What Comes Next

Life's little mysteries keep me awake at night
Staring at my bed
Because the ceiling is too far away
And I'm not ready to go there yet
So I turn off my alarm clock
And wrap myself up a little tighter
And pray to God that should I slip away as I wake
To keep my eyes staring into the pillow
So that I can't see the vast gulf of emptiness
Between everything



                                                                                                                And me



As I travel to my ceiling

Legends Begin Small: Intro, Chapter 1 "Cold Beginnings"

Hello everybody! Sorry it's been a little while since I've last written anything. College life gets a little ridiculous, sometimes. However, hopefully what comes next you'll find a real treat!
As hopefully everybody knows, this month is National November Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and many wannabe authors (like myself) are wearing their fingers to the bone trying to write 50k+ words of a continuous story by the end of the month. I was a little bit a lot late to the game, thanks to being an active participant in two performances that went into high gear this month, but I plan to catch up, eventually. Also, due to the nature of the NaNoWriMo contest, I just decided to work completely from scratch and just start this story off winging it.
I have no idea how this experiment will turn out. It's unlikely that I'll be the next Christopher Paolini (although I'd kill to be the next Christopher Paolini), and there's the entire possibility that as I post chapters or sections of this story to my blog that things will get wildly out of control or incredibly weird, but that's part of the fun! If you enjoy it, please continue to read, it's all out there for whomever wants it. As for everyone else... I don't plan this to be the only thing I put on here, although hopefully my site will get flooded with novel over the course of this month. That's the goal.
Anyways, here's the experiment!
(Also, small warning, it's likely to be rough, as the main purpose of a NaNoWriMo is to just get the story out on paper, polish is an afterthought)

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“It has been said that all great legends have small beginnings.”

Yanbar stomped his feet softly to help keep blood flow up in the frigid morning air. When he saw the world outside his window coated in white snow and off-blue ice, he couldn’t help but take to the forest for an early morning adventure. Now, with his stomach empty and his mind all confused, Yanbar decided that this perhaps wasn’t the wisest decision he had made in some time.

“Hah! You can’t fool me.” Yanbar said to a pine as he passed it. “I’ve seen you before. I’m going in circles, aren’t I? But where are my footprints? Curse this blasted wind, and curse you for not doing a better job of holding it back.” The tree leaned forlornly to the right, its tip dipped as if the tree were burdened with all the cares in the world. Yanbar stopped in front of the tree and sat. “All right, I’m sorry. I can’t blame you for any of this, you’re just some tree. But I’m in a real tizzy right now and wouldn’t mind some help, if your good tree self could drum some up.”

Yanbar knew it was only in fairy tales that wise old trees communicated with those knowledged in the language of the forest, but at this point he was willing to believe anything to get out of the forest and into his warm house, where no doubt breakfast was getting cold and his mother was about ready to throw a fit.

It was about this point that Yanbar heard a very nasally laugh come from directly above his head.

“Eeh hee hee! Eeh hee! What a foolish boy.” The voice said, a chuckle very evident in his tone. “Off on his own, and not even a trail of acorns to bring him home. Eeh hee hee!”

At this point Yanbar was already on his feet and staring up into the tree, but couldn’t see much farther than the first branch, given the thickness of the tree’s boughs and the amount of snow coating and ice coating absolutely everything. “Sir, please! I’m in need of help!” Yanbar shouted to the trees, hoping he was a friendly (if strange… what’s he doing in a tree?) man, perhaps a fur trapper, rather than a mischievous sprite of some sort his mother had warned him about to keep him away from the forest.

“AAAAGH!” The nasally voice barked, and the tree began to rustle a bit, shaking snow off onto the ground. Yanbar heard a series of oofs and dull thumping noises, before a small and clearly distressed figure dropped from the tree onto the ground. While the man lay shocked and lightly stunned, Yanbar observed that he was a very slight, appearing to be almost literally bone thin in his long fingers and hands. His nose was hook-like and crooked, swerving to the right as it reached towards his chin. The man was covered in excessively decorated furs, with trimming and painted symbols and bones and feathers woven in here and there, and finally he had an enormous hump right in the middle of his skinny back, so much so that he almost looked to be sitting up as he lay in the snow. Yanbar couldn’t decide if the hump or the nose was more distracting.

Presently, the little man stood up and dusted himself off, carefully eyeing Yanbar and the area around him. Despite the hump on his back, he stood hunched, knees bent, standing on the balls of his feet, as if perpetually ready to jump or run away. He then yelled, “BEAR! LOOK OVER THERE!” pointed behind Yanbar’s head, and took off in the opposite direction while the startled Yanbar jumped and did exactly that. The entire episode took only a couple seconds.

Fortunately for Yanbar, the man seemed ill-equipped for snow travel, and wasn’t moving very quickly. Yanbar easily caught up with the man and stood in front of him, arms folded. “I need help escaping the forest. I’m sorry for startling you, but you really shouldn’t have been hiding out in that tree. Can you help me?”

The little man glared. “How on earth can ye still see me?”

Yanbar was puzzled. “What do you mean, how can I see you? There you are, standing in front of me. You have a long crooked nose, and decorated furs, and a large hump on your back. It’s as plain as day.”

“Hmmf.” The man sniffed, appearing to himself. “Must be a little hiccup on Ugg’s part. Appears he be getting smart.”

“Who is… Ugg?” Yanbar asked.

The little man’s eyes bugged out. “It be rude to listen to a man when he be talking to himself to make a plan! For your bad tendencies to quell, I cast a frog-making spell!” He wiggled his fingers energetically at Yanbar, and then took off back in the direction of the tree. Once again, Yanbar easily overtook him and stopped him, causing the man to nasally squeak and turn white. “Ack! Sorcerer!”

“Sorcerer? I’m no sorcerer.” Yanbar replied, confused and strongly wondering if he needed to take this man back to his village to get him some help.

The little man narrowed his eyes and wiggled his fingers again. He did a little dance, hopping from foot to foot, and waived his arms, before pointing at Yanbar again. Nothing happened. Growling, the little man held his hand up so that it faced the sky, and with a resounding crack! a bolt of lightning fell from the overcast heavens and into his upturned palm. Yanbar yelped and fell on his hind end.

“Hmm, no, that’s not it.” The man shuffled towards Yanbar, and leaned in so close that their noses nearly touched. Oddly enough, his breath smelled like cinnamon. “Who be ye master, little lad?”

‘”Thurmgood, the village blacksmith.” Yanbar said.

“No, no, ye daft… I mean ye real master, the one who be protectin’ ye.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” At this point, given that the little man had originally seemed completely crazy but then summoned lightning from the sky, Yanbar decided it was in his best interests to disengage and get out of the forest by himself. “Um, good day to you, sir.” This time Yanbar was the one to get up from the snow, dust himself off, and quickly retreat.

“Wait, wait!” The little man cried as he struggled to catch up with Yanbar. “I be sorry! I haven’t seen another magician in so long, I thought I was by meself out here.”

“I’m not a magician!” Yanbar replied, still moving. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and now it’s time for me to go home. If I’m lucky, I’ll still be healthy enough to survive the good beating I’m going to get when I make it back.”

The little man stopped. “Not a mag- Lad don’t ye be lyin’ to me! No body that ain’t a magician can brush off one of me spells like that!”

Yanbar stopped and turned to face the man. “You mean your little finger trick and then that thing with the lightning?”

“That was no finger trick, lad, I was going to turn ye into a frog.” The man growled.

“No he wasn’t!” A little voice piped out. Suddenly, the little man looked panicked.

“What on earth was that?” Yanbar asked.

“Ack, nothing, nothing…” The little man patted himself all over, eventually punching a small bag attached to his belt. Yanbar thought he heard a little oof when it happened, from the new voice, a high one that sounded like reed pipes, not the nasally one of the small man. The little man straightened himself as best he could with his hump and smiled. “I be Manu-ehl Montgumphry, royal magician to the king.”

Yanbar crossed his arms again. “Sure you are. Because the king’s royal magician would be out in the middle of nowhere, in an icy tundra just outside of Myshka, a backwards nothing town. Good for you, sir.” Yanbar gave an exaggerated bow.

Manu-ehl deflated. “Well… maybe I be not in the same grace I once been, but the position still holds until the king finds another to fill it. And he’ll find none so good as ME!” Manu-ehl pointed a proud thumb at his chest.

“’E’s a complete and utter loon!” Yanbar heard the new voice again, and again heard a little oof when Manu-ehl punched the bag at his side.

“What’s in your bag there, that keeps talking to you?” Yanbar pointed.

“Absolutely nothing of any importance whatsoever.”

“The most important person ‘e ever received in ‘is life! Me name’s Ugg!” The little voice piped up once again.

“Shut up, ye.”

“No I won’t!”

Yanbar broke in. “Is there a little elf in there or something? No person is small enough to fit in a pocket. Also, I don’t think you should be hitting him.”

Manu-ehl glared at Yanbar, and a little voice piped out of the bag, “Yeah!” The bag shook a bit, the dark leather undulating as if muscle still rippled underneath, before a little ball of light popped out of the bag and flew around Manu-ehl’s head. It was slightly oval-shaped, and a short tail followed behind it like a comet. The light shifted slowly between warm colors, reds and oranges and yellows.

Yanbar stared at the light. “Honestly, after the lightning, this doesn’t surprise me at all.”

Manu-ehl swiped at the light. “Get back in there!”

“Where is ‘e?” the light (Ugg, apparently) piped as it flew around Manu-ehl’s head. “I can’t see ‘im!”

At this, Manu-ehl just frowned and gave Yanbar a hard look. “You really can’t see him?”

“Is this some sort of trick, Manny? ‘Cause I don’t like it! Where is ‘e?” Ugg turned a deep red and began to vibrate up and down next to Manu-ehl’s droopy ear.

“I’m right here.” Yanbar said, trying to be helpful. Ugg yipped and zipped towards Yanbar, missing his head by an entire foot and slamming into a nearby tree. Yanbar shook his head as he watched the little light fall into the snow, leaving a tiny indent, before going up and right back to Manu-ehl, where it hovered behind his head. Manu-ehl, for his part, just observed Yanbar.

“Where’s yours?” Manu-ehl said.

“My what?” Yanbar replied.

“Yer werelight.” Manu-ehl said. “One of these useless gits.” He jabbed a thumb at Ugg, who gave a little huff. “It’s only polite to invite yer own out if another chooses to reveal his self.”

Yanbar shrugged. “I don’t have one.”

Manu-ehl hummed and began walking around in lazy circles, Ugg floating above his head in the center. Eventually, he tromped in front of Yanbar, struggling through the snow, and planted himself. “What say ye about being a magician?” A very sly smile tugged the right have off his mouth.

From the Master: Kurt Vonnegut's 8 Basic Rules of Creative Writing

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

Two-Parter: Seven Pieces of Pantalones, English Metaphor

Seven Pieces of Pantalones

Or, My Pants Have Personality

MOST of the pants in my dresser are… acquaintances. We know each other well enough that I’m willing to spend a certain amount of time with them, but that doesn't mean we know or care about each other very well. These are the generic blue jeans, the single pair of pants that near every human on earth seems to own but couldn't care less about, and the feeling is mutual. Like an acquaintance, my blue jeans are used when I need them, but we have no further relation beyond that. When wearing them they do their job, but occasionally I have to check up on them, make sure my butt is still covered. Perhaps someday something real or something serious could develop here, but that would only occur if anyone cared enough to make any changes in our situation. Until then, they are my blue jeans, and I am their human legs. We use each other, we get what we need, we get out, and then we generally ignore the fact that the other exists. Perhaps what’s most sad about this situation is the pure number of blue jean acquaintances which I have; it’s almost pathetic, really, our mutual failure to make any connection whatsoever in all the time we've sort of known each other. In most cases, still I don’t even know their name!

THE next personality type comes from my Irish jeans. I call them my “Lucky” pants for two reasons: the inside of the zipper proudly displays a four-leaf clover and the text “LUCKY YOU” when opened (no suggestion there, wink wink), and the button that formally closes the pants randomly pops off with no warning, meaning sometimes when I really need my butt covered, I feel draft coming in, if you catch my meaning. These pants, in part because of their bagginess, but also because they are very worn hand-me-downs that’s thread is showing more white than blue, are some of the most gorgeously comfortable pants I own, and I love spending time with them. However, these “Lucky” jeans are infamously unreliable, and as a result my time with them is almost exclusively spent in private. Whenever I do, for some unfortunate reason, deign to take them out into the world, it’s always necessary to make sure a very close watch is kept on them. Even so, I can always trust these pants to do their job, as situationally useful as it is, meaning if I ever find myself in just the right circumstance that I know I’ll need a pair of pants that can be shed at a moment’s notice, these pants are always on-call. However, as nice as it is in theory that they are always “on the job,” so to speak, the fact that I have yet to ever use them is probably a greater testament to how situational they really are!

EVERYONE alive has that one “friend” that tries too hard, and that you just can’t bring yourself to love no matter how hard you try. Enter the “Clinger.” These thin-fabricked light blue jeans are a little bit of the opposite of my acquaintance jeans; where acquaintance jeans slowly fall down or slip away, these guys climb all the way up and silently scream LOVE ME AS MUCH AS I WORSHIP YOU. The benefit to this is I know they’ll never leave me uncovered, so as much as I try to avoid them, I still have to call on them for aide occasionally (much to their unhealthy delight). The unfortunate fact of the “Clinger” is all of their enthusiasm and overabundance of energy does nothing to make then endearing, as hard as I try to like them. Instead, I find myself sharing a room with a creature that I find small and pitiable, one that I feel guilty for calling on, because I know they’ll do whatever I ask when I ask for it. It’s like I’m taking advantage of them, and it kind of hurts to know that I’m that kind of person, even once. Or twice. Or anytime I need something done that they have the unique skill for. To all the “Clingers” of the world, I apologize on behalf of everyone. We really want to like you. You just make it really, really hard, and it’s probably completely unintentionally on your part.

DECEASED pants are the hardest pants to speak of, as I don’t believe in sugarcoating the dead but representing them how they are, where others prefer blind respect for filling the prerequisite “has died,” something that happens to everyone at some point in time. My slacks and I were tight; not only did they cover me, but damn, they made my butt look good. These pants are the friend that I love because they never fail to look good, and by extension they never fail to make me look good, regardless of whatever I happen to be doing at the moment. The unfortunate problem these pants had was that they were tight. I’m saying Jimmy Fallon would have been extremely uncomfortable to perform the “Tight Pants Song” in these things, and it was a real issue! The honeymoon was fantastic, and as they are just tan slacks I felt they were casual enough to wear a little bit more often, but the marriage afterwards was a disaster. I felt myself slipping away, farther and farther from their tight-fisted grasp. The more removed I was, the tighter they felt when I did wear them, causing me to become even more removed. And it got worse and worse until one day, they did, split down the back from waistband to the back of my knee. I probably should shed a tear, but honestly I’m just relieved they’re finally gone!

SUIT PANTS are very similar to my deceased friend, the slacks. They’re a bit tight. They look really good. But my suit pants know when to be demanding, and when not. Perhaps the issue with slacks was that they could be used in too many situations, leading to resentment over how controlling they could be. Perhaps the benefit of suit pants is that whenever I do wear them, I usually know everyone else is being controlled just as strongly by their iron-fisted suits and dresses as well, but we’re all having fun anyways, so who cares? Whatever the explanation, suit pants do tight right, and slacks need to tone it down a bit. It’s ok to ask for a little bit on a formal occasion, but asking for everything at a high school PTA meeting? Get over yourself, slacks, because Mr. Fancy Suit Pants knows when the right time to demand is, and when the right time to softly coerce is.

WITHOUT a doubt, my second most favorite pairs of pants are my cargos and my khakis. If these guys were human beings, they’d be the type of individual that you might accidentally run into while grabbing groceries or cashing a check, causing you to strike up a conversation and find out that you two just seem to be among the fastest and most natural of friends. Everything is just perfect from the beginning, and any negatives in your relationship are so overshadowed by the positives that you forget they even exist. That’s what these pants are. Covering, they never fall down on the job, not too warm, not too cold, and there’s always enough room to breathe. I imagine the only time I’d ever be disappointed with my cargos/khakis would be some fictional world where everything, absolutely everything, was so incredibly terrible and oppressive that if Zeus himself condescended out of the heavens and gave me a handful of ambrosia and a swig of nectar, I’d find the food of the gods lacking, and send him on his way. In such a case, my issue wouldn’t really be with my pants, but with the state of things in general, so some malignance transfers over unjustly. I deeply apologize, perfect pants, perfect people, if this ever happens to you, and makes you feel less than what you truly are. You never deserved it.

FIRST favorite, however belongs to a very special pair of soft blue pants (I really need to get to know more colors) that I sleep with: my scrubs. This pair of pants is perfect in nearly every sense of the word, and as such I enjoy a lot of long, comfortable, lazy Sundays with a book in hand and scrubs on my loins. We’re even so comfortable together that despite our intimacy, occasionally we take to the streets, proclaiming out extreme comfort to the world! Alas, such a relationship is a rare and special thing with a pair of pants, and it will be a sorry day when I outgrow them. But don’t think of that. What we have is now, and that’s all that matters; let the future come as it will, and hold strong.

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A Short Metaphor

"Darling, English is an art form, and you happen to practice graffiti."

The Mask Becomes the Face

It's a lot of fun to be a bad guy.

One of my most favorite villains that I've ever had the joy to discover is Syler from the television series Heroes. Even though I've only ever actually finished season one and only saw bits and pieces of the rest...

Damn. I wanna be able to act that scary someday.

Unfortunately, that made watching the same actor (Zachary Quinto) in the 2009 movie adaptation of Star Trek rather comical. I kept expecting Spock to subtly murder the entire crew offscreen, eventually assuming control of the ship as the sole survivor. He could have pulled it off, too, AND beaten Khan single-handedly in the sequel.

To me, Zach was an inspiration to someday play a villain as scary as Syler in a movie.

My mother told me to never accept an offer to play a villain in film or theater.

"Don't be silly, mom. A job is a job. It's hard enough to eat as an actor. At least, until I break through."

She responded with something along the lines of, "Every part you play makes a small art of who you become."

That's a scary thought. I've played a lot of bad guys.

I think that every human being alive wears a metaphorical mask every waking moment of their lives. From about the moment as a toddler that it begins to dawn that how they act affects how they are perceived, and thus treated, masks are collected and fashioned. This is who I am around strangers. This is who I am around mom. This is who I am around dad. This is who I am around my siblings, around my family as a whole, this is who I am at school, at work. Wanna see the mask where I let my hair down? Oops... that's my liar mask.

How much do these masks become us?

One of the best performances I've ever been in was called The Rainmaker. I played a bitter, stern brother named Noah who acted as the sole caretaker and provider of his family in wake of his mother's death, his father's age, and his younger brother's incompetence. He was unmarried, deathly serious, and constantly unhappy, but dammit, he saw to it that his family was taken care of no matter what.

That performance one of my darkest time periods in high school. Although there was outside conflict beyond what I was drawing into myself to prepare for this role, I believe that the mask I was in the process of making for this role had the most negative impact on me out of any role that I've ever accepted. I was depressed. I got into useless fights. For reasons I still can't explain, I intentionally avoided my friends and family. I was at perhaps the second lowest that I have ever been in my life.

But I rocked the hell out of that performance.

... Was it worth it?

By diving that deeply into that role, I put darkness into my soul that I'm still trying to expunge.

There's a colloquial saying, "You are who you hang out with." Another way of putting it is "You are who your friends are," but I consider that one less accurate as some people, either out of some manifestation of masochism or extreme desperation, choose to spend time with people that are not their friends, regardless of what they say or hear, or let themselves think.

Everyone is acting around their friends, assuming a role for the play of life, putting on masks, showing a new face for new people. Are you pretending to be the person you want to become?

If a bad person pretends to be a good person for a long enough time - active, persistent effort - eventually that bad person will be able to look back at his or her life, and see someone that is completely indistinguishable from a good person.

So what happens when a good person spends a long enough time fitting in with bad people?

From the Master - Acquainted with the Night

Acquainted with the Night

BY ROBERT FROST

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height,

One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. 

I have been one acquainted with the night.

Today's Poems: More Depressing Stuff, I Deeply Apologize

Grindstones

If we could love
We would die swiftly
From swords in our mouths,

Sharpened by the grindstones
Encasing what we were
Before we loved,

Rending open hearts beating
Softly in exposed chest cavities
Bleeding love all over the floor

Another victim of caring
Too much while blindly seeing
Wrong in what isn't, right in what shouldn't

Be.

......................................................................

Emptiness

Emptiness burns
Like a cigarette butt on fresh newspaper
Spreading
Consuming
Eating all the stories
Until nothing is left
But ash and burnt fingers

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Fire

Love is

Hot

Like fire

A campfire

For friends

Is warm and cozy

But

The passion of a bonfire

Is a safety hazard

Stay safe, kids

Don't burn up

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Mother's Love

A mother's love

Enfolds

Embraces

Comforts

Like a warm quilt on a cold night

Oh no!

The quilt is heavy

Can't get out

Don't suffocate

Under mother's love

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Six Word Stories

Six word stories

Tell six things

Darkness is easy

Why not happiness?

Quote the Master

If my path looks meandering
I'm finding where I want to go
As I go there

The beaten path is hard underfoot
Beautiful trees and foliage cleared
While I'm here

So it comes to mind words from
Another mouth and another time
Better said

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;	5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,	10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.	15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

                                  ~Robert Frost

Poetry Three: First Kiss, Fault, Dreaming

First Kiss

"Disillusionment"

She told with lips

But not words

"Takes a bite out of the heart

and strips you of the innocence needed to survive."

I taste blood on my tongue as she breaks her teeth

What she doesn't know

She kisses a corpse

My heart is coated in resin.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Fault

It’s not my fault

They told me so; it wasn't me.

As I sit in this little white room

And imagine her bright red blood

All over my face, hands, the floor

I agree

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Dreaming

This sentence is false.

Either this is truth,

making it a lie,

Or the sentence is false,

making it true

. . . also a lie.

Perhaps the sentence is false as

-more often than not-

it is a lie.

But the more the lie the more the truth

suggesting truth be more than lie

which creates all the more lie

and truth.

Perhaps the circle is neither,

an illusion.

You’re dreaming.

Time

Clocks are time, or perhaps time is a clock, both an infinite loop traveling ever in circular motions, moving around and around and around in dizzying, looping curves, higher, higher, higher, until the spring winds out and the system falls silent, the clock to tick no more, or perhaps time to loop no more?

Although a clock can be so much more. It has a face and hands, does it not? Fairly disproportionate for a handyman, but a clock can, in time of need, put its own spin on things and lend a helping han'd. Perhaps he'll wind backwards, or forwards, or both, minutes rapidly racing ahead, barely keeping abreast of backward-trodding, lumbering, slumbering, slow-moving hours. If both were to move in a different direction time would effectively stop, making a clock a very handy man that can.

And unless sir clock was of the grandfather variety, proudly displayed on a wall where all can listen to him bluster, but don't touch! He's fragile. When grandfather (our clock) lays down to rest, who knows if he'll rise again; perhaps his time has run out.

Time. Clocks are time…

Brain Dump - The Guhrumphey Sea

‘Swas sillig when the gumphey sea

                did bluster brook and bolt

                                SEVENTY FIVE YEARS sucking seashells off

                                bandy beaches, and Bugger and I did brusquely folt.

“A man and agry ye!”

                we didst mock out to the sea.

“Sirrah! Cease forthwith this ghurrrumphing and kacklaking!

                Make peace ye between land and sea!”

Not One Out Done this agry sea

                by a benthum boy as I                           - though such small sad figures I and Bugger be –

                He SCALLS itself in great motion commotion,

                                Whithing up up UP waves floofing, frasing

                                                                                                                Down

                                                                                                                                Down

                                                                                                                                                DOWN

KEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSHHHHHH!!!!!!!

Ahll over sandy beach seashells and two herroneious Humans beans, me, myself, me Bugger and I.

Now should you visit the

Gumphey sea in all its bluster and brook

You may find two ice’d figures frazen in spot

Cold and Cold and Cold and Coldly chilling with hot

                Sir Ocean away back from the Spot,

Protecting beaches and sneetches and seashell sally seeshes all from being gobbled ohp.

                Consider yeself lucky, boy you be

                That ye did not live through the story of

The Guhrumphey Sea!

Imagine a Brand New Color: Describe it Without Mentioning the Usual Color Descriptors

It's extremely unpleasant. I feel like my eyes are chewing on charcoal, a rough, grinding sensation, leaving an ashen taste in my mouth, which is now dry and desperate for something moderately wet. However, my eyes, not being a mouth, immediately shriveled into raisins that I thereafter used for fire starter. So to describe this color as unpleasant would be an understatement, as I am blind now from ocularly chewing on charcoal, and my burning peepers are currently keeping me warm.

Brain Dump - Defiance

We are at war.

I stand with two firm feet planted shoulder-width apart, facing forward in a soldier's stance. Veins bulge around the ball in each ankle, my calves are hard and cylindrical, like the end of a baseball bat. Knees bent, thigh muscles coiled, buttocks clenched, my stomach is one solid slab of granite. Back muscles strain release from skin imprisonment, shoulder blades mimic small sheathed shields. My balled hands crushed air into solid mass, my tensed forearms hover just above the bend made between angled leg and unyielding hip. Elbows are tightened to the exact degree, biceps are screaming, shoulders thrust back, and neck corded like thick stalks of wheat tied into a single unbreaking bundle. Every muscle possible to move in the face tenaciously resists his neighbors; the jaw muscles jut the thing down and forward, while the ones moving the forehead take it back and up, cheek muscles clutching the bone raise in stark relief, the lines in my forehead subtly scribble my life story, and eyelids tightly blanket the orbs within. Nostrils flare, harvesting the rich smells surrounding: soil, pine, water, ozone.

Deep, deep, deep within my most spacious cavity, an enormous wave forms, it roils, seething in anger at captivity. Building, the beast bursts confinement, rolling forth like a great tsunami, sweeping aside the hard apple in my throat and threatening to burst the tunnel directing it. The beast explodes on entry with the world, charging every direction simultaneously like wildfire, desperate to consume, consume, consume.

This little beast lasts but a moment in one far greater.

Around me, the world churns and boils. An angry, smoky face in the sky cries billions upon billions of soldiers born of tears of anger. They beat and beat and beat against my skin with a deadened thumping, rapidly laying down their lives for a dark master above.

Keerash… BOOM! The Master's blinding, brilliant arm strikes a nearby tree, creating a new explosion, a storm of splinters and flaming sap caught within the greater, swept along in the great current surrounding the Eye of the Master.

Like sandpaper, smaller minions riding the wave scrape and make raw my face and arms, occasionally carrying sticks like tiny clubs to smash, leaves like undersized shields to crinkle and smash, fragments of stone like primal axes cut and make bleed. They slide across my skin, a continual wave of the same, the same, something different, the same, simple-minded soldiers with innovation by accident and desperation rather than design.

The world is in chaos around me as the old Master bellows and rages above, but I stand firm. Even as I stand in the Eye of Himself, made still by cold and fury that silences all infraction and nuisance with an icy fire, raising my arms made wet by the perspiration of my efforts and the life-blood of his loyal servants, challenging with all my being as I cast my fury back into the sky and demand control of the storm, screaming with a need that shakes my very frame. The Eye of the Master moves on, seeking an unwilling victim, but unafraid to said his closing remarks as a reverse of the first, brilliant arms crashing down, teardrop-shaped soldiers, and rushing minions, all disappearing into time and distance as he leaves behind a world deeply cleansed by his righteous presence.

Only now unable to stand, my knees buckle into wet soil, my head bows and throws droplets, back curves, and hands fall into lap, a figure of fervent supplication following a deeply religious experience.

I, man, am small and weak. You, Master, great and cleansing and terrible and unimaginably vast.

And I stood firm.

Brain Dump - Living

To be or not to be, what a question!

Whether tis nobler to hold strong and stay on,

Enduring all that comes, what may,

Else dashing it all, our skulls on a rock,

Life blood draining in an open ocean.

Methinks it a better question to say

"Who lives? Who lives what may?"

For any man can die today, but a few

Will say they lived for a single stay.

Come now brothers! What a depress'd bunch

We be. Sing and be sung, laugh

And stamp

And dance

And cry

And shout,

And just for one moment be able to say

"I let it out!"

Else hold the bottle, let nothing out,

Till pressure crush, and crush, and crush,

Squeezing our essence out.

This life can be a noose

A trap

A chinese fingerhold.

Strain and strain and strain until purple and old,

But never break free.

Else loosen thy grip, one two free,

And escape into the morning, for all to see.

One step, two step, three step, four

Tonight we tango, tomorrow nevermore.

Our breath is fleeting

Our minds a wreck

Our brains misleading

Our life unchecked.

So answer the question, Who lives what may?

And answer yourself: Was I alive today?

Literary Hangover - Monkeypunch

Monkeys.
The first word that pops into my head.
Playful creatures, I've been told, though I've only seen a few.
My brother got punched by a monkey, once. It was a spindly creature, with long asparagus arms and a sweet potato body covered in short, dark hair that I imagine is very bristly to touch, although I've never touched one to my memory.
We were in Mexico, and a very ghetto zoo (simultaneously). The day was bright and cloudless, the sky infinitely blue, an ocean with no waves. The tiles beneath our feet were cracked and covered with lichen. The entire zoo complex had the appearance of an abandoned, overgrown tropical garden, where the jungle had just begun to move back in after claiming residence. Many animals weren't even in cages, like the monkeys.
My brother - a white headed, four-foot-nothing rascal - saw a momma monkey with her little fuzzball baby clinging to her back, arms like little toothpicks poked into a handful of cotton. He desperately wanted to pe the baby monkey. Throughout our meanderings in this dilapidated place, he would quietly slip away and scan the area for the baby monkey. Due to the slight size of this flora-infested "zoo" (comparative to the size of Zoos we were accustomed to), he rarely had any issues.
The baby monkey was before him, a tantalizing ball of exotic adorableness and imagined softness. Brother's little white fingers - up, up, up, now towards the baby, ever so slowly... - and WHAMMO. The momma monkey, fed up with running away from this little miscreant all, punches my brother in the nose and scampers for higher ground, shrieking gayly, a sound not unlike laughter.
In amused and then breathless silence, we all witnessed this exchange, and for some reason not a man or woman said a thing. We just watched as my little brother pivoted on his heel to face us. His face exhibited no fear, no pain, no tears, only a glazed expression of utter shock.
"Boy," he states with a growing grin, "I'm sure not doing THAT again!"
No tears were shed from the monkey punch, but no one could help crying from the laughter that ensued.

 (The above kind of spider monkey, not the below.)

(Lord knows I loved spy kids, though.)

Remembrance/Brain Dump - Lying Honesty

I'm trying to remember one of the most fantastic quotes that I have ever discovered in my entire life.
I know it came from the book Ender in Exile, by Orson Scott Card. I also know a general paraphrase of the quote, although I wish I had the actual words. It goes something along these lines:
"Peter told me that he discovered that if a bad person spent his entire life actively pretending to be a good person, then when his days were almost over he could look back and discover that he was entirely indistinguishable from a good person. Relentless hypocrisy had become truth." ~Ender
I absolutely love this quote. I love the thought that, no matter what we think we are, if we try hard enough and pretend long enough we can become whatever we choose. A friend called this lying his way into honesty. A more common aphorism in regards to this would be "fake it till you make it," although I don't feel that portrays the desire quite as strongly.
A more cynical quote that I usually display alongside this one comes from a favorite television series of mine: "I found from a very early age that if I talked long enough, I could make anything true. So either I'm God, or truth is relative. Either way, booyah." ~Jeff Winger, Community.
I've mentioned previously that I do believe in absolute truth, something that simply is. Unchanging, timeless, resolute. But what does that make everything we've built on those truths? How much do they derive from their foundations?
I think the fact of the matter is, most truths that fall within human perception are as flexible as a willow switch. A bad person can pretend to be a good person for a long enough time that, for all intents and purposes, he is good. A crappy lawyer can talk long enough and eloquently enough that a bunch of community college misfits believe they are worth something. Every living being at some point in their lives will be faced with truths that burn to bear, and they'll be given two choices:
Accept it.
Or change it.
Changing what people view as is can be extremely difficult, Sometimes, the collective human psyche is so powerful that one can only change that truth for themselves in their own minds, but that may be all that matters in order to achieve a degree of peace, self-awareness, happiness, or resolution. Or a word that escapes my mind at the immediate moment.
Accepting painful truths can be harder still.
I knew an absolutely fantastic man back in Idaho, whose name I'll change to Robin, for the purpose of protecting identity. Robin on several occasions described to me his troubled youth, and thanked God for all the help he'd received in cleaning himself up and getting to where he is now. One of the turning points in his life occurred after an awful accident moving boxes at a warehouse. Two floors up, there was an accident with the machinery that flung Robin off the side, landing on concrete two stories later. Miraculously enough, while his feet were completely shattered, Robin's leg bones only received a few chips. Even so, despite multiple reconstructive surgeries and copious amounts of metal dumped into Robin's foot, the doctoral verdict was that Robin would never walk again.
And Robin thought Like Hell I'm not.
Shortly after being confined to a wheelchair, Robin began forcing himself to walk. It hurt a lot, both physically as well as mentally, as he and his family was forced to watch his failing attempts. Eventually, however, Robin began to move like an old man rather than a cripple. Then more akin to a child. And now, Robin can walk and run like any regular adult, and he performs very heavy labor with his two feet that would never allow him to walk again.
I'm not saying that all physical truths like that can be changed with pure force of will. Some simply can't. But less physical truths can be bent all day long.
So, like a friend once said, go lie your way into honesty. Improve something that was previously thought unchangeable.

Remembrance - Whittier

"Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been.'"

~John Greenleaf Whittier

Mind Dump - Gazelles

Animal beings are extremely silly.

Earlier today, I was traversing campus in a failing attempt to prevent lateness, and I found a gazelle.

Now, this wasn't a normal gazelle. He was very tall and lanky, with a strong chin and wavy blonde hair. He even wore clothes! Fantastically enough, this gazelle managed to in every way make himself appear to be a human being, down to grinding his horns small enough to be hidden by a sloppy hat, and shaving enough of his face to appear as a regular human with a beard, suggestive of malehood.

What made this gazelle particularly unusual (aside from his clearly dreadful navigation skills; how far away from home was he?) was his unique hunting tactics.

Yes, hunting.

With elongated, bounding steps, the gazelle casually pranced through a crowd of (clearly imperceptive) human beings, eyes eternally fixed on his target, but each and every action exaggerated as greatly as possible so as to, presumably, prevent any action from making any noise (in this action, he also managed to make himself look like a gigantic bird). Ever so loudly casual, he skipped, stepped, and slipped behind his target, and lept on the figure, with a loud gazelle roar and great kicking of feet. Strangely enough, rather than capitalizing on the kill, the gazelle made great barking noises similar to hyena laughter as he ran away from his perturbed victim.

Strange.

In fact, the more I look around, the more I find my campus looking like a vast, poorly maintained zoo full of animals traveling greatly afar from their respective pigeonholes, or else digging perhaps a little too deeply. Little birds chatter nonsensically on the grass and in the trees, heads jerking as they rubberneck absolutely everything. Great gorillas carry around enormous bags full of, logically, nd excessive amount of bananas, sweating terribly as they lumber from tree to tree.

And, of course, gazelles hunt lions, if for no other reason than they now can.

I think I prefer this animal campus to a regular one. If anything, these strange happenings are more normal than any situation any human could produce!

Ramblings - Eventide

(Note: NOT a final draft)

(Scene: a large, well lived-in living room, with bookshelves, family portraits, and small trophies. There is a cozy couch sized for a small family in the center of the living room, covered with blankets and pillows. In front of it rests a hard-topped ottoman. Todd, dressed in a t-shirt and pajama pants, peers through the curtains set on a window stage left. Amanda lies on the couch, completely cocooned in blankets. She wears similar attire.) 

TODD

It looks like another ice age out there, sis. We picked a rough year to house-sit for mom and dad.

AMANDA

Fretting about it won't change anything. Come wrap yourself up before you catch a cold. (Todd continues to stare out the window. After a moment, he scans the room and exits up right. Amanda sits up, and yells:) Hey! Where you goin'? (She hears some rummaging from the other room.)

TODD

(Returning, coming to the couch with a large camping lantern in hand.) I've got a bad feeling about the storm, so I grabbed Dad's lantern. (Holds it up to illustrate his point) Hopefully we won't need it, I don't know how long the charge will last.

AMANDA

(Smiling.) You big baby. Get over here. I'm cold, and you're my heater.

(Todd smiles, and Amanda takes the bait, rising to wrestle Todd onto the couch. Despite both being adults, the two are comfortable enough with each other that there's an oddly childlike nature to this play. After the two wrestle for some time, there is a loud BANG outside, followed by a large cracking sound, and a muffled WHUMPH. The lights go out. Startled, Amanda squeaks and clutches Todd, who remains collected, if a little bit nervous.) 

TODD

(After the noise subsides, harmlessly teasing.) Now who's the baby? (Pauses.) Good thing I grabbed the lantern. 

AMANDA

(Punches Todd, but remains nearby as he turns on the lantern. It leaves the room bright enough to see, but still shadowy and fairly dark.) This got sketchy fast.

TODD

It's just an outage. They happen in big storms like these.

AMANDA

And that noise?

TODD

Most likely a power line got knocked over. Nothing we can do about it. (Amanda hops back on the couch, pulling Todd with her. She wraps up in her own blanket, then cuddles against Todd.)

AMANDA

Geez, I can't believe how warm you are. (Closes her eyes.)

TODD

(Accepting it all in a brotherly fashion.) All for you, li'l sissy.

AMANDA

(Mumbling as she falls asleep.) Don't call me that.

(Todd just smiles at Amanda's comment and strokes her hair as her breathing evens. There is peace for a moment. Then, the doorbell rings. Amanda stirs, and mutters unintelligibly. Todd quietly hushes her and softly disengages. He goes to the door, stage left, and peers through the peephole. After a moment, he opens the door. Outside is a stranger in cold weather gear, all woolens. He is completely covered in snow.) 

STRANGER

Is Mr. or Mrs. MacLeery home?

TODD

No, they're both out right now. You picked the above-all worst time to come calling, stranger.

STRANGER

(Beat.) Todd, is that you?

TODD

Now how on earth do you- (Pauses. Studying the stranger's face.) Oh my gosh, Mikey?

MICHAEL

(Very tiredly.) Hey brother. (He collapses forward onto the floor.)

TODD

(Springing into action.) Amanda, wake up! (He drags Michael out of the doorway.)

AMANDA

(Stirring.) Hmm?

TODD

(Closes the door.) I need help, now!

AMANDA

(Amanda peers over the couch and starts forcefully.) No! (She runs to Todd, and together they carry Michael's unconscious figure to the couch after brushing some snow off of him.)

TODD

I'll grab mom's heated blanket. Call 911.

(Todd dashes off stage right. Amanda frantically searches her pockets for a phone, and then the living room, with rising panic. At one point she tries the house phone, but throws it down – It's dead. Amanda "Oh!"s, but continues her manic hunt. Todd rushes into the room with the blanket, and immediately turns it on and covers Michael.) 

TODD

(After the initial rush.) Thank God this thing's battery powered. (Looks at Amanda.) Where'd your phone go? Did you call already?

AMANDA

(Almost in tears.) I don't know! I can't find it! Where's yours?

TODD

It's dead. (He proceeds to vigorously rub Michael's digits and limbs.)

AMANDA

What are you doing?

TODD

You're the one with the nursing degree! If we don't warm him up, he might die!

AMANDA

(Joins Todd.) What on earth happened?

TODD

(While working.) I don't know. After you fell asleep, the doorbell rang, and I got worried. You'd have to have some heavy-duty snowmobile to get anywhere out there, but why would anyone want to risk coming here? I opened the door, and… (Todd stops rubbing, and closes his eyes.)

AMANDA

Todd?

TODD

It's Michael, sissy.

AMANDA

(Observes Michael briefly, her eyes widening. She also stops rubbing.) What? (Both freeze as Michael starts coughing weakly. Todd cups his face with both hands.)

TODD

Michael? Michael? Speak to me, Mikey!

MICHAEL

(Weakly.) Todd, it hurts… Please stop…

TODD

What hurts?

MICHAEL

(Writhing lightly.) My stomach. Guuuuhhhh…..

TODD

(Gets off of Michael. Looks at Amanda.) Tell me how I can help you.

AMANDA

What?

TODD

You're a nurse. Help him.

AMANDA

Todd! I don't practice! I don't… I can't… It was much cleaner in my textbooks than it ended up actually being!

TODD

Amanda, I think he's dying!

AMANDA

(Wavers.) Fine. Go get some gauze, and water, and… I don't know. Anything you can find. And be quick about it.

TODD

Gotcha.

(Todd dashes off stage right. Amanda takes a deep breath, and carefully begins examining Michael's body, moving with a sense of urgency. Presently, Amanda removes the blanket and what she can of Michael's upper layers without moving Michael himself. Michael moans, and occasionally his eyelids flutter, but he is primarily nonresponsive. Amanda "Oh"s softly when she finds blood on Michael's underclothes, then gasps loudly as she uncovers Michael's gut. Before her is a messy, graphic bullet wound, a gaping hole in Michael's middle. Amanda's hands flutter for a moment as she tries to think of what to do. She eventually places a small folded blanket over the wound, and covers Michael. Todd enters the room carrying armfuls of whatever he could grab.) 

TODD

Where do you want these?

AMANDA

(Distant, Amanda drifts towards Todd.) He's dead. Somebody shot him, here, and he's gonna die. (Makes hand motions toward her stomach.)

TODD

(Snapping his fingers.) Amanda, stay with me! We can still help him!

AMANDA

Noooooooo, he shouldn't be alive right now. (Starts crying.) I'm so sorry Ican'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan't…

(Todd comforts Amanda, eyes never leaving Michael. He ushers Amanda out of the room, whispering to her, and then moves to Michael's side. He takes a peek at Michael's wound and visible stiffens. Todd then replaces the removed layers. Beat. He says:)

TODD

Michael? Michael, are you there? (He hears very soft breathing.) You stay with me Mikey, because eventually this storm is gonna break, and then I'm going to get you some help.

MICHAEL

Todd? 'S that you?

TODD

Michael!

MICHAEL

(Laughs weakly.) Oh, I made it. Thank goodness, I made it.

TODD

What happened to you?

MICHAEL

I escaped Todd. I made it. I'm home now. (Eyes open.) Are mom and dad here?

TODD

No, Michael. Sissy and I are housesitting.

MICHAEL

(Sighs.) A pity. I wanted to apologize.

TODD

For what?

MICHAEL

(Beat.) For everything, I suppose. I bet I've made them miserable for these past… Gad, I can't even remember how long it's been.

TODD

It's been over twenty years.

MICHAEL

You kept track? (Winces from pain.) 

TODD

Every day.

MICHAEL

Geez. (Beat.) I'm sorry, Todd. (Todd doesn't respond.) Todd? I'm serious, I- Ah! (Michael tries to sit up and collapses. Todd is instantly at his side.)

TODD

Don't you dare try that again.

MICHAEL

(Grabs Todd's arm.) Tell me what happened. After I left.

TODD

You're kidding me.

MICHAEL

Todd. (Stares into Todd's eyes.) Please.

TODD

(Beat.) Ok. (Thinks and paces.) I just… where do I start, Mikey? I was devastated, obviously. You almost killed mom. In fact… (Righteous fury builds for a moment, then dies. Todd turns to Michael, his voice broken.) We love you, Michael. Mom still cries over you. I still cry over you. It still hurts.

MICHAEL

(Some labored breathing.) Did it ever get better? Easier?

TODD

(Beat.) Well shoot, Mikey. Not really. I just got to the point where I had to pick up and move on or… (Beat.) Die trying, I guess.

MICHAEL

Oh…

TODD

Why do you want to know all of this, anyway?

MICHAEL

(Weakly waves the question away.) How did you move on?

TODD

I worked. (Beat.) Gad, I lost myself. Nothing filled the hole. But… eventually I learned to outweigh the bad with a lot of good.

MICHAEL

Worked on what?

TODD

School. Sports. Extracurriculars. I graduated valedictorian, secured a full-ride scholarship to… Why am I doing this?

MICHAEL

Todd!

TODD

Why am I explaining myself to you, Michael? You left, not me.

MICHAEL

Exactly.

TODD

What?

MICHAEL

(Pain.) I don't have much… breath, Todd. My story isn't… here. But I want to know.

TODD

(Beat.) I went to college, got married, and I got a solid job afterward. I started a family. Life is much better now.

MICHAEL

And Amanda.

TODD

Amanda took it a lot harder than I did. She didn't want anyone to ever lose like she did, so she became a nurse. But, to her, you were more demon than inspiration. I think she saw you in every scared, dying patient. She couldn't handle it.

MICHAEL

Oh.

TODD

She loves harder than we do, Michael.

MICHAEL

Was I your demon, too, Todd?

TODD

Not as directly. I had a hard time letting anyone go. I was afraid they'd never come back.

MICHAEL

(Beat.) Tell me (pain) about your family.

TODD

(Smiles.) My wife's name is Amber. She has green eyes and brown hair, and her freckles looked like little specks of confetti on her skin in her wedding dress. We have a little girl. She's three, now. She has two brothers on the way. (Chokes.) I'm never, never letting them go. Never.

MICHAEL

(Crying.) Oh Todd, what have I done? (Todd doesn't know what to say.) I've lost… I've lost so much. What you have… I could… Ah! One mistake! (Convulses.)

TODD

Michael, Michael! (His hands flutter over Michael's figure, unsure of what to do.) Mikey, please!

MICHAEL

(The pain burst forth.) It hurts! It hurts! Ah, Todd, what have I lost! Aaaaah! (Still convulsing.)

TODD

No, Mikey, no! (Amanda slowly enters the room. Todd notices her.) Amanda, please! Help me!

(Amanda is frozen for a few moments, as if blanking out again. Then, a steely resolve enters her eyes. Amanda rushes to Michael's side, shooing Todd out of the way. Todd remains nearby as Amanda whispers comforting words while placing pillows under Michael's head and removing anything hard nearby that he could hit. She looks at Todd.) 

AMANDA

That's all we can do. Now we wait.

MICHAEL

(Convulsions slow and die after Amanda finishes speaking, and for a moment only ragged breathing is heard. Then:) It's close now. Please, stay with me. (Todd and Amanda move closer to Michael.) Thank you. I thought- (Pain.) I was afraid I could never come back. (Todd and Amanda both don't know what to say. The lantern's light dims, beginning the slow process of dying.) 

AMANDA

(Tiredly.) Oh no…

MICHAEL

(Panicking.) Todd? Todd, it's getting dark! Todd!

TODD

(Getting up.) Don't worry, Mikey, I've got this (Starts rushing around the room.)

MICHAEL

What? No, don't leave me! Ah! (Pain.)

(Michael begins convulsing more violently than before as Todd manically hunts for batteries as the lights slowly go out. Todd enters and exits the room, occasionally making frustrated or despairing, wordless sounds, as Michael convulses and gasps in pain. Amanda kneels next to Michael, ready to do whatever she can, but knowing this is the end. Her face shows a degree of acceptance… For her, a nightmare is dying. As the lights fade to black, the sounds continue for a moment, then all is silent. The room is completely lightless. Following a pregnant silence, a cursing Todd can be heard navigating the room, tripping on things and muttering phrases like, "I got you, Mikey, I got you." There's fumbling, clicking noises as Todd puts batteries in the lantern, and suddenly the room floods with light, much brighter than the lantern's previous output, banishing most shadows. Todd stands up, triumphant.)

TODD

I did it Mikey, the light, I… (He sees Michael's motionless, unbreathing figure.) I… I got you… (He collapses next to Amanda, and they hold each other for a long time, Todd crying, Amanda silent but no less powerfully grieving. Eventually:) I… I don't get it. He came home, sissy. He made it.

AMANDA

He'll always be home. We have an eternal connection. That's why he came back.

TODD

Don't you use your nursey comfort speech on me.

AMANDA

You goob.

TODD

What're we going to do?

AMANDA

Hold me, brother. And we'll wait out the storm.

(They do so, tightly, and the howling wind can be heard louder and louder as the lights dim softer and softer. The lights go out, and for a moment there is only the cutting wind. Then that, too, silences.)

Fin