The missing story

                Once in a great age, a story will come along and change everything. Those that hear it become great heroes, and through their valiant acts, the world becomes saved.

                The following is what happens when that story doesn’t exist.

                Darryl was an ordinary man, as all men are at the beginnings of stories, who worked an average job, for a not terribly special company. One day Darryl noticed something strange in the sky: it was taupe.

                “That’s strange,” Darryl said to his co-workers. Had Darryl been less ordinary and more heroic, he might have used the word ‘peculiar’ instead.

                Denise, a co-worker, looked up and agreed, “Strange.”

                Robert, always the trouble-maker, disagreed and said, “Naw, I find it more odd than strange.”

                Darryl ignored Robert’s pointless chin-wagging, and went on with his day.

                Darryl had a pattern, as all ordinary people do, for how his day went: wake up, get ready, work, supper, bar, tv, sleep. Work was done, supper was digesting, so Darryl made ready to head to the local pub. He threw on his lucky jeans (they had never brought him luck, in fact the ones that were actually lucky were buried under a pile of refuse), and a t-shirt that went out of style seventeen years ago.

                During his walk to the pub, Darryl noticed something strange that wasn’t in the sky: a crazy, assumedly homeless person muttering to herself.

                “Why isn’t it working? The story should’ve come to me. Why isn’t it coming? STORY! I NEED THE STORY. I need it.” She began to weep, “I need it. Save the world. Story. Save. World.”

                “Strange,” Darryl said as he crossed the street to avoid the woman.  

                There was a crowd gathered outside of the pub when Darryl meandered up. The gathered bald heads turned to Darryl and spoke in unison: “The pubs closed.”

                If this had been a gathering of twins, Darryl would’ve been frightened. Instead, since it was just a group of balding men, he simply said, “strange,” and went back home.

                The crazy homeless woman wasn’t there on his walk back, but Darryl didn’t notice because he’s just an ordinary person, and not the saviour of the world.

                Darryl slept well that night with no dark dreams of the world ending, or thoughts of his own impending doom. Was this a different tale of a different man, perhaps we would see the muscled protagonist tossing and turning under a thin sheen of sweat, as the weight of destiny pressed mightily down. But it’s not, and Darryl slept peacefully.

                If you can recall, the sky had been taupe the day before, and Darryl had remarked that merely strange. Well, today the sky was straight up violet. Surely this would evoke more than ‘strange’ from our erstwhile not hero?

                “How strange is the sky today?” Darryl casually asked his co-workers while they stood outside at coffee.

                Denise looked up at the sky, “Pretty strange, yup.”

                Robert smiled deviously, “I think it’s pretty odd.”

                Denise opened her mouth to call out Robert, but Darryl placed his hand on her shoulder and shook his head

                The pub was open that night, and the crazy homeless lady was dancing a funny jig outside of the main window. Inside, Darryl sat with his friends watching the game, his back to the window, and his hand nestling a cool pint of the local brew. The commentators were remarking on the sky, which was still a vibrant violet, even at this hour. Darryl opened his mouth to say something about it, then decided against it and took sip instead.

                Houston, his friend, had no such willpower, “Mite peculiar weather, we’ve been havin’, eh lads? Mite peculiar, indeed.”

                The other friends nodded sagely, while Darryl frowned at the word ‘peculiar’. Why use a fancy word when an ordinary one will do, was always Darryl’s point of view. He was about to say just that when the home team scored causing all other thoughts to disappear.

                Darryl stumbled home that night, a little worse for wear. He did remember to drop some change into the dancing lady’s hat (if subtlety isn’t your thing, this is just the crazy homeless woman) before leaving though, he still had his manners! He collapsed in his bed, mostly clothed, and was fast asleep.

                The next morning proceeded as usual for about three minutes, or until Darryl looked outside. If you can recall the story started with the sky being taupe, and the next day was violet. Well today the sky was on fire. Literally, not in some figurative manner that poets and lovers talk about, but in a literal, flames racing across the sky manner.

                “Well, fuck,” Darryl said as he sat back on his bed. Even strange was too fancy of a word for what was happening outside now.

                Needless to say, Darryl did not go into work that day, or the days following that. Mainly because Darryl was not a hero, and the earth was not saved.

                Way to go Darryl. 

Who we are when the lights go out

                What we do in the dark often betrays who we truly are. When there is no one around to see, when the cameras are put down, and the sun has gone to rest, the truth always comes out. This may seem inherently negative, but I assure you that is not the case! Many times that true self is someone that is more selfless and courageous than some that is selfish and cowardly.

                It was at night, for instance, that I discovered my neighbour’s predilection for dressing in elaborate costumes and cleaning the street that ran in front of our houses. Every second night, at an hour that most should be asleep, my neighbour would appear in the street bedecked with a bright cape, tights, a masquerade-style mask, and an extremely tight t-shirt. He would then walk up and down the street picking up any trash he could find, and would dispose of it in an exaggerated manner. For weeks, I watched this. Sometimes he looked like he was simply doing it out of habit, while other times it looked like he was having the time of his life—the one constant was his costume. It never changed. In his mind, he was acting the hero. In my mind too.

                I worked the graveyard shift at a local gas station when I was younger. I would see a lot of…interesting people come out at night. A lot of drunks, a lot of druggies, and others of questionable morals. But there was one woman who came out at night and just shone. She was the local lawyer, and kind of disliked by large portions of the town, but every night she would come out and bring food and blankets to the less fortunate members of the community. She always came alone, and as soon as she caught people watching her or trying to sneak a picture, she would leave the area—only to come back later to finish. She didn’t want the accolades, she didn’t want fame, she just wanted to help people.

                Here’s the thing: I always have more respect for the people who go out of their way to help others without being seen, than those people who need the cameras to be on them whenever they lift a finger for their fellow man.

                But who am I when the lights go out? Who am I when no one is around to see?

                I watched my neighbour clean the street for weeks before getting bored and moving on to something else. I watched the lawyer give all she could to the less fortunate before ceasing to care about it. I went on with my life, living it as I had for years.

                What did this make me?

                A person who watched others do good in secret, yet did none of my own?

                Or by observing these secret acts, do I give them validation?

                These thoughts plagued my sleep, and gave me waking nightmares. What would I be remembered for? Did that even matter? Even amidst my thoughts of selflessness, I concerned myself with selfish thoughts.

                Who was I when the lights went out? I liked to believe that I was a good person, but did my deeds ever match my thoughts?

                I thought back.

                All my acts of charity had been done in full sight of those around me. All my giving was done where I could be seen. I wanted people to know when I was doing good. I went out of my way to ensure that people would see my kindness.

                So what did that make me?

                Who are you when the lights go out? 

One of my favourite prompts

                A man walks into a bar. The bar is dingy and smells of stale beer and piss. The man, immaculate, stands out from the rest of the clientele. He is wearing a dark coloured suit, not quite black, but impossible to tell in the lighting. He heads directly to the bar, his bright white eyes fixated upon the bartender, who was now nervously wiping down a section of the bar.

                The man sits on a stool, “A beer,” is all that he says, his eyes now nowhere close to the bartender.  Instead his eyes are scanning the shelves behind the bar, as if he is looking for something, and, when he doesn’t find it, he sighs and looks down at his crossed arms resting on the bar. The sounds of the bar, which had trailed off when the man entered, slowly returned as people grew bored of watching the man.

                “Your beer,” the bartender grunts as he places a bottle and a slightly dirty glass down in front of the man’s crossed arms.

                The man grunts in thanks, and, after looking at the glass, takes a drink directly from the bottle. The beer is lukewarm and cheap, and the man suppresses a grimace as it travels down his throat.

                The bartender is still in front of the man as he puts the drink down, “We don’t get many of your type around here. In fact,” the bartender sneers, “we actively discourage it. We don’t like people like you being around us.”

                The bartender is reaching for something under the bar when the man speaks. His voice freezes the bartender’s movements, “That so? Let me tell you a story about another man that once spoke to me in this manner.” The man’s voice grew louder so that the entire room could hear. “I was in another town once, at another bar, much like this one, drinking another beer that tasted of piss, again, much like this one, when another bartender spoke some similar words to me. I ignored them. I passed them off as mindless hate. Later that night, as I walked back to my hotel, I was jumped by several of the patrons and the bartender.” Several of those listening shoot looks of awkward worry at each other and the bartender begins to sweat. “They beat me bloody, and left me on the sidewalk once they were done. I was able to pull my phone out and call an ambulance,” at this point he pulls out his phone and places it on the bar beside his beer. He takes a swig before continuing. “I spent two weeks in the hospital, and another couple months in physio. Those men tried to break me because I wear a suit for work, but it didn’t work. After my physio was done, I began to train. And then, two years later, I returned to that bar. The bartender didn’t recognize me, nor did the patrons in the bar, but they were all there. All the men who tried to break my spirit. Again, the bartender said to me words much like yours. This time I smiled at his words and ordered a rye and coke. That detail isn’t important to the story, but I will take one now,” he says, looking the bartender in the eye. The bartender jumps slightly, and makes the drink. The bar is silent as they wait for the man to continue. The drink is placed in front of the man by the trembling hands of the bartender. He downs it in a single gulp. “I stayed at the bar until it closing time, and all that remained were the people who brought me harm. I think they were nervous at this point, there was a lot of grumbling and cursing and muttering. But, by god, they had a duty to teach me the same lesson they tried teaching me years before. I stood up, as if to leave, and one of the drunks got a little too excited, so I smiled at him. I said, ‘I remember you. You were the one who broke my nose,’ the entire bar grew silent after I said that. An uncomfortable silence, much like this one. The man still didn’t recognize me, and I realized that they never would because they didn’t see me as worth remembering. I remember smiling sadly, and telling them to just get it over with. I’ll take another rye and coke, if you would,” the man pauses his story as he waits for the drink. The listeners are fidgeting and growing more and more uncomfortable. The drink is placed in front of the man, who smiles and takes a small sip. “They rushed me. All of them at once. Scared, and drunk, and angry, they came at me swinging. Letting their emotion control their actions was their first mistake.” The man pulls a bundle of cloth out of the inner pocket of his jacket, and places it on the bar. He unrolls it to display six strips of material that appear stiff and dark in the light of the bar. “The fight didn’t last long. I took them all down, and then took a strip of cloth from each of their shirts that had been stained by their blood. These strips,” he gestures to the pieces in front of him. Some of the listeners have begun to step away from the man. He takes another sip before continuing, “This is much better than the beer, by the way. My compliments. Now, whenever I tell this story, there’s usually one poor bastard who decides to test it. And I let them. Keeps me focused and trained.” The man rolls up his bundle of cloth, and puts it back in the inner pocket of his jacket. “My hotel is five blocks away, and, incidentally, I will be leaving in five minutes should any of you wish to leave before me for whatever reason.”

                With the story obviously finished, the listeners drift back to their seats. None head to the door or even look at it. The man finishes his drink in silence, and, five minutes after finishing his story, he gets up and leaves.

                No one follows.    

Seeing Beauty Again

                I used to write stories. Great epics, touching dramas, cute romances, wondrous fairy tales, and terrifying thrillers. Now I just—no, no. That’s not right. The pencil scratches out the words, the eraser long since used up.

                I begin again: I used to write wonders and epics. Fairy Tales and Ghost stories. Now I write bare truths and hidden lies. I smile. This was better. This was more honest. I used to let my imagination guide my words. Hidden glimpses of potential would fuel my words, as they slowly, magically, perfectly, fit together to form sentences, and those sentences into paragraphs, and those onto stories. Now I—what am I now? I pause. Hand frozen hovering over the paper as my mind tries to puzzle out the answer. I have not written a parable, a poem, a story, anything other than unwanted truths in ages. Am I still the writer I once was? Can I still craft a tale that can make all who hear it weep? Or have I become bound to writing only that which triggers a different primal response?

                I used to write the truths people didn’t want to see or hear, but in a way that made people think and reconsider; now I write them in the open. Hmm. That sounds better. Almost poetic.

                I stand and stretch. Pulling at that knot buried deep in my spine. If you’re a writer, you know the one. The one that is always there, pulling at your soul as if it is trying to drag you somewhere you don’t want to go. Like a mother pulling a petulant child towards some hated activity. I steadfastly ignore it; I don’t want to see the truths it tries to make me see. Flexing my tired fingers, I stare out the window. I do this often to remind myself that there is beauty in the world, but with each passing day it becomes harder to convince myself of that. Where there was once life, now ashes float.

                Words once came easy to me. I could sit and write a short story in an hour, given an hour and half I could write a story that moved people, that made people feel what I wanted them to feel. Now it takes me that long to bang out a mediocre paragraph. My soul was once that of a poet. My words sang and danced! They shouted to the very heavens to tempt God! They could paint a picture to rival the works of the masters! And now my soul is buried under a thousand other titles: friend family mentor worker confidante problem solver coach best friend activist freelancer YouTuber journalist. Down near the bottom of this infinite list lays: writer and poet. Two of my greatest loves, sacrificed for what reason?

                I sat and begin to write again. Truths are easier to see when they fly in the face, yet harder to accept. A truth that hits you in the face becomes a nuisance, a truth that you find in the words of a story though? That truth becomes precious. That truth becomes something that you have earned, and through earning it, you protect it.

                I pause and reflect upon my own words. If I constantly hand out the truth for free, why would people care? I can see the evidence of that every day. People are constantly handed truths that they don’t want, and so they ignore them. From smoking to violence, when people are given the truth they ignore it. So why have I started handing out the truth? When did I turn from an artist to a man shouting on the corners? All my own morals, all my own truths, I learned from stories. I learned integrity from Tolkien, I learned perseverance from Rowling, logic from Doyle, I learned how to lead from Kirk and Picard, I learned faith from Herbert. If I learned from stories, why would I try to impart lessons through anything else?

                I have become a mockery unto myself, my pencil writes, I have tossed away the lessons from my past, and like many fools before me, I have tried to attack the ocean of ignorance, instead of bridging it. I know that it doesn’t work, and yet I try. “Surely if I were to throw enough truths down, I will be able to stand upon them and bury the ignorance!” And, like everything that gets thrown into the ocean, the waves merely bury it, never to be seen again.

                There is a tale that the Emperor Caligula once ordered his troops to attack the sea, and then collect seashells as proof of his great victory. Many people laugh at this, and it adds to his legendary levels of crazy—the story is false however. Even Caligula was smart enough to know attacking the sea does nothing. As a student of history, I should’ve recognized that I was making that mistake.

                The sea will endure long past my feeble attempts to bury it, and in my attempts to bury it, it shall consume me and leave me to a watery grave. So is true with my writing. If I continually strike at the ignorance, attempt to bury it with my truths, I shall become buried by the ignorance. But if I bridge it, if I allow people to find the truths for themselves, we can all cross the ignorance safely. Truth is always in the guise of a story, and a good story can change the world.

                I lay my pencil down beside the paper. Words scramble across it in a mad dash, sentences struck out, words left unfinished only to be replaced by others. I stare at the madness in front of me, these scribbles filled with meaning, and I see beauty again.  

Katya's Curse excerpt

     Time for an excerpt. Yup, feels like that time of week. So, here is an excerpt from the first chapter of a fantasy novel I've been working on. Bonus points to whoever asks me if the main character and I share views on religion! 

The skies glowed pink as the golden orb of light slipped down to rest beneath the cold waters of the sea. Aberforth stood silently on the coast watching the latest cargo ships arrive to port. The cool wind ruffled his hair and billowed out his once red cloak. He slowly grasped and released the golden hilt of his sword, a nervous twitch he had picked up years ago. Today was the day that his life should be returning. For twenty years he had been without it.   

Twenty years ago, a call came from the uncivilized barbarians for teachers, and his love, his Katya, had heeded the call. Five years later, the call for soldiers to go and defend those lands came. Aberforth took up his long-forgotten sword, and went in hopes of finding Katya and persuading her to come home. He never found her; he only knew that she was still alive. Two months ago, the teachers were called back to the homeland. Today was the day of their return. 

Aberforth turned his gaze towards the town and began his walk there. He reached the docks rather quickly and was able to acquire a position close to the embarkation ramp. And he began to wait. 

And he waited. 

Women filtered past him for what seemed like hours, and still he waited. 

The ships were empty, but still he waited.  

The sun was awakening when a woman came up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to look at her with blank eyes. “Where is she?” his voice was heart-wrenchingly devoid of emotion. 

“I am sorry Aber, she taken by Manichee rebels a week before we left.” The woman paused as she gathered her thoughts, “I know she loved you. She always spoke of you, and at night she would mutter your name.” 

Aberforth collapsed to his knees, tears running down his face, his body convulsing. The woman knelt beside him and cradled his head against her chest. 

It took Aberforth all the strength he possessed to gather the will to speak. “Where are they keeping her?” 

“I don’t know why they are keeping her; perhaps they just want to learn.” 

“I SAID WHERE!” Aberforth screamed through his tears. 

The woman bowed her head in sorrow, “You won’t like this. They are holding her in their main fort. Deep in the Forest of Sight.” 

Aberforth cringed. The Forest of Sight was ironically named. The trees were the tallest in the world and their branches blocked out the sun, moon, and stars. On the bright side, the branches also kept out the rain and snow. 

A realization came upon Aberforth, and it frightened him. “How do you know all this?” 

The woman took her arm from Aberforth’s shoulders, stood up, and took several steps back. 

“I asked you how you knew.” His voice was cold now. Cold enough to kill. 

“I...” the woman swallowed as Aberforth stood up with his back towards her. The billowing cloak hiding his movements. “They sent me.” 

“Why?” his back was still towards her. 

“I am one of them. They wanted to show the Oreilles government that they could still hurt them. I led them to your wife. They sent me to tell you all of this, and to deliver a message to the High Preceptor of the Council of Oreilles. An att—” the last thing she ever saw was the blur of Aberforth’s feared sword as her head was separated from her body in what looked to be a fiery pyrotechnics show. 

Aberforth bent down and cleaned the blood off his blade with her clothing, stood, and walked away. 

That afternoon he sent out a calling to the surviving men of his old squad. He asked them to meet him at The Golden Oar later in the night.  

The Golden Oar had nothing golden about it, except for the fact that none of the patrons would lead the authorities to it. Everyone there had committed some form of crime during their life. 

Aberforth sat at a grungy table in a dark corner, watching the door, and nursing a pint of ale. He had never considered himself to be an overly religious person, even though he was a city saint. As he sat there in the dark, staring into his tankard, he felt alone for the first time in his life. The people of Oreilles worshiped valorous acts instead of a pantheon, but they still had one god that they could call to in times of desperation. Aberforth had never prayed in his life, he always looked to himself or his friends for the answers sought. But as he sat there, completely alone, he began to pray. 

“Vandicus, I come to you now, in the moment of my truest despair. My Katya, my life, has been taken from me. All my life I lived well, striving to expound of the virtues of my city, even becoming sainted. But now, I am lost. I am alone. My virtues give me no comfort, nor do the virtuous acts of those before me. Vandicus, I plead you, give me release. Give me the strength to do what is needed. Your eyes see all, and to you all truth is known. Give unto me the truth of this Vandicus!” Aberforth sat and waited for long moments, yearning for the answers to appear. Nothing came to him. No great epiphany lighted in his head. Only the sounds of the tavern were heard to him.  

“Vandicus!” Aberforth shouted out, before reigning his voice back in, “Vandicus, please. PLEASE!” He threw his mug against the wall, spraying ale everywhere. “I have lived my life to your teachings! I have followed your laws, fought in your wars! I have given my years to you! My friends, my family! My family has gone to you! And now this! Now you take this from me! I have been without her for decades! DECADES! Longing for her touch, her caress, or even the touch of her eyes upon my skin! And now! Now you take her away from me! You! You the great deceiver! The great liar! Vandicus! You promised your followers life! You promised them contentment! Piss on it! Piss on it all! I have gotten none of that! All I have ever had, YOU have taken from me! FUCK YOU VANDICUS! And fuck your fucking laws! I am done with it. I swear to you now, in front of your precious followers, great hypocrites all, that I will break whatever law I must to get her back. I will go into hell itself! I will raze heaven to the ground to hold her again! You have brought a righteous reckoning upon yourself! Before this ends, I will see you burn, oh great god Vandicus!”

A story about a hero

      The world is a cold and depressing place, I'm pretty sure we can all agree with that. But! On a note of positivity and warmth, the first trailer for Rogue One: A Star Wars Story dropped today, and it is a beautiful thing. There are AT-ATs on a tropical beach! Space Samurais taking down Storm Troopers! Sassy banter! Blaster fire! Death Star! Mon Mothma! Hints at Darth Vader! A mysterious new Imperial villain who has a badass cape! Literally everything you could want in a movie, except Chris Pratt.
       Seriously though, if you like Star Wars, go watch the trailer right now.
       Okay, that's out of the way, and I still have space to fill. I don't have a plan for this... Um. The weather sucks, eh? Snow in April. Good joke, Mother Nature, good joke. I'm thinking about having nachos for supper? That's not interesting at all...
      Okay, okay. I get it. It's going to have to be a story time blog. Fine. Here's a short story for you:

His name was George. An ordinary man, nothing remarkable, or special, or remarkably special. Just an ordinary bloke. He grew up simply, in a small town, attended an ordinary school and did ordinary things. If there was a single remarkable thing about George it was how bloody unremarkable he was.

                George was a postman. Now, a postman is an archaic position held over from the medieval times, before email, and Amazon air strikes. The postman wanders around the wilderness delivering parcels to destitute farmers, and the unfortunates with poor bandwidth. George enjoyed his job; it got him out of the house—not that there was anything to get away from. He enjoyed his walks up the long drives and down the same long drives and then up the next drive and down that drive again. His life was repetitive and unsurprising, just the way he liked it.

                Mary on the other hand, had a fantastically surprising life. Perhaps fantastically is a poor word. Tragically or upsetting would fit better. As a young child her parents had divorced and she was dragged off to the country by her father. At her first day of school she fell out of the desk three times. In a row. It was a sad foreshadowing of the rest of her school career. Her father passed away soon after she graduated leaving her to take care of the farm. Her first year as a farmer made the news. But not in a good way. Her barn turned down. While she was watering her vegetable garden. Events like that always happened to her. She had the least stable life she could think of. And she was starting to regret all of the things that led her to this.

                George had always fancied this one girl during school. But he couldn’t talk to her; that would be something new, something different. So he lived his life. His dull, dull life. She still lived in the area, he delivered her post everyday but he never saw her. She was constantly receiving packages. George assumed that she was simply growing bored of the whole country life—something that he could not understand. Why anyone would ever want to leave and go to the city was beyond him; the country had everything! The quiet, the emptiness, the lack of people. Who could possibly want more than that?

                It was a cheery May afternoon and George was delivering an unusual amount of parcels when he noticed something amiss. There was no package for Mary (I truly hope you, the reader, had figured out that Mary was the girl by now)! No post for her at all! The first time in five years that Mary had no post. George was slightly confused by this change to his routine, and that confusion led to worry when she had no post the next day as well. On the third day George decided to investigate. A first for him; an almost spontaneous decision, only two sleepless nights of thinking and overthinking and calling his padre at two in the morning. The padre was compassionate the first night, on the second night he told George to grow a pair and be a man. George took this to heart.

                She had a shorter drive than most but it seemed to take an eon to walk it. He finally reached her door, drenched in sweat, reeking of fear. His hand wavered over the door for five minutes before he finally knocked.

                The door opened a few moments later revealing an average looking woman in average looking clothes looking very haggard. “Yes, what is it?” She asked, obviously stressed.

                “Uh, hi, yes, umm,” George stammered out. “I’m, uh, George. The post man. I, hmm, noticed that you haven’t received anything in a, uh, um, while. I was slightly concerned.” He smiled awkwardly at the end. As awkward as a meeting between Obama and anyone from the South.

                “Um…thanks? I guess. No, no, my internets been down the past while. One of the cows knocked over the satellite and I haven’t fixed that yet.” Mary looked at the strange man closely. “Are you…are you George?”

                George brightened up, “Yes, yeah I am. Do you want me to check that satellite for you?”

                Mary smiled, “You would be my hero! Do you want to grab some tea first?”

                And that is how George became a hero to the one person who really mattered, and how he learned to live, just a little.