New Directions

Every once in a while I look back on my little blog and think about posting again. It's a short thought because, while I did love doing it, I keep feeling like I don't have a lot to say, at least not a lot to say about my daily life. Some of you may know but I've been hard at work this last year writing a musical...yup....an actual honest to goodness musical, from scratch. The tricky thing about writing something that huge is that, if you are me anyway, you spend much of your time not liking the stuff you are churning out and wishing you could say it much better, which in turn does not lead to me writing other things. However, my first draft is finally done and I am a little more objective so I finally feel like putting together an average post.

Also, I feel like I finally understand a few things...cottage cheese for instance. Salty, creamy, chunky and cold it just works on a hot day. Boy, am I glad I got that out of the way.

Anyhow, back to what I understand.

I have been poking away at some of my old writing and finally, after at least four drafts and much thought, I have figured out how to fix my old An Architect's Tower story. If you have read my old story you will notice that about half way through I went wildly off the tracks and veered straight into my old University mentality, namely, it isn't a story of importance unless it is about something "Important." A love story (which, like it or not was where I was going) was not good enough, I had to find somewhere else to go. You know.... abuse, horrific family life, race relations, war, sexuality or any other capital I "Ideas." If you got that far in my story you know exactly what I am talking about.

Part of the problem was I had mixed up my themes. I started my story thinking it was about one thing, how Antoni Gaudi came up with the idea for his snail shell stairs in the bell towers, and it ended up being more about Antoni and Beatriz and a final chance at forgiveness. Maybe that happens a lot to other authors. Maybe it just happens a lot to me. All that matters is that I was, frankly, annoyed with my characters for moving out of the role that I had originally given them. (I only put Beatriz in so that she could give him a snail shell from his childhood. I never really intended that they would hang out and fall in love. The nerve!)

Well, just few days ago the coin finally dropped. I understood how to fix it. How, you ask?

I'll try to explain:

1. I gave up trying to talk about something "Important" and focused instead on what was important to these characters. What did they want from the other people in the story? Why did Beatriz come to Barcelona that day? (It turns out, old dying women do not take their first day trip ever to the city just to deliver snail shells and make my life easy.)

2. Ahh, the value of rewriting. I used to think that stories, novels, poems and plays were born on the wind of pure inspiration. Either they began life as perfect specimens or were utter failures. I really don't think so any more. The first draft, which you have read here, really just served as a blueprint, lining out the characters, giving direction to the themes, perhaps even identifying some useful symbols. Case in point; I thought I was writing a story on the theme of artistic revelation. But what I was really writing about, was love and forgiveness. I didn't want to talk about that! But apparently, in order to write this story, I had to. To get there I had to rewrite the whole last half...several times. I was shocked. I had always thought rewriting (if you had to do it) consisted of fixing your punctuation and rearranging moments. Apparently not.

3. I decided to "preach to the converted." Perhaps you'll understand this, perhaps you won't but it helped me a lot. I read an interview from the playwright who wrote "Angels in America" and he said that as an artist you can't change anyone's mind about things, that's not your job, your job as a writer is to present new takes on old situations. You have to essentially talk as though everyone already agrees with you. You have to assume that readers or viewers will come along with you, not badger them to take the trip and clobber them with your ideas. (My words, he said it better.) Granted, you have to be clear in your descriptions and plot the ideas, just don't preach at people hoping to convert them to an opinion! (BTW, I wasn't actually trying to "convert" you, I just thought that this was how you write about "important ideas." Turns out I was wrong.)

Long and short of it is something I have known to be true for a while. For the record, I have never wanted to be a pastor. I have always seen what I do as being very different. Even so, many people have insisted that artists essentially do the same job. After all, we both have ritual and present things in front of a gathering of people which, presumably, are interested in what we have to say. I have never been really able to explain what the difference was but I think now I can put at least part of this concept into words.

We both, at our best, deal with truth. Not opinion (even though I am very opinionated) but truth. Who really cares about opinions and advice anyway? I know I disagree with more than half of the stuff I hear and eventually I reject 3/4 of my own opinions. For instance, I'm not a big fan of Paula Abdul now...but for about two weeks when I was fifteen she was the best song writer and singer in the world. Really. In the end there isn't anything worth talking about in a public way unless there is some honest to goodness truth to it. Truth in the absolute sense, not in a relative way like "it was true for me at the time." For instance, if a character lies in a story there are consequences to that lie. If you ignore that as a writer your story feels as though it has "holes" in it. You've ignored something (truth: lies have consequences) and it's obvious. I suppose it could work to your advantage if you meant to work against that rule but the rule still exists, it doesn't cease to be true. (In fact, you might be able to build tension that way.) Or, if a painter wants to paint a flower (and have it seen as a flower) they have to obey certain truths about line, form and the use of colour or it just won't work. We won't see the flower. (My old theatre professors used to urge us to find a "universality" to our stories...I guess truth isn't a cool word because what he was talking about is often the same thing.) However, a good pastor doesn't just chat about it, he dispenses Truth whole, tangibly, in word and sacrament. For instance, he doesn't just talk about forgiveness, he gives it. On the other hand, as an artist, I take truth apart, creating a vessel on paper, canvas or stage for some small piece of it and trying my best to represent truth (create it, craft it, imitating what I see and feel) so that others can see it. In a way I get to show the effect of truth, what it does. I can show forgiveness, and the effects giving or not giving forgiveness can have, but I can't give it. I can also show horrible things, consequences, but thankfully I can't give consequences either. So, I get to deal with all the truth in the world and it's effects....That is, if I manage to do it well.

Long and short: You can see from my old story I was definitely trying to tell everyone my opinion, and even that got mixed up. I should just stick with truth and showing, not explaining.

So, anyway what I would like to do with my blog going forward is to show some of the "first draft wobbles" so that people can see a little of my process. I hope that it might help someone else who is learning to write and I also hope that you can watch me grow too...although I have a feeling I will likely forget everything I've learned with the next story. After reading interviews with other authors I'm pretty sure that's how it goes. If I do, I hope you will refer me back to this page before I ride off into the sunset on my high horse. Please.

On another note, I should have my finished story ready to go soon along with a book of poems. I hope to publish these as ebooks or through Lulu or some such thing...hopefully by the end of the month! We'll see. I'll keep you posted.

The Death of a Mime

If a mime falls on his death bed does anyone hear? I know most people can't stand mimes. After all, they usually stand on a street corner,performing inane things and unable to give proper directions! Those people also never saw Marcel Marceau perform. The man was truly amazing. He was able, through simple motion, to express the infinite. I had the pleasure of watching him on video in one of my acting classes. There we all were, struggling to look like we were drinking out of a mimed cup, with most of us just looking like we were chewing our fists. So many observations were needed. What is the right weight of the "cup"? How big? What was in it? Meanwhile Marcel the master of the craft was able to show the range of humanity, from birth to death, in a matter of ten minutes, all clearly. I got the feeling that he could give excellent directions too, if necessary. We were lucky to have one of his students teaching our class. He was truly amazing. The sheer athletic prowess was something to behold and the very fact that Marcel Marceau, in his twilight years, could continue to do moves that a twenty year old would weep from, was enough to endow him with super status!
At any rate, the artistic world has lost a great leader and mentor. Farewell sweet prince.

Under the Eaves

Here is a short poem I wrote the other day. I hope you enjoy it:

Under the Eaves

If I sit long enough
I can hear
the rain dance on a thousand rooftops,
splish in fierce torrents under passing cars,
drip, a high ping from an eave to the ground.
And to this wild concert of sound
the tin pitched gush of the drainpipe,
the low murmer of the gutter,
I add my breath in soft circles
passing the sweet tang
of rain blessed air
into my world.

All is very quiet, All is still.
For who would be out here?
Watching the earth drink?
The heavens open?
You'd get soaked.

Ah, perhaps there is memory yet to be guided by
Little ears,
little toes,
little eyes
and I know
if we sit long enough
Shhhhh.
Magic still happens.

Englehart Derailment

I recently started doing some editing and writing for a company newsletter up here. I thought you might be interested in this story about some pretty heroic people. Who knew that civilians could also work as a first response team? Here it is:
Derailment Heroes

It could have been a disaster. A few months ago, terrifying pictures flashed across our TV screen and appeared on our front pages. A spill of sulphuric acid had occurred when an Ontario Northland train had jumped its tracks. The nation gasped. Englehart’s townspeople had been warned not to drink the water, or even use it for their livestock.

Out of the focus of the camera lenses, a brave and determined team from our site worked a marathon schedule in difficult conditions in order to make things right. “When there is a spill of our product in Canada, the closest site sends a team out right away,” says Perry Harvey, head of our team members during the cleanup. “It’s part of Xstrata’s ‘Responsible Care’ program. When a spill occurs, we are the first ones on site.” Timmins was given the call and leapt into action. Two key members of the HSMAT team were sent right away to assess the damage and begin planning, while the remaining members prepared to send eight more to battle the spill. When the team arrived, they discovered that fifteen S.A. tank rail cars, and seven box cars of zinc and copper, all our products, as well as sixteen other cars had derailed. A daunting 1.78 million pounds of acid needed to be transferred or otherwise dealt with, but this was no easy task as the terrain and the weather conditions were dangerous. The train had jumped the tracks far into the bush. If any member of the team were to become injured, it would take at least twenty minutes to get to where the ambulance was stationed. Since the acid had flowed into the Blanche River there was no potable water on site to maintain the emergency showers which would have to be used in case someone became contaminated. There were no roads into the area so all tools and supplies would have to be carefully planned. The team and their tools would need to be shipped down the rail directly to the site, and since the weather had fluctuated that weekend, the slope down to the river was treacherous.

Our team took it all in stride. Working with the utmost concern for safety and in extreme caution, they began by hosing down the area to dilute the acid so that the team could work on it. They also built safe working platforms and made a ramp and ladder to improve the footing on the slope. They were soon supplemented by the Sudbury crew who worked with them in gruelling twelve hour shifts, twenty four hours a day. Using a special pump to take the acid out of the overturned cars and into new cars, they laboured to save the product, and clean the area, all the while avoiding contamination. A few times they needed to cut new holes in the overturned tanks to retrieve the fluid. They also covered the acid laced ground with soda ash in order to neutralize it. The ash turned the acid into harmless water, heat, and carbon dioxide. Meetings took place every morning and evening to assess the progress.

It took six full days of painstaking work before the site could be declared clean and ready for the next set of workers to come in. Grateful Englehart citizens opened their stores and restaurants early and kept them open late every day just so they could serve these tired workers.
In the end our team had done an amazing job. They had transferred eleven tank cars of acid in rough terrain and poor weather conditions with no injuries and no exposures. The news was right, it could have been a disaster, but thanks in part to the work of our very own HSMAT team it was simply a job well done.

Thanks in acknowledgements section to:
Perry Harvey and Tim Miller for interview

Wednesday Story: Eileen and the Wings of Glory part 6

Eileen’s throat tightened, “this is the man who has my daughter?”

Bruce turned his head and looked her firmly in the eye, “Yes. And if he has me our world will fall.”

“But how ... how did you end up with me?”

Bruce cleared his throat. “The council was divided which way to go, some believed that they could control Nestor by his bond to me, others that I should be ... destroyed, Petula alone saw another way. There are few, even of the fairy kind who travel to other worlds. Petula remembered you from all those years ago, a little girl, kind and brave. She believed there was no magic in your world, and few know the gates, ... she was certain I would be safe there.”

Eileen was certain she would fall, her brain was spinning. “But he followed you Bruce! Nestor followed you!”

“I know and that I regret but we must ...”

“Regret! Regret! It’s my daughter, Bruce! She’s only five and a man like that ... Nestor ... he could do anything. How could you and Petula put us in danger like that? I have nothing to do with your world, nothing! Sure, I rescued the fairy when I was five, but that doesn’t mean that I wanted to sign up for danger, danger and more danger! Oh, and just because I asked for a flying horse, when I was five, doesn’t mean that I want to go fight a bad guy. A bad guy no one in your world seems willing to fight! You and your ... Petula, really! You assumed too much! How nice of you to bring me into this, and now my daughter too. You are the only reason she is gone! You regret it, how very nice!”

Bruce shook his mane fiercely, “Surely you can see my situation. Besides, Petula spoke highly of your bravery, your kindness, you can think of a way to save us.”

“I can’t Bruce.” Eileen trembled, “Look at me. I’ve got dish pan hands, I’m no hero. You’ll just have to deliver yourself to Nestor, so that I can take my daughter home.”

“I won’t do it.”

“You will. It’s an order. You have to do as I say, right?”

“Absolutely your worship.” Bruce looked firmly straight ahead and Eileen could feel his muscles go stiff under hands.

Eileen patted Bruce’s shoulder, “Someone will rescue you. Petula maybe. I’m just not the one.”
The rest of the ride to the gate was steely quiet. That was just fine with Eileen, she didn’t feel like talking. The last time she had been set up was in Grade 10 when Clare put cheat notes in her desk during an exam. Up until that day Clare had been her best friend. Eileen had sworn she would never be so naive again ... and yet, through no fault of her own here she was again, and this time her daughter was in danger.

The gate rose up before them so quickly that Eileen gasped. It was breathtaking. Surrounded on all sides by white billows of cloud the gate itself seemed formed out of bits of bright sunlight. Not beams of sunlight, but tightly woven ribbons so fine it appeared to be wrought not only on the surface but in layer after layer until the eye could only guess at its depth. The gate was clearly closed as the whole centre appeared to be a solid mass of weaving all pulsating in different directions. And it was radiating incredible heat. Eileen put her arm up to shield herself.

"There’s no need for that your highness. It won’t leap out and bite you.” As if to prove his point Bruce swung dangerously close to its gleaming sides so that Eileen could feel the heat radiating like a coil on her stove against her leg.

“Would you please stop that? You almost burnt my leg.”

“Did I? So sorry my lady, I did not imagine it would.”

Eileen gritted her teeth, “And stop that too!”

“Stop what, Sahib?”

Eileen growled under her breath. Bruce was difficult before, now he was becoming unbearable. Just as well he was going to Nestor, it would teach him a lesson. Bruce touched down without warning just in front the gate. Eileen gave a little squeal as Bruce’s hooves touched the cloud, sank an inch or two into the depths and then remained level. “You’ve got to be kidding.” she murmured.

Bruce shook himself so hard it almost dislodged her, “Time to get off oh Queen of the kitchen. That is if those dish pan hands can let go of my mane.”

“What! You’ve got to be kidding! This is a cloud, and as my grade three teacher kindly pointed out you can not stand on clouds....”

“I’m standing on one. We can’t fly through the gate you know, and you won’t be able to duck through on my back.”

Eileen glanced nervously at the cloud. It was true, it did appear somewhat solid, for a cloud. Bruce’s hooves rested firmly on something that looked as much like a rock as a cloud could, but there was no telling how far that bit of solidness went. She gulped hard. “I’ll just hold your mane, ok?” She slid down his back and onto the ground, touching it carefully with one toe. It appeared to be solid. Just to make sure she stood as close to his hooves as possible. That position, as well as holding tightly to Bruce’s mane, made her feel like she was in the middle of a game of Twister.

Bruce snickered, “You really do like to make things as awkward as possible, don’t you?”

“Look, I’m down, this is as good as its going to get. Just keep moving.”

Bruce walked a steady pace with Eileen shuffling awkwardly beside him until his nose practically touched the gate. The heat was searing but Bruce didn’t seem to mind, instead he sniffed the gate delicately.

“How are we going to get in?”

“Could I have some quiet please? I am concentrating. The gate’s many layers are portals to other worlds, you simply press on the round finger guide and the door flies open sucking you in.”

Eileen squinted and could just make out a small round disk placed in a different spot on each
layer. “Oh, I see. Pressing on the wrong one could be a bit of a problem.”

“Ha.” Bruce chuckled wryly, “A bit. No one travels these anymore because people either disappeared or were turned so entirely inside out they were pretty much dead.”

“Pretty much?” The thought of being inside out and not quite dying just about turned out the last of her lunch.

“Professor Colsnop of the Fairy Institute was one of the last through the gates. He still does a lot of work translating old texts. It’s quiet and no one has to smell him. The stench is pretty bad... That’s odd.”

“You’re telling me.”

Bruce gave the door another large sniff, top to bottom this time, “No, not him. It’s just that I can usually smell the other side of the gate. Each one smells different. Some gates smell like bees wax or brine, there was one that smelled like sulfur. Yours smelled like apples, which is odd considering there doesn’t appear to be any. Mine should smell like the dregs of Claptrap, probably because the fairies are always making so much of it. With all of their parties it’s a wonder they get anything done. Anyhow, the smell is gone.”

“Maybe it smells different from this side of the door?”

“No, that’s not it. There’s no smell at all. It is as though someone has taken all the scents right off the gate itself. There isn’t one left.”

Wednesday Story: Eileen and the Wings of Glory Part 5

By the time they sent out the call it was too late.

Bruce let out a mighty neigh, “Those who died from the dragon’s fire were lucky, there was a huge famine, coupled with a bad winter. To their credit the second kingdom rallied aid. Queen Mestlin herself rode Netal over the passes to protect the supply train. Netal later told me she could see bursts of flame over the villages but there was nothing they could do. The dragon appeared to be baiting them, he would light the fires in the village and then, just as Netal rose to the first cloud she would see him diving on the train from high in the mountains. The train lost three wagons before everyone caught on. It broke her heart but the Queen could not risk leaving the train even for a moment. Even so, with the dragon circling they had to double back again and again. Winter had begun in earnest by the time the train reached the first of the villages and for many, it was too late. Then word reached the Queen that her cousin, who for many years had plotted against her, was now taking advantage of her absence and advancing her army towards the capital. The Queen had no choice but to leave at once, and the people despaired.

And with perfect timing, now that the people were desperate and alone, Nestor arrived, like a god entering his temple, his armour shining like the sun, his sword cruel and long. Some even say the steed he rode had Pegasi blood in his veins ... but that is preposterous!” Bruce shook his head hard and gave a loud neigh. “He rode into the capital, killed the dragon in a short but spectacular battle, and set up shop. The people insisted, ... insisted he take the throne. And that’s when the real trouble started.”

“Oh.” Eileen grimaced, “How much worse could it be?”

“Much worse. Nestor implemented, for the people’s safety, a curfew, and his own men, who appeared like magic from the hills, patrolled the streets of the capital, to ‘search the sky for dragons’. At first they were all hailed as heros, although those cowards had faced far less than the people had in a week. Then disappearances began. Whole families, in the night. They were said to be eaten by dragons, though no sign of one has been seen since. People all through the kingdom, whomever were left, were catalogued and numbered, many were sent to live in different, safer, regions. Beautiful women and boys were sent to the capital for safe keeping but were never seen by their families again.

In the midst of all this the time came for the Pegasi bonding. Although Nestor was king the council of fairies greatly feared his ambition. Coupled with the power of the pegasi he would be a terrible force. He could rule the world.”

Eileen’s throat tightened, “this is the man who has my daughter?”

Bruce turned his head and looked her firmly in the eye, “Yes. And if he has me our world will fall.”

Wednesday Story: Eileen and the Wings of Glory Part 4

Eileen staggered out the screen door, her hair still steaming from the explosion and gave a little wave with the Scum Remover can. She wasn’t sure she could let it go. All the muscles in her body were so tense they wouldn’t release on their own. “Hey Bruce. This stuff actually does take out scum.”

Bruce dropped the branch of the African Fig that he was chewing, “what happened to you?”

“Cleaning.” Eileen’s muscles suddenly released and she melted down onto the sidewalk.

“Really? Petula had said there was no magic in this world. Hmm. Do you always clean this way?”

Eileen just stared. “Always.”

“If I had known rinsing would be this big of a deal I would have told you to forget it.” He nudged her several times with his nose. “No time for sitting, we’ve got to go right away. Your daughter is in terrible danger. We’ll start flying and figure something out on the way.”

After several truly embarrassing attempts to get on Bruce’s back, all of which ended with Eileen either falling on the ground or sitting backwards, she was finally holding on for dear life watching the ground lift away below her feet.

Bruce pulled his head forward and shook, “Not so tight Eileen! You’re going to rip my mane right off!”

Eileen didn’t feel so good. She had never been air sick, but then, every plane she had been on had sported a floor ... and a chair. “I don’t think I can. I am going to be sick, or fall off, or both. Oh dear!”

“Oh no you’re not!” Bruce yelled , his hide forming goose bumps under her hand.

Eileen grimaced as the whole world as she knew it became so small she could put it in her pocket.“This is not going to work. There must be another way. Surely there’s a door in a closet or hole in a lake or something else. Anything else. You could fly. I’d meet you there.”

“Absolutely not, I go where you go. I am lotted to you alone. I can’t change what the fairy council has done. For a little girl who wanted a flying horse, you would think you’d like flying ... or at least riding.”

Eileen clenched her teeth together, “I was five.”

The next twenty minutes passed in more or less silence. Eileen tried desperately to loosen her grip on Bruce’s mane and took long soothing breaths in the hopes that it would calm down her tummy. When a small flock of birds came bursting out of a cloud in front of them Eileen waved her free arm frantically hoping they wouldn’t hit her in the nose. It was at that moment she realised she was still holding the scum remover. How embarrassing. If anyone saw her waving around a cleaning bottle they would think she had gone mad. Actually, if anyone saw her flying on the back of a Pegasus that would be the least of her problems. She quickly tucked the cleanser into one of the pockets on her apron.

They had levelled off now and Bruce turned his head ever so slightly, “Well, you must be doing a little better, you’re not riding like a sack of potatoes anymore.”

“Thanks.” she said.

“A few more days should have you in shape. We have about twenty more minutes until the gate so now might be a good time to come up with plan. I don’t think we should fly right in ... too dangerous. He might just kill you and take me and the girl ... we’ll land a days walk to the south. He doesn’t watch the borders much, not enough men yet that he can fully trust. Now, how are we going to defeat Nestor.”

Eileen took a deep breath, “Look. I just want my daughter. No offence but, I really can’t get involved with your politics. He wants you, you go with him.” she patted him reassuringly, “I’m sure he’ll have nice grass.”

Eileen nearly fell as Bruce reared in the air, “Nice grass! Nice grass! Nestor is evil! He’ll do anything to gain power. That is why the fairy council sent ...” he cleared his throat anxiously, “I can’t and I won’t”

“Oh, yes you will. He can’t be all bad.” she bit her lip hard, “Besides, you could run away.” Something tickled the back of Eileen’s brain, “Hey, what ‘fairy council’? I did not rescue a council of fairies I know that much for certain. What is going on here?”

Bruce sighed, “I wasn’t supposed to tell you. Alright, it seems only fair now that your daughter has been taken. You did rescue Petula when you were five, but she had no intention of rewarding you with me.”

“See! Ha, ha! I knew it.” Eileen tossed her head, accidentally letting go of Bruce’s mane. For a moment she seemed suspended in air and then finally, she grasped the thick strands of mane once more.

Bruce didn’t appear to notice, “Ah hem. No, instead she gave you the figurine you found at the end of your lane.”

“Oh, I loved that one. It was a lovely horse with wings, all crystal. It made the best rainbows when I set it on my window sill. I wonder where it has gone?”

Bruce snorted, “Yes, on reflection quite a suitable replacement. Anyhow, the pegasi of our land are rare, only four are bred every fifty years, we are highly trained, tightly guarded and when we are mature we are only lotted to one of the four rulers of our world. We are lotted for life and must do what they command.”

“Oh. How did you escape?”

“Escape! I didn’t escape! Never in all my life have I ...” what sounded like a growl rumbled in his throat. “You have no idea. It came time for the pegasi to be lotted but there had been trouble in the third kingdom. The king and his pegasus, D’Argon, died while performing a simple manoeuvre for the crowd on Ascension Day. They were doing a lay up into the clouds when D’Argon suddenly lost air and plunged into a tree. They both fell to their deaths. D’Argon was a great Pegasi, strongest of his fold, those sent to the third kingdom always are, they have to be. He had years left to his pasturing it seems incredible that something so simple could bring him down. Then the Queen died of a broken heart, and soon after their little boy disappeared during a walk with his nurse in the woods. The nurse disappeared too. All very suspicious. Everything had an explanation, mind, but taken all together it was suspicious. Then a dragon started troubling the kingdom.

“Dragon?” terrible nightmares fled through her head. While other children had brought flashlights into their bedrooms to ward off monsters, Eileen had made a nest under her bed to protect herself from dragons. “As in real Dragons? I thought it was just, make believe.” but then everything make believe was suddenly real. Why not that?

Bruce sighed, “Even here many do not imagine they exist. They are rarely seen. Dragons usually hate populated areas, and are incredibly lazy.” Bruce laughed, “There is a dragon who lives at the tine, Nimbleflame, the fairy council had brought him to protect the breeding grounds ... but you would be lucky to wake him with an army. Fairy Tusca dotes on him and feeds him too many cows. However, the dragon in the third kingdom acted like none before him. He had an unquenchable thirst for carnage. He raided for days on end. He openly attacked many of the noble keeps and carried off anything of value, including the young boys who never returned. Now, a fully trained king or queen with their pegasus and quarter of knights, could have ended the dragon, or at least bound him to a place far away, but the kingdom was defenceless. Many of the knights who could have stood a chance against the beast were attacked and killed before they could band together. It was almost as though the dragon knew everything, who to attack and when. The winter winds were almost at our door by the time a single knight arrived at the tine. He was barely alive. The dragon had hunted him over the mountains. He had been burned and left for dead by the beast but still managed to crawl to the council chamber in the hope that the fairies could band the kingdoms together to save his. He died in the end and the fairies, with their politics at their feet, argued away the remaining weeks before winter. By the time they sent out the call it was too late."

Wednesday Story: Part 3 - Eileen and the Wings of Glory

The morning had to get better.

It didn’t. Eileen arrived in the bathroom just in time to see what looked like a scrawny, dirty little man, disappear down her bathtub drain. There, scrawled into the grime on the tub wall read,

“The Pegasus for the girl. Or you will miss her baby brown curls. Nestor.”

Stuck to the bottom of the message with a wad of chewing gum was a pink ribbon still holding a few strands of brown curly hair. It was the same ribbon Bonnie had worn to school.

The room spun, “Bonnie! My Bonnie!” Someone had her, some one who wanted ... Propping herself against the sink she pulled herself over to the window and pushed it open, “Bruce!” Bruce stood by the fence, the long stem of a prize astilbe hanging out of his mouth. He was ignoring her, “Bruce!”

“I need proper nourishment, many a pegasus has died from ...”

Eileen gripped her hair, “Bruce, someone has my daughter!”

Bruce turned, eyes wide, ears back, and galloped to the window, “What?”

“Someone,” she glanced back at the grimy words, “I can’t quite make it out ... Nestor? He has my daughter. I don’t even know who he is.”

Bruce blew hard through his nostrils, “Nestor. He found me.”

Eileen’s eyes fixed on Bruce, “What do you mean, he found you?”

“You had better come outside so we can talk, quietly, his Pipe Haggers are quiet efficient.” he glanced through the window at the writing on the tub. “And I’d rinse that off right away, it’s very corrosive.”

Eileen gently took down the ribbon and hair and laid it on a towel by the tub. It seemed that the slightest gust of her breath would blow the strands of Bonnie’s hair away and leave her with nothing. Her own parents had seemed so strong when she was little, so invincible. Every danger melted away with the sight of their pant leg. She wasn’t invincible, come on, she could hardly get the soap scum off the tub. Now, here she was with a flying horse and a Pipe Hagger, whatever that was. She was a housewife, for goodness sake, with rough hands and a round bum to boot, what could she do? She glanced down at the ribbon again. Bonnie was so small, even though she was five Eileen still rocked her to sleep at night. “Momma’s coming little one. Momma’s coming.” she murmured.

Gripping the Super Scum Remover in both hands she aimed at the letters and squeezed the trigger hard. A blast of white foam coated the tub in swaths that slowly dripped together, gathering speed on the way to the drain. For a moment she could see the letters turning into a blotchy mess and then ... BOOM! Eileen staggered back as the air was filled with rancid smoke and bright streaks of light. When she finally opened her eyes, there was her tub, clean and bright, just like the day they had bought it. It was stunning.

Eileen staggered out the screen door, her hair still steaming from the explosion and gave a little wave with the Scum Remover can. She wasn’t sure she could let it go. All the muscles in her body were so tense they wouldn’t release on their own. “Hey Bruce. This stuff actually does take out scum.”

Bruce dropped the branch of the African Fig that he was chewing, “what happened to you?”

“Cleaning.” Eileen’s muscles suddenly released and she melted down onto the sidewalk.

“Really? Petula had said there was no magic in this world. Hmm. Do you always clean this way?”

Eileen just stared. “Always.”

Wednesday Story: Eileen and the Wings of Glory Part 2

Brandishing the bear high above her head Eileen ran screaming out the back door, down the steps, and came to a complete stop. This wasn’t just any horse standing in her yard. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. His hide was so white it glowed in the sunshine, and as the wind ruffled the leaves on her neighbour’s maple, the hide rippled, changing texture and colour like facets of a diamond. Perhaps most astonishing of all were the soft white wings folded along his body. Eileen wasn’t sure she could breathe.

“That’s a most unusual way to greet someone. Is the bear a gift?”

Her jaw dropped open and refused to close. The horse loudly sniffed at the sunburnt grass, took a big bite of the nicest green patch, ruffled his feathers and continued, “Well then, might as well get on with it. Eileen McGovern? It is you isn’t it?”

Eileen blinked twice.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Special Delivery.”

“Um ... pardon?” the words barely squeaked out of her mouth.

“I believe you wished for a flying horse.” Bruce spit the wad of grass on to a paving stone, “Well, here I am. My name is Bruce, a pegasus, I come from a long line of distinguished stallions ...”

“I’m sorry ... I wished?”

Bruce shook his mane and blew out his lips, “Yes, yes ... let’s see, 12th of May 1974, you rescued fairy Petula Mendelsa Ripplebottom Crocus from a jar of fireflies. She said, “How may I repay you?” You said ...”

Eileen’s eyes opened wide,“... A flying horse.”

“Exactly, a flying horse. So, here I am.” Bruce pulled another carefully selected wad of grass from the lawn and chewed it delicately with his front teeth.

“But, I was five.”

Bruce looked Eileen up and down and shrugged, “So?” With a twist of his mouth he spit again, this time hitting Bonnie’s little pink tricycle.

“I was five and now I’m thirty seven! And ... that’s disgusting.” The green gob of half eaten grass began its slow decent to the ground. “I don’t need any more messes to clean up, you know.”

“Pegasi aren’t exactly pots of gold. You can’t just smelt one in your basement. So, here I am and here you are ... wish complete, debt repaid, so on and so forth. . . aren’t you going to say something?”

“Um.”

“Good. Darien gets the Prince of Belise, Shofla has the Queen of Mestlin and I get Eileen of ...”

“467 Rowan Crescent.”

“Hmm. Yes, exactly. Lucky me.”

“Oh.”

Bruce glanced over the fence and into the Hendrew’s yard and into the most spectacular garden in all of Burnstock. Bruce just shook his mane, “Do you at least have some oats? I’m starving.”
Eileen paused. This couldn’t be happening. She barely remembered the fairy, and to be honest, in the memory she looked suspiciously like Tinkerbell.“Well, you see, there must be some mistake. I wasn’t expecting a horse ...”

Bruce’s upper lip peeled back, “A pegasus, if you please.”

“Right, well, I didn’t even think the fairy was real. I was five, I thought I made it up. And now as you can see I really can’t have a horse ...”

“Pegasus.”

“In my yard. I just can’t. There’s no room and, I’m really busy, and ...” As Eileen paused, a serene calm washed over her face, she started to laugh, “just a second, I get it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she placed one plump hand over her heart and began to chant, “I don’t believe in Pegasus, I don’t believe in Pegasus, I don’t believe in Pegasus.” She opened one eyelid just the slightest. Bruce, the pegasus, was still there. “Dam! Ok, I don’t believe in fairies, I don’t believe in fairies, I...”

“Are you alright?”

Eileen’s eyes flew open,“How can you still be here?”

Bruce rubbed his hocks casually with his nose for a bit, then swung around so he was looking firmly down his nose at her. “Just because you believe something is real or not doesn’t matter a straw. A thing is real because it is. Honestly!” he turned around and gently preened his feathers with his teeth, “I was serious about the oats. Your grass is, well, below standards. And then I’d like a nap. Travelling between worlds isn’t easy.”

Eileen’s could feel her headache returning with a vengance, “Look, my day hasn’t exactly gone very well, and really, you caught me a little off guard, it has been thirty four years.”

“Thirty two.”

“Whatever. And to be honest, if she had asked me today I would have asked for something else. Like something to clean the house.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, “That was harsh.”

“Can’t you just go back to the fairy who sent you here?”

For the first time Bruce looked truly offended. He stretched out his long neck high in the air and pawed at the grass, tossing loose clods of dirt into the air and onto Eileen’s clean windows.

“Certainly not! A pegasus has never been sent back to the breeding tine. Ever. It would be a disgrace. I am lotted to you, I may only go where you go.”

“Oh.” The air outside was feeling a little too thin and Eileen had a sudden urge to scrub something, really hard. Even the scum in the bathtub looked good right now. “Try some grass, I have things to do.” she flicked her flowered apron with annoyance and marched up the stairs, throwing the screen door back with vigour. The morning just had to get better.

Wednesday Story: Eileen and the Wings of Glory

I have been working away on a "short" story that I hope you will all enjoy. Now if you will endulge me as I give you one of my most favorite genres ...



Eileen McGovern knelt on her chubby knees, her round bottom high in the air, scrubbing the bathroom tub with all the strength she could muster. True, there was not as much elbow grease left in her scrubbing, but she hated housework, and under the circumstances this was as good as she could do. After a whirlwind summer of soccer practice and art camp, Jamie, Clarke, and Bonnie had finally headed off to school leaving Eileen to scrape clean the summer grime. Flicking her drippy brown hair out of her equally brown eyes she squeezed more Super Scum Remover on the drain area. The yellow band around the tub reappeared no matter how much she rinsed. The scum was out to get her.

She could feel her hair creeping slowly down into her eyes again and a ribbon of sweat dripped steadily onto her nose. Eileen tossed the sponge at the tub, “What a joke. All this work and I’m still not done.” After a full week and a day of straight cleaning, speaking to herself was as exciting as it got. She made a fist and pressed it into her back, catching a glimpse of the ceiling out of the corner of her eye. “What a mess!” she screamed. There was mould up there too.
Things had been going badly all day. She had forgotten to pack the lunches the night before, Clarke refused to wear anything but a grubby jersey, and Bonnie had clung to her leg during the entire walk to school. To top it off she had locked herself out of the house and had subsequently been stuck for half an hour in the basement window, wondering if she could wiggle her way into the house before the neighbours called the police. It was not a good day.

“Argh!” Her head felt like a balloon. The Super Scum Remover was supposed to leave everything sparkling. “But notice,” , she said rubbing her nose furiously, “there’s no ‘stinky’ symbol next to the explosive symbol on the side of the can!” It was time for some fresh air.

Hard as it was to ignore the layer of dust on the window sill, she steeled herself and threw her shoulder into the bottom of the frame. The window slid up with a grunt, and she breathed in. There was no fresh air at all. Outside something pressed up against the screen, blocking all the air. Something big, and white.“Just one more fantastic surprise! Great!” Eileen flicked the screen to push the thing away. The thing moved. On its own. Trembling she watched as the white thing turned around and a pair of brown eyes came swaying into view. It was a horse. She blinked twice. Yes, a horse. Actually, that was a bit of a surprise.

She took a big breath in and squeaked,“I’ve been in the bathroom too long.” Racing to the door she quickly turned on the fan. “All those chemicals! It’s no wonder.” She cautiously looked over her shoulder; the horse was still there.

The horse tilted his head, “Eileen McGovern?”

Eileen blinked frantically. She rubbed her eyes. She looked around. “Clarke? Darren?”

“Actually, the name’ s Bruce I...”

Eileen slammed the window down so hard it shook. Then, quickly shutting the door for good measure, she ran into the hall and leaned panting for breath against the wall. “I must have mixed the cleaners.”

She glanced into Jamie’s room. The shades of paint splashed on the walls were very trippy indeed but that was just the way Jamie liked it. All the clothes were still strewn across the floor, her stereo sat cockeyed and open above her bed, and her stuffed bear, the large one that her boyfriend had won at the carnival, was sitting very still on the middle of her bed. It didn’t appear to be talking. Just to be sure Eileen walked across the room and poked it. The bear didn’t move. She breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m not hallucinating that much.”

Actually, the bear felt rather soft and more than a little comforting, so, feeling rather silly, Eileen clutched the bear in front of her, and tiptoed to the bathroom. She took in a few more deep breathes just to clear her head and slowly opened the door. Through the frosting on the glass she could just make out a large white shape, moving gently side to side. It still looked remarkably like a horse. Like the rear end of a horse. If it was a real horse, which she doubted, it was wedged into the yard pretty tightly. Eileen and Darren could only afford a semi, and even then the yard was barely more than a glorified path to the garage. Who ever thought this prank up had some serious time on his hands! Still, if it was a real horse, which, again, was highly unlikely, it would come with some real poop, which, in turn would mean more cleaning. Her hands clenched tightly around the bear’s throat, “not today buster!”she yelled.

Brandishing the bear high above her head Eileen ran screaming out the back door, down the steps, and came to a complete stop. This wasn’t just any horse standing in her yard. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. His hide was so white it glowed in the sunshine, and as the wind ruffled the leaves on her neighbour’s maple, the hide rippled, changing texture and colour like facets of a diamond. Perhaps most astonishing of all was the soft white wings folded along his body. Eileen wasn’t sure she could breathe.

“That’s a most unusual way to greet someone. Is the bear a gift?”

Wednesday Poem

In lieu of a story this week I present a few of the poems I wrote while we lived in England. Hope you enjoy!

To Take the Nightmares

Good night,
Sweet dreams.
The sweetest of all imagined.
Rosy-cheeked baby smiles,
Floating feathers on water,
Clouds,
Bilious clouds, imagination crammed

Dream,
New and full of hope,
Of kind words and love unmet
Of kisses, arms wrapped gently around
Open and unafraid
Of Peace held by sweet forgiveness.

Close your eyes
Dream beautiful gardens, butterflies, sun setting waters
The smell of lilies
The petals of a rose

Goodnight my loved one
Goodnight



Relentless March

Feel the tingle of history
It walks up your spine
A legion
Tapping your shoulder
Laughing at your bewilderment
Hear the tales of things undone
And at your horror
Condemn those
Like others who will condemn you
Later
Dream it pure
Dream it evil
But captured in a mirror
Look in
And see your own shadow


English Weather

The Clouds dance by
Swiftly in a race to beat the wind
Sky so blue
The land grows dark and fierce
Sun touches my face
Playful
For he has been at hide and seek all week
See!
He pokes behind a cloud
Hitches a ride to the next corner
He believes I cannot see him.
Foolish Sun.
I could believe for an instant
But not forever.

Liked these poems? Try:

Snow

Wednesday Story: Barney Rides Again, Part 2

The next afternoon found me dragging my feet across the lawn to the barn. I had no idea what horse would be waiting but it didn’t matter. The horse of my dreams would never be mine.

My teacher was waiting at the gate. “I think we may have found a solution to your horse problem.”

“Oh,” I smiled, “Did you fix my horse?”

She just laughed. “No, but I did find one that would fit you. I had to ask one of the boys in your class to trade …” she motioned for me to follow her into the barn, but I just froze. I could only imagine…

“Hey,” my teacher yelled, “I can’t wait forever. Here’s your horse.” And with that proclamation I found myself holding the reins of Barney, the farting horse.

The next hour seemed like a cruel joke. Instead of racing around the pen Barney meandered. Bugs passed us by. The boy who had rode Barney yesterday paused as he passed us.
     
“Like Barney?”

“Great.”  My eyes were burning a hole in my saddle.

The boy gave Barney a loving tap, “Just wait ‘til you see what he does when he stops.” He actually looked like he missed the pleasure. I was very afraid.

“Everyone rein in.” the call came across the pen. I tried. It was like pulling the leads on a rock. Barney would get there when and how he liked. Finally, we settled in close to the horse in front of us. So close that his nose brushed her wickers. “Hey,” said the girl, “Couldn’t you back up a bit?”

I tried to pull Barney back. He wouldn’t budge. I stood in the stirrups and pulled with all the strength I had, Barney gave his head a few disgusted shakes and moved back two steps. “How’s that?” I said loosening my grip. In a display of remarkable energy Barney lunged forward and bit. The horse jumped straight into the air, the flying girl screaming and clutching the saddle. I threw my hands up in disgust, “Sorry!” But Barney wasn’t finished. He backed up and kicked the white horse behind him sending the horse running into the ring. Barney, his fit of raucous energy fully spent, now sat parked, sideways, like a new Ford at the mall, lazily scratching level holes for his hoofs in the dirt.

“Get your horse back into position!” My teacher’ brown bob waved as she tried to catch the reins of the run away horse.

I did my best. I pulled the reins up and down, right and left trying to put Barney into a better position. Barney would not budge.  I tapped his side with my boot. He flicked his tail. I bounced up and down in the saddle breathing; “Come on!” down his neck. Barney chewed his cud. By the time my teacher finally got to my side Barney’s tail had stopped moving and he was feigning sleep. My teacher was livid. “Get your horse under control!”

“I can’t! He won’t budge!”

“Come on. Barney’s our oldest horse. He knows the commands. You’re the one with the reins, remember. That’s what the bit is for; you pull the reins, the horse follows. Watch.” Sure enough with the smallest tug she led Barney forward into position. “You’ll have to try again tomorrow,” she sighed, “Lead your horses to the barn.”

“He’s so old he probably doesn’t even remember.” I hissed under my breath. The look Barney gave said something very different.

Wednesday Story: Part 1 - Barney Rides Again

I had just finished grade six the summer I went to camp. I had a lot to be excited about. Even though the camp was thirty minutes from town I was going to stay over night. I would pore over the brochure in the evenings after school. There was roller skating, a pool, and a tuck shop where I would have an allowance to buy candy ... every night. My best friend Sarah was going, she was going to be in my cabin. Sarah and I always had a lot of fun together. We seemed to think the same way. We often made tapes of ourselves doing silly radio shows. This was before video and her dad’s little mono tape player did most of the hard work. I remember one show in particular where we painstakingly spliced Wham songs into our version of a George Michael interview. She was much better at doing voices than I was. I was too busy giggling. Oh yes, sleeping over, junk food and best friends were enough to keep me buoyant for days but the thing that I was really excited about was getting to ride a horse. When my mom asked me if I wanted to join the extra horse class I practically jumped across the table.

“Yes, oh yes, pleeeease!”

Oh, I knew all about horses. I had read lots of books. In the stories they raced across fields, leapt over fences and stood by the ocean with their manes flying. I wanted to do all that. Never mind that I had never ridden a horse. I would be the best rider ever and when I finished they would probably have to send the horse home with me.

That was my bright and sunny attitude as I raced across the yard to the barn for my first lesson. Let the other girls complain of the stench! I was only disappointed that I had to wear rubber boots, not riding boots, and I did my best to tip toe through the mud and poop without getting my boots dirty. After all, I had yet to read any book where the horse riding heroine had poop on her boots! I did my best with the rest of my outfit. In jeans, a plaid shirt, and hair pulled back in an elastic, I was certain I would make a great impression on the majestic stallion that was waiting. My teacher soon arrived and I silently scoffed at her attire. How could she be a real horse rider? She had a short brown bob haircut and floppy rubber boots. Jodhpurs were no were to be seen. I missed most of what she said as I gazed into the dark barn behind her. What kind of horse would I get? Palomino? Half wild stallion? Appaloosa? I just hoped the horse would be beautiful. My teacher stood back as the horses were led into the yard. I nervously eyed each one. Too gentle, too old, too sad. Then a beautiful brown horse trotted out of the barn. . He was tall, majestic, and his mane fluttered in the breeze. He had to be mine. Each horse was quickly paired with a rider, shortest to tallest. I held my breath and squeezed my toes to keep myself from running to the brown. I cringed as the last two horses remained. The brown and an old raggedy white horse that had all the grace of a hung over bum, Barney. I couldn’t even bear to open my eyes as another kid and I were carefully measured. When I finally opened them I was gazing into the tall brown nose of my favorite, beautiful horse.

For two days I held my head high as we pranced around and around the ring. My horse had verve and spirit to spare. I lightly tapped my heels on his side, off we went. I gently pulled the reins, we stopped. While waiting in line I snickered as the poor boy on Barney tried to get him to stop biting the horse in front of him. Barney was a grumpy, crass old horse. He bit, he farted, and he moved whatever speed he pleased no matter what his rider did. Most often, that speed was a slow crawl and the rest of the group did several tours around the pen to Barney’s one.

“It pays to be an inch taller,” I thought as I whipped by. My horse was royalty! He had class! He and I were destined for greatness!

On day three, things changed. Someone had set up a series of jumps in the middle of the ring.

“Oh good,” I thought, “Maybe tomorrow they’ll let us jump over a real fence.”

My sensible teacher soon quelled my excitement. She laughed.

“A beginner class? On day three? Sorry little girl.”

Well, what did she know; she was still wearing rubber boots. We did a simple warm up, going around the circle once, then twice; all the while I was eyeing those jumps.

“It would be so much fun. And it would sure beat going in a circle.” I muttered.

The third time around the ring my brown pulled his head to the side and took off for the jumps. A whole new emotion washed over me. Sure, I wanted to jump, but now that we were actually headed there…! I pulled hard on the reins and my brown reared a few times, tearing his head back and forth. It should have been exciting, and it was, a little, but I was terrified that any moment the horse would win the battle and I would be thrown. I hoped that I would land on something soft. A pillow perhaps. Then I hoped the horse wouldn’t land on me. I wondered if they would still let me take the horse home. Next thing I knew the teacher was beside me gently taking the reins, stilling the brown and letting me down.

“He needs to go for some jumps.” She said.

“No kidding” I thought and I watched as she took him over the piles in the middle of the ring. When she came back the brown was still anxious to go over the jumps again and kept leading to the centre of the ring. She frowned.

“We’ll have to get you another horse.” She said.

“Why?” I could not imagine another horse. I would not. “I’ll take him over the jumps, I will, you just have to show me once!”

“No,” she bit her lip, “you did well reining him in but I’m afraid he’s too young. He needs more training. You ride my horse today and we’ll find you another one next week.”

I back to my cabin that night in a deep funk. I thought a lot about rescuing the brown and jumping over fences. I decided I was a much better thinker than a doer. Mostly I worried about what the next day would bring.

Poem: Snow

To tide you over until the story begins next week I thought I would post a short poem.
This poem bids goodbye to the last bit of snow here in the cold and frozen north. It should, by all rights, be a poem praising the wonders of spring and expressing, with deepest gratitude, the freedom of the great outdoors after long months of being locked inside, however, this is what came out. Hope you enjoy.

Snow

Myriad of dropping dreams,
Crystallized rainbow, floating down,
Living,
feet thick,
on my porch, on the ground,
Snow hugs a tree, caressing the bark,
Fixed, on glistening windows,
Sparkling fingertips,
Tongues,
Hats,
Shoes,
Making life bright,
In dead winter.

Old Man is not for snow,
He scowls at his shovel,
Stamps his foot into glossy prints,
While sleighs of children squeal in delight.
Snow is not for tired,
or sad,
But for energy balls of tightly wrapped children.
Snow is their domain, an enchanted playground,
Full of dreams.

If you enjoyed this poem try:
One of my favorite poems:The Night has a Thousand Eyes
Child

An Architect's Tower: The Ending

Antoni wandered, alone, down the streets back to the cathedral. His anger was seeping into the cobble stones and bewilderment rushed in to replace it. What right did Beatriz have to say the things she said? After all, he knew she wasn’t perfect. And yet, it was hard to believe she meant him true harm. After all, if she didn’t care she would have stayed at home. Beatriz had come a long way … for him, and he had let her go, no forced her to leave, that much was clear. He suddenly felt short of breath and leaned against a house to rest.

A little boy and his father hurried by and, seeing Antoni, crossed to the other side of the street. The little boy tugged on his father’s sleeve, “Daddy, we should give him something. Look he’s so tired.”

But the father just shook his head “No, he’ll be fine. Just look, he’s got money in his hand.”

Antoni waved his cane, “Save your money, I’m no bum!” but they were right, he certainly looked like one. Antoni opened his hand, checking to see if he was indeed still holding his change from the meal. There, right in his palm, was a tiny snail shell. It was odd that he hadn’t even felt it. He gazed at the tight spirals of the shell going on and on in constant motion and seamless parallels, the shades of palest pink to brown in glorious ribbons. Beatriz picked them, shelled them everyday, and yet … he remembered with a smile, she loved the shells. She had a small collection by the time he left the town all carefully laid in a box she had lined with felt. He had asked her once how she could bear to look at those things and she had said … he closed his eyes as the memory fell into place.

Beatriz, her long dark hair flowing in the breeze held the shell so gently in the palm of her hand.

“I don’t know why you keep these. You get new ones every day.” Antoni could just see the gulls circling by the beach and was anxious to get there.

“Oh, I see lots, but they are so beautiful. This one; I like the color, and the shape, it’s small and perfect.”

“I don’t know. It’s just a shell. It’s alright to look at; I just don’t know why you’d keep it, that’s all.”

“You look,” she said, handing him the shell gently, “you have better eyes for this sort of thing.” Her legs swung back and forth under the bench, “I started collecting them after what the priest said at church…”

Antoni laughed, “He told you to start collecting snail shells?”

“No!” she elbowed him sharply, “of course not! Don’t you remember? He was showing all the kids, you know, us older ones, the symbols painted around the church, ‘this one is the Lamb of God’ and ‘that one is St.Andrew’s cross’…”

“Yes, I think I remember, a little…”

Beatriz laughed, “You were looking at something I bet! Looking again and not really listening. Anyway, he comes to this shell, a snail shell, and a few of the girls were snickering at me again, but he says to us all. ‘Don’t you laugh children, this is an important symbol. It reminds us all of how we get to heaven.’ And one of the boys yelled, you must remember this, ‘Yes, you go round and round!’ But the priest made us all very quiet and whispered ‘No. Our sins died with Jesus on the cross. This shell, in its spiral, reminds us that the stone was rolled away from the tomb. That he was no longer to be found with death. That he brings us to rise again to new life, a life of forgiveness. That is what the shell reminds us all.’”

Antoni gazed at the shell in his hand. It was Beatriz’s precious shell from all those years ago. He remembered. He remembered it all.

The sun was just setting through the panes in Antoni’s workshop as Joan came in the final time.
     “I’m sorry Mr.Gaudi, but I really must go home. This is the third time this week I have missed Rosa’s meal and I…”
     Antoni held up his hand to stop him but didn’t even look up from his work. Joan sighed and leaned against the wall watching the sun go down through the colors in the window. Finally, Antoni looked up, his eyes shining gleefully; he thrust a long roll of paper into Joan’s arms. “I’ve found it Joan, I’ve found it!”

“What?” Joan looked up from his daze.

“I’ve found the secret to the towers!” Antoni patted the roll urgently, “Now go, quickly, to the foreman. Go, Go!”

Joan didn’t move, he just sighed. “That’s what I have been trying to tell you Mr.Gaudi, the sun is setting, everyone has gone home for the day.”

Antoni threw his hands up into the air, “When do these people work? Never mind, never mind, I must at least show someone. Look here.” He unrolled the drawing for Joan to see.

Joan squinted through the gathering dark, “Yes, most unusual staircase inside the bell towers. What is it? A shell? Very imaginative but, forgive me sir, I’m not sure that I understand.”

Antoni smiled and nodded, “Yes, I had exactly that problem myself.”


Miss a chapter? Here they are:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

The Architect's Tower: Part 4

Antoni felt the world crash in on itself. As he paused Beatriz rushed on, “They always say terrible things. I don’t know why I listened this time, forgive me, Antoni. When you first left they talked, they said, 'Antoni has lost his faith', 'Antoni lives life and does not care', but I knew in my heart that you cared. Even when they talked about the women …” She paused, “There were always women more … suited. But when the priest came last week, I couldn’t ignore it. He said you were 'a poet who had forgotten the words. You make the form but it is empty. You risk making it void.' I know that I am the least of your cares, but still, you are alone now, and you must know I have always cared.”

Antoni could hardly look up. His head swirled with all the things she said, people and places. Terrible moments he had forgotten made frantic entrances and piercing exits in his mind. It was true. He couldn’t dream of asking forgiveness now. Most of the people were dead, the rest had forgotten. Surely God would do the same. “I know, please, let me explain…” he mumbled, not even knowing how he would begin. “I should have returned home to see you. There are many mistakes that I would undo. Beatriz, you do not understand the politics here. It does not matter so much your belief, it matters the things you do. The amends you make. You ask the priests. Did you know there is no such thing as purgatory?” Gaudi laughed, “You should read the church history. There are lots of things the priests don’t tell.”

“Purgatory or no, amends or no, there is hell. You know that.”

“What hell could there be that you or I do not already know Beatriz? What God could be that cruel?”

Beatriz sighed, “There is sin, Antoni, you and I and the entire world together make life as cruel as it is.”

“But a God that allows it…”

“No Antoni!” exclaimed Beatriz, “Can you honestly say you obeyed and it turned out wrong?” she began to cry, and looked away. “Antoni, if you do not go to the priest. If you do not confess…”

“Then who would care? I have left beautiful things for people to look at, a cathedral for God to be glorified. God will see what I’ve done and let me into heaven.”

Beatriz didn’t even look up,“… when you left I was happy for you, Antoni. You had such dreams, such visions. They were gifts, to the world, to you. I was so certain you were would be alright, that we would meet again in heaven. It didn’t matter what you did, that you never visited, because I would see you again in heaven and everything would be right. In heaven I would not be this … woman. I would not have this past, this present, only perfection and forgiveness. Even when you had your women and fine clothes, even Carmita, Fransesc’s wife whom everyone knew was your lover; even then I believed it must be a mistake. You would not have forgotten. You would have confessed. There would be some reason, some mistake made by the person telling the story. Now, I question if you should have ever left. All this ... all these beautiful things you have made will be nothing, Antoni, nothing if what they say is true.” She finally looked at Antoni, with fear. “You can not excuse the things you’ve done. You cannot blame the priests for their lives. Each man must answer Antoni!”

“What about you Beatriz? Have you been happy? Have you dared to confess? I know about your past. I know what you have done.”

“It is not about me.”

“You Beatriz, who have lived your life in fear, never wanting anything for yourself, never daring to do anything, how would you begin to understand? You are not so perfect. You have lied, cheated. You even allowed yourself to go down to the barn where the boys met. I know. You dare to tear at me!”

“Antoni! I, I don’t know how you can throw that in my face!”

“Beatriz, you throw hell in mine.”

Beatriz set her chin firmly against the tears. “There are many, many things between my God and me. Heaven knows. The priest knows. You know too, Antoni. There were no secrets between you and me. There is no excuse, I know that, but I know there is forgiveness too. I only came because I thought…Antoni, your family is gone. I fear I am all that is left who will talk to you. If what they say is true...I will never see you again.”

“You do not know me, Beatriz. You don’t understand a single thing.”

“I know you Antoni.” She said in a small voice. “I know when you are scared.” She got up from her chair and took his hand. He struggled to get free of her grasp but her grip was as strong and she would not let go. She pried open his hand and held it. “Antoni, please. If you wish to be rid of me, fine, but please, Antoni, remember.” Beatriz let go of his hand and walked slowly out of the shop, alone.



Miss a chapter? Here they are:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

An Architect's Tower: Part Three

Antoni’s heart beat fast as he steered Beatriz to his regular table. The coffee shop was hardly more than a hole in the wall, with a few rickety tables and chairs placed outside, but Antoni liked it. It was secluded and had a nice view of the park. He enjoyed the peaceful view most days, but today, even though Antoni could hardly look at Beatriz as she walked beside him, he could think of nothing else but her. It was all such a mess, a mistake even. Why should he have to deal with complicated feelings he was certain time had erased? It would be rude to leave but every muscle in his body was tensed to run at any moment. That’s why he hated caring, too much stress for old age.

What could Beatriz mean? Could it be that after all these years she was in love with him? He never imagined that she could be. He had never even considered the possibility. He had always put his eye on the society ladies, and in his younger years, recklessly pursued many … after fame and fortune had aided him on his way. And yet, buried in his heart there was the certainty that she was more suited to him than all of those girls could have ever been. She understood him. At least she did once. He paused as she lowered herself gingerly down onto the bistro chair. He should have pulled it out. There were a lot of ‘should haves’.

A woman brought two coffees and set them unceremoniously down on the table. Beatriz sighed and gazed into hers, the spoon she stirred with shook in her hand.“Do you remember much about the days in the country?”

He paused again. What would he say to her? Antoni’s mouth opened on its own and the strangest thing popped out. He hated when that happened. “I remember this little toad. He always sat inside the curve of a broken pail, by the gate at Domingo’s house.”

Beatriz burst out laughing, “The emperor! I remember. His pail is still there, barely sticking out of the dirt, no one else knows it’s there, but I can see it!”

“I can’t believe I said that! That is the strangest thing to remember.”

“Not really,” she laughed, “You always had such keen eyes. Good for art, good for buildings.”

Antoni laughed now too. “I used him on a building you know. Abstract. I really should take you, it was a joke but of course no one got it. You would appreciate the sight. I had a good laugh thinking of him squatting on the rooftop of this grand city house, looking always from his hole.”

“Another time perhaps.” Beatriz shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Yes, another time.” His laughter slowly faded.

“I remember,” this time her voice drifted away, snagged barely by his ears before the roar of the traffic, “I remember how you used to help me pick the shells, down by the water in the morning, out in the roughs by noon. The snails, they were so hard to reach, you helped a lot.” She looked smaller somehow as she played nervously with her spoon, rubbing her finger along the length of it.

“I didn’t mind.” Part of him wanted to hold her fingers still, to make everything that had passed before right; the other part was wishing he was miles away far from his churning stomach. How could he begin to make up for things he should have done? He couldn’t go back.

“Do you remember how we talked?”

Antoni could only nod.

“We talked of so many things: of form and beauty, of life, of death. Of things that were important.”

“We did. Everything seemed so clear then.” He smiled and waved his finger at her, “except a few times when you set me straight. Do you remember the argument we had over the communion of Saints? I thought they were talking about the pictures on the walls all getting together for communions, at night, while no one was looking. You had to explain to me that the priest was talking about how we commune with all the faithful at the sacrament. How very silly!”

“Yes, how very silly.” She smiled but looked away. “Antoni …” She looked so sad, the spoon trembling in her fingers, knocking against the table in an odd syncopation. “I am afraid to ask, afraid that what other people have said will come true, but forgive me, I must know. It is a great honor, to build a cathedral, Antoni.”

“Yes. Yes. I was lucky to be chosen.”

“A great thing … a great and frightening thing.”

“What do you mean, Beatriz?”

Beatriz sighed again and bit her lip. “They are talking about you Antoni.” She reached across the table and held his hand firmly, tears in her eyes. “They say you build the cathedral but you do not believe in God. They say … they say … you will not even visit purgatory. They say you will go to hell.”


Miss a chapter? Here they are:
Part 1
Part 2

Wednesday Story: An Architect's Tower Part 2

Antoni shuffled quickly down the hall to the front foyer, doing up the buttons to his best suit as he went. He paused for a moment at a vase of flowers one of his admirers had brought the day before.  He scowled at the flowers. The whole thing looked as unnatural as possible. Each flower was perfection and that made it look like a garish copy of life. He yanked out a single flower for his lapel, crushing another between his hands to catch its soft scent. Joan would be upset that the arrangement was now entirely off kilter. Antoni smiled at the thought, that man was entirely too uptight.  

His cowlick waved to him in the mirror above the vase. Antoni grunted. “Humph! Ridiculous hair.” He wiggled his fingers into the vase swishing the water into his palm, smoothing out his cowlick. It remained at much the same angle as the fussy flower arrangement. One little flower had been missed at the back. She was inconsistent shades of red to pink and leaned off to one side. “That,” he thought, “is the one Beatriz would love most of all.” He would make sure she took it home.
     
A small woman sat on the wooden chair by the door. She wore a black dress, neat and clean but worn. Her black hair had threads of silver woven through and was braided, simply, into a bun. She was watching out the window, her hands in her lap stretching in the dappled sunlight. She turned to meet him, her eyes soft and shy, her little nose, whose freckles had begun to blend together; all these things were just as he remembered. The strange sway to her back seemed more in line with her age now and not so out of place.
     
“Mr. Gaudi. Thank you for seeing me. I do not know if you remember me, but perhaps you would recall my family name …”

Gaudi laughed a long deep rumble that squeaked from disuse. “Beatriz! How could I forget?” He came forward and took her hand gently helping her from her chair. “It has been too long. And as for family names it is I that should be recalling mine, Beatriz, to you I am Antoni. Just Antoni.” He handed her the flower.
     
“Antoni! You picked the most beautiful.” Beatriz smiled, light dancing in her shy eyes. “I had hoped you would remember me, Antoni.  You’ll have to excuse my condition. My nephew brought me in on his cart. The boy hits all the holes. I am afraid I can’t sit for long.”

“Ah, well, that suits me perfectly. I am just going on my prescription now. Do you have time? Would it suit you to join me?”

“That would be wonderful, Antoni. My nephew will not be done market until this afternoon, and until then I am free.”

Antoni slipped his arm under hers, she walked, stilted, leaning heavily into him, his cane supporting them both as they walked into the street.

As they came into the sunshine and the awakening bustle of the streets, Beatriz laughed again. “I never would have thought we would go on one of our walks in Barcelona! The streets are our ocean Antoni!”

“Yes,” he smiled, “at our age we dare not get our feet wet! Nasty undertow here. You’d get buried under the wheels and never get up!” They both laughed together again. It felt nice to laugh. He had forgotten how long it had been, since Guell died probably.

“Do you remember our walks in the sand?”

“Ah, yes,” he smiled. “All the other children were off kicking balls …”
     
“Or playing in the hills, or swimming…”

“Yes, and you and I we were the only ones not able to play.”

“Hum,” she said. “I’m glad there was someone else. I spent many days on the porch weaving baskets and shelling snails by myself.  Everyone was mean but you Antoni. I’ve always meant to thank you. You were kind to let me be your friend.”

“Beatriz, you think I was kind? You moved the same pace as me. You were my friend. My dear friend. I’m only sorry I was not a better one. I must apologize that I never came to visit…”

“No need,” She dismissed. She smiled and walked on, pointing ahead to a streetlight. “Is that one of yours Antoni?”

“Yes, the city commissioned it.”

“It’s beautiful, I could tell right away. The city must love you a lot.”

“Bah, they only want street lights. They ask others for buildings. It was only a bone thrown to an old dog.”

“Still,” she said, “I like it. One can always use a street light.” They came alongside a grand city building with tall Greek columns and severe marble façade.  “How about this building?” She asked a playful glint in her eye.

Antoni growled. “Not me, it’s an architect named Mas, on top of Llobet and Bargues’s work, so prim and proper and thoroughly uncreative…” he caught the glint in her eye. “You tease! You knew full well it wasn’t mine!”

Beatriz smiled and didn’t change her pace.

“So, Beatriz, where do you like to visit in Barcelona? Do you have a favorite coffee shop? You choose. You’re the guest.”
“No, no Antoni. You had better choose. I would have no idea. This is my first time here.”

Antoni stopped in his tracks. “The first time in all these years? Why?”

“The trip was always much too hard. And besides I had shelling and work to do, then my nephews to take care of, I did not mind.”

“Then why, why did you come after all this time?”

Beatriz smiled up at Antoni and softly touched his cheek, “For you, Antoni.”

Wednesday Story: An Architect's Tower

In the dream it was always the same. A girl with hair as dark as night, holding something in her hand, saying words he could never remember but they brought so much happiness…

Sunlight streamed in the window resting gently on his coverlet and poking at his eyelids. Antoni, his grey hair matted on his forehead, resisted for a moment, but there was no use, the sun was up and the day had begun. He patted down his hair absently, that silly cowlick with a mind of its own in his youth now ruled the roost, proclaiming its domain by sticking straight out and refusing to be tamed. He waved his hand in disgust. It didn’t matter; there was so much to be done. He roamed around his cramped quarters, an eccentric living area at best, gathering bits of paper. A grand four post bed squatted in the midst of a paper jungle. Tables sat everywhere, here with a cold cup of coffee, there with notes, all in various stages of disarray. Strangest of all was the soaring windows, the high ceiling, the stained glass. Antoni, of course, would not think it strange, it was more convenient to live at the cathedral he was building, and he had practically done so before. Now, he had a bed. He hadn’t even bothered to put on his smoking jacket by the time Joan, his lanky assistant, came in carrying more roles of drawings and a bag of seed.

“Here are your drawings, Mr.Gaudi. The rest of the seed is just outside …” A well groomed Joan finally looked up, “You haven’t even put on your jacket. Antoni! You’ll freeze. The sun is not nearly as high as to …”

“Hog wash. Busy, busy …” Antoni waved his arm and stared at his model. The great contraption hung from ceiling to floor. Small ropes with tiny bags of seed at their ends, fixed just so, in loops here and there like some fantastic, unreal, garden. The weight of the bags had to be just right. Something was wrong with the overall scheme and it would have to be fixed, before the foreman arrived.

“Let me at least get you some breakfast.”

“Had it, had it.” In fact, Antoni had eaten half a nut loaf from the night before, the evidence of which still rested on his chin. “Hurry up with that seed. Can’t take all day you know!” Joan scurried out of the room and Antoni leaned back into his model. Antoni adjusted the mirror so that he could see the entire model right side up.

“There.” He sighed. In the mirror the reflected bags of seed and rope came to life and became the soaring towers of a great cathedral. In the mind’s eye one could see small mountains of stone and glass peering out behind one another, topped here by a cross, there by a dove, wheat, fruit, the gospels, and … “Ah!” Antoni ran to the other side of the room, rolls of paper, pencils quickly shoved this way and that until finally the great towers appeared. Lovingly he began to sketch the words ‘Hosanna, Excel sis,’ on four of the tallest towers, specifying ceramic mosaic in the margin beside. “Joan, Joan!” Antoni yelled into the hall. He closed the door. He opened it again to yell once more. “Joan! These papers, right away.” An exhausted Joan arrived moments later, seed bags under both arms.

“Yes, Mr.Gaudi?”

Antoni shoved the newly minted drawing into Joan’s arms. “This and this to foreman right away. Tell him to wait before work as I have another important adjustment.” Antoni drifted back to his model. “I just cannot see it yet.”

“But Mr.Gaudi, the foreman has not yet arrived …”

“Not yet arrived? When will he work? When day is done? Argh. City man. In the country we are up at dawn…”

“And asleep by noon.” Joan whispered to himself, inwardly groaning.

“What was that?”

“Just agreeing with your work ethic. After all here I am. The rest of Barcelona? They are not so eager. Ten o’clock remember? Ten o’clock the work begins. Two o’clock …”

“Siesta, siesta, siesta. How are they so found of sleep?”

“They don’t all sleep, Mr.Gaudi, it’s the heat. They begin work again at …”

“Yes, yes, yes. I know. But I do not have all day. So, foreman is not here. So, so, no need for him to wait.” He turned back to the model then again to Joan. “Still here? There is plenty to do. All these things before my walk this morning…” Antoni was already rubbing his leg. It had been sore for years now, since his childhood, when an illness had shut him inside for months. Later, he had been prescribed walks, short painful ones at first, longer ones later. But he had always been slow; he never could run or play. Now, well it was much too late for play, but the walk would never end.

Joan still stood by the doorway. He looked strange, even a little amused.

“Joan, what is it? Why are you continuing to interrupt my morning?”

“Mr.Gaudi,” he paused his eyes glinting; “there’s someone here to see you … a woman.”

“Oh, how very nice. I’m busy. Too busy to take on contracts, too busy for social blah, blah, blah.”

Joan didn’t leave, instead, he stepped forward. “She says she is from your home town. I told her you were busy, but she insisted.”

“So she’s from my hometown. What is she, reporter, or social convener? …”

“Her name is Beatriz.”

Wednesday Story: notes

Wednesday Story will return next week (barring any disasters!) For this week I am posting one of my poems. Hope you enjoy it!