It has been a hard year for me, so when I received a phone call back in early November that my brother was being rushed into emergency heart surgery, I will freely admit that one of my first thoughts was a selfish one. I asked God to please not make me go through losing another loved one, not so soon, not in the same year. Looking back over the span of a few weeks that seem like years, I am a little ashamed that my first thought was for myself. I hope that it's more of the human condition than an inborn flaw of character.

It seems my brother had a staph infection on his heart that had progressed quite far because of misdiagnosis. They had rushed him into surgery even though the infection was still active because of a damaged valve and two holes that had been eaten into the walls of his heart.

I don’t remember much of the drive to the hospital, the hours escaping as unnoticed as the landscape while I was wrapped up in my own thoughts. When I finally arrived, he was still in surgery. In the end the doctors worked seven hours to save the life of a man I love and admire very much.

When I saw him hours later, pale and weak, connected to machines that hummed and whirred softly in the background, I was as strong as I could be. For him a show of confidence and love, of strength and assuredness seemed to be important. Truthfully, I have no idea if he was really cognizant of the moment, but I already had been selfish in my mind, and would not fail my brother.

Once my brief visit was over and I was safely surrounded by the mute, white and unfeeling hospital corridors again, I cried. I have never been comfortable with crying, the last vestige of a dying breed of men raised on John Wayne and the silly ideals of maleness that no one really cares about anymore.

I cried in public, not really understand why I was crying. I stood there, one arm holding me propped against a facing wall, releasing huge sobs that I could not stop. Feelings of joy, thankfulness and hope running through me, even as I finally admitted how scared I had been.

The hospital released him six days after the surgery, and when you first start reading this, he will have been home for about a week and now I sit with one final revelation; words are small. They are finite. They seem unable to hold the depth of emotion, the well of gratitude and thankfulness that I feel right now, no matter how I arrange them.

I will drive again and spend Thanksgiving with my brother and his family. I will mark the landscape and the hours. I will smile at the gray autumn sky and revel in the cold November wind. This is life and I am thankful for it.

“Ingmar, baby, how much longer do we wait? This codpiece is absolutely chafing me.” The distraught actor, dressed as a medieval knight, reached down and readjusted for the fifth time in as many minutes. “Ingmar, you are a god when it comes to directing. You know I respect your genius. But Ingy, sweetheart, Death is not going to show up. Mr. Fancy-Cape with a big sickle.”

“Max, Max, relax. Death will be here. Death always comes eventually, right?” The director half-heartedly chuckled at his joke. “So be good to him; don’t make him feel bad. Okay, Max?”

The actor nodded in resignation and started to turn away, when suddenly, Death was there behind him. “Hey! You almost…”, Max started.

From within the dark recesses of the hooded cloak, a deep voice finished the actor’s sentence, “Scared you to DEATH?” Oddly enough, the voice rose in pitch to break in an adolescent crack at the end.

“No,” the disgruntled knight replied, “You almost stepped on my boots. Watch it, they’re genuine calf-skin.”

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to. I was just, you know, trying to make a dramatic entrance.” The dark hulking figure shambled awkwardly back a few steps.

Jumping into the painful silence that followed, Ingmar tried to lighten the mood, “Death, darling! So glad you could make it. Whew! Huge sickle you got there. Bet that impresses all the ladies, yes?” His forced laughter trailed off as the trio made their way to the set.

“Sorry I’m late. Had some business to take care of,” the voice quavered from inside the hood.

“Hope it wasn’t anyone we knew! Ha, ha, uh, that is…” the director fumbled miserably for words to put Death at ease.

“No, no, not really… just the war, you know. Busy, busy, busy!” With each “busy”, Death’s voice climbed a note higher to finally shatter in a crescendo of squeals.

Having reached the set ahead of the other two, Max turned back and huffed at them, “Look, can we just get on with the scene? This armor is killing me.” Suddenly realizing what he said, Max smiled appeasingly at the specter. “Just an expression. Fit as a fiddle, I am.”

“Okay. Death, you sit here on this stool. Watch the chessboard!” the director shouted as Death’s long black sleeve swept across the tabletop, scattering pieces in all directions.

“Oh! Sorry. Just, uh… just got this outfit resized.” The Grim Reaper continued muttering apologies as he kneeled down to retrieve the scattered chessmen. Bringing up the last two pieces, Death realized he’d broken off the white king’s head. “Oh my. Sorry. I’ll just get some glue and fix…”

“No! No, that’s okay. We’ll just work that into the scene somehow. You just sit on the stool here and… whoa!” The director tried vainly to grab the flailing apparition as he caught his sickle between his legs and tumbled backwards over the stool. Pushing Death up onto the stool, Ingmar said, “You know, Death, not to criticize or anything, but you were a bit different during the audition. More… more… how to say it? More foreboding. More deadly.”

“Oh. Really? Sorry. I just, well, got a lot on my mind..” His hood hanging in dejection, Death squeaked out, “I’ll try my best.”

“Ok. Here we go. Scene One, Death slowly reaches his arm across the chessboard… Death, go ahead and reach across… CUT!” Hardly believing his eyes, the director just pointed at Death’s hand and muttered, “What is that?”

As Death had extended his hand from his sleeve for the first time, in place of the expected skeletal palm was a fuzzy pink mitten emblazoned with little white hearts. “Oh, well, it was cold, so I … that is, it was a cold war. Yeah, it was the Cold War.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Max spit out, “Fool, there’s not much killing in a Cold War.”

“Right. Actually, it was the Suez War. Yes, the Suez War. Definitely. Lots of dead people. All over.” As desperation crept more and more into his voice, Death’s sickle slowly slumped over as if suddenly turned into a limp noodle.

Pulling at his hair, the director’s voice rose with hysteria, “Now WHAT?”

“It’s the pressure. I can’t take it. It can happens to anyone… Okay, Okay, I’m not Death. Alright, that’s what you wanted to hear, right?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Death’s brother. Humiliation. You know, Humiliation and Death. Death and Humiliation. We work as a team. When he’s busy, I go instead. When I’m around people just wish they were dead.” Humiliation rose to leave. “I’ll go get him now.” And with his voice again cracking like an adolescent boy, he disappeared with a final squeak, “Oh God, I’m so embarrassed.”

“I remember it like it was yesterday.”

The voice was weak and reedy, as if it’s owner had had little use for it in recent years. Sally rolled her eyes and sighed. It was the same story, every day. She had long ago lost her empathy for her patients; after so many, she couldn’t help but grow jaded, her sympathy tainted, her manner brisk and efficient.

“Okay, Mr. Sullivan. It’s time for breakfast, and after that, how about we move you over to your rocker and look outside for a little while?” Sally knew she was talking for her own benefit, but it helped her work through her tasks. Mr. Sullivan was staring into oblivion, his eyes vacant, his jaw working occasionally as he tried to speak. Sally pulled the tray to his bed, and sat Mr. Sullivan up so he could eat.

“Well, now, what do we have here? Look, a nice bowl of oatmeal, and some orange juice. Are you ready?” She tucked a napkin under his chin and slowly began feeding him as she would an infant. “And, if I remember correctly, we’re having burrito pie for dinner tonight. That’s your favorite.”

Mr. Sullivan ate slowly, still staring off into the distance. The smell of the oatmeal clashed with the antiseptic smell of the room, and made Sally faintly nauseous. She finished feeding Mr. Sullivan and wiped his chin, then began the task of moving him to his chair.

“She was so beautiful. So beautiful, with the flowers in her hair. The wind was blowing, and she looked…” Mr. Sullivan paused here as Sally moved him to his chair. He settled into the rocker and continued, his voice emotionless, his features etched in stone. “…she looked like a goddess.”

Sally cleaned up the breakfast tray and took it down to the nurses’ station, and returned to Mr. Sullivan’s room a few minutes later with new sheets for his bed. He was still talking to himself, and Sally found she could say the words with him, she had heard it so often. “…and I knew right then that I wanted to marry her. I asked her then; I had no ring, no money, no way yet to provide for her, but she said yes.” He stopped for a minute, his breath rasping slowly. “She said yes. Can you imagine, her saying yes to a boy who was shipping out the next week for the war? But she did, and we got married that Friday. She was my wife, and we spent our honeymoon in a ratty motel near the base.” He paused and breathed again. “It was the best time of my life.”

Sally finished making the bed and set to the task of checking Mr. Sullivan’s blood pressure. The story was at an end. Mr. Sullivan stopped at the same place every day. He didn’t have much longer; his health was quickly declining, and every day his voice grew fainter and fainter as he retold his story. Sally helped him back into his bed.

“Okay, Mr. Sullivan, I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes. Do you need anything?” She asked the question every day, even though he ignored her. When he didn’t answer, she turned to leave.

“I shipped out on Monday.” Sally whirled around, shocked by his voice. It was stronger, less reedy, and she walked back over to his bed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan?”

He continued, “I was gone for four years. She wrote to me every day, and I wrote back when I got a chance. She waited for me, worried for me, and kept me warm on the nights that I thought I would die. I stayed alive for her.”

Sally sat on the edge of his bed, intrigued by his sudden extension of his story. “I was wounded by enemy fire two weeks before my tour ended. I shipped home early. She was supposed to be there. She was supposed to meet me.” His face never hinted at his emotions as he continued. “She wasn’t there.”

Sally sat quietly, but Mr. Sullivan didn’t speak for a long time. Against her better judgment, and knowing he probably wouldn’t hear her, she asked, “What happened?”

Mr. Sullivan looked directly at Sally for the first time. “She died the day before I got home. She never saw the car coming, they told me. Excited about my return, they said.” He blinked slowly. “I lost everything I had fought for that day.”
Sally wiped a tear from her eye and squeezed his hand briefly. “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Sullivan. I’ll be back later to check on you. Why don’t you take a nap?”

He acknowledged her words for the first time. “A nap would be nice.” He closed his eyes, and immediately he began snoring lightly. Sally turned off the light and closed the door softly.

***

The wind was blowing, and he turned his face to greet it. He heard a laugh in the distance, and opened his eyes. There she was, her hair blowing in the wind, a flower tucked behind her ear. He laughed, for the first time in many years, and ran toward her as the sunlight grew brighter and brighter, and as he swept her in his arms the light blinded him. She kissed him and whispered, “I never stopped waiting for you.”

Little Medea sat alone on the hard seat of the noisy bus, clutching her stuffed cat in one arm, and her tattered backpack in the other. She stared out the window at the dark clouds gathering over the treetops and hoped it would rain. Rain meant recess would be cancelled, and all the kids would cry and complain, but not Medea. She hated recess.

The brakes on the old bus squeaked to a halt and a pile of kids pushed their way past Medea and out the door. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. For a moment she thought the Pop Tart she had for breakfast might come back up. Why did school have to be this way? Every morning feeling sick and lonely, dreading any sort of interaction she might have with anyone besides her teachers. Medea pulled her backpack onto her shoulder, clutched her cat, and stepped slowly off the bus.

The driver shook his head as he watched her walk towards the school building like she was walking to a gas chamber. A small group of boys approached Medea as she walked through the big glass doors of the school.

“Hey loser,” the tallest one said, grabbing the stuffed cat out of her thin arms.

“Give that back!” Medea yelled, reaching helplessly for her cat, who was now dangling above the tall boy’s head like a fish hanging from a hook.

“Why don’t you make me, freak,” he sneered. His two sycophants giggled stupidly from the side.

“Give it back!” she yelled again, jumping up and down, trying to save her stuffed friend from the freckle-faced monster.

“You want this?” the boy teased, flashing the braces that filled his mouth. “Then take it!”

He threw the cat as hard as he could down the crowded hallway. Medea lost sight of the animal, as it landed somewhere in the midst of a crowd of girls who were primping and gossiping in front of their lockers. She ran towards the crowd and spotted the tiny animal laying under their feet. She pushed through and rescued the poor cat just as he was about to be stomped on.

“Aren’t you a little too old for that,” a tall blonde girl snickered, snapping her gum and rolling her eyes at the other three blondes standing nearby.

“Shut up,” Medea snapped back under her breath, turning and darting away from the girls as fast as she could.

It wasn’t the first time someone said that to her, yet she still hadn’t come up with anything witty to say back. It was true. She was too old to be carrying around a stuffed animal. No other 12-year-olds she knew still carried something like that to school. But Meowza was her only friend right now. Clutching him as she walked through the halls somehow made her feel more secure. Seeing him slumped over her books, waiting for her inside her backpack, made her feel less alone. At least she had someone who loved and understood her.

All through math class, Medea stared out the window. Lunch time was approaching, and after lunch came recess. Two of the worst half-hours of the day. She hunched forward over her desk and scratched a picture onto the back of her notebook. In it, she and her cat were walking down a busy New York City street. Nobody knew them, but nobody cared. Together they would wander in and out of stores and galleries, watching people, seeing new things, enjoying their time in the big city; glad to be alone, and most of all, glad they were away from George Washington Middle School.

The bell rang and within seconds, all the kids in Mrs. Richard’s math class had pushed themselves into the crowded hallway and were noisily making their way to the cafeteria. The knot in Medea’s stomach grew tighter.

She gently pushed Meowza into her backpack and shuffled her way miserably down the hall. The noise from the cafeteria filled her ears, making her stomach twist and turn. Thinking of eating the peanut butter sandwich her mom had packed made her gag. Instead, she sat on a small wooden bench outside the cafeteria doors, and pulled out her notebook. She scribbled some more sketches onto the empty pages.

The bell rang again, and a hall monitor made Medea move out to the playground. As she stepped out the doors, she imagined she was coming out of the subway, emerging from the ground into the bustling city. She looked over the massive blacktop and imagined the busy island of Manhattan. The bright yellow buses parked near the schoolyard were rows of taxis, waiting to whisk busy people to and from their appointments. The lights from the school building were the lights of Times Square; bright and full of energy. The trees lining the chain-link fence were skyscrapers, standing tall and strong, reaching high to touch the clouds gathering around them. As she sat on the cool blacktop, she could imagine she was really there: crowded hotels, overpriced boutiques, pizza parlors and hotdog carts all standing around her.

The wind picked up and big, cold drops of rain began to fall from the sky. Medea felt them fall on her head as she clutched Meowza tightly and thought of the day they would really get to escape and see the city. She imagined seeing Rockefeller Center, Central Park, the art galleries of SoHo and the small theatres of Greenwich Village. Some day she would go there and find a place where she belonged. She just knew it was going to happen one day.

“Hey dork!” a voice called, rattling her from the vivid dream. “You just gonna sit in the rain, loser?”

Medea looked up to see the familiar brace-faced boy run off with the crowd. A puddle was forming under her, but she didn’t move. Clutching Meowza, she let the rain drops come down, soaking her hair and clothes. As they rushed down her face, she was grateful. Maybe now no one would notice her tears.

Terence Grimshaw was cold. The cool desert air blew through the makeshift door of his homemade laboratory and chilled him to the bone. Grimshaw felt sluggish, and sleepily noticed that no matter how much heat his body lost, he did not start shivering. One more side effect he had failed to consider, he thought as he tried to muster enough control over his fingers to adjust the thermostat on the control panel next to him. His nerveless fingers bumped vainly against the panel, and Grimshaw sank into darkness.

He felt as though he was falling. On the way down, Grimshaw thought about all the things that had gone wrong.

Once he had been the star of the biomechanical engineering department at California Institute of Technology. He was the one who had successfully introduced reptilian DNA into a mammal, which led to his creation of Molly, the first cold-blooded mouse. Thriving in a desert environment with only meager rations of seeds and water for nourishment, Molly was his finest achievement, and everything had gone downhill after her.

The military applications still seemed obvious to Grimshaw, but the army hadn't had the necessary imagination to look beyond the little mouse running around in her dry cage. When he spelled out his proposal in plain words, the army stopped returning his calls and the scientific community summarily kicked him out on the street for the very idea of making such unnatural experiments on a human. They didn't even let him take his beloved Molly with him, and Grimshaw had been heartbroken to hear that she was euthanized shortly after he left.

However, Grimshaw still had his computer, and with the research he had stored on its disks he swore to continue his work. Grimshaw found an abandoned meteorology station in the middle of the Mojave desert which was ideal for his purposes, but he spent six years begging, borrowing and stealing equipment and supplies before he was ready to pick up where he had left off with Molly.

Grimshaw dreamed of an army of mechanical soldiers - men who had been upgraded with robotic technology to become ultimate fighting machines. The cold blood running through their veins would save them from expending energy to keep warm, and would reduce their heat profiles - making them invisible to an enemy keeping watch through an infra-red scope. Supplementary computers would control their core processes and enhance their response time to all stimuli. Grimshaw even thought he could build them bionic limbs - robotic arms and legs a hundred times more powerful than those of a mere human. All Grimshaw needed to restore his reputation, his credibility and his career was a proof of concept that he could deliver to the army.

On a warm spring evening, Grimshaw sat shirtless in front of the mirror in his lab and surveyed his test subject. He flexed the natural muscles of his right arm, and looked at the pistons and rods that comprised the mechanical arm he had built. Taking a deep breath, he double-checked the tourniquet, jabbed a needle into his arm and switched on the saw.

---

The new arm was by no means a complete failure, but it hadn't been an unqualified success either. While he could now crush soda cans with only the slightest effort, the fit at the elbow was uncomfortable, and Grimshaw had been forced to hardwire an additional control chip into his brainstem in order to overcome some difficulties with fine motor control. All things considered, he felt that it was acceptable as a prototype.

Grimshaw paused in his mental descent to think. Everything had proceeded according to plan until this point. Thus, it must have been only in the most difficult, final step where he made a mistake: the transition from warm blood to cold.

A Gila monster was Grimshaw's choice for the reptilian donor. He combined samples of the lizard's blood and bone marrow with the blood and marrow from his own arm, and gradually added plasma to the hybrid DNA. The process took many weeks, but Grimshaw eventually grew an entire tank of cold replacement blood. His experiment would be ready to unveil to the world by Christmas, and what a gift it would be!

The preparations for the blood replacement were complex, but everything was finally ready. Grimshaw switched on the core temperature control panel, hooked himself up to the pump that would remove his old blood and replace it with the new, and pressed the switch that set everything in motion. Anesthetic coursed through his body, and Grimshaw knew no more.

---

When he woke up in darkness, Grimshaw realized something had gone terribly wrong. His mechanical arm was twitching and pulsing uncontrollably. Blue sparks of electricity were arcing across the lab, and the tank holding his old blood had leaked its contents across the floor. The solar lamp above the gurney on which he lay was shattered, and Grimshaw was colder than he had ever felt in his life. Worst of all, he could no longer think clearly. Yanking the empty IV lines from his arm, Grimshaw staggered to his feet and rushed blindly across his lab. He found a chemical light stick laying on the pressure tank and cracked it effortlessly with his robotic arm. In the eerie, green light, Grimshaw looked around and screamed in horror when his gaze fell on the mirror.

Staring back at him with cold, reptilian eyes was the face of a Gila monster.

As darkness overtook him completely, Terence Grimshaw's final thought was to wonder how things might have been different if he had used a frog instead.

Sarah watched as the telephone poles flew past the train window, marking their passage south.

“Don’t worry, honey. It’s just for a little while.” Her mother’s voice shattered her reverie.

Sarah kept looking out the window, trying to ignore her mother’s words. Never, not even in her wildest dreams, did she think this would happen to her.

“As soon as the factory hires your father back, we’ll come and get you. Until then, I promise that we’ll write to you every day. I would do this myself, but someone has to take care of the little ones…” Her mother’s voice trailed off as the conductor came down the aisle.

When he approached their seats, the women held out their hands for the mandatory status scan. My last time as a free person, Sarah thought, her eyes filling with tears.

The wand beeped once as it passed over her mother’s implant. “Free,” announced the conductor. Then it was Sarah’s turn.

“Pending.” The conductor’s eyes filled with sympathy as he made his grim pronouncement. Her mother’s face flushed with embarrassment as all eyes in the car looked their way. Sarah turned again towards the window.

“Honey, please don’t be upset,” her mother whispered. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Slavery is a part of modern day life, as natural as breathing. President Lincoln made sure of that after the Civil War. You’ll go to school with all of the other kids until you turn 18. But that’s not for two more years, and we’ll be able to buy you back long before then. After school, you just have to do chores. It won’t be too different from being at home. It won’t be so bad, really.”

Sarah turned from the window to look at her mother. Until last week, she had never questioned her mother’s love. She hadn’t questioned a lot of things.

“I am going to be owned,” Sarah replied. “My implant will now scan ‘Slave’. My new owner will decide what topics I study in school, what I wear, where I live. I won’t be able to date, or go to the movies, or go anywhere without his permission.” Her breath caught. “I can be sold,” she said quietly.

Her mother was silent. Sarah looked out the window, watching the poles fly by. A nursery rhyme from her childhood ran through her head, keeping time with the poles.

Eenie, meenie, miney, moe. Catch a slave girl by the toe. If she hollers, let her go. Eenie, meenie, miney, moe.

Catch a slave girl…catch a slave girl…catch a slave girl…

“Why?” she asked.

Her mother remained silent.

“Why?” Sarah repeated. “Why do we allow slavery? It was abolished in Europe two centuries ago. We can put a man on the moon, fly across oceans, transplant a beating heart. Why do we need slavery?”

“Calm down, Sarah, you’re working yourself up. The slavery of today is nothing like the cruelty of the past. Slave owners have strict guidelines to follow and are inspected regularly by the health department. All slaves under 18 must attend school, and slaves over 65 are free to retire. Any children born to slaves cannot be sold away from their parents until they are 12 years old.” She sounded like she was quoting one of Sarah’s textbooks.

“Slavery has allowed our great country to grow and develop. Without slavery, the south would never have recovered from the War Between the States, and we would never have put a man on the moon. And don’t forget modern slavery’s largest contribution to society.”

Sarah quoted the passage that all schoolchildren were required to memorize. “Modern slavery eliminated racism by placing all peoples on equal footing. As the Declaration of Independence states, ‘All men are created equal,’ which is why men and women of any color are entitled to be born or freely sold into slavery.”

Her mother’s expression softened. “I know you’re nervous. Don’t worry, honey, you’ll be fine. I promise.”

Sarah never forgot that promise. She remembered it as the train pulled into the station and her new master paid her mother in crisp hundred-dollar bills. She remembered it on her 18th birthday, as her dreams of a college education ended in fields of cotton.

She remembered it as her daughter was taken away on her 12th birthday, crying and pleading to stay with her mother.

And she remembered it now, as the hounds closed in behind her, their deep baying betraying her presence to the men who hunted her.

Don’t worry honey, you’ll be fine. I promise.

Aurora was a child born in Thessaly to Perinus, a farmer, and his wife, Adriena. They lived contented and simple lives in the hills outside the capital. Now Aurora was a beautiful child with long, flowing hair that would be any women’s envy. But anyone who had ever met Aurora had nothing but love for the child and treasured the time they spent enjoying her sunny disposition. Indeed, a stranger listening to stories about the child would find them fantastical till he had met the girl himself. And so the stories of Aurora travelled until they reached the ears of Ceyx, king of Thessaly. Having just come to the throne and not yet wed, Ceyx decided on a whim to see if the stories were true.

Arriving on the farm and finding Aurora at play in a sun-dappled pasture, Ceyx was struck with her beauty and fell instantly in love. Though he would have to wait three years till she was fifteen to wed, Ceyx demanded that Aurora be sent to the capital and tutored in the ways of the court. Weeping for their loss, the parents of Aurora were still happy for the good fortune that had befallen their only daughter.

A long year of training had passed and served only to make Aurora more charming and beautiful than before. Early Spring, found Aurora outside the capital on break from her tutoring. At times like this, Aurora loved to climb to the highest hill and take the gift of sunlight at it’s best. It was here that Apollo first felt her worship as he rode high in the sky. The strength and purity of her reverance aroused his curiosity. Like those before him, Apollo was captivated by this mortal’s beauty and took her for his own. In his passion, the Sun God failed to note the ill-effect his devotion had upon Aurora. With the casual disregard of a god, Apollo left her and continued his trek across the sky, leaving behind a withered and burned shell of a mortal.

Blistered and disfigured, Aurora tried to return to the palace of King Ceyx only to be driven away at the gate. “Get away crone. The King does not give refuge to such as you.” The King’s servants beat her till she turned and fled back viallges in the hills. But here Aurora was also met with fear and disbelief. “You are not Aurora but a hag. Leave or we shall stone you.” Fleeing again, Aurora at last came to the farm of her parents.

Apollo’s passion had consumed Aurora’s beauty and youth such that even her parents were unable to recognize their own daughter. “You are old and withered, witch. Aurora is young and beautiful with a bounty of hair that flows like a river. You have naught on your head but sores and scars.” Not wanting to hear more, Perinus drove Aurora from the only home she had ever really known. Scared and bewildered, Aurora retreated into a nearby forest and remained there hidden away from all those who knew here only as the beautiful child who loved to play in the sun.

Soon word came from the capital that Aurora had gone missing. Taking this news with the disturbing appearence of the old hag, the villagers began to whisper that perhaps the hag had killed Aurora out of jealousy. As hunters periodically reported seeing the maimed Aurora in the forest, the stories of the Burnt Witch took hold and began to grow as mothers used them to chasten their children. After thirteen years of hearing of the Burnt Witch and greiving for their daughter, Perinus and Adriena sacraficed their best bull to Artemis, the protector of children. The virgin goddess heard their pleas of vengance for their maiden daughter and came to hunt the Forests of Thessaly for the Burnt Witch.

Being the goddess of the hunt, Artemis had no trouble finding Aurora where she hid her blackened form by day. As Artemis peered down the arrow shaft at the cowering hulk, she saw what the others could not. The eyes of the goddess saw the soul of a scared and hurt girl inside the shell of this woman-child. Laying aside her bow, the goddess swept Aurora up and gently pried the story from her. Outraged at the injustice the farmers, villagers, and nobles had shown Aurora, Artemis declared “No longer shall I shine in the evening. The light was taken from this child and so shall my light be taken from your skies.” Artemis’ fury was redoubled when she learned it was Apollo, her twin brother, that was the cause of Aurora’s pain.

The people cried out to Zeus in their fear and pain, as nights without moonlight held terror from monsters and bandits. Zeus listened to their pleas, as well as Artemis’ refusals and proclaimed: “For the thirteen years Aurora spent in exile, so shall Artemis take away part of the moon for thirteen days. In remembrance of thirteen years of happy childhood, Artemis shall return a part of the moon each day. One day the moon shall be whole to remind us of the beauty and purity of the child. One day the moon shall be dark to remind us of the lasting pain we can inflict on the child.”

In her anger, Artemis declared that she would chase her brother across the skies till she caught and quenched his fire and Aurora would ride with her to be there when it happened. To this day, the moon still chases the sun and occasionally catches it for brief moments. And at times, when Apollo is especially mad, we can look up and see Aurora's hair catching fire across the heavens.

THUNK!

That thick, chocolate-covered onomatopoeia is the sound of the Book of the World tossed carelessly aside, it's worm-gnawed pages, velvety lining, useless, impotent in the face of this...

this...

Prose of Prose.

Can you feel it? My fingers fly like phoenixes over the keys, luscious lightning striking symbolic syncopation into every "e" every "g".

The heartbeat of the world flutters as it awaits my next phrase.

Stop me! Please! The world needs more writers, more stories, more books. The gods of Olympus quake in the knowledge of the triviality of all that will come after. The muses sigh as their infinite inspiration envelopes the world like forgotten mist. They are no longer needed, they are no longer called, they are free to frolic and fritter and pursue roller-skating artists on the beaches of California.

Fly muses fly - for Xanadu crumbles.

My intention is not to pursue the golden scroll, 'that which should not be written for all that was written will become naught.' My intentions are to entertain, to enlighten, to envision. My goal, to amuse you, for a moment, as you pass through your mundane existence.

But the moment my fingers find purchase on the keyboard, the moment the sizzling hum signals my monitor to life, I feel the bards of eons effervesce in my blood. Shakespeare, Milton, Chaucer, Wolf, Twain, Hemingway, Rand, Asimov, Grisham (well, not Grisham) fight for a footing in the framework of my fortitude. They jostle for prominence, for posthumous glory, great tome ghosts haunting the ether waiting for just this day. The day they could channel, en masse, into the one true writer, the AUTHOR for whom's existence they'd been a mere prologue.

Apparently, Oscar Wilde was fond of limes.

Tears cloud my vision as the enormity of my task takes hold. My nails blacken as the hands of history hover over mine, their ink stains slicking the soft pads of my fingers like a midnight stigmata. I continue, one letter after another, stroke after stroke, as those musty minstrels murmur and mutter, easing me from one phrase to the next. The movement blurs, the pace quickens, my arms, nay, my whole being caught up in the throws of creation. The virginal muses cry out in ecstasy as I pound the keys faster, faster, fingers guided by silken strings, adding line after line, culminating in that one pure pressure release.

The penultimate punctuation.

Sweat drips on the space bar and I shudder, feeling the empty ghosts pull away from me. Their worthy lives and honored memories fulfilled. They look upon these words through my eyes, they sigh through my lips, they slip away, the task of ten thousand craftsmen complete.

And you are with me, the voyeurs of genesis. As you read, you understand animal desire that first prompted men to paint in caves; to culminate into this, the last thing, the finest thing, ever worth writing.

Yet, there is still my opponent. Take pity on him, he knew not of the greatness to which he was bound. Look upon him with love (not too much) as he drowns in his folly; a quagmire of disjointed phrases, a miasma of mockery. His prose voice squeaks like the recent emeriti of the Mormon Tabernacle and yet he plunges on, persevering in an unwinnable battle.

See, how he tries to lasso the tornado?

I salute you, courageous scribe, in your doomed quest. You show fortitude and conviction in the face of universal wonderment. This is not tale of David and his giant. My David stands before not a behemoth, but the lowlight sprawl of the cosmos itself, resonating on the pulse of thought. He stands before the singularity around which all truth swirls. Come, brave competitor, fight no more, let the time tides take you. Wrap yourself in pages of Hamlet, stuff your pillow with d**kenson's dreams.

Sleep, for all the words are written.