fail me; my prayer has turned to nothing but meaningless sobs. My God. God. Please.

I lift myself with the last remaining strength my body has. I stumble back to my brothers. They are all sleeping.

Can you not help me pray? At least pray for yourself, that you may flee from temptation.

They do not respond, but I wouldn’t know what to say even if they did. I am abandoned while still standing in the midst of my friends. I watch them drift away again. I allow myself to do the same.

I fall to the ground once more. I have no words to speak, so I just kneel in my Father’s presence. I know that He too will soon turn His eyes away from me.

And then I see you, my son. You drift through my mind, and I see your pain. I wish I could wrap my arms around you and hold you close. I know my Spirit will sustain you in your days of trouble. Do not think I don’t know what it means to be alone. Or that the Son of Man has never felt the sting of a broken heart. I have been hurt, and I have gone through it so you may believe I can comfort you. The entire world, my own creation, hates me. Let my Spirit comfort you. I know what it is to be alone.

They have come. The destroyers of my flesh are here. They carry with them torches and swords. My heart has already been beaten and crushed. I must now be beaten and broken outwardly as well.

A friend, a man whose feet I have washed, comes to me with a kiss. Is this your final act of abandonment, my brother? Betrayed by a gentle kiss? It takes everything that I am not to weep.

My brothers are still sleeping. But it does not matter, for even if they were awake all they would do is run from me. I am alone.

Who is it you want?

I am he.

Father's Son

2011-07-25T12:24:00.003-04:00

FATHER’S SON

By derrick Stahl

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Every day I try to act like my Father's Son, and every day I fail miserably. Like a dog returning to lick up its vomit, so am I returning to my sin.

My head is filled with questions, and I find no answers: Why is the flesh so weak, the eye so lustful, the tongue so sharp, and the mind so dull?

I can feel the filth cover my skin, and I scratch, trying to rid myself of this disease. If only I could peel back the humanly flesh, grasp the evil inside, and rid myself of this cancer that is eating away at my soul. I just want to be free of this torture from within, but the blood on my hands does not easily wash off. I once again dig at my flesh, trying to scratch away the sin, but it only leaves me more broken and bruised. How can this earthly carcass be so filled with evil that it hates the very thought of itself? To hate oneself is the greatest torture, for you cannot escape from the one you flee.

And through all this, I separate myself from the One I love the most. I say "love," but would true love allow for such trivial things to bring separation? God, I wish You would control me, never again allowing me to bring You distress. But You have given me this free will, and I feel it shall be my downfall.

I beg, draw me close and tuck me under Your wing. Hold my arms so I cannot push away. Break my legs so I cannot run. I must rid myself of the things that bring You pain, and if doing so brings harm to myself, then what little cost would that be in the end?

I know what I must do, and my body trembles. Please, hold my fingers steady as I pluck my eye from its socket. Help me master Matthew 6:3 as I slice the flesh of my arm; impede the blood as I cut through sinew and bone alike to separate hand from wrist. I will be blind and maimed, but if it keeps me from sinning against You, it is a small price to pay.

I have sinned against God. I am covered with filth and disgrace, and my inward being is completely broken. I try to pick up the shattered pieces of my heart and soul, but the sharp edges do nothing but cut my fingers. The pieces slip through the blood on my hands, only to fall back to the ground. How can I place myself together when I cannot even hold on to what I need to survive?

How broken must I be before I'm fixed?

It was while in this state of mind that I found myself to be in a vast desert. Immediately to my right lay thin tracks, as if heavy objects had been pushed along in the sand. My eyes followed the trails until I saw shimmering black objects off in the distance. Waves of heat danced along the horizon, hindering my sight. Slowly, for I feared that I might frighten whatever had made the tracks, I started to walk toward the black dots that seemed to dance in and out of dark mirages.

I felt the sand vibrate only a moment before I heard the sound that caused the ground's disruption. I continued to walk toward the objects, having no other option than to allow the vibration to numb my feet and work its way up my legs to rattle my whole being. A constant buzzing sound came from the objects, and as I got closer I could faintly hear the makings of intelligent words. It was as if the objects were singing, and the vibrations were nothing more than their sound waves.

I stopped to listen, staring down at the tracks that they had left behind in the sand. I closed my eyes, straining my ears to their limits … and I could understand the words!

"Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord! Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!"

Praises to God! My God! Joy swelled up within my breast, for I had not expected to hear such as this. Forgetting the fact that I might frighten the objects, I opened my eyes and ran toward them, hungry to hear more praises. Their singing sounded sweet to my ears, and it held a beautiful nature that I fear I cannot correctly describe.

The sand continued to vibrate with each quickened step, sending numbness into my feet as if they were asleep. I skidded to a halt behind the objects, accidentally covering their tracks with flying sand. I stared down in shock, not sure if, by chance, I was somehow still seeing a mirage.

The objects were stones! Their singing praise continued, the buzz of their voices almost deafening at this close distance. The stones themselves vibrated, moving across the desert, leaving trails behind in their wake.

And then all stopped. Silence.

"A human!" one of the stones whispered. A small buzz emitted from the rest of the stones, one of them turning to "look" in my direction. They murmured amongst themselves, and I was only able to make out a few of their frenzied whisperings. " … must be silent … his job now … praises to the Lord …"

And all fell quiet. A small wind picked up, playing with the sand around my feet and the now motionless stones.

I stood for what seemed like hours, watching for any movement or noise, but nothing except the wind caught my attention. Skeptical, and slightly hurt in feelings, I moved on toward the far-off horizon. I often glanced back, hoping to catch the stones in movement again, but it was all for naught. Gradually they dipped in and out of the distant heat mirages, until at last they could be seen no longer.

Greatly depressed now, I walked on with my head bowed, kicking the sand as I continued my trek. I altered my course only slightly, when needed, to avoid small sand drifts and to make my way around larger dunes. I'm not sure how long I walked, and it would be wrong of me to try and guess. Any judgment of time I had was lost, and I could have been walking for only minutes, maybe hours, but perhaps even for days. I don't know. I only know that I traveled a far distance, and unless my footprints had not been wiped away by the blowing wind (which I feared they had), there was no way I could find my way back to where I had started. Not that going back would help any, for where I started had been as bleak and hopeless as where I currently stood.

I felt myself start to weaken, and my feet dragged, causing me to stumble every now and again. I was about to give up and sit down on the sand when I saw yet another dark object in a far-off mirage. I could see a vertical line waving in the heat. It was a long way off, and I made myself believe that I had just enough strength to reach it.

And so I dragged my feet, continuing onward. Another unknown span of time passed before I could start to make out any details about the object. There seemed to be a smaller horizontal line that stretched atop the vertical line I had seen earlier. A single mass was positioned where the two lines crossed, and the image of it reminded me of a crucifix. The heat played tricks with my vision, and my eyes watered if I kept them raised toward the horizon for too long. I lowered my head once again, squinting against the bright heat of the desert, and trailed on.

With each step, the object slowly came into focus. And with each moment's passing, the horror that I had been right—that it was, beyond any doubt, a crucifix—became more real. As I slowly got closer, a weight started to pull me to the ground. It took everything I had to keep my knees from buckling under this new burden.

I stopped in front of the cross, my knees bent, arms down, and shoulders slumped under this new weight that was trying to drag me to the ground.

There was a bloody mass of flesh hanging on the cross. It took me a moment before I realized it was the naked corpse of a human. And the only way I could tell it was, in fact, a human was due to the outstretched arms I saw pinned to the cross, and the overall shape of the body. Bones poked out from the torn flesh, though none appeared to be broken, and a spear hung from the dead Man's side. His feet and hands had been crudely nailed to the splintered wood of the cross. His body was torn asunder, and how His insides kept from spilling to the ground shall remain a mystery, for there seemed little to keep them in.

Blood painted the cross and the body. For long moments, the blood seemed to be all I could see. I tore my gaze upward, staring upon what was left of the Man's face. A few small patches of beard remained on His chin and neck, but the hair from His cheeks had been ripped from His flesh, leaving behind swollen bruises and gore. Large thorn vines had been wrapped around and pushed onto the top of His head. They seemed to bore down into His very skull, leaving behind gaping wounds where the thorns had broken off from the tortuous crown.

I saw no eyes, for His face was completely swollen shut.

The burden that had been pulling me toward the ground became too great to ignore any longer. I looked down to see my sin hanging from my clothes in the form of rusted nails. I held a nine-tailed whip in my left hand, bits of broken pottery, rocks, and shards of metal tied to its leather tips. There was a large hammer grasped in my right fist, my knuckles white from the grip I held on its wooden handle. I stood, frightened and revolted by what I saw. I quickly released the whip and hammer, letting them fall heavily onto the sand, and franticly tried to remove the nails that clung to my clothing. Stricken, I looked up to the cross.

"Did I—" I used my sleeve to wipe the tears from my cheek. "Did I do this to You?"

There was no answer. There didn't need to be.

For I knew what I had done.

I dropped to my knees, bowing my face to the sand, and wept. I cried because it was I who beat and whipped the flesh from His bones. It was I who placed Him on the cross. It was I who drove the nails through His wrists. I cried because of the pain I had inflicted upon my Savior. I cried because I had killed the One I love the most.

I cried because of my sin.

Hours passed and my tears fell. Great sobs and wails did I send up to the heavens, and I saw no end to my misery and torment. My stomach churned, and I emptied its content onto the ground before me. I remained prostrate before the cross, and I continued to weep until there was nothing left in me to give.

Immeasurable time later, I started to a sound from above. The cross was gone, and I was left alone in the desert once more. I sat up, surely looking almost as bad as I felt—swollen red eyes, vomit-covered, pale face sprinkled with sand. I felt empty, as if my skin had been drawn close to my bones, and I was nothing more than a hollow vessel. My stomach growled for food, but the mere thought of eating caused me to blench.

I slowly found my feet and stood on trembling, weak legs. The noise that had made me jump earlier sounded again, and I looked to the heavens only to see a large sheet of red covering the sky. It was flat, and started to fall toward the earth on an even, level decent. I watched it fall, and when it struck the crown of my head it burst like liquid, drenching me and the entire surrounding desert. The red ran down my body, and it was only then that I realized what it was: Blood. I was being covered in blood from heaven. I closed my eyes as it slowly ran down my face, covering and staining my clothes, before falling to the sand below.

When all had seemed to settle, I opened my eyes to see the desert pure and clean. The ground was perfectly level, without a drift or dune in sight, and seemed to stretch out forever. I felt the top of my head to find that my hair was much shorter, almost gone. My clothes had been bleached pure white, and my shoes where missing. I stood barefoot, for where I trod was now holy ground.

Before I had much time to debate my new surrounding, I felt a severe tremor shake the earth. Large cracks rent the ground, forming a crater in front and to the right of where I stood. The sand started to fall inward, but then quickly burst out in a shower as the blade of a sword emerged from the hole. The weapon slammed to the ground, and I could see that a gauntleted hand gripped its handle. Out of the hole there came a great Knight covered in brilliant armor. He pulled Himself free from the ground with a great strength that somehow reminded me of a fierce Lion, prowling the lands of Judah. And there, on the front of His armor and shield, were carved the images of a great Lion, and twelve tribal names encircled the images. The Knight's hair and beard were white, thick like sheep's wool, and His eyes burned like star-fire.

There was something oddly beautiful about this Knight. He seemed kingly, gentle, loving, kind. He was a Knight I could kneel before without shame, without fear. And yet, on the other hand, I knew that if an enemy were to take a single glance His way, they would be able to do nothing but stand petrified and helpless.

I was about to speak when I felt a Great Presence hover throughout the air. The Knight looked up to the Invisible Force (unseen to my eyes, at least). There was a voice, but it was too terrible for me to hear or understand. I cowered in its wake, fearful that my life would be stripped from me.

"Yes," the Knight laughed, and it was a beautiful sound. He reached into the breastplate of His armor and retrieved two keys. Holding them up to the Awesome Power, He announced, "I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead, and behold I am alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades."

There was an answering voice yet again too much for my human ears to conceive, and then the Knight turned toward me. And for a moment, as if I was seeing another mirage of the desert, I thought I saw the Knight take the shape of a blood-covered Lamb. But before my eyes could adjust to this new image, the Knight stood before me in full.

And knowledge came to me. I knew this Knight. Tears sprang up to my eyes, and I fell to my knees before Him. This is the One I hung on the cross. This is the One my sin had killed … and yet I knew He had died willingly. He took my place, erasing my sin forever. Through my tears of sadness and confusion, I was able to sob a single question. I wanted to ask so much, but I could only make out a single word. "Why?"

The Knight laughed. But it was a beautiful sound, and it lifted my spirits, for it was not a laugh of humor, or taunting, or amusement … it was a sound that proclaimed more than words could ever say. "Why, my child?" He laughed again, and my heart rose within me, picking me up to my feet. "Love."

I fell as if I were dead and began to worship. I sang praises, repeating the words I remembered the stones had sung. It was now my job to worship my Lord. And throughout my praises, the image of a slain Lamb flickered between reality and vision.

I sang until my throat was hoarse. I did not want to ever stop, but my body was spent and my voice was gone. I slowly sat up, trying my best to soak in His radiance. And I was happy to just be in the presence of the One I love the most.

Time passed yet again, unable to be measured. I started to ask a question, whispering it out with my spent throat. "What shall You have me do?"

He pointed, and behind me on the sand was an open journal, the pages blank. A pen rested nearby, so I sat and started to write.

"Every day I try to act like my Father's Son … and even though I fail miserably, I'm covered in the blood of the Lamb."

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Verses Quoted:

Luke 19:38 (NIV)

Revelation 1:17b-18 (NIV)