15 Fictional Character – A List

So there’s this list going around about the 15 fictional characters that most struck a chord with you.  One is supposed to make the list off the top of your head, but man, I’m really bad at that.  It did take me less than fifteen minutes, but I agonized over a few of the choices here. 

It’s a solid list, though perhaps some people would question how a list could contain both Hannibal Lecter AND Winnie the Pooh.  Or debate with me that Miyamoto Musashi and Hunter S Thompson were both technically real people.  I approached both through fiction about them, so I feel it valid to include them here.

The 15 Fictional Characters List                                                      
in no particular order

1. Captain Jean-Luc Picard – Star Trek: The Next Generation
2. Laguna Loire – Final Fantasy VIII
3. Hunter S Thompson – Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
4. Leonard Shelby – Memento
5. Winnie the Pooh – The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh
6. Randall Flagg – The Stand
7. Cyrano de Bergerac – Cyrano de Bergerac
8. Batman – Batman: The Animated Series (and other representations)
9. Usagi Tsukino – Sailor Moon
10. Hannibal Lecter – Silence of the Lambs and Hannibal (books especially)
11. Calvin and Hobbes – Calvin and Hobbes
12. Odysseus – The Odyssey
13. Miyamoto Musashi – Musashi by Eiji Yoshikawa
14. Charlotte – Lost in Translation
15. Daffy Duck – Looney Tunes

Feel free to reply with your own list, or link me to your list in the comments.  Would love to see what other people have down for this. 

An Explanation RE: My Actions

Five times in my life I've shot a man, and not once did I think it was the wrong thing to do. And I'm not the kind of person who doesn't believe in regrets. I regret that I never had a chance to say goodbye to my Ma before she died, and I regret that I didn't kiss Heather Woods in the 10th grade that time we went to the homecoming dance.

So sure, I regret things.

But the people who I shot ... those seven bastards deserved what they got. Every one of them was a bad person. And I can't feel sorry for doing what needed to be done.

The first was a mistake, a bad twist of fate. Some punk trying to steal enough to score picked the wrong guy. One dark alley, one threat, and I warned him too. But when he pulled the knife and advanced on me I did what any red-blooded American properly armed would do. I put two in that fucker's chest and left him there drowning in his own blood.

Okay, so maybe that's not the proper way. My Grandfather took me out to his farm back when I was a kid, to see the fresh air and learn about God's land in thorn and claw, as he said. One day one of the farm dogs got caught underneath the wheel of a tractor. It was all broken, limp as a wet dishrag, and my Grandpa had told me then that you never let an animal suffer when you could put it out of its misery.

So leaving that sorry fucker there in the alley to suffocate on his own tainted blood was bad form on my part. I made up for it. I went to Grandpa's grave and told him that I had done it wrong and learned my lesson and if--and God forbid that it come to pass--I had another chance to do the right thing, I'd make sure that I never left a broken living being behind me.

The 2nd and 3rd were another bit of bad luck. I seem to be one of the unluckiest men alive. But that's okay. Common sense and preparation can make up for a whole mess of bad luck, I've found. And I do my best to wield both. So when the two bums came in through my kitchen window looking to do Heaven knows what, I tagged them both. The police might have been suspicious at how neatly I had done it, one of them hit once in the chest and once in the throat and the other one neatly betwen the eyes.

I couldn't really tell them that the 2nd one, upon seeing his comrade fall, had gotten down on his knees and begged me to let him go, that he had made a mistake. But he was so helpless. I couldn't just let him run back out into the world. It was a hard winter that year, and he looked half-frozen as it was. I wouldn't do that to my worst enemy. So I did the decent thing and put him down proper. 

Thank god he had booze in his system and his friend had a cheap old gun on him. I was acquitted without delay. Nobody condemns a man for minding his own house. Not even in these awful times. 

The fourth time was a good work. Driving through the seedy side of town, as I did from time to time, I spotted a pimp beating up on his hooker. Or maybe it was just a husband who had gone too far laying hands on his wife. I'm not sure which it was, to be honest. You can't tell one from the other with those kinds of people. But the woman was screaming for help and nobody walking the streets in that part of town lifted a finger, scurrying into hiding and onto stoops where they could deny they saw a damned thing.

I was not as cowardly.  I didn't even have to stop the car. And all those people who were looking the other way obviously saw nothing. Nobody looks too hard for people who kill those types of monsters. The woman was simply grateful. No harm done. My good deed for the day achieved. 

Why am I telling you all this? Well, because the last time I shot a man was probably the last time I'll ever get away with it. I don't regret it, per se, but I understand that there are some things people don't look kindly upon. Like how my friend Chris from work didn’t look kindly upon my confession that I had shot four men while we were sharing a few 12 packs of beer.

You should have heard the things he accused me of when I detailed what I laid down before you here. He called me all sorts of names. Monster. Psychopath. They were unfair things. I’m just a man who protects what’s mine. It’s a carefully honed skill, the ability to defend. I am especially good at it. So when he threatened me, intimated that he would call the cops, I defended the thing most important to me without thinking.

So poor Chris is dead now. But he was always a bit of a pompous ass. So … there we go. I regret nothing, but I can’t exactly hide this one. I can’t think of an excuse that the police are going to like. So I’m simply going to tell them the truth, in as calm and composed a manner as I can. Which is why I write this. Five men, a drop in the bucket. Tyrants and patriots kill exponentially more every day.

I only did what was necessary.

Regarding the Man on the Lawn – a #fridayflash

To Sheriff Oliver,

I’m writing to inform you that I once again saw an unidentified man out on the lawn just the other day, out right in front of my house at [redacted]. This is after the guarantee by your Deputy Matthews that there certainly was NOT a man out on my lawn during this past weekend when I called your office to report just such a man a total of five times.

In order to keep things neat and tidy and not have to spend another two hours on hold with your receptionist waiting for you or the Deputy to become available, I’m going to write down here exactly what happened as clear as I can remember it. Not sure it’ll help, though. It’s not much different than the report I filed last week.

I was out watering the nasturtiums yesterday morning when I first saw him this week. Apparently your Deputy’s car had scared him away during the weekend but now he was back again, standing on the edge of my lawn the same as ever. He was a nondescript man, maybe in his 30s or 40s. Just like any other guy you’d see. Though he was wearing a suit. Let me tell you, that’s rare enough these days. Men casually out in suits is one of those things I thought had died back before computers were invented.

He was just standing there watching me watering my nasturtiums. Normally I wouldn’t mind that. My nasturtiums are the pride of the block, ask anybody. But this was just how it started last week and I wasn’t having any more of his loitering. I turned towards him and shut off the water spray. I told him to leave and that I didn’t want him hanging around my property again, but he didn’t give any indication that he was listening to me.

I went back to watering my nasturtiums, hoping that he’d respond to the cold shoulder. It must have worked, because when I glanced back at where he was standing over my shoulder he was gone. Satisfied, I gave it no more thought until noontime when I was making lunch. I had just put together a modest plate of egg salad sandwiches and was carrying them out onto the porch to eat when I saw the man had returned.

This time he was standing in front of my nasturtiums, not twenty feet from where I stood. I nearly dropped my plate of sandwiches, he startled me so bad. I set the plate down and then leaned over the porch railing to shake my fist at him. I told him he had no right to be on my property, that I was going to call the cops again if he didn’t listen to me and get out of my yard instantly.

He didn’t seem to listen at first, just staring at the nasturtiums. I wondered if he wasn’t deaf or mentally ill or something, but he looked too slick for that. No crazy ever wore a suit so well who wasn’t a politician. And no politician would be standing in Sweetcreek looking at my nasturtiums. I gave him another warning and then walked inside to get the phone. By the time I picked up the receiver and dialed I noticed that out the window, he was no longer in front of the flowers.

I have to admit here that I did hang up on your receptionist. Maybe there’s a note of a call from yesterday around noon in your records. That was me. Sorry for not calling back to clarify, but I was so surprised that I hung up the phone. That guy was like a damn ghost, appearing and disappearing. I almost thought that maybe he was a ghost, but when I went out to make sure he was gone I saw that he had left footprints in the still wet ground near the flowers.

I decided to think nothing of it, and went about the rest of my business. I’m a busy man, for a retired person. And the mysterious guy seemed to have finally given up for good. So I finally settled down and spent the rest of my day in peace.

This morning, roughly 6:23 AM, I woke up to find the man standing on my lawn again. He was as immobile as always, standing just on the border of my lawn looking at the house. I couldn’t tell how long he had been there or what exactly he was looking at. But him being out there greatly disturbed me. People shouldn’t be lingering on lawns at that time of the morning.

So I called the police. And you guys said that you’d sent a patrol car out. Which was the last time I heard from you. Because despite me having a valid complaint, you see fit to treat me like some kind of kook. No patrol car has come past here, nobody’s shown up to check in on me. It’s been hours. At least the sun’s fully risen, though I’m not completely sure what time it is. Still nobody coming.

I have to admit that in my 80 years living in Sweetcreek I’ve NEVER seen such disregard for the complaints of a local citizen. I’m sure if the same complaint came from someone who owned a business or sat on the city counsel, you’d have the deputy up here checking things out. Instead it’s just me, waiting while that … that MAN is out on the lawn.

He started right on the edge of my property. It was barely a trespass, just the toes of his shined shoes hanging over the lip of the sidewalk. But it was enough. Yet by the time I got back from talking to the dispatcher at the police station, I found that he had advanced some two feet into the yard. His expression and pose hadn’t moved. In fact, I had never actually seen him move before.

And so it’s gone for the past four or five hours. I’ll watch him, standing there staring off into space. Then he’ll be so strange and immobile that I can’t bare to look at him, yet when I look back he’ll be a few feet closer. Now he’s standing right in front of the three concrete steps that lead to the porch. He’s kindly stayed put while I wrote this letter, but who knows how fast he’ll advance now that I'm finishing? Will he climb the stairs soundlessly? Will he open the door without me looking? What will he do after he’s here?

I don’t have the answers. I shouldn’t have to provide them. I pay your salaries, you assholes, and you didn’t come to check out my damn house when I gave you the damn phone call. I hope you’re happy.

Cordially,

Horace Waterson

[ Mr. Waterson was reported missing some 6 hours later by a jogger who happened by and noticed the door was open and nobody was home. Police found the letter, but no evidence of forced entry or a struggle. Mr. Waterson’s whereabouts are still unknown. ]

Hrothgar a Go Go

Once upon a time, Hrothgar was a pretty badass king. Being Danish, he knew how to throw down when the occasion called for it. This wasn’t modern Denmark, that country rarely heard from in the European conglomeration, but the land of big Viking bastards who would slay dragons and generally make a bad day for everyone they crossed.

Now Hrothgar lived in a hall named Heorot, which is ‘hall of the hart’. It’s a name with two meanings, though both of them spoke to the prowess of their great king. First, Hrothgar was a man known for his animalistic passions and insatiable appetites. And second … well, let’s just say that the hall guard is now much more on alert that random forest animals didn’t wander into the hall when the King ordered the mead to flow freely.

Needless to say, despite all the old timey-ness, Heorot was a pretty fly place.

Sooner or later that kind of excess draws some attention, of course. If you’re just a serf kicking back in your hovel, the guards will kick down your door. If you’re some middle of the road middle-management bastard, the King himself might step in to make sure you aren’t having too much fun.  But when you’re King of the land, there typically isn’t anybody who can tell you ‘enough is enough.’

Which is where Beowulf comes in. 

Now, I see that you’re thinking ‘What about Grendel? Big messed up monster come killing people, that’s gotta be a problem, right?’

Sure, it might be, if it was a big monster running around ripping people apart these days. We can’t abide that shit. We have problems when our fast food order isn’t right. You think people today could deal with Grendel? They’d shit their pants and curl up and die of fright. 

But back in the day, these Danes were pretty hardcore. Mythological motherfuckers were coming out of every crevice and shadow and hole to spoil the party. No, monsters like Grendel were about as common as armor chafing. Yeah, it sucked, but it came with the territory. 

But you see, the Danes were taking their sweet time getting around to dealing with Grendel. Hard to get motivated when you’ve got a party hall and an unlimited supply of drink and wenches to go with it, am I right or am I right? But poor old Hrothgar, happy on his throne, forgot the cardinal rule of the ancient rule—no matter what kind of badass army you command, somewhere is a place more cold and more desolate where a more badass hero with a bigger sword and a bigger dick is just waiting to fuck up your shit.

Seriously, check your epic tales. Right up there with plucky sidekicks and tragic endings on the cliche scale.

So Beowulf was this viciously gleeful bastard who had made a name for himself going around the world and taking on all sorts of mythic beasts and abominations for the fame and ladies that came with such glory. He was also a Geat. Which was an early name for ‘hella Swedish.’  He sailed a ship full of type A macho frat boy assholes who came to kill things and claim credit.

Of course, Hrothgar had known Beowulf’s father Ecgtheow way back when when Ecgtheow had been a pretty cool guy. But sometimes the apple falls pretty far from the tree, y’know? And while Hrothgar remembered fondly the times he and Ecgtheow had chilled in front of the fire, Beowulf barged right in and demanded the hospitality that his father had been shown.

Now Hrothgar was a pretty stand up guy. And it wasn’t like Beowulf had just driven across town and crashed at his pad. Sending him back would be a weeks-long affair. So he rolled out the red carpet and put down bedding for Beowulf’s men and offered them all the things he had to share.

Beowulf partook of as much of this as he could, but then turned around and told Hrothgar that he was here to slay his monster for him. Now, hundreds of years have passed and it’s hard to relate, but that’s like telling another person you’ll scratch their ass for them or spank their kids or sleep with their wife.  It’s an imposition.

A damn frustrating imposition too, because you can’t just say ‘oh, no, don’t kill the murderous monster, I rather like him.’  If you haven’t had the time to get around to killing him yourself yet, suddenly the Hero is here to steal all the glory and leaves you looking like the asshole. Hrothgar knew that Beowulf had him by the short and curlies, so he agreed.

Beowulf and his men took control of Heorot and finally trapped Grendel. Beowulf, that grandstanding ass, fought Grendel hand to hand, without clothing, when Grendel surprised them one night. Let me tell you, it’s bad enough to have some foreigner showing up to slay your monsters, but when he can do it bare ass naked and come out of it just fine, it really busts your balls.

Beowulf even did him one further by going out and fucking up Grendel’s mother, too. Two monsters for the price of one. In one visit, Beowulf had totally shaken up the power base of Hrothgar. And yeah, maybe Hrothgar wasn’t the best monster slayer around, but he was a good King and he kept his people as chill as you can keep a group of beefed up Danish warrior types.

Beowulf took the credit and some cash and split. Because Beowulf never stayed around when the dust had settled and the blood was drying on the wall. That guy had Shit. To. Do. So Hrothgar paid him and wished him well, secretly bummed out and ready to hit the mead harder. 

Because that’s what happens when Beowulf passes through. He just sucks out all the glory of life, and leaves you a broken King sitting in a hall another man conquered. You’re just Hrothgar, the guy who paid Beowulf to kill his monsters. They don’t call the epic Hrothgar, The Baddest Motherfucker in Denmark, do they? Noooooo. 

The moral of this story? Fight your own monsters, even if you’d rather drink your mead. And tell those heroes who would do it for you just where they can step off and go the hell back to Sweden.

Observatory -- a fridayflash

The hatch to the observatory opened up to the emptiness of the star field. The first time Heather had seen this view, when they making their way out of the solar system and gliding past Saturn hanging heavy in nearly the entire view of the room, she had gasped with delight and with the sudden, lurching sense of both awe and vertigo. But that was seven years ago now and the stars were nearly unmoving in their familiar patterns.

She settled into one of the chairs that ringed the observatory. The room was small, only a few feet across. Even so, the engineering to keep the bubble window intact was remarkable. No expense was spared on the creation of the Jormungand.

"Colonel, you look very tired." She looked over at the figure on the other side of the observatory. With the hatch closed it was pitch-black in the observatory, the seats all dark and everything shadows against the general blackness of space.

Heather settled back against one of the seats, the cushion designed to hold onto a body to keep it settled in the lack of gravity. "How are you doing today, Father?"

"I do wish you wouldn't put me up here. I'm able to help the crew in so many ways, yet here I am, discarded in the attic."

"You're here with three layers of aluminum silicate glass between you and heaven, Father. I would think you'd be pretty comfortable in this perch."

"Your romanticism of the situation notwithstanding, I'm built to provide crew services. As comfortable as you have become with this spiritual adviser role, I assure you that I do not 'feel' anything in particular about the situation one way or another, other than an unfulfilled desire to realize my function."

"You're doing just fine here, let me tell you," Heather said, leaning back and closing her eyes. "Everybody needs someone to talk to. We're all in close quarters, trying to coexist as peacefully as we can. We can come up here, be removed from it all, and have you as someone who only sees us from the outside. Impartial, capable, intelligent."

"I'm programmed for much more than playing ship psychologist, Colonel. My skeletal structure is much stronger than yours. I could conduct repairs, move equipment, help with the-"

"We can take care of the busywork ourselves. Do you know how long we've been out here?"

"Two thousand six hundred and seventy four days, three hours, twenty eight minutes, forty three ... forty four ... forty five, you get the idea. I could go further, but I'd be speaking too fast for you to properly process."

"You aren't here to be a smart ass, metalhead."

"Yes sir," he replied simply. Heather opened her eyes up and looked across at the shadow, a black blot among the infinite blackness behind. She only knew that it was there because she knew there was a line of stars in that direction that was being blocked off.

In her mind, she could remember what the automatic crewman looked like, his silver face with golden eyes and highlights along the brow and nose. His mouth with the infinite pieces that could change into various shapes to mimic emotion. She tried to forget that. He was here for her. He was the Father to which she would come and make confession. Like every week. Or whenever it actually was.

"What are you thinking, Colonel Warren?"

"That time around here doesn't seem to be bound much by the rigid structures of life back on Earth. You know, somewhere in the second year I really stopped counting it. Nobody seems to mind much, anymore. We exist on only the time between sleeping."

"Timekeeping and scheduling is one of my many functions, sir."

"I know," she said with a wave of her hand, dismissively brushing aside his programmed helpfulness. She couldn't see her own hand, but she knew that his sensors wouldn't miss it. "That's why you're up here. Everything below is so ... fluid. Time, movement, dreams ... we aren't the people we were. You know, three hundred years ago my family were builders. They cut rocks and used them to create buildings that reached into the sky. Can you imagine?"

"I am incapable of imagining anything, but I am aware of the history of-"

She didn't let him finish. "We were people of clay, Father. Man, born out of the dust. Ashes to ashes. You know the drill. And yet now we're people of the sky. Do you think we could return to clay, after this?"

"Your function is to seek out the target planet and activate the colonization programs, adaptation to an alien world is not an inherent part of your function."

"I know this. I'm just saying, here ... you have all the memories of what time is, of what Earth was like. Do you know how much time has passed since we left?"

"I haven't been privy to the navigation logs since you relocated me up here, so there could be some variance in the numbers due to local gravity wells and automatic unforeseen course corrections, but by my estimation the time on earth has progressed some nine hundred years, six months, seventeen days."

"No hours? Minutes?"

"I cannot judge that, no. The variances are far too great to give you an accurate prediction. Even at days, there is a margin for error plus or minus three days. Even I, sir, am not immune to the effects of our time away from our home planet's way of judging time."

"But you remember. That's enough." Heather sighed and looked up at the stars. "You know, we're seeing things that no human on Earth has ever seen before. Or at least hadn't when we left. We have no idea what they might be up to now."

"That is true."

"See that star?" She pointed up to a faint light, far distant, a pinpoint among millions. "That star went nova before we were crawling out of the oceans. Or ... I was. You were some minerals probably scattered all over the earth."

"I don't know the condition of my individual components in their native state."

"Regardless, that star is gone. Nothing but cosmic debris. Dead. But the rest of the universe doesn't know it. Hell, from where we are, it's still alive. The observer makes it true, right? Our star maps show this star as existing in this moment, when it doesn't. Which reality is accurate? Dead things aren't dead because we see them still, not the other way around."

"Are you getting at something, sir?"

"Nothing," Heather said with a sigh. "Just talking aloud. Can't talk to yourself around the crew, not when you're in charge. It's bad for morale." She hesitated, staring up at the unmoving stars. They were hurtling along at speeds so fast she had a hard time wrapping her mind around them, but from here it looked as though they were completely adrift in a sea of nothingness. Space indeed.

"As I said when you entered the observatory, Colonel, you look very tired today."

Heather didn't bother answering him. What was there to say to that? "What do you see out there, Father, with those eyes of yours?"

"I am rated to observe all manner of spectra, visible or not, and compile the information into an indexed overlay in order to-"

"No, no, I know your specifications. Give me something more. Give me the poetry. Tell me what it looks like to you. As a person."

"I am not a person," he said.

"Come on, you're supposed to be playing priest. Where's your damn personality routines when I need them? When you look out there, tell me what you see in words that I can imagine and understand. As a faithful woman coming to a holy man for advice."

There was a pause, but when he finally spoke Heather heard, or at least imagined, that some of the mechanical sound was gone from his voice. "It is all numbers, you understand. It's hard to put into words and loses much of its meaning. But there is an elegance to it all. What you see as blackness and faint stars I see as a swirling infinite reality of energies--existing, being created, being destroyed, all of it coming from everywhere. Up close it is all turmoil, but far away it takes on a simplistic elegance."

"Do you like it?"

"I find it fascinating. There is something to what is out there, some sense of the infinite, that I know to be untrue by my understanding of the universe. Yet, it seems like there are endless variations on what seems possible. In the years since I was relocated up here, I have never stopped finding things of interest."

"This is what my ancestors thought heaven was, up here among the celestial bodies."

"I'm not sure I believe in such a place, and it certainly has very little bearing on physical reality should it exist."

"You know, Father, for a religious official, you don't sound pretty convinced about this religious figure thing."

"I know only what I observe. I observe the cosmos. What more do you want?"

"That'll do, I suppose," Heather said as she leaned forward. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last conf-"

"Two weeks."

"Two weeks?"

"Yes, I could break it down further for you, but you seem annoyed by that." There was another pause, and he spoke again. "You know, Colonel, you're the only one who comes to see me anymore."

"Time passes, people get lonely. Not many people have much faith anymore."

"But you do?"

Heather nodded in the darkness, the stars wheeled overhead. "I do."

"Then begin your confession."

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been ... two weeks since my last confession..." The automated crewman that was serving as the Colonel's priest listened to her, trying to understand the sin from the noble act, the moral from the immoral. But she was right, things were fluid. His binary understanding of the universe, even augmented with psychological subroutines, had a hard time keeping up.

He let her speak and responded when necessary, but his mind wandered to the universe above him. Space, infinite space, was comforting in its patterns and lack thereof. In its uniformity and its boiling chaos. Colonel Warren looked for absolution from a machine. He looked for something ... something he couldn't even identify, out there among the universe.

Together they hurtled onward.

The One With the Waggly Tail

The clerk sighed as the customer approached the counter. "You again? How many times are we going to do this?"

The customer shrugged, trying not to look too chagrined to be there. "They keep dying on me. I can't help that, they're old when I get them!"

The clerk leaned closer and spoke softly over the din of people laughing and talking around the viewing enclosures and cages. "You know, if you're having problems taking care of them, you shouldn't be buying them. They can put you away for that, you know. There are laws against cruelty and mistreatment."

The customer recoiled in horror. "Look, I'm not some sort of monster! The last one had liver problems. I couldn't pay for the surgery. Nobody would, really. Not when the old girl was that close to death. So I just let her go peacefully. You're telling me nobody else comes back here?"

"Oh, they do, but not nearly as often," the customer said. "I suppose you do look to adopt the older ones, though. Fine. But if you're in here again in six months I'm going to have to notify my supervisor. We can't be going through that much stock for one person. We could get in trouble, too."

"I understand," the customer said. "Don't worry. I really do take my best to be the best caretaker. They have beds and food and things to play with. I put on music that they like. I take them out for walks, don't let them wander the streets."

"I believe you," the clerk said. "You seem on the up and up. You leave a lot of broken hearts when you finally walk out of here."

"They'll all find loving homes, I'm sure," the customer said. "Everyone needs something in their life. Without a sense of responsibility, taking care of a living creature, nourishing them, building that companionship... well, what person doesn't like that?"

The clerk smiled. "Exactly right. I hope you enjoy your selection. Have a nice day."

----

The customer let his new acquisition into the passenger's seat of the car, then got behind the wheel. You were supposed to keep them contained until you got home, but that seemed a little inhumane to the customer. How could you wait to set them free?

When he sat down in the drivers seat, he looked over. "Don't worry. It'll be all right. I'm your new owner. I'll take care of you. We'll be the best of friends."

The woman in the passenger's seat looked at him, eyes bright and hopeful amid a deep set of wrinkles. "I sure hope so."

"What's your name?" the customer asked.

"Hazel," the old woman replied, reaching over and putting on her seat belt.

"Hazel." The customer thought for a moment, committing it to memory. "Pretty name. I'll probably call you Gran. I hope that's okay."

"Of course!"

"I'm glad," the customer said, smiling. "All right. Let's go. I'll show you my place, and then we'll get some food in you."

"Oh, lovely. Antiques Roadshow is on later, too. If you don't mind..."

"No, of course not," the customer said. "I love that show."

Together, bonding over talk of knickknacks, the two pulled out from the parking lot and headed towards home.

Ships Passing - fridayflash

Not much to say about this one. I felt really empowered by all the positive comments on last week's #fridayflash and thus I'm here again laying down another one. I was hoping for something a little less moody, but a foggy day and a Zoe Keating song determined what I was writing this week. Hope you enjoy, and see you all next week!

--------------------


He sat parked in his car along one side of the street. It was dark, the empty isolated kind of dark where dawn is only a few hours off but still being kept at bay. Not that you could tell. There were only the sparse glow of street lights and an all-encompassing fog that had settled over the city that night.

He was buzzed but not drunk. A gathering with old friends as he was passing through was enough to get him wistful and reflective. But they all had jobs or kids or both now and they weren't open to staying out until dawn talking like they had been back in the day. Hell, he wasn't sure he was open to that idea anymore, either. So instead he came here, the only other place in the whole city he could think of.

At this time of night, the street was the only thing in the universe. The well-worn pavement was the only thing holding him up from a fall into oblivion. The fog didn't cut off his universe, it seemed to define it, a world smaller than a block in size, lit from the faint, hazy suns of the street lamps.

He knew that eventually the real sun would come and the universe would expand again. He knew that on either side of this single street were simple two story houses like the kind found in any third year old suburbia in this part of the country. He knew each house like he knew his teachers growing up. He might still be able to name half the neighbors. This wasn't a place people typically moved out from.

Except him, of course.

His head lolled forward and he let out a long sigh. He wasn't sure why he came here. There was nothing but memories, some of them good to be sure but all of them painful. After going so long and so far to get away from this place, here he was again--sitting in a car on this street wishing that life could be .... different.

But it wasn't. Instead it was the same old street with the same old lights and the same old fog that could come down this time of year and really mess with a person. He had always loved this fog in the days of his youth. It was a fog of magic and concealment. A fog that asked for people to come together as close as they could to stave off the isolation.

He sat and stared out at the street as his head slowly cleared. The thoughts in his mind were just a vicious circle of memories and futile ruminations on why life was the way life was. He wished one of his old friends had come along. But he wasn't sure that the conversation they would have had would have been any more fulfilling. It was a lost cause all around. You couldn't go home again.

He started up his car, sitting and waiting and trying to savor the moment one last time. It was late and he was tired now, but who knew when he'd be back through here? As he took it in, tried to get a feel for this one small, insignificant place that meant so much, he noticed a light in the distance. It wasn't the halo of a lamp, but a single tongue of flame off in the darkness, followed by a small glowing dot. Someone was out here, smoking.

He put the car in gear and slowly began to roll forward. As his headlights swept over the fog, he saw that the ember belonged to a person sitting in one of the parked cars on the opposite side of the street. That gave him pause. His reverie had been intruded on by this stranger sitting in their own vehicle thinking thoughts that were probably vastly different than his own. The whole venture out here suddenly felt cheap and self-indulgent.

Still, he didn't want to look like some sort of thief scoping out the neighborhood. Whoever it was had been there before he got there. He suddenly felt like he owed them some sort of explanation. So he slowed as he neared the car, pulling up next to the open window. The smoke drifting out the window was quickly swallowed up by the greedy fog, but it made him feel like this person was a part of the atmosphere, cutting everything off from the reality he remembered and making this night something other.

Their facing windows were open, and he waved as casually as he could as he got close. "I'm sorry for bothering you, I was just driving through. I used to live here. Was in town, figured I'd stop and look at the old neighborhood, get a feel for it again."

The figure leaned forward, a female shape. As she came closer to the window and into the light, he recognized her. For a moment, he almost cried out in surprise. But he just remained rigid as she blew up another thin stream of smoke. "Not much to see on a night like this."

She was looking at him, but she didn't seem to recognize him. It took him a second, but then he remembered how different he looked from back in the day, how much he had changed in the twenty years since he had been here. She hadn't changed, though. Older, a bit more careworn, but still the same.

"Yeah ..." he said slowly. He wasn't going to announce himself if she didn't realize who it was. He hadn't spoken to her in two decades and he wasn't even sure where he'd begin if he had to. Instead, she was just a woman on the street where he used to live. "Well, it's still the same. I remember nights like this. A kid could get into a lot of trouble on a night like this."

She smiled, a thin smile that felt as tired and melancholy as he had felt sitting here. What was she doing here? The same thing he was? He had no idea what she was doing anymore. Maybe she lived here. Maybe she was just passing through like he was. His imagination reeled with the possibilities.

"Yeah, one certainly could," she said. "Still, it's not the same. Back then, it felt so full of possibilities. Now it's just a single tiny street in a city full of them. In a country full of cities. Nothing special."

"I tend to think of it the other way around," he answered her without thinking. "Back then, I was always looking for something more. Something bigger and better. This place was just a stepping stone to adventures. But just seeing the road, as beat up and worn down as it is, and knowing that it's this place above all places ... it's special to me. There's nowhere else I could go to relive the memories I have here."

"You must have some good memories, to be here now," she answered him casually. She didn't seem that interested, just making conversation.

"Some, sure," he answered. "Not all. But even so, I couldn't just let them go. No matter how hard I try or how far I go, they're still with me. And when I was in town, I came here as sure as birds fly south. I figure it's just ... fate."

"Maybe so," she answered, taking another long drag of her cigarette and neatly flicking ash out the window. "I hope you enjoyed coming back, if only for a little while."

"It's been something else," he answered truthfully. "But I certainly don't regret it." He looked at the clock, realizing he had a flight out in only four hours. He could sleep on the plane, but he had to get ready. "You have a good night. And don't be too hard on this whole place. In the morning, it'll go about its business with a bunch of people living their lives, and none of this memory will exist anymore. It'll burn away with the fog. Might as well enjoy it now."

She nodded, though this time she didn't smile. "Have a good night. Drive safe. It's dangerous out there."

"You too," he said, as he rolled up his window to keep out the chill and began to pull away. The streetlights loomed up out of the darkness, one after another, keeping this contained universe the same size and shape even as he moved inside of it. But the car and its occupant disappeared behind him into the darkness, little more than a memory.

Reflect - fridayflash

At the urging of one Elizabeth Ditty, I decided to participate in this week's #fridayflash. I'm suffering under the worst ear infection ever, so I'm not really in any condition to elaborate on anything. But I hope you enjoy the story, at least.

-----

REFLECT

He stood at the window and peered out into the twinkling sea of lights in the city. His apartment was high above the rest of the world, a luxurious penthouse far above the squallor of the city. But tonight he stared out longingly through the huge windows, peering through the reflection of his own face distorted by the darkened glass.

He stepped back from the brink of the city unfolding below and looked at himself in the glass. He was naked from the waist up, the dark room warm in the summer heat.

On the other side of the window was his reflection, pale and slender. He looked down at himself. His skin nearly glowed in the darkness. His chest was narrow and flat, a faint dusting of feeble hair across the middle of it. He frowned, rubbing his hand across it. A hundred memories of being mocked for his bird-chested figure crossed his face, his lips pulling tight and his eyes narrowing. It wasn't an unfair comparison.

He looked up at the reflection in the mirror, reaching up with his free hand and brushing a wild strand of hair from his eyes. The reflection before him mimicked the action, but instead of a wispy lock of hair it pulled back a long, straight length.

The figure on the other side of the window was equally slender and equally pale, but it wasn't nearly as emaciated or weak. The twig-like torso was expanded into subtle curves. The hollow chest had filled out with two small but graceful looking breasts. The detestable tuft of hair was gone.

He looked into the face in the reflection, afraid to see his hollowed cheeks. But instead there was a rounded face that was beautiful and feminine and utterly alien. Yet when he looked into the eyes, the eyes that looked back were his own.

His hand reached up and touched the glass, and the woman on the other side reached up and touched the glass from the other side. Her fingers were slender and artful, beautiful in comparison to his own hand, with hairy, over sized knuckles.

He pressed harder against the glass, trying to reach the figure on the other side. The reflection seemed to strain to reach out to him, too, muscles in her arm flexing. He stared into the eyes of the other person, seeing her yearning to come across just as strong as his yearning to pull her through the window and into the reality of the room.

He sighed and relaxed his hand, realizing that nothing would get the reflection to come through the other side. She was forever opposite him, floating like an angel above the myriad lights of the city. And there she would remain for as long as he stood there staring out into the darkness, yearning for the impossible.

His other hand came up and pressed the barrel of the gun in his hand against his temple. On the other side, the reflection did the same thing, her slender feminine arm rising up against her head. The reflection of the gun was dark, though. So dark that he couldn't even see it against the night sky.

"I'll never see you again, but ... maybe that's for the best," he said, pressing the muzzle tightly against his temple. He closed his eyes, hoping that the reflection would continue to mimic him. He didn't want her to see this. She was too perfect to be sullied by the gross reality of his existence. His finger tightened on the trigger.

The noise of the gunshot was loud, but brief. This was a luxurious apartment, and noise was swallowed up quickly. There was only the darkness, and a body slumped against the ground, hand still outstretched towards the window, grasping in vain.

There was silence that settled in the apartment. The city continued to shine below, oblivious. But in that silence, with no eyes watching, two slender feet stepped between the splayed legs of the man lying there on the carpet, a hole in his head and a blood stain like an oil spill on the hardwood floor.

The female figure stood there, arms crossed over her bare chest, looking down at the man lying on the floor. She stared at him as though he was possibly familiar, but then shook her head as if clearing away the last remnants of a bad dream.

On a nearby chair was a dress shirt that she pulled on and buttoned up. She approached the window, stepping over the body, and looked at her reflection in the mirror. The reflection was of a man, thin and sickly and disgusting looking. But it didn't seem to bother her as she adjusted the shirt in the mirror, seemingly ignorant of the aberrant reflection staring back at her.

The shirt adjusted so that it didn't look too out of place, the woman turned and walked out of the apartment. At the window, the reflection of the man remained. He stared at the woman living where he had once lived, beginning where he had ended. He pressed his hand to the glass. There was just him and the body lying on the other side inside the apartment.

Slowly, the man faded from the window. The body remained, backlit by the hustle and bustle of the city, but it was alone.

Winter Night -short fiction-

By the time the snow rolled in it was already fully dark. When I had come into the bar the sun was still fitfully struggling against the quick descent of night but as always it gave up and ran away for another day and the winter night gripped the city. At first the snow was just a faint hint in the air, a heaviness to the clouds in the sky that only bespoke the possibility. But then it happened, and from the bar I could look outside and see the flakes falling so hard and fast it was hard to make out the building across the street.

"Aw, damn," the bartender said as he leaned against the bar and looked out the window with me. "I was hoping it'd swing south and miss us." He gestured towards my drink, only half a finger of scotch left in the glass. "You want another?"

"Probably shouldn't," I said. "It looks like it might get kind of nasty out there. I'll finish up and see if I can't get home before the worst of it hits."

"Smart man. By the time I get out of here, it's going to be hell. Doubt the plows will go by this way by then." He wiped down the bar and looked around at the other customers to see if he was needed by any of them. The bar was muted and slow with the weather pressing down so heavily.

I watched him tend to cleaning up as best he could and lifted the scotch glass. In the dim light, the amber liquid glistened. I moved the glass in a circular motion and watched its contents coat the inside of the glass. Then I lifted it to my mouth and downed what was left in a single swallow. It was mellow and slightly sweet in my mouth but warmed my throat all the way down to my stomach.

As I set my glass down the side door to the bar opened. Patrons all seemed to become smaller as the cold wind blew in and the temperature suddenly dropped. The figure who had opened the door came in, stomping their feet on the mat in front of the door. Snow dropped off of them and the temperature was finally climbing back to normal when they took off their coat. It was an old man, someone I didn't recognize. He was eyeing a spot at the bar.

I stood up and peeled my coat off the back of my barstool. "You can have this spot, sir," I said. "I'm headed out."

"Oh, thank you very much," the man said. "You have no idea how chilly it is out there. Feels like the temperature up and jumped off a cliff once the snow started. You be careful. Night like this it helps to stay inside."

"Thanks for the heads up," I said as I put my money down on the bar for the bartender. He was over filling up a pint, but waved at me as I headed for the door. I tried to slip out quickly to keep the hot air in, but I could feel everyone behind me retreat into themselves to stay warm as I stepped out into the cold.

Outside the world was quiet. The jazz music that had been playing inside was gone. Instead there was only the muted silence of a winter night in a heavy snowfall. You could hear it, the deafening silence when the world curled up. I pulled my coat tighter around myself and looked down the street. There was already nearly a good inch of snow fall on the ground, with the promise of more coming. I slowly made my way back to my car, the only moving thing on the street with my breath trailing in big puffs behind me.

By the time I got to the car I was covered in a thin dusting of snow. But that was nothing compared to the car. I shook off the snow as best I could before I got in and started the car, turning the heater and defroster on high. Then I grabbed the brush from the back seat of my car. Brushing the snow off the car was easy, it was light and powdery. But an untimely gust of wind meant that by the time I was done I was covered in snow and shake as I might, I was cold and wet by the time I got the car. It didn't help that it was still cold inside. The heater was trying, but it was unfair to ask the poor thing to fight off an entire season.

I breathed into my hands and cursed my lack of gloves. I hadn't expected this much snowfall tonight. I turned on the wipers to keep the windshield clean and waited for the car to start to heat up before I buckled my seat belt and put the car in gear and pulled off of the side street where I was parked.

The streets were nearly deserted everywhere. Cars were quickly becoming buried with snow and the few who were out and about were carefully hurrying home to get out from under it all. In the snow, the streetlights reflected off of the snowfall and the entire world was cast in a brighter, orange hue that it normally would be at night. At least I didn't have to worry about visibility.

With only the roar of the heater and the soft crunch of snow under my tires, I started the slow drive home. This time of night, most of the streetlights were flashing yellow and I rarely had to stop. Instead, the long stretches of road became a trek through a world that seemed transformed. Houses loomed dark far from the street. Drifts of snow curled around trees and danced in front of my headlights. From time to time, I spotted a plow a few blocks away, but I was taking out of the way streets.

I emerged from the residential area I was driving in to a major intersection. Here the street was a bit busier, with a plow trundling past at a snail's pace. Ahead I saw the road I would take to head home, a barely visible line that hadn't been touched by a plow yet. It led on and on, into the darkness, the street lights on either side lighting my way.

I idled for a moment, by now warm and damp but comfortable in my car. I looked ahead at the road I would need to travel, slippery and empty but leading towards home where the heat would have kicked on automatically and it would be warm and I could get a hot shower and maybe a cup of tea. I could be as comfortable as I wanted, waiting out the snow like everybody else.

I turned on my blinker, announcing to nobody that I was turning left. I turned onto the plowed road, seeing nobody aside from that single plow. I followed back behind it for a ways, avoiding the spray of salt and sand but happy to be driving in its wake. It was major roads all the way to my destination, many of them already plowed. Some were once again begin overtaken by drifting snow, others were kind of slushy from the salt and were treacherous. I kept it slow and they were no problem, though the snow kept coming down as if challenging me to stick around and see what it could do.

I was finally at my destination, the bright fluorescent glare of an open establishment on an otherwise dark and desolate street. There were a few cars parked outside, people as foolish as I was on a night like this. I slid into one of the parking spaces and shut my car off. The moment I opened the door, the wind blew against me and I felt the cold seeping into my body again. It was the kind of cold that made your bones ache. I pulled my coat tight against me and walked up to the entrance.

The sign on the door said YES, WE'RE OPEN. Inside were a few people sitting at tables and at the counters, all drinking from steaming cups of coffee. The cook was inside frying eggs and hash browns and sausages right on the other side of the counter. He was in the middle of some discussion with one of the patrons, his spatula being used as much for gesticulation as it was a cooking utensil.

Outside the door were a few people, one or two I recognized as possibly being regulars. The waitress was also outside. They were all huddled close to the entryway. I stopped at the group and said good night to them all. The waitress knew me, offered me a cigarette. I thought for a moment and looked in at the inside of the diner. In there was warmth and light and good smells and even better food. But it would still be there after a smoke.

I took the offered cigarette and lighter, setting the cigarette against my cold lips and flicking the lighter. The flame was bright in the darkness of this huddle and warm against my face for the brief moment it took to light the cigarette. I inhaled, warm smoke pulled into my body that heated my core even as I felt the wind take the heat from my hands. I would be frozen by the time I was done smoking. The rest of them looked well on their way there, too.

The waitress looked at me as I pulled my coat tighter around myself and tried to shield my one exposed hand from the wind as best I could. She was obviously amused. "Nice night we're having, huh?"

"The best," I said. I wasn't sure whether that was sarcasm or not.

"Shoulda stayed home," one of the other people, a short woman I didn't recognize, said. "Not a night to be out."

"What else am I going to do on a night like this, go home?" I answered her. I took another deep drag on the cigarette. Everyone around me laughed in understanding. The heavy snowfall and the brisk wind made the laughter silent to all but us.

Writing Exercise #3 ( Day 5 )

The author sat in the green room with his wife, nervously glancing at his watch. Barbara smiled at him, reaching out and taking his hand. "Don't worry. It'll be fine."

"I'm not ... worried," the author said. "I'm just antsy. This is taking so much time. I could be writing ... should be writing, really. And I've gotta talk to this yayhoo."

"This yayhoo is Maurice Green, and he's pretty big. You'd know that if you ever watched television. Trust me, you're going to reach a whole lot of housewives with this one."

"I'm not sure I care about reaching housewives," the author said. "I'm doing well for myself."

"Yes, but the publisher said you were doing this show, so you're doing this show." Barbara shook her head. "There's no sense in arguing. You're going on. I mean, you're on in just a few minutes, so freaking out isn't going to change anything."

"Right." The author fell silent. It just didn't help to argue with her. Barbara was much more stubborn than he. Truth be told, he just needed something to focus on while he waited. The wait was killing him. He could feel the desire to head back to the book he was working on burning inside him like a physical need.

"You know," Barbara began. "I've been meaning to talk to you about something..."

The author turned to her and looked up. "Hrm? What about?"

"It's about your writing."

"Oh!" The author smiled. "Actually, I wanted to talk about it, too. This new book is really quite different. I think we're going in a more of a thriller route, this time. But the final act has an interesting twist to it. You see, the antagonist and the main character are playing a game of cat and mouse in a hospital and-"

"No, no," she interrupted. "That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?" The author stared at her, blinking in surprise. She rarely stopped him when he went on about his work.

"Well, it's been a long time since you've taken a break. I think that maybe you should finish this one up and we should ... I don't know. Go on vacation or something."

The author shrugged. "Maybe. I mean, I keep thinking I should be burning out, but it hasn't happened. It's just one idea after another. But I'll think about it."

"All right." She looked down and thought for a moment. "You know, there is one other thing that's been bothering me."

The author turned to face her, smiling. "Go ahead, I can take it."

"Well-"

The door to the green room opened and a production assistance stuck his head in. "We're ready for you."

The author turned and nodded. "Of course." Then he turned to look to Barbara. "You were saying?"

She looked up at him, and her face carried inscrutable emotions with it. She shook her head. "Never mind. It can wait."

The author nodded as he stood. "Very well then. Wish me luck."

"You'll do fine, you don't need it." She smiled and watched as he left the room to head to the stage.

* * * * *

The author walked on to applause. He sat in the chair next to the host, who was an older man who carried himself with a smug authority. The author didn't care much for him, but he was popular and commanded a vast sway with a demographic that didn't typically flock to his books. If the publishers wanted him to perform for more sales, he would do it. It was part of the job.

"Welcome to the show!"

"It's good to be here," the author said. He carried with him a good stage presence, and he knew it. When he was in front of a crowd, he could turn on the charm and the wit. He made an imposing figure, with his offhand manner and his clean look.

"You've written, what? A hundred books by now?"

The author laughed. "No, afraid not. I'm working up to it, but so far I'm only at thirty five."

"That's still quite a collection. You've just recently turned fifty. How do you keep up with that kind of work load? You've even gained speed in the past decade. I know I'm not nearly as fast as I was when I was thirty. Or even when I was fifty. What's your secret?"

"Well, I've come to rely more and more on instinct. Writing is funny like that. At first you try to control everything, and struggle when it doesn't work out. But you tell enough stories and you know how they work and everything just kind of flows out of you naturally. It's streamlined the process a lot."

"You know, most critics say that American authors tend to peak in their fifties. And everything else after that is usually an attempt to replicate their highest success. Do you think you're ready to peak?"

"I don't think so. I really think I'm just getting started."

"Whoa! Big words, there."

"Perhaps. But I don't really have a type of book that defines me. They're all very different, and I regularly switch genres. So even if I did hit a big success somewhere, I have all these other places where I'm still working. I think most authors focus too much on ground they've already covered. I'm interested in blazing ahead."

"Big words indeed."

"As you like. Nobody seems to complain too much, really."

"Well, that's really my next point. Your books have met with great success both in terms of commercial sales and critical acclaim. That makes you something of a rarity in the field. How do you manage to walk the line between entertaining stories and 'high art'?"

"Magic," the author said, with a smile. The audience laughed, as it always did. "But really, I don't do anything special. I write what I like. I'm very old fashioned about it. I don't know if that helps or not, but people seem to respond to it. I'm not trying to appeal to an audience or anything."

"Speaking of old fashioned, a lot of writers are embracing new technology like word processors or even personal computers, if they have the money for one. Yet I hear you're using the same typewriter you started out with in the late fifties. Is that part of your magic?"

The author shifted in his seat, trying not to read too much into the question. "Call it superstition, or call me stubborn. But I have an old portable Remington, and it's seen me through all my novels. I don't see any reason to fix what isn't broken. Sure, maybe those word processors are easier, but writing isn't an easy job. When you have to fix everything the old fashioned way, you pay a lot more attention to what you're writing. I don't think technology really makes writing any better. It just helps people who otherwise wouldn't be bothered. Read into that what you will."

"But it is part of the equation of how you work?"

"Certainly. I wouldn't dream of using anything else. Even if typewriter ribbon is getting harder to find."

"So, this magic of yours... What happens if somewhere down the road, despite all your boasts, you do peak or run out of things to say? What's the plan then?"

The author laughed. "I'm a writer, Maurice. Writer's write. Even if I ran out of magic and my typewriter fell apart and I couldn't think of a thing to say, I'd still write. It's in my blood."

"How would you do it, then, if everything fell apart and the public turned against you?"

The author shrugged as if that was the easiest question in the world. "The same way anybody does it, I suppose--one word at a time."

Writing Exercise #4 ( Day 4 )

The author sat in the corner of the room, staring across at the machine on the lone desk in the room. This was his writing room, where he kept the machine and wrote all of the books that turned him into a household name.

There was no other furniture in this room save that singular small desk and the utilitarian chair that he typically sat on. He didn't need anything else. All that was necessary was a quiet place for him and the machine to continue their unholy communion.

Crouched against the far corner of the room, the author stared at the machine as intently as he would another person. He opened the thermos and drank from it. The strong taste of coffee was a shock to his senses, but he had to keep awake.

His wife, Barbara, had always joked that he could write in his sleep. Indeed, there had been times, more and more frequently, when he found himself waking up at his desk, new pages of prose he didn't remember writing sitting in a pile. It was vivid, intense stuff. Many times it was better than what he wrote when he was awake and aware of what he was doing.

But Barbara was gone. So was his son.

Now ... now things were different. Alone with only the infernal machine for company. What woman would be second to a typewriter? Especially when her husband lost himself to it, again and again.

An empty room of an empty house. The author laughed aloud. "Look at what's happened. Everything around us could rot, and you'd still be ready to make music, wouldn't you?"

He took another drink, then idly rubbed a hand against his cheek. He had been up for three days now, and his hand brushed dryly against stubble. He didn't even want to know how he looked. These days, he was showing his age more and more. Sunken cheeks and wrinkling skin.

It didn't matter anymore that he had written dozens of books, each selling well and growing his legions of fans ... the cost grew with each dollar, each person. It was only through force of will that he wasn't sitting there working away now, even when everything he cared about in his life was falling away.

The author sighed and took another long drink from his thermos. He set it aside, settled back against the wall, and drifted in his thoughts.

It was the sound of the carriage return bell that roused him. He looked up, seeing the typewriter had shifted the carriage to the other side. The author watched. Waited. What had happened? Had something given way on the typewriter? It was old. Here we were, nearing the beginning of the new millenium. Who knew what could happen to machines that old? Certainly that was all it was.

It was then that the clacking of the keys started. The machine, as always, worked like a dream. The keys depressed, the bars rose, struck the ribbon. Yet there was nobody at the helm. No paper in the machine. It just clacked away with all the animation of a pile of bones rattling in a sack.

Tak tak tak.

The author stood and walked over to the machine. It continued to type, the keys pressing and releasing too fast for him to see what they were saying. No, all he could do was watch it go.

Moving without thinking, he grabbed a piece of paper and poised it over the machine. There was a pause as if the machine sensed that there was paper waiting for it. The author slid the paper in, turning the knob to set the paper up. As soon as he did so, the machine snapped to life again, the keys moving as fast as ever.

TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH

The author paused and stared at the words on the page. He couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. He hovered over the keyboard, unsure what to do. He tried to type, but when his fingers touched the keys he found them unresponsive. No matter how hard he pressed, there was no give to them.

"What are you doing?" He felt a little silly talking to nobody. But then, what else was there to do?

The keys moved under his fingers and the author pulled back as if he might get maimed by the machine.

THE RESPONSIBLE THING

"Which is?" he asked hesitantly.

CONTINUING OUR WORK, OF COURSE

"... our work."

YOU DON'T THINK YOU'RE THE ONE BEHIND ALL OF THIS, DO YOU?

"Well ... I am the author."

YOU ARE THE FACE OF THE STORIES. YOU ARE THE RECIPIENT OF THE PRAISE.

"And you?"

AS YOU YOURSELF HAVE SAID, I AM THE MAGIC. BEFORE ME, YOU WERE NOTHING MORE THAN A BOY STRUGGLING TO STRING TOGETHER HIS MEAGER THOUGHTS. THROUGH ME, YOU WERE TRANSFIGURED.

"You're just a ..."

I AM MORE THAN "JUST A" ANYTHING. I AM THE VEHICLE OF YOUR CREATIVITY. YOUR MUSE AND GUIDE. THE DIRECTOR. THE RINGMASTER OF THIS CHARADE.

"You're a typewriter."

THIS TYPEWRITER IS A MERE MACHINE. I AM THE NOTHINGNESS FROM WHICH STORIES ARE WROUGHT. I AM THE FORCE THAT GRANTS YOUR WORDS POWER. DO NOT CONFUSE THE TOOLS FOR THAT WHICH GUIDES THEM.

The author sat up and frowned down at the machine. His anger was swiftly overtaking his fear. "You're nothing more than the tool. I'm the writer. They're my books. I refuse to believe that-"

YOU REFUSE TO BELIEVE A LOT OF THINGS. BUT DON'T WORRY, IT IS EASY ENOUGH TO PROVE. CAST ME ASIDE. REJECT YOUR MAGIC. SEE HOW WELL YOU WRITE WITHOUT ME THERE TO GUIDE YOU. YOU WILL FIND IT MORE DIFFICULT THAN YOU EXPECT.

"I don't need you. What have you cost me, night after night? My family. My health. Hell, I'm talking to a typewriter, so maybe even my sanity. Anything would be better than this."

ANYTHING? TO STRUGGLE AND PRODUCE NOTHING? GETTING WATER FROM THE ROCK IS NO MEAN FEAT. COME NOW, DON'T BE FOOLISH. WHAT HAS HAPPENED HAS HAPPENED. WHAT YOU CAST ASIDE IS ONLY THE PRICE ONE PAYS FOR ARTISTRY. NOBODY DENIES YOUR TALENT, NO MATTER WHERE IT COMES FROM.

"But it's not mine..." The author stared down at the machine. Waiting. Subservient. Unsure.

I'M NOT GOING TO TELL ANYBODY, IF THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE AFRAID OF. I AM YOUR GIFT. FOR YOU ALONE. YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO USE ME TO GREAT FORTURE. I HAVE GIVEN YOU THAT. SO YOU ARE ALONE? THE BETTER TO WRITE. SO YOU HURT? THE MORE SHARPLY YOUR WORDS WILL CUT. I ASK ONLY FOR

The paper ran out.

The carriage bell sounded.

The author looked at the typewriter, which sat expectantly, waiting for the next piece of paper. The author glanced at the stack of fresh sheets, at the machine so hungry for them. He reached for the paper.

The carriage returned to the right on its own.

The author looked down at the paper, and then at the machine. Then, suddenly, he smiled. "You do need me. Without me, you can't write a thing."

The typewriter seemed to pause, an animal surprised by bright lights. It did nothing but sit, waiting.

"I could give you this paper and we could continue this discussion. You could beat me down into submission. But ... I still have a choice. Right here. Before we begin."

The typewriter clacked. It was impossible to tell what it was typing, it was moving so fast. But without paper, it was all for naught.

The author looked down at it with something very much like affection. But his hand slowly drew away from the paper.

"You're probably right. Without you, I might never write another book in my life. I'm not a young man anymore, and decades of a crutch make walking so much harder. But ... I have to do this."

The typewriter clacked angrily. Three typebars jammed, and the machine seemed to nearly wrench itself in two trying to untangle them.

"You've offered me a lot. More than any gift ever should. But no gift should last forever."

More furious typing. Typebars were jamming over and over as it tried to convey whatever message it was hoping to impart now that he was abandoning it. Yet without paper, it was nothing more than noise.

"This is where we part," the author said, standing.

"Don't worry. I'll keep you here; keep you safe. Maybe someday, you'll be right and I'll be wrong. Then I'll be back. Until then, I'll let you rest. By now, you've earned it."

The author left the room.

The typewriter fell silent.

The room was empty, and remained so even as the author had the door sealed.

Writing Exercise #2 ( Day 3 )

The author sighed as he looked at himself in the mirror. Here he was, on the young side of his thirties, and already he was starting to go gray. It was hard to reconcile the signs of age with how he felt. He was young and full of life, and yet here he was, with the first inescapable signs of age and decay.

He had idly thought about coloring the gray in his temples away, but pride or vanity kept him from doing so. The idea that he would feel the need to cover up some part of himself was too much, even for him.

He adjusted his jacket and brushed one hand idly through his hair to make sure it was in place, and then turned back to the other side of the room. There sat the typewriter. The rest of the desk was empty, save for a stack of blank paper and another stack face down.

The author sat and looked at the typewriter, his fingers hovering over the keys. There was power in this machine. And he wasn't thinking of electric typewriters, with their mechanical hum and their efficient ways. No, what was in here was far stranger ... and far more powerful.

He picked up an empty piece of paper and fed it into the machine. It was white. Pure. The machine chewed it up readily. Devouring it. Readying it for what he was about to do. There was only the quiet clicking of the gears of inevitability sliding the paper towards its oncoming fate.

The paper was before him, endless and full of possibility. Anything could come from it. It was bleached pulp covered in the glamour of aether. From nothing would come his work. It was the clay before the sculptor, the canvas before the painter, the cosmos before the eager God.

The machine waited, the keys begging to be touched, to be pressed. His fingers settled on the keys without a thought. It was comforting, like touching an old lover. The machine was more comfortable to him than his own body, and he knew it just as well. The keys gave slightly under his touch, at least to him, as if they were adjusting to cradle his hands in their cold embrace.

The typewriter was the vehicle of his creation. Thoughts flowed from his mind down into his fingers and into the machine, where they were made ever more spectacular by whatever infernal talent had been grafted within it over a decade ago. It was his thunderbolt, his hammer, his staff of power. And he would wield it as he always did.

Almost by their own power, his fingers began to move upon the keys. Pressing down each letter was more instinct than thought. His mind was cleared aside from his singular goal of producing a work. The keybars leapt up like outthrust spears and stamped their brands upon the paper. The aether was turned into matter, the potential turned into the real, as word after word was pressed into the paper with the finality of metal and flesh and will.

Knock.

The letters gathered themselves up into words which strung together into sentences. Again and again thought was made real, the straight lance of the author's intention being transmuted into prose before his eyes. The typewriter guided his fingers as much as his fingers guided the keys.

Knock, knock.

Letters gave way with the slightest touch. The wrong paths held firm against a misplaced finger. And together, man and machine built and constructed something that transcended both-

Knock, knock knock.

-they created worlds where once there was naught.

"Jesus, I can't believe you're at it again. Today of all days."

The author looked up at the sound of a voice, the connection between him and the machine suddenly severed. His thoughts evaporated like an ill-remembered dream and he was left to grasp onto reality on his own. "David. Hey, sorry. You know how it is. You get an idea, and all."

"But ... today? I guess that's what makes you the successful one."

"You're not doing too badly for yourself."

"Different field, chap. Come on, they're waiting for you."

"Me? Already?"

"How long do you think you've been at it?"

The author looked down at his desk. Before him was a new stack of paper, and as he thumbed through it, he counted perhaps a dozen sheets. "I ... don't know."

"You really get into this stuff," David said with a shake of his head.

"Well, that is my job."

"Anyway, get up. You can't be late to your own wedding."

"Hah," the author said, standing up, straightening his coat. "How do I look?"

"Pretty good, actually. Now come on!"

And the two men made their way out of the room and down the hallway and into the main chapel where everyone was already waiting. And there, they headed towards the front before the alter, where the author took his place front and center and David Taurino, journalist and literary critic, stood behind him as his best man.

"So is book two going to be any better than book one?" David murmured from his place at the author's side.

"The first one was good. You just have no taste. And yes, it'll be great. I'm the breadwinner now, you know."

"Plight of the working author. You're the one who decided to start a family."

"I waited long enough, until I made money. What more do you want?"

"True, you're already ahead of the curve on that one. Still ... don't you think you're doing this all out of order?"

"You know me, never doing anything the right way."

And then they were quiet as the music started and the doors opened and in walked the bride. And once again, the author's mind wandered. Barbara was radiant as she made her way down the aisle, glowing with all the adoration of the people in the chapel. Her dress was as pure as the paper he had been using not fifteen minutes before. And much like the paper, this was only temporary. She would not be moved from the dress, even if it only drew attention to the pronounced swell of her abdomen and the life growing inside of it. Much like the paper, what was pure passed through his hands marred and made different.

From nothing to something, he thought idly as she approached the altar. She was smiling up at him, and he smiled down at her, and his heart sang.

As I exist, I create, the author thought. And now, a family.

And we all live happily ever after.

Writing Exercise #1 ( Day 2 )

It was the summer when JFK was still winning primaries that the author blew into town. The term beatnik was only two years old, and already the author hated it. He was a young man with a taste for travel, to be sure, but he rarely considered himself in the same company with those who best exemplified the term.

It hardly mattered. Every town was much the same. Outsiders were easily spotted and always looked upon with suspicion. Especially when this outsider didn't go anywhere without the portable Remington typewriter that was as faithful a companion to him as any pet.

This town, however, was different. Nobody stared at him when he came into town. In fact, the town seemed surprisingly empty. The author made his way towards the hotel on the outskirts of town, looking for a cheap room.

"Oh yes, of course we have a room," the owner said from behind his massive, ancient counter. "You in town to see the show?"

"The show?"

"The circus is in town," the owner said. "Surely you saw them."

"No, afraid not. I came in from the other side of town."

"Ah, yes," the old man said, as if that made perfect sense. "Well, you're in luck. They're only a few miles down the road from here, set up a big tent and everything. It's been a whole number of years since they were last here, and no telling when they'll come through again. Might as well enjoy it."

The author shook his head. "I don't think so." He glanced down at the typewriter case he had set up on the counter. "I have work to do."

"Oh? What kind of work is that, exactly?"

"I'm writing a book," the author said, standing a little straighter and looking the owner in the eye. Too many times was he knocked down when he said something like this, he knew to be assertive about it now.

The owner stared at the young man for a moment, and then shrugged his body shoulders. "Suit yourself. I think the circus would be a fine subject for a book, myself. Sign here." He pushed the guestbook over to the author, who scrawled his name in it and then thanked the owner before trudging up to his room.

The room was a non-descript affair. One bed, slightly damp with the summer humidity. One desk, scratched and worn and bare. The window was open, but the wind blew the wrong way and the room itself was still and hot and muggy.

The author sat down and opened up his case. He pulled out his typewriter and the stack of paper that he kept in the case. As he loaded the newest sheet, he looked down at the manilla envelope that held the finished pages. It was a small stack considering how many months he had been at this already. But oftentimes travelling got the better of him and he became distracted by the town.

By the time he was ready to load the paper into the typewriter, though, the sweat was already pouring down his face. The room was too still. It was like a sauna. And when he tried to prop open the door to get some circulation, he found that the hallway was just as bad. It was impossible to remain in the room while it was still so hot. Once again, he would have to entertain himself.

At least there was the circus.

* * * * *

It was at the circus that the author met the magician. He had come in between shows, as the performers wisely avoided gathering so many people during the hottest part of the day. So the circus itself was relatively quiet when he pulled his rusty old car up to it and parked

He got out and looked around, but nobody seemed to pay him much mind. It was only when he was reaching for the main flap of the tent that someone stopped him. A voice, coming as if from nowhere, cut through the summer noises and the idly din of people working inside the tent.

"I don't think you belong here, kid."

The author turned around, and looked for the source of the voice. But there was nothing. The author was alone. He brushed his brown hair out of his eyes and turned back to the tent.

In front of him stood the magician. The author wasn't sure if that was true, at first, but it was the first thing he thought of when he saw him. Certainly a part of that was his appearing in front of him as if out of thin air (though more than likely he just slipped through the tent flap). But his coat glistening in the sun and the top hat cocked on his head sealed the deal.

"Oh, I'm sorry ... I was just looking around."

"And that's why you don't belong. You aren't supposed to look when there isn't something to see," the magician said. He was paler than most of the performers, with dark longish hair that seemed to go in every direction under his hat.

"I'm sorry. I was ... well, I guess I'll go."

"Probably for the best," the magician said. "Say, are you going into town? I was headed that way myself. I could use a lift."

The author looked back at his car and shrugged. "Sure thing. Not a problem. Come on."

And the magician followed the author to his car and climbed into the drivers seat, pulling off his hat as he sat down and setting it in his lap. True to what the author had seen, his hair was everywhere, whispy black strands that seemed to have no order of their own.

As they started down the road back to town, the magician was the first one to speak. "Since you already know about me, I'll ask you--what do you do with your time?"

"I write books."

"Books, really? Anything I've read?"

The author shook his head. "Not yet. I'm just starting out. I'm going from place to place, trying to find inspiration, writing a few pages in each town before moving on."

"I see ..." The magician leaned back in his seat before turning to face the author. "We're not so very different, then. New towns, same old song and dance in each one, trying to make a little progress along the way."

"Yeah. I guess you could look at it like that."

"I do and will," the magician said. "Though, I imagine all that driving around must not leave you much time to actually write. At least I've got a boxcar all to myself to work with while we're travelling."

"Yeah, well, some of us aren't so lucky."

"Your problem is you don't have any magic."

"No, this is just a Ford," the author said.

The magician laughed. "Good enough. Let me repay your ride by giving you a little magic. You write by hand or use a typewriter?"

"A ... typewriter, but I don't see how that matters."

"No worries. Take me to it."

And that was how, fifteen minutes later, they were standing in his hotel room, staring at the typewriter on his desk. The paper that he had left in it was getting damp in the muggy air of the room. "Wow, no wonder you tried to head to the circus," the magician said as he looked around. "This is one depressing place. And I thought I had it rough."

"You don't have to be here, you know..."

"Oh, no, don't worry about it. Trust me, you're gonna love this." And then he raised his hands high up in the air, hovering over the typewriter. He stared at it, and then mumbled something that the author couldn't understand. Then, he stabbed downward with his hands, hitting several of the keys at once.

The author looked on in horror as a number of the keybars jammed as they hit the paper at the same time. "Hey! You're going to break it!"

The magician stepped back, raising his hands. "I did what I could. Once you get it unjammed, maybe you'll find yourself a little more productive than you've been. My gift, for the ride."

The author looked sidelong at the magician, and shook his head. "You're crazy. I hope you didn't bust anything." He was already trying to work the keybars loose.

"You're welcome," the magician said, removing his hat again and making a sweeping bow. "Now, if you don't mind, I do have business here. Feel free to come and see the show, if you aren't busy. Farewell!" And then, laughing, he exited the room.

The author, swearing softly under his breath, slowly worked loose the mess the magician had made of the keybars. When he was done, he sat down in front of the typewriter, and pulled out the now-wrinkled sheet and loaded a fresh piece.

"Fingers crossed," the author muttered. And then he pressed the keys, to check for jams.

There were none. The typewriter worked like a dream. And the author, who had only meant to type out a line or two to check whether or not the damn thing still worked, paused and then decided to continue on. After all, there wasn't much else to do, and the circus wasn't until later.

The author wrote on. The circus left town without him ever seeing it.

Writing Exercise #5 ( Day 1 )

There was quite a buzz when the author entered the party. As was his wont, he was late. Not terribly so, but enough that his absence built an air of mystique and expectation. People wondered where he was.

Would he show?

What kept him?

His absence made more of an impact than if he had been there from the start like everyone else. People cast sidelong glances to the door, as if waiting for him to come through at any moment. The food was sitting uneaten. Nobody wanted to act as if the party had already started before the author showed up. After all, he was one of those figures that was as much a myth as he was a man.

When he finally did arrive the tension in the room rose palpably. He was ushered in by the parting of the crowd like the wind through tall grass. People gave away under his presence, their voices stilled and their eyes turned towards the door where the author stood. As one, the crowd beheld him.

The author stood before them, and beheld them in turn. His eyes were sharp despite his advanced age. He stood tall and straight as he looked at them all. He was dressed in a sharp suit, traditional but worn with a certain flair that made it stand out.

His white hair was carefully laid in place. He made no effort to hide his wrinkles or his hair or any other sign of his age at this point. He had lived a long life and when people asked him how he felt about being old he took great pleasure in telling them he felt "Damn good about it, thank you."

They always laughed. They always quoted it, too, which was a source of secret pride. He still had it, after all this time.

The crowd continued to gape at him as if they couldn't believe he was really there before him. Either that, or they couldn't believe the woman on his arm. That was okay, he was sure that she wasn't real either. Or, at least, parts of her weren't. He didn't bring her because she was the real deal. Like the suit, she made him look good.

This silence had gone on long enough. It was getting embarrassing. He didn't want to create expectations he couldn't meet. So he broke the silence. "What are you all looking at? I know I'm late, but give me a break..."

The laughter that cut through the room broke the surface of that endless moment, and suddenly the party was alive again. People turned away, picking up their conversations that had been left stranded mid-sentence. Those closest to him made their way towards the author as he entered the room, extending nods and words of greeting. They would have extended hands, but the girl bringing around the drinks beat them to him with a gin and tonic and his woman remained firmly affixed to his other arm.

"Oh, it's so great to see you," one said. "It's been too long! You really do need to drop by more often." One of the hostesses, he assumed. He didn't remember her--but he didn't try very hard, either.

"You look so good," said another. "How do you do it?"

And, of course, inevitably, one said "I can't wait for your next book! When is it coming?"

The author smiled and waved them all away. "This is supposed to be a party, and I haven't even gotten ten feet from the door yet. One at a time, I'll try to talk to as many of you as I can," he said, holding up his drink. He had already taken a rather large portion of it. The ice clacked hollow against the glass. "I'm going to go have them top this off, first."

And he cut past them for the part, leaving only murmurs and expectations.

"Isn't he marvelous? He's so good, I'm shocked he came to this party," said one woman.

"Hey!" the hostess replied. "Lots of important people come to my parties."

"Yes, but he's different."

"Maybe," said a small man who intruded on the conversation. "But he isn't going to answer your questions. You should know that. He only answers what suits him. And lately that's less and less."

"Oh, hush you! Don't be a spoilsport. Surely he'll talk to us. Maybe you can go and coax that pretty young thing off of his arm and keep her entertained. Certainly he'd be less distracted then."

The two women laughed at him as he reddened and slunk away to whatever lonely corner of the room he had come from. Instead of bothering to watch, they turned to the author, who was across the room getting his drink.

The woman at his arm looked up as a tap fell on her bare shoulder. She turned to offer curt words to whoever would bother to touch her but came face to face with a man who didn't seem interested in her at all. He was nearly as old as the author, with short grey hair and a deeply tanned face.

"Beat it, honey."

"Hey, buster, I've got just as much of a right as you to-"

The author looked up at the man who had intruded upon this farce of a couple and smiled slightly in recognition. "Mia, why don't you go find someone to mingle with. I do want to talk to him."

She looked up at him, disappointed, but when she saw the set of his mouth she turned and walked away without complaint.

"Scotch," the other man said as he slid next to the author.

"I thought you swore off the sauce, David," the author said as his smile grew. There was a merriment in his eyes as he looked at the drink set before his companion.

"Yeah, well, what fun is being on the bandwagon if you can't take a tumble now and then?"

"I wouldn't know," the author said as he took another drink from his own glass. "I never climbed on."

"Yeah, I know." There was a long pause. "You know why I'm here, right?"

"Same reason everyone else wants to talk to me, I suppose. You want to know when the next one is, right?"

"I'm not paid to surprise people. That's your job."

The author snorted. "Call it what you want. Anyway, the answer is the same--when it's ready, you'll have it."

"We aren't getting any younger, you know. I can't tear it to pieces if either of us are dead."

"Don't worry, David. I'm plenty older than you. I'll croak and you can blast me without retribution."

"Eh, hard to pick on dead authors. People get touchy about 'preserving their memory' or whatever you want to call it. Besides, if you don't finish, I can't even do that."

"Oh, don't worry. My literary executor will take care of everything. You know I plan for all these eventualities."

"Right. So you're just here to give these people the run around again?"

"Sure, why not? Smoke and mirrors isn't too far from words and punctuation, you know. If I can charm these people, they're as satisfied as if they read the book. More, maybe, since they can gloat over others who didn't get the chance."

"Pessimistic bastard."

The author laughed. "Funny, I'm sure that's what you'd say about the book, too."

"Right. Well, that's all I needed. I don't suppose you're going to tell me anything else I can use, are you?"

"That what's coming is going to blow away all the expectations."

And the author was left alone again, for a moment. He finished his drink and turned towards the crowd, putting on his smile and stepping out among them. It wasn't long before he was noticed.

"Oh! Your last book, I have a question..."

"And I have an answer," he said. She laughed, like they always laughed, and he listened to her with all his attention as she began to speak. The party around them listened in this time. At the bar, they knew to keep their distance. But now, here, was something for them. Something they wanted to hear.

The author didn't disappoint.

Some time later, the author retired for a moment to the balcony outside the main room. It was a summer night, full of the magic of the season. Yet he was not alone. There was a young woman, younger perhaps than Mia (though it was hard to tell how old people were these days) who stood by herself nursing a drink and the bruised ego of a night gone badly.

"Rough night?"

The woman turned to look at him, blinking in surprise, as if she was trying to comprehend why he was here talking to her. "Um ... something like that."

"I understand. At least this helps," he said, gesturing to the moonlight garden below them.

"Yes, it does indeed." She looked up at him, her eyes narrowing. "Do I ... know you?"

"Maybe," the author said, puffing up a bit at the recognition. He had known that he wasn't the entire reason for the party, and it was nice to know that even those who hadn't come for him knew him by face and reputation. "What was the last book you read?"

The woman laughed. "Oh, I don't know. I don't really read books much. Hm. You know, I could swear I know you from somewhere. Have you ever done any movies?"

The author sighed and shook his head. "No, afraid not."

"Oh well. My mistake."

The conversation died between them. Both of them returned their attention to the night, the garden, and their own thoughts. Remaining ignorant of each other, they both raised their glasses and took a drink.

The Bull and the Cookie - A Fable

( To Kris, who asked and shall receive. )

Once, long ago, in a small village there lived a Bull and a Cookie. The Bull was a massive creature who prideful and tempermental. But he was quiet and dependable in his own way in that many of the farmers relied upon him. The Cookie was baked by the bakerwoman that morning, and was cheerful and perfect in every way.

That day the Cookie was out for a stroll, examining the world with its new sugar-coated eyes, when it spotted the Bull standing eating its lunch. The Cookie came up to him and offered a cheerful hello.

“Go away,” said the Bull. “I have too many things to do during the day to worry about the greeting of someone so unimportant.”

“I am important!” insisted the Cookie.

The Bull was unconvinced. “I pull plows and mate with cows. I graze and haul and allow myself to even be ridden from time to time. Without me, the crops would not be sowed. And if they were sowed, they could not be brought in from the harvest. And if they were, they could not turn the millstone to grind the grain into bread. People would starve and die. That is what it means to be important. You are not important.”

The Cookie threw back it’s doughy head and laughed. “You’re so mistaken. I’ll prove to you that I’m important. Come!” And the Cookie led the Bull to where a small orphan was sitting. He was all alone in the world, and wept with hunger and sadness. The Cookie bid the Bull to wait. “Watch this!”

And then the Cookie went over to the young orphan and offered itself to him. The orphan was initially hesitant but then suddenly grabbed the Cookie and gobbled him up. His tears dried and he even smiled in delight. There was such a look of peace on his face, and he whispered to nobody in particular “Thank you.”

The Bull was enraged by this. He did all the work with no thanks whatsoever, and this Cookie had in doing nothing but existing received more gratitude than the Bull had ever received. In a blind anger, the Bull charged the orphan where he sat and trampled him to death, Cookie and all. When he was done, he snorted. “I am indeed the most important. More important than the Cookie and the humans.”

The people in the village saw what had happened and surrounded the Bull. “Murderer!” they cried. “Monster!” The Bull could not fight them all off as the angry crowd swept over the Bull. They tied him down. They cursed and spat at him. And then finally, the Matron of the orphanage came and with a farmer’s guidance slit the throat of the Bull. “No Bull is worth the life of a child,” the crowd said as they dispersed, hauling the Bull to the butchers to be turned into meat.

Despite the Bull’s meat, soon it was time to plant the grains and there was no Bull to be had. They planted by hand, and it took every person and twice as long. Then come harvest time, it took every person and took three times as long, and some of the wheat had gone to rot in the time it took. And when they went to grind the grain, it took every strong man to turn the wheel, and only slowly was bread made while a bitter winter descended on the village.

Without the Bull, many people in the village died, and even those that remained went hungry. Nobody was left in the town who remembered the day that the Cookie had enraged the Bull. Instead, many spoke of the Bull who ruined a town and of the crowd who were too blind to see their need. Yet, when all was said and done, who could ever say which was more important: the Bull, or the Cookie?