Of A Lifetime

I spent twenty minutes today looking for the keys in my pocket, and now I can’t remember where I was going to go.

CALL NOW FOR THE CHANCE OF A LIFETIME!

ARE YOU OR A LOVED ONE ABOUT TO BE PUT IN A BORING, STERILE RETIREMENT HOME UNTIL THEY DIE?

DON’T DELAY, CALL CHRONOCRUISE NOW AND RETIRE TO ANYWHERE IN THE PAST, OR GO ON A TOUR OF THE MOST FAMOUS MOMENTS IN HUMAN HISTORY FOR THE REST OF YOUR DAYS!

THE WONDERS OF TIME TRAVEL CAN BE YOURS, BUT ONLY FOR A LIMITED TIME!

Today my parents told me and my brother that our grandmother had forgotten who our grandfather was while they were in a movie theater, and began panicking, and did not recognize him until after he’d managed to drive her home.

WELCOME ABOARD THE CHRONOCRUISE FLAGSHIP, PLEASE FOLLOW THE SIGNS TO THE AUDITORIUM FOR YOUR ORIENTATION!

One of my coworkers brought his dog to work every day. It was the middle of summer and the inside of the warehouse was over a hundred degrees. The smoke from the melting wire in the solar panel I was modifying made me cough and I wiped the sweat from my forehead.

“Dogs must experience time very differently.”

“Well yeah, because they don’t notice it at all.”

“Obviously I don’t mean consciously.”

“How do you mean then?”

“Well, their primary sense is their crazy sense of smell, right? That means they’re primarily experiencing where things used to be, or what they are giving off, nothing’s immediate with scent.”

Jack looked up at us with his guilty brown eyes from where he was curled up on the floor.

“Uh-oh, Jack knows we’re talking about him.”

NOW ARRIVING AT OUR NEXT DESTINATION! IF YOU LOOK OUT THE WINDOW OR ON YOUR SCREENS, YOU’LL WITNESS THE FINAL STONE BEING PLACED ON TOP OF THE FIRST OF THE PYRAMIDS OF GIZA!

I gaze out the window and see dozens of frail men collapse as their work is finally completed, only to be whipped for their weakness. They scramble to their feet, no time to reflect on what they have accomplished. They have more pyramids to build, after all.

My grandfather finally admitted he needed help taking care of my grandmother and had bought a house near ours, and so I had to drive with them across a state and a half to their new home. My grandmother gazed lazily out the window, watching the trees zoom by faster than she could comprehend them.

“Do you remember when…?”

I could see her struggling to grasp the memory as it fled from her, like smoke between her mind’s fingers.

“No, Grandmommy, I don’t.”

“Neither do I!”

She laughed heartily and continued smiling out the window at the trees.

I’m not quite sure how long I’ve been on this ship. I’m also not sure it matters. I don’t remember much anymore.

When am I?

She hasn’t recognized me the last few times, but at least she’s always been friendly before. She won’t even look at me.

FOR THE NEXT PART OF OUR ORIENTATION, WE’LL BE COVERING PERMANENT RETIREMENT IN THE PAST! IF YOU HAVE A DESTINATION IN MIND TO RETIRE PERMANENTLY TO, YOU CAN REGISTER AT ANY TIME DURING THE CRUISE. YOU’LL BE OUTFITTED WITH NEURAL IMPLANTS THAT WILL PREVENT YOU FROM DISCUSSING THE FUTURE OR FROM MAKING DECISIONS THAT WILL AFFECT THE COURSE OF HISTORY. YOU’LL BE ABLE TO LIVE BUT WON’T BE ABLE TO CHANGE ANYTHING.

The library of Alexandria is burning right before my eyes. History and memory and experience of countless faceless authors turned to smoke and spewed into the night sky. Things we’ll never know we knew, forgotten.

She spent the whole of Christmas Day yelling at us. She couldn’t form sentences anymore, but that didn’t stop her from loudly trying. My dad and grandfather were putting her to bed when I talked to my mother.

“This may seem like a selfish question, but is her disease hereditary?”

“Scientists don’t know yet. Her uncle had it, but there isn’t any history otherwise.”

“I see.”

I went into her bedroom to tell my grandmother goodnight.

“Merry Christmas, Grandmommy.”

“Merry Christmas.”

How many stops have I been on? How long have I been on this ship? Does time affect me at all anymore? Nothing makes sense anymore. I just want to stop. When do I stop?

“I met an old man in the park today who claimed to be on a cruise of the timestream, and told me of all his travels, and how he was headed to Egypt again. He talked to me for a while. Well, more at me than to me. He seemed like he was just talking to anything that would listen. I think I might write a story about it. What do you think, Grandmommy?”

She was looking up through the branches of the trees in the backyard, and motioned absently to the sky.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes, it is.”

DON’T MISS YOUR ONCE IN A LIFETIME CHANCE TO SEE THE PAST! CALL NOW!

Prologue: Questions

The gunshot echoed for an eternity, violating the desert's silence and stirring her gods. It had been a long time since they'd heard that noise, but the gods of the desert knew what it meant: it meant death, and no one is more acquainted with death the the gods of the desert.

They appeared as if from nothing, the first god. They circled in perfect unison, the three-as-one, in the sky. Heads withered and red as blood, great horrible wings the of the darkest shadows--as if even the sun itself was afraid to touch their feathers with its scalding rays. This first God of the Desert Skies circled slowly, for time was no object to them.

The second god always arrived next, for he always saw the first gods in the sky, and they showed him the way. He was thin and frail, this god. His ribs were visible through his skin and his fur was brittle and rough from the sun's unending assault. He had a madness in his eye--the one that still worked--that came from only the deepest of hungers. He skittered on his four bony legs, sniffing and cackling to himself about nothing in particular. His ears twitched back and forth, listening to the dim scratching of tiny reptilian claws and insect legs against scalding dirt and rock. This second God of the Desert earth rushed across the hot ground, for he hungered.

Coyote, God of the Desert Earth arrived at the body mere seconds before Vulture, Gods of the Desert Sky landed silently upon it. Both gods stopped and looked at each other. The first Vulture was blind in his left eye, the second had two good eyes, and the third was blind in his right eye. All four of those eyes stared with a terrifying calm into the starved eyes of Coyote as their talons dug into the corpse, as if to claim it.

"Aaagh!" the corpse moaned in pain at the Vulture's grasps.

"Loosen your grip, Sky God," Coyote yelped. "His soul is not yours yet."

"It wasn't." "It isn't." "But it will be," said the Gods of the Desert Sky.

"We both know even your powers don't let you see that."

"What's going on?" the corpse said without moving its mouth. It was an adult man with the tanned face of a ranch hand, and wore jeans, a vest with circuitry running through it, form-fitting body armor, and a black cowboy  hat with a blood-soaked bullet hole torn through it.

"You died," Coyote cackled. "In a way we haven't seen for a long time."

"He had a bulletgun. Why did he use bullets?" said the corpse.

"That was." "That is." "That will be an interesting question." "Journey." "Answer," the Vulture said.

"But there's another more important question that we must ask," Coyote hissed.

"Your answer determines whether you come with us," Vulture crooned.

"Or with me," said Coyote.

The spirit of the man moaned. Flies began to emerge from the shadowy wings of Vultures and buzz about the sweltering corpse, already rancid in the desert heat. They sniffed and nibble and babbled at the flesh, in anticipation. His spirit listened and could hear all of the saguaros around him quietly shrieking as their skeletons slowly stretched out as they reached in futility toward the sky.

"What question?" the spirit whispered in pain.

"Not so fast," said the first of the Vultures, who was followed immediately by the third, "first we must know your name."

"Ganymede Kel."

"Well then, Ganymede, you may know one," said the second Vulture.

"Would you like to know how the world began?" asked the Gods of the Desert Sky. The flies screamed in warning at the spirit, not wishing their fate upon him.

"Or would you like to know how the world ends?" asked the God of the Desert Earth. The cries of the saguaros joined those of the flies.

Ganymede's mind raced, thinking of what he'd been asked, and trying in vain to ignore quiet, deafening screams of the desert. He tried to block it out, thinking one last time of his brothers and father.

"Neither," he said finally.

"What do you mean, neither?" Coyote howled in anger.

"My father always told me that those questions don't matter. All that matters is how to make the world better."

"Interesting," the Vultures said in unison. Their wings flapped in thunderous shadows, and everything went black for Ganymede.

The Trickster's Nightmare

I inhale slowly.

Drip.

She talks to me between my screams.

Drip.

I believe it to be a she, the serpent; though I can not see her, for it is darker than the deadest of nights.

Drip.

Or am I blind?

Drip.

"They've forgotten you, treacherous one." Her words slither into my ears and bite as if they themselves had venomous fangs.

Drip.

I do not respond to her. It seems an eternity since I last knew how to respond.

Drip.

Is her voice the serpent's or the woman's?

Drip.

"The world ended long ago and left you here to rot with me."

Drip.

Is the woman still there?

Drip.

Who was she?

Drip.

"You deserve every sweet drop of pain I bless you with, and deep down, you know it."

Drip.

I do. But what did I do?

Drip.

What good is a punishment that lasts longer than the memory of the crime?

Drip.

"I wonder, when time ends, will you taste as good as your wife? Will you taste like sweet, useless self-sacrifice, like she did?"

Drip.

"No, I think you'll taste more like pain and loathing. Self-hatred so bitter, sprinkled with the salts of illusory grandeur?"

Drip.

The pause is always long enough for me to want the pain, so that I may actually feel something.

Drip.

My screams break mountains and my writhing create chasms.

There is always another pause, so that I may savor her blessing.

Drip.

She talks to me between my screams.

Drip.

"Your sons, your wife. None of them remember you."

Drip.

I know lies when I hear them.

Drip.

I know they're all dead. I don't recall how, and I don't recall their names, but I know.

Drip.

The splash of poison against stone is as loud as a hammer's strike.


Drip.

"Have you no will to break free? Are your son's entrails too strong a bond? You have always been so weak."


Drip.

I hate hammers.

Drip.

"What is that spark I see?"

Drip.

I dream briefly of blood and mistletoe.

Drip.

And of a wolf devouring the sun.

Drip.

I hear the serpent's scales scratching against the stone uneasily.

Drip.

"What is it that you've remembered? What stirs inside of you?"

Drip.

"Hate."

I tremble beneath my bonds.

Drip.

"Impossible!" she screams.

The restraints snap and I sit up on the three stones.

"You'll be but the first of many," I say as I reach out into the darkness.

Drip.

It was no longer venom, but blood that echoed in the endless caverns.

I stand and feel bones shatter and splinter beneath my feet.

Stones fell from the ceiling and smashed upon the ground.

I have made the world new.

Drip.

I exhale.

Drip.

The rock is jagged upon my back, and the restraints wet and raw against my chest.

Drip.

She talks to me between my screams.

The Last Leaf

Finally, the last leaf let go and died, and stumbled over the air to her feet. She stepped on it and it made no sound.

Grey was the color of the sky and of the frozen river, and grey was the color of her dress. Her nearly white hair and the dress danced longingly in the sharp cold wind. She stood upon the cobblestone path that winded in unison with the river along the edge of the park.

Dying grass covered with brittle leaves the colors of dying flames blanketed the rolling hills of the park. Barren trees reached in futility toward the clouds, silent wooden sentinels observing their domain.

She gazed across the river, her bright blue eyes fading into the pale whiteness of her skin. There was a house across the river that seemed to spark a distant fleeting memory in her, but she knew not what of. She just knew that she wished the lone tear that fell from her right eye was water enough to put out the flames that enveloped the home.

Fire consumed both stories of the old Victorian style house, which by now was a crumbling shadow behind the red inferno. Grey and black smoke billowed and rose to the sky and was lost in the clouds of the same color.

Unmoving, she watched as the firefighter carried a young woman’s body out of the blaze, but even from across the river, it was clear he was too late. The limp and charred body was set on a stretcher and paramedics tried in vain to revive her.

A teardrop fell from her left eye as the clouds sighed and let loose the first of many snowflakes to come. It fluttered—gleaming white brilliance—toward her. She extended her palm to catch it, but the flake continued on to the ground, never having noticed her at all.

Rainbows Preceded By Raindrops

It was raining. The days I remember best are always in the rain.

I was tired. I was trudging through the gray and the wet in search of a place that was neither of those things. The rain poured off of the rim of my top hat, giving me the illusion of perpetually walking through a waterfall. My black suit and pants were drenched and heavy.

I came upon a small café and purchased a black coffee to warm my insides, having given up utterly on saving my outsides. I sat at a little round table and drank my steaming beverage. I was alone in the establishment—the only one dumb enough to venture outside.

Why had I been outside? I don’t remember, and it doesn’t matter, really.

The pitter-pattering of the gray drops on the brown brick walkways drummed a melancholy rhythm into my eardrums. I tapped along to the beat with my fingers on the table, and then the sound of footsteps entered the song.

An elderly man entered the café wearing a bright yellow raincoat, a red shirt underneath, and green and purple striped pants. He had a thick white beard and curly white hair which hung down in front of his uncomfortably large glasses. He ordered a type of drink that I’d never heard of and sat down across the table from me and drank it in enthusiastic gulps.

“I couldn’t help but notice the drumming as I walked in,” the man said, motioning to my fingers. “Are you a musician?”

“Ha!” I chuckled. “No, I’ve never touched an instrument in my life.”

“What’s funny about that?” the old man was taken aback. “In fact, I find that quite sad.”

“Well, it isn’t intentional,” I replied. “I’ve just never found the time.”

“Busy with what?”

“School at first. Then girls. Then college. Now work. You know… life.”

“Pshaw! How proper,” he said as he looked up at my top hat. “Do you at least draw?”

“No,” I told him.

“Paint?”

“No.”

“Write?”

“No.”

“So tragic,” he sighed as he stood up. “Why don’t you stop following the path you’re expected to take, and just wander?” He snagged my hat and walked out the door.

I smiled for reasons I’m still not sure of. Something was different, and it was good. The rain stopped, but the beat carried on in my head. I started to drum again, and began humming a little tune along with it. The sun pushed the clouds aside and turned the puddles into pools of gold. I whistled my song and took my jacket off and untied my tie. I left them on my chair and rolled up my sleeves as I walked outside.

Whatever surface my whistling echoed off of seemed to brighten up. The red bricks of the café building, the emerald pines on the side of the street, the cerulean sky. It all seemed brighter now that I had my song.

I whistled…

                I walked…

                                I wandered…

Working the Late Shift

He watched as a subgalactic whaleshark breached the dark matter veil. It twirled in the vacuum of space as it emerged, flinging subatomic particles off of its five-dimensional dorsal fin. As it dove back out of the timestream, the chronal splash tore millions of black holes in the reality pool, which dissipated immediately before they began.

The watchman yawned.

It wasn't exactly a rare occurrence to see that species out there. The Andromeda XIV Cosmic Observatory was stationed on the moon of a gas giant that orbited right off of their migration axis, and the watchman had been working the night shift long enough that the local cosmofauna no longer held his attention as it used to. He straightened the back of his chair so that he was sitting upright, and with a click on his control panel, he hovered to the edge of the observation dome, where the central computer was located. He began to recite his observations to the monitors, detailing the whaleshark and the time and location of sighting. He then sighed, lifted his glasses from his face, and rubbed his forehead with his fingers in an attempt to rid himself of his boredom-induced headache. He returned his chair to the center of the room once more, laid back, and stared out the observation dome once again.

There was a flash of brilliant blue light and a sound like a band-aid being torn off. The watchman sat back up casually and looked to his left.

"Hello Ajax," the watchman said to the man that was now standing in the observation dome next to him. He wore a white jumpsuit with plated armor over it. He held a strange looking gun, which he looked down at, and then clicked a dial a few notches counter-clockwise before holstering it.

"Are you really so jaded," Ajax said, "that seeing yourself from the future doesn't amaze you?"

"Maybe if you'd stop visiting so often it would be more exciting," the watchman said.

Ajax sighed. "Isn't it about time for your break?"

Annoyed, the watchman glared at him and then entered a code on his control panel. The screens in the observation deck turned off and the door opened with a hiss of compressed air. The watchman stood up and walked out, and Ajax followed.

"What do you want this time?" the watchman groaned as they entered the cafeteria.

"I want to change you, same as I always have," Ajax said as they took a seat in the deserted room. "I want you to see how important this is. I want you to turn out better than I did."

"Well, considering that you're me," the watchman said with a roll of his eyes, "I don't think that you're going to have much luck with that. I'm going to turn out to be you."

"You sure about that? I wouldn't claim to know a lot about time travel, considering it hasn't been invented yet."

The watchman took a cup of coffee from the android waitress and sipped it in silence.

"So are you going to collect on your promise you made?" the watchman asked.

"Yes."

"So you're going to kill me. Because I wouldn't 'cheer up.'"

"Yes I am," Ajax said as he pulled out his gun. He clicked the dial clockwise a few notches. "Unless you can be persuaded."

"Persuaded of what? That this job doesn't suck? That my life isn't meaningless and repetitive?"

"The job is what you make of it. And life is a precious thing."

"I don't need to be lectured by myself," the watchman said.

"Apparently you do. I never forgot that whaleshark you saw today," Ajax pleaded. "That was a beautiful thing. To not find joy in that is to waste what you've been given."

"So you're going to kill me for it? And won't this kill you too?"

"Not growing is the same thing as being dead." Ajax lifted the gun and pointed it at the watchman's forehead.

"And stop thinking you understand time travel."

Ajax pulled the trigger and the watchman erupted in a flash of cerulean radiation. Ajax stood up calmly, picked up his coffee, and walked toward the cafeteria exit. He stopped as he reached the door and pulled his gun out its holster, then tossed it into a garbage can. The door slid open with a hiss and he entered the observation dome. He sat down in his chair and punched in a code on the control panel and the screens came back on. As the chair hovered back to the center of the room, Ajax reclined and looked up out of the dome.

As he watched, a dark nebula tarantula emerged from its hiding place behind a cloud of gamma photons to devour the cometbird that it had caught in its bosonic web.

"I love this job," said the watchman.

Night Skies

There were two skies that night, and both were filled with stars. The one above—static and reassuring—and the one below—a fluid and uncertain reflection, destroying itself and reforming as it crashed against the Corinthian cliffs.

“I couldn’t save her,” the weary man said.

“I know,” said the woman in the flowing robes. Her tattered garments danced in the wind, giving her an appearance as ever-changing as that of the sky below. “But you can do nothing about that now.”

“I need answers, Pythia!” the chiseled and bearded man demanded. “I must know why.”

“You are not asking the correct questions, hero.”

“I don’t care. I have to know. Why would the gods give me all of my strength—surpassing that of any other man!—and make it still not enough?”

“I am but a guide for the way forward. I am not an interpreter of history.”

The man sat silent. As he looked up, a comet flew passed a galaxy. In the sky above, its tail was a clean and confident arc. Below, an aimless line tossed at the whims of black waves.

“I’ve been told that I will be among the stars someday. Is that true?”

“It could be,” said the servant of Apollo.

His eyes fell slowly below the horizon, and the bearded man examined the ambiguity of the sky below as he ran his fingers—thick and calloused with violence—through his curly black hair.

“I killed her,” he said quietly after a long while. 

“I know,” she whispered.

“I don’t know how or why. But I did.”

Tears began to run down his cheeks in torrents that glittered with the images of stars.

“I couldn’t control it. I don’t remember all of it, but I do remember not being in control. I know it happened. I know it was me. But somehow…”

He wiped the back of his hand across his face and looked up at the woman in the flowing robe.

“Somehow I know it wasn’t my fault.”

The man looked at the sky above. Photons bounce off his retina that came from a star that had died before the world was born.

The man looked at the sky below. He felt the cool salty mist against his cheeks as a nebula exploded into a billion droplets against the cliff.

“It’s your choice,” said the woman. “You may remember.” She motioned to the sky above. “Or you may find what lies ahead.” She motioned to the sky below.

He stood and removed his clothes.

He breathed in.

He breathed out.

He dove off the cliff.

The Journey

This poem is a bit of a thematic sequel to my earlier poem "They Have No Answers."

If you’d kindly follow me through this wardrobe
the White Rabbit says
I’ll help you find your way back to Kansas

But to find Ithaca, you must first know where it is
the Cat informs me with a tip of its Hat
You must know which star on the right is the second

You’ll get no fairer by polishing your mirror, and your city will not unbottle itself
my friend tiger tells me
You're the only one who can destroy the ring

Just riddle me this, before you pull that sword from the stone
insists Tabaqui
Will Atlantis be the same if you raise it?

All of El Dorado’s wealth has long since been spent, and Themiscyra doesn’t want you back
Scheherazade whispers in my ear
So what kingdom are you thieving to save?

There is nowhere to build but up, and the towers you swing from have done what Babylon couldn’t
the second of the three spirits bellows
It’s a long walk from Xibalba to Valhalla, but your boulder will weigh less at the top

The Unknown

The scythe

the claws

the hockey mask

Do I even dare to ask?

That question we've all heard once before

What is lurking behind this door?

A shriek

a moan

a sound of terror

Will I make a fatal error?

Will the raven scream Nevermore

If I open this creaking door?

The ghost

the monster

the psychopath

Will I face its ghoulish wrath?

Shall I be turned to blood and gore

When I see what's beyond this ancient door?

A breath

a heartbeat

a trembling hand

Has my hourglass run out of sand?

With my feet firmly planted upon the weak wood floor

I turn the knob and I open the door...

The Farmer

A paper crane sat in the middle of the trail that morning, right in the shadow of the abandoned tower. The farmer stooped and picked it up, puzzled.

The farmer walked past the abandoned tower every time he went to town. Nearly every weekend he had to take that trail to get supplies, and so he would pass the tower on the way there, and again on the way back, and not once had he ever heard a sound from within, nor seen any movement. So where had this come from?

He unfolded the crane, and inside, a message was written:

Dear noble sir, it read. I have watched you from the top of my tower for many years now, and think you very handsome. I believe I may love you. I am trapped here by oni who have cast a curse on me so that I may only be carried out of this tower by the man I love. Please help me.

Thinking it odd, but never one to turn down a woman in distress, the farmer turned to the tower and approached the door. Mounted above it was a blood-red katana and an oni mask of matching color. Shrugging his shoulders, the man slowly opened the door. He slipped inside the dark, musty room, which was nothing more than the floor and the bottom of a flight of stairs. He tiptoed to the stairs, but before he could take the first step, a flash of light burst in front of his face.

Floating in front of him was the bodiless head of an oni. It glowed an eerie green and had large tusks and horns protruding from its grotesque face.

“She will not love you. Turn back,” it growled in a voice that seemed to speak directly into the farmers mind.

The farmer shoved the levitating head out of the way and ascended the steps to the second floor, where he was met by a second oni.

“No matter what you do, she will never love you. Turn back.”

The farmer pushed ahead anyway. All told, there were nineteen floors, each with their own oni, which each warned him similarly.

Finally, panting heavily, the farmer reached the top, where there was a door. He pushed it open and stepped inside. There was a bed inside, and sitting upon it was the most beautiful woman the farmer had ever seen. He gulped nervously and tried to look presentable. He greeted her warmly and told her that he had received her note and that he was going to take her away with him. She smiled a dazzling smile and embraced him tightly, and then kissed him.

“Thank you, my love,” she whispered sweetly in his ear. “I knew you’d come.”

He led her back down the stairs, but the oni did not appear this time. Without any struggle, they left the tower, and walked down the trail back to the farmer’s home.

There they stayed for nineteen months, and they were deeply in love and deeply happy. But on the day before the twentieth month, the woman asked him an odd question.

“When are you going to take me to my castle?”

The farmer was puzzled at the question.

“What castle do you mean?”

“I am a princess after all, surely you didn’t think to rescue me without having a proper castle to take me back to?”

“I confess that I didn’t, my love. But I’ll build you a castle if that would make you happy.”

“Yes, do it now.”

“It will take time, my love.”

“Then you should get all of your fellow samurai to help you,” she said irritably.

Another strange thing to say, the farmer thought.

“I am not a samurai, my love. I am a farmer.”

“Then you must become one. I can’t be with a lowly farmer.”

“I will train to join the samurai, for you, but it will take time.”

“Time is something I do not have,” she hissed.

“Am I not worth waiting for, my love?” the farmer pleaded.

“No, you are not. I do not love you anymore and never will,” she said coldly.

The farmer stared at her in shock. He could feel his soul crumble as she spoke those words.

“I miss my home, please take me back.”

The farmer nodded silently and picked up a lantern. He led her down the trail to the tower and opened the door for her, tears welling up in his eyes. She lifted his chin and looked at him intensely.

“Do not cry,” she said with a smile. “A little part of you will always be with me.”

She kissed him gently and then disappeared into the shadows of her tower. The door shut silently behind her. The man collapsed to his knees, sobbing. He looked up to the top of the tower, hoping to see her face looking down, but he saw nothing. His gaze lowered down the tower until it fell upon the oni mask and the blood-red sword. He pulled them both down from their place above the door and tied the mask on.

He raised the blade…

Character Design

The digital art I did that inspired the following story

"Which one is next?" says the voice in the darkness.

The man (that's what he thinks he is at least) in the glass, gel-filled tube listens. And somehow, he understands.

"This one, Lord," says the voice's shining assistant. "Subject #419."

The conveyor belt whirs beneath the man in the tube and jolts him sideways. He stops directly in front of the voice, and suddenly becomes acutely aware of his own mortality.

A mechanical arm drops down in front of the man in the tube. It has an orb at the end which emits a beam of red light. The soulless eye peers through the man, seeing his every atom, yet not seeing him at all.

"And what makes this one so special?" the voice in the darkness asks.

"Nothing, father," answers the assistant. "He's utterly unremarkable."

The soulless eye returns to whence it came, leaving the man in the tube alone once more.

"As they all are. It's what makes them perfect for these experiments. They're utterly disposable, but they are always trying to prove otherwise."

The man in the tube feels hopelessness without ever having felt hope. He feels as if he has failed, yet he knows not the terms of victory.

"Shall we subject him to the experiments then?" asks the assistant.

If only the man in the could speak. But he has not learned how. He has not had the joy of hearing language for the first time.

But if he could, this is what he would say right now. This is how he would answer the assistant's question.

"Yes. And though I may never know again the nature of my own existence, I will defy you. I will defy you by being happy in the face of your mad science. I will be nothing but a data point to you, but if I must be that, then I will be an outlier. I will not conform to you natural laws and give you the outcome of being unremarkable and dead that you hypothesize."

That is what he would say if he could speak. But he can't.

"Dump him in simulator ninety-two," says the voice coldly. "Maybe he'll surprise us."

They Have No Answers

Jormungand writhed about the feet of Janus as Quetzalcoatl returned to the shores from which Ra departs each day.

The hero of the story stood before them, in awe.

What answers could they provide?

More important yet, what questions could be asked of them?

He pulled out his eye and cast it into the River Styx.

“Why am I alone?” asked the hero. “What did I do that I deserved to be forsaken?”

“You did nothing at all to deserve it,” answered the snake(s) of Coatlique’s face. “And that is the greatest crime of all.”

The hero watched as the woman had to empty her cup and Loki screamed in pain as the venom struck his eyes. The shriek shook the mountain, causing Sisyphus to drop his crucifix.

“So it’s meaningless then?”

“Everything has meaning,” Izanagi told him. “Which makes meaning fairly meaningless.”

Ishmael and Abel ran past the hero, fleeing Cain and Jacob. Hades cursed Zeus for his trickery.

“I don’t understand.”

“Now you’re getting somewhere,” said Coyote. “The first step is admitting you don’t know you have a problem.”

Hercules got drunk and ran Balder through with mistletoe. The world ended.

“Where do I go now? What can I do?”

“Forward,” Anansi told him, “Something.”

The flood then receded, and Brahma helped Noah unload the animals.

“And what of love?” asked the hero of the story.

“Good question,” the universe told him.

Capes 101: A Case for Superheroes in the Classroom

In Talking With Gods, a documentary about acclaimed comic writer Grant Morrison, Morrison presents his unique perspective on Superman: “…then for me the big thing was discovering superhero comics, because suddenly, there were people who could stop the bomb, Superman could take an atom bomb hit to the chest and just shake it off…[and then I realized] that the bomb, before it was a bomb, was an idea, and suddenly that understanding: Superman was a better idea, so why not make [Superman] real instead of [the bomb]?”

The American Nightmare: Examining America's Monsters in "American Vampire"

"Every age embraces the vampire it needs.” –Nina Auerbach

            More than most works in the vampire genre, writer Scott Snyder and artist Rafael Albuqueque’s comic book series American Vampire embraces the concept of vampires changing to match the needs of the society they are in. Explaining the changes in vampires as new species emerging, Snyder explores what America needs in from its vampires across several decades and areas. In the 1880s in the wild of Colorado, in 1925 in the emerging media capital of Hollywood, in 1936 crime-ridden Las Vegas, and in the Pacific front of Taipan in 1943, each presents a new strain of vampire and the new ways that they prey on America.

            The first five issues of the series feature the origins of Skinner Sweet, the first American vampire. A notorious outlaw of the wild west, Sweet was just as much a vampire to society before even being bit. He is a noted murderer, thief, rapist, and glutton. An interesting thing to note is that of all his crimes, his gluttony—manifesting as a “sweet tooth”—is the thing that is his nickname. This focus on gluttony betrays his biggest crime: that he always hungers for more. During his arc, he comes into conflict with a cartel of European bankers that are vampires. During this time, the west was being settled, and America was trying to distance itself more and more from the European powers that once claimed dominion over the continent. America was busy forging its own identity and getting out from the older nations’ shadows. So, this is the time when the new American vampire emerges and separates itself as a newer, stronger breed than the Europeans he comes into conflict with. Skinner is the first American vampire because he is from a time when America needed its own monsters. Holding onto Europe wasn’t good enough anymore. Pear asks Sweet in the third issue, “I’m a vampire? Like them?” and he replies, “Oh, no, Dolly. You’re a vampire like me. And believe me, there’s a big difference.”

            The next time to be explored is 1925 in Hollywood, California. This era was the birth of the movie star. Hollywood was just starting to become the center of the motion picture industry, and gaining the grandeur and mystique that came with it. In a way, Hollywood is becoming the capital of “The American Dream,” a place where anyone can go and make it big. However, the Dream isn’t so clean-cut all the time. As the vampires in this arc show, there’s an ugly side to the American Dream. The vampires are portrayed as the producers and directors and big shots at the movie studios. They’re the ones in charge of saying who does or doesn’t get to experience the Dream. They prey on the naiveté of the Americans who buy into the Dream, and this is exactly how they lure Pearl in to devour her. They seduce her with a chance to meet someone who can help her “make it,” but she ends up having Hollywood drain the life from her instead. As the vampires say in issue five, “A young actress, plucked from obscurity and given her big chance? It plays directly into the great national fantasy…the fantasy that everyone counts equally…It’s a country of Grand Delusions.” However, this isn’t the only vampire that Pearl finds in Hollywood. The very nature of the American Dream and of Hollywood makes it extremely competitive and cutthroat, an atmosphere that can create monsters out of formerly good people. Pearl’s best friend Hattie purposefully transforms herself into a vampire because she wants to have an edge over Pearl and an “in” with the vampires in charge. She knows the dark and nasty nature of what she’s turning herself into, but she betrays Pearl anyway, and all for her own Grand Delusion. The American Dream is the real vampire in this story.

            Starting in issue six, the narrative moves to 1936, Las Vegas, Nevada. It’s the height of the Great Depression for the rest of the country, but Vegas’ economy is booming thanks to the construction of the Hoover Dam, the biggest construction project in American history. A mantra repeated forebodingly by many of the citizens is “Bless the Dam”; a sentence with clear double meaning. We are introduced to a character named Cashel McCogan, who is the chief of the Vegas police force, and is tasked with trying to control the crime running rampant in the town. For the first time, prostitution and gambling has been legalized, but with it comes murders and other violent crime. The owners of the casinos are vampires, and so is the local whorehouse, owned by one Skinner Sweet. The vampires have taken advantage of the thousands of construction workers living in the area now by creating all of the entertainment they could want. However, in true vampiric fashion, they are draining Vegas of its morals and disease and crime are ravaging the city. The vampires are using their influence to bring out the worst in the people of Las Vegas, including Cashel’s father, a man belonging to an ancient breed of vampires. He hasn’t killed a man in over 700 years, but when the newer vampires come to town and exploit the city, they draw out the ugliness in all of the people there, and Cashel’s father reverts to his old ways, and is eventually killed for it. The true vampire here is the desire for money, sucking the moral blood from the city.

            Finally, in issue thirteen, we are taken to Taipan during the Second World War, where a squad of vampire hunters has been sent on a special mission to find a rumored nest of Japanese vampires. When they find the vampires, they are faceless and more like animals than any other breeds seen so far in the series. They attack in waves of hundreds and retain none of their personalities. It is soon discovered that the Japanese have been breeding them purposefully, transforming their own villages into weapons. This is a metaphor for a problem that the American military faced in WWII when facing Japan. The Japanese were willing to sacrifice themselves meaninglessly and freely to hurt the enemy, and the government was content treating their soldiers less like humans and more like weapons, a practice shown in the use of kamikaze pilots and banzai charges. These purposeful suicides and tossing away of life was a hard thing for the average American soldier had a hard time wrapping his head around. The breeding of faceless vampires to use as weapons is just a fictional extension of the war ideology that Japan was using at the time. The monsters, ironically, were the ones encouraging the practice, not the vampires or kamikazes themselves.

            Whether it’s forging a new American identity by creating our own monsters in the wild west, the vampiric draining nature of the American Dream, the unchecked desire for wealth sucking our morals dry, or the disregard for life in war, Snyder and Albuquerque’s American Vampire uses Nina Auerbach’s theory and weaves it beautifully into the ongoing narrative of the series. By making us take a good long look at our monsters, American Vampire forces us to take a look at ourselves as well.

I originally wrote this paper for my ENG 256 class. 

A Reader's Guide to Pantheon

EDIT: Pantheon now has its own page! Click the tab at the top of the page.

As promised! Here's a guide as to how all of the stories in the Pantheon saga fit together! I'm not going to write them in any sort of real order, as it makes it harder to keep some of the reveals under wraps. I originally thought of this story as a comic book series, which is a medium that lends itself to this style of storytelling a bit better than prose, which tends to be more linear.

The story is broken into 5 "books" which are broken down into smaller chapters. Though the reading order will roughly be the order of how I write it, this list is chronological. There are significant time jumps between each book, which is what separates them. The chapters marked with "???" are chapters that haven't been written yet, and are actually several chapters. It's just a simple way of showing a gap in the story. Also, the titles here don't match up with the titles on the actual posts, but these will be the official ones, due to the pattern.

Book 1: The First Council
Chapter 1: Ra
Chapter 2: The Fates
Chapter 3: ???

Book 2: The Storm
Chapter 4: Mars
Chapter 5: Thor
Chapter 6: Jupiter
Chapter 7: Zeus

Book 3: The Gathering
Chapter 8 Gucup-Cakix
Chapter 9: Hades
Chapter 10: ???

Book 4: The Hero
Chapter 11: Janus
Chapter 12: John
Chapter 13: ???

Book 5: The Uprising
Chapter 14: ???

Pantheon: Born in Fire

Johnathan stumbled from the chair he'd fallen asleep in toward his coat and helmet. He was in a daze, still unsure of whether he was waking up or whether he was beginning to dream. He suited up in a matter of seconds, and slid down the pole to the truck just as the sirens came to life and screamed at him, ordering him to wake. He climbed in and sat down as he rubbed his eyes.

Pantheon: Beginnings

Note About This Story: This is part of the whole story I've been developing over the abandoned A-Z Challenge. It's title is tentatively "Pantheon." As is hopefully obvious by now, the story isn't being told chronologically at all. I'll shall compile a post explaining my method and the order and whatnot whenever it strikes me to do so (probably soon). I'm going to try to resume regular updating as of this post, sorry for the long break.


Johnathan Pax climbed the stairs in no direction and every. Like he did most nights, he was visiting his friend Mr. Escher at his immense house. That night, unbeknown to Johnathan, would be the last time he would visit the house. The last time for a very long time, at least.

H is for Hades

So close to being caught up! One more tonight? We'll see. For now, we follow Seven Macaw on his first assignment for his new master...


The screams of the damned echoed off of the cavern walls. The ghostly form coiled in the terrifying throne made of human skulls was motionless, save for the tatters of his night-black cloak waving in the gentle breeze. He had the shape of a man, but it was as if he was made of shadow. The only part of skin that was visible was his hands, and they were pale nearly to the point of being translucent. His cloak was torn and ripped in a tangled mess of shadowy cloth. His breathing was slow, gravelly and pained.

G is for Gucup-Cakix

Another tale of myth, this one set farther into the future of our little tale. This story stars a deity of the ancient Maya. A character from their holy book, the Popul Vuh...

Poor Gucup-Cakix. The one they call Seven Macaw lays there, a fallen star, a bird that has been knocked out of his tree. The Popul Vuh tells us of the Hero Twins, and how they found Seven Macaw in his tree, pretending to be the sun. Poor Seven Macaw. Poor false sun. He is a demon of folly. He should not pretend to be the sun. The Hero Twins shot him out of his tree with their blowguns, and he fell to the ground. But he took one of the Hero Twins' arms with him with his sharp beak. The Hero Twins have stolen his eyes and his teeth, and he can no longer pretend to be the sun. Poor Seven Macaw.

F is for the Fates

I'm almost caught up! We'll see if I can pull this off with another post tonight and I can be back on schedule after tomorrow. This story is a direct follow-up to the last one, just starting the next scene from a slightly different perspective...


His body was young and chiseled, but his withered face and platinum white beard betrayed his age. The whiskers on his face sparked with blue electricity, and his eyes were glowing grey like storm clouds. He sat in the throne at the end of the hall that was built onto the top of the unclimbable Mount Olympus. The hall was lined with five chairs on either side and another across from where Zeus sat. Thunder shook the hall and he rose from his seat to greet his guests.