Habitat by Hades

7

July 23, 2010

By Hades

  Listening at doors is a terrible habit. But it is only one among many: reading other people’s mail, picking locks, making prank calls. I learned this at age seven. At that point, however, they were not habits, but ways of life.

  Some people are forgiving. Forgive and forget, I think that’s the phrase. I am not forgiving or forgetful. I do not lose track of past injuries. Eventually, all scores will be settled, and when this life ends, I’ll being going out square.

  That is my idea of fair play.

  Perhaps it has gotten a little out of control. I am no longer so sure every small injustice must be righted. Is this a path I should be treading? Perhaps not. I have heard that an eye for an eye would make the whole world blind.

   But that is of little or no consequence. It is the equivalent of Odysseus wondering, seven years into his long journey home, if he should not have deserted the Trojan War. It is too late for doubts.

  I have heard many wise men and women speak on the subject of revenge. Many seem to disapprove of it; others treat it with ironic amusement. I do not. Would they have acted the way I did, I do? No. I am not like them, not one for lofty quotes and high minded word-foolery.

 It is useful to reflect on beginnings. It started out very small, you see. I couldn’t have been more than three years old; scarcely able to talk. My mother was denying me a second cookie after lunch. I wouldn’t have had such a problem with that except for the fact that I saw her sneak an extra one to my elder sister. At that time, I didn’t think it may have been possible my sister got it because she was older, and had a bigger appetite. It could have been a reward for a chore. I do not know.

  I was furious. I never showed it, though. But I couldn’t let it rest. Cookie! Cookie! Cookie! Mother gave her another cookie! It wasn’t fair! There was a sudden imbalance in my universe that irked me. It was like a moustache scrawled on an otherwise perfect painting.

  And the only way scales can be righted is redistributing the weights.

  Mother was Out one afternoon, and I was supposed to be napping. I took one of her earrings and put it in Father’s wallet. That would show her what it was like to have something rightfully hers taken, and given to another!

  Of course, this revenge never came to fruition. Father found the lone earring, wondered how it had ended up in his wallet, and returned it to Mother the very next day. I was crushed, and that terrible, frustrating, impossible inequity hung there, taunting me. COOKIE! COOKIE! COOKIE! It was maddening!

   In the end, I settled that score. Sister and I were helping Mother bake more COOKIES, peanut butter chocolate chip. A family favorite. After the batter had been tasted and approved of by all, Mother went to the bathroom. I snuck a tablespoon of salt into the mix. Sister had her backed turned. I snuck another, then two more, stirred very gently, and carefully replaced the spoon and salt shaker. Mother came back. The COOKIES went in the oven. I smiled.

  Later, I complained of an upset stomach. Mother cooed and fussed, blaming it on the quantity of chocolate chips I had eaten earlier. She said she was sorry dear, but she couldn’t possibly let me have any COOKIES. I went tearfully to bed. As soon as I heard Mother’s footsteps receding down the hall, I lowered myself gingerly to the floor. The sounds of dinner commenced. Then the table was cleared. I heard Mother’s shoes clacking on the kitchen floor. COOKIES! COOKIES! COOKIES! She was bringing in the COOKIES!

  In my footie pajamas, I scampered down the hall, and peered out from around the corner. I could see them! The COOKIES were on the table! It was all I could do to stop myself dancing with delight. COOKIES! COOKIES! They were eating the COOKIES!

  Of course, I was never blamed. But I got them all! The inequity now righted, I was truly happy. Mother’s cookie faux pas: check. Father’s return of the stolen earring: repaid. Sister pulling my hair the night before: returned in full.

  And so it began.

  My rules were simple:

1) Each punishment must be equal to the crime

2) All crimes must be punished, eventually

3)  No punishment is administered in simple cases of dislike; there must be actual crime that can be punished

  I was a quiet child. Quiet children are often over-looked. I didn’t mind. I liked to be left alone. The other children weren’t exceptionally kind or cruel to me, and so I let them alone. Except for Jason Brown.

  Jason Brown was a bully. He picked on the small, weak, young, and defenseless. He apparently had decided I belonged to all four categories. Graduating to first grade meant leaving the safety of Preschool for the large, dangerous world of Primary School. During my years in preschool, there had been little need for complicated vengeances. The youngsters around me were simple-minded creatures. They played, fought, ate, tumbled about, and found sticky, disgusting things to pick up and rub on themselves. I avoided them, they me.

  Primary school was different. There were more rules, spoken and unspoken. The unspoken were, by far the most vital. And the foremost unspoken rule was never, ever to befriend a marked man.

  I was marked from day one.

  During my very first recess of first grade, Jason sought me out. He was a broad, squat boy with curly brown hair. His flat nose and squinty eyes were deep set in his fat face. Occasionally three dull children, Brandt Thomas, Mason Marks and Walter Kruger helped him, but more often than not, Jason operated alone.

  I was sitting on the teeter-totter quietly drawing in my composition book when I heard a thick, unfriendly voice grunt, hey kid. I looked up, knowing this could not bode well. There stood Jason, grinning a wicked grin. He wore his ball cap sideways. I shuddered inwardly. This kid was obviously trouble.

  Kid, he said. I’m talking to you. I said nothing. What reply did he expect? You’re alone, kid. Why are you alone? Doncha have any friends. I shrugged. You’re a weirdy, that’s why you’re alone. You’re a weirdy, and nobody likes weirdies. Are you a weirdy, kid? Hesitantly, I shook my head. Are you saying I’m lying? Are you saying you’re not a weirdy? I shook my head again. How can you be a weirdy and not a weirdy at the same time? I’ll ask you again, kid. Are you a weirdy?

  I couldn’t agree or disagree without getting an inevitable pounding. What’s that kid? His ugly face was right up close to mine. I could see he hadn’t yet figured out what tissues were for. He smelled like tuna sandwich. I couldn’t here you. Say something, kid.

  I stood up and walked swiftly away. I heard the heavy plod of Jason’s feet, and speed up, not quite running. I spent the rest of recess playing hopscotch. The hopscotch kids hadn’t seen my confrontation with Jason, so they didn’t shun me as a social leper.

  In class, Jason tripped me as I walked down the aisle. He swiped a slice of apple off my plate at snack, and “accidentally” jogged my elbow and made me wreck an almost finished picture. That was three things. Would I do three small punishments or one large one? The small ones often hurt more, so I decided on that.

  The next day, I came to school with some extra material in my lunch pail. I got on the bus and sat in the front, near the driver. I went to class. At lunch time, I hid under a beanbag chair and didn’t go to the cafeteria. The teacher had twenty busy six-year olds on her hands: she didn’t notice. I don’t blame her. As soon as the door swung shut, I forsook my hiding place and crept across the darkened classroom to Jason’s desk.

  I went to work.

  Jason lumbered through the door, earlier than the rest of the class. I could almost see the cogs turning in his cunning, if dull, mind. He was wondering where his victim, that weird kid, had gone. He was a stupid boy, so the idea that I was planning a trap never occurred to him.

  He fell, landing on hands and knees, and cracking his elbow on the leg of a desk. I had counted on Jason arriving first; he was not the sort of boy to allow others to line up in front of him. Stretching across the aisle, loosely attached with masking tape, was a piece of fishing line. The floor was slightly slippery with soap. Jason scratched his head, wondering what had happened.

  The rest of the class arrived, and I wriggled out from my hiding place and joined them. A few of them giggled at Jason who was still sitting on the floor looking dazed. No doubt wondering what just happened.

  Jason slunk shame-facedly to his seat, rubbing his elbow. The teacher read a story about a family of rabbits going for a picnic. Jason got bored and started flicking bits of eraser at the wall. I, on the other hand, was the model of attentiveness.

  We wrote in our composition books. We did a messy, gluey craft. We did a subtraction worksheet.

  Snack time.

  The teacher was an orderly woman. Each student had a cup and plate, lovingly labeled in colorful marker. She set out snack at the beginning of the day. It was kept on a table at the back of the room. Today, we had grape juice, and crackers with peanut butter. Jason took a sip of his juice and coughed. It spewed all over his desk. The class laughed. Jason scowled. I kindly fetched some paper towels from the bathroom. Grape juice tended to be somewhat less delicious when spiked with “Grape Flavored” cold medicine. Oh well. At least it’s good for you.

  At the end of the day, we always had “Choice Time.” Jason and his cronies, Brandt, Mason, and Walter, sat at the back table drawing rude pictures. Or, at least trying to. The trouble was, each pencil was capped with a small blob of clear glue. Watching them press harder and harder until paper ripped and pencils broke was a heavenly experience.

  Jason soon realized it did not pay to mess with me. He was not a clever boy, but he soon reached a vague conclusion: bullying me meant future misfortune. By second grade, I was once again, just a random kid. Albeit, one safe from bullies.

  My grades were good, but not outstanding. I was quiet, but had a few friendly acquaintances. I dressed plainly, looked ordinary, and seemed average in every way throughout school. Those that harassed me never figured out how I was involved in their accidents, but were, none the less, convinced I was guilty. And, of course, I was.

  I graduated elementary school, middle school, and then, high school. I had an unremarkable college career marred by only three…regrettable incidents. A bullying professor retired at the end of my second year, complaining of constant illness and discomfort as his age. Food poisoning? Perhaps. A lazy boy that cheated off my paper was arrested for drunk driving. Who turned him in? I wonder. A landlord who ignored my please for a working refrigerator found his apartment broken into and some money stolen. The amount to buy a new refrigerator? Who knows?

  I graduated college with grades that were, as per usual, good, but not incredible. I was hired as an accountant. I worked, got money, bought a small house. I married, had children. I retired.

  But all that while, my inclination, nay my need for justice drove me. Justice, revenge, are they not one? All that divides them is a gavel and robe. One acts from behind a pulpit, the other from behind an ordinary face, and ordinary life, and an extraordinary mind.

“Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.”

-Samuel Johnson

Categories: Short Stories.

Tags: , ,

4

July 21, 2010

From the Artist

Always paint the sky first-

otherwise it will cause trouble later on.

It can be pale or bright,

depending on your fancy.

Clouds are a few robust, strong strokes-

stars are harder with their fussy

halos.

The horizon must be stoic, supporting the weight

of the sky

and grounding the image.

Grasses come in clumps,

starting at the ground and stretching, never the other way around.

 If my eyes were brighter,

my hands steadier,

my fingers nimbler,

I would tackle greater things:

the little rustlings made

by shadows,

the ladder of darkness that spans

 stars, the sweet

green veins of leaves,

and the circles

raindrops make on dry sand.

 But I would need cleverer paints for those.

the ones I have now are clumsy,

fir only for apples

and pears., the brushes

too thick for even spider threads.

 But there are other things one must consider

to balance the composition.

It isn’t all dawns and dew drops.

One must never paint out the deep shadows,

and the parts humanity would rather

ignore

must be personified by the artist.

It is our duty; our calling.

For this reason, mud

must be part of the pallet
and coarser brushes may be

required.

 Most importantly of all,

you must follow the rule of water color and use a wash for sky

or risk a blotchy backdrop.

Signed, the Artist

By Hades

Categories: Poetry.

Tags: , ,

The Immortal Ralph Sty by Hades

5

July 14, 2010

  Ralph shuffled around his small kitchen in a pair of worn-out carpet slippers. It was past midnight according to the clock above the mantel, but Ralph wasn’t tired. He set about fixing himself a pot of tea and sat down in an armchair in front of the television to wait.

“In other news, Sen. P. Anderson of Texas died at Sacred Heart Hospital of pancreatic cancer.” The news caster looked blandly upset. Ralph snorted. Another one down. People died all the time, every day. Senators, garbage collectors, movie stars, clerks. And there was nothing anyone could do about it. Or so most thought.

  He flipped the channel to something about a celebrity divorce case. The kettle shrieked shrilly. Ralph rose and limped back to the kitchenette, cursing his bad leg. His eyes wandered, as they so often did these days, to the framed photographs on the shelf above the sink. All six were carefully arranged, their frames and glasses wiped daily with a cloth.

  The first was of him, an old picture in black and white. If you looked closely, Ralph liked to think that one could still see that strong, handsome face show in the photo beneath his wrinkles and liver spots. He was in his navy uniform, his arm around the waste of a pretty dark haired girl. They were both laughing. The next showed him, looking older and thinner than before, but radiantly happy. He wore a suit and tie, the girl, now a woman, was in a white dress and train.

  The third, a color photograph, showed her looking tired but proud in a hospital bed, a small bundle in her arms. There was another of a dark-haired boy, about six years old, on a small, three-wheeler. He had her eyes, Ralph thought wistfully.  Then, there was the same boy, in a cap and gown.

  The final picture was of Ralph and the woman, both grey-haired, at a parade. Ralph wore his old uniform. He remembered that parade. Pam had been insistent that he marched in it. Afterward, they went for ice cream at the tiny parlor they visited as teenagers. That was twenty-five years ago.

  He poured his tea into a slightly-chipped china cup, stirred in a packet of sugar and opened the fridge. Damn. Out of cream again.

  He settled into his chair, the cup warm between his arthritic hands. A report came on about a hurricane in some country he had never heard of. Ralph flipped through the channels, stopping at an old movie he and Pam once saw together in the theatres. Movies were still in black and white then, and you could see one for a dime. None of this business where you emptied your wallet for popcorn and a show.

  The lead was smoking a cigar, and talking to a glamorous actress. She had been very popular in her time, considered a great beauty with her hooded eyes, husky voice, and full figure. Nothing like the twig-women on screen nowadays.

  Ralph woke to blinding sunlight streaming through the window. He had forgotten, once again, to draw the curtains. Damn.

  Grumbling, Ralph rose, fixed himself some eggs and coffee. He ate, washed the dishes, and lovingly polished his photographs. The morning newspaper had been delivered to his flat already. Skimming the first few headlines, he flipped to the obituaries.

“Ha! Eddy Cole! Always told ‘im I’d out live ‘im. And Florence Storm. Stupid woman. Oh, and there’s old Harry. Ticker gave out at last. Too bad about that. Don’t know the rest of ‘em.” Carefully, Ralph clipped the obituaries out and shuffled over to an old-fashioned cabinet. He pulled out a black leather scrap book with the embossed title “Friends,” and filed the clippings and filled in day’s date.

“I’ve outlived ‘em all.” Ralph smiled to himself, turning the book’s heavy pages. There were few pages without an obituary or two. “All! Nobody’s gonna outlive Ralph Sty!” he paused on a well-thumbed page: June 21. There was a single clipping: Justin Sty, born December 3rd, 1959, died June 21st, 1978.  Justin was the son of Ralph and Pamela Sty. He was a model student, and gifted athlete. However, his true passion was for playing chess. He participated in numerous regional and state championships, and, at age thirteen, qualified for nationals. He went on to Stanford University, hoping for a career in teaching high level mathematics. He was on the chess team, and wrote for the school paper. His future was looking brighter than ever when he became engaged to long-time girlfriend, Sophia Plum.  Tragically, he died in a car accident on highway 132 while driving home to begin preparations for his wedding. He is survived by his parents and fiancée. Justin will be greatly missed in the community. Services will be held at the Friendly Street Catholic Church on Saturday.

  Ralph wiped his nose on his sleeve and hurriedly turned the page. He stopped again to read the third obituary on a page marked January 5.  

  Pamela Sty, born April 12th 1919, died January 5th, 2001. Pamela Sty, born Pamela Dove, passed away at Memorial Hospital in the early hours of the morning. Pam, as she was known to friends lived a long, full life. Born at Memorial Hospital, she was the eldest of three sisters. She graduated Nightingale Nursing Academy, and served as a nurse during the Second World War. At age nineteen, she met marine Ralph Sty. They were married 1945, days after Germany surrendered to the Allied forces.  In 1960, the Stys adopted a child, an infant boy named Justin. Pam and Ralph were devastated when he died in a car accident in 1978, at age 19. This refueled Pam’s wish to help save lives, and she started working as a nurse at Memorial Hospital. She retired in 12981 at age 62. However, Pam remained active in the community through her church. She did charity work, and much volunteering. In her spare moments, she enjoyed reading mystery novels, gardening, and playing chess with her husband. She passed away after a long struggle with lung cancer. Pam is survived by her husband Ralph, and two sisters, Lucy and Mina. Services will be held Friday at the Friendly Street Catholic Church.

  Ralph slammed the book shut. “No! No! No! They’re all gone! And you can bet that Ralph Sty isn’t going to be next!”

  In many ways, Ralph reflected, he was like other men. Death he feared above all else. He had seen too much of it, perhaps. The war, his parents, his son, and then Pam. He longed for comfort; the comfort of knowing he was safe from the void. He longed for those he loved, and for a quiet, pleasant existence. But in one very important way, he was different.

  Ralph went into his flat’s tiny bathroom to summon Death. He looked into the mirror and said, ‘Hello? Are you there?”

“Yes.” Lord Death looked back at him. His face was more than skull-like; there was not a scrap of flesh left on it. He wore a crown of yellowed bones, and a robe the color of thunderclouds. His eyes were nothing more than sightless holes.

“Don’t we even get a ‘Nice to see you’? Mortals are so impolite, aren’t they Dee? Oh! It’s you! Dee, it’s that Ralph character, again. Ralph, you interrupted our show. We were watching reruns of that very interesting plague in Europe, weren’t we Dee?” Lady Death scowled at Ralph. Half her body was that of a beautiful woman with milky skin and raven hair, the other that of a decaying corpse. She wore a black velvet dress, and an obsidian tiara.

“Yes dear.” Death didn’t seem to be listening. “Ralph. How unexpected. You’re scheduled for next month. Do you want to come early?”

  Ralph shook his head vigorously. “Mr. D, I was hoping to…um…ask a small favor.”

  Mrs. Death held up her shriveled hand. “You know the rules.”

“Yes, but-“

“-not buts!”

“Please!” Ralph looked beseechingly at Death. “Please, we’re friends! I’ve known you for years!”

“All men know me from birth.”

“Yes, but-“

“-no buts!” Mrs. Death reiterated.   

“But I talk to you. Who else does that?”

“More people than you would expect.”

“Please! Give me a chance! Mr. D, there’s got to be some way!”

  Death sighed. “Alright, alright. There is one way. But you can’t go around telling everyone; otherwise they’ll start thinking I’ve gone soft.”

  Ralph looked ten years younger. “I promise I won’t tell a soul.” Death chuckled mirthlessly. “What do I need to do?”

“Certain people throughout history have been able to…contact me, in a fashion similar to you. Many have asked for favors of the type you are about to ask.”

“How do you-“

“-Mortals are incredibly predictable. They all want to live forever, and have their loved ones back. Of course I can’t just give everyone eternal life, and let their friends out of the Dead Land. So the deal is, you can challenge me to whatever you want. If you win, I grant your wish.”

“And if I lose?”

“You die.”

“Has anybody won?”

“Nope.”

“Well then.”

  There was an awkward pause.

“Let’s get on with it, then. I don’t want to miss the best bit of the plague!” Lady Death scowled at Ralph.

“Yes, yes. Right away dear.” Death clicked his fingers and Ralph felt himself being dragged forward. The glass of the mirror parted like water, and Ralph was falling, falling, falling…

“You can open your eyes.” Ralph was sitting in a squishy old armchair. He was in a sitting room, of sorts. There was a television showing a scene of people in tunics writhing and retching. Tarnished silver frames held photographs of famous cemeteries, and shots of the Deaths in Disneyland. Little tourist-y nick-knacks littered the shelves. There were vases of dried flowers, magazines, and an old copy of Dante’s Inferno, on the coffee table, and at least a dozen black cats seated on a large, brown couch.

“Nice place.” Ralph gave Lady Death a weak smile that she did not return.

“Now, what do you want to challenge me to?” Death was reclining in a leather chair. On the table beside him were a very new laptop and a drink.

“Get a coaster for that!” Lady Death snapped. “I don’t want stains on the tables! We got that one in Italy!”

“So sorry dear. Now, to business.”

 Ralph wiped his forehead with a large, dirty handkerchief. He was not feeling at all confident. He wiped his forehead again. It had seemed like a much better idea back in his bathroom.

“Any game, sport, or puzzle will do. Board games, card games, dice games, ball games, races, riddles, jokes, dance-offs, karaoke tournaments; anything you want.”

  Ralph could feel a bead of sweat gliding down the length of his nose.

“Wipe-out bug-house chess.”

“What?”

“Wipe-out bug-house chess.”

   Death was not used to being confused. Exactly 1,632,578 people had challenged him since life, and death, had begun. He had played everything from spear throwing with cavemen to Senet in ancient Egypt; ullamaliztli with the Aztecs to chariot racing with Romans, not to mention a host of others. This was an unwelcome set-back.

“What is this game you wish to play?”

  Ralph nervously explained the rules, hoping against hope that Death wouldn’t spot what he thought he might spot. He didn’t.

“And all you have to do is capture all your opponent’s pieces?”

“Yes.”

“This game needs four players?”

“Yes. My son can play on your team, my wife on mine.”

“But how do I know they won’t cheat? They are only souls, after all.”

“They won’t. I promise.”

  Death looked skeptical, but he agreed. He blew on a small silver whistle on a chain around his neck. Like two absurd flowers, Pam and Justin blossomed from the ugly tan carpet. Ralph released a tiny gasp. They looked exactly as they had in life: Pam was even wearing her favorite pearl earrings, and wedding band.

Dad! Justin’s voice was faint, but joyful. You’re here! But you aren’t…

“No, Justin, I’m not dead. How have you been, son? What’s it like being…um…deceased?”

Not bad. They’ve got loads of things to do here, and there are so many interesting people…

“That’s great.” He replied, but he was looking at Pam. She smiled that slow, gentle smile of hers.

Ralph, you’re early.

“I know, dear.”

“Can we get on with it? I don’t want to miss the evening rerun of the Crusades!” Lady Death held a TV remote in her living hand and a martini in her dead one. She seemed completely unfazed by the scene before her.

  Death rose from his seat and clicked his fingers. Two chess boards appeared on the crowded coffee table, sending a stack of magazines flying. The cats on the sofa languidly rose and stalked away. Death sat on the recently occupied couch, Pam perched uncomfortably next to him. Ralph faced Death, a board between them. Justin was across from Pam.

  Ralph gingerly nudged a white pawn forward two spaces. Death fingered a black one, and mirrored his moved. Soon, Death had captured six of Ralph’s players, and Ralph had taken only two of his. Pam passed Ralph a rook, two pawns and a knight she had captured from Justin. She winked at him. Ralph gave her a small smile.

  Seconds stretched into hours, hours into days, and, perhaps, days into weeks. Ralph couldn’t tell. Lady Death complained the match was getting too long. You don’t know how long it’s going to be, Ralph thought grimly. Then he smiled.

  If you looked into Death’s drawing room today, you would find a peculiar scene: A robbed skull and a slightly faded-looking elderly woman sitting side-by-side on a couch with a man and a pale boy opposite them. They are playing a version of chess. Each time one player takes their opponent’s piece, the pass it to their teammate. The piece is then placed on the board. The game may go, briefly, one way or another, but in the end, it doesn’t change much. The man looks very happy. This is a quiet life, one he had always wanted. Death is absorbed in the game, so absorbed he doesn’t notice eternities have gone by.  Occasionally, a very strange-looking woman enters. She appears to be half corpse, has living person. She inquires, loudly and rudely, whether or not the game is over.

  It isn’t. It never will be.

“When I was still a rather precocious young man, I already realized most vividly the futility of the hopes and aspirations that most men pursue throughout their lives.”-Albert Einstein

Designed by Tim Sainburg from Brambling Design

Categories: Short Stories.

Tags: , , ,

Chapter Three (Anna Willowford)

7

July 6, 2010

heads up for any of y’all that read “The Story of Anna Willowford” back when i was posting it more – this needs SOME work . . . but i just wanted to post it coz i haven’t posted any  in years. so here you go. enjoy! :) -Myth

Delmont climbed out of the carriage and went to the door of Ralph’s house, his knock being quickly answered by a young man with flaming red hair. “Delmont!” I heard the young man exclaim happily.
Delmont said something then, something I couldn’t catch, and Ralph looked toward the carriage, a certain look of interest on his face.
I didn’t have much time to ponder it, however, because a young woman with long, curly black hair came out of the house then, fluttering her dark, thick eyelashes at Delmont as she did so.
Trying not to be sick, I looked away then, wishing for the millionth time that I could simply turn invisible.
Before I knew it, though, Delmont and his two friends had come to the carriage. Delmont, ever the “gentleman”, held the door open for the girl (that must be Edith) as she climbed in. “Do sit next to Anna,” he said, giving me a little smile.
She did so, her disappointment clear on her face. Obviously she wanted to be as close to Delmont as possible.
Ralph and Delmont climbed in then, closing the door behind themselves. Once James and Catherine arrived this was going to be a completely full carriage (there was space for exactly six people inside). I sighed inwardly at the thought.
“Edith, meet Anna Willowford, the woman I am courting. Anna, meet Edith Foster,” Delmont said as soon as the carriage was in motion.
Edith looked at me with spiteful dark eyes. If one could shoot flames of rage from their eyes, I would be quite roasted by now.
“Nice to meet you,” she said in the most plastic voice I’d ever heard in my life.
“Likewise,” I said, with just as much listlessness in my voice as she’d had in hers.
Delmont smiled, as if glad to see we were “getting along” – but that was just it. We clearly both hated each other, and any normal, un-twitterpated person would be able to see that!
“Oh, and Anna, meet Ralph Foster, Edith’s older brother,” Delmont said then.
They have the same last name? Extraordinary! And I completely forgot he was the elder sibling – you only told me about twenty minutes ago! I thought sarcastically. “Pleasure to meet you,” I said, giving a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.
“Pleasure,” he said, pausing as he stared at me, “to meet you as well. I know we’re going to have a wonderful time today.” He smiled secretively.
I squirmed inwardly under his gaze (and because of his sappy speech) and felt sick again, seriously considering jumping out of the carriage even though it was moving.
At last we came to James’ house. Once more Delmont got out and went to the door, returning to the carriage with two more passengers.
Edith looked at me. “Scoot down, Anna – I want Catherine by me,” she said in an annoyed tone, like I was a child, or a dog.
“Gladly,” I muttered, moving down to the seat by the window and wondering why I hadn’t sat there before.
Catherine and James got in, and more introductions were made. Thankfully James didn’t stare at me as Ralph had – he obviously had eyes only for his wife-to-be, a rather promising quality.
“So, Anna, do tell us what your hobbies are,” Edith purred. She must know I was going to say something that would be considered apalling.
“Well, I love to be outdoors exploring things, getting my hands dirty – the outdoors are truly beautiful, and it’s hard for me to understand why everyone insists on staying inside so much,” I said. Indeed, compared to Edith’s and Catherine’s milky skin, mine was quite golden. “I also love music and art.”
“Not a total failure,” Edith whispered to Catherine, though I knew she wanted me to hear it. Catherine laughed with a high, tinkly laugh.
Still, I almost relished the shocked looks on the party’s faces. Let them loathe me. Let them think me different. I really did not care. In fact, it made me glad to think I was different; to think I actually used my brain.
The others continued to talk as the carriage went along, but I let myself drift away on my thoughts as I stared out the window. Would this day ever be over? It certainly didn’t feel like it . . .
All too soon the carriage was stopping at the park and we were getting out. Everyone climbed out before me, and while Edith and Catherine were helped down from the carriage I expected to be forgotten.
I wasn’t, I soon found, as I came to the door of the carriage to find Delmont waiting to help me down, his face pleasant.
Just leave me be! I thought. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen.
And yet it was almost . . . touching . . . to know I hadn’t been entirely forgotten.
We all went into the art gallery hall then (oooor did they have museums . . . uuuuuuh . . . someone wanna help this idiot out . . . :D ), quickly breaking off into groups.
Unfortunately for me, one of the two groups was composed only of Ralph and I.
We stopped for a moment to admire one of the paintings. It was a simple yet beautiful picture of a wooden bridge that went over a sparkling creek, on the bank of which grew beautiful wild flowers. It was a peaceful picture, and I wished I could jump in and sit on that bank, warmed by the sun . . .
But I was sharply brought back to reality by Ralph making a sound of disgust. “That’s a terrible painting,” he said. “Done by an amateur, quite clearly.”
“What’s so terrible about it?” I said, annoyed.
“Well, for one thing, it was clearly an amateur that painted it,” he said haughtily. “Look at the way these flowers are all but smudges. Not enough detail at all.”
“Not all paintings need to have so much detail,” I said. I can’t believe I’m getting this annoyed over a painting, I thought. It must just be because I’m discussing the painting with an empty-headed moron.
“Still,” he said.
I’d like to see you paint better! I thought angrily. “Well, I like it,” I said, before spinning on my heel and walking away, wanting to wring someone’s neck. I couldn’t believe my day had so quickly gone from bad to terrible – and the irony of it was that, to anyone else, my day would appear perfectly fine with possibly a few minor annoyances. But they were much more than that.
I thought again of how I actually had to court Delmont and probably one day marry him. The reality of it still hadn’t sunken in. I just couldn’t grasp the fact that I would eventually be married to him. The thought of it disgusted me.
I would forever be Delmont’s prize” that he showed off to everyone. I would never be allowed to speak my mind or live my own life. I’d have to be a subdued, sweet little housewife and live for going to balls and parties.
“Anna?”
As if summoned by my thoughts, I looked up to see Delmont staring down at me. Inwardly sighing, I replied, “Yes?”
“Are you all right? You were staring at this painting and not moving – it was like you’d transformed into a statue like the ones around us,” he said, gesturing to some nearby statues of marble.
Goodness, but for such a self-centered man that was very observant of him, I thought, surprised. “Yes . . . I’m fine,” I said at last. “Just tired. We were up late because of the ball, of course.”
“Of course,” Delmont said. But I could tell he didn’t quite believe me. Still, he offered his arm (and I forced myself to take it) and led me to look at another painting he told me he absolutely loved.
And that was how the rest of the afternoon passed. Everyone oohed and aahed over paintings that were, in my opinion, for the most part quite ugly. Then Edith suggested we all go for a walk in the park. I joyfully agreed, and we all went and had a lovely time.
At least, that’s how it appeared to Delmont. That I was having a wonderful time.
But in truth I only barely kept from shouting, “No! I don’t want to stroll anywhere with any of you!” and then turning and running out to the carriage and demanding I be taken home.
Of course, though, I couldn’t do that, so I found myself shortly after in a park that had too many people in it for my taste, walking with people that weren’t to my taste.
Edith stayed as close to Delmont as she could, chattering on and on about things that didn’t matter. James and Catherine kept to themselves, discussing wedding plans, and that left me with Ralph.
Ralph, who was perhaps about ten times more empty-headed than even Delmont.
Ralph, who was so stuck on himself that he thought a good conversation was when he, so important, did all the talking. About himself.
And the awful thing was that almost everyone in Delmont’s, Ralph’s, Edith’s, James’, and Catherine’s circles was like this.
So really I was getting a taste of what the rest of my life would be like.
I didn’t think I’d be able to survive.

Categories: Historical Fiction.

Tags: , , ,

Ghost Touched

5

July 5, 2010

The Elm Jackson Club held its 36,542nd meeting on an unseasonably wet August evening.  All nine members were in attendance: Festering Wound, Bloody Murder, Sanguinary Death, Drowning Accident, Reckless Driver, Caution Wet Floor, Heart Failure, Amoebic Dysentery, and Life Guard Not On Duty. They were indistinguishable from one another with their semi-translucent robes the color of sea mist, white, moon-shaped faces, huge, blank eyes, and tiny mouths and noses. Indeed, it would have been impossible for even the most practiced observer to tell them apart if it weren’t for the conspicuous name tags attached to the upper right-hand corners of their cloak. The thin, pitiful drizzle of rain didn’t seem to affect them any more than the solitary cars that passed straight through their insubstantial bodies.     
  The cluster of dim figures at the center of the intersection of Elm and Jackson were grouped in a ragged semi-circle, facing Festering. Their voices, normally no louder than the rustling of dead leaves, were drown by the light patter of rain. But they did not seem inconvenienced. Festering gestured animatedly with his stumpy limbs, and the others gave occasionally gave a polite nod or added a brief affirmative. As dusk fell, and street lamps flickered on across the city, the figures grew more distinct, their voices louder, their conversation more lively. They even seemed to grow slightly; from small hunched figures barely a half meter tall, until they were pushing sixty centimeters.  As per usual, Reckless was giving trouble. Festering regarded him disapprovingly. “Reckless, these pranks are getting ridiculous. This is the third time this month we’ve had a visit from the Office of Spirit Regulations. First there was that set of traffic lights on 44th  street, next the incident at New Line Cinema, and just last night that youngish officer dropped by. Do you know what she said to me? She told me you Touched one of those little electric scooters. It crashed into a stop sign up on Washington Street. That young man was hospitalized! Reckless, this sort of behavior has got to stop! You could have seriously injured him. You can’t be so…well…reckless! when I was First Dead, these sorts of things never happened.  We all know the importance of-“
“-‘improving relationships with body-bound souls.’ Yeah, yeah. You’ve only said that like a billion times.” Reckless sounded sulky, resentful, and more than a little defensive. He crossed his short arms, and looked away from Festering. There was a pause broken only by the drum roll of softly falling rain.
“Festering’s right.”Caution managed to sound reproving and thoroughly librarian-ish even in her high, whispery voice. Although many didn’t remember of their Before-deaths, Caution was quite sure she had worked at the Springfield Library before that unfortunate incident involving a slick patch of floor, some steep stairs, and a careless janitor. “Antagonizing the Not-deads can be…appealing, to certain types of people (how many of us haven’t moaned in a cellar, or rapped on a few bedroom walls), but it must be discouraged. After all, we don’t want to promote the medieval view that spirits are strictly malign!” She gave the distinct impression that she was looking at Reckless over the rim of a pair of spectacles, though, of course, she had none. 
Heart, Murder, Sanguinary, and Amy nodded, and made sounds of indistinct agreement. Accident, and Duty, however, looked unconvinced. Reckless shrugged and moodily glared at the asphalt. The dim, red glow of the traffic lights gave the scene a bloody tinge.
“But it’s so funny to watch those Not-deads slamming their fists on the machine! Their faces go all red, and they start yelling.” Accident offered eventually. He looked slightly sheepish, but defiant too.
“That’s terrible Accident! you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” Amy looked appalled. ‘Don’t you remember…”  The argument stretched on into the night, neither side yielding. They hardly noticed when a rusty, grey-ish pickup drove straight through Murder and Duty.
Around midnight, the clouds cleared, so the sun rose, un-obscured by the time six o’clock rolled around. The street lamps’ yellow glow faded, and the roads were, once again, the domain of cars. The night world; that of quiet, furtive scurryings, deep, inky shadows, and empty shops seemed exotic; a world away.  
The hot summer sun drew the moisture from skin, air and earth. Puddles  that had, hours ago, dampened the streets, were little more than quickly evaporating memories. Men and women in long-sleeved business suits wiped sweaty foreheads  with sweaty hands, and thought longingly of the public swimming pool and shorts. Sticky children pressed their cheeks against any cool surface, seeking relief from the permeating heat. Even the ratty little dogs at the end of their leads couldn’t muster the bravado to hurl yapping obscenities at passersby.      
The spirits wilted. Festering lead the members of the Elm Jackson Club into the lukewarm shade of  a dumpster. They drifted through it, then rose until they were level with the roof tops. Spirits were not welcome on the streets with their pale, inhuman faces, whispery voices, and, most of all, Ghost Hands.
The blue hands of spirits caused disruptions in the workings of electronics. If they laid their cold, blue fingers on any piece of machinery, or technology, it went haywire. Items that had been Ghost Touched were impossible to repair or recycle.  And that was why Reckless was such an issue.
“Festering’s too old to be considered a true Fresh Soul. He died nearly a hundred years ago. He should go hang out with the other Maturings in Mark’s Hill Cemetery, or at Oak and Wall.” Reckless muttered to Accident and Duty. “He talks like a bleeding Ancestor, for crying out loud!” 
The pair made noises of nervous agreement. They never openly opposed Festering, if they could help it.“Well? Don’t you agree? Shouldn’t that old spook move to a graveyard?” Reckless scowled at his friends. Accident shrugged noncommittally. Duty glanced around shiftily. When she was sure the rest of the group was out of earshot, she spoke.
“I don’t know Reckless. Festering is always…well, anyways, I…um, I dnthuneshuldgotoagowstbocks…”
“For God’s sake, Duty! Don’t be so wishy-washy! Speak up!”
“I guess I don’t think he should go to a graveyard.” she muttered sheepishly. “I mean-”she added hastily, catching Reckless’s look, “-I don’t agree with him on everything. But he’s been…very…um…” She trailed off into an awkward silence. 
 They arrived at Warehouse #32, Park Lane just as the business people of Springfield were settling at their desks. Day was not a time spirits relished. They were paler, smaller, thinner, and more lethargic under the merciless eye of the sun. Warehouse #32 was one of the buildings that had been modified by the government into a Ghost House. It was cool, dark and comfortable. The spirits descended to street level and, scrupulously avoiding any Not-deads, crossed the street. They passed through the front door of the #32. 
It was dark. The city had gone to an effort to make the spirits comfortable. The windows were blocked up with thick layers of cardboard and duct tape. Rags were stuffed in the cracks around the door. The room was bare and dusty, but the spirits did not mind. They took little notice of their surroundings. 
Heart smiled. As was his wont, he composed a short limerick:
“There once was a spirit named Reckless.
His attempts to behave were quite feckless.
He messed up cell phones.
Although all his bonesAre moldered, his soul is restless.”
“Shut up! What were you, some type of English teacher?”
“I’ve always wondered what it’s like to decay.” Sanguinary sighed vaguely.
“No need to be so sanguine, Sanguinary.” Heart chuckled at his own joke. 
Murder looked at him uncomprehendingly. “What does ‘sanguine’ mean?” 

  Officer Meredith Cliff took sip of ice tea. Lunch break would be over in less than half an hour. Then, it was back to filing accident reports at the Office of Spirit Regulations. Before the craze about ‘improving relations with Departed Souls’ she had, at least been monitoring traffic along the freeway. When she had signed up for the force, she hadn’t bargained for sorting endless stacks of papers, filling out forms, and working in a cubicle.
On top of all that, she had to deal with the spirits themselves. They were creepy! Their flat, disc-like faces, huge, expressionless alien eyes, and misty, half-see-through bodies sent shivers of distaste running down her spine. And then there were those hands! Dark blue and thorny-looking with long, sharp fingers and bony knuckles. Everything about them: their disproportionately large heads and small, blunt limbs, the way they never had to blink, their high, reedy voices that were drown out by the air conditioning, was…weird.  
Worst of all, there was nothing that could be done about them, should they choose to break the law. Up until a hundred years ago, people had feared ghosts, shunning them as creations of the devil, or the souls of people trapped in limbo. Now, they understood better. They were, as official pamphlets described them, ‘Souls Detached from their Bodies.’ Meredith had never found this description particularly helpful. As her boss had explained it, “When you die, you’re soul comes out of your body. If you die peacefully, you’re souls peaceful. We don’t have to worry about them. They typically leave town and go out into the wilds. It’s the other ones we need to worry about. The ones that died unexpectedly or violently stick around. And some of them like to cause trouble for the living…” 
If only she could do something about that devil Reckless Driver! She had actually, been one of the officers present when his Mustang hit that semi. It had been his fault completely. What had his name been? Charles something. Maybe Brown or Bowing. It had been three or four years ago. Just after that, she had been sucked into the Office of Spirit Regulation, or, as her colleagues called it, the Slow Lane. Hadn’t she been the one to register his spirit? Ghosts had their own curious customs, such as naming themselves after the way they had died. Office Runskii had become, what was it? Something like I Didn’t Know It Was Loaded. It certainly simplified murder investigations, although spirits made difficult witnesses.  
With a sigh, she finished the last of her tea, and popped an ice cube into her mouth.   

Dusk settled like sediment in a wine bottle. It was a hot, muggy night, and the people of Springfield shunned the confines of their homes. Nights like these were unusual. Spirits roamed the streets, feeding off the darkness, but Not-deads were equally restless. People dined at the rickety little tables outside restaurants, sipping cool drinks through thin plastic straws. Ladies’ makeup ran, striping their faces dramatically, and no amount of deodorant, cologne or perfume could hide the smell of sweaty humans. This was the sort of night on which Things Happened.  

The Elm Jackson club forsook their usual intersection. There were too many cars, and the smell of petrol was distasteful to them. They congregated on the roof of the Springfield Public Library.
“Festering, this once, can we please do something different?” Heart implored.
“Different? What did you have in mind?”
“Well,” Heart looked at the others for support. They gave little nods and smiles of encouragement. “we were hoping to go to a nightclub or something.”
“A night club?”
“You know, we were just thinking that, well, even though we aren’t alive, we can still enjoy our death! I think I used to go to bars, and restaurants and such when I was alive, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t now. There aren’t any rules against it, I think.”  Festering was silent for a long moment.
“When I first died, we never did such things. It was simply unheard of. We didn’t go to..to..”
“Night clubs?” Amy supplied.
“Yes. We did ghosty things. Night clubs. Hmph.”
“Please Festering, please!” Amy stared at him beseechingly. “We all want to do it! It would really show the Not-deads that we are…um…still a lot like them. Even though we’re dead. It would be very modern and politically correct.”
“Reckless.” Festering was looking reflectively at the cars passing on the street below. “I need your word, you’re solemn word that you will not Touch anything, cause any trouble or make me regret my decision in any way. Swear on your grave.” 
Reckless complied. Looking suspicious, as though he thought he had been tricked in some way, Festering announced, “Tonight we are going to ‘have fun’. I want all of you to be respectful and polite. Where do we want to go?”
“I think I remember a place I used to go with my friends…” Duty had the pained look of one attempting to remember the answer to a trick question on a quiz. “it was called…the…the Xenon I think.”
“Alright, shall we go with Duty?” the spirits nodded, and they set out with Duty in the lead. She descended to street level. Pedestrians gasped and stared as they watched the odd procession of small, grey clad figures gliding along the sidewalk. Spirits did not go on the sidewalks, politely stepping -or floating- aside for old ladies, when there were hundreds of people about. It simply wasn’t done. The members of the Elm Jackson Club were ecstatic.“Look at them all! I can’t believe I used to be so solid! And they’re all different shapes and sizes! It’s so disorderly!”  Amy whispered to Murder.
“They’re all wearing different things! And look! They’ve got those funny things that stick out the sides of they’re heads. Sort of flat with weird squiggly ridges on them…ears, I think they’re called.”  

The Xenon Bar and Restaurant was nearly overflowing. A band of white jacketed musicians played Blues music and looked uncomfortably hot on a raised platform. Waiters bearing heavy platters of food wove between the tight-packed tables. The atmosphere was light and happy, despite the humidity.  Nine robed figures with round, white faces floated through the door. A shocked silence fell.
“We’d like a table.” Caution looked up at a waiter. She barely reached his waist. “That is what’s customary at a restaurant, isn’t it?”  
 The waiter nodded dumbly. After a moment of awkward silence, he said, “I’ll…I’ll see what I can do.”  Within fifteen minutes, for the first time ever, a party of ghosts were sitting at a long table at the Xenon. 
The patrons of the illustrious establishment spoke stiltedly, every now and then sneaking covert glances at the spirits in their midst. It was as if some unspoken social taboo had been breached.
“I don’t like it.” Caution sniffed. “They’re staring at us like we’re going to leap up and attack them. We’ve got every right to be here!”
“Oh calm down, Caution. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened since Reckless wrecked that car last year!” Heart scrutinized a salt shaker. “It’s been…well, I don’t even know how long. Decades probably, since I went to a restaurant.” 
A waitress appeared. She looked distinctly nervous, but her voice was calm when she spoke. “Would you care for some appetizers?”
“No thank you dear, I think we’ll just order.” Caution smiled. The waitress looked, if anything more frightened. “W-what would you like? Our menu-”
“Nine bowls of blood. It doesn’t matter the type. If you don’t have that, we’ll take nine raw steaks.” As the waitress scurried away, Caution turned to Heart. “What? What did I say?”  

Officer Cliff stared at table thirteen, grinding her teeth. It was infuriating! There he was, Reckless Driver, right there in front of her! Had he been any common criminal, she would have arrested him on the spot. That ghost was a public menace, and yet there was nothing, absolutely nothing she could do! It was infuriating! Scientists had been attempting to find a way to capture and restrain law breaking spirits. However, there had been no joy so far.
“Your order, miss?” 
Meredith clenched her fists. Only she would run into a bunch of ghosts and one of them a known criminal, on a Friday night at Xenon’s.
“You’re order?” 
It was simply maddening-
“Miss? Are you alright?”
“Oh, yes. Yes of course. I’ll just have some of your Summer Salad to start with. No tomatoes.” 

The waitress returned to table thirteen, her tray laden with dishes of steak. They were very red, the color interrupted only by fingers of white fat. One was placed in front of each spirit. They gleamed wetly in the flicking candle light.

Meredith watch with disgusted fascination as the ghosts lapped up the blood oozing from the meat. Their tongues were pale blue, the blue of thin, spring ice.
“Your salad, Miss. What would you like for dinner tonight?”  Meredith tore her eyes away from table thirteen.
“I’ll have um the savory vegetarian soup, thank you.” 
  The waiter trotted away, looking for all the world like a human penguin.

“That was delicious!” Murder said enthusiastically.“Yeah! I haven’t had blood since…since…I can’t even remember.” Amy concurred.
“Would you like to see our desert menu?” The waitress looked a little green.
“No thank you. We give our compliments to the chef, though. And to the cow.” Festering patted his stomach with satisfaction. “You fellows were right. Modern ghosts ought to go to restaurants.”
“Um…your check.”
“Check?”
“Yes. Your check.” The waitress placed it on the linen table cloth. The ghosts stared at it curiously.
“Oh yes!” Caution clapped a blue hand to her forehead. “A check! You pay with them. It charges to your…what is it? Bank account? You sign it.”
“But Caution, none of us have bank accounts any more. Remember. We’re dead. You need a name, a Not-dead name to charge to an account.” Heart cut in. “And none of us can remember our names from before.” 
Caution considered this for a moment. A feeling stirred inside her; a living feeling. It was indignation. “That’s not fair. Supposing one of us wanted to buy something, go to a movie, whatever, we couldn’t. We can’t earn money, and even if we could, we couldn’t touch it without, well, Touching it.”
“But before this, spirits haven’t ever needed to pay for anything.”
“Well, now we do.”  The waitress returned. Festering explained their conundrum. “Oh! Let me check with me manager.” 
The manager was, subsequently checked with, and the waitress returned. “He says the usual way is to assume you will return to pay sometime this month. If you don’t, you will not be allowed to return.”
“Thank-you. We’ll go now.”  The ghosts floated away, through the door, and out into the now less-crowded streets.
“What are we going to do? We need jobs to get money, or we need to find out who we were, and ask our previous families for help!” Murder seemed on the verge of panic.
“Relax! It’s simple. We don’t go back. There are other restaurants. And besides, do they really expect a bunch of ghosts to pay for a meal? Of course not!”
“But that’s just the point, Reckless!” Caution’s voice was filled with righteous fury. “They expect nothing of us! Spirits just float around, looking eerie and talking about useless things that make a difference to no one! They don’t eat at restaurants, go to movies, work! We’re useless to society! The only ones that get any attention are the bad ones that like to Touch things and cause trouble. Apparently, once you’re dead, you’re expected not to do anything interesting.”
“But what can we do to change it? No one will hire us. I mean, come on. We drink blood. It’s hopeless.” Murder said.
“Hopeless!” Caution shrieked. “Hopeless! No it isn’t! Tomorrow morning, we’re going down to the employment office. It may not mean anything to you, that we didn’t pay a bill at a restaurant. It might not seem worth it. But it’s about more than that. This is a truth we’ve been ignoring for…for…”
“…centuries.” Heart looked straight into Caution’s enormous eyes.
  Festering appeared confused. “Do you mean to say that we spirits are going to seek employment? But it isn’t done! It isn’t proper! In my time, we did proper ghosty things. See where this ‘eating at restaurants’ business lead us? And now you want us to do even more distinctly living activities!”
 “With all due respect, Festering,” Heart didn’t sound very respectful “that is an old fashioned, out dated view. We are…or were people too. We deserve better than this. Okay. The restaurant thing didn’t work out. But it was fun, exciting! I want more! I want to live!”
“Old fashioned, is it?’ Festering seemed to swell. “Old fashioned? You want to live do you? You’re dead! I let you go to a restaurant! And see where that led? No! No! No! NO! I believe we should treat Not-deads with respect, but the fact remains. We are dead. They are alive.”
“I’m sorry, Festering, but this can’t go on. All this floating about and doing nothing. This is wrong. I feel it, well, not in my bones, but in my soul. I’m with Heart. The world is here for us to enjoy, not ignore.”
“I’m in.” Sanguinary said unexpectedly.
“Anybody else?” Nobody moved.“Fine.” Caution turned and departed, Sanguinary and Heart floating in her wake. After a moment’s hesitation, Festering and the others went in the opposite direction.  

Officer Cliff wearily loaded more paper into the printer tray. It was odd. The Elm Jackson ghosts were certainly unusual. First, there was that infuriating Reckless, and now this. Eating in restaurants! What would be next? Ghosts at the movies? Ghosts at the super market? Ghosts in the police force? 

“That could have gone better.” Caution couldn’t help but agree. The man at the employment office hadn’t been at all helpful. First of all, they we too short to see over the counter top. Secondly, the office fan had all but drowned them out. When asked about their skills, Sanguinary had promptly replied ‘Walking through walls, disrupting electronic activity, and near invisibility.’ It could have gone better.
“Perhaps we should go personally to businesses. We could look in the paper.”
“Yes, but Caution, we’d need someone to turn the pages for us. If we Touch the paper, it gets all frosty and cold and hard to read.”
“We’ll go to the Office of Spirit Regulations, then.” Caution announced. “It’s their job to help us.”

 “Excuse me!” Officer Meredith Cliff looked up from a report on ghost-related accidents. “Excuse me! down here!” The pale, circular face, huge staring eyes, and misty robes fitted with a small name tag. A ghost. And not just any ghost. It was Caution Wet Floor, one of those blasted Elm Jackson-ers!
“Oh. Hello. How can I help you?”
“My compatriots and I are seeking employment.”
  Meredith suppressed a groan with difficulty. “Why do you need a job?”
“We have to pay the restaurant. And leaving checks unpaid is socially unacceptable. We ghosts don’t want to just sit around. It’s time to act, time to-”
“Yes, yes. Very good. What exactly did you have in mind?”  At that moment, her boss walked in. “Officer Cliff! Good morning! Did you read that- oh! Spirits! What are you fine souls here for?”
“They’re looking for jobs, Chief.”
“Looking for jobs? You’re looking for jobs? What sort of- wait a minute!” The maniacal gleam of zealotry shone in the Chief’s eye. He was a ghost nut. He was fascinated by them, obsessed with them. “I’ve just had-“ 
A brilliant idea, Meredith thought.
“-a brilliant idea! You could join the squad! After all, ghosts can touch other ghosts, can’t they? Well, can’t they?” 
Caution nodded cautiously.
“So you could stop the ones that are breaking the law! And you could stop criminals in their get-away vehicles just by Touching their cars! You could spy on mobsters and drug dealers, investigate deaths, recruit more ghosts! You’d be un-killable, indestructible; the perfect officers!” 
Meredith sighed. Her worst fears had been realized at last.
“…guns, tasers, smoke bombs! Ha ha ha! It’s perfect! Perfect! What do you think, Cliff?”
“Great idea.” Meredith mumbled.  

 The headline of the Evening Post read: Ghostly Busters Nab Dead Vandal. So it began. Caution and Heart with minimal assistance from Sanguinary apprehended Reckless in the act of Touching a BMW parked in the back lot of Friendly’s Foods.
“What’re you doing? Are you crazy? Where are you taking me? Help!” Reckless spluttered.
“Reckless Driver, you are under arrest.”
“Come on Caution! We’ve known each other all our deaths! Let me go!” 
With a steely determination that was almost frightening to behold, the three newly appointed Spectral Officers brought Reckless down town, as it were. Who would have guessed three ghosts, one of them an ex-librarian, would take so naturally to crime-stopping? 
  With pathetic bravado, Reckless yelled “You can’t keep me here! I can walk through walls! Look! Look!” He tried to demonstrate, but the walls remained adamantly solid. Heart laughed nastily.
“These walls are imbued with soil from a grave. Your grave. It’s the latest scientific development.”
“Please, Heart! Don’t be so heartless.” The prisoner smiled feebly. “I’m not such a bad guy. You know me.”
“That’s the trouble, Reck. We do.” 

The prosecution had no trouble at all in securing Reckless’ continued confinement. The police had no trouble hiring ten more spirits for the force. Other things took more effort. The spirits soon began demanding proper housing in the city. Officer Meredith Cliff and her coworkers had to be moved, much to their delight, to other parts of the force. Festering and Caution had to make peace with each other.   

On a warm August evening, nearly a year later, Caution and Heart were dictating a report to a Not-dead junior officer.
“-damage to property: $342.75.  Caution, I have a question for you.”
“Damage to persons: $634.93. I’m listening.”
“Victim may suffer lasting injuries including permanent damage to left arm.
Your beautiful soul,
Your grace, has made me love you.
Will you marry me?”
“That’s not a very good haiku.”
“I know. I made it up on the spot.”
“Of course I will. I think we’ll be the first spirits ever to marry. How exciting.” 
They looked at each other for a long moment. “Damage to real-estate: $12,546.25”  

Life, and death, continued. It was not a ‘happily ever after’. There were many unpleasant, and unfortunate incidents that heightened the already tense relationship between the living and the dead. But it was much like any other uncomfortable situation: daily existence flowed on, ignoring it until the collided head on. Did ghosts have to pay taxes? What was the solution for crimes spirits committed against each other. Should they be informed of who they were in life? When criminals died, what would become of their ghosts?   In short, people acted as one would expect: as people. Living and dead, they did things that were petty, stupid, cruel, and reckless. They had misunderstandings, arguments, and feuds. Things were different, but not significantly so.

  “He who despairs of the human condition is a coward, but he who has hope for it is a fool”-Albert Camus 

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.

Chapter One (Hover)

3

July 5, 2010

a. n. : story i started awhile back. enjoy! :) -myth

I leaned against the balcony railing. This was my favorite time of day . . . sunset. It was so magical.
“Princess Valentia! You were not excused!” a shrill voice called. “You still have not finished your embroidery!”
“Curse embroidery!” I called back, not taking my eyes from the glorious sight before me. “This is the 45th century, Emeri – I shouldn’t have to learn embroidery!”
“Regardless of what you think, Princess, that is one of the many things I have been hired to teach you,” the voice replied wearily.
“Well, since my disgusting embroidery – which isn’t fit for human eyes anyway; I know it makes mine burn – isn’t going anywhere, I should be allowed to finish watching this sunset,” I said. “Besides, I’m restricted enough as it is. At least allow me the one freedom of seeing a sunset, Em.”
I heard a long, drawn-out sigh. “Fine,” the voice said at last. “I’m going to get fired for this,” it muttered then.
“Oh, Emeri,” I said, rolling my eyes. I must have heard that statement at least a billion times thus far in my life. Still, I quickly turned my full attention back to the sunset.
The glorious golds, oranges, purples and pinks stretched out across the sky like a beautiful painting . . . one so beautiful it took your breath away. I couldn’t tear my gaze from it no matter what I did.
But all too soon it was over, and my short time of freedom was done.
Time to go play princess again.
Oh, joy.

~

“The war that broke out on Xanthe in the 25th century was called . . . ?” There was a pause. “Princess Valentia?”
I was pulled from my thoughts by the voice of Emeri once more. “XWIV,” I replied quickly. ‘XWIV’ stood for ‘Xanthian War 4’. I sighed. “Emeri, I know all about the wars. I could tell you all the information on them backwards – so why do my parents insist on it all being endlessly drummed into my head? I can’t re-learn it . . . I’ve already learned it once. Once is enough. I certainly won’t forget it, so why?”
“I don’t know, Princess,” Emeri said wearily. “Some of the things your parents do simply often don’t make sense.”
I looked at her, shocked. That had to be one of the first time I’d ever heard her say something negative about my parents.
Her eyes widened as she realized what she’d just done. “L-let’s get on with the lesson,” she stammered.
“Thank you, Emeri,” I said, smiling triumphantly. “Now I know that someone agrees with me. What a refreshing knowledge.”
“Hush, Princess!” Emeri said . . . but I could see a smile tugging on the corners of her lips.

~

I sat down at the long table where my family and I ate dinner every night. Steaming plates of food were brought in, emptied, and refilled so quickly you wondered if you’d imagined it . . . and it was all done by robots. Here on Xanthe we were growing more and more advanced, and I secretly wondered if there would be a day when the robots would somehow grow as smart as humans – or smarter – and overpower us . . . destroy the human race. It was a bone-chilling thought, but sometimes I wondered about the robots as they looked at me . . . what they were thinking as they did so.
“Roast . . . beef?” a robot said slowly, holding the platter toward me.
Shuddering – robots usually made me do that these days (I seemed to be the only one that felt that way) – I took some, finding out right then that I was actually quite hungry. “Er . . . thank you,” I said.
It turned out I was also the only one to ever thank robots, judging by the looks my family gave me.
“So, how were your lessons today?” Mom asked me then. She had a cool, uncaring voice that I despised. I didn’t think I’d ever heard any real emotion in her voice other than anger.
“Fine,” I said, taking a bite of the roast beef and chewing. One thing I had to say about robots was that they could cook.
“Fine? That’s all?” she asked, ceasing to eat for a moment.
“Well, Mom,” I said slowly, looking up at her and trying to shiver as I met her icy blue gaze. “I actually meant to ask you about something that pertains to my lessons.”
“Oh?” she said.
“Yes,” I said, slipping my hands under the table and rubbing my sweaty palms on my pant legs. “Ah . . . well, I was going to ask . . . why exactly do I have to keep learning about Xanthe’s wars and things like that if I already know the information well enough to say it in my sleep? I don’t see what this incessant drumming of it into my head is accomplishing.”
My older brothers, mischievous twins, Veridian and Vermillion, gaped at me. No one ever dared ask our mother a question that cast something she had ordered in a bad light.
Ever.
“Well, Valentia, firstly I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said, her eyes practically daggers of anger. “Secondly, you continue to learn these things because it’s good for you. It’s done in case you happen to forget, and it will help you later in life to acquire a better husband. After all, no one wants to marry a stupid princess.”
Thank you, Mom, I thought bitterly. “But, Mom, I’m not going to forget. What will it take for you to believe me? Honestly, I can think of so many better ways I could be spending my time, one of them being getting outside more often – getting some fresh air – or going throughout the city looking for any poor people that might need assistance. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be about as the royal family – helping both the rich and poor of Xanthe?” I said, shocking even myself with my words.
My mother’s eye daggers had changed to flames, and I almost expected them to come shooting across the table at me and roast me to ash unexpectedly. “Valentia Emery Saffron,” she said coldly. “You will learn what you are told to learn because I have told you. There is no highway option. You will only do exactly as I say, and if I say that you are to keep learning about the wars of Xanthe or things similar to that, you will. Do you understand?” Her voice was low and angry.
“Y-yes,” I said weakly. Then, “Excuse me.” I quickly got up and fled the room, tears of indignation already welling up in my eyes.

~

“Valentia?” a voice said behind me.
Whirling around, scared beyond reality, I relaxed only when I saw it was Flint, one of my best friends in the whole world.
“You shouldn’t be in alleys all by yourself you know,” he said protectively. “It’s not safe.”
“I know,” I snapped. “I brought a beamer, okay?” A beamer was a gun that shot out a beam of light that could burn through skin the instant it touched it . . . and I mean burn. It’s like those light saber things in ‘Star Wars’- it’ll cut through just about anything (or, in this case, shoot).
He looked a bit hurt, and guilt flooded me. I knew he was just trying to protect me. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.
“My mom . . . that’s what’s wrong,” I said. I looked at the ground, kicking a little stone with my shoe. “She’s just . . . I don’t know. She’s making me do things that just seem totally nonsensical.”
“Oh,” was all he said back.
“I mean, there are just some things it seems like my mom really doesn’t . . . think out,” I said. “Like her law about no kids allowed on the streets after a certain point – I mean, the adults could get into just as much trouble as the kids!”
Flint rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah . . . I can see what you mean, but she’s trying to protect the kids. She’s probably just trying to do the best as ruler that she can. You gotta keep that in mind – and remember that her job is probably really hard.”
“But, Flint, sometimes I just can’t take it anymore. I wish I could go live somewhere where there were no rules other than ‘Don’t kill, don’t steal’ – you know, moral stuff. But other than that, I’d just love total freedom.”
“Tell me about it,” he said softly. “Well, you should get back home, Val. Your mom will probably freak if you, the princess of Xanthe, are actually out past the curfew.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Well, I’ll see you later.”
“See you,” Flint said. “We gonna meet at our usual place tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I said, a small smile coming to my face. “Tell Saph and Axle to come too.”
“Okay,” he said. “Bye.”
“Bye,” I said. Then I was walking past him to head home, my mind swirling with so many different (and confusing) thoughts I felt dizzy.

~

I awoke in the middle of the night to hear BOOOOOOOOOOM!!!! . . . and then all the lights went out (I looked out my window and watched as the city turned pitch black).The noise seemed to shake the whole city, and it did it so violently that I tumbled out of my bed. Shouting in alarm, I leaped to my feet and fled from the room to go find my parents. What was going on!?
“Mom?” I called. “Dad? Rid? Verm?” It was so dark that I hit my toe on something. “Ouch!” I cried, trying not to put too much pressure on it. Then I put my hands on the wall to feel my way along.
Something big suddenly bumped into me. I screamed and leaped back, falling to the ground and hitting my head on something.
“It’s just me!” a deep voice said – a deep voice I recognized to belong to one of my older twin brothers, Vermillion. “Sorry – I was trying to find my way to Mom and Dad’s room too.”
“Well, couldn’t you give me a bit more warning?” I snapped, getting up. My head and toe throbbed simultaneously now.
“Sorry,” Vermillion said. “But I’m freaked out, okay? That big boom you heard that seemed to shake the whole island – because that has to be why you’re up right now – was what followed a huge flash of light . . . and the light hit the top of a building. Then everything went dark.”
“A flash of light?” I said. “What’s going on, Verm?”
“I don’t know. Why else would I get up to find Mom and Dad of my own accord?” he said bitterly.
A small sadness wormed its way into my heart. It was true. We didn’t go seeking out our parents. In fact, we almost didn’t think of them as our parents. They were just the adults we lived with that took care of us. That was it.
“Verm? Val? That’s you, isn’t it?” a voice said behind us.
Another boom sounded and another flash of light lit up the room, enabling me to see not only I but Verm jumped when we heard Veridian’s voice behind us – Veridian being my other older brother (Verm and Rid were twins).
“Sorry,” he said. “But what’s going on?!”
“We don’t know!” Verm and I said in unison.
“Why for the love of all things good and ordinary are the three of you not in bed?” a voice said behind us. Suddenly we realized there was finally a light in the room.
Turning as one, we saw Dad standing there, holding a flashlight of sorts (though way better than one). “Dad,” I said. “What is that?” I looked out the window to discover something falling from the sky . . . it looked like . . . water.
He looked as us for a minute as if he expected us to understand, but after we only stared at him sleepily and blankly he sighed, rubbed his face, and said, “It’s a thunderstorm, kids.”
“What’s a thunderstorm?” I asked.
Verm and Rid had different reactions, however. They, instead of asking what it was, paled and said, “Dad, you’re joking, right?”
“No,” Dad said. “Do I look like I’m in the mood to joke?!”
“But . . . but, Dad – these things, whatever they are, were said to cause huge damage to Xanthe in the past years!” Verm cried. “How can you be so calm right now?”
“Because he’s already accepted that we’re done for, Verm,” Rid said.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Verm spat.
“We’re not done for, Veridian,” Dad said in a strained tone. “But yes, though these things are dangerous – ”
“Oh, great!” Verm shouted. “And seeing as our city that supposedly hovers over the earth is hovering in the sky probably right in the middle of the storm – and if our hovering mechanism gets damaged, we’ll fall to this earth we’re over – then everything should be just hunky dory!”
“Will you be quiet?!” Rid shouted. “He’s trying to explain!”
“Excuse me!” I shouted then. “Can someone please tell me what is going on?!”
Everyone stopped arguing and looked at me. I sighed. “I have no idea what any of you are talking about, probably because I’m the youngest. Whatever. So will you please tell me WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?!”
Dad sighed again. “Valentia,” he began slowly, as if I was stupid, “what is happening right now is called a thunderstorm.”

“I gathered that much,” I said sarcastically, so angry I wanted to break something . . . though I did feel a pang of guilt at my disrespectful tone. Though my parents weren’t the best parents in the world, I still felt it was my duty to be respectful.
He stared at me. “They’re called thunderstorms,” he went as if I hadn’t interrupted. “And, if you were on the land, which is below us, instead of in the sky, right now you would see big, black clouds in the sky, hear big, loud booms and see long flashes of lightning – it’s a kind of electricity. There would be rain, water that comes from the clouds, falling on you . . . and you would be experiencing a thunderstorm from the safety of your home or your basement – an . . . underground room, of sorts. The problem is, we’re not on or in the ground. We’re just a tiny city floating in the middle of a storm.”
“See? I told you!” Verm shouted. “We’re floating in the middle of it and we’re done for!”
“Yes, but he was trying to explain something when you wouldn’t shut up!” Rid shouted back.
“GUYS!” I shouted, silencing them again. I turned back to Dad. “So this . . . lightning . . . this electricity. It can hit stuff, right?”
“Right,” Dad said.
“And what happens when it hits things?” I asked.
“It can set things on fire, electrocute you just like sticking your fingers in a socket would . . . it does bad things,” he said.
“But if these . . . thunderstorms . . . are fairly common things, why don’t we know what they are?” I asked.
“Because there hasn’t been one for nearly thirty years now. They used to come very frequently, and then, though I’m not sure why, thirty years ago, they just . . . stopped,” he replied wearily.
“Just . . . stopped. Just like that,” I said. It was more of a statement than a question.
“That’s right,” Dad said. He sounded like he was talking to a businessman or something.
“Well, how did Xanthe surive them all those years ago?” Verm asked, finally having calmed down.
“I’m not sure,” Dad said. “The shields they had back then are nothing like the ones we have today. But anyway, Xanthe should be fine. It’s experienced many of these before, and our techs are more advanced now, so everything’s just a-okay. So go back to bed. The electricity should be back by tomorrow.” And with that he turned around, still carrying his flashlight, and went back to bed.
I gaped. He had left, just like that.
Not to mention he took the only light with him and left us to find our way back to our rooms in the dark.
I looked in the direction I remembered Verm and Rid being in before the light left. “Guys, I don’t know about you, but there’s no way I can get back to sleep in this.” I looked out the window at the pouring . . . rain, was it? . . . and suddenly thought of Flint. I hoped he was all right.
“We’re freaked out too,” Verm said, speaking for Rid. “Who’s up for sitting in the lounge for a bit? I’m pretty sure there are some flashlights in there, and we could . . . I don’t know . . . play a game or something.”
It might seem strange that we would just play a game in the middle of the night, but that was what we did.
And I’ve got to tell you, finding our way to the lounge in the dark, getting a flashlight and a game and then playing the game with my big bros was actually really nice . . .
Because just the three of us made a nicer family than the one that included Mom and Dad, sad as it was to admit that.

Categories: Futuristic Fiction.

Tags: , , ,

Chapter One: I, Alim Kadin (The Journey With No End – Myth)

4

July 5, 2010

Author’s note: Some of y’all might remember this story, but anyway, I went and copied/pasted all the old posts into a doc (just in case I wanna use something from them) and then deleted them off WE, coz I pretty much started this story  again, changing stuff and adding new stuff :) Hopefully I’ll do better this time around ;) Enjoy! -Myth

Imagine that you were the child of a powerful sultan. As you are imagining this, imagine that there is a rival country who threatens to take over unless your father gives you up as a peace treaty – a payment. Then, imagine that your father agrees, sending you, his fifteen-year-old child, his flesh and blood, to a certain death just because he fears for his own skin.  Imagine how you would feel…what you would do. Then you will know how much turmoil I, Alim Kadin, feel at this moment. You will know why I must run away – far away.
It happened like this.
My father, at the young age of nineteen, and the son of a sultan (a prince – like I now was), had met a beautiful princess from another land. They had fallen in love, and had soon after been married. Ironically, there was a freedom of choice pertaining to whom you married as the sultan or his son. Now you were told who you would marry.
My father’s father, Samir the Great, had died – making my father the new sultan of the land, and his wife the queen. This queen, Talia – my mother – had conceived, and bore my father a son – me. But she had died giving birth to me, leaving my father grief-stricken (once, he had been human and actually loved someone) and a widower with a small baby to raise.
He had gotten me a nursemaid, and she had been my mother throughout the long, cold years. My father had all but abandoned me. Yes, he lived in the same palace as I, but other than that, he was inhuman to me, barely acknowledging my existence.
As I had gotten older, my life had been hard and restricted. I was forced to study much and play little. Therefore, I was now one of the most knowledgeable princes of the land – and also the prince most sick of being a prince. I hated every waking moment of it.
The country of Saria, my homeland, had many enemies and rivals. The country of Gara had by far been our biggest one, and strongest. They had threatened (when I was four years of age) to take over Saria. We would be destroyed, and those who survived would be their slaves.
They said unless my father gave me to them to kill when I turned fifteen (they didn’t want any heirs to the throne) or killed me himself, they would attack in the next three days. My father had quickly agreed. After all, I was only his son.
His son.
This word meant nothing to him. As far as he was concerned, I could have been dead already and he wouldn’t have noticed the slightest change in life.
I thought back to when I had turned eight. My father had sat me down and had a talk with me, going on in his, lifeless, cold voice.
“Alim, come here, boy,” he had called one day as I ran past, playing an imaginary game where I was an immortal boy who fought thousands of strong men and lived.
I turned to him and walked over.
“Yes, Father?” It seems ridiculous to me now that I even called him ‘Father’. He certainly wasn’t like one to me; he was so emotionless he was very similar to a dead man walking. Or at least a man who cared only for himself – who lived in his own little world that only he inhabited.
“Come with me,” he ordered calmly, walking into the library.
I obeyed wordlessly, wondering if I had done something wrong and was about to get in trouble. I reviewed the events of my day. I had gotten up, gotten dressed…I’d had breakfast – could I be getting in trouble for stealing a little bit of goat’s cheese from the kitchen a short time after breakfast? Had someone seen me?
I soon realized that it was not to discuss cheese that I had been called by my father. There was something much more pressing then the matter of a piece of food.
“Close the door,” my father said, clasping his hands behind his back and strolling over to the window. He stared absentmindedly out of it.
I obeyed yet again, still curious. Why on earth would he want to talk to me? He never did . . .
After what seemed an eternity of waiting for him to speak, and standing silently in front of the now closed door, he spoke. I had waited so long for him to do so that when I heard him I jumped, startled.
“Alim, you know of the country of Gara,” he said quietly.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. I was itching to go back out and play in the warm sun . . . climb trees . . . dig my toes into the squelchy mud caused by last night’s rain . . .
“Then you also know of its vast size and strength,” my father said.
“Yes, sir,” I replied yet again. Was this some sort of history lesson?
“When you were four, boy, they threatened to take over Saria and destroy us…unless we did something,” my father said with no emotion in his voice. I remained silent. “They said they would attack us—crush us—unless I promised to…” he hesitated here, as if unsure of how to word it for an eight-year-old, “to make you go…live…with them,” he finally got out.
“Live with them? Why?” I burst out. I didn’t want to go and live in Gara! What a foolish little boy I had been then.
“Because they don’t want you to become king when I am gone. They want to rule then. Your half cousin, Motaz, will come to the throne. He is half Garan, and will rule on their behalf,” my father said. My half cousin, Motaz, had been born from a Garan woman and my Sarian uncle (my father’s younger brother) – making him half of each. This greatly annoyed and delighted Gara – the country saw it as an opportunity to rule one day. After all, he did have Garan blood in him…
Motaz was cruel and merciless. His friends were the same. They leaped at the tiniest chances to bully me. Many times my best friend or nursemaid had had to rescue me. I despised my half cousin, and couldn’t see how anyone could possibly want him on the throne.
“Well, why can’t I stay and he just rule anyway?” I asked innocently.
“Because…because for them it just wouldn’t be the same. They don’t want you to live here. It will just – just be better this way,” my father said, coming back to sit behind a large desk.
“B-but Father! I don’t want to leave! Please don’t make me!” I cried.
“Enough!” he growled. “You will do as I say. When you will turn fifteen, you will leave. That is the end of it.” He then proceeded to open a book, and begin writing something in it with some ink and a quill pen, an indifferent expression on his face.
I had run out of the library, sobbing. How could my father be so incredibly heartless?
Ha.
How? What a good question. I don’t think I’ll ever know the answer to it – what makes my father so heartless.
Yes, indeed, what?

Categories: Fantasy Fiction.

Tags: , , ,

Greetings From the New Person

15

July 4, 2010

Hello. I am, for all intents and purposes, Hades. I am new to WE, as you probably can tell. In fact, I am unfamiliar with blogs in general, so I don’t even know if I’m doing the right thing or if you guys can even read this. I should ask first and try latter, but, what the heck. A bit about me: I write poetry primarily, but also short stories. I’m working on a long-ishstory as well, but it is currently at a dead standstill. Okay…um…I guess that’s about all that’s important about me because the only other things I do are read, make pottery and draw. I am obsessed with mythology, particularly Greek.

Categories: I'M TO LAZY TO CORRECTLY CATAGORIZE MY STORY!!!!!!!!!! :P.