6.30

Roger lifted his eyes, just for that brief second when he knew she would be walking by. Then, he lowered them again. Why waste the energy?
She wasn't just beautiful (although for him, she was a libido explosion, a self-control catastrophe, a lovely miracle), she was mysterious. That very quality of unknown is what drew him to her like a moth to flame. That impenetrable question is why he stared every time she was around.
Roger was, therefore, unprepared for what came next. Possibly because his eyes were down (what's the point) and possibly because he could never figure her out (could anybody?) but she sat down to talk with him. Him, of all people.
They had a lovely conversation about their present and avoided talking about their past. It was like everything was fixed. Solid ground. He decided to risk it, to ask a question, ever so subtle, about something she talked about THEN.
"Roger, it's not time for that."
Shut down, cold. That's fine. He never expected more, but with her, he couldn't know. But he wanted to go back, to relive, to try. If he had a time machine, single use, go and come back (try and change one thing about your past) he would go to himself that cold day in February and convince himself that the feeling would pass, he would be fine, don't make that mistake, but of course time machines aren't real, and he knew that.
But then, she said something he didn't expect.
"Rog, do you ever want to go back? If things were different . . ."
They sat for a long while in silence. His personal beauty ideal, mysterious and lovely, sat across the table from him wishing to have him back. Couldn't they? What unspoken rule held them back? What keeps you from retreading old ground?

Oh, the solid ground breaks up and lava pours out. That lava solidifies into new rock that the creator meant for you to walk on instead.
Roger picks up his proverbial pickaxe and begins to work his way backwards through the wreckage. For her, he would see the plain again, break loose all the lava flow and patch the ground.
Penelope.

6.29

I wish I could read her. I really do. But she laughs at everybody's jokes. She smiles genuine at everyone. She's free with praise for every person. She asked me out on a date, but she's hanging out with him.
Maybe someday I'll understand, but today she's in love with everyone.

6.25

The ocean is rolling away, not inches at a time, but a foot. I'm walking at a leisurely pace, and I can keep up, if only just. I'm in the harbor with the most extreme tides in the world and for the first time in my life, I really have an idea of just how incredibly heavy the moon is. A foot at a time, the waves roll away.
[This is how I feel about keeping up with the Internet during camp.]

6.20

Heat and power and glory.
Sweat and pain and death.
Fire and syrup and love.
Red and black and evil.
Soft and small and hope.

6.18

Funny, how it works out. She's already dating someone, but she acts like an open-faced sandwich. Maybe he should leave her alone. She's clearly (not) not interested in him. Maybe he should respect her boundaries. She's clearly (not) repulsed by him. Maybe he should stop flirting with her. It's clearly (not) not working. Still, he'll stop flirting with her when she stops with him.

6.17b

[about the sister of my friend]

All I know is that she's a pretty girl, and those are the sorts of people who get hurt so often. They're targets. We all worship them; just hold them up on a pedestal and stick them full of knives.

6.17

I have to send a letter by tomorrow at the absolute extreme latest date. if I don't, I die. Dead. Expired.

Please don't let me forget.

6.11

The city built for them a home, a place to call their own. Lovingly crafted of wood and cement, it stands as a shining example of modern engineering. Slopes and curves and spins and gyres lie tumultuous over the landscape. "No graffiti!" a sign warns. "Wear a helmet," chides another. Nothing doing.
The city made for them a home, and it suits them, alright. They flock here. They've lowered property values in the immediate vicinity and broken everything not taped down. The city's gift horse has been looked squarely in the mouth, then crowbarred and spray painted.

Miscreants.

6.10

Less is more?
That's ludicrous. More is more. You've never been more beautiful than in the red dress that hangs off your curves. You've never been more seductive than when you put on my shirt you've never made me flutter more than when you gave me the up-and-down, what with both of us fully clothed and in public.

6.8

Take a bite out of my heart, please. You'll find it's quite good. In fact, it's been pre-cooked, seared in the fires of a previous encounter. Of course, that's been years since, so someone else kindly packed it in salt for you, to keep it fresh and enhance the flavor. Burned like the dickens, you know, but every moment worth it. No, please. I beg of you, take a bite. Chew it well. Savor the fullness of the body, the perfection of the preparation, the exquisite lengths to which the chefs have gone.

Oh, but do save some for God. I invited him to dinner but he hasn't come round yet.

Delectable.

6.7

It feels like you're walking up to the best person in the world. You love them, just for who they are and what they represent. Everything you are and value is riding on this one person and you want them to want you back you need them to hold you in the same light. And you're walking up, slow. Tense. Your heartbeat crushes your eardrums with noise. Your stomach churns. Your vision narrows. You're anxious and worried and hopeful and excited all at once. You feel simultaneously like screaming and laughing. It's all mixed up. They turn and look at you and you're poised, heart in your throat, ready to explode, anticipating the best feeling in the world, and you see that smile crack their face, they reach to embrace you, and that's when the cold hits your limbs and your knees give way and the next ten seconds feel like they're in a different color and you know they'll love you too, and they'll feel the same way about you as you do about them.

That's what it feels like and if they tell you anything different, they're lying or selling something.

6.5b

Someday, ma'am, I would like your side of our story. (But not today, and not when it will make me regret having asked.)

All things considered, it would have been nice to have just been given it, you know, as a parting gift.

6.5

He gripped the baseball bat with sweaty fingers as he edged his way down the staircase. He had seen this in the movies before, hadn't he? Easy.

Sounds from downstairs in the middle of the night. He's supposed to protect the house from all who wish it harm. It's his place in the family. It's his responsibility. So he shouts. "Who's there?" Sounds stop. Nobody who belongs here would be that quiet.

His only advantage is that they don't know he's armed. His only weakness is that he doesn't know how to use his armament.

Swing and crunch. Sickening contact with the arm of a would-be assailant. The burglar assassin falls backwards, moaning on the ground. The man vomits. Why can't he just be a man? Why can't he delight in the brawling, groaning, searing pain of combat? Dry retch. Hopefully his wife won't know.

He crawls to the phone and calls 911. He collapses on the floor to wait for real men to deal with his problem.

6.4

[Normally, I post with the number of the previous day if I haven't gone to sleep yet. Today, it is five AM and I am ready for tomorrow.]

She divorced him twenty years ago and he still hadn't forgotten the way she looked at five AM (just slightly frazzled and inconceivably sleepy). Twenty years and he hadn't forgotten the taste of her smile. Twenty years and he hadn't forgotten the cold of her toes pressed to his legs.
The new wife, the new life, the new house all made him think of the old. Maybe he wasn't ready yet.

Twenty years.

6.3b

Do you remember this? I do. And it haunts me every day that I couldn't do something better. Well, this helps. Orson Scott Card, Joss Whedon, Brian Herbert, Gregory Maguire, Stan Lee, Alan Miller, Neil Gaiman . . . I didn't read one that was better than Hemingway.

And here I thought I was a failure.

6.3

Meredith shoved her laptop off the bed, and it fell with a solid clunk onto the hardwood floor. She didn't care. She was fed up with watching the goings-on. Facebook seemed to always (always) show his face, and she didn't like seeing it. Well, that's not strictly true. She loved seeing it, but she hated knowing what it was up to. She always saw his face with that girl (skinny, pretty, smiling, happy) and couldn't believe her bad luck. That could have been her. Really, it could have been. There was a brief window in which she could have--
But women are passive. They sit back and shouldn't act, and the ones that do are too forward/aggressive. So she rolled over and said good morning to her husband, eschewed her slippers and walked down the stairs to fix breakfast for her three kids.

What she forgot to mention is that the face--the face on the Internet that intrigued her--was a man who  couldn't seem to keep his act together. He threw himself at pretty women (sure, he got a few now and again) and lived life like the world was ending. He had no career, savings, or future. He had only his face, and that was going, too.

In fifteen years more, he wouldn't have anything but the memories of a past full of terribly awful mistakes.

In fifteen years more, she would have successful children and a home to return to and a future with a husband who forgot entirely the man on the Internet whose only asset was his face.

5.31

My name is Cantor Ovric, follower of the light, healer of wounds, and dabbler in fine tapestries. On this day, apparently the twelfth of a month I've never heard (Olagth--perhaps made up), I am recording a story dictated to me by a good friend.
Calcicor, self-styled as "the magnificent," set out from us at least a week ago. His mission was simple: to find a puppy. After a series of scrapes and bumps, he has returned, though his success is debatable. This is his story.

I tell this story to Mister Cantor because he is nice enough to sit down for as long as I can talk. Also, he knows of my like for all small creatures that are cute and won't stick knives in me. Puppies are my favorite. When I was small, I had a puppy and his name was The Magnificent. When he died, I tooked his name for me. So you see, I do love puppies a lot. Good.
We have done a lot of killing and running, but we finally slowed down. Things are good. The Gob [Here the speaker stopped and coughed as of choking] Dirty Ygath is good and everyone is readying for the next bug bad thing to do. So I said Hey Guys I Want To Go Become A Man and they looked at me funny but I did not. I left the Ygath and went to the armorer. I got him to fix up my axe good and make it sharp sharp. It is a good axe and it is my favorite weapon I have. I went to the market and I asked the meat man for some meat. He brought a chunk as big as my fist. I did not want a fist meat. I put it in his pants. He brought me a chunk as big as me. I took it and put money in his pants. I do not think he liked me.
I left town and walked for two days until I got to my momma's shack in the woods.
Mister Cantor, I do not think you know my mother. Have you met her? I will describe her. She is big and beautiful and she is my mother. [At this juncture, I ask some questions about Cal's mother.] What? What color is momma's hair? You don't understand. Momma has no hair. Huh? No. I forgive you, because you are not orc, but momma loved my pa and so shaved off all her hair to look more beautiful to him. What? [At this point, I am ashamed to admit I was laughing rather heartily. Calcicor looked confused at first, but then joined my laughter. He undoubtedly was completely lost, but Cal always loves a good laugh.]
Ok, where was we? Oh, right. So, momma looked at me funny that I was back, but I needed to become a man. You see, all Orc are man at births. They are given sword cribs and knife toys. This is natural. But I am not Orc. I am soft womanly half-Orc. I must prove manness before can be man. I must go into woods and survive the trials of the forest. This is the way it has been and the way it always will be.
So, I walk off into woods of darkness and trial. I take axe and meat. I take me. Me is all the tools I will need.
Have you ever seen a spinner bug? Not a spider. No. Everyone knows spider. Have you seen a spinnerbug? I will explain. Spinnerbug makes an elaborate trap, slowly funneling prey into nest, and then [here Cal yelled vigorously and pounded the table] snap! The bug eats man or horse or deer. Whatever is dumb enough to walk into nest. Well, I was like spinnerbug. I tooked meats and cut off a piece. Just a piece big enough for meal. I laid this in a clearing and tried to leave no scents. I come back next day and meats is gone! Good for step one. You raise eyebrow at me. [I ask Cal what took the meat.] Is surprise. I do again. I am less careful with my scents. I keep doing this. Five days and I am rolling in dusts near meats, and still, meats is gone in the morning. Good. So I take meats. All of it. All the rest of it. I put it in clearing and I hide in the bushes. I set aside my favorite knives. I bury my favorite axe in tree. I take off favorite armors. I strip until it is just me, soft womanly half-orc, and I wait. I wait. I wait. I will make it more realistic. You wait.

[Cal just walked out of the room. Am I supposed to follow him?]

* * * * *

This is the thirteenth of the probably fictitious month Olgath. My name is Cantor Ovric, and I am apparently here to finish the story of my friend Calcicor the Magnificent.

You did not wait. [I admit this to him.] You make terrible orc. I am good orc. I proved it. I wait. I can hear the sounds in the bushes, but I cannot see yet. It is dark, but my eyes can see. It is windy, but my scents are normal. It is cold, but I can't care. Slowly, it enters clearing. It looks cautious; this is good. No one wants idiot for company. [I do not point out the irony of his statement and our friendship.] It walks up and buries snout in meat. Yum it is good. I can see the joy on face. I wait. It eats. You see, I am light and fast, but not so fast as it. I wait for it to be so fat from meats. [He holds up his hands about two feet apart. I assume this is the size of the belly of whatever creature he is telling me about.] Then! I run. Right out at it and I tackle it down to the ground. I lay it flat on floor and I sit on head. It thrashes and tries to run, but I do not let go. I am good warrior. Momma told me how. [I interrupt here and ask what on earth he is wrestling. He doesn't notice.] I grab it good around the neck and thump it against the ground. It yells at me but I thump again. Then! Like lightning it is out and gone. I run, it runs. I jump right for it and grab it, but I can't grab good. It slips out and bites me on the leg. I grab with hand. It bites hand.
[I apologize for that scrawl on the parchment. I normally pride myself on my scribing, but Cal almost punched me in the head with his hand. The two last fingers on his hand are entirely missing with a great deal of the palm to the wrist. As a cleric, it pains me to see how poorly his hand is bandaged. If it weren't Cal, I would expect a wound like that to rot the entire arm, but Cal seems resistant to much of the infection of human kind. I offered to heal his hand, but he claims that a wound received in honor is no woud at all. In any case, he has ceased ranting about the room and sat down. I will resume taking notes.]
I wrestle down and pin it. You see these hands? They hold it down. You see this mouth? I bite! I bite in the flank and I draw blood. Now we share blood. It has tasted me. I have tasted it. We are kin. I pull off and she whimper at me and then we howl together, there in the woods of my homeland. I walk back to the meats, and she follows. I cook the meats and she waits. I give meats and she eats, you see? For everything she waits for me. For everything, I must care for her. We are now family, and I am now an Orc like my father and his before.
[I ask how this made him a man. He stands up and towers over me.]
An grown Orc is power, raw and overpowering. But Orc must know when the power should be used. If I smash this table, I am power, but I am not wise. If I kill you, I am power but I am not wise. I must be wise. I must have an creature to share blood with. I must be responsible. I must be strong. These things are wise. You know what I found in the woods that day?
[Cal looks sad. So sad, right down to his bones.]
I found myself in those woods. I found what I am: power with no responsibility. I wrestled it down and fought it and won, I did. I made a blood bond with myself and I know now that I can be wise with my power. All I did lost was my fingers. I see this as fair.
[I pause and ask Cal what he found in the woods, really. He looks at me like I'm stupid and walks to the door, but]

* * * * *

[He threw the door open and a beast the size of a pony waited beyond, slavering and chomping. You can't imagine something so astonishing. Apparently these creatures are native to the woods where Calcicor lives, which actually explains a lot about him. The immense size of it makes me question how large the adults--but no. If I allow myself to wonder that, I might have nightmares. No, better to get on good terms with Cal's puppy before it takes MY arm off. I don't think I would be able to wrestle it down. This has been Cantor Ovric, believer in light and wanderer on tortuous paths. If you know what dire wolves like to eat, be sure to let me know.]