Quote of the Day- 05/31/2011

"All political thinking for years past has been vitiated in the same way. People can foresee the future only when it coincides with their own wishes, and the most grossly obvious facts can be ignored when they are unwelcome."

- George Orwell

Quote of the Day- 05/30/2011

"The way people speak and write nowadays makes my head hurt."
- Edmund Rostand

Wyrmblood

I am a monster.

You know my face,

Shadow of your dreams.

Lord of a primeval race,

Avatar of power’s extremes.

You look upon my form,

Envy and fear in your eye.

My wrath, an unholy storm,

Then naught but widow’s cry.

Yet you cannot know

Why I take to ancient wing.

Each heated breath I blow,

Driven by chilled heart string.

Force of nature despised,

Cast as civilization’s bane.

Each thought of peace denied,

In name of honor and fame.

I cannot willingly relent,

With tooth and talon will I rend.

Only when my fire is spent,

Will I welcome fury’s end.

Quote of the Day- 05/29/2011

"In my pursuit, World, why such diligence?  What my offense, when I am thus inclined, insuring elegance affect my mind, not that mind affect an elegance?"
- Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz

Quote of the Day- 05/28/2011

"An artist is a creature driven by demons. He doesn't know why they choose him and he's usually too busy to wonder why."

- William Faulkner

Quote of the Day- 05/27/2011

"There are two levers for moving men- interest and fear."
- Napoleon Bonaparte

Quote of the Day- 05/26/2011

"Wait a minute!  There's a chance I could lose?!  That wasn't part of the deal!"
- Bender Bending Rodriguez

Know What Awaits You...

Sister Ines racked the slide of her bolter and heard the meaty clicking of the first round of a new magazine sliding into place. She inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to keep her focus and drown out the barrage of artillery that screamed and roared around her. Her training and her faith were more than enough to control her fear, but the murderous torrent of shells still had ample effect on her more tangible senses. She shifted her shoulders and stretched her arms, checking the sounds and feel of her armor’s servo-joints. Satisfied, she turned back to the rest of her squad. Four other Sisters of Battle were flexing their respective grips on their respective bolters and checking their weapons for signs of significant wear or trauma. 

Sister Freyda continued her seemingly endless muttering of litanies and prayers, as if the Emperor would cease to know her should she stop. Sister Maniku shifted uncomfortably, trying to lessen pressure on her two broken ribs. Focusing a rage-filled glare on the landscape beyond the squad’s cover, Sister Area looked like a vengeful raptor seeking prey. Between all of them, Sister Superior Joanna pressed her vox-link bud into her ear and closed her eyes in an attempt to assess the overall tactical situation. Each of them had been blooded and their wargear had taken savage beatings.

“Sisters, ears to the vox,” the Superior ordered. “Please repeat, my mistress” Joanna yelled into her link.

The metallic growl of the communications network flooded Ines’s ears and was swiftly replaced with the voice of the Blessed Canoness.

“Squad Joanna- traitorous Astartes have been sighted in your area,” the commander said. “Fall back and regroup at a more defensible position. We must consolidate and not allow them to attack us piecemeal.”

“Negative, mistress. We have made significant ground in this sector,” Joanna responded. “My squad can defend th…”

The barking retort of a bolter, heavier in caliber than those of Squad Joanna, cut off the Superior’s remarks by hitting her in the pauldron, spinning and dropping her. She herself was superficially damaged, but she tore the piece of armor from her shoulder and cast it aside. She rolled aside as a three round burst exploded in the space she formerly occupied, showering the squad with rockcrete and shrapnel. As one, the four Sisters counter-attacked, barely emerging from cover and opening up with their firearms. Sister Area’s head exploded as she pulled her trigger, scattering her shots to the wind but forcing her massive Astartes murderer to move to cover.

The giant was absurdly quick and relentless, loosing off single shots as he moved, each of which came perilously close to a squad member. His thick, burgundy, statuesque armor absorbed several direct hits which did little more than make him grunt in defiance. Some thirty meters behind him, a swarm of obscene and frenzied cultists was advancing and butchering any soldier unfortunate enough to be wounded.

Rather than move between the cover, the Chaos Marine thundered through it like a runaway vehicle, forcing Maniku and Freyda to leap and roll out of the way. Superior Joanna drew her power sword and leapt forward into the mass of ceramite and debris, the weapon held out like a lance of light. The Astarte plowed through her, sending her airborne body spinning and slamming into the rockcrete.

“Ave Imperator!” Ines cried as she rose and emptied her bolter. The repeated impacts pulverized the Chaos Marine’s backpack generator and staggered his bulky form. Ines allowed her bolter to kick hard in her hands and use the recoil to bring the shots toward his head. Even as she fired, her eyes caught the golden glimmer of Joanna’s power sword embedded to the hilt in the traitor’s belly, and she smiled.

“Suffer not…the unclean…to live!” Joanna heaved in ragged gasps as the Chaos Marine dropped to one knee and the icon of a grey, screaming demon was scoured from his shoulder. The final shot cleared the barrel of Ines’s weapon and struck the Marine just beneath his helm, tearing his throat into a bloody ruin that barely kept his head on his shoulders.

Sister Freyda approached the dying Astarte and gripped his horned helm with both hands. With a throaty scream, she torn the Word Bearer’s head from his shoulders and turned to the cultist throng beyond.

"We are the Daughters of the Emperor! His Holy Avengers! See our wrath and know what awaits you, heretics!”

Battle for the Sepulcher Redux

In all his many years of waging war, Marneus had never seen anything like it. Images flickered across his vision, as the creature could not seem to keep its shape. It was a towering inferno, head and shoulders taller than him, even with the Armor of Antilochus. A myriad of aspects vied for dominance, each an image of a particular strategy in war perfected. Wreathed in smoke and spewing flame in its wake, the abomination thundered towards the Ultramarine elite without hesitation or fear. Squads Barachus and Varudon marched into the behemoth’s path, baring their thunder hammers and lightning claws in challenge.

As a predator acquiring its quarry, the Avatar leaned back and unleashed a tremendous roar. Each son of Guilleman staggered, and as Calgar turned to Tigurius, he saw the venerable Librarian screaming at the top of his lungs. Whatever sound the creature was making cut across the dimensional barriers and afflicted those with psychic power most drastically. And yet, as the Lord of Macragge turned back to the xenos, he saw the fragile Eldar standing tall. Their bewitched monster empowered them as it crippled the Ultramarines, and a fell light of determination appeared in their once-defeated eyes.

“Do not give in to their witchcraft, brothers!” Calgar yelled over the vox-link, though he was not sure if any could hear or acknowledge him. “For Orar, Guilleman, and the Emperor, bring that abomination to its knees!”

A throaty and defiant confirmation answered him, and the Ultramarines stepped forward. 

The raspy exhaust of a wave of krak missiles erupted, and seconds later they slammed into the Avatar with enough collective force to fell a Land Raider tank. The heavy hammering of bolt shells and the scream of assault cannon rounds joined in the chorus of war, showering the monster in a torrent of gunfire. The Eldar Champion swayed and staggered beneath the weight of the assault, and a great cheer went up from the Ultramarine squads when the beast dropped to a knee. A Predator spun where it sat and fired twin lascannon beams, scoring a direct hit in the Avatar’s blackened chest and dropped it to the ground.

The fey xenos were not idle as their idol took such punishment. Walls of shuriken fire and bolts of refined plasma greeted whatever Space Marine was not eager in his search for cover. Rockets from concealed Dark Reapers pinned the Terminators in place while Wave Serpents and mounted Fire Dragons circled around with their armor-shredding weaponry. The Predator that had felled the Avatar was in turn pierced by a bright blue lance-beam and exploded spectacularly as its ammunition and fuel detonated. Marneus was appalled at the losses on both sides, the likes of which he had not seen since the War for Macragge. 

“My lord,” Tigurius called out from behind the Chapter Master. He was obviously shaken from the psychic assault he had endured. “We must pull back deeper into the compound. Their monster has been felled, and a fury has overtaken them. We will defeat them in this protracted battle, but it will be a most pyrrhic victory.”

“Aye, brother. This is Lord Macragge to all units- initiate Astartes pattern epsilon. Keep to cover.”

As the last words left his lips, Calgar saw the unthinkable. The Avatar raised an arm and planted its palm on the ground, pushing itself upright once again. The tormented wraithbone of its construction seemed to be restructuring itself even as the creature regained its balance. Strangely, the creature’s shoulders heaved up and down. With a hurt pride and a snarl of disgust, Calgar realized the Avatar was laughing, if such a thing was capable of a sense of humor.

In response to their demi-god’s resurgence, the Eldar surged forward, pouring shot after shot into the Ultramarines as they fell back. To their credit, the Ultramarines moved with perfect precision and haste, all the while burdening themselves with the fallen. Disciplined retreats and counter-volleys forced the maniacal Eldar to slow their advance on the flanks, but the Avatar had broken into a run and was closing once again on squads Baruchus and Varodon. In his heart Marneus could not willingly allow such noble warriors to die alone, and in his mind he knew that if the Avatar broke through them, no defensible position present would withstand the demon’s fury.

“Tigurius, you have operational command,” Calgar ordered. “I am joining Baruchus and Varodon. Sergeant Baruchus, activate your teleport homer.”

With a thought, Calgar activated his armor’s teleportation device, and with a flash, he vanished into the warp. A moment later, he phased into existence directly before Sergeant Baruchus.

“With me, brothers,” Marneus ordered.

On his right, squad Varodon lumbered forward and activate the power cells within their lightning claws. They fanned out into a tactical pattern taught to assault squads that was meant to absorb and counter the charging momentum of a tank. Sergeant Varodon took the center, flanked by three talon-bearing Terminators on either side of him. They stalked forward, weapons raised, ready to close on the monster’s flanks. The Avatar broke into a run, letting its eagerness to fight push aside any thoughts of waiting. In its hand, the blazing sword was remolded into a massive spear. With a swiftness and grace that defied all assumptions about its size, the Avatar closed the gap and leapt forward. 

The infernal spear impacted on the exact center point of Varodon’s armor before the century-old Sergeant had time to close into a defensive posture. It cut through him as easily as through robes and stuck him into the ground. Pushing its weight forward, the Avatar vaulted into the air and over the charging Terminators. A blast of energy dislodged the immolating corpse of Varodon and the soil beneath him, freeing the spear. The demi-god twisted in the air as the weapon changed once more, taking on the aspect of an axe. The creature landed in a crouch, not ten meters from the Chapter Master. In an instant, Calgar activated the Gauntlets and stepped forward, flanked by a wall of energy shields and hammers cackling with lightning.

In two broad steps, the Avatar covered the distance and raised a two-handed deathstrike. It was so fast that the Lord of the Ultramarines had no time to react. A bright, white light flared into his vision, and for a moment, time stood still. All around him, multi-hued colors conveyed a kaleidoscopic display of the world. The warriors of squad Baruchus had not yet fully turned to confront the Eldar construct. The Avatar itself was still in mid-air, its knees bent, its body bent forward, and its weapon inches above his head. The pointed corner of the axe-blade had pierced the protective barrier by millimeters, and increased the immaterial wound with every passing second. On impulse, Calgar turned around and saw the face of Tigurius, many meters behind, locked in concentration. His hand was outstretched. It was he that had come to Calgar’s aid.

Once again, everything went white, and the space in front of the Force Commander exploded with tremendous force. Colossal warp energies compelled both warriors in opposite directions and time hastened back to its relentless pace. The Avatar landed on its toes and its feet tore great molten gouges in the earth as it arrested its momentum. Calgar slammed into the ground like a heavy stone next to the Librarian.

“By the honor of Guilleman, I could not accept your orders, my lord,” Tigurius said. “Captain Sicarius has the defensive situation under control, and it seems the rest of the xenos are content to let us fight their idol undisturbed.”

“And they say old Cassius is stubborn,” Calgar jested as he spat dust from his mouth. “It does me great honor to have you here, old friend.”

Sergeant Baruchus was enraged beyond all measure at the death of his closest friend and battle-brother, but he still felt compelled to silently acknowledge the Avatar’s power. Its movements were almost too fast to follow, and the squad leader saw no other course of action than to attack and leave his fate to the Emperor. Its damnable weapon shifted into the form of a sword once again and arced towards Brother Partheon. The blade leapt inside the Terminator’s guard and sheared off his shield arm at the shoulder. With its free hand, the Avatar grabbed Brothern Falthius by his shield and tossed him like a child no longer interested in its toy. 

Brother Marvien, the longest standing member of Varodon’s unit, swung his talons at the creature’s hindquarters. The Avatar turned its head and saw the attack at the last possible moment before spinning and letting the swipe pass through nothing but air. The demi-god twirled its sword as it spun, slicing off Marvien’s arm at the elbow. Baruchus swung downward with all the might he could muster, aiming squarely for the Avatar’s spine. The creature pushed off its back foot and avoided the blow entirely. It dodged between three more Terminators before thrusting its blade forward and impaling Brother Argus and Brother Orphaed together.

In a tremendous display of savage strength, the Avatar hoisted its sword over its head, with the two Ultramarine still upon the weapon, and hammered it down onto Brother Partheon, crushing his exposed head. Blood sizzled and evaporated in the heat of the sword, and with a growl, the Avatar flooded it with power. The blade seared through Astartes flesh and armor alike and cut itself free.

Above the swirling melee, the sky darkened. Clouds swirled and grumbled. A bolt of lightning punched into the Avatar’s head, stunning the beast. Sergeant Baruchus used the distraction and struck the Avatar in the shoulder with his weapon, discharging a wash of energy. Another bolt thundered into the demi-god, forcing it back several more meters. A third descended from the skies, but the Avatar raised its weapon and absorbed the ethereal lightning.

Varro Tigurius stepped forward, chanting ancient words of power. A ghostly, enlarged mimic-sheath appeared around his staff, and he swung the thing with all the strength of Guilleman himself. Staff and sword collided in a burst of energy, forcing the Avatar back yet another step. Swinging his staff in a carefully orchestrated pattern, the Librarian traced his own image. With each movement of the weapon, the image became more and more real, until it stood as an empyreal reflection of its maker. The summoning swelled to a size comparable to the Avatar and, with of flick of Tigurius’ wrist, it charged. 

Instead of striking the Avatar, however, it leapt upon the monster and embraced it with a superhuman grip. The conjuration bloated and swelled once more, this time to obscene proportions, and detonated. The explosion leveled all but the Avatar, and tore a hole in the very fabric of reality. A swirling vortex opened and began to swallow much of the smoke and fire emitted by the Avatar, taking a measure of the creature’s power with it. Marneus opened fire with both of his Gauntlets, hoping he might add even the slightest of weights to the battle.

The Avatar’s mask flowed into a shape of frustration and anger, and it roared once more. Everything shook with the force of the exclamation, and Tigurius doubled over in pain. Blood poured from every opening in the Librarian’s head as he tried with all of his mental might to keep the psychic sound at bay. The Avatar thrust its blade into the vortex, and like a hot iron cauterizing a fresh wound, the hole blistered and sealed shut. The Avatar heaved and growled, and to the surprise of all, spoke in words that the Ultramarines heard with their minds as much as their ears.

“I…am…Kaela Mensha Khaine.”

++++++

Marneus pushed himself up and stumbled towards Tigurius, picking up the fallen Librarian in his massive gauntlets. 

“Brother, I don’t know what strength you have left, but I need it now,” the Chapter Master said.

“Such incredible power…” was all Tigurius could respond with. The Librarian blinked absent-mindedly and Calgar feared the worst.

“Are you with me, son of Guilleman? Will you stand when your brothers need you the most?”

After a pause that seemed to last for an eternity, Tigurius spoke. “Always…”.

“The legend of your stubbornness grows, my friend,” Calgar said with a smile. His face turned serious then, and he said “When I tell you, you must hurl me at the demon.”

“What?” Tigurius asked with labored breath.

“Do not question me, Varro! Just do it,” Calgar ordered.

Marneus looked up as the Avatar stood over Sergeant Baruchus. He roared in defiance as the Avatar impaled the squad leader and incinerated him in the same fashion as Varodon.

“Varro, NOW!”

Tigurius rolled onto his shoulder and stretched out his hand. With a horizontal chop from the Librarian, Calgar went airborne. He raised the Gauntlets of Ultramar in front of his face and opened the fingers as wide as he could as he flew at the Avatar. The demi-god turned, and in its weakened state, it could do nothing to avoid or counter the flying Astarte. Marneus slammed into the Avatar and embraced it much as the summoning had. The force of the tackle barreled both into the ground, with the Chapter Master kneeling on the Avatar’s chest.

Calgar reared back and threw a devastating punch that smacked straight into the idol’s face. Two more identical blows pulverized the Avatar’s mask, spraying molten ichor over the Gauntlets and the Armor. The Lord of Ultramar took hold of the monster’s head with both Gauntlets and stood upon its shoulders. Willing the Armor of Antilochus to a power level beyond safe capacity, Calgar pulled upwards. The Avatar’s hands took hold of Marneus’ arms, and the plates of his Terminator armor began to crumple under the pressure. But stunned as it was, the Avatar could not muster the strength it needed. It's head ripped free in a wash of flaming warp-blood, and the Chapter Master screamed to the heavens in victory. He fell to a knee as the hands of the Avatar fell to the ground. The air around them condensed and pulsed, snuffing out the flickering flame within the wraithbone monster. 

++++++

Marneus tossed the head aside and lumbered off of the rapidly disintegrating statue. He walked as quickly as his damaged armor would allow toward Tigurius and knelt down beside his utterly drained friend.

“We did it, Varro,” Marneus said. “The beast is dead.”

“It seems you will need some rest and recreation, my lord,” Tigurius gasped.

“Not all of us enjoying spending time pouring over the old tomes, brother,” Calgar said as he placed a silent Gauntlet on the Librarian’s chest. 

Above them both, Thunderhawks began to descend from the skies. At the entrance to the Sepulcher, the remaining Eldar forces were in rapid retreat towards the tree line. The vox-link buzzed to life with Captain Sicarius’ voice.

“Sicarius to all units- the Eldar are in full retreat. Acquire Lord Calgar’s signal and assess his situation immediately. Keep alert for enemy feints.”

Moments later, as Rhinos pulled up alongside the fallen Terminators and unloaded several Apothecaries, Marneus Calgar collapsed onto his side and let himself rest.

A Life's Worth

Aaron ran his hands through his damp, dark hair, enjoying the cool wetness in between his fingers.  He looked at himself in the fogged mirror, and though fresh out of the shower, he looked as tired and pale as he had when he got home.  His muscles ached and reminded him that it would take more than a five minute wash to rejuvenate him.  He closed his eyes and put his head down in an effort to clear his mind, but the sound of his heart beating, his blood pulsing, and his deep, heavy breathing flooded his thoughts like the pervasive hammering of a discordant percussive symphony or an abused car stereo.

He shook his head, frustrated at the futility of it all.  Pulling on his boxer briefs and a light robe, he meandered out to the TV room, sat down, and turned it on.  His body, fueled by caffeinates and sugar throughout the day, was a zombified thing, far too wired to allow him sleep but carrying a brain that was far too exhausted to allow him any productivity.  He clicked through the channels almost involuntarily and almost too fast for him to process what he was missing, though he didn’t actually care.  The repetitiveness brought a strange sensation of agitated calm where everything was at rest but on the verge of total collapse.

Unbidden, Aaron’s thought process tried to ascertain the source of his discomfort, though he knew damn well what it was.  When he had signed up for his job, he intended to do the world some good.  He intended to come home every day and enjoy the notion that he was trying to make the world a better place and that he was helping to balance out the pain and suffering his eyes had forever been awoken to. What did it say about him, then, that he was more miserable than he had ever been?  That pain and suffering was a tangible thing now, beating back his hopes and efforts with an overwhelming sense of inevitability and misery.  How foolish he had been.  To think he could make any real difference.  He was no great leader or champion for a cause.  Just a misguided and overeager fool seeking to assuage his guilt over his previous ignorance.

The morbidity and suddenness of the thoughts shocked Aaron and made him jolt upright.  The depressing stream of consciousness was a little too much for him to bear.  He had to get his mind on a new track; if nothing else, it would help him sleep easier.

He looked around for something to do and it occurred to him that he hadn’t taken out the trash.  He got up with much more effort than he thought should be necessary, put on his moccasins, grabbed the plastic bag of non-recyclable garbage, and headed out the front door.

As he walked down the brick path leading to his front door and surveyed the street, a horrid stink crept into his nostrils.  It reminded him of putrefaction and disease, like long spoiled meat left out in the sun.  He held his nose shut with one hand and the garbage bag out with the other, but he couldn’t think of anything he had put into that bag that would make such a repugnant stench.  Besides, it would have tainted his kitchen had it been his fault.  He looked up and down the dark street of his block, thinking maybe a sewage line had burst or someone’s septic tank had erupted, but no ready source could be found. 

All too eager to go back inside and escape the smell, Aaron quickly dropped the bag into the designated trash can at the curb and turned back to his door.

A massive shape appeared from nowhere, standing right in front of Aaron and blocking his path. 

The figure was vaguely humanoid, covered in overlapping layers of heavy, filthy cloth.  Its shoulders heaved up and down, presumably with the exertion of respiration.  The stink saturated the area around it, and had Aaron not been so surprised, he would surely have vomited. 

The only thing clean and readily distinguishable on the giant was the shimmering stainless steel of an eight inch kitchen knife, bared and threatening.

“Don’t scream,” the leviathan muttered, its voice deep, rumbling, and hoarse.

Aaron nodded slowly.

“Please, I…” he started.

“Shut up,” the giant said, cutting him off.  “We’re going inside, getting everything you’ve got, and then I’m going to leave without any trouble.  Got it?”

“Please!” Aaron said in a forceful whisper.  “I help people like you all the time.  It’s my job!”

“That’s wonderful,” the giant said.  It took Aaron a moment to realize the sarcasm.  “Inside,” he commanded.

Quietly and calmly, the two entered Aaron’s house.  On the way toward his room, Aaron stopped and turned around.  He had to stop himself from flinching when he saw the knife again.

“Will you just hear me out?” Aaron asked.

“If I have to tell you again,” the thief said, “I’ll say it with this.”  He brandished the blade to emphasize the point.

“Please.  If you don’t like what I have to say, you can take my money and go without another peep out of me,” Aaron said.

“Fine,” the invader grumbled.  “You have two minutes.  And keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Why are you doing this?” Aaron asked after a long pause.

“If you’re going to ask stupid questions like that, just go get what I’m here for,” the homeless man answered.

“No, I don’t mean because you’re homeless and poor,” Aaron said quickly.  “I mean what put you in this state?  Foreclosure?  Drugs?  Violence?”

“What’s it matter to you?” the giant asked.

“Because there are things that can be done to help you escape those,” Aaron answered. 

“Enough of this intervention shit,” the thief spat. 

“Wait!  You said I had two minutes,” Aaron said.

“The clock is ticking,” came the reply.

“Okay.  Let me put it this way.  I work with homeless people for a living,” Aaron said.  “When I started I thought that working with soup kitchens and donating to charities would heal everything.  I’ve poured so much effort into running them and working in them that I can barely see straight now.  And just before you showed up, I began to question the purpose of it all.  It seems inevitable, doesn’t it?  That some people will always been homeless and that no matter how much work is done, it will do nothing more than stem the tide?”

Aaron took the man’s silence as somewhat of an agreement.

“But it’s amazing what adrenaline will do to a tired mind,” Aaron said, earning a raised eyebrow from his attacker.  “It’s not about what I’m doing.  It’s about you.  It’s about getting down to the root of the problem.  It’s about changing cultural perspective.  It’s about changing your perspective.  Please- what got you to this place?”

The man’s breathing was heavier and more agitated.  Aaron was worried that he had gone too fast or been too bold and that the giant might snap, but to both of their surprise, he answered.

“My wife left me for a former friend.  I couldn’t take it.  I stopped caring.”

The man’s tone was monotonous, as if it were the only way he could say such things without having a catastrophic breakdown.

“Why did you stop caring?”  Aaron asked.

“What is there to care about?  I didn’t show it like I should have, but I loved that bitch.  I put all my time and money into making the future that everyone is supposed to want.  And what did I get?  I come home one day and she tells me she’s leaving.”

A hint of anger had entered his voice.  Aaron watched with apprehension as the man’s painful past was called forth from whatever rarely tread placed of his mind he had buried it in.

“After that, I didn’t see a point to any of this,” the man said, moving the knife in an arc to indicate the nice quarters around him.  “It’s all hollow and lonely.  Nothing but a reminder of what should have been mine.  What I had earned.”

“Has taking money and living on your own taken the pain away?”  Aaron asked, desperately trying to keep all arrogance out of the question.

“No,” the man said after a long moment.  “But I don’t want to be in this pathetic rat race either.”

“I understand,” Aaron said.

“Do you?” the man scoffed.  “Look at this place.  Look at you.  You don’t know a damn thing about what it’s like to be me.  To suffer true loss.  You people refer to ‘rock bottom’ as some place where a comeback is guaranteed.  Well, I’ve actually been there.  I’m still there.  It would kill you.”

“I don’t claim to understand your experience, and you may be right- it might very well kill me.  But we’ve seen the same thing.  The heart of darkness, as it were.  I might not have been in it, but I’ve seen it, just like you.”

Aaron considered his next works carefully, never taking his eyes off of the knife, even though the man held it in a less confrontational way now.

“That heart is self-worth.  Self-respect.  Self-esteem.  Whatever you want to call it,” Aaron said.

“So your big answer is I have to like myself more?” the man asked with a tone.

“No,” Aaron answered with a smile.  “You need to understand that the “rat race”, as you called it, shouldn’t be about being part of high society or fulfilling some standard of cultural acceptability.  It’s about finding what you want out of life, what you can mean to the people around you, and not betraying your true worth.”

“What the hell are you talking about?  You mean do what I want?”

“Essentially, yes, but after deciding that objectively and without trying to hurt anyone.”

The man shook his head, confused.

“Look,” Aaron said.  “You said you worked all of your life to make this idyllic living for you and your wife, right? Well, is it what you really would have been happy doing?”

“I don’t know anymore,” the man answered.

“None of us really do.  We have to operate off of some hope that we haven’t been deluding ourselves when thinking it will all turn out okay,” Aaron said.  “But that journey isn’t over for you.  You found one dead end.  It’s time to try another.  It’s time to understand that your life hasn’t been a waste.  You have to understand that you aren’t a waste.  That there are people and there will be people who care about you and what you do.  You matter to them, and your actions will have a rippling effect that can be positive, whether now or a thousand years from now.”

“How can you possibly know any of that?” the man asked.

“It’s the only way in which our world makes sense, as far as I can see it,” Aaron replied.  “It’s the only way in which our lives have real meaning.  We are, or can be, part of something greater than ourselves- the betterment of the species.  If you had the chance, wouldn’t you step forward to help someone avoid what has happened to you?”

Again, the man’s silence was taken as affirmation.

“There are people out there who need your help.  Who need my help.  And if they don’t get it, there’s no telling where they might end up,” Aaron said. 

“What is in it for me?” the man asked, hesitantly.  “I’ve given so much already, I don’t see how it’s fair to ask more.”

“The experiences,” Aaron answered.  “And I don’t just mean in a cheesy ‘feel better because you’re being nice’ way.  I mean that you will be introduced to things you didn’t think were possible.  Things that truly mean something to you.  You will find the understanding you are looking for.  Anyone can look back in the moment and see that their past made them what they are.  Not many are willing to look ahead and admit that their lives have yet to truly be defined.  And if your life hasn’t yet been defined, you can’t say that you aren’t, or weren’t, worth the effort.”

The man took a step back, his eyes flittering around as he tried to comprehend what Aaron had told him.

“Are you willing to try, at least?” Aaron asked.

“I…I think so,” the man said.

“Thank you.  Would you like some food and a shower?  Maybe a fresh set of clothes?” Aaron asked.

The man nodded.

“If you don’t mind, can I have the knife now?  I want to be a friend to you, and no one makes friends with a weapon.”

The man handed over the blade sheepishly and shuffled into the kitchen, completely robbed of his once towering and menacing aspect.

Aaron stepped out of sight for a moment and exhaled deeply.  He shuddered, realizing how absurd his little stunt had been.  One slight misstep and he would have been dead.  But for all of the moment’s incredulity, Aaron realized that the words had been for himself as much as the homeless man now sitting at his table.

+ + + + +

The purpose of life may yet be undefined, but the one thing that the combination of life and self-awareness is certainly meant for is the quest to find that purpose.  Whether the experiment of some supreme being or an accident of the universe’s practically limitless potential, we owe it to ourselves to make use of the talents and tools we possess, both to facilitate the biological drive of ensuring the future of the species and to explore the limits of what it means to be human.  Like the facets of a planet spanning, picture forming collage, each of us is a distinguishable and critical piece of a whole tapestry that is woven through the span of eons.  Individually and as one, we take on and pass on the torch of discovery and hope because, if nothing else, we know we aren’t done yet.

Ghosts Returned

The following story is inspired by true events, but all characters and events herein are fictional.

+2004.  Outside Santa Barbara, California.+

Alejandro Ramirez had two options.  He could watch television, more specifically the news in all probability, or he could go to bed.  Feeling the figurative weight of his eyelids at the moment, he decided on the latter.  Falling asleep in his recliner was not going to do his sciatica any favors anyway.

He brushed his teeth, took his pills, checked the house to make sure it was secure but ventilated for the warm summer evening, and laid himself down on a very firm mattress.  Admittedly, it was much more resistant than he liked, but his wife slept better this way.

He thought of mattresses, then of his wife, then of his wife’s father, but after his eyes shut, he would remember none of it.

+ + + + + +

The gunshot woke him.

It was a hard bang that shocked the unprepared senses, a sign of ready and present danger.  The sound was thick in the cloying mist around him and sounded like it was coming from everywhere at once.  He panicked, desperately trying to through off the sheet that inexplicably lay on top of him.  The soldier lying next to him in the tent was still sleeping soundly, and Alejandro shoved him to wake him up to the threat.

“We’re being attacked!” He yelled as he rocked his squad-mate back and forth roughly.

“What are y…” the soldier started to say.  He was cut off by a thunderous crack, which was followed by the sound of knifing shrapnel.  Alejandro threw himself to the ground, his ears ringing and his eyes watery.  His hands scrambled blindly for his gun, but found nothing. 

He leapt up and barged his way out of the tent, shoving aside a heavy crate that had stupidly been left in front of his temporary quarters.  He was greeted by more sticky humidity and a terrible relative silence.  He could hear bursts of gunfire and detonations of grenades coming from every direction, but nothing in his immediate vicinity.  Absolutely nothing.  No soldiers moved, no enemies revealed themselves, and no sliver of activity to react to. 

“Alex!” a voice said in the distance.  It sounded like a woman, but it was too close to the gunfire to risk moving toward it. 

Alejandro sprinted down a path between rows of tents in the camp, keeping as low as he could to avoid detection.  He dropped to a knee next to an ammunition crate and peered around the side of it with painstaking care.  Again, nothing.  Had the whole damn platoon be destroyed?

“Alex!” the woman called again, further this time.  Alejandro coughed and noticed that his lungs were heaving with exertion.  His muscles ached and joints felt as if they had never known cartilage. Thoughts came unbidden- doctor’s visit, knee replacements, leg pain.  None of it made sense.

As if on cue, a bullet took him in the thigh.  It made no sound, and he had no idea where the shooter was.  He roared in pain and dragged himself to the other side of the ammunition crate, scanning the dark edges of jungle in vain.  He pushed himself up as best he could and limped down another row, tripping again and again over scattered supplies.

“ALEX!” the woman said again, this time much closer.  The surprise of it caused him to try and snap around, but the effort failed miserably and he fell on his side.

As he looked up, he didn’t see a woman.  He saw Ronald, the squad-mate who had been in his tent and who was his closest friend out here.

“Alex, listen to me,” Ronald said, but his voice between normal and very effeminate.  Alejandro was sure that the pain was making him hallucinate.

As Ronald stepped closer, Alejandro grabbed a fistful of his flak jacket and pulled his fellow soldier to the ground.

“Are you fucking nuts?!” Alejandro whispered.  “Get down and stay down!”

He instantly regretted his action, however, as the pull had been too harsh and Ronald had hit his head on something.  His soft features looked dazed and confused.  The thought of Ronald having soft features left Alejandro almost as confused.

“Grandpa?”

The gentle voice instantly drew Alejandro’s attention.  A small child, its features muddied and clothes torn, stood not ten feet away from him.  He scanned the child for any hidden deformity in case the Viet Cong had strapped explosives to him or her or he or she unwittingly carried a mine or grenade.

Satisfied that the child was no immediate threat, he said “Get out of here, kid.”

It occurred to him that the kid speaking English was rather unusual.

“Why, Grandpa?”  the kid asked, starting to cry.

“Stop calling me that,” Alejandro said.  “Go find your parents and get out of here.”

“Is Grandma okay?” the kid asked, ignoring his commands.

“How should I know?  Go!” Alejandro yelled, though instantly regretting the risk of giving away his position.  The child took a step back, but still silently refused.

Suddenly, a shadow shifted in background.  Instinctually, Alejandro grabbed the child and pulled it aside before trying to push himself to his feet.  He could almost see the obscured shape’s outline, manly and threatening.  It had to be Viet Cong. 

“Come on and finish it, fucker!” Alejandro yelled, but the pain in his leg reminded him how empty his bravado really was. 

“Alex…” the shape said, but Alejandro wasn’t listening.

The shape seemed to detach itself from the darkness, as if born from the trees it had been hiding in.  Alejandro was going to wait no longer.  Managing an awkward, hobbling run, he tried to tackle the shape.  He could see hints of an Asian face, covered with mud, but the sights were only fleeting.  The figure compensated for Alejandro’s off-centered momentum and spun him down to the ground.  He was going to feel ashamed at being taken down so easily, but the explosion of pain in his back drove the thought from his mind.

Alejandro expected to feel a knife at his bowels or neck, but the shape pinned his arms to his side and began to yell at him.  At first, Alejandro dismissed it as incoherent Vietnamese, but first the occasional word made sense and then he realized the shape was speaking English.

“You are Alejandro Ramirez,” the shape said with a specifically familiar mispronunciation of his name.  “You are a retired school teacher.  You are in your backyard right now.  There are no Viet Cong.  No guns.  No danger.  You are safe.  You need to wake up.  Your family needs you to wake up.”

His vision began to swim.  Everything started to take on the shadowy aspect of the shape on top of him.

“They can’t hurt you anymore, Alex,” the shape said.  “Look at me.  I’m Ronnie.  I’ve been with you since boot camp and I’m telling you that you are safe.”

Alejandro’s struggling lessened in his confusion.  As the shape identified itself, it began to take on Ronnie’s features.

“Tell me your wife’s name.  Tell me your granddaughter’s name,” the half-Ronnie ordered.

A name forced its way to the forefront of Alejandro’s mind, followed swiftly by a second.  Hour-long scenes flashed through his mind in seconds and after a moment, Alejandro realized that the familiarity that came with them meant they were memories.  This was his life he was seeing, a life presently free of suffocating jungle, free of horrors hidden in shadows, and blessedly free of the dreaded sound of young men dying.

“Sandra,” Alejandro gasped as reality reasserted itself.  “Michelle.”

“They’re here with you, right now, Alex,” Ronald said, his tone comforting but his grip still strong.  “Say something to them.”

“I…I love you.  Both of you,” Alejandro said.

+ + + + + +

Thirty seconds later, Alejandro was sitting, propped up against the side of his house in the backyard.  He looked around in pained wonderment.  Where once he had seen tents and scatter military rations, now gardening equipment and his daughter’s toys were scattered about.  His shoulder felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer and his sciatica screamed with desperate fireworks of pain up and down his leg.

Sandra knelt in front of him, one hand on his cheek, the other holding her bruised head.

“Are you alright?” Alejandro asked, his exhaustion limiting his ability to convey the shame and guilt at hurting his wife, even accidentally.

“I’m fine,” she said reassuringly.  “Are you?”

“I don’t even know what happened,” Alejandro said.  “It was so goddamn real, I…”

“PTSD,” said the voice of the shape from earlier.  Alejandro almost panicked as the sound reminded him of what he had seen, but he looked up and saw only the face of his best friend, Ronald.

“Ronnie…” Alejandro said with grateful relief.

“I called him when you started yelling and broke down the door to our room,” Sandra said.

“But…it’s never…I’ve never…that was almost thirty years ago,” Alejandro stammered.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ronald said.  “I’ve seen it manifest all kinds of ways at any given time.  It hit me ten years ago, when I heard a car backfire.”

“Where’s Michelle?  Michelle?  Baby?” Alejandro called out as he hurriedly scanned the yard.  A beautiful girl of seven, in her filthy pajamas and her hair in a ponytail, shuffled forward with a frightened look on her face.

“It’s okay, Michelle,” Alejandro said.  Michelle hesitated, looking at her mom and at “Uncle” Ronald for a moment.  She sprang forward without warning, practically leaping into her grandfather’s arms and openly sobbing.  Alejandro felt his own tears well up as he hugged his granddaughter tightly and whispered assurances of safety and love.  Sandra and Ronald moved in next to them and helped to comfort the girl.

The four remained as they were for several minutes until the fear and crying in Michelle subsided and she fell asleep in her father’s arms.

“What do I do?” Alejandro asked, unsure if he was posing the right question.

“I’ve been seeing a therapist,” Ronald admitted with some awkwardness.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Alejandro asked.

“I didn’t need to cause you any grief, either by making you worry about me or making you worry it would start happening to you,” Ronald answered.

“How do you stop it?” Alejandro asked.

“I don’t know,” Ronald answered.  “When it happens, I try to remember not to take things for granted.  Things seem out of place, confusing, things that don’t make sense.”

“You were the one who brought me back,” Alejandro said, though he forgot his point almost instantly.

“I know,” Ronald replied.  “The thing that scared me the most was that all my life after the war could have been a dream; that the last thirty years had been nothing but an illusion.  But I knew my love for my family was real.  It was something to hold onto.”

“We’re here now, right?” Alejandro asked.

“We are, Alex,” Ronald said.  “I can’t give you any secret to make it never happen again.  It’s been three years with a therapist and I still get jittery every time I hear a loud noise.  But I can say that it’s improving for me, and you can fight this.  You don’t need to be afraid of it.  I’m beating it now, and you’re even tougher than I am.  No matter how bad it gets, you’ll wake up yourself on the other side.”

“I…I don’t want to be like this,” Alejandro said, taking in the mess he had made and thinking of the girl in his arms.

“You don’t have to be,” Ronald replied.  “This won’t define you, if you don’t let it.  You’re still going to be the same old, sailor-mouthed, lame-joke-telling Alex you’ve always been.”

Alejandro closed his eyes, lowered his head, and took in a deep breath.  His heart had only just finished slowing down.  Sandra leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, and he responded by rubbing his cheek against hers.

“Let’s get you inside,” Ronald said.  

You Are Not Alone

I hear the waves behind,
Crashing with the wrath of ages.
The sound suffocates my mind,
Drowning out the voices of the sages.

I cannot turn, not to side or back,
For utter terror of obliteration
All about me I feel the cloying black,
Like Azrael come down from his station.

What haunts now is a conscious abyss,
An insatiable predator with nothing in its wake.
I can no longer vainly resist,
For my name is now the void's to take.