Loyalties

It was one of those rare days when our mutually surrogate parents allowed us to go out for a walk. It was yet another one of those clear and sunny northern South Dakota summers where the sky is blue and the grass is grey. The dusty tar coated the road in chaotic zigzags like a guilty child shielding an injury from a scowling parent. It clung to the bottom of our shoes as though the road were trying to urge us to stand still, unwilling to let us escape. Or maybe our soles were melting. It was difficult to tell.

We had passed the McLaughlin Cinema with the projector that whirred distractingly while the movies played, the Jack & Jill grocery with bars on the windows to prevent local teens from making a midnight munchy run, and the Wells Fargo bank, the only building in the town that didn’t look like a set piece for Tremors.

The occasion for our walk was less than wholesome. We had nothing better to do since having our computers taken away. We recalled back to the first evening of being granted internet access in our rooms, which consisted of a cranky dial-up modem and a yellow cross-over network cable that allowed me to steal most of the bandwidth.

“Wasn’t my fault! The computer froze,” Robert chuckled. Those were the days before triple-x YouTube knock-offs. Back then, if you were a lonely fifteen year old like we were, you either chased girls, which wasn’t an option for outcasts like us, or you tolerated a barrage of pop-ups.

“Stupid hippy!” I poked Robert in his dimpled, brown cheek. “Shoulda pulled the plug!”

“You’re the stupid hippy,” he jabbed me, much faster and harder, in the ribs until I submitted to his superior speed.

We were interrupted from our laughter and play by a sudden call from behind us. Neither of us stopped, though I turned around to glance. On the cement steps of a small corner bar that belched smoke and inebriated laughter sat a number of Natives, either waiting for happy hour or begging for more drinking money. One of them, a short-haired man with a body like a lump of dough and a face pocket marked like the moon if it was covered in chocolate, waved a chubby hand and called out something that I couldn’t catch.

I had little tolerance for the thought of beggars that lived off the taxpayer’s money. Not necessarily because I had any understanding of what that meant, but because all the people in the reservation town with skin as pale as mine told me to. I turned away with a smirk and was coming up with some insult of the drunk that I could mutter to Robert without offending him when my thoughts were interrupted.

“'Ey, Robert! Lookin' good, annah? Got some change?” The man's chubby face folded up like layered dough.

“That’s my dad, I think,” Robert's black eyes were focused straight ahead without heeding the chummy calls of the man. I looked in surprise from the boy before me, skinny and an inch or two shorter, with straight, black hair that hung down to cover his ears, back to the doughy drunk.

“You sure?”

“Think it’s Curtis. He was with my mom for a while. That was after Rick and Tessie’s dad. I think he’s Trisha’s dad, too. Riley has a different one.” We fell silent as I wondered what it would be like to have siblings from random drunks around the town. “That was before she ran over her new boyfriend.”

“Oh. That how come she’s in jail?”

“Yeah.”

I left it at that. While it was interesting to have him open up, I always felt uncomfortable pressing about his family. I never understood how he could come from such a broken, dysfunctional family of druggies and killers, and yet he would beat your face in if you ever said anything bad about them, even though there was plenty bad that could be truthfully said. I had tested the limits of what he would tolerate before, and it wouldn’t be the last time.

One of those tests came the next summer, when the two of us were again without the escape of computers for a summer. Our mutual surrogate parents had dragged us along for a “vacation” at a hunting lodge near Kulm, North Dakota, where I had spent four years living in two different houses throughout elementary school. The lodge, next to Flood Lake, had little to offer two teenagers beyond building fires of driftwood, snagging lines on sunken trees, and getting coated with the foamy, putrid slime of scum and dead fish as we swam in the lake. Bored of swimming, fishing, and breaking open fire crackers to pour the gunpowder into larger containers to make even bigger fire crackers, we usually entertained ourselves with arguing followed by an angry silence, reading followed by a lazy nap, and masturbation followed by guilty apologies to God. This was one of the former occasions.

Tensions run high when there are two young men trapped in a room together, and this instance was no exception. Annoyed by Robert’s stories of how he and his friends in Little Eagle would beat up anyone who looked at them the wrong way, I had the urge to press him to burst to make a haughty point of why violence was wrong.

“You guys were fucking crazy.” That immediately got his attention, with his eyes narrowed in the way that always made me fear that I had unlocked the hidden killer within him, but I had already put one toe into the hot tub and I wasn’t about to back down so quickly.

“Shut the fuck up, Nic! Don’t you fuckin’ talk shit about my friends!” He drew a paring knife from a pocket of the hoodie he always wore and waved it in my direction. He was seated across the large lodging room that took up most of the upper floor with a maze of beds between us, so I continued with feigned confidence in my tone.

“What, and go to jail like your mom?” That made him snap, as I figured it would, and he pounced at me, but I hurried back to keep some distance, not much of one for fighting physically. He lept over a bed and circled a bit with the knife in his hand but held it in more of a showing gesture than with any real intent to use it on his own foster brother. I didn’t realize that at the time, and I began to feel that maybe egging him on hadn’t been so bright.

Just when it seemed like he would move in for a jab, he dropped the knife and threw himself at me instead, agile as ever as he wrapped himself around me in a tight hold with his fingers digging into the deep ridge between my collarbone and neck and holding me pinned to the lower bunk in a stunned position as I wriggled weakly to resist.

“Don’t you fuckin’ say no more shit about my mom!” he spat in my ear before shoving me away, defeated but uninjured. I returned to my own bed, heart pounding and cheeks warm with indignant anger as he called after. “How would you like if I fuckin’ said shit about your mom?”

“I wouldn’t care,” I said with calculated calm and a small shrug, though I kept my eyes lowered. There was the typical post-fight grudging silence that lasted between us for a couple hours. I lay back thinking while the slow moments ticked by. I could hear Robert’s headphones crackling with hip-hop that I always hated to hear. “Kah-rap,” as I internally termed it. It was his typical way of letting off heat when very angry.

At first, I grumbled to myself about how unstable Robert was and how his friends and family members were a bunch of crazy druggies and violent maniacs. As my mind cleared, I again pondered why he would be so loyal to such a dysfunctional family. He had told me of his mother’s drunken beatings of him, and how his oldest sibling, Ricky, would humiliate and knock him around. Yet, he still had far more loyalty to them than I had to my own birth mother, Joyce.

I had known my birth mother most of my life, as I had always been familiar with my birth grandmother, Grandma Joyce, and the weird, fat lady who always hung around with her and liked to paw and coo at me. It wasn’t until third grade that I was explicitly informed that I was adopted and that the weird, fat lady with the shaky hand who called me “Nicky-baby” and I always wanted to get away from was, in fact, my birth mother.

I took the news without a blink when my adoptive mother had informed me.

“I’m adopted? Neat!” I blurted, at the time involved with a game of Galaxy Pinball on our old Packard Bell. My adoptive mother asked if I had any questions and if I was fine. I looked up from the game with a puzzled expression, not understanding why it would be anything but fine.

“Who’s my dad?”

“We don’t know, exactly. We just know that he was tall and thin.” It wasn’t until a much later year that I learned my mother was a fuck-and-chuck and that I had nearly been aborted.

Through it all, I held a curious, emotionless indifference. I had seen plenty of contrived plot twists about someone learning that they were adopted, then going nuts and forever blaming their real parents for letting them go or accusing their adoptive parents of not having told them from the very beginning.

I never understood what everyone’s problem was. It was as though I held no feeling whatsoever towards my real mother and father, aside from acknowledging that my birth mother was annoying. As I listened to Robert’s angry music growling in the bunk above mine, I wondered whether my haughty morals were truly so much greater. True, I wouldn’t attack anyone for badmouthing my family, but I doubted, as I thought about it, that I would throw myself in front of a bus for any of them, either. I didn’t feel guilty for what I felt, but I wondered whether maybe I should.

It wasn’t the first time I felt that lack of connection. Through early childhood, my only friends had been my parents. Time was spent playing with Legos or Lincoln Logs while Star Wars or Indiana Jones or some Disney cartoon played on the VCR. It wasn’t until kindergarten that I had my first friend.

Victoria was a little girl with a round face, red-painted fingernails, and the kind of bowl hair cut that seems cute to parents but the child avoids like the plague as soon as they’re old enough to be at all self-conscious. We went from our initial meeting of me pushing her in the snow to spending all of the school period playing together, often smootching or pretending to be married beneath a large oak near the slummy Lehr School’s old playground, much to the amusement of the older children.

After only two years of knowing her as my best and only friend, we were forced to move because the job my adoptive mother had teaching us through kindergarten and first grade had been lost when they decided to close the school on account of whole grades consisting of three or four students.

That started a trend. First it was Micah, my best buddy through all of three grades at Kulm Elementary until he moved. Then it was a cute girl for the single semester I attended the Christian school back in Lehr. Finally, it was Robert, when he and his younger brother, Riley, joined our family in sixth grade.

Robert had been my only chum for the six years of high school, and I was forced to wonder, after all that, had I gained a loyalty for him that I lacked for even my own birth parents, or was that elusive connection still missing? I still wonder this as we go for the occasional walk, and I’m still not sure.

He has since mellowed into a hard-working, but silly man with a chubby face and long, untamed hair that hangs down his back in dire need of a hairdresser’s attention. He’s dutiful and loyal to his family, but still functional in society. After all my preaching to him about how violence is silly and how he should just cool it over his violent loyalty, who has come out as the better man in the end? I try not to think of it.

Belial Lake

This story has been roughly in my mind for some time, but I finally sat down and wrote it this past weekend. I rather like how it turned out. This is the first draft.

---

Belial Lake

The evening air was fresh and the glittering water called. The young man obeyed and brought his boat to the water. He had struggled and sweat for hours, preparing the rigging. It took still longer to drag the boat to shore. Now finally the moment of launch had arrived.

His parents had given him the sailboat, proud and untried. It was much like his father’s. He would sometimes watch his father sailing on the lake, the wind raising a forceful hand to draw the vessel up and over wave after cresting wave. His father would beam when he returned to shore, glistening and used, but satisfied. The young man longed to feel that same satisfaction, to ride inviting waters, to feel his gut lurch as he crested a great wave.

It wasn’t just his father. All his friends had their own sailboats, and each had tried their hand at sailing. Some went off and sailed alone on distant ponds; some cruised together on the same lake, driven by the same gale that drew them forcefully along through the slapping, slurping water. He had spent his life bound to the shores: hearing, watching, but never experiencing. He yearned to change that.

Of course his parents didn’t think he was ready. His father would smile and shake his head as he spoke of rigging sails and riding waves. Then he would touch the young man’s shoulder knowingly and reassure him that it would be the best experience of his life, when he was ready. It made his chest burn indignantly as he was told to be patient, that he would know when the time was right. He was sure that time was now.

He would fantasize at night of finally sailing. “Where no man had gone before,” he would imagine. He pictured himself riding a sleek spacecraft through the void of space, delving deep into the universe, to the very core of creation. He wanted the chance to experience that journey. It was a voyage, a quest, even. He was the valiant knight, nothing without his great steed. He was leather-clad rebel, alone without his chopper. Every hero needed one, and Voyager was his.

He had taken great care in selecting the first waters he would sail. Some were public lakes, large and crowded, full of sharp debris and surrounded by nosey on-lookers. Others were small and unused, green and foul with stagnation. He wanted his first time to be on the perfect lake, and at last he had found it. It seemed so pure, so perfect. He doubted anyone had thought to sail here before, and it was distant enough that no-one would jeer and stare as he sailed for his first time. He was immediately swooned by its siren’s call. No lake before had stirred him so, and it was this resolution that drove him to risk everything for this brief chance to sail.

The sun had begun to sink, giving the rippling lake a crimson hue as he grasped the boat tightly and thrust its bow forward. He felt exhilarated as it slid effortlessly from the rocky shore and into the welcoming waters. It all felt so right. He climbed up into the cockpit and curled his fingers about the mast as he secured the rigging. The lines were tight and the main sail was drawn and ready. Manning a paddle, he guided the boat along, hoping for a breeze to rise and push him on.

Everything had come to this moment of breathless excitement as his vessel rocked gently on the water. He could feel the air moving on his skin, the small hairs prickling with excitement at the gentle touch. He was sure that the wind would rise to take him. He had, after all, taken great care in selecting the time and place. The forecast had promised strong gusts, and he stood tall, waited eagerly for them to begin.

It took some minutes for him to realize that the promised winds weren’t coming. In defiance of the truth, he paddled frantically, insisting in his mind that there were winds, that he merely imagined the sails as hanging empty and flaccid. Perhaps he hadn’t set up the rigging right? No, he was certain all was well. He shifted his weight excitedly in his paddling, mindless to the danger. He had insisted that his first time would be without a life vest. Those things were for the weak that couldn’t swim.

Without warning, he felt a jolt as the boat struck a rock on his starboard side. The mast and sails pitched in the opposite direction, and he instinctively leaned with it. Before he realized what was happening, he found himself capsized and spluttering in the cold water. How much warmer it had looked from shore! As he clutched the bow for support, he felt suddenly alarmed. The sun had fallen further and the once-crystalline depths now seemed murky and unknown. Swallowing his pride, he did his best to flutter-kick his precious boat to shore, but to no avail. The mainsail must have been snagged by some skeleton tree, grasping for support from the watery abyss. He felt exhaustion building in his muscles and paused to rest, merely hugging his vessel to remain afloat.

As the air about him grew steadily chiller, he realized that he would have to abandon his treasure. He couldn’t read Voyager’s inverted stencils under the shadowy surface, but felt that his quest had indeed gone quite backwards from what he had anticipated. As he swam with slow, mournful strokes to shore, he contemplated how he would explain the mistake to his father. It didn’t take much internal debate to decide not to mention it. His father would likely assume he had stored the boat elsewhere, or perhaps he wouldn’t even notice it missing from the shed. The thought did little to comfort the young man as he crawled to shore, feeling the rocks biting at his knees, and turned around to gaze at the shadowy outline of Voyager amongst the watery void.

It would be some time, he realized with a disheartening fall of his stomach, before he would have the opportunity to attempt to retrieve the boat. He may even be unable to do so without enlisting help, but that would require explaining why the boat was in the lake to begin with. Even if he did manage to retrieve it, he was sure that there would be significant damage to the mast and sails. Perhaps it would be stolen by the time he returned. No, he was sure that it would still be there. No one else ever sailed on this lake, so who would see it? He would have to deal with retrieval and repairs when the time came. For now, he knew that he had a long and wearying journey home.

As he turned his back to the mocking ripples of the water, he pondered whether his experience had diminished his lust. After a moment, he decided it had not. If anything, he felt all the more driven to sail correctly, to prove that he could, if to no-one but himself. He anticipated that there would be many more such experiences in the future, but he accepted that possibility. Surely the elation when the wind drove him over an elegantly-cresting wave would be worth all the hassle in the end. With that hope to warm his chilled body and raise his doused spirits, he trudged off towards home.

The Breadwinner

Right, so this is a draft. I really, really need to go back and make some major changes. Unlike poetry, where I can just sit down and write out what I had in mind for the poem, short stories take longer and it is more difficult to maintain internal cohesion. This is my first attempt at realistic fiction--that is, fiction not set in a fantasy setting.

---

The Breadwinner

The hours of moving were down to this final box. He clasped the cardboard egg crate as though it were a child. But this particular parcel didn’t contain hopes for the future, but rather memorabilia of the past. The trophies, certificates, medals, and pictures served to keep the warm emotions associated with them alive in his mind. It’s not as though such memories could ever fade, and yet he was burdened by the box. He struggled, clutching it to his breast, as if reluctant to ever to let go.

The boxes and bags had left a maze through what had seemed a very roomy den when empty. He knew just the place for the contents of his box, though navigating the journey was no simple task. With his vision obscured by the bulk of the box and his back bent under the weight of its contents, he silently prayed not to stumble over a coffee table or put his foot through a crate of china. He thought again how ridiculous it was that the family owned so much junk. He regretted not insisting that all the silly trifles, dragged along because someone “couldn’t possibly part with them,” be auctioned off with the threadbare furniture, or maybe simply left in the previous house. Let them be worries for the new owners to deal with.

Finally, he arrived at the perfect shelf for the contents of his box. He arranged the trophies and plaques along the shelf, creating a timeline from his earliest in the junior softball team to his latest from the war. He propped open the photo albums to his proudest moments. It took some nit-picking to arrange everything. Finally, he took a step back and proudly gazed at the display. There was no room for any pictures of his family. He left those at the bottom of the box. He’d find someplace for that other stuff later.

A shout broke his thoughts.

“Joe! Joe, hon, could you come here?”

Unburdened, he easily navigated through the precarious piles of junk and into the adjoining kitchen. His wife stood level with a low-hanging telephone, her brown hand still resting on the receiver. She looked up from a scrawled note as he entered.

“Talked to the principal’s secretary: said he’s free in about a half-hour,” she quickly explained. “Pretty lucky. Maybe Izzy’ll be able to start school tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” he ventured absently. “May want a few days to settle, though. We’ll see what the principal says.”

“Hey, thought I’d start something for supper. Found the frozen food. Figured we’d have a Banquet.” She grinned ironically. “Mind stopping by the store for some bread?”

“Yeah, sure. No problem,” he replied, smirking to hide his weariness.

Mary chuckled and stretched up to peck him on the cheek.

“Find a razor. I’m kissing a cactus.”

“Love you too, Mary,” he chuckled.

His mind was already wandering to the tedium of travelling across town to the school, and with only a soggy pie to welcome him home. At least he could anticipate a fresh loaf of bread to liven up the gummy pot pie. He set his mind on a warm loaf of Italian. The thought lifted some of the deep exhaustion from his body and mind.

He hadn’t yet had a good chance to reacquaint himself with the town. He had taken a peek down the walk after tolerating the chatter of the overly enthusiastic realtor when he first examined the house, but the neighborhood was unfamiliar. He hoped it would be home for good. He was fed up with all the moves, the repeated dredging up of the familiarity of home just as it was beginning to take root, the never being around quite long enough to make any true friends. Surely Isaac felt it more than any of them. Teenagers weren’t as welcoming to newcomers. Maybe he’d fit in better here, where he belonged. Mary had been excited at the chance to return to their roots.

“What about David?” he had asked, surprised.

“What about him? I have you, now.” Her words had charmed him into agreeing. Now that he was here, he could feel an inevitable encounter looming.

The day was warm and dry, but fresh: a fine change from the unfamiliar scent that haunted the new, old home, charged with the tang of cardboard boxes and disturbed dust. He found vigor returning to his step as his exhaustion evaporated in the sunlight. It was good to have the chance to walk, unshackled. He was on an errand, but yet he felt momentarily free.

He turned left at the yellowed boulevard, towards the distant monolith of a high school, a great, brick cube, above all but the rusty grain elevator, which towered over the town like a headstone. Likely, the elevator had once been the beating heart of the town’s economy, but the trains had left with the rains. Most would have avoided the place, but Joe had always thought the arid climate ensured that only the strong survived. The rain was scarce, but that made it all the more glorious.

He passed by the park with its squad of pine trees, holding the last remnants of the previous rain in their prickly needles as they stood awaiting the next, stalwart, patient. He remembered sitting under those trees as a soft drizzle filled the air with the rich smell of life. He had known Mary, but only pitied her from a distance. He shared the pine with another girl, one with eyes black as a thunderhead and pink lips like a flower blooming in the brown grass after a shower.

He suddenly found himself standing before the high school, gazing up past the three flagpoles declaring country, state, and tribe to a certain window, from which he recalled always having gazed down, dreaming of freedom and glory. He saluted the aluminum shafts, then stepped up to the front doors. They opened with little effort, no longer the impenetrable barriers between himself and freedom. Now he had other shackles.

It was a short climb to the principal’s office, a place he once dreaded, but with which he’d always found himself all too familiar. He noted the telltale scuff marks marring the polished shine of the waxy linoleum, stretching up and down the halls past formations of lockers and stern classroom doors decorated with colorful graffiti.

The woman seated behind the secretary’s desk was too young to trigger any memories of being ushered past under her disapproving glare, and so he ventured a friendly greeting. She returned it warmly and asked his name.

“Joe Baker. Here to get my kid registered.”

She nodded and offered him a stack of papers and a pen.

“Mister Circling Crow will see you soon.”

“Wait. David Circling Crow?”

“Yep. You know him, or something?”

“I knew him.” Without offering more, Joe snatched up the papers and dropped into a padded seat. He imagined he could feel the secretary’s inquisitive gaze on him, but he only frowned down on the forms. Her curiosity was still evident when he rose, returned the papers, and was told to go on in. He muttered a thank-you and entered the heavy office door.

The tall, lean man positioned behind the polished oaken desk rose quickly at the sight of Joe. He nudged his long, black braid back with a sinewy arm, suit sleeves hiding the tattoos, and grinned broadly. A dark mole stood out on his upper lip. Once, Joe would have given a friendly ribbing over the mark. That was before the lean man’s allegiances were obscured.

“Joe! Hah, I didn’t believe it!” The mark glared towards him like an insect eye, contrasting with the broad, polished grin it was embedded above.

“Yeah. Hey, David.” His lack of enthusiasm was lost on the lean man as the he stepped around the table and gave Joe a jovial slap on the back, now laughing with delight.

“Want your kid enrolled, huh? Hah, knew you could do it! Who’s the gal?” There was another firm thump, this time on his shoulder, before he maneuvered to make the gesture more difficult. That grin never faded. That mark never blinked. Joe was silent for a moment before murmuring his reply.

“Mary.” He spoke it slowly and carefully, anticipating. The lean man peered closely at Joe, his heavy eyebrows meeting.

“…Mary? You mean--?”

“His name’s Isaac. He needs to be enrolled.”

“Isaac.” The slim man fell silent for a lingering moment, his thoughts mirrored through the shifting of his long face. “What’s he like?”

“Good kid. Wants to join the Army.”

“Like his father,” the lean man grunted bitterly. “He shouldn’t, you know. Worst thing you ever did.”

“That’s the worst? I’m not doing too bad, then. Wanna hear how Mary is?”

“Wanna hear how Beth is?” the lean man returned quickly. Joe felt heat rise in his forehead as the lean man continued with a dirty smirk. “Had three kids. Had a blast making ‘em, too.”

“You son of a--!” Joe took a menacing step forward, balling his thick fists. David held his ground, his voice seething, but calm.

“Watch it, bro. You came to me.”

“Really didn’t figure you’d make anything of yourself.”

“Could say the same about you, except I was right.” This final jab was the breaking point. Joe could feel his temples pounding and raised his knuckles, the lean man doing likewise. The air seemed suddenly thick as the two squared off like bulls.

Without warning, the office door burst open and a slight, short student hurried in. Taking little notice of the two, she slapped a slip of paper down on the large desk.

“Announcements!” she chirped, and, as quickly, darted from the room.

The two men glared at one another, but the stifling atmosphere that filled the room seemed to have slipped out the opened door. After some moments of silence, David cleared his throat and spoke in a collected tone.

“Who am I to deny an old friend? Happy to have your kid enrolled. Thanks for stopping by.” The lean man slid into his chair behind the desk and waved Joe off with a dismissive flick of his wrist. The mark on his upper lip seemed to glower up at Joe.

Joe bit his tongue and strode briskly from the room without another word. He didn’t pause for the secretary with her cowed stare. His mind was reeling as he shoved through the front doors and out into the scorching sun.

He stood at attention on the prickly lawn outside the school building, his burning gaze directed up at the three flags that whipped and snapped in the gusts of arid wind. It was some moments before he was able to collect himself enough to continue on his way, his fingers still balled into tight fists at his sides.

Blinded by his churning emotions, he didn’t take notice of his surroundings until he found himself standing before the general store. Its quaint, Old West appearance drew memories of a youth inspired by stories of shootouts, the good gunman with the white hat soundly defeating the evil outlaw with the black hat. He grunted with bitter irony at the thought and strode up the age-bowed steps and through the rusty-hinged door. A tarnished brass bell tinkled overhead as he entered. With some relief, he noted the check-out counter was abandoned. He walked without pause towards the bakery counter in the back. There had been a time when he had visited the counter frequently, anticipating the relaxing, homey aroma of freshly-baked bread or the soothing simplicity of crisp flavor. It wasn’t freedom, it was domestic contentment, but boy it smelled good. He felt a longing tickle in his belly as he arrived, only to be greeted by a handwritten sign with a smiling face at the bottom, sitting amongst nothing but crumbs.

“Ask about our discount loaves!”

He prowled the aisles in search of an attendant. The sound of muffled laughter drew him to a half-opened door marked “office.” Glancing inside, he saw a desk cluttered with paperwork, empty Coke cans, and bubblegum wrappers. A young woman with close-cropped black hair and a tight yellow t-shirt that was two sizes too small sat on the edge of the table, chattering into a cell phone. She made no sign of noticing him, so he gave a loud, gravely cough, which caused her to jump in surprise and glance a narrow shoulder.

“Crap! Customer. Sorry, Ellie.” She snapped the phone shut and turned to face Joe. He gazed with wonder at the eyes, dark as storm clouds, and the small lips that puckered out like a pink flower against her tanned skin. The resemblance was so startling, he grunted out the name before he could catch himself.

“Beth?” The moment after speaking it, he noticed the discrepancy. No, not Beth. The smoothness of her flesh was marred by a single, dark mark on her upper lip.

The young woman frowned warily and eyed him with apparent distrust.

“Uh, no. Vikki. Beth’s my—Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that you look so much like—“He paused, the words catching. “I… saw the sign at the bakery counter.”

“Oh, yeah,” she grunted, waving her cell phone, “Guess the baker’s sick, or something. Been gone for two days, so we don’t got nothing.”

He stared at her in silence, both drawn and repulsed. She shifted under his gaze and diverted her eyes.

“Was there something else?”

Joe hesitated a moment before responding.

“No. That was all.”

He lingered, imagining this girl, or one almost like her, sitting beneath a pine. He could envision her fond smile, the beckoning tilt of her neck. The young woman’s wary tone cut through his fantasies.

“Need help finding the door?”

“No, I got it. Thanks.” He turned away at last, though her figure lingered in his mind as he exited the store and turned towards home.

“All outta bread,” he muttered as he entered through the side door. His eyes fell on the weary-faded form of his wife as she crouched, peering into the oven. Her hand was cupped to her brow as if in exasperation, holding back long, woody brown locks.

“Looks about done. Call Izzy down,” she said absently, her thick form still bent.

He paused at the foot of the carpeted steps and drew in a breath to call. The sharp ring of the telephone interrupted him.

“I’ll get it,” he called, plucking up the yellowed receiver. “Hello? Hello, sir. Yes, sir. Sir? Oh, no, sir. Ah. Okay. Goodbye, sir.”

He dropped the receiver back into its holster and stared at the phone, frowning.

“Active duty?” Mary leaned against the wall, neck craned to gaze up at him. Concern wrinkled her brow.

“Yeah. Hoped it’d take longer. Said I got about a week.”

“So soon?” A frown weighed her lips. If they had ever been pink, the color had drained long ago. “Gonna tell Izzy?”

“Probably after supper, or something.”

“Get him enrolled?”

“Yeah. I think he’ll be okay.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” She gave him a quizzing glance. Her eyes weren’t gray; they were brown, like her hair. There was no variety in her color.

“It was David. He’s principal now.”

“Was he trouble?” She searched his face, her own stern as iron.

“When wasn’t he?” he grunted in a flat tone.

A small, amused grin played on her lips, and she gave him a quick embrace.

“Supper’s about ready.”

“I’ll get him in a second.”

Joe made his way towards the steps, but broke off to approach his shelf. He dipped a hand down into a box set nearby and pulled out a large, silver-framed photograph. He stared into it at himself and his wife, a young child drawing away from him and clinging to his mother’s thigh. He glanced up to the shelf, considered for a moment, and then replaced a picture of himself grinning triumphantly before a squad of uniformed men with the portrait photograph. He began to take down the assorted medals, trophies, and certificates off the shelf, replacing them with similar photographs to the centerpiece silver-framed one. Each successive shot showed another year cut into the face of the two adults, while the child was a little taller each time, and a little more centered between the two. The final photograph he placed on the shelf was more casual, with the two men linking arms and grinning jovially as his wife sat between them with an amusedly exasperated half-grin. A smile played on his lips for a thoughtful moment before returning to the stairs.

He ascended the steps and poked his head into the first room at the head. “New Divide” played from a custom-modified stereo and Joe paused some moments to listen as he leaned against the doorjamb, watching the young man hide the room’s ugly wood paneling with posters of Linkin Park and Revenge of the Fallen. He was lean and quickly becoming tall. He didn’t have his mother’s mousy hair, or his father’s dark mark.

Isaac turned to rummage through a box of albums, but paused as he saw Joe. He nudged down the volume and raised his dark eyebrows inquisitively.

“Supper’s ready. Your mom made pot pies.”

“Oh, yay,” the young man muttered in monotone as he snapped off the stereo. Joe grinned in spite of himself. “Can’t wait to get settled,” Isaac continued, stacking some albums on a shelf. “What’s the school like?”

“Like always. You’ll get along fine.” He paused a moment before venturing nonchalantly, “Met a rude girl at the general store. Name’s Vikki. Watch out for bratty girls like that.”

“Probably not my type, anyhow,” Isaac said absently, stepping back to scan his music shelf before turning about. “Well, we gonna eat, or what?”

Joe chuckled and draped an arm over the young man’s shoulders. They descended together.

Pale pot pies sat before each of the three chairs around the round table. Mary was already seated, poking a fork at the soggy crust of her pie with a look of distaste. She looked up as the two arrived and smirked wryly.

“Here we go—a terrible, cheap meal to break in the dining room.”

The two chuckled and took their places. They look up their cutlery and were about to begin when Mary interrupted in a droll tone.

“Hon, let’s not begin before we say grace over this gourmet supper.”

The family linked hands as Joe intoned with irony.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven—“

A deep rumble interrupted him and he glanced up to a window. Outside, the sky had grown dark and rain pattered against the window. He continued in spite of the interrupting thunder.

“—Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us—”

Another growl shook the house and the family was framed by a silvery flash of lightening.

“—Amen,” he concluded.

Birth of an Angel

A geeky little Forgotten Realms fan fiction I made in early '09 for a class. Copied from where I originally posted it at Fanfiction.net.

---

Birth of an Angel

I travelled a great distance to reach the temple of Ilmater, that great, alabaster citadel amongst the lushly green pastures, wooded knolls, and tilled farmland that surrounded the forgotten town of Lichen. It was a veritable paradise should you be an artist, poet, druid, romantic, or devout of Chauntea. I was the foremost of these, but, in all honesty, I did not come to this swelling heartland of beauty for its splendor, but rather for the people who dwelled within.

My name is Pintok Gibsgobble, an adept and, if I might say, quite prestigious bard: connoisseur of tales, artist of languages, and narrator of lives. I have travelled to villages and cities beyond count, to lands long-forgotten, and across terrain nary a foot has travelled. After three ten-days' rough hike over poorly-maintained roads and winding woodland paths, I had at last arrived at this fascinating place. After such anticipation, I was quite excited to begin my task of documenting one particular historical debacle I had heard rumor of.

I had gotten the lead from a boisterously inebriated man who told me of Lichen between heavy swigs from his stein. Apparently, there had been a plague some thirty years prior, and he claimed to be one of the few survivors. Of course, plagues happen all too frequently, but what particularly interested me is a certain scandal he claimed surrounded the plague itself. As he was a mere child at the time, being one of those short-lived humans, he could not give many concrete details. He did, however, manage to refer me to the high priest of the Ilmatari temple, which still stood like a pale headstone over the town's carcass.

As I neared the great temple to my left, alongside the old, overgrown road, I could see the shell of the town of Lichen off to the right. A few buildings still stood, but most had collapsed from decades of neglect. Only a handful of people still lived near Lichen, and they were limited to farmers who mostly kept to themselves. There, amongst those simple people with their simple lifestyles, was the high priest of Ilmater, Ronald Stalls.

I had done some digging and found that he kept well-nigh to himself these days, assisting the farmers in every way he could, but primarily choosing exile from company. Occasionally an Ilmatari acolyte would be sent to partake of his great wisdom, but he was largely left on his own. I was anxious to find out why he would go to such extreme ends; what scandal could possibly have warranted punishment this severe, especially self-inflicted punishment? Another, smaller thought nagged in my mind like a pesky insect trailing a weary adventurer throughout his travels. Would he tell me?

At last, I was on a by-road, nearing the temple itself. Lichen slowly vanished into the green behind me as the stone structure became ever more ominously looming. I noted with a keen eye that vines and ivy had begun to climb up the structure as though it were some mountain to be reclaimed in the name of nature. Most of the windows were missing their glass, and the sigh of the wind through the tall notches made an eerie, whistling groan, like a mad musician blowing vainly into a malformed instrument. The ornately-carved wooden doors hung loosely on their hinges, but yielded easily enough as I cautiously peeped inside.

In direct contrast with the outside, the interior of the temple looked quite ready to host a sermon to an audience of a quarter thousand. The pews, though somewhat rotted, were standing in neat rows, the floors and walls were as clean as a fresh snowfall, and a lectern stood before the absent congregation with a heavy tome open upon it. Candelabrums stood proudly along the temple's supporting pillars, with cold candles looking onto the room like a choir waiting to sing. The howling wind through the empty windows gave the room a ghastly tone, as though all life had been plucked from the room, except, of course, for my own nervously trembling form.

I slowly plodded past the empty rows and up towards the podium. A door on either side led off into separate wings, one for housing the nonexistent clergy and one for healing and bedding the ill and injured. I tried the one to my right on a whim and found it to be locked. Stooping, I could just peer through the rusty keyhole and into the darkness beyond. I could make out some abandoned mats and several curtained doorways by the light that seeped into the room from under the door. The door to the left yielded easily to my hand, and its hinges groaned tiredly as it swung open.

Either side of the hallway was lined with empty doorways, some still bearing evidence that heavy doors had once stood within them. A chilly wind sighed along the corridor, causing each doorway to give a long, aggravated moan. Some faint light streamed in through the windows of the leftmost rooms, but the right ones were filled with an eerie, inky darkness; all except for the last room to the right at the end of the hall. The warm light of a candle danced there, enticing me to move closer. I slowly approached, avoiding the various rubbish that filled the walkway, my breath catching nervously in my throat.

After an immeasurable number of still, tense seconds had past, I finally found myself looking into a small room filled with lit candles, stacks of old tomes, a half-eaten meal of bread, cheese, and fruits, and a recently occupied bedroll, but no priest. A moment after the room's emptiness dawned upon me, I heard the abrasive rustle of heavy cloth behind me and a cold, bony hand wrapped over my dry lips. A deep, rough voice hissed near my ear in an intense tone.

"Speak swiftly and speak true, gnome, why have you invaded my abode?" His hand loosened just enough to allow me to speak, though it took me a few moments to compose myself enough to actually do so.

"I—I am here t-t-t—" The strong old man gave me a brisk shake, which assisted quite nicely in dislodging my tongue from the roof of my mouth. "Ahem, I am Pintok Gibsgobble, and I am here to inquire concerning the events surrounding the Lichen scandal." I could feel his grip tighten for a moment, and I feared that he would throttle me, but he at last stepped back and removed his hands from my person. I spun quickly and took a step back, expecting to see the most horrid of figures with the most bloodthirsty of eyes.

Instead, my gaze landed upon an old and broken man with soft, sorrowful blue eyes, the tattoo of a bloody teardrop hanging directly below the many wrinkles. His back was bent as under years of weighs on his body, and greater weights on his mind. He wore simple, gray robes and a skullcap of the same shade, both crisscrossed with crimson designs. The holy symbol of Ilmater, a silver disk with the image of two pale hands bound by a red cord, dangled from his scrawny neck. He folded his hands before his breast, and I was drawn to how wrinkled and bony they were, like the flesh was loosely draped over a skeleton.

"That 'scandal' is a tale which has replayed itself in my mind every day for decades. I do not wish to bring it to mind more than I must," he muttered. With that finality, he brushed by me, into the room. He folded his thin legs beneath himself and sat on the sleeping mat, facing the wall. Feeling I had been dismissed, I felt an urge to argue, but his sloping, pitiful posture encouraged me to fulfill his wish. I turned with a heavy heart to journey the long distance back, some anger welling in my breast at the vain trip I had endured. However, just as I took my first step, I heard him speak.

"My precious Lucy arrived in Lichen many years ago. Her smooth, lovely face shone like a sunbeam in a darkened valley, her glittering almond eyes a chocolate brown that reflected the sweetness of her soul. She had shoulder-length raven-black hair that always glistened in the light, and carried the scent of cinnamon as though she had been baking. Her voice was gentle, like the soft caress of her long fingers, and in every way, she was cloaked with beauty and innocence.

"She had come from lands far to the east, claiming to be a travelling Ilmatari priestess, or 'blessed of Ilmater,' as she fondly referred to it. At the time, Lichen was a bustling town due to a silver vein that had been discovered in a nearby mine. More residents meant more injuries, and I gratefully accepted a gifted priestess to bolster my insufficient clergy ranks. Many members of the clergy, mostly women stricken with jealousy, would complain about her provocative dress, or how she never wore a skullcap, or how her holy symbol would draw eyes to the voluptuous curves of her youthful bosom, but I brushed them all aside with disdain. Who were we to judge one who was so clearly blessed by Ilmater? Her skill to heal was unsurpassed, and what she could not mend with poultice and bandages, she would mend with soft words and gentle caresses.

"She was irresistible, physically, mentally, and spiritually. Her tone was always bright, kind, and optimistic, her faith was always strong, and her beauty was a delight to behold. How could I not become hopelessly infatuated with her? Mere weeks after her arrival, the two of us were happily wed, and I was, to my guilt, given the greatest delights I had ever experienced. From what I could surmise, she had grown up in an abusive family, and this caused her to be ever submissive, confident though she was. Like a child, she would blush at the smallest provocation, lower her eyes at the slightest reprimand, and always devoted herself fully to my pleasure, in all ways. It was wonderful, and the wholeheartedness by which she took to her devotions as a wife inspired me to be a better husband and a better servant of Ilmater."

The man fell finally silent, and spoke no more. After some minutes of anxious waiting, I inquired why he had paused. His only response was that he would not bring the tale to mind more than he must. I began following him around, listening closely as he would occasionally utter more of his tale in the middle of a prayer, while reading a book, or during his various daily activities. I assisted him in his various duties as best I could to earn my upkeep and my chance to hear and record the tale I had come to learn. It was after a ten-day or so that his stories died off, and I began to wonder why he did not speak more. Having learned not to inquire into his mysterious ways, I remained silent and continued to trail him throughout that day, and the next, and the next. Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, he unexpectedly greeted me by his presence at the side of my bedroll. His eyes were sorrowful but determined, and his tone was firm.

"You came here seeking a certain tale, and so far I have been reluctant to recall it. Now is the time to relate it, one final time." I quickly scrambled upright and anxiously, with a quill in one hand and my note book the other, waited for the words he would speak. "Please," he implored, "do not write it down in my presence. Once I have spoken it, I do not wish for it to be recorded until I have passed." I was disappointed, but I have a keen memory, so I didn't doubt my ability to recall his words in the future. I nodded in agreement and lowered my quill. No sooner had it touched the ground than the old high priest of Ilmater spoke.

"About a year after she arrived, Lucy gave birth to my first and only son, whom we named Dwyn. He had both his mother's beauty and her uncanny ability to bring me joy. I could see a warm glow in her compassionate eyes every time they fell upon him. She would frequently bring him into Lichen, where all whom Lucy had helped would gather around and bless the child. As he grew old enough to walk and talk, he was quickly given more playmates than any other child could ever hope to have. Every family was anxious to have their children mingle with the son of the high priest and his kind and beautiful wife.

"It was not long after Dwyn's third birthday that he fell ill with a terrible illness. He was forced to remain in his bed at all hours of the day, fighting for every wheezing breath. Lucy was…" With a dry, rasping cough, the old priest cleared the words caught in his throat. "Imagine a great beacon of light that has led a weary adventurer being suddenly snuffed out. Beautiful, kind Lucy was shattered with terror for her child. She remained up throughout all hours of the night in order to be at his side at his slightest stirring. She always had a gift for empathy, feeling the pain of others by simply looking into their eyes. As she gazed at our dying son's face, I could see her tender heart cracking under the burdens of reality, its great pains and unfairness. I did all I could to heal the child, as did Lucy, but our efforts at last proved futile.

"Dwyn died soon after contracting the illness, his mother there, watching his face as his chest ceased its labored heaving. When she walked from the room in a dumbfounded state, I feared that I had lost not only my son, but my dear wife as well. To my surprise, however, after a day of fasting and meditation, Lucy emerged as warm and cheerful as she had always been, assuring me that Dwyn was now in a better place, dwelling amongst the gods. 'There is no pain there,' she said, 'and Dwyn won't have to suffer any longer.'"

"Soon after, other children in Lichen began to show the same symptoms of the illness that killed our dear son. The raspy breathing, the bloated face, the swollen hands, the fever, it all seemed as though Dwyn had passed along his illness to his many friends before he had himself shown any signs. The townsfolk were at first furious with us, insisting we had brought this certain death down upon their children, but their cries of anger soon turned to pleas for mercy.

"The right wing of the temple was quickly filled with sobbing, sickly children, all of whose needs Lucy felt compelled to tend to on her own. At the time, all but one of my clergy had been recalled to assist in the aftermath of a particularly bloody war elsewhere, and the one that remained I sent out on foot with an urgent plea for assistance from a priest of greater power than I. As for myself, I was busy blessing the townsfolk, trying to keep the disease from spreading to its adult populace.

"Every day I would return, exhausted from my prayers, to find another two or three children had died from the illness, but Lucy remained firm, continuously telling me that her duty was to relieve the suffering of others and that there was no more suffering in the divine planes. At last, a score of children had passed—every child in Lichen, save one. The parents of this last child insisted that he not die apart from them, in the temple, but rather in his own bed, with them there to support him through the passing. Lucy reluctantly complied with the request, and the child was given to his parents to die.

"Only he did not. After several days, his fever lifted and his breathing became easy once again."

I shook my head slowly, my heart heavy for the loss. "A truly tragic plague. One of twenty-two surviving? Most unfortunate."

The priest's cracked lips pursed. "Such is what I believed, until the children were being prepared for burial. I noticed some bruising on the neck of one, and then went back and checked the others. They all had the same bruising."

I tilted my head in puzzlement. "Could the disease have caused that?"

The old man was silent for a long moment, sorrow in his face. "No, it did not. They were caused by human hands."

After a moment, realization dawned on me. "You mean—"

"Yes. Lucy killed them all."

"But… but why ever would she do that? You spoke of her compassion, her kindness! How could she be so cruel?"

"Because she did not see it as cruelty. She saw it as relieving the children's suffering, sending them to a better place, to be with the gods where there is no more pain and illness."

"What of the one who survived?"

"He did not survive by any miracle. All of them showed the same signs as the affliction that killed Dwyn, but none of them had the same illness. They all would have survived, had the sickness been allowed to pass."

Amazed, I diverted my gaze from the priest's intense eyes and stared out an empty window, where I could see the ruins of Lichen off in the distance. "What of the town?"

"Once it was discovered, the entire town forgot Lucy's kindness. They wished to have her beheaded in the main square, but she was still my wife, my beloved, kind Lucy, no matter what she had done. Instead of allowing them to harm her, I secreted her away in the night, leading her to the main road and sending her on her way with enough provisions to reach the nearest city. I have heard nothing since."

He gazed numbly about himself. "That is why I remain here. I am responsible for what happened, and the deaths of those children are on my hands. I will remain here and fade away into obscurity, just as those children did, for what I allowed to transpire." He then rose from where he had been sitting and led me to one of the many graves he had tended in his duties—one task he refused to allow me to assist with. The etchings on the stone read, "Dwyn Stalls, child of light, may your burdens be forever lifted."

As I studied the headstone, Ronald turned his gaze along the overgrown main road, and I could faintly distinguish his whisper through the rustling of the trees. "Fare thee well, Lucy, Angel of Ilmater. May your burdens be lifted."