the guardian.
354 years. That’s how long Rowan had been watching and waiting for the next guardian to appear.
He’d become the guardian quite by accident.
He was wandering through the woods, as he always did. He was prone to rambling about, with no destination to speak of. His mind was lost in daydreams about the most recent pretty girl in the region to have caught his eye. His face was turned up to enjoy the tops of the trees, and thus he nearly tripped over the figure lying prostrate before him. At first he took it to be a corpse, but upon turning it over to check for loot he was surprised by a wheezing release of breath from the poor fellow.
He squatted beside the figure for a moment, pondering what to do next. The man, as he saw it was a man by this point, was wearing what appeared to be a collection of thick old rags quilted together into a cloak. It was large and billowing, and the hood was pulled down low over the man’s face so that it almost functioned as a cowl.
The man wheezed again, this time slowing moving his lips. It appeared he was trying to speak, so Rowan leaned down and placed his ear as close to the man’s lips as he could. There was another indiscernible wheeze from the man, with the faint whisper of mumbled words that Rowan couldn’t quite make out.
The man shuddered once, then twice, and then was very still. Rowan thought perhaps he was dead, but regardless there was nothing he could do for the poor chap. They were miles and miles from the nearest village, days journey even if Rowan could build a litter to drag the man. He decided the most sensible thing to do would be to take the man’s cloak.
He reached down to roll the man onto his side when, with a terrible suddenness, the man’s hand grabbed Rowan’s wrist. The old man’s eyes shot open and stared at Rowan with startling intensity. Rowan pulled backwards to make a run for it, but the old man’s grip was surprisingly strong.
“Hark! It must be kept safe until the appointed time!” The old man had suddenly found his voice, breathless and weary thing that it was.
The old man’s gaze burned into Rowan with an intensity that made his ears feel warm and his palms sweat.
“You must heed the ancient words. ‘Without the Token, all will be lost.’ It must be kept safe until the appointed time!”
The old man’s grip tightened for a moment, and then he was gone. The man’s body remained, but whatever spirit had animated him had fled.
Rowan pulled the man’s hand from his wrist and jumped backward behind a tree, trying to get distance between the body and himself in case there were more surprises in store.
He watched and waited, peering from around a tree to be sure the old man was truly dead this time. It would be foolish to allow what had just happened to keep him from taking the cloak, the cold season was coming on, and the cloak looked warm.
Finally, Rowan steeled his nerves enough to approach the body. He pulled the cloak from the corpse, which was already stiffening, and threw it over his own shoulders. It was even warmer than he’d hoped.
He began checking about his person for pockets of hidden treasures and perhaps even money. He found the cloak was filled with pockets, and odd objects the likes of which he’d never seen before: a tiny mug, smaller than any Rowan had ever come across; a marble in the likeness of a human eye, hard and smooth; a feather, of a brighter orange than Rowan thought possible; and a string of beads, each bead the rich color of freshly spilled blood.
Rowan thought that was all the pockets, but then, nearly by accident, as he was adjusting his collar, he found one more pocket over his heart, but on the inside of the cloak. He reached his arm inside and found a single coin. It was a deep, striking black. Blacker than anything Rowan could even imagine. It seemed as if the light around it was sucked into the coin.
Rowan examined the coin in awe. It was unnatural. He found it impossible to look away. He placed it in the palm of his left hand, closed his hand tightly around the coin, and closed his eyes. A surge, fast as a bolt lightning, shook his entire body, and he found himself lying on his side, hours later, but with new memories in his head. He knew that no matter what befell him, it was of the utmost importance that he kept this coin safe until another guardian came to replace him. He didn’t know how he would identify the next guardian, or what the coin might need protecting from. He just knew that he would keep it with him, and continue his wandering as he always had, but with a new purpose.
Since then, he had not slept. Not a nap, or a doze, or a nodding off. He’d spent the last 354 years waiting. He was old in his bones, even though the coin slowed the aging process considerably, 354 years was still such a very long time. He was tired, and weary, and ready to make up for 354 years without rest.
the fantastic flying books of mr. morris lessmore.
I saw this because my friend Tos shared it on Facebook. It’s so beautiful. You should watch it.
wine.
I’m continuing to rewrite trigger fiction stories and post them here because I don’t know what else to do with them. This one hasn’t changed much, but it was one of my favorites from the early-going of trigger fiction.
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Marco awkwardly sat down across the table from his brother. They hadn’t spoken in three years, and before arriving he wasn’t sure his brother would even show up, but here they were. He set the bottle on the table between the two of them before nervously adjusting the sleeves of the shirt that poked out from beneath his sweater.
This was a date that had been set for some time. Their father had left them little when he died, but for one remarkable thing: a bottle of 1947 Château Cheval Blanc. It is one of the rarest and most valuable wines in the world, praised by many as the greatest wine ever bottled.
Since he’d left it to both of them, they’d decided that on the ten year anniversary of their father’s death, they would get together and share the bottle, just the two of them. They picked a restaurant they hoped would survive the ten years, even picked a time.
Much had happened since then. That was before the betrayals and infidelities, before the words that couldn’t be taken back, before the screaming match the finally resulted in Freddie storming out the door and out of Marco’s life for the last three years.
There had been no contact. Not a single phone call or email, no birthday cards or messages through a friend. It had been complete silence.
So, Marco didn’t know whether or not to expect Freddie to show. Marco had the bottle of wine, and while he warred with himself for the last few months, he had decided to honor the memory of their father and keep the date they’d made ten years earlier.
When Marco arrived, Freddie was already there, seated at what had been their regular table. As Marco sat down across from Freddie, he was surprised. He’d expected that upon seeing his brother the anger of past hurts would flare up again, but instead he felt only sadness. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed Freddie’s face until this moment. He blinked back tears before Freddie might notice the moisture and nodded to his brother.
There were a few moments of awkward silence, neither being sure what to say after all this time. Freddie’s face was unreadable, Marco couldn’t tell if his brother’s was feeling hatred or remorse, or something else altogether.
Marco called the waiter over to uncork their bottle, and they waited in silence for the wine to breathe. Time passed slowly, and each stared awkwardly at the table, their silverware, other diners, anywhere but at each other. It was agony. They ordered food and ate in silence, waiting for the wine to be ready, not wanting to rush the bottle while also wishing to be anywhere else in the world.
“Well, shall we?” As Marco spoke, his voice cracked from so long in silence.
Freddie just nodded.
Marco poured them each a glass, slid one across the table to Freddie and took his own.
Freddie raised his glass, “To Papa.”
It took Marco a moment before he could respond, it was the first he’d heard Freddie’s voice in so long and he felt the sadness return. “To Papa.”
Marco sipped the wine. His eyelids closed as his eyes rolled back into his head involuntarily. Nothing could have prepared him for the overwhelming beauty he was tasting. It was otherworldly. Full and strong and smooth, lacking any hint of acid or harshness. It tasted divine, miraculous. He took another sip, drawing in more this time.
So many flavors sang in harmony on Marco’s tongue. Chocolate and caramel, earth and leather, pepper and… was that mint? It was overwhelming. Marco looked across the table, Freddie seemed to be experiencing much the same thing. He returned Marco’s stare, their eyes met for the first time before Freddie looked down at his glass. Yet, before their brief gaze broke Marco was sure he saw a smirk on Freddie’s face. Not just any smirk, that trademark Freddie smirk that always meant he was trying to keep from laughing. It was the face he wore when he was trying and failing miserably to keep a straight face while lying.
Freddie held his glass up to the light, stared for a moment, and then turned his face back to Marco. “Holy shit, man.” He smiled for a moment, then both men burst into laughter. They laughed until they cried, and when they finally stopped each man knew that not all of the tears were from the laughter. There were nuances of other feelings in that moment, relief and intimacy and love and thankfulness. Some of the anger stayed on the tongue as well, but tempered as it was by all these other flavors it took on a new character.
Marco took another long taste of the wine. He was amazed how varied the flavor of wine can be, full of so many things. A moment and a vintage are alike in that each has the ability to take on flavor from its surroundings, from its aging, from its care, and still each has the power to surprise.
Marco marveled at how this strange process of death and fermentation and rest can create flavors of spice and sweetness, fruit and candy and chocolate, can draw in the nuance of the earth and the sunshine that nurtured the grapes, and can give off a taste of beauty and redemption, salvation and reconciliation.
He took the bottle, and poured them each another glass.
i see a darkness.
It’s been a dark time for me, lately. The sort I’m not sure I can make it through. In addition to my depression, which makes it nearly impossible to get out of bed for work every day, I also have this weird thing where I get mono symptoms every so often. It happens more when I am stressed or overtired, and with insomnia and an 8-5 job I am always overtired. Right now I am in the throes of exactly that sort of time. My energy, which is always low, is non-existent, and the depression has latched onto it with a vengeance.
I’m at the point of wanting to give up on everything. I have no hope left. I just want to curl up in a dark room and stay there for the next six months. Despair is a difficult thing to face. There is nothing I can do to change it. I’ve been trying to do my ‘Things I’m Thankful For’ posts because I’ve heard that making lists of things you are thankful for improves brain chemistry. So far, the whole fake it ’til you make it philosophy is not helping to pull me out of the darkness.
I want to write for a living, but I’m coming to a place where I’m starting to realize more and more that I just don’t have the talent for that. That feels like an overwhelming reality. A death I can’t imagine overcoming. I still want to believe that if I was able to devote all of my time to writing fiction I would be good enough to write something worthwhile, but at the end of the day I just don’t have a realistic prospect in which I have any energy left over after a day or week of work to pour myself into fiction the way I would want to.
To say it is frustrating is too much of an understatement. I’m not really sure what to do, so I am just writing this steam of consciousness blog post in the hope I might exorcise a demon or two, while also sending the proverbial message in a bottle out into the vast sphere of the internet, hoping that something will stick in my life and something will somehow start to make sense.
my sasquatch playlist. [things i’m thankful for – #13]
I know, I know. Lots of Sasquatch stuff lately. I’m excited, sue me. I’ve been listening to a playlist of all the music I own of bands lined up for Sasquatch. I keep downloading more, and I already discovered some great stuff I would have taken a while to get around to otherwise.
Sasquatch, the gift that keeps on giving.
Here is one band I am liking so far, courtesy of the wonderful little festival at the Gorge.
there is no tomorrow, only today.
As Ed woke up, it quickly dawned on him that today was the day he was finally free to go. After long years in bondage, today he would finally walk free. He sat up, washed himself and dressed. His movements were pregnant with hope and promise. He was filled to the brim with optimism.
A guard came to his cell door, opened it, and walked inside with breakfast. The two shared smiles, but no words. The guard placed breakfast on the small table to the left of the bed, then briefly and affectionately squeezed Ed’s shoulder before leaving.
Ed picked at this breakfast, and then sat at the edge of his bed, staring at the open cell door for some time. He didn’t know where to begin, how to put one foot in front of the other to leave. His hope was slowly and steadily replaced with fear. What awaited him outside? He couldn’t remember a time before living in his prison, or even why he was there.
Eventually, the same guard came in and left Ed lunch. Ed ate lunch before again sitting on his bed and staring at the cell door. The door to his cell actually led directly outside. He could see the sunshine and clouds outside his door, but instead of making him feel comfort it terrified him. His cell was small, constricting, but safe. There were no decisions to make in his cell, no ambiguity or uncertainty. His reality was the cold, drab world of his captivity, and the beauty outside was cripplingly intimidating.
A different guard brought dinner, again without a word being said.
Ed ate his dinner, and afterward decided to lie down for a bit. After a few hours, a guard came and closed the door to his cell. Soon, it was totally dark.
As Ed drifted off to sleep, his last thought was the realization that tomorrow would finally be the day he was free to go. And he slept a happy sleep, full of the optimism the next day offered.
my new wye oak concert poster. [things i’m thankful for – #10]
The new Wye Oak poster we got. It’s from the date last year when they blew my brains right out of my skull. I heart it, so much.
