Posted in June 2009 …

Jun 16 2009
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A Story About Dragons (Or What Happens When I’m Bored on the Plane To LA)

Once upon a time there was a dragon. Now, I suppose there have been many dragons, because there have been many once upon a times since dragons came to be, but this particular dragon was completely typical in every way.

We shall forget about him immediately.

Have you forgotten? No? Well, I suppose dragons are not entirely forgettable. They are quite large. And i’m told they smell of far away places and the highest tops of mountains. I don’t know if this is entirely accurate. The most dragons I’ve become acquainted with smelled of barn and campfire, but I suppose one can’t be too particular. Humility is important when it comes to dragons. You may be thinking at this juncture that dragons are far too silly a thing to begin a story with, but I assure you that dragons are only the beginning.

Ah yes. The beginning. To go back entirely would take far too long, so let us merely meander back perhaps 21 years to a night much like this one.The thunder was not quite so loud, I suppose, and the wind not quite so harsh, but for our purposes, it will do. It was in a house much like this one that a woman much like myself gave birth to a boy much like you–only quite a bit smaller and much, much louder.

He was not at all pleased to be born on such a night. The thatch that had come lose during the nine months of his father’s neglect of the house (albeit it was replaced with doting on his wife so we can’t hold him responsible) had blown off in the northern gales, and so from his cradle, Laurence Temet would see his first dragon.

On nights such as this, dragons, as a general rule, are not easy to spot, nor are they easily moved from their warm caves. Unless, of course, the dragon was on a mission and had done something as silly as be born with scales of the brightest blue and silver.

The tale of a boy and his dragon has been told many times, so I am sure you are familiar with what transpired next–and so for the sake of brevity I will skip to what makes this tale worth telling. There was, as is usually the case, a girl. Now, stories of boys and girls are as commonplace as bread and water. But these are not the stories I am here to tell. I tell only the tales worth telling-those with enough magic to start a stay or with enough adventure to perhaps sway you to attempt one of your own. So. Back to the story.

There are, in our lives, moments of generally accepted Great Beauty. Perfect sunsets, the first stars of evening, the fires of the solstice, all of these are understood to be quite beautiful. Fortunately for all of us (and Laurence) it is possible to be born into a moment of Great Beauty. When this happens, (and it is rare), this beauty is imprinted on your very soul. And this is the scenario that Marion Gold found herself born into.

She was very ugly. This is unusual, I am told, for a tale. The girls in stories are supposed to be beautiful. But if our tale is to be honest, it is important to note that Marion was very ugly. Her only redeeming quality, for those concerned which such details, were her eyes. They were the color of foamy surf after a great storm and they flashed with lightning storms whenever she was angry, which was very often (Because Marion had a horrid temper).

It was only after Laurence received his third punch in the nose from Marion that he realized he was madly in love with the girl. This was a difficult situation to be in, for Laurence had signed on to be a Pirate In Training on the Good Ship Death.

Alright. This is not entirely true. But the mention of Pirates did spark your interest. I saw you, boy. I assure you there will be pirates, but for now we must stick to Marion and Laurence. As I was saying.

Laurence found himself in great difficulties. This was, however, due to the fact that Marion had pinioned him against the side of her father’s barn with several large kitchen knives.

“Take it back!”
“I will NOT take it back” said Laurence. He twitched his sleeve, but the knife inserted strategically into the cuff would not budge.
“You’re being absolutely ridiculous”. Marion sat back in a huff.
“I most CERTAINLY am not”. He struggled again but it seemed as though he was stuck there. “I–” (One last desperate struggle) love you”.
“You most certainly do not”.
“But I do”.

Truthfully, he wasn’t entirely certain, as Marion was the first girl he had ever found himself loving, but the handful of knives made him thing it best not to mention this detail at that particular moment.

“Why.” Her eyes flashed. It wasn’t a question.
“Why?” Laurence gulped.
“WHY.”
“Because….you’re….wonderful.” Laurence immediately winced as Marion ruffled. She was not one for compliments. “Well, not wonderful. I mean–it’s just–you’re…Marion. You’re…you.”

 

It may have been a very small word, but to Laurence, it held an entire universe of meaning. In it were 18 years of climbing trees and star gazing, packing lunches and exploring caves, late nights lit by firelight and glances that grew gradually longer as time went on.

“So what do you intend to do about it, then?” Marion primly smoothed her skirts, a perfect mask of practicality that belied her true thoughts on the matter, but Marion would never admit such things.
“I mean to marry you as soon as I can”.
“Who says I’d even want to marry you?”
“Well, I suppose you could become a washerwoman or something of the sort”.
“For someone who means to marry me, you’ve done a rotten job of convincing me”. She leaned back on her hands and turned her face towards the afternoon sun.
“I don’t see why we SHOULDN’T”. With a great amount of effort, Laurence freed his sleeve and began working on the large butcher knife pinning his left arm about him.
“I don’t see why we should”. A thin blade thudded squarely into the wood next to his ear.

One Great Adventure can change the course of a life. This is a generally accepted fact, but what’s usually forgotten are the standards by which all Great Adventures are judged.
There must be three things for an Adventure to be judged as Great.
1. Imminent Peril
2. Pursuit
3. Treasure.

Now, peril of any kind is generally looked down upon by the more reserved of society, but I assure you, a little well-timed peril an greatly increase appreciation for solid ground and the fires of home.
Pursuit–well, most adventures begin with the pursuit of something, but Truly Great Adventures often end in the pursuit of something entirely different from what you thought you were pursuing in the first place.
Treasure? Well, that only the seeker can define. Some men of course seek only the most mundane of treasure: gold, silver, the like, but others seek those treasures which come from other places. It was this treasure Laurence would soon find himself looking for.

Jun 16 2009
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Things of a Literary Nature.

Grahm’s Inn Prologue

(Part) of what I wrote on the plane back to Moline.

There once was a pen. It was fairly innoculous, with black ink and a comfortable grip, but otherwise very dull. It sat with several others in a small cup on a large, ornate desk in a rather plainly furnished room at the top of a boarding house in the north of England.

It was a rather dreary day in February when Grahm Barker picked up this pen and began writing a letter.

As he wrote, he would pause momentarily and gaze out his window at the rain that rippled down the glass. It went on like this for hours. The patter of the rain mixed with the scratching of the pen and created a thoroughly melancholic atmosphere in which Grahm Barker found himself thoroughly entrenched.

Perhaps, he would later reflect, this mood rubbed off into his letter, and this was the reason that Mr. Henry Davies of The Greater Northwestern Bank was so apt to reject his loan request.

Upon reciept of this letter, Grahm Barker looked around his room and did a fair amount of calculating. One week later, his pen found its new house on the bureau far less interesting, but the money Grahm had received from the sale of his grandfather’s desk ensured they (both Grahm and his writing implements) would have a home for another week.

As the days wore on, Grahm’s pen found its ink reserves dwindling at about the same rate as Grahm’s savings. Letter after letter was sent and received, each bearing the same regrettable and respectable response. Grahm found himself becoming more and more desperate.

As a young boy, he had spent his summers at his Auntie’s resort. He would entertain himself on the rocky beaches, running in the surf and having adventures. As he grew older, he found himself less interesting in having adventures and more interested in recording the adventures of the dashing gentlemen who would pat his head and give him pennies for carrying their bags. He would remember their stories and embellish, adding pirates and gypsies and great acts of daring, wishing he might be taken away on some great adventure some day as he stared off into the great grey expanse of the sea.

Eventually, his aunt grew old and passed on (as such things are bound to happen in life) and so the seaside inn was boarded up and the dashing gentlemen moved up the coast to the next hotel.
For weeks, Grahm had found himself dreaming of those summers, and on February 5th he awoke to the sound of the postman slamming the gate on his way to the porch. This slam would signify yet another letter of rejection from yet another bank, and it was another slam of a larger wooden door that would symbolize Grahm’s next move.

At 1:50 PM Grahm found himself boarding the last afternoon train with the last of him pocket money, and at 6:47, he found himself deposited on the front steps of his Auntie’s boarded up resort with nothing but his trunk, and umbrella and a package of peanuts, which he had found on the train.
It was terribly cold, and his umbrella seemed useless against the rain . It was, perhaps, partly due to the mist that blew off of the winter sea, that mingled with the rain that gave it a salty taste, but Grahm did not stop to enjoy it, but instead stared morosely at the inn and realized that this was (you’ll forgive the expression) his last resort.

With a furtive glance at the abandoned path behind him, he dragged his trunk up the wide front steps and pushed it up against the rotting boards that blocked the entrance. There was a small gap high up in the narrow boards, and he thrust his umbrella in as far as it would go and pulled down sharply. The weathered wood held for a moment and then bowed out and snapped away from the door frame with a sharp crack.

One by one (with his umbrella much worse for the wear), he knocked off the boards until the door was revealed.

He paused for a moment–the once bright door had faded to peeling gray, and the cheery floral wreath his Auntie had hung lay shriveled and black in the threshold. Thankfully, time had beaten away most of the door’s frame and so jimmying the lock was quite simple, and Grahm found himself inside without much effort.

He dragged his trunk to the foot of the winding staircase and then set about carefully restoring the boards to as to fool any passerby that might wonder about the now uncovered door.
It was dark inside, and the fading evening light that managed to trickle through the boards was thick with dust, and did little to help illuminate the expanse of the entryway and reception.
The floor creaked ominously under his weight, and Grahm wished it was light enough to see the top of the high ceilings –perhaps the shingles had blown off and rain had rotted the floor–he began to tread cautiously as he made his way to the desk.

It had been topped with marble, but the thick layer of dust made it impossible to determine if it was still there. Grahm felt his way behind the desk and in the last light of the day was able to make out the cubbyholes for each room that now were filled with a smattering of bird’s nests and cobwebs in equal amounts.

He stretched and thought better of navigating rotten stairs by moonlight, and instead made his bed on the desk. Grateful to his landlady, who had kindly insisted he bring with him several quilts, he wrapped them around himself as best he could and curled up with one last look at the blackness above him. In the dark, he could barely make out the outlines of the great crystal chandeliers that once lit the room. In the morning, he would see about shining them up and fixing up a bed for himself, but for now he just relished in the solitary thought—

It was good to be home.

Jun 16 2009
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The Story I Wrote For The Turtle That My Mom Ran Over On The Highway

Grandfather Turtle was old as the hills. The young turtles used to giggle and say that Grandfather Turtle was around when the hills were made. No one knew for sure, but the slope of his shell was higher than the oldest hills, so perhaps it was true.

He was a large, green turtle and his shell was thick and bore many scars. Sometimes, if asked when he was in a particular humor, he would chortle to himself and regale younger and more foolhardy tortoises with tales of great journeys and grand adventures.

He would lean back and thrust his head in and out of his shell a few times as though his memory needed the movement to get it going again. Then he would cough and harrumph importantly a few times and begin, his wheezy voice growing stronger as he fell into the rhythm of the tale.

One day, one of the more daring turtles (who had not yet grown old enough or done anything important enough to receive his Name) thought to ask Grandfather Turtle about the biggest scar that ran across the very dome of his shell.

It was jagged and thick, and the other turtles in the Great Tribe would often wince, thinking of what sort of accident had befallen Grandfather Turtle. This scar also belied his age and his stubbornness, for wounds that deep do not heal quickly nor easily. But time, it would seem, had healed his wounds and left only that great scar as testament to what he had seen.

Time cannot tell tales, however–those things are left to those who bear the mark of time, and so Grandfather Turtle found himself settling back on his claws and telling this brash young turtle what exactly could cause such a mark.

“Love” said Grandfather Turtle simply. “Love is what brought this scar to me, or perhaps I to it. We never know how such things quite pan out”.

He paused and stretched his front claws out, digging them in the sand. He tilted his head slowly up towards where the sun streamed through the trees and smiled, his face wrinkling into a thousand spiderwebs. If stones could smile, they would smile the smile of Grandfather Turtle.

“I have seen things, my son. I have flown in the beaks of eagles and spent many fortunes in my life. I have met kings and swum with the poorest of poor. I have tasted the finest cuisines from the world’s greatest chefs and once escaped from becoming part of the main course. I have driven motorbikes and sailed to the edges of the world, climbed great snowy mountains and slept in the most barren of deserts, but it was only when I returned home did I realize what great sights I had seen, what great lessons I had learned—”

Once again he paused. This time his eyes were filled with sadness.

“But it was only after I learned of love and what it can do to young turtles did I learn that loss is often the hardest lesson to be learned. Yes….love…it often comes with a price”.

He made as if to say more, but we’ll never know what he was going to say because it was at that very moment that my mom ran him the fuck over.

The End.

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