Then a smile,
a kiss,
a hand caressing my cheek,
an eternal moment lost in your presence.

You remember our first embrace
on these banks, so long ago.
I watch the memory play through your eyes,
the hypnotic rhythm of a thousand pulsing green lights
drawing me deeper into your vision.

You tighten your grip on my hand
as if to keep me from floating away,
but I know it’s time to go.
Reluctantly, I stand.

The crickets blend into a single note that pierces my skull
as your fingers relax their hold,
as you hand slips down by your side,
as your eyes close for the last time.

why should we believe
we understand His words
when we kill
in His name
over land so holy

why should we believe
we care about Him
when we fight
over steps and tiles
in His house

why should we believe
He came at all
when we reap
not of His harvest
but of our own

I was inspired last night to play around with constrained writing. This all came about because of a strangely interesting book called Sex, Drugs, Einstein, & Elves by Clifford Pickover. It was randomly handed to me by a friend while we were hanging out in the Metaphysical section of the Borders in Hunt Valley. He just liked the trippy cover. I just liked the weird title. Looking back, its one of those moments when I’m almost inclined to believe in Destiny. But I digress.

The first experiment in constrained writing was to use 10 randomly selected words from the aforementioned book. I simply opened to a random page, closed my eyes, and pointed. Then I wrote a little paragraph in my notebook, trying to make as much sense as possible.

Here are the words, in the order I found them:

traveling, consciousness, nebulous, encourage, word, happily, see, societies, nuclear, character

And here is what I wrote at 11:30 last night:

One would do well to encourage the youth to expand their consciousness. Societies, all too often, see fit to push developing minds toward something all together rigid. The character of free thinkers is, in a word, dangerous. Enlightened youth might happily go about traveling the world instead of mindlessly producing and consuming the meaningless goods which serve as the foundation of Capitalism. The might just stop to ponder some nebulous idea borne of boredom and a daydream. Perhaps such open minded children would reject the notion of the nuclear family, bringing to an end the perpetuation of mediocrity known as conservatism.

Next I wished to write a short paragraph where every word contained the letter ”A”:

Alone as usual, Lisa leaned against an ancient oak contemplating supernatural manifestations. Magic had always fascinated Lisa. Although fairly talented among attendees at Harvard Metaphysical Academy, Lisa remained alienated. Lisa’s failure wasn’t about talent. Gary was arrogant. Accidents happened and reputations tarnished.

Not being able to use ”the” is a bit hard.

I have some other ideas for writing projects the I will likely pursue. Feel free to leave your own suggestions in the comments!

Were it not for our chance meeting that night I would not be here to tell this tale. He walked past the alley just as one of Gordon’s thugs raised his gun to my head. I saw him just before I shut my eyes in anticipation of death. But I’ll never forget his expression, an unsettling mix between disgust and pity. And a perverse excitement not even the Devil himself would show.

Time stood still as I waited for the bullet to enter by brain. And in that eternity I heard, not the sound of gun fire, but the grotesque snapping of bone and tendon, the sound of meat falling to the pavement. Then, a laugh. I opened my eyes and saw him sitting in front of me, glaring, laughing. Of course, at that moment I had no idea of his intentions. Fear lingered, grew. This man had saved my life. Why? Only to end it himself? To derive sick pleasure from my torture? The insane laughing grew louder. No longer did I hear it with my ears alone, but from the very depths of my soul did it seem to emanate. Surly this was my end!

Then nothing. The absolute silence broke me free from the shock. The alley was devoid of life, aside from myself. My five assailants lay in lifeless heaps around me, their heads and arms twisted in unnatural directions. In all my 30 years, in all the nights I had seen death, this was only the second time I had lost my dinner. Having regained my composure, I fled. Home was not far, but it was far from safe. Gordon would have me hunted.

Adam leaned back on his folding chair and stared at the ceiling of the tent. The sight of the mummy was still fresh in his mind. It had been found deep inside the northern cave seated on a large stone throne. The walls, ceiling, and floor of the room had been smoothed by human hands. The throne sat on a large dias both of which were sculpted from the back wall. Certainly, Adam thought, this was a king.

Both the manner of its preservation and odd features had bothered him for days. Naturally preserved bodies were not unheard of in British Columbia, but this one was deliberate. That fact alone was significant enough to call into question the advancement of technology and culture in ancient North America. It was the body itself, however, that bothered Adam the most.

Roughly four feet tall, it seemed to be a child. The head was larger than that of a normal human and devoid of ears. Its small mouth had been sewn shut. Overly long arms and legs emanated from its otherwise short body. Each hand had only four elongated fingers, including the thumbs. Its feet were wrapped together, but the visible ridges in the cloth indicated a similar length and number of digits. Child or not, Adam thought, this being was clearly deformed. And that did not sit well with him. Who ever heard of a mutant king, he wondered?

Angela ran into the tent, short of breath. She was a woman of unexceptional beauty, attractive but not captivating. Adam was far more attracted to her intelligence and enthusiasm. Seeing her run around the site at the smallest hint of a find was a common occurrence, but the look in her eyes betrayed more than suspicions. “Dr. Smith,” she panted. “We found another one.”

I’m bored. Here are some random poems i just wrote.

Ode to Henry

everybody is a sweet lonely nothing
the sugar of my mind is everything
nobody knows how to make me happy
i'm dead    on    the     inside

Motivation

Walking endlessly across the endless beach
  I count the endless footprints of my endless journey.
How long have I walked?
How long will I walk?
Not once have I stopped on my way
  though I endlessly forget what I am doing.

Change

Eyes meet.
  "Spare some change?"
Coins weigh pockets.
No one bothers.
  "Have a nice day."
Have a nice life.
                  Not.
Another child dies of starvation.
Who asked you?
               No one.

Lisa

Leaning against the lamp post
She peddles her wares
A long alabaster leg
Poking shamelessly naked
Through a long fur coat

Dress Code

Kiss
  my
    Dockers
  wearing
butt

“That book is over two thousand years old. It has been passed on from master to student one hundred and fifty seven times,” she said. “You are the one hundred and fifty eighth owner of the Pahn Shirah – Book of Spells.”

I opened to the middle and looked at the hand written words. The letters were completely foreign. For some reason, I expected the book to be in English, even after hearing its age.

“I can’t read this. I don’t even know what language this is in.”

“Why don’t you try reading it from the beginning, Ron. You aren’t the kind of guy who reads the last page before finishing a book, are you?” She laughed.

“Okay, but I still can’t read this shit.” I looked down at the first page of the Pahn Shirah. There were no words, only pictures of a person in various poses. The images seemed to flow together, the page alive with an animated dance. I watched as the figure moved from one position to the next. Over and over it danced. I cannot remember how long I watched the figure move. When I finally looked away, she was gone. But the dance remained vividly in my mind.

I stood up from the small wooden chair, moved to an open space in the room and began to dance. I moved as I remembered the figure moving. I moved my arms. I moved my legs. The motions were slow like those of a Tai Chi master. Finally, I raised my arm in the final pose. I waited. Nothing.

“What the hell?” I asked the empty room, folding my arms. I figured she would hear me no matter how far away she had been. “That didn’t do anything. What am I supposed to be doing anyway?”

“This is your journey, your dance. Nothing is going to be handed to you on a plate. Don’t expect everything to come in the form of an explosion. Some things take time. I’m here to guide you, not force you down a particular path. You choose where to go. I’ll help you if you fall, but it’s you who must move forward, not I.” Her voice came from the book.

“What kind of teacher lets her student do whatever he wants? How am I supposed to learn from that?”

No reply ever came. With nothing better to do, I turned to the second page. Again a figure danced. Again I watched countless times. Again I moved my own body in the form I had just learned. This time my head was filled with ten thousand voices, each was distinct. The chorus of words seemed to merge until a single unified sound was heard.

I woke up on the floor, dizzy and confused. After a few minutes I regained my senses and stood. The book lay open on the arm of the chair. I picked it up and read the third page. Hahliza tomas batta kyu. Naraddha simo dayradin tor. A figure danced in rhythm with the strange words.

“I told you so.” She was suddenly standing next to me again. I wondered if she had ever really left.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Its magic. The first spell is one of purification. It helps to clear the mind and lets you focus on important stuff. The second is one of understanding. It helps you communicate with those around you. You’ll understand whatever they say or write. Likewise they’ll understand you. These two spells form the base of your studies. They’ll help you learn much faster, so I suggest you do them both every day. I do them when I wake up.” Her smile faded into a frown. “Obviously you can read that ‘shit’ now.”

“Okay, fine. I’m sorry.” The whole I-told-you-so attitude always irked me. “So, what’s this third spell do?”

She just stood there with a “wouldn’t you like to know” look on her face. I rolled my eyes then performed the third dance, singing the words. Every syllable seemed to burn my tongue as I spoke it. My body tingled with every word. As the last utterance left my lips and my arms moved into their final position, the air around me crackled with energy. I felt peaceful, clam, safe.

“Its a spell of protection. It won’t stop bullets or swords, but when danger is near, you’ll know it. And you’ll know where its coming from.”

“How long do these spells last?”

“I’m being nice. My teacher wouldn’t tell me anything. I had to figure it all out on my own.” Laughing, she said, “I bet she’d have a fit if she knew I told you all that already. But that’s really not my style. I did kind of resent her for it, you know. But don’t think I’m just going to tell you everything. I guess one thing I learned was that sometimes we learn better through experience.”

“So you’re not going to tell me?”

“Nope.”

“Thanks.” I mumbled.

“You’re welcome! Always glad to help.”

I suddenly felt tired, or maybe just realized how tired I had been. “What time is it?”

“Time is relative, grass-hopper.”

I stared at her, arms folded, and sneered.

“Four in the morning. You look tired. I know I am so I’m going to bed.” She pointed to a door I hadn’t notice before. “That’ll be your room.” She walked away into her own bedroom, then turned before closing the door. “Don’t stay up all night reading, okay? And please don’t wake me up if you get to number six. I’m really grumpy when someone wakes me up.” She closed her door.

I was so tired I couldn’t imagine reading any more. But her warning intrigued me. I wondered what the sixth spell would do to wake her up. Taking the book with me, I went into my room. The bed was small, but comfortable. The rest of my surroundings didn’t register in my memory. Sleep came quickly.

I could see the writhing mass of people dancing, moving like a pit of serpents. As if this congregation of bouncing bodies was a hurricane, a patch of non-motion lied at the center. I moved closer to investigate, as this was a strange thing indeed. From the edge of the dance floor I could see, in the eye of the storm, a woman. She stared at me and smiled. The throbbing mass of people danced around her, never touching, always moving to avoid her as if some invisible barrier surrounded her body. She came to me, the people parting before her. And the closer she came, to more calm I felt. I could almost see the energy flowing from her. Certainly I felt it pushing against me more forcefully than the music. And then, when she stood arm’s length from me, the music stopped. Yet in the silence, the people danced, as oblivious to the quite as they had been to the woman’s presence. I felt like I was being crushed by the weight of her being, but I could not back away, could not move, could not breathe.

She reached out with both arms and clasped my shoulders. The motion of the room slowed. The lights, the people, the smoke, all moved so slowly, almost imperceptibly. She brought one finger to her lips, “Shhhhh.” I couldn’t speak if I had wanted to. Then turning away, she walked toward the door, motioning for me to follow. My legs moved, as if possessed of their own will, toward the door. I stepped from the club through the door and into a field. The sidewalk, street, cars, all replaced with trees and grass. Again able to move of my own volition, I turned around to confirm what I had already assumed, the club was nowhere to be seen. This woman and I stood alone in a field.

The large full moon shone brightly. Stars where abundant. I couldn’t see the light of any city. I could, however, see mountains and hills and trees. I could hear the chirping of nocturnal insects, the howl of an owl. With the shock of the abrupt change slowly wearing off, I returned my attention to the mystery woman. She was far brighter than the moon, seemed to produce a light of her own. I opened my mouth to speak.

“My name is Amara,” she said before I could form the question she had just answered.

“Where…”

“Here. In a field.” She smiled coyly. She paused for a while then continued. “I like it hear, don’t you? Its peaceful, not tainted by the city. Its pure. And its much quieter than that dance floor.”

“How…”

“Magic, of course.”

“I don’t…”

“Of course you don’t believe it. I didn’t at first either.” Again she paused. “All right. Call it technology then if it makes you feel better. But I ask you, what’s the difference? Can you tell me how a TV works? Or how all the little 1’s and 0’s on a CD can make music? That’s technology, right? But to a tribe of jungle people that same technology is magic. Its all perspective. Look, Ron, there will always be something that you don’t understand. But that doesn’t mean you can’t use it. If you want to call that unknown stuff advanced technology, I won’t stop you. But whatever the name, it still works the same.” Another pause. “Any more questions?”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“You saw me, right? How many other people do you think saw me at that club, huh?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I guess at least the dancers.”

“Bzzz! Wrong. The correct answer is none. Zip. Nobody saw me. Nobody but you, that is. And that’s why I brought you here. You’re special, not like the other mindless drones.” She smiled. “And before you ask, I was waiting for you. Maybe not you specifically, but for someone who might be able to see the truth. Looks like I got you.”

“What, you… you’re looking for a student or something?”

“Bingo. Welcome to Magic 101, Ron Bauer.”

“Wait, what? How did you… Let me guess. Magic.”

“You’re a quick one, Ron.” Amara smiled. “Anyway, there is one condition.”

“And that is?”

“You have to want it. You have to ask for it. I’m not forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do, but this is your only chance. If you back out now, we will leave you alone in the realm of the shadows forever.”

“Who’s we? What do you mean ‘realm of the shadows’?”

“We. Mages. I’m not the only one, you know. I will explain everything to you if you choose. No sense telling you anything if you’re just going to go back. You’ll forget all about me and this field.” She paused. “So what’ll it be?”

I couldn’t make sense of everything in such a short amount of time. But the fact was, I stood in a field I’d never seen when I should have been in the street. But if this was technology, what else might she have? There where too many things I wanted to know. I had to keep going. I opened my mouth to speak.

“Good choice,” she interrupted. “Now then, Ron. Close your eyes.”

“What are you going to do.”

“Trust me. If you don’t trust me, this will never work out, okay?”

“Fine,” I sighed as I closed my eyes. And at that instant I felt warm. And somehow, the ground beneath my feet seemed to get harder. The sound of the insects became the sound of a refrigerator motor.

“You can look now. I hope you like it. I cleaned up just for you.”

Even after the Feyans had left, Hesta stayed among the branches of the great oak. She needed to formulate a plan, quickly, that she might reach her king and warn him of the unexpected attack. But even running full speed through the forest, she thought, I’d never reach him in time. She knew many scouts would be lurking about to take care of spies like herself. No, she would not be able to warn her people in time. And by sunrise tomorrow, Castle Fallbrooke would be under siege. The tiny kingdom of Osalyn was sure to fall. Hesta knew she would have no place to return. There would be no time to warn her mother or her brothers.

After looking about few a few minutes, Hesta climbed down from her hiding place among the leaves. She ran east, toward the kingdom of Pardent to tell Lord Osteen of the impending danger. Since Osalyn was bordered to the north by the Tirimar Mountains and to the west by the Sykal Sea, the Feyan army would surely strike next in Pardent. From there they would travel north into Meriwinn. Osteen must be warned.

For hours Hesta ran. The sun now descended slowly. Light faded quickly under the cover of the forest. Still she ran until she could not see her own hands before her. She decided to sleep in the trees, but her sleep was uneasy as thoughts of her home, of her mother and brothers, raced through her mind. There was nothing she could do to help them. Helpless was not a label Hesta every thought she’d place upon herself, but tonight as she rested in the branches of the trees she felt utterly useless.

The wheels stopped spinning. Bar-seven-cherry. Nothing. Grace took a long draw from her cigarette. Yesterday, she had broken even on the same machine. I’ll win with this one soon she thought. The band had long ago stopped playing and now a man who called himself Sammy Ray sang Frank Sinatra’s “My Way.” Grace stood up and frowned. Sleep seemed a much better alternative to hearing Sinatra covers. The slots would wait for her to return.

She took one last drag of the cigarette and rubbed the butt into the green glass ashtray which sat beside the machine. With another quick glance to the bar, Grace confirmed that her husband was still with the blonde. Coughing, she walked to the elevator. Their room was on the twenty-third floor. It had thick red carpet and red velvet drapes, a large bathtub built into the floor, and a waterbed which could sleep four people comfortably, though it generally slept only one. In the mornings, Grace’s back would hurt and Harold would be lying beside her. The pain lasted for hours. She wished she had a cheaper room just for the box-spring and mattress.

Unable to sleep, Grace stared at the ceiling in the dark until Harold opened the door. He did so slowly, like a child coming home well after curfew. Grace looked at the red numbers on the radio alarm clock she had brought along. 5:23. Her husband proceeded to undress and climb carefully into bed. The weight of his two hundred pound body displaced much more water than Grace’s ninety-eight. After a brief moment, the undulating water settled leaving Grace in an unnaturally curved position. What could that young tart find appealing about him, she wondered. With the rising of the sun, Grace fell asleep.

When she finally awoke, Harold was gone. The alarm clock displayed 2:18. Grace remembered her honeymoon. They had stayed in a cheap hotel in Las Vegas next to The Love Shack where the Elvis impersonator had married them. Forty-two years ago. The urge for nicotine over came her and she lit the first cigarette of the day then got in the shower. The slot machine was waiting. Today her luck would change; the sirens would blare; the lights would flash; the money would pour forth like milk from a bottle; the pain in her back would go away.

For hours Grace smoked cigarettes, drank martinis, listened to the band play swing tunes she didn’t know, pushed her money into the slot, pulled the arm, and lost. A few times the pictures on the wheels matched, producing ten dollars or twenty dollars, but never enough to break even. Yet her need only grew like smoking. At 9:40 her supply of money exhausted. She needed more. Grace scanned the large gambling room for her husband, but to no avail. The machine still called to her. Today she would win. Her only option was to take tomorrow’s ration of money. Harold’s too busy with Blondie to ever notice anyway, she thought. And two hundred dollars would be easy to replace from the thousands which lie waiting behind those three lucky sevens.

Having acquired a mass of dollar tokens, refilled her martini, and purchased a new pack of Virginia Slims, Grace sat down at the third slot machine from the left. She thought about how much she had put into the machine which sat before her. Soon it would have to give back to her. She could feel the machine’s love for her. Every pull of the handle, every click of the wheels, every bar or cherry or lemon, every aspect of the slot machine existed for no other purpose than to love her. All it asked was the she put every bit of herself into the relationship. Soon she would be repaid.