posted by WDavid at 10/11/2006 05:49:00 PM
The Festival of Atlcualo
By W. David MacKenzie
(c) 2006
Chapter 1: Disaster at the Cenote
The cenote gaped wide on the jungle floor and the shafts of sunlight that struggled through the verdant canopy did little to illuminate more than the jagged edges of the cavernous opening to the underworld, but it was enough. The cadre of priest approached the cenote in slow measured steps. Their solemn gait and monochrome costumes were unnatural for men accustomed to brightly plumed and beaded finery and frenetic ritual, but during the five unlucky days of Uayeb they sought to avoid the attention of spirits. Three-Crocodile, the thirteen year old pupil of the First Priest Tlaloc, had painted his skin with watered charcoal ash and clothed himself in a gray cotton tunic so as to call even less attention to himself than usual.
The First Priests of twenty gods and goddesses were arrayed around the cenote. Directly behind each was his Second, holding some precious statuette or decorated urn or basket of fruit. When an appropriate interval for calm reflection had passed, Lord Tayauh, High Priest of the city and First Priest of the war god Huitzilopochtli, stepped to the very edge of the cenote and spread his arms wide.
"Lords of Mictlan we call to you. Lords of Xibalba we call to you, Lords of the Nine Levels of the Underworld we call to you." Lord Tayauh was old; his voice was as rough as gravel and his arms trembled. "The end of Uayeb draws near and we send tribute to you so that you might have valuable treasure to bribe the evil spirits to retreat to your realms. We send beautiful offerings to you that you might entice the souls of the wicked back to your sides. We send succulent food to you that you might have strength to seal the gates of the underworld for another year."
Lord Tayauh lowered his arms and turned away from the cenote to face his Second. The subordinate priest handed an intricately carved gold vase the High Priest and the old man strained under its weight. Turning back to the cenote, Lord Tayauh slowly extended the heavy vase out over the chasm. "Huitzilopochtli sends treasures to the Lords of Mictlan." The gold vase dropped into the chasm.
Three Crocodile could not tell if the High Priest let go of the offering as planned or if it fortuitously slipped from his exhausted grasp at just the right moment, but Lord Tayauh looked relieved to be free of its weight in any event. The jungle was silent for several breaths then a faint splash signaled that the offering had fallen into the sacred river and begun it's journey to the underworld.
The ceremony continued in this fashion as each First made an offering to the Lords of Mictlan on behalf of their god or goddess. Tezcatlipoca offered a turquoise jaguar; Coatlicue offered a basket of ripe cactus fruit; Ehecatl offered an amphora of pickled quetzal birds. On and on it went until only one offering remained.
Three-Crocodile's heart beat a little faster and he smiled as Lord Cocozca, First of Tlaloc, god of the rains and waters and his own foster father, stepped solemnly to the edge of the cenote and made his obeisance to the Lords of The Underworld then turned to his Second, Mazatl, to receive the tribute. Three-Crocodile had helped prepare the crystal jar of mineral water from the sacred hot springs. He whispered the ritual prayers over the vessel the night before and applied the beeswax to seal the stopper while Cocozca and Mazatl watched. Now he was excited to see it offered to the Lords of Mictlan.
Cocozca held the crystal jar above the cenote. "Tlaloc sends nourishing waters to the Lords of..." Before Cocozca could complete the invocation and send the offering on its way, the edge of the cenote beneath his feet crumbled and the First of Tlaloc fell into the chasm.
"Father!" Three-Crocodile's cry was drowned out by the stunned wails of the other priests gathered at the cenote, then one voice rose above the others.
"Look, he's there, grasping that root, " Lord Pochotl, Ehecatl's First, pointed to the inside edge of the cenote.
Three-Crocodile's body tingled with dread and hope.
Mazatl rushed to the edge of the cenote and leaned over to offer his arm to the senior priest but he could not reach Cocozca's hand. He got down onto his belly and stretched over the edge with both hands, but the unstable edge gave way again sending Mazatl and Cocozca plunging into the darkness.
Everyone at the cenote took a silent step back from the edge and listened. Three-Crocodile held his breath and listened. The ceaselessly noisy jungle paused to listen. Then it came. A loud splash echoed up from the dark cenote as Cocozca and Mazatl began their journey to the underworld.
Fear and horror swam across Three-Crocodile's face as he folded himself into a shivering crouch. It was his fault. He misspoke the prayer for Tlaloc's offering to the Lords of Mictlan. The Lords of The Underworld saw some gap in the beeswax seal. They found a flaw...his flaw...in some aspect of the offering and Cocozca and Mazatl had paid for his blunder. Tears welled up in Three-Crocodile's eyes and trickled down his cheeks leaving flesh colored trails where they washed away the watered-charcoal paint.
As if Three-Crocodile's sobs had been a signal, the parrots and insects and monkeys resumed their noisy habits. Lord Tayauh drew in a long rattling breath, moved slowly to the edge of the cenote, and extended his arms as he had two lifetimes ago at the beginning of the ceremony. His voice, though soft, carried to all those gathered and, Three-Crocodile assumed, to the Lords of The Underworld as well.
"The people of Anahuac thank the Lords of Mictlan for accepting these offerings. The Yucatec people are blessed to provide for the Lords of Xibalba." Lord Tayauh paused to take a deep breath. "The people of the city are humbled that the Lords of The Underworld have taken two of our number to be their servants in eternity."
Lord Tayauh lowered his arms and turned away from the cenote. He led the long procession of darkly clad and somber priests back to the city and Three-Crocodile, after wiping away the tears and smearing the paint on his face even more, followed.
Chapter 2: A Guide for Cocozca
As soon as the Keeper of the Hours had called out the midnight and Uayeb had passed completely, Three-Crocodile gathered up his pack, grabbed an oil lamp as he left the temple of Tlaloc, and jogged out of the city. Stone and adobe buildings gave way to plank and thatch cottages and then to fallow fields just waiting for the Festival of Atlcualo when the priests of Tlaloc would tell the farmers the auspicious planting days. But with Cocozca and Mazatl gone there were no priests of Tlaloc—no one to read the signs and say when the rains would come and when to plant. Three-Crocodile ran faster.
When he reached the cenote, he went carelessly to the edge and sat with his legs dangling over the abyss. From his pack he withdrew a topaz figurine and rolled the dog sculpture between his hands repeatedly to transfer some of his body heat to the cold gemstone statuette. He willed some of his life force into the carved dog.
"The first dogs on the earth had been pets of Mictlantecuhtli, King of the Underworld." Cocozca's kind voice drifted through Three-Crocodiles mind like a butterfly on a summer breeze. "The King beat the dogs too many times and they attacked him. In punishment, the King banished them to the maze of the underworld. The dogs wandered four years through the nine levels of the underworld and finally found the secret path to our world and escaped to become man's helpers and companions." Cocozca's voice trailed off in his mind.
"Now, when men die," Three-Crocodile continued aloud, "we burn a dog along with the body so that it can lead our spirit soul through the maze of the underworld and protect us from the wrath of Mictlantecuhtli." Three-Crocodile's eyes filled with tears but he closed his eyes tightly against them and rubbed the figurine even harder.
"Cocozca, I could not get a dog to send with you on your journey but you once told me that the shape of a thing carries the spirit of the thing, so I pray this offering will help guide you and Mazatl safely through the maze." Three-Crocodile dropped the orange gemstone dog into the cenote and when it finally splashed into the river deep below his feet he stopped fighting the tears.
It would take nothing more than a shifting of his weight and Three-Crocodile could be with Cocozca again. A painless slide into the sacred chasm would allow him to deliver the dog spirit directly into Cocozca's hand. It would free him of the grief and relieve him of the uncertainty of the future. Sacrifice was the path to the gods and sacrificing himself now was the path to his father.
Father...Three-Crocodile could not remember a time when Cocozca had not been his father, but there was a time before. Cocozca had told him of the endless days of rain that brought the flood; how the waters, full of Tlaloc’s rage, killed many farmers including Three-Crocodile's parents; how he had been found in the branches of a tree when the waters had receded; how an old farmwife had brought the infant Three-Crocodile to the temple of Tlaloc. Three-Crocodile smiled faintly as he remembered Cocozca telling him the story.
"Here is a babe to sacrifice to Tlaloc," the old woman told me as she passed you into my arms.
"Ah," said I. "The god has told you to offer up this child?"
"No," said the woman, "but it is clear he wants the boy or he would not have sent the flood."
"You are wise in the ways of the god," said I. "So, you believe that Tlaloc is so inept as to miss a screaming infant and leave him sitting in a tree?"
"You misunderstand me, Lord Priest," said the woman. "I meant only that..."
"Perhaps you should leave interpretations of the god's actions to one such as I who has been trained to the purpose." said I.
"Yes, that is exactly what I meant." said the old farmwife as she hung her head in shame and retreated from the temple.
"Of course," Cocozca told him, "she was perfectly correct. You should have been sacrificed to the god at the next opportunity, but something staid my hand. Perhaps it was the god's will, perhaps it was the way your eyes glinted in the torchlight." Cocozca's hearty chuckle whispered through Three-Crocodile's memory. "I summoned a Calendar Priest from the temple of Huitzilopochtli to read your destiny. He told me that you were not to be sacrificed but were to be consecrated into the temple of Tlaloc and trained to the priesthood. So, you see, you do indeed serve Tlaloc, just not in the same way the Farmwife assumed."
That memory caused Three-Crocodile to pause. Tlaloc had decreed that Three-Crocodile not be sacrificed as a babe, that he join his priesthood here in the world. Was he now to second guess the god's will because he grieved for the loss of his foster-father? Were his selfish feelings more important than the will of Tlaloc? Sacrifice was the path to the gods, but sacrifice was pain and loss in the service of the gods, not cowardice and fear and self-indulgent suicide. Three-Crocodile's resolve grew as he realized that Tlaloc had shown him an important lesson this night and he'd have something for which to be truly grateful at the Festival of Atlcualo...in...two...days.
Oh Tlaloc! The festival was to begin at dawn on the day after tomorrow...Tlaloc's festival...the festival lead by the priests of Tlaloc...and the Lords of Mictlan had just claimed both the First and Second Priests of Tlaloc. Three-Crocodile was now the only priest to Tlaloc in the entire city!
Chapter 3: The High Priest’s Council
“I first want to tell you both how sorry I am at the loss of Cocozca and Mazatl. They will be greatly missed.” The First of Huitzilopochtli was an elderly man and his voice was gravelly from too many years of ecstatic ritualism. “However, with Tlaloc’s Festival of Atlcualo beginning tomorrow, we must find a way to proceed.”
Three-Crocodile’s throat tightened at the memory of yesterday’s tragic events. He opened his mouth to thank the city’s High Priest for his kind words, but he was cut off by Pochotl’s reedy voice.
“I could not agree more, Lord Tayauh. As First of Ehecatl I stand ready to assume full control of Atlcualo.” Pochotl sat taller in his chair as he spoke. “The god of the winds plays a significant role in the sacrifice to beseech the rains and I see no other way to proceed.”
“Lord...” Three-Crocodile’s near whisper disappeared under the husky voice of the elder priest.
“I appreciate your offer, Pochotl, but I and several of the other Firsts think it would be best to delay the Festival for a few days so that we can request a new First of Tlaloc from the capital.” Silence filled the room briefly as Pochotl and Three-Crocodile absorbed the implications of the High Priest’s words.
Three-Crocodile leaned forward “With all due...”
“Lord Tayauh! That is a dangerous plan.” Pochotl rose from his chair and ticked off points with his fingers. “Last year the rains began late and ended early. The maize crop was nearly lost. The water in the wells sank lower than anyone can remember. Tlaloc is already angry with our community. Do you dare risk delaying his ceremonies?”
“My point ex...” Three-Crocodile began but Lord Tayauh, still spry in his old age, sprang to his feet, tipping his chair backward in his zeal.
“And how much favor will Tlaloc find in having the First of Ehecatl officiating at his festival?” The men stood eye to eye, neither one blinking.
“I’ll do it.” Three-Crocodile was surprised to hear his voice booming through the room.
Distracted from their standoff by Three-Crocodile’s unexpected outburst, the two priests turned to face him. The First of Huitzilopochtli looked thoughtful but Pochotl’s face was a vicious sneer. “You? Cocozca’s Shadow?”
Three-Crocodile flinched at the derisive nickname and nearly retreated back into his shell, but the sound of his dead master’s name gave him strength and he stood to face Pochotl. “Yes, me. I can lead the festival.”
“You’re just a boy.” Pochotl stepped toward him and prodded the youth’s chest as he listed Three-Crocodile’s deficiencies. “You have not completed your training; you’ve never officiated over a complete ceremony let alone an entire festival; and you’ve never sacrificed anything more substantial than a squash.”
Three-Crocodile deflated a little with each point Pochotl made--all were completely true and he was about to collapse back into his chair when the old priest spoke.
“Could you really do it?”
Pochotl turned to gape at Tayauh. “You’re not seriously...”
“Be still, Pochotl.” The First of Ehecatl folded into his chair and the old man’s scowl softened as he repeated his question to the boy. “Could you do it?”
Three-Crocodile stood in silent thought for several moments before he replied in a soft but steady tone. “I saw Lord Cocozca lead the festival four times; I know the rites; and I am the only priest of Tlaloc within three days of this city.”
“Priest? Ha!”
“Pochotl, I will tolerate no further disrespect for a fellow priest.”
Three-Crocodile’s spirit soared at the support of the city’s primary religious leader.
“My son, you have spoken the one basic truth of this crisis. You are the only person available to us who is trained in the rituals and consecrated to Tlaloc. You will lead the Festival of Atlcualo.”
Pochotl was out of his chair and striding toward the door before the First of Huitzilopochtli finished speaking. “This is a mistake, Lord Tayauh. Mark my words--the boy will bring disaster down upon us all.”
Scene 4: Reflection in the Temple
Three-Crocodile dipped the cloth into the honeyed pulque and held it over the crying infant's head. Several drops of the syrupy fluid dripped onto the child's face before Three-Crocodile's aim improved and the drips fell into the babe's wide-open mouth. The tiny boy's screams turned to coughs as the sweetened alcoholic beverage trickled down its throat. It probably burned a little, Three-Crocodile thought; regular pulque certainly burned his own throat when he'd sipped it for ceremonial purposes. A few moments later the coughing eased and Three-Crocodile lowered the tip of the cloth into the babe's mouth and it sucked eagerly at the liquid locked in the weave.
Three-Crocodile had prepared the sacrificial infant for the opening ceremony of the Festival of Atlcualo six times before now. It had been one of the first important tasks Cocozca had entrusted to him, but this time the ritual hung heavily in his heart. Three-Crocodile's grief still haunted him and the familiar preparations called painful attention to the absence of Cocozca and Mazatl.
When the child had suckled enough pulque to ease it into a painless sleep Three-Crocodile set the cloth aside and said a prayer to comfort the infant's three souls. He picked up the bowl of blue paint and using a soft-bristled brush painted the babe's body and limbs in Tlaloc's sacred blue. Nearing the end of the ritual of preparation, he dipped his thumb in the blue paint and drew a line across the child's forehead then painted a similar line above his own brow. Another prayer and he was done. The child was ready to be received by Tlaloc.
Three-Crocodile's own preparations took a bit more time. He was used to helping Cocozca into the priestly costume, but there was no one here to help him. Law forbade those not consecrated to the god of rains and waters to enter the holy chamber, so, despite Lord Tayauh’s faith that he could lead the ceremony, he would have to dress himself and pray that he got all of the ornaments and icons and relics placed correctly to satisfy his god.
Satisfying Tlaloc was his life now; it had been his life since he had been an infant, really. If he'd been brought to any other temple in the city he would have been sacrificed to some other god almost at once but Three-Crocodile saw Tlaloc's hand in the farmwife connecting the flood and the babe in the tree to the rain god. He also saw Tlaloc's hand in Cocozca's decision to have the infant's destiny read by a calendar priest. Tlaloc's will was there in that reading of the sacred days as well.
But today's events, certainly Tlaloc had not touched the earth to sacrifice his own First and Second. Cocozca and Mazatl had been faithful servants of the god and did not deserve to be.... Three-Crocodile paused his costuming as a thought came to him. Mazatl and his foster-father had been sacrificed to the Lords of the Underworld, yes, but the method of their sacrifice had been their plunge into the river at the bottom of the cenote. Tlaloc? Yes, Three-Crocodile was sure of it now. The god had indeed touched the very earth, not once but twice, to sacrifice his First and Second in the sacred river. Three-Crocodile's heart fluttered in joy as he realized that Cocozca and Mazatl were not seized by the Lords of Mictlan for some error of his in blessing Tlaloc's offering, but were called by Tlaloc himself and now sat at the god's side.
His fingers flew over knots and fasteners as he hurried through the final preparations. His souls rejoiced to be freed from grief as a butterfly flitters free from its cocoon. It was Tlaloc's will that Three-Crocodile ascend quickly in his priesthood. Surely there was no mistaking his reading of the events. Like a woman at the loom, Tlaloc's hand was deftly weaving the threads of his life to place him in a position of power, but what was his ultimate goal? What was to be the finished design on Tlaloc's cloth?
Curious, but happy, Three-Crocodile examined his reflection in the polished gold mirror. Satisfied that everything was perfect, he picked up the ritual obsidian blade. The glass-stone knife had been honed to a bone-slicing edge by the finest artisan in the city and Three-Crocodile was extremely careful to hook the sacrificial weapon to a safe spot on his costume where he could reach it easily but not cut himself with it accidentally.
With his priestly garb complete and his mind eased by his reading of Tlaloc’s will, Three-Crocodile strode confidently to the stone bed on which the infant slept. He lifted the child and it’s rumpled blanket from the stone and a small piece of paper fluttered to the ground. Shifting the child to the crook of one arm, Three-Crocodile stooped to pick up the scrap. The paper was old and the glyphs were drawn in an unfamiliar hand. It was a name-day card, such as a calendar priest would give to an infant’s parents when its destiny was read. It showed the child’s day-name, the patron gods of its Shadow, Spirit, and Aura Souls, and it’s patron god of healing. The name on the card was Three-Crocodile.
Scene 5: The Sacrifice to Tlaloc
Confusion swirled in Three-Crocodile’s mind. Was this his name-day card…the one given to Cocozca when he summoned the calendar priest all those years ago? How could it be here? Was this the name-day card for the infant that he held in his arms? Did its parents tuck the card into the blanket before they gave the child to the temple for sacrifice? Could it be coincidence that it too was named Three-Crocodile?
Horns sounding on the temple terrace wrenched Three-Crocodile out of the maze of questions. The Festival of Atlcualo was about to begin. The name-day card slipped from his fingers as he moved through the temple arches to the terrace atop the stepped pyramid. Under the gold tinged dawn sky he strode to the altar at the leading edge of the terrace. Several paces to the left and right of the sacrificial stone stood Lords Tayauh and Pochotl in flamboyant ritual costumes. Before him, down a flight of two hundred and sixty steps and spread from one end of the Avenue of the Gods to the other, were the city’s sixteen thousand citizens.
A low hum rippled through the crowd as Three-Crocodile stood above them in the growing light. He thought back on what Cocozca had told him about the crowds that gathered for ritual events. With sharp eyes he surveyed the people below and gauged their mood.
The nobles and priests and landowners were closest. Three-Crocodile saw faces he knew, priests that had been present at the cenote, nobles who had heard the tale told. It was likely that many also knew of the meeting in the High Priest’s office. To them he was an untried boy in priest’s plumage. They measured him against Cocozca and waited for him to prove himself before offering their support or plotting against him.
Behind the city's elite were the merchants and artisans and soldiers. They pointed and gossiped. To them, three-Crocodile was a different figure than they’d been expecting—smaller, thinner. If they knew anything of the offerings at the cenote it was by rumors fed to them by their elite customers or officers. Three-Crocodile was sure they murmured of priestly intrigues and sorcery while waiting for the bloody spectacle of sacrifice.
Farthest of all were the farmers and laborers and slaves. They could not tell one priest from another at that distance. They saw only the costume, if they saw anything at all. Cocozca had told him that the commoners cared nothing for the politics behind religion. They wanted only to see that the rituals were performed and that the gods were satisfied. Standing in family knots, they whispered prayers or kneaded talismans for good fortune and plentiful rains.
The sun's edge cleared the horizon and the trumpets sounded again. It was his cue to begin the ceremony. Three-Crocodile held the blue-painted infant high above his head and the crowd below roared to life. He had viewed this ceremony and others from many angles during his training but never from the altar. There, virtually alone and at the focus of everyone's attention, the sound hit him like a hurricane and he fell back a step. The power of the crowd amazed him, but he determined not to be overwhelmed by it. He pushed against the force and regained his position. He turned from side to side with the child held aloft to make sure everyone saw it.
A cool shiver rippled through Three-Crocodile as if the spirit of Tlaloc had touched his Shadow Soul. He laid the child on the right edge of the altar stone. The infant--my name is Three-Crocodile too--occupied only a small space on the slab of volcanic rock. Three-Crocodile looked out over the crowd again--they're ready for my sacrifice--then back to the infant. The child's eyes were open, its gaze locked with his, its voice--no, the voice of your god--was in Three-Crocodile's mind. Three-Crocodile's hand hovered near the hilt of the sacrificial knife--you are my First, my champion--but did not touch it. His heart pounded in his chest--they await a wondrous sign--as he stood motionless atop the pyramid. The rumbling noise of the crowd faded--they are ready to walk a new path--and was replace by rhythmic chanting. "Tlaloc, Tlaloc, Tlaloc..."
The sound of rustling garments came from behind and to his right. "I knew you would fail us!" Lord Pochotl hissed as he drew near. "I will perform the sacrifice myself." With one hand, the interloper reached for the sacrificial knife hanging from Three-Crocodile's belt and with the other made to brush the young priest out of his way.
In the tangle of arms and costumes Three-Crocodile spun and dodged and struck out. Catching the interfering priest off balance and unprepared for his mad action, Three-Crocodile slammed Pochotl's body hard onto the stone altar. The wind rushed from Pochotl's lungs. He lay immobilized on his back, chest heaving, struggling to catch his breath. The blue-painted infant turned its head and quietly looked at the gasping priest.
In his right fist Three-Crocodile held the glass-stone dagger high for all to see. The chanting faded into the background and slowed. Pochotl turned his head to look at Three-Crocodile--thus to all who trespass against the gods--and the untried priest plunged the blade into Pochotl's torso.
Breathless, Pochotl could not scream, but his eyes bulged and his face twisted into a writhing mask of pain. Three-Crocodile sawed the glass-stone knife left and right to enlarge the wound then sliced upward to penetrate Pochotl's diaphragm. He pulled the blade from Pochotl's body and dropped it on the altar then thrust his hand into the steaming gash. He pushed past the tough membranes until he was elbow-deep in the priest's chest and his fingers touched Pochotl's quivering heart.
Three-Crocodile looked deep into Pochotl's wild eyes as he closed his fist around the squirming muscle. Arteries slipped wetly between his fingers. He gave one powerful tug and Pochotl's body convulsed, twitched, and wilted on the altar stone. Three-Crocodile removed his arm from the lifeless man and looked at his prize. Red muck covered his forearm and Pochotls steaming heart oozed a river of blood that drained over his hand to splash on the Pochotl's corpse.
The crowd was silent--stunned.
Three-Crocodile reached down with his free hand and grasped the infant by the scruff of its neck. With the child in one fist and Pochotl's heart in the other, Three-Crocodile raised his hands high to the honor of Tlaloc. He had shown them a wondrous sign and Tlaloc said they were ready to walk a new path but now it was up to Three-Crocodile to convince them that this new way was the word of the god.
“Tlaloc has come to me in a vision and anointed me as his First." Three-Crocodile's voice boomed out with a newfound assertiveness and carried easily to the far edge of the unnaturally quiet throng. "He has set me the task of protecting the children of Uayeb. Tlaloc no longer favors the sacrifice of children. He has said that all children born during Uayeb will be consecrated to his service so that he will have abundant priests to honor his glory."
A murmur rose from the crowd and reading the faces, Three-Crocodile could see joy on the faces of some and concern on others. Some rejoiced that their children would be spared, others worried that the god would not have strength to continue without the blood of the children. A god who did not demand sacrifice to sustain itself was unheard of.
"Today you saw one who would have stopped Tlaloc's will. Through me, the god has dealt with him and his blood has nourished the god. Tlaloc has set me the task of punishing those who sin against the god or who would interfere with his worship. Henceforth the criminal will be Tlaloc’s feast. The evildoer’s blood will bring the life-giving rain and the heretic’s heart will crisp in Tlaloc’s fire.” To punctuate his words, Three-Crocodile tossed Pochotl’s heart into the temple pyre that burned on a landing thirteen steps below the lip of the terrace. It sizzled and smoked as the crowd roared its approval.
Lord Tayauh, all but forgotten by Three-Crocodile in the throws of his ecstatic vision and Pochotl's grizzly sacrifice, walked up behind him. "It is no small thing to change the rites and beliefs of our people, Lord First." Tayauh took the child from Three-Crocodile's grip and for a moment Three-Crocodile thought the High Priest might overrule him in some way and sacrifice the child as originally planned, but the old priest just cradled the infant in his arms and tickled under its chin. "But I think you have done it well."
Three-Crocodile let a relieved sigh slip between his lips.
"Tomorrow, at midday," Lord Tayauh said, "we will hold your coming of age ceremony at the Temple of the Calendar and I will bestow your adult name myself."
"But..." Three-Crocodile tried to object but Lord Tayauh waved him off.
"Yes, I know, the official date is several twenty-days away, but, to my knowledge, there has never been a First Priest bearing a child's name." Lord Tayauh placed his free hand on Three-Crocodile's back and guided him toward the temple anteroom. "We cannot change too many traditions all at once."
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Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Thursday, October 05, 2006
posted by WDavid at 10/05/2006 01:52:00 PM
Outline for “Festival of Atlcualo”
by W. David MacKenzie
(c) 2006
Scene 1: Disaster at the Cenote
a. On the last day of Uayeb it is tradition for the priests of the city to gather at the cenote to make offerings of gold and food to the Lords of Xibalba asking them to close the gates to the underworld until the following year because it was believed that if the gates were left open tortured spirits from the underworld would flood out to wreak havoc in the world.
b. Dozens of priests and their seconds gather at the mouth of the cenote. One by one they say a prayer then step forward to drop their offerings into the gaping hole in the earth. Four heartbeats later the offering hits the water of the underground river and is carried to the Lords of Xibalba.
c. When Cocozca, the First of Tlaloc, steps to the lip of the cenote to make his offering the earth gives way and he drops into the chasm but manages to grasp the edge. Mazatl, the Second of Tlaloc, rushes to his aid but more earth gives way and both priests plummet into the darkness of the cenote to be carried as offerings to the Lords of Xibalba.
d. Everything happens so quickly that no one knows how to react, least of all Three-Crocodile, the young apprentice to Cocozca who had been hanging back to observe the ritual. Three-Crocodile is an orphan given to the temple of Tlaloc when his family was killed in a flood. Lord Cocozca is the only father he has ever known. Three-Crocodile is in shock at the loss. In the end Lord Tayauh, the First of Huitzilopochtli and High Priest of the city, proclaims that the Lords of Xibalba are satisfied with the sacrifice they have claimed and bids everyone to return to the city. Three-Crocodile is the last to leave.
Scene 2: A Guide for Cocozca
a. That night Three-Crocodile returns to the cenote to mourn the death of Cocozca, his foster father and teacher. He is afraid of the animals of the night like jaguars and bats but he feels he has an important task to accomplish for his friend.
b. Tradition holds that dogs are able to guide the spirits safely through the nine levels of the underworld and dogs were frequently sacrificed in crematory fires with the bodies of important citizens. Three-Crocodile has brought a jade status of a dog from Tlaloc’s temple and as he stands at the edge of the cenote he says a prayer for Cocozca and Mazatl then tosses the figurine into the pit.
c. Three-Crocodile considers throwing himself into the cenote as well. He is profoundly sad at the loss of Cocozca and feels unready to live his life without his mentor’s guidance. It would be so easy to take one step over the edge and follow Cocozca and Mazatl into the underworld. It would relieve him of worry and doubt and pain.
d. Deep inside, however, he feels that Tlaloc is guiding his life. The God of Rains and Water took his parents in a flood so that Three-Crocodile would be given to Tlaloc’s temple. With Cocozca and Mazatl plunging into the water at the bottom of the cenote, Three-Crocodile could see Tlaloc’s hand at work again. Now, with Three-Crocodile as the last person in the city consecrated to the God of Rain and Water, he would have to lead the ceremonies for Tlaloc’s Festival of Atlcualo which began in just two days. He had no doubt that this was Tlaloc’s will and no doubt that he was completely unready .
Scene 3: The High Priest’s Decision
(this scene was submitted for assignment #3)
a. The priests of the city, however, are full of doubt so Three-Crocodile and Lord Pochotl, First of Ehecatl, are called to a meeting with the city’s High Priest. Ehecatl, the God of Wind, plays a minor role in the rites of Atlcualo as he pushes the rains through the sky so they can fall upon the fields of maize.
b. Lord Tayauh has heard from other important priest and they feel it would be best to delay the festival so that a new First of Tlaloc can be summoned from the capital. Due to his age, they do not consider Three-Crocodile to be a priest. Lord Pochotl , however, has a different plan. He wants to conduct the ceremonies himself. He has been a part of the Festival of Atlcualo for many years and he believes that holding the ceremonies on schedule is the only way to appease Tlaloc. Lord Tayauh objects that Tlaloc will not find favor with the First of a minor god leading his ceremonies.
c. As the two men reach a tense impasse Three-Crocodile finally finds his voice and claims his right to lead the ceremonies. Lord Pochotl scoffs at the idea and ticks off the reasons the boy cannot lead the festival, but Three-Crocodile does not back down and states that as the only “priest” of Tlaloc remaining it is his right and obligation to serve.
d. Lord Tayauh, reluctant at first, finally agrees that Three-Crocodile is the only logical choice to appease Tlaloc by holding the ceremony on time and officiated by one consecrated to the god. Before the High Priest has even finished speaking, Lord Pochotl storms out of the meeting declaring that the boy will bring disaster down upon them all.
Scene 4: Reflection in the Temple
a. Twilight and braziers illuminate the temple anteroom as Three-Crocodile prepares himself for the dawn ceremony. There is no one to help dress him as he once helped Cocozca so he pays special attention to the details so as to not offend Tlaloc.
b. Nearby, the sacrificial infant lays peacefully in it’s stone bed. Earlier Three-Crocodile gave it the intoxicating pulque drink to calm it and covered it in ceremonial blue paint. Tradition says that a child born during Uayeb has no destiny and as such it is our duty to free their souls so they can return to the gods. Therefore, these children are always confiscated at birth and held for ceremonial sacrifice.
c. Looking at this helpless infant, Three-Crocodile is reminded of what he must have been like when he was spared by the flood. He could just as easily been given to a temple for sacrifice but it was Cocozca’s actions that dedicated him to Tlaloc in an enduringly useful way, and for that Three-Crocodile is grateful ad he believes that Tlaloc too is grateful.
d. Tucking the sacrificial blade into his belt and cradling the peaceful child in his outstretched hands, Three-Crocodile strides out of the anteroom and onto the temple courtyard at the top of the pyramid to meet the approaching dawn.
Scene 5: The Sacrifice to Tlaloc
a. Three-Crocodile walks to the altar stone in the near-dawn light. On his right is Lord Pochotl and to his left is Lord Tayauh, both in ceremonial garb. Before him, at the base of the pyramid and extending out into the cobble-stoned Avenue of the Gods, are the citizens of the city. The wealthy and influential are close in, the common folk stretch back like an ocean of humanity.
b. As the first light of the sun breaks over the far off peaks, Three-Crocodile holds the infant up high and the crowd roars its approval. After five days of inactivity and fearful quiet during Uayeb they are eager for excitement and the sound of their own voices. Three-Crocodile lowers the infant to the altar stone; it's small body taking up only a tiny portion of the rock slab. He then withdraws the sacrificial dagger from his belt and holds it high. The noise of the crowd swells again.
c. Looking down at the infant, Three-Crocodile's mind wanders back over his life and the events of the last two days. At each point Tlaloc has guided events to bring him to this juncture. There is a greater message here that is eluding him, a task the Tlaloc wants him to accomplish, a task for which he is specifically skilled, and uniquely placed. Everything has been arranged by the god to make this sacrifice a crucial event.
d. Immersed in his thoughts, Three-Crocodile has not notice that the random noise of the crowd has given way to a throbbing chant. "Tlaloc, Tlaloc, Tlaloc..." reverberates from the numerous pyramid temples along the Avenue of the Gods. Just as the sound finally penetrates Three-Crocodile's visions, Lord Pochotl rushes to the boy's side and attempts to wrest the knife from Three-Crocodile's hands so that he can complete the sacrifice himself.
e. In that moment, Tlaloc's will becomes clear to Three-Crocodile and the spirit of the god drives him. He catches Pochotl off guard and off balance and slams him down hard on the altar stone. Pochotl is stunned and his breath is knocked out of him. Time slows down. Pochotl lies on his back, on the altar stone, gasping for air; the crowd is deathly silent at the strange turn of events; Lord Tayauh gasps and steps back in astonishment. In that attenuated moment Three-Crocodile thrusts the sacrificial blade deep into Pochotl's abdomen right below the rib cage, makes a few deft movements with the knife to enlarge the wound, and plunges his arm up into Pochotl’s chest cavity as the dieing priest screams. Three-Crocodile grasps the hot beating heart of Ehecatl’s First and rips it from his body.
f. Murmurs ripple through the stunned crowd as Three-Crocodile reaches down to pick up the infant by the scruff of it’s neck then holds both the heart and the child high in tribute to Tlaloc. The boy’s voice rises until it booms out from one end of the Avenue of the Gods to the other. “Tlaloc has come to me in a vision and anointed me as his First. He has set me the task of protecting the children of Uayeb. He has set me the task of punishing those who would interfere with his worship. Henceforth the child born during Uayeb will be consecrated to the service of Tlaloc that he will have abundant priests to honor his glory. Henceforth the criminal will be Tlaloc’s feast, the evildoer’s blood will bring the life-giving rain, the heretic’s heart will crisp in Tlaloc’s fire.” With these final words, Three-Crocodile throws Pochotl’s steaming heart into the temple pyre and cradles the writhing infant in the crook of his arms. The crowd erupts in cheers as the rites and beliefs of a people begin to change.
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The assignment for week four to write an outline for the story we plan to turn in for assignment 6
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WDavid, at 10/05/2006 01:56:00 PM
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Here are the class comments for the outline.
Instructor DeChancie: OK, I read over the outline, and it looks pretty good, but let me ask this. Is this background historical, a variant of Meso-American history, or something you invented based on history? Or is the setting supposed to be another world/planet? I don't know enough about the subject to tell.
WDavid: This outline is for a story set in the world I created in assignment 2. It's a world I've been toying with for a long time and it's finally coming to fruition in sync with this class. You can read more about it at www.firstempires.com but, in brief, it is an alternate history where the native cultures of North and South America are as advanced and robust as any European country of the 15th and 16th century. The culture I'm exploring first is a melding of most of the meso-american cultures, Olmec, Mayan, and Aztec are the strongest influences.
Instructor DeChancie: OK, now I know. This is an "alternate history" story. Good. How would history have gone if....and then you posit alternative historical events. Sure. Now I understand. This idea has been done, and I wish I could cite something for you, but I can't right off the top of my head. Makes little difference. The theme is a long way from being exhausted. It's a fascinating premise, and you should continue to develop it. I like the idea of someone in this culture coming to the independent realization that there is something wrong with human sacrifice. That is a very nice hook on which to hang the whole story.
Cathy Chance: WDavid: This is an interesting story and I think it's really workable if you amp the tension throughout. What does 3-Croc have at stake? What's the risk to him if he doesn't kill the infant? ould he potentially be sacrificed himself? I think there has to be a real threat to him in making this moral decision. Also, I think you need to show some sort of revelation, rather than just facile justification to kill his antagonist and save the baby. To me, this felt more like a telling of myth than a fantasy story. You've given us here the background to the sacrifices performed in Aztec (I think) society. The "sense of wonder" is a little lacking. I'm sorry if this comes across as a little harsh. It's not meant to be. The flow of the story is here and you've already shown us you can create the characters. Keep working on it.
Kim Huett: I mostly have questions after reading this intriguing plot sequence: Does the reader get a sense that these gods really exist and have a hand in the human affairs? Or is it a situation where the priests successfully impose their religious interpretation on the people? Or neither? In 1c, I wonder if the chasm of divine or natural origin? Around 5e, I begin to feel like something is off…. All that plot sequence was leading up to this crisis with the sacrificial babe? And then a few plot sequences later, the story’s ended and 3-Croc is a major change agent in this meso-american religion? It seems too tidy. Perhaps the story could begin closer to that templetop moment, and you could explore the responses of the other priests and the people and show him sweating a little as he makes these bold moves. It seems too smooth and easy. You could show just how one pulls off something like this. It would be neat to read the story.
laf: Well, I'm either getting used to the names -- or they're easier to absorb when they're more spread out (I didn't find it to be a problem when going through the outline) :-) Overall, seems a tight story ... I am curious about the gods (real or only in the priests mind) since Tlaloc's will plays such a key roll in the climax of the story? Does he also lend the boy the strength to take out Pochotl? (even catching him by surprise, there would have been quite a size disparity between them (if he's still using a birth name, he's 7 or less, right?))
10/2/2006 9:45:20 PM
Joe: WDavid - I don't have much to offer here, beyond continuing encouragement. I'm totally engrossed with the premise, the setting, and the characters. You're an alchemist, concocting formulas for elements that would be fatal in the hands of another writer. This story is your own, continue to assert your mastery over it, and ignore any nagging little voices that might distract you from doing so. Keep writing, I'll keep reading. Peace - Joe.
WDavid: LAF...the reference I used said that the giving of an adult name happened after twenty of their 260 day sacred years. They considered the nine months of gestation (the base of their 260 day calendar) to have been his first year, so nineteen more makes the child 13.5 years old by our calendar. Since their mathmatical system is base 20 (ours is base 10) that seems a logical time. I made him 13 for the story and on the verge of his naming ceremony. Young, but not too young to accomplish the task. As for the act of taking down Pochotl, in moments of crisis humans are able to draw from untapped reserves of strength and endurance so why not here when Three-Crocodile believes his god's vision is threatened by Pochotl's interference? As for the reality of the gods...I may come across as a heretic here to many people, but I think their gods are about as real as the gods of our time. Visions and messages from on high come in all shapes and sizes and are left to the interpretation of the receiver. Who can say if your urge to have a corned beef sandwich for lunch is just a tasty idea or a vision placed there by a devine being? Is it simple hunger or god's symbolic way of telling you that vegetarianism is the devil's work? It is the prophet's ability to get his interpretation of the message across to a receptive audience at a key moment that gives the message weight and power.
WDavid: Kim...I think a lot of your questions are addressed in my message to LAF. As for the tidiness, yes, perhaps it is. I see Three-Crocodile's actions coming at a key moment when the people are hyped for a bloody ceremony and when it takes a new turn that both spares some of their children and still gives them bloody ceremonies, they're ready to accept it. There are, by all accounts, an ecstatic people and the supernatural is in every part of their daily lives. Also, their raised to be obedient to authority, so I don't see this as a big stretch.
WDavid: Cathy...You got me...this IS a fable. The "twist" if you want to call it that, that I was saving for the end, is that the story is a cultural myth that a father is telling to his son as a bed time story to explain both how sacrifices used to be and how they evolved to protect the children and punish the evil doers while still paying homage to the gods. For those of you who say "That's a sick and twisted bedtime story, dude!" then you shold try reading the original fairy tales of our own cultures. :-)By
WDavid, at 10/05/2006 01:57:00 PM
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Sounds like you have a plan man. It's coming right along and I know it's going to be great. I must say though that the idea of an outline has changed a lot since I went to school back in dino days. We used to write an outline in a few brief words and maybe a sentence, not paragraphs. Oh well, time marches on and drags us along in the dust... Keep up the good work!
By
Ruth, at 10/09/2006 01:34:00 PM
Sunday, September 24, 2006
posted by WDavid at 9/24/2006 08:09:00 PM
Character Sketches
Pochotl Axayaca
In a small city, the First Priest of even a minor god like Ehecatl has some social standing, but this minimal standing is not enough for Pochotl. He was born the fifth son of a minor noble in a far off colony of the Yucatec Dominion. He has had to settle for cast offs and hand-me-downs from his older and more popular siblings his entire life. He attended second-rate schools and was consecrated to a second-rate god because none of the important temples would take him. A lifetime of being taught to accept the will of the gods did not sit well with him and he has done everything in his power to struggle up the ranks in the priesthood of Ehecatl. Now that he has attained First Priest status in this little city he sees it as nothing more than a stepping stone to another posting in a bigger city or even the capital of the Dominion. With the unfortunate deaths of the First and Second Priests of Tlaloc during the unlucky days of Uayeb, it seems that Ehecatl has finally smiled on him. The Festival of Atlcualo is only one day away and they will undoubtedly ask him to put aside his role as Festival Second to lead the prestigious ceremonies. This should get the attention of other temples and speed his climb up the ladder of power.
Three-Crocodile
Even a small city can be a scary place for a thirteen-year-old thrust into the limelight before he’s ready and Three-Crocodile has never seen himself as ready for anything. Orphaned as an infant when his parents were swept away in a flood, Three-Crocodile was given to the temple of Tlaloc to be raised in the ways of the god. He studied hard and learned his lessons well, but he’s always been unsure of himself and has never sought to distinguished himself in any way. Some call him Cocozca’s Shadow because he’s never far from the First Priest’s side. Three-Crocodile was hoping to live his live out as a minor priest in a minor town, but the bizarre death of both the First and Second Priests of Tlaloc at the cenote on the last day of Uayeb has left him as the only other priest to Tlaloc in the city on the eve of the Festival of Atlcualo. While he’d like nothing better than to melt into the background and let someone else lead the ceremonies, his gut tells him that he owes a debt to Tlaloc for saving him from the flood that killed his parents and to the now dead First Priest who raised him. Three-Crocodile is scared and shy. He worries that the prayer for rains and a fruitful growing season is too important to trust to a boy who hasn’t even had his naming day yet?
Excerpt from "Festival Of Atlcualo"
By W. David MacKenzie
© 2006
“I first want to tell you both how sorry I am at the loss of Cocozca and Mazatl. The First and Second of Tlaloc will be greatly missed.” The First of Huitzilopochtli was an elderly man and his voice was gravelly from too many years of ecstatic ritualism. “However, with Tlaloc’s Festival of Atlcualo beginning tomorrow, we must find a way to proceed.”
Three-Crocodile’s throat tightened at the memory of yesterday’s tragic events. He opened his mouth to thank the city’s High Priest for his kind words, but he was cut off by Pochotl’s reedy voice.
“I could not agree more, Lord Tayauh. As First of Ehecatl I stand ready to assume full control of Atlcualo.” Pochotl sat taller in his chair as he spoke. “The god of the winds plays a significant role in the sacrifice to beseech the rains and I see no other way to proceed.”
“Lord...” Three-Crocodile’s near whisper disappeared under the husky voice of the elder priest.
“I appreciate your offer, Pochotl, but I and several of the other Firsts think it would be best to delay the Festival for a few days so that we can request a new First of Tlaloc from the capital.” Silence filled the room briefly as Pochotl and Three-Crocodile absorbed the implications of the High Priest’s words.
Three-Crocodile leaned forward “With all due...”
“Lord Tayauh! That is a dangerous plan.” Pochotl rose from his chair and ticked off points with his fingers. “Last year the rains began late and ended early. The maize crop was nearly lost. The water in the wells sank lower than anyone can remember. Tlaloc is already angry with our community. Do you dare risk delaying his ceremonies?”
“My point ex...” Three-Crocodile began but Lord Tayauh, still spry in his old age, sprang to his feet, tipping his chair backward in his zeal.
“And how much favor will Tlaloc find in having the First of Ehecatl officiating at his festival?” The men stood eye to eye, neither one blinking.
“I’ll do it.” Three-Crocodile was surprised to hear his voice booming through the room.
Distracted from their standoff by Three-Crocodile’s unexpected outburst, the two priests turned to face him. The First of Huitzilopochtli looked thoughtful but Pochotl’s face was a vicious sneer. “You? Cocozca’s Shadow?”
Three-Crocodile flinched at the derisive nickname and nearly retreated back into his shell, but the sound of his dead master’s name gave him strength and he stood to face Pochotl. “Yes, me. I can lead the festival.”
“You’re just a boy.” Pochotl stepped toward him and prodded the youth’s chest as he listed Three-Crocodile’s deficiencies. “You have not completed your training; you’ve never officiated over a complete ceremony let alone an entire festival; and you’ve never sacrificed anything more substantial than a squash.”
Three-Crocodile deflated a little with each point Pochotl made--all were completely true and he was about to collapse back into his chair when the old priest spoke.
“Could you really do it?”
Pochotl turned to gape at Tayauh. “You’re not seriously...”
“Be still, Pochotl.” The First of Ehecatl folded into his chair and the old man’s scowl softened as he repeated his question to the boy. “Could you do it?”
Three-Crocodile stood in silent thought for several moments before he replied in a soft but steady tone. “I saw Lord Cocozca lead the festival four times; I know the rites; and I am the only priest of Tlaloc within three days of this city.”
“Priest? Ha!”
“Pochotl, I will tolerate no further disrespect for a fellow priest.”
Three-Crocodile’s spirit soared at the support of the city’s primary religious leader.
“My son, you have spoken the one basic truth of this crisis. You are the only person available to us who is trained in the rituals and consecrated to Tlaloc. You will lead the Festival of Atlcualo.”
Pochotl was out of his chair and striding toward the door before the First of Huitzilopochtli finished speaking. “This is a mistake, Lord Tayauh. Mark my words--the boy will bring disaster down upon us all.”
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Here is assignment three from my current writing class. The assignment was to write a character sketch for a protagonist and an antoginist (250 words for each) and then to write a 500 word dialogue scene to show conflict between them. My dialogue scene is about 150 words too long. Other than that, please be as hash as possible in telling my what I've done wrong here and how you think I should change it to make it right.
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WDavid, at 9/24/2006 08:14:00 PM
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Okay, I only have a couple of comments. #1, I don't think there should be a question mark at the end of Three-Crocodile's sketch since the sentence was not written as a question. #2, I find it very difficult reading these strange names since I don't know a thing about the culture you're writing about and you haven't offered a single clue as to how to pronounce them.
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Ruth, at 9/27/2006 04:32:00 AM
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Ruth...
Thanks for your comments and for struggling through the piece. :-)
The Question mark is a remnant from the first draft that didn't get changed. Sorry. :-)
As for the names...the class members echoed your comments. The names were too unfamiliar and hard to pronounce. I'll post the class comments next along with a pronunciation guide.By
WDavid, at 9/27/2006 06:48:00 AM
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Instructor DeChancie: Again shows a great cultural depth and penetration of an alien worldview. Very imaginative story material here. I'm impressed with this one as well.
Cathy Chance: Well done. Personally, I have a hard time with these names, but I understand the setting demands it. Unfortunately, I have a tendency to skip over named I can't pronounce, so it's easy to lose the thread of what's going on. (I've heard others make the same complaint.) Not sure what you can do about it, given the setting.
Joe: Quetzalcoatl, the setting is intriguing, as are the characters, but there are too many exotic names bursting off of the page at one time. They become a noisy cluster that distracts the eye. I didn’t have a problem with the names themselves, but I think that you need less proper nouns, and more common nouns to give me a clearer view of your world. The tension created by the religious politicking that occurs in what appears to be a theocracy is very enticing to me as a reader. The classic tale of a young man trying to adapt to, and also change the world he is maturing in has set well with audiences since our ancestors first began gathering around an evening fire. Well done. Given the quality of your writing, I have no doubt that you can pull this story off. Stay true to your vision!
laf: Goodness ... this is really good, strong dialogue, clearly defined conflict, and sort of the 'coming of age' of Three Crocodile (why wouldn't that be plural, by the way?). I have to echo the concern on the names, perhaps because so many players and gods (plus the city and festival names) are introduced so quickly, we don't have time to assimilate what (to us) are very foreign, unpronounceable names. Right off the get-go, paragraph 1, we have 5 such names alone; in the third paragraph, you add 3 more new names. Not sure if you could use only the titles or only the names for selected characters (to slow down the volume of names) or if you could consider anglicizing some items (e.g. the festival name) ... it's hard to suggest because you don't want to lose the wonderful feel for the culture and richness that you've developed (which is excellent). Other than that, I have no real criticism. Your characters feel true and are acting from genuine motives; the dialogue is real (and fitting language for what would be upper class - the priesthood); your plot is interesting; and I look forward to reading more.
WDavid: In a book I could add a glossary at the end with a pronunciation guide...but I've never seen that done in a short story. Here's a brief tutorial if you're interested in pronouncing Nahuatl (The Aztec language)...
"A" sounds like "AH"
"E" sounds like "AY"
"I" sounds like "EE"
"O" sounds like "OH"
"U" sounds like "OO"
"C" usually sounds like "K"
“CE” sounds like “SAY”
“CI” sounds like “SEE”
“CH” sounds like the beginning of “CHEESE”
"X" sounds like "SH"
"TL" sound like the end of "CATTLE"
The emphasis is always on the next to the last syllable.
So, the names are...
Pochotl Axayaca (Poe-CHO-tl ah-shah-YAH-kah)
Ehecatl (ay-hay-CA-tl)
Tayauh (tah-YAH-oo) (the "H" is silent here)
Cocozca (koe-KOHZ-ka)
Mazatl (mah-ZAH-tl)
Huitzilopochtli (whooeet-zill-oh-POHCH-tlee)
Tlaloc (TLAH-lohk)
Atlcualo (ah-tl-KWAHL-oh)By
WDavid, at 9/27/2006 06:51:00 AM
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Even when you know how to pronounce them they don't roll easily off the tongue! Thanks for the short lesson though.
By
Ruth, at 9/27/2006 12:03:00 PM
Sunday, September 17, 2006
posted by WDavid at 9/17/2006 04:55:00 PM
Prelude To Sacrifice
by W. David MacKenzie
(c) 2006
I bounced my shoulders several times to settle the ceremonial feathered cape into a comfortable hang as Seven-Rabbit tied the beaded loin cloth around my middle. I sucked in my belly self-consciously as he worked at the knots and made a mental note to cut back on the sugared maize cakes. I picked up the folded itinerary lying on the shelf and scanned down the glyphs drawn in Seven-Rabbit's meticulous penmanship.
"Looks like we'll finish the ceremonies today," I dropped the paper back on the shelf and checked my face paint in the mirror.
"Yes, Lord Priest, there are only a dozen outlanders remaining."
"I've told you many times, you need not be so formal when we're alone."
Seven-Rabbit hung his head slightly. "Yes sir, but you're wearing the holy cloak and the turquoise collar."
I tousled the boy’s hair. "Lad, we're on a tiny colony island on the edge of the Eastern Ocean. It's amazing to me that Huitzilopochtli can even find our temple to look down on these ceremonies." Seven-Rabbit hid his face in his hands in fearful reverence. I shook my head. Perhaps he would loosen up one day, but it wouldn’t be today.
I faced the niche that held the symbol of my office. The sacred headdress of gold and feathers was a thousand years of ritual caging my soul. I was no more a free man than the outlanders, no less a prisoner for my chains being tradition and ceremony. The midday chime of the Xin Da Lu clock drew my eyes and refocused my mind. Sighing, I lifted the headdress and placed it firmly upon my smooth pate then turned to the arch leading to the temple terrace.
Seven-Rabbit knelt before me. His head was bowed and in his up-stretched hands he cradled the ceremonial flint knife. I grasped the hilt of the stone blade and drew the jagged edge lightly across Seven-Rabbit's palms. My fresh cut sliced across the web of old scars on the boy's hands and blood welled to the surface.
"I am blessed, Lord Priest," he said and scuttled backward out of my path.
We both had parts to play in the ritual, he the obedient chac giving first blood to a greedy god, and I the feral warrior priest intent on sacrifice. I put on my best god-crazed sneer and walked out into the glaring midday sun. The crowd gathered at the foot of the temple pyramid cheered. Their excitement fueled me. My hands flew up and out in practiced moves—the fingers of my left hand spread wide, the fingers of my right hand gripping the ritual blade. I shook my arms and gritted my teeth. My eyes, unnaturally wide and fervent, drew gasps from commoners and merchants alike, and I imagined that even the temple architects and engineers took a step back in the small reed gondolas dangling beneath their tethered hot air balloons.
I was ready for the show.
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This is the first piece of fiction in my First Empires project and also my assignment for a writing class in which I'm currently enrolled.
The assignment was: Write a scene in which elements of your imaginary world are brought to the fore through any means other than having a character remark on or explain something. Weave startling setting elements into a scene that puts the reader into a new world. You have up to 500 words.
Please tell me if I accomplished this assigned task and how you think I did it or failed to do it. Any other comments are welcome as well. Obviously, this is just a scene, not an entire story, so don't judge it harsh for being plotless. :-)By
WDavid, at 9/17/2006 05:00:00 PM
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Here are the comments from my classmates...
WDavid: Classmates...when commenting on my assignments please keep in mind that I'm less interested in the things you LIKED or what was GOOD about the piece and more interested in what you DID NOT LIKE or what was BAD in the story. Be as harsh and nitpicky as possible. Thanks! :-)
Cathy Chance: Ok, in the first paragraph, you started each sentence with "I". It might read easier if this was varied more. When your narrator asks Seven-Rabbit to be less formal, he uses very formal speech himself...it sorta jars. You do much better in the next paragraph spoken by the narrator. I'm sure as the story progresses, you'll answer the questions about just what this society is.
WDavid: Cathy...Thanks...That's exactly the type of critique I'm looking for. How's this for a re-write on the first paragraph?
I bounced my shoulders several times to settle the ceremonial feathered cape into a comfortable hang as Seven-Rabbit tied the beaded loin cloth around my middle. As the boy worked at the intricate knots I sucked in my belly self-consciously and made a mental note to cut back on the sugarded maize cakes. The day's itinerary lying on the shelf caught my eye and I picked it up to scan down the glyphs drawn in Seven-Rabbit's meticulous penmanship.
...and this for the too formal line...
I've told you many times, there's no need to be so formal when we're alone.
...The society is an alternate history meso-america...kind of an aztec/maya melding. You can read more about my world at www.firstempires.com...would love any comments there as well.
Kim Huett: Hi, David. Forgive me, but I liked it! I think it's awesome that you would explore PreColumbian America (or something like it). Now, what seemed strange to me was the modern-day awareness that eating maize cakes would have an effect on the belly and that one should cut back on them. I was also uncertain that as to whether/not this god/man would be so down-to-earth. That seemed very unlikely to me. However, I have not done research, and I don't know what such a person would have been like. I would think that such a person would really buy into his godliness and not give a darn if Seven-Rabbit was comfortable around him or not. But, who's to say? Maybe that's part of what interested me...being able to relate to the Lord Priest. A well-writ piece.
WDavid: Thanks Kim...Hey, I like praise, don't get me wrong, but the nitty gritty critiquing will be more helful in improving my style. :-) You'll see more of this in assignment 3 when we get into character sketches, but the Lord Priest (I'm still considering names) is not your typical pseudo-aztec model. His life has disillusioned him and the beaurocracy has pretty much cast him aside. He's not full of himself but he still feels a rush when the adulation of the crowd flows through him like an actor on a stage...or when, as will become evendent as the story evolves, he is planning a bit of deceit and revenge to regain his deserved place in the priesthood and a compass for his life. As for the maize cakes...well, he's living a mostly soft and cushy life on a carribean island colony so he's had time to notice how soft living equates to soft body.
laf: This is a well described scene ... and I do think your re-write is stronger than your original.
WDavid: LAF...Thanks...I am curious if anyone has visited the First Empires web site and if they have any comments on the world I outlined there. All comments welcome and encouraged.
KJ: Good writing. Show don't tell. I know you want criticism, but I have to give you praise. You have done research obviously on the ancient culture of the Aztec/Inca, etc. How ever, your psychological picture is more from someone of the modern culture in the way they associate with each other. Meso-America is a land of superstitions (to us). But then, what do I know, I didn't live then either. but again, perhaps you have seen something that archeologists lack, real people. Good writing.
Robert: Wow. You didn't leave me much to critique. The scene really evokes the feel of a futuristic Aztec society with a good dollop of humour mixed in. The one thing that I thought didn't quite work was the part "My eyes, unaturally wide and fervent". The description here is coming from the character himself, and he would not be in a position to see how his own eyes looked. It's possible that he knows his eyes look like this because it is an expression he is putting on, but this isn't really made clear from the text. Otherwise, I thought this was quite good.By
WDavid, at 9/21/2006 05:57:00 AM
Saturday, September 16, 2006
posted by WDavid at 9/16/2006 08:31:00 PM
There hasn't been too much happening here on PPTP lately. I've been away for a while working on the set up for a new project which I'm calling "First Empires" and you can check it out HERE if you like. I welcome any comments you might wish to give on the concepts or the background essay I posted there. I'm working on the first story for the FE world and I hope to post it here in installments over the next few weeks.
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Saturday, September 02, 2006
posted by Ruth at 9/02/2006 11:04:00 AM
Symbiosis
I don’t know why I sat down here today in front of this computer screen except that I needed to write “something”. What that something is, I don’t yet know.
Outside my window a light breeze rustles the leaves of the tiny Silver Maple, and the giant Cedar nearby shivers as though winter is nigh. It is not. The heat of early September in North Central Florida hangs heavy in the air, stifling any thoughts of leaving my air conditioned haven and sitting on the screened porch to write.
In the uppermost branches of a scraggly Crepe Myrtle near the front fence, the last few dots of bright pink petals linger, perhaps afraid of the long fall to the sandy earth below. Grey/green mossy beards hang from nearby branches as they do in most of the trees growing in my yard and throughout Florida. Spanish moss is said not to kill the trees on which it hangs and sways in symbiotic splendor… but, one must wonder, when, heavy laden with their unwanted guests, they do die, and dot the landscape with their long-bearded skeletons.
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Sure has been quiet around here. Where did everybody go?
Well I will say I liked this piece. I can comment on the writing (nicely done), but I wonder if I am too close to the situation to comment on the topic itself. Which is why I haven't commented on this piece sooner; I was hoping somebody else would first. -
Yes, it has been quiet around here until David started posting again recently. The last few sentences, which have now been removed, were merely observations... the next leap of thought from one life form to another...I did not mean to offend anyone.
By
Ruth, at 9/27/2006 12:18:00 PM
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I don't see a situation here for Fred to be "too close to". I guess poetry really is beyond me. I see a nice little essay with an observation of a tree, a poignant comment about petals being afraid to fall, and a lament for trees lost to a parasitic moss. What did I miss?
By
WDavid, at 9/27/2006 12:32:00 PM
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David, if your first reading of this piece was just before your comment, then what you missed had already been removed.
Mom, I don't think you should have removed anything from your writing, I liked it better with the original ending. I certainly wasn't offended.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
posted by Ruth at 8/26/2006 12:27:00 PM
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I like this one.
By
Cheryl, at 8/30/2006 06:18:00 AM
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Michael, I use Paint Shop Pro.
By
Ruth, at 8/30/2006 03:45:00 PM
Friday, August 25, 2006
posted by Ruth at 8/25/2006 09:56:00 AM
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I liked the idea of making photo poems so thought I'd try it myself. The photo is from a Printmaster collection and not my own.
By
Ruth, at 8/25/2006 10:02:00 AM
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Thank you Michael. That's a good suggestion re "still".
By
Ruth, at 8/25/2006 02:47:00 PM
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
posted by WeirdWoollyDesigns at 8/22/2006 01:57:00 PM
Are you a natural-born pessimist? Do you struggle just to enjoy your everyday life? If so, I can tell you from personal experience that you are not alone. There is hope for you.
Let me tell you my story…
I’m a natural worrier. I was born worrying. If there was an award for being the best worrywart in the universe that prize would be mine. I worried before my first day of pre-school. I worried before my first day of kindergarten and I continued the tradition before my first days of school for the next 16 years. If my parents wanted me to go shopping or out to eat with them on a Sunday, I’d go along in the morning, but once it got to be later in the afternoon, I couldn’t go. I needed to be focusing my full attention on my anxieties about the upcoming week. And believe me, my worries were not confined to school-related issues. I irrationally worried about everything and anything. To this day I still fight the reflex to carry this habit with me like a dysfunctional friend.
Cultivating a New Way of Life
Some people are just born gloomy and pessimistic. But that does not mean we have to stay that way. So what is the antidote to this miserable way of life? I’ve come to believe that cultivating an ability to experience joy is the answer.
How I came to this realization…
About a year ago I was sitting there wallowing in yet another anxious bout of self-pity and at the same time wondering how I could get more enjoyment out of life. There was nothing special about that particular day because obsessive worrying was something I routinely did. The only thing that made that day unique was that I happened to pick up a copy of the book The Martha Rules by Martha Stewart. Out of the pages of this unlikely source came an answer that I had been searching for.
In this book, Martha talked about teaching herself to cook by studiously preparing each and every recipe in the two volumes of Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking. That’s over one thousand recipes!
Now I can just hear you saying; "Yah, that’s impressive, but what does Martha’s cooking project have to do with finding an antidote to worry?" Well, at the time I didn’t really know how the two things were related. What I did know for sure was that I somehow needed to apply this concept to my own life.
The Grand Plan
So what exactly would my project be? I had little interest in cooking in general, however baking (or maybe just eating baked goods) did interest me. Up to this point I had been too preoccupied with worry to pursue any other pastimes. Without a doubt, now was the time to do it. I would take a break from my constant worrying just long enough to learn something new and maybe even have some fun in the process. I didn’t know at the time that this new hobby would turn out to be a life saver, it just sounded to me like a pretty good idea.
My plan was to use the Martha Stewart Baking Handbook. I already owned the book for the purpose of drooling over the pictures, but now I would actually use it for it’s intended purpose. I would bake one recipe a week until I had every recipe in the book complete- just like Martha had done with the Julia Child cookbooks.
So how did the project go?
Once I got started, I was hooked. I couldn’t believe how fabulous baking was! Why hadn’t I tried it sooner? Baking was a completely multi-sensory experience. I felt an inexplicable sense of joy every time I sunk my hands into a warm, pliable, ball of dough! Handling a soft, floury square of pastry dough was delightful! The yeasty scent of rising biscuit dough was so tantalizing that it was practically unbearable. Not to mention the joy of eating the fruits of my labor!
I started my baking adventures with some cookie projects. I baked up one batch of cookies after the next, making everything from chewy, sugar-coated, raisin-filled Rugalah to rich, sweet, buttery Shortbread and Peanut Butter Sandwich cookies.
When I got to the pie section of the Baking Handbook I learned how to create melt-in-your-mouth, flaky, pie crusts. I whipped up mouthwateringly delicious pies and tarts from a simple pumpkin pie to a gourmet coconut-lemon-buttermilk tart.
Puff pastry has a reputation for being somewhat difficult and time consuming. Knowing this just added to my sense of accomplishment when my very first puff pastry project, blueberry turnovers, turned out perfectly. They were impeccably light, flaky and delicious- if I do say so myself.
In the end…
Through baking, I created edible works of art, but I got something even more important out of it. I discovered this thing called "enjoying life"- what a concept! Every time I went to pull one of my baked goods out of the oven, I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment. I got a taste for a way of life that is far more enjoyable and productive than that of the chronic worrier.
Now, how about you?
If you’re like me and enjoying life does not come naturally for you, there is a simple, painless and in my case delicious cure for this condition; find something that you love to do, that brings you true joy, then practice it often. If the queen of gloom and can turn things around and learn to enjoy life, what’s stopping you?
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Stephanie, thanks for posting your work to PPTP. Please also post comments on our other writers' entries.
This is a very nice article, and I call it that because it reads like an inspirational magazine article to me. Have you had it published? If not, you should try. I'm sure Martha Stewart must have her own magazine so that would be a good starting point since she was your inspiration.
I can sympathize with being a natural worrier and your suggestions on how to overcome it by immersing yourself in something delightful, creative, and fulfilling is a worthwhile and excellent solution. I've repressed a lot of my worries in quilting and poetry and can attest to the values of keeping busy.By
Ruth, at 8/22/2006 11:15:00 PM
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Thank you Ruth for reading my article and commenting on it.
I haven't tried to have the article published yet. I wasn't sure if the format was quite right. That is a good suggestion to try and have it published in one of Martha Stewarts magazines. I'm not sure if it's in the right format/style for that, or if it's good enough, but it would be worth checking out.
I feel like the article needs a little more work, but I'm not sure what else to do with it at this point. -
Well, I don't know what needs to e added. I might also suggest a venue such as Family Circle or Good Housekeeping, or any of the supermaket magazine rack family/cooking oriented magazines as a publishing possibility. You'll neer know if you don't try. Do you have a Writer's Market book so you can research addresses and guidelines for submissions?
By
Ruth, at 8/23/2006 05:08:00 PM
Saturday, August 19, 2006
posted by Ruth at 8/19/2006 04:56:00 PM
Twitch twist turn
Flex bend stretch
Yawn
Cloud mountains
Icy white puffs
A sky of endless
Blue
Engines drone
Hour upon hour
Eat read listen nap
Watch
Time in fast
Forward running
As eastward we fly
On
Babies cry
An old man coughs
Lavatory closed
Wait
Descending
Through cotton balls
Tossed across azure
Skies
Buckled up
Tray is secured
Thirty minutes to
Home
Twitch twist turn
Flex bend stretch
Yawn
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I have to admit that I've read very little poetry and I know next to nothing about it.
I did enjoy your poem. In very few words it really captured the modern experience of flying. The frustrations & boredom of the experience- yet you weren't whinning about it. You were just stating facts. That's the impression I got anyway.
For some reason I feel like I do my best thinking/writing in planes. Maybe it has something to do with the altitude? -
The altitude or the attitude possibly... i.e., nothing better to do and lots of interesting people to watch and from whom you may find inspiration.
I don't normally write anything buy rhyming poetry, but I'm struggling this summer trying to learn to write more non-rhyming pieces. It is a struggle.
Thank you for taking the time to comment.By
Ruth, at 8/23/2006 05:12:00 PM
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Michael, thanks for your comment. Like I've mentioned before, I'm learning and experimenting with (for me) new areas of poetry, both in form and format. Your comments make sense and are appreciated.
By
Ruth, at 8/24/2006 10:54:00 AM
Friday, August 11, 2006
posted by WDavid at 8/11/2006 10:17:00 AM
Excalibur
By W. David MacKenzie
The doorbell rings and the delivery driver looks me up and down as I take the box he’s holding out, then shakes his head, and strides back to his truck to continue his rounds. I look down at myself and the mat of cat fur stuck to my shirt. I have three cats and they work in concert to make sure I’m covered in cat fur at all times.
As I recline on the sofa, watching TV, Montega feels it is her duty to sit on my sternum and curl up into a fluffy ball and tickle my nose with the hair on her back. If I’m surfing the web at my desk then she jumps up, sits on my keyboard, and rubs her head against my shirt. In each case, she works hard to see that my chest is covered in short white hairs. I lift her up and drop her to the floor, but like a superball made of space-aged plastic, she just bounces back again and again until her job is done.
I’ll be sitting in my chair with the DVD remote in one hand when Mavado decided he wants to be my best buddy. He jumps into my lap and sits on my abdomen, sphinx-like, his bent arms stretching up my chest; his green eyes staring at me until I scratch behind his ears. He’ll close his eyes and enjoy the gentle attention, but as soon as I stop to press a button on the remote his eyes spring open and the staring resumes. If I do this too many times he’ll get annoyed and leave, but his shadowy residue of long black hairs remains on my belly as his calling card.
Tag Heuer, the old, fat, gray cat, has a more aloof approach to my furificaton. His jumping days are long passed, so he’ll climb laboriously up onto the back of the sofa, getting his considerable mass up to the highest possible vantage point. Once atop this plush perch, he’ll stretch his bulk across two full cushion tops and launch his daily salvo. He licks and bites at his course steely hair until tufts of gray fluff, like dandelion seeds, float away to drift on the eddies and breezes of central heating. Like submarine mines bobbing in the Sea of Japan, these fur bombs wait for my passing. Static electric attraction sets them on course when I come into range and they latch on just where I won’t see them but everyone else will.
I take the package to the table, rip off the tape, and open the flaps. My heart soars as I see the twenty-four items inside. Grasping one blue handle firmly, I lift it up like Excalibur. To my eyes it glows with a magical radiance. I tear off the protective cover and roll its sticky surface over my cat-furred shirt. It leaves a path of fur-free cloth in its wake. I have three cats, but now I’m ready for them!
The End
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This essay about my cats has been floating around in my head for almost a week. This morning I wrote it down. Please feel free to comment or critque as you like. This might be something I could get published in pet magazine or maybe a humor magazine. Maybe you have some ideas on where I might try.
By
WDavid, at 8/11/2006 10:21:00 AM
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It's very funny.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
posted by WDavid at 8/06/2006 08:47:00 PM
Dad's Visit
by W. David MacKenzie
592 Words
A sense of warmth washed through the room and I smiled at the sound of my father's voice.
"You're making wonderful progress on the renovation, Son."
I looked up from the drum table I was sanding to see my father's face in the large mirror that hung on the wall directly in front of me. "Thanks, Dad. I always enjoyed watching you in the shop when I was a kid."
"I'm glad you kept it up."
"Well, I was a klutz in shop class, but I think I'm finally getting the hang of things, now." My father's face in the mirror smiled and I resumed my repetitive push and pull action with the sanding block. "When I moved in, I found the old lighthouse keeper's tool chest in the caisson room downstairs. Talk about some vintage tools."
"I'm surprised they weren't all rusted away."
"Not a chance. Each one was wrapped in its own oilcloth. They were clean as a whistle and they're a dream to use, even after being forgotten for fifty years."
"That guy knew how to take care of his tools." Dad said.
I pausedaten there..jpg)
Places like this little piece of France are what the Lower East Side is most loved for. Unfortunately, so many small places are being squeezed out. Grilled Cheese, formerly on Ludlow, bit the dust, some say due to rising rents, which we all know have become outrageously expensive..jpg)
The term is "gentrification." A Prime example of this is the Essex Street Market with new construction looming over it. Up, up up! Glossy, colorful, new, putting the squeeze on what has been....time for change..jpg)
l, new, putting the squeeze on what has been....time for change..jpg)
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The last assignment of the class I'm taking at UW was to write a story that was almost totallly dialogue. "Dad's Visit" is the result. Irt is another chapter in my "The Path" story which you'll find over on That Looks Like A Story.
http://thatlookslikeastory.blogspot.com/2006/07/writerrific-1-assignment-6.html
I don;t know if that long link will work, so here's a shorter one.
http://thatlookslikeastory.blogspot.com/
All comments and critigues are welcomed. I turn this on at 7pm on Aug 7th.By
WDavid, at 8/06/2006 04:45:00 PM
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David, this is an exciting glimpse into what this story might one day be. I do think there needs to be more story between the original "Path" and this "Dad's Visit".. you know, how did he first contact his dad there after he bought the lighthouse and how he came to grips with that. This story makes it feel quite commonplace for them to meet there, but how did they get to that point? And how did he learn that pounding on the table would send the spirits away? When Dad says "protect yourself", I half expected him to hold up a cross like warding off a vampire or something, but apparently pounding on the table was enough to do it? It felt like there should have been something more involved there... like there could be a lot more action in this scene if it were allowed to grow to its full potential.
By
Ruth, at 8/06/2006 04:54:00 PM
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I like it Dave. So, what does aaron have to save his father from?
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Ruth...Thanks for the kind comments. Oh yes, there's a good bit more between the end of "The Path" and the start of "Dad's Visit". I think it's lurking around in my brain somewhere now. The last two weeks have been a desert for my creativity and I'd almost given up on this assignment altogether, but here at the last minute I got an idea and dashed this off in a couple of hours. That's lightning-fast for me.
Since this assignment was for a "dialogue only" story I purposfully left out a lot of detail. Even so, it kind of got naration heavy toward the end. I'll need to flesh this out a bit more for actual inclusion in the story, but I DO LIKE the bones of this piece. I like the ghosts lurking in the mirror instead of floating around in our world. I see the mirrors as windows on our world through which the spirits can watch us.
It really is interesting what people read into a story...or maybe what we write into a story subconsciously. The drumming on the table was only to drown out the wails of the dark spirits. It was never intended as "protection" but now that it's there and you've pointed it out, I like the idea. Perhaps rhythmic basso sounds disrupt their power in some way. Perhaps the table he's working on is specially designed to resonnate for this reason. I really do need a writing partner to help with my creativity. Thanks for being there for me. :-)By
WDavid, at 8/06/2006 07:35:00 PM
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Fred...Thanks. Glad you enjoyed the piece.
According to real history, three or four coastguardsmen died in 1942 when there were changing lighthouse keepers. I haven't been able to find out any details, but I assume there was some freak storm or something. In the story, perhaps there was an entire ship that perished. In any event, these spirits have been very angry at their condition and it was, in fact, they who caused the father's death in "The Path".
Since then, his grascious and peaceful spirit has been a calming influence to them, but now that the lighthouse is once again occupied their anger is growing and being surrounded by all that hate and fear is taking a toll on Aaron's dad's spirit. Before this scene and after, there will probably be scenes that show the dad losing his temper with Aaron or manifesting some minor destruction in the real world...something out of character. A spirit with enough anger and hate and fear will be able to cross through the mirror and cause trouble in our world. So, Aaron has to save his dad's spirit from the influences of the others and probably set him free to go on to heaven. He also has to work to save himself and probably his mom (somehow I just have to get her to the lighthouse) from any spirits that manage to breech the mirror.
How does that sound? Not bad for making a lot of it up on the fly. :-)By
WDavid, at 8/06/2006 07:45:00 PM
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Ruth...I went in a reworded the drumming to spell out what was happening.
Fred...I caught a misspelled word that you missed. Horse should have been hoarse. I've corrected it now. :-)By
WDavid, at 8/06/2006 08:08:00 PM
Friday, August 04, 2006
posted by penitentman at 8/04/2006 11:53:00 AM
These 2 descriptions were generated from a clustering excercise. I REALLY like clustering. I wish I'd remember to do it more often.
William Stout
William Stout was a sharp blade of a man. His sneering maw was cut in shadow by a bony beak and eyes set dead like a sniper's. Each step, like the parry of a sword. Each change of direction a hairpin turn with no girth to slow him down. The memory of him is like the nagging of a paper cut. My breath, drawn slow like the steady plunger of a syringe, waits for fate to turn its head before striking. Dreading the voice that would assault me like a rifle. My father's voice. The voice that would cut me, surely as a knife.
Orin Mills
Orin Mills was a hard chisled man. Stout, solid as the earth. As steady and unchanging as the silent forest. His muscles were like molten steel. Bending, stretching, molding to the shape of his hammering bones. A block of flesh, more sculpture than man. His voice, as startling and rough as a rockslide, could carve wisdom out of dead air.
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Penitentman...What is Clustering? How does it work? What are the benefits and drawbacks?
By
WDavid, at 8/04/2006 12:24:00 PM
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The first I'd seen it was in a book called "Writing the Natural Way."
The author's website talks about the process here: http://www.gabrielerico.com/Main/ClusteringSampleVignettes.htm
The words I clustered around for these 2 pieces were "sharp" and "hard".By
penitentman, at 8/04/2006 12:52:00 PM
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Hmm... so that link didn't seem to work right, at least for me. Let's try this:
LINKBy
penitentman, at 8/04/2006 01:20:00 PM
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An interesting process.
In William Stout, I note that sentences 3 and 4 have no verb. Can they stand alone like that, or should they have been phrases separated by commas or semicolons in the previous sentence?By
Ruth, at 8/04/2006 05:04:00 PM
Thursday, August 03, 2006
posted by Fred MacKenzie at 8/03/2006 06:13:00 PM
Oh, great!
Jack and Susan are coming over again.
Does Jenny think I am blind? Stupid? I see the way she looks at him. It used to happen only when she thought I wasn't looking. But lately Jenny has become more and more obvious. Doesn't Susan notice too?
Jenny and I have been together for ten years. I thought I could have held her interest for longer, but to be honest, I am getting a little tired of her too. All that nagging, she finds it necessary to repeat everything she says to me several times. Jenny never shows me any affection. Maybe I should just leave.
The doorbell rings and in walks Jack and Susan. I don't bother to get up from my chair in front of the television. What does Jenny see in him anyway? Yeah, Jack is younger than I am, but he isn't especially good looking, and he always has bad breath.
There she goes again! Jenny is giving Jack a big hug, a little too long if you ask me. Hello! I am right here! Oh, man. I can't take this anymore. I get up and walk out the front door before it closes.
I hear Susan ask, "What's wrong with Max?" The door closes before I can hear Jenny's response.
I just keep walking and don't look back. Yeah, leaving here is painful, but it passes quickly.
After about a mile of walking along the road a Jeep Wrangler pulls beside me and stops. I recognise Jenny's friend Rachel.
"Max, where are you going?", she asks.
I just smile at her dumbly.
"Get in Max, let's go for a ride."
I can't refuse an offer like that. I have always liked Rachel. She has the nicest hair I have ever seen and she always smells great. If I get lucky, maybe she will take me back to her place.
As we drive down the road, Rachel makes a call on her cell phone.
"Hi Jenny. I just found Max walking along the road," Rachel says and pauses, looking at me. "Yeah, he's still wearing his Invisible Fence collar. Ok, see ya soon."
NO NO NO
"Max, you silly dog," Rachel says, scratching my head. "I'll take you home so you can play with Jack."
Oh, great!
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Hey Fred...Good job. I think you handled Max's personality very well.
The only change I'd suggest is picking a different name for Jenny or Jack. Two J names had me a little confused at first.
As for a title, how about "Enough Is Enough"?
I think I figured it out when Rachel said "Let's go for a ride".
One of my classmates wrote a very similar story a couple of weeks ago. Jimmy was lost in the woods and couldn't find his mommy. He met a couple in the park and then wandered away from them when they started arguing about whetheror not they should try to help him. He met a scary man in a white van who offered him a cookie but he ran away from the stranger. Then he finally found his way home to mom only to have "mom" scratch behind his ear and put his food dish down on the floor where he could get it. Yup, Jimmy was a puppy.By
WDavid, at 8/03/2006 07:22:00 PM
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That was good Fred. I even reread the invisible collar thing twice and was thinking what kind of S&M story is this before I read the dog part!!
By
PeggySueO, at 8/03/2006 07:40:00 PM
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What a cute read and funny too! I was all set to start making suggestions about how this guy should maybe have a different speech pattern or something to make it read a little better... Then I found out this guy is a dog! So who knows how a dog thought/speak sounds anyway? It didn't occur to be until the second reading why leaving home was so painful. It wasn't the breaking heart of leaving, it was the pain of breaking through the invisible fence! You got me on this one. Good job!
By
Ruth, at 8/03/2006 08:06:00 PM
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Haha, this is great Fred!
So many hints tied in there and still a surprise.
Well done!By
penitentman, at 8/04/2006 12:05:00 PM
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Yes -- I thought this story was going somewhere else too -- couldn't wait to see if Rachel was taking Max home :)))
re: Title... that's got me scratching my head -- how about "The Ride Home".By
Peter, at 8/05/2006 07:36:00 PM
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How about "Taken for a ride"?
A fitting double-meaning.By
penitentman, at 8/06/2006 03:41:00 PM
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Thanks everyone for all the positive feedback, and for the title suggestions as well.
Still thinking about it though. -
Great story - love the surprise ending. I agree, Jack and Jenny was a little confusing. But that was great!!
i like "the Ride Home" as a title. -
I've decided on Taken For A Ride. Thank you penitentman.
posted by Barbara White at 8/03/2006 03:01:00 AM
Life is very hard
Time for a new beginning
But where do I start
I enjoy my job
In accounts receivable
Other times I don’t
Traditional
Looking up in the sky
White fluffy clouds on deep blue
Peaceful creation
Crystal blue water
It’s creation at it’s best
Cannot get enough
Snow covered mountains
So purely white and gentle
They reach to heaven
Sparkles in the sun
Dark green wet grass is shining
At the soccer field
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Barbara, these are good for a beginner. You will need to stay focused on the syllable count though. The first traditional haiku has six syllables in the first line instead of five. Perhaps it might be written:
Look up to the sky
What do you think?By
Ruth, at 8/03/2006 10:08:00 AM
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Oh, you are right. I didn't even notice that. And some words it is hard to tell how many syllables they have. I can't think of an example right now. Anyway, I'll try to write some more this weekend.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
posted by Peter at 8/02/2006 01:15:00 PM
I was surprised when I looked out the window this morning... I know my head can get a little big at times, so an occasional reminder like this is good for me. After all, it has been a good three weeks since the last reminder, when my neighbor drove up in his "new" BMW Vixen motorhome. Surely you can imagine that somebody who has already seen everything might be scratching his head about that one. What the hell is that!? There were just 600 of these built, back in the '80s. I took photos. had a long conversation with my neighbor We all love San Francisco, but there are things we hate: It took the parking police just three hours to cite the Vixen for a parking violation. You'd think they could cut a vehicle like that some well deserved slack. After all, it exists, here on this spot on Telegraph Hill, which has never ever seen anything like this before, and will probably never ever do so again. But, rest assured, I expect no One neighbor, quite idiotically, tried to pass a truck. She tore a branch off a tree and scratched up her car in the process. Then she got jammed, and made an even bigger mess backing out. Hey -- this is a city... these trucks belong on a farm -- how am I supposed to know how to drive with something like that on the street!?!? I'm sure the truck drivers wished they were on a farm... they had to back out to make their way home. Any good know-it-all will tell you more is better, so yours truly wasted no time getting out on the street. I took photos, interviewed the landscape architect that ordered them, The trees are being installed as part of a renovation. It's the $7 million mansion at the corner -- first listed for a whopping $14 million back during the Dot Com boom. The place was on the market for years -- everyone on the block was saying they'd buy it if they could only win the lottery. It's finally been bought, and the new owners are spending millions more on renovations. Now they have a Mediterranean style grove of olive trees screening in their privacy. It's incredible, the trees are beautiful, and this time I'm sure I've seen it all. 
hanging olive tree there was a tree hanging in the sky. It was doubly strange because I have lived in San Francisco a long time, and I thought I had already seen everything. But, obviously, I haven't.
BMW Vixen about it, and now I'm an expert on BMW Vixens too.
car stuck under tree parking police this morning. Even if the street is completely clogged by flat bed trucks double parked on the street carrying 70 year old olive trees. It is a great day for San Francisco: we lost all our trees when the city burned down in 1906, and we never really bothered restoring them, we just paved the city over instead. Nobody is going to complain about the new neighbors. Well almost nobody.
transplanted olive trees and now I'm an expert on transplanting olive trees too. I did know they were olive trees, or should I admit, I figured it out. There were olives everywhere, the street had black stains where they got smushed. Has to be olive trees, right? I'm told they're all female trees, so there won't be any olives shedding onto our sidewalks in the years to come. But we have a big mess on the street today.
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Well -- I used the tree picture again -- but it's not a story about chinatown -- that story is still running around in circles in my head.
As usual -- the feedback I'd like to get is what you liked and didn't like about the story.
/pBy
Peter, at 8/02/2006 01:25:00 PM
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What I didn't like:
What I did like: Everything, only I might like to know more about the Vixen... maybe another story, eh? I've never heard of that vehicle.
I particularly liked that I get to point out a misspelled word in your story this time... "doubley" should be "doubly". Gee that felt good! But then I got caught up in watching olive trees being planted and crashed into by a crazy female driver and forgot to look for any other typos, etc. Guess there must not have been any ;-)))
And you know what? I really doubt that you've seen everything yet!By
Ruth, at 8/02/2006 04:59:00 PM
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Ruth... tx ... re: the vixens... there's a fan site for vixens here: http://www.vixenrv.org/ -- the left side of the roof tilts up, so it is possible to stand inside one of these things. It also has a full bathroom inside!!!!!
/pBy
Peter, at 8/03/2006 10:04:00 AM
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I like this one alot. I think it all fits together nicely. I like that you use the photos.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
posted by Ruth at 8/01/2006 04:01:00 PM
The assignment, briefly, was to imagine that someone was speaking to you from beyond the grave in the first piece, and then to respond to that person in the second piece, in whatever form we chose.
Forget
Why do you cry
for me
a spirit gone
from earth?
No more in
chains,
I rise
to freedom.
Go out from here
no more
to walk in shadows.
Forget.
No longer
remember with
eyes closed tight
to squelch
the tears.
Stop,
hold
close
what is now.
Awake to today!
Lucille,
Don’t ask me to forget
for there is still time yet
to remember.
I did not live your life,
was not mother, was not wife.
I’ve only heard
The tales your children tell
and it would not bode well
to think they lie.
But still I cry in sympathy
and feel for you in empathy
and cannot bear
The knowing of how you lived
or how you ever could forgive
such injustice.
Do not ask me not to cry
or ask me not to wonder why
life must go on
In constant repetition
repeating its only known rendition
of sadness sans joy.
Look down from where your spirit roams
to those you’ve left here all alone
and cry for us.
Don't ask us to forget
for there is still time yet
to remember.
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Today I went to a new poetry group in Crystal River, FL. Part of the program was the exercise I just posted here. It was "an approach to the persona poem and the dramatic monologue". We had ten minutes to complete each section. Again, (as some of you have read on another blog) I chose to write about Lucille, my husband's mother who recently passed. So tell me what you think of these quickly produced pieces. All comments welcome.
By
Ruth, at 8/01/2006 04:23:00 PM
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I think they're excellent!!!!
And excellent advice... don't ask me to forget, as there is still time to remember.
Indeed -- I've only lost 3 people close to my heart -- they all left in a big bang 20 years ago, but still I find myself in awe about how those three continue to influence my life.By
Peter, at 8/02/2006 12:56:00 PM
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I think for 10 minutes of forced writing, they are very good. I can't imagine someone saying to just come up with 2 poems and do it in the next 10 minutes!!!
By
PeggySueO, at 8/02/2006 09:36:00 PM
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I agree with Peter and Peggy. They are excellent and I don't know how you can do that in ten minutes. Maybe, if you already had these running through your head. But otherwise too much pressure.
posted by penitentman at 8/01/2006 09:23:00 AM
Ok, Ruth, you said you wanted to see some rhymes... you may regret it.
Here's 2, just to show you a sampling as my themes tend to revolve around a... uh... particular type of humor...
The Ace Up My Sleeve
Alone I sit in my private place
My pants around my knees
When at the door I hear a knock
And someone's deadened pleas.
The thing they want is mine for now
The ace that's up my sleeve.
I say that it might be awhile
And they drop down to their knees.
They say that I must hurry now
I say I'll take my time
And that is when I realize
The power is all mine.
So here I sit in my private place
My pants around my knees
I think I'll flush the toilet once
Just to be a tease.
Hairshorts
Today I formed
the grandest plan
ever conceived
by mortal man
For in the summer
I get so hot
I don't want to wear
these clothes I've bought
And in the winter
I get such a chill
(as evidenced by my
'lectricity bill)
I need cover in summer
but it can't be too warm
and extra heat in the winter
to weather the storm
My plan, you see
is just common sense
considering the fact
that my leg hair's so dense
I'll shave off the hair
from my knees to my toes
thus saving myself
from these seasonal woes
In summer I'll run naked
but covered "down there"
with a well tended forest
of curly brown hair
The shavings, I'll use
to line winter clothes
though I will need some help...
perhaps someone who sews
Great things are invented
by men of all sorts
but it took a man of vision
to invent these hair-shorts
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The Ace Up My Sleeve - What a neat "power" piece! I just had to laugh as my husband used to live in a house with four children, he and his wife, and one bathroom. I would find it hard to exist with two people and one bathroom! I can just see his son sitting there with the girls outside begging for entrance... and flushing "just to be a tease". That is SO Michael.
As an assistant administrator here, David sends me the membership requests to read, so I had the pleasure of reading that piece before you posted it here. An advance giggle so to speak. I'm so glad you gave everyone the opportunity to see it.
Hair Shorts - I like this piece too, but with reservations. I love the cadence of the first stanza. It would be good if the whole piece had the same cadence throughout, but I tried copying it into Word and rewriting it, and could not do it myself throughout the entire piece.
I think there are many unnecessary words which could be cut, however, to bring the whole piece into a better flowing form, such as...
"I need cover in summer
but it can't be too warm
and extra heat in the winter
to weather the storm"
I think that stanza could be dropped completely as you've covered that concept in the previous two stanzas.
If you want to see my complete rewrite of this poem, let me know and I'll email it to you. If you're like me and sometimes don't want other people messing with your work, you can say that too.
I hope some of this may be of use to you.By
Ruth, at 8/01/2006 04:58:00 PM
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I don't care about cadence and all that stuff. They were hilarious! Give me some more:)
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very entertaining... that ace up my sleeve should definitely go in the PPTP hall of fame -- I thought that was heading in a completely different direction.
Hair shorts I wasn't as fond of... though that's quite a whacko visual you've dreamed up there... shorts made out of short hairs! I'm cringing just a little.By
Peter, at 8/02/2006 01:03:00 PM
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I thought the first one was very cute!! Didn't really get much out of the second one.
By
PeggySueO, at 8/02/2006 09:45:00 PM
Monday, July 31, 2006
posted by penitentman at 7/31/2006 09:59:00 PM
Dom just sat there staring at the airbike and shaking his head. Using both hands he scrubbed his head briskly, shaking dust and sand and twigs out of his hair.
Not smart Dom. Not smart at all.
He glanced around briefly before staring once again at the twisted lump of metal that used to be his ride.
Idiot! What was I thinking?
Dom inspected himself for any major cuts. Nothing too bad, but the skin was worn down pretty good on one of his elbows. The hair on the back of his neck stood up a bit when he saw the sand and gravel caked in blood.
Way to run, Dom. Way to leave them in the dust, eh?
He glanced around at his surroundings once more. He found himself in a shallow ravine, sitting in the shadow of a bridge that spanned its breadth overhead. Looking around, he could tell it wasn't going to be an easy climb out of there.
Way to leave yourself in the dust is more like it.
Dom went to stand and let out a tortured moan as he put weight on his left leg.
"This is just great!" he growled to himself as he collapsed back to the ground. It didn't seem broken, but it certainly wouldn't be carrying his sorry butt anywhere for awhile.
So much for my head start.
He laid back in the dirt, clenching his teeth.
Why? Why does this happen to me? Even my good luck is bad these days. Come on Dom, snap out of it! You've got to get moving. Quit wasting what time you've got.
He looked at his watch, blinking his eyes slowly at its broken face. With a snarl, he ripped if off his wrist and began pounding it on a nearby rock.
Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn! DAMN!!! This is turning out to be an excellent day, Dom. Pat yourself on the back for a job well done. You've managed to turn your 24 hour lead on an airbike into a who knows how long of a lead... on foot... with only one good leg.
Dom picked up the broken pieces of his watch and threw them at the heaped airbike. The effort of it sent a sharp pain down his leg that knocked the wind out of him.
"Pull it together" he growled at himself when he could breathe again. "You can bitch yourself out tomorrow if you live to see it."
He took a number of deep breaths to calm himself and ease the pain and then set himself to the task of figuring out how he was going to get himself out of there.
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Hi all!
Just joined the blog today. Have always loved to write, but haven't been very serious about it.
Trying to get more serious about it now.
Mostly I've written rhyming poetry that is more fun than artistic, but I'd like to start writing some stories.
It's late for me, but wanted to get something up and look forward to reading what others are sharing.
As I'm really just starting to get into this again, I'd really love any feedback at all. Does this spark any interest in the character? Does reading this much make you care at all what happens? Why? Why not? etc...
Thanks for a great site and great opportunity!
-MikeBy
penitentman, at 7/31/2006 10:07:00 PM
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Mike, thanks for joining our little group. I hope we continue to see more of your work. Please help us out by commenting of other posts here too.
Now, for your story... I totally enjoyed it. It is a very few moments in someone's life and does leave you wanting to know what happens next... Is he truly badly injured? What is he running from? who is pursueing him? Had I not had the title "Runaways", I might have concluded that he was in some kind of race and had a grand "lead" toward making it to the finish line first.
I also hope to see some of your poetry here since my first love has also been rhyming poetry and when I am truly enjoying it, I am "playing" with it. I'm just now trying to learn to write poetry without rhyming and it's a real challenge!By
Ruth, at 8/01/2006 04:34:00 AM
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Mike...Welcome to our world. :-)
I've been eagerly awaiting another short storist...I'm surrounded by poets and out of my depth. :-)
Like Ruth, I initially thought it was a race of some sort. The "airbike" got my attention and I immediately wanted to know what that was all about. I guess the recent tour de france had my mind on cycling. When I saw that he had a "24 hour lead" I began to suspect something other than a race in the competitive sence.
Yes, I thought Dom (Dominic?) was engaging with he self recrimination for blowing his lead. I would like to know how he managed to crash the airbike and what he's racing away from.
You've created a sense of urgency and a sense of impending peril for Dom if he can't get himself moving again.
There was one place that I stumbled. "He glanced around at his surroundings once more. He found himself in a shallow ravine, sitting in the shadow of a bridge that spanned its breadth overhead. Looking around, he could tell it wasn't going to be an easy climb out of there." There's a lot of looking around going on here and I think it's safe to assume that a bridge would naturally span the breadth of a ravine so stating it her seems clumsy. Maybe rephrasing it like "The desert rose steeply on either side and the railroad bridge at the top of the ravine cast it's gridwork shadow on Dom. Climbing up to level ground would be tricky thanks to the gully's loose rock and dirt walls."
Just a suggestion. Take it for what it'sworth. :-)By
WDavid, at 8/01/2006 07:06:00 AM
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Good story -- I definitely wanted to know why Dom got into his predicament, and where he was going next.
I also liked the quotes of the mind chatter.
But I didn't like the reference to "sorry butt" after Dom realized how injured he was -- the voice went from gentleman biker to something different, and back. Maybe you could move the colloquial language into the mind chatter, but leave the narrative with a consistent voice?By
Peter, at 8/02/2006 12:35:00 PM
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I did like the story and definitely wanted to know everything all the others have already mentioned. I'm not sure that I liked the narrative talking though with all the other mind talking. It just seemed out of place to me, but what do I know?
By
PeggySueO, at 8/02/2006 10:02:00 PM
posted by WDavid at 7/31/2006 05:30:00 AM
The Lamppost
By W David MacKenzie
“I wasn't always a drugged-out thug, you know.” Carlo whispered to me as he raised his head slightly. Our eyes locked. “I was a kid once, a good kid, a clown even.”
I studied Carlo's watery red-rimmed eyes. I peered past the green irises and tried to see beyond the tainted soul of the multiple-murderer to find the innocent youth he was remembering, but I lost my way among the dead bodies. I closed my own eyes and swallowed hard, determined to get on with my job, but Carlo was still staring at me when I opened them again.
“I remember one winter when it snowed and my best buddy...” a brief smile danced across his face. “He dared me to lick the frozen lamppost and...” Carlo's already soft voice trailed off and he blinked, freeing me from his hypnotic grip.
I turned my head so I wouldn’t meet his gaze again then moved behind him and busied myself with the routine tasks. I tightened the bands around Carlo's head and chest then moved to the controls on the wall behind him. I stood ready, but his eyes and his words still haunted me.
The warden’s perfunctory voice came from the overhead speakers. “Carlo Anthony Fuguerro, do you have any final words?” A heart beat passed, then another, and another, but Carlo was silent. A red light blinked on and I flipped the switch, closed my eyes, and tried to forget the snow, the lamppost, and my childhood buddy.
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Today, I entered this story in the "Short-Short Fiction" contest from New Millenium Writings.
http://www.newmillenniumwritings.com/awards.php
This is a contest Ruth told me about and urged me to enter. I just squeaked in under the deadline. I'm such a procrastinator.
I didn't write anything new this week so maybe I'll take this one to the class tonight and let them read it out loud. After last week's fourteen page story, this little 250 word piece will probably be a welcomed surprise. :-)By
WDavid, at 7/31/2006 05:36:00 AM
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Indeed it was a surprise -- a short story like that... and a good one -- very thought provoking.
By
Peter, at 7/31/2006 06:11:00 PM
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I love this piece. I says so much in so few words. I hope the contest judges see how wonderful it is too.
By
Ruth, at 7/31/2006 06:33:00 PM
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The first time through, I enjoyed the descriptions and the tone felt very poetic to me.
However, I couldn't really identify with the narrator until the very last sentence... at which point I had to read it again and loved it.
Because it is very short, it works pretty damn well. That clincher at the end that makes you want to re-read it with the new insight.
If it was a longer piece, the waiting to identify would not have worked.
Well done!By
penitentman, at 8/01/2006 08:08:00 AM
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
posted by Peter at 7/25/2006 10:51:00 PM
July 25, 2006 This This new photo is special because it features the hill I live on, and a view of the tops of three of the most recognized buildings in the city: Coit Tower, TransAmerica Pyramid, and Bank of America building. I see this view almost every day when I walk home. Above the buildings is the fog that San Franciscans love to complain about. They look like clouds from this angle, but you can see this fog roll in from west of Golden Gate Bridge, across the city to downtown, and sometimes, all the way (east) across the bay. Fog is big in the city -- it gets cold when it rolls in, and we complain that it's there. When it's hot, we complain that it's not there. According to one book I read on the subject, I relate to fog. Those born on February 29th live like they're heads are in the clouds, never really being able to clearly see where they're going, but somehow, always getting there. That's me. Daydreaming is my During any day in my neighborhood I probably pass more tourists on sightseeing walks than I do real neighbors. I've noticed how tourists like to get out in the street and take photos of the views. With traffic like we have here, it's a wonder they don't get hit by it. They should teach us about traffic in high school, but they don't. Considering how far above the street my head usually is, I have formulated some very strict laws of pedestrianism, that make the clouds a pretty safe place for heads. I have never believed in the little white man... You know, the star of the Walk/Don't Walk light. You can get a ticket (moving violation) for setting foot on the pavement anywhere there isn't a little white man saying it's okay. But, the little white man has no eyes, how can he possibly see when it's safe to get on the pavement? So, without further explanation, here are The Four Laws of Pedestrianism: 1. Don't take another step until you've made eye contact with the driver of the nearest moving vehicle, which might be coming from behind you around the corner. 2. Stay as far away from emergency vehicles as possible -- those drivers are trained to run red lights; they might not kill you, but it's safer to just stay out of their way. Besides, some of them can charge you with a moving violation for jaywalking. 3. Avoid buses and trucks -- they are much harder to stop than cars and bicycles. 4. And, speaking of bicycles... Let 'em go by -- those riders think they own the road. They can come from any direction, they don't obey traffic signals, and when they hit you, you'll be lucky if they say "Oh... sorry." You might expect that I don't have much respect for the little white man. He can't do any of these four things, so I don't let him delay me often. The four laws of pedestrianism make my jaywalking safe, I can easily avoid the little guy when it looks like he's going to block my way. But today I found myself stuck in pedestrian hell with the other pedestrians... I fault myself for this: Had I planned my jaywalking better, I'd still be walking. Instead, I was waiting impatiently to cross a street. When the man finally made his appearance, the pedestrians herded off like sheep onto the crosswalk. One woman was hurriedly leading the way. They obviously When I looked back at the crosswalk, the hurried woman was still hurrying, still leading the herd across the crosswalk... totally devoted to the little white man. How could she not notice a bus heading right into her? This is not a time to seize your legal rights by boldly marching forward... Just wait for the bus to go through. The weird thing was, nobody else was waiting to let the bus pass either, except me. They were all devotees of the little white man! And I thought it was just me with my head in the clouds! At the rate that woman was going I figured she'd walk head first into the front left corner of the bus... maybe she'd hit the door. Good thing she wasn't wearing earbuds too. WATCH OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I yelled it out as loud as I could and she stopped. She was completely stunned... she was saying "He ran the red light! He ran the red light!" Yes -- and she's very lucky I wasn't off jaywalking somewhere. I'm sure there would have been a few of her pieces to pick up off the pavement had I not been there to shout at her. I have never saved somebody's life before... it's a pretty interesting feeling... it stayed with me the whole day... so much synchronicity... what a difference me missing a light can make on somebody else's life.
fog over San Francisco is the new desktop image on my computer... Big deal, right? But it is! My last desktop image, of koi at Byodo-In Temple in Hawaii stayed on my desktop for seven years, always bringing back memories of one of my most favorite trips ever. 
earbuds favorite hobby. I do it well. I love to load up my music player with daydreaming music, plug in my earbuds, and ramble off on walks through neighborhoods around this hill. It's one of the best cities in the world to just watch and enjoy... even with my head in the clouds, and the earbuds blocking out all the sounds. 
a city bus hadn't heard of the Four Laws of Pedestrianism. Cautious old me was trying to make eye contact with the nearest driver. That happened to be a bus driver. He was far too busy for eye contact because he was driving, against the red light, through the intersection. I thought it was a good time for jamming on the brakes, but he was going to weave through the busy crosswalk, hopefully avoiding as many pedestrians as possible. I wondered to myself, wouldn't he lose his job for that?
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I took the liberty of reposting Pedestrianism because with the new beginning, I could embellish the ending a little more. So the story is changed considerably.
I have embedded some links to photo galleries. Do they work as links, or should I include them as footnotes at the end of the story? Internet writing seems to allow both styles of linking.
I'd like the same kind of feedback as before -- a thing or things you liked, and as much emphasis on something you didn't like.
/pBy
Peter, at 7/25/2006 11:01:00 PM
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Well I can say that you managed to keep my attention with this one. I think because it all seemed to go together better than the other one which included something about a tree in the sky I think.
Anyway, I never seem to have much constructive to say for or against a piece as I'm just not that kind of person who evaluates what I read so deeply. Usually it is either I liked it or I didn't. I liked this one. The lady and others following right behind her reminded me of lemmings.By
PeggySueO, at 7/26/2006 08:51:00 AM
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Peter, I think this one works much better! And yes, I liked the links within the story as opposed to having them at the end. Good job on the revision.
By
Ruth, at 7/26/2006 05:25:00 PM
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I think this version is much better than the original. I would like to see you write something else using that tree in the sky picture.
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Fred...
tx... re: tree in the sky -- It takes me about a week to put one of those together... next stop Chinatown -- you'll just have to wait to see, whether I reuse the beginning that I rewrote for pedestrianism.By
Peter, at 7/31/2006 05:54:00 PM
posted by Ruth at 7/25/2006 07:47:00 PM
What did God do before he made man?
Just sit around outlining his glorious plan?
Actually, I think he put on his work clothes
And began constructing our heavenly home.
I can just see him in boots and overalls
Sawing and nailing and hammering walls.
Designing a structure to house a gazillion
Complete with BBQ, deck and pavilion.
There would be, of course, a humongous pool
With chairs and umbrellas where we could stay cool.
A grand coliseum would be built down the street
Where choirs of angels would come to compete.
The botanical gardens he planted by hand
With trowel and rake and fertilized sand.
He chose each flower with infinite care
And planned to invite us all in to share.
With all of that work, he must have been pooped
As into his godly recliner he drooped.
And when it was time for his grandest creation
He looked forward to it with such great elation.
He changed from his work clothes and into his best,
His velvety robes which clung to his chest
Like the down of a duck so soft and fine,
It flowed with ease; with gold it was lined.
Then he chose his most bejeweled crown
To top this special occasion gown.
Right down to his toes he sparkled and shined
As he donned his red shoes each polished so fine.
With the wave of his hand, or the crook of his finger
He created the skies but there didn’t linger.
With more work to do to fulfill his great plan,
He created the earth and then he made man.
He gave him the animals to name one by one,
Then from man he made woman to assure him of sons.
He did all of this work in just six little days,
And to rest on the seventh was his only pay.
I think he really did hope it would work,
That we’d be his companions and not become jerks
But even the best of Godly intentions
Can be lost in the evil of mankind’s inventions.
If he looks at us now from his thrown up on high,
I’m sure there are tears in his red rimmed eyes,
Reflected in the light from his shiny red shoes,
Because he gave man the ability to choose.
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All in all I'd say it was pretty good. The first time through I stumbled on some of the cadence, but I tried to slow down when I read it again.
By
PeggySueO, at 7/26/2006 08:27:00 AM
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I like it alot. I was amused that you used the word pooped, which to me made drooped seem forced.
I think I might rewrite those two lines like this...
With all of that work, he must have been tired
As into his godly recliner he retired.
Maybe those two words are too close to each other in spelling, I don't know.
I also think it ended too abruptly. I think there is a bunch more you could add to it. Starting from where you left off, talk about man choosing sin then work your way through the gospel story.
Sorry to give you so much homework, but I do like it. -
I stumbled on some of the cadence too -- is that what it's called !?!? But I like the "pooped/drooped" part -- God is given so many human traits -- why not "pooped out" too???? I don't quite get the "red shoes" -- and glasses -- why red? It sort of reminds me of santa claus.
I think I have to part ways with Fred's comments on your ending too -- I liked it... suddenly all this light hearted creationism turns into the philosphical dilemma so many face -- why did he give us the ability to choose? Or, more simply, why do bad things happen?
I think you can make a connection with this choice we have, with all the blood we spill -- which is what makes God's shoes red. Just a thot.By
Peter, at 7/31/2006 06:48:00 PM
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Hehe, what a fun poem!
I for one, LOVE the pooped/drooped lines. To me, it really fits the character of the poem.
I stumbled a bit on lines 3 and 4, since every other pair rhymes so perfectly, those two should as well.
And forth line from the bottom: "thrown" should be "throne".By
penitentman, at 8/01/2006 09:15:00 AM
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Okay Penitentman, here's the scoop. Sometimes a slant rhyme is all you can come up with! Some people say that a poet using slant rhyme is just not working hard enough, so I'm going to take those two lines and see just how I might change them to make it better or more rhymable. And thanks for the spell check on throne. I hadn't noticed that. Actually, you'll be lucky if you find any of my work that doesn't have at least one type in it and the occasionaly misspelling. Thanks for your comments and suggestions.
By
Ruth, at 8/01/2006 02:19:00 PM
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Hehe, believe me, I'm all about the slant rhyme. I think it just stood out to be because it was the only one.
You could almost leave those 2 lines out, since right after you go on to describe in detail the very actions those lines are talking about.
This is all opinion, mind you. I'm no pro, only stating my honest assessment if it's even worth calling that.
:)By
penitentman, at 8/01/2006 05:06:00 PM
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Okay, how does it read with the following changes to the second and third lines?
What did God do before he made man?
Just sit around outlining his glorious plan?
No, I think not, there was too much to do
And perhaps at that point, his helpers too few.
I can just see him now in boots and overalls
Sawing and nailing and hammering walls.
Designing a structure to house a gazillion
Complete with BBQ, deck and pavilion.By
Ruth, at 8/02/2006 05:10:00 PM
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That reads much better I think. Very nice!
By
penitentman, at 8/03/2006 07:55:00 AM
Sunday, July 23, 2006
posted by WDavid at 7/23/2006 02:18:00 PM
The Exorcist
By W. David MacKenzie
July 23, 2006
Elijah Beck stepped down from the long, barrel-shaped caravan, closed the door, smoothed out his musty sackcloth habit, and snugged the rope belt tight around his belly. He walked up the length of the caravan, passing the faded yet still colorful sign painted on its wooden side. In bold flourishes, it proclaimed: "Brother Elijah, Exorcist and Confessor, Dispenser of Graces, Doctor of The Sacred Reliquary". Elijah traced his hand along one weatherworn swirl of painted gaudiness and wondered again why these anti-tech fundamentalists found comfort in such audacious claims. It was the damnedest thing, but each time he repainted the sign more troubled souls flocked to his caravan seeking relief from their torment.
As Elijah mounted the ladder and pulled himself up to the driver's bench, the rope belt rolled off the downward slope of his potbelly and settled loosely on his hips; he just left it there. It would be an hour before he pulled into Pinnacle and there'd be time enough to tidy up his costume before he got there. He picked up the reins, gave them a couple of brisk shakes to wake the four mules and yelled "Hey-yawh!” The animals dug in their hooves and the caravan bounced and rattled its way down the rutted trail.
-=-=-=-=-=-
Sitting at the computer terminal tucked in at the front end of the caravan, Elijah placed the holographic data disk into the media drawer for safekeeping. A week in Pinnacle was six-and-a-half days too long as far as Elijah was concerned, but his results were quite spectacular. Forty-six disks from this little burg was amazing. Elijah couldn’t wait to get the disks back to his office and make a few phone calls to his most wealthy patients. In no time at all they’d be relieved of their dreamless nights and he’d be a rich man.
A soft knock sounded on the caravan's door. Elijah closed the media drawer in a guilty rush then stood up from the computer console and composed himself. He pulled the curtain across the nook to conceal the taboo equipment and the room was once again transformed into the Chapel of the Reliquary. Elijah walked the length of the chapel, casting myriad candlelit shadows on the ivory-tinted wall coverings, and reverently opened the door.
At the bottom of the steps stood a young girl. She was clad in a simple linen frock and wore a plain white bonnet that framed her moonlit face. She carried an equally plain rag doll in the crook of one arm. A young man and woman stood a few steps behind the girl. Elijah supposed they were the girl's parents, though they seemed scarcely old enough for the job.
"Child, it's late for you to be out. What can I do for you?"
The girl held out her free hand and Elijah stooped down to receive a crumpled five dollar bill.
"For the Saint," she said. "Mamma and Poppa say it's time for me to get exized."
"You mean exorcised," Elijah corrected and the girl nodded. Elijah looked up at the girl's parents for confirmation but their heads were bowed so he gave his full attention to the girl.
"What is your name, daughter?"
"Sara"
"It's nice to meet you, Sara." Elijah stood up and held out his hand to the girl, palm up. "I'm Brother Elijah." Sara took his hand and he steadied her as she climbed the steps. Together, they retreated into the chapel and closed the door, shutting out the cool night air and Sara's praying parents.
Elijah dropped Sara's donation into the urn beside the door, then, placing his hand on Sara's back, he urged her forward to the altar at the center of the chapel. He helped her kneel on one side of the stone altar and took his place on the opposite side. Normally he’d begin with a Latin chant to reinforce the Catholic trappings but he figured that was overkill in this situation.
“How old are you, Sara?”
“I’ll be seven next month.”
“And what has your mother told you about exorcisms?”
“That it would save my soul.” She paused, apparently trying to work the words out in her mind before speaking them out loud. “That it would stop the demon from poss…poss…”
“From possessing your soul at night?” Elijah suggested.
Sara nodded her head slowly.
“How do the demons come to you, Sara?”
“It’s just one demon.”
“Ah, well, that’s because you’re still so young. Does the demon take the same shape each time he tries to possess your soul?”
Sara nodded her head again.
“Tell me how it happens, Sara.”
“I had a puppy named Zeke…” Sara’s voice trailed off.
“Go on,” Elijah urged. As Sara gathered her thoughts, he lowered his right hand below the edge of the altar, popped open a recessed panel, and used the silent-touch keyboard hidden there to make adjustments to the instrumentation embedded in the altar.
“Last winter Zeke was playing on the iced-over lake and he fell through the ice. He died and Poppa couldn’t save him.”
“And?” Elijah prodded.
“And the demon comes to me as Zeke when I sleep.” Sara’s words were coming out in a tumble now. “He leads me to a sunny field filled with flowers and tries to get me to play with him and follow him across the field to the dark forest on the other side.” She gulped a big breath and pressed on. “Momma says that if I go into the forest my soul will be lost and I’ll go to hell. She says I have to resist the demon’s temp… temp….”
“Temptations?” Elijah asked.
Sara nodded her head.
“Does the demon tempt you every night?”
“Not every night. Some nights I sleep all the way ‘til morning without the demon trying to get my soul. But Momma says I’m too young to resist the demon so I need a ex…or…sizz…um.”
Elijah nodded at her for tackling the big word and was rewarded by a brief smile.
“Yes, I think an exorcism is exactly what you need, Sara. It will chase the demon away and he won’t bother you again as long as you lead a life free of sin. But Sara,” Elijah’s voice took on a note of grave concern, “to chase off the demon you have to let him visit you one final time. You have to make him believe that you’ll follow him wherever he wants you to go. Have fun with him and play with him as if he really were Zeke.”
Sara's eyes showed her confusion and fear so Elijah changed his tone to a joyous piety that lightened Sara’s mood. “Then, just before you go into the forest with Zeke, the power of the Saint & Martyr will flow through you and chase the demon away forever.” Out of Sara’s line of sight, Elijah took a disk from a spindle of blank media next to the keyboard and slid it into the recorder and closed the hidden panel. “Are you ready to begin?”
Sara hesitated just a moment then nodded her head one more time.
“Excellent, you're a brave girl, Sara” Elijah stood and walked around to Sara’s side and helped her up onto the stone then eased her back to a lying position. She clutched at her doll like a mother and daughter in repose. “Does your doll have a name?”
“Mary.”
“That’s a lovely name. Our Savior’s mother was named Mary.”
“I know”
“Let me take Mary and I’ll just set her here by the altar.”
“Will Mary need a ex-or-sizz-um?”
“Oh no, not at all,” Elijah consoled her. “Mary’s blessed against demons. All dolls are.”
Sara smiled at this piece of happy news and allowed Elijah to take Mary and set her beside the altar.
“Now, Sara, I want you to relax and take steady even breaths. Close your eyes and think about Zeke when he was alive and you used to play with him.” Elijah moved to the head of the altar, opened a panel, and pulled out a helmet covered with glowing lights. A bundle of colorful cables protruded from the apex like a ponytail of hair. “I’m going to place the Cap of The Martyr on your head. It’s a holy relic that will give you strength against the demon and help the Saint and Martyr to capture the demon that’s trying to possess your soul.” Elijah slid the helmet into place on the young girls head and braced it with his hands.
“Are you frightened, Sara?”
Sara shook her head and the helmet wobbled slightly. The pattern of lights changed.
“Keep your head steady, Sara, and tell me your answers out loud.” Elijah lowered the tone and volume of his voice. “Listen to my voice, Sara. Pay close attention to my voice and the way it sounds. My voice makes you feel relaxed and safe. My voice gives you strength. As long as you hear my voice there’s no need to worry about anything. Demons can’t get you and Zeke can’t hurt you. My voice is a blanket that covers you with warmth and security. My voice is trust and God’s love.” The lights on the helmet slowed and began to pulse white in steady waves as Sara slipped into the hypnotic trance.
“Can you hear me, Sara”
Her voice was whisper soft. “Yes.”
“Sara, do you see Zeke?”
“Yes, he’s jumping around at my feet.”
“Good. That’s good, Sara. Are you in the house or outside?”
“We’re in the kitchen. There’s a cherry cobbler on the counter and it smells good.”
“Ah—“ Elijah stumbled then a thought came to him. “That’s a sign that the Saint and Martyr is there,” Elijah said. “His presence is like the comfort of home. Play with Zeke, Sara. Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I’m chasing Zeke around the kitchen like you said. I’m playing with him. He’s barking and panting. The kitchen door’s open and Zeke’s going out into the yard.”
“That’s good, Sara. Follow Zeke into the yard.” Elijah listened to the girl recounting her dream, watched with his own mind’s eye as she relived a moment of childhood joy with her lost pet. How could they believe that this image of pure innocence was demonic possession?
“Zeke’s running out to the field where Poppa let’s the cows eat.”
“Follow Zeke, Sara.” How could they deny this precious child one more romp with Zeke in the privacy of her sleep? His data drawer was packed with adult nightmares of greed and lust and violence. Melancholy and want and perversion deserved to be cast out—but this perfect moment of happiness?
“We’re in the field with the big tree, next to the creek. I’m sitting under the tree in the cool shade and Zeke's licking my hand.”
This should be Sara’s treasure and solace as she comes to experience the heartache of womanhood.
“Zeke's running in the creek now and splashing in the water. He’s coming out of the creek and shaking his body. The water’s going everywhere. Now I’m all wet too.”
Elijah’s throat tightened and he rubbed at his watery eyes. Maybe that was their point. Maybe twisting this happy dream into demonic temptation would inure her to the misery she’ll one day know in this backwater.
“Zeke's running across the field again.” Sara’s voice changed slightly. “He’s running toward the forest.”
“Don’t be frightened, Sara.” Maybe life really was God’s punishment for original sin and sparing this child one happy dream would lessen her pain by giving her nothing hopeful in comparison.
“I’m following Zeke but I’m scared. The forest is dark and scary.”
“Zeke can’t hurt you as long as you hear my voice.”
Nothing hopeful except the promise of Heaven.
“Stop at the edge of the forest, Sara. Feel the power of the Saint and Martyr through my voice, Sara. Feel God's love and truth in the sound of my voice. The forest is fading away, becoming misty and white. The forest is gone.”
“The forest is gone,” she whispered.
“The field and the creek and the tree are fading away. The house and the yard and the kitchen are becoming more and more distant. You can’t see them any more.”
Nothing good except God’s love and the promise of the Resurrection.
“I’m all alone with Zeke,” she said.
“Zeke is a demon, Sara. He has no power over you if you’re strong and believe in the Lord. The demon is getting smaller and smaller as your belief grows. The demon is so small and the power of the Saint and Martyr that flows through you is so strong that you could step on the demon and end his power forever.”
No faith but faith in God.
“Step on him Sara and be free from demons for as long as you live.”
On the altar, Sara’s foot twitched. “The demon's gone,” she said.
“Listen to my voice, Sara. Pay close attention to my voice and the way it sounds. My voice is a beacon. Follow my voice. As you get closer to my voice you will start to wake up. The closer you get the less you will remember about the exorcism. You’re getting closer to my voice and you’re coming more awake. You’re forgetting everything that happened while you were on the altar. You’re almost to my voice and almost awake. When I tell you that you’re awake you will keep your eyes closed and you will remember only that the power of God’s love will protect you and stop the demons from coming to you in your sleep.” All of the white lights on the helmet had faded away and only the swirling dancing colored lights remained. “You’re awake, Sara.”
Elijah removed the helmet and tucked it back into the protected nook at the head of the altar then moved around to face Sara. “You can open your eyes now.”
Sara blinked her eyes a few times. “Did it work?”
“Yes, it worked. You won’t be bothered by demons again.” Elijah helped Sara to sit up and then to stand.
“Thank you, Brother Elijah,” Sara said, then smiled.
“You run along now. I’m sure your parents are worried about you.”
Sara walked demurely to the chapel door, opened it, and was gone.
Elijah swallowed hard and turned back to the altar and opened the control panel. He was glad he’d be leaving Pinnacle in the morning. He removed the holographic disk from the recorder and went toward his computer nook. He’d never worked his scam on someone as young as Sara, someone so innocent. He pulled the curtain back to reveal all of his high tech gadgetry and wondered how it stacked up against the hopes and dreams of one little girl. Was all the money hurled at him by the self-centered and witless scions of his society worth robbing this child of hope and love and joy?
A gasp from behind sent a shiver through Elijah’s body and he reflexively hid the disk, slipping it into the habit’s pocket as he turned around. All he saw before the father’s fist impacted his jaw and sent him sprawling to the floor, before the man’s kicks raged against Elijah’s chest, was Sara’s mother holding the young girl to her protectively so that the child could not see the forbidden computers and machinery that their faith equated with devil worship and sin, or the violence meted out by her father as punishment for Elijah’s duplicity. Her father’s words, however, punctuated by pain, burned into Elijah’s soul.
“…trusted you with our daughter…came to thank you…to retrieve her doll…you consort with the devil…use the demon’s machines…dress in pleasing garb…bring shame and damnation to us all…”
-=-=-=-=-=-
When light tore its way through Elijah’s black unconscious mind, it brought pain: physical pain of a wracked body, mental pain of wrongs remembered, spiritual pain of hopes and dreams stolen by him and from him. He rolled over onto his side and forced his tortured body to sit and, eventually, to stand.
It was noon. He was outside in what passed for a town square. Occasionally people walked in or out of the general store and the blacksmith’s hammer rose and fell in staccato clangs, but no one looked at him in his battered and bloody monk’s habit. No one commented on the charred odor of his smoldering caravan—his Chapel of the Reliquary. Everyone turned their back on his burned and smashed computers. His digital recordings, now amorphous lumps of plastic slag, did not exist to them. Sara’s father, indeed the whole community, could not bring itself to murder, even in what they probably judged a righteous cause, but they were not without recourse.
He was shunned. His existence—past, present, and future—erased from their world by sheer force of will. Why? Because he pretended to be something they could understand to achieve his own goals? Because he used the wrong tools to achieve their desired goals? Or because their dogma could not encompass the truth that God uses all the tools at His command to achieve His own goals and teach His own lessons?
Elijah limped out of Pinnacle. Each step hurt in his chest and his hip but the pain helped him focus his thoughts on movement, on getting away from this place and these people. He held his hand to his side to ease a sharp twinge, felt a hard shape, and remembered slipping Sara’s dream disk into his pocket just before the bottom dropped out of his world. He pulled the disk out of the pocket and examined it in the noonday sun. Flashes of light danced across its surface and refracted in rainbow coruscations through its translucent matrix. Miraculously, this fragile recording of a young girls last innocent dream had survived his beating and abuse.
He smiled, slipped the disk back into his pocket, and resumed his limping stride down the dusty road.
-=-=-=-=-=-
Elijah Beck stood before the dressing room mirror straightening his tie when the intercom sounded.
“Doctor Beck, Mrs Cobar-Solana is waiting for you in the treatment suite.”
“Thank you, Rachel.” Dr. Beck examined his appearance in the mirror one last time, tugged his vest down over his protruding paunch, and winced as the constricting garment pressed on his still tender ribs. Elijah looked askance at the battered monk’s habit hanging in the closet. The bruises and abrasions had healed but some mementos, some aches and pains, kept the memory of Pinnacle fresh in his mind. Six months or a year from now the hypnotic suggestions he implanted would weaken, “demonic possessions” would again trouble their sleep and those backward sods wouldn’t have Brother Elijah available to exorcise their demons. He steeled himself against the pain and put on an air of confidence before striding out of the dressing room.
“Wilhelmina…” Elijah oozed charm as he sauntered across the expansive treatment suite and sat on the upholstered stool beside the instrumented couch where his patient reclined. He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “How are you this afternoon?”
Wilhelmina Marianna Cobar-Solana was, at first glance, a handsome middle-aged socialite, impeccably dressed and curvaceous in all the right places. In actuality, however, she was a septuagenarian taking full advantage of the widely available anti-aging gene therapies.
“Oh, Elijah, where have you been?” Her tone was theatrical, almost melodramatic. “I’ve been trying to make an appointment for weeks but that horrid woman of yours kept telling me you were unavailable and I refuse to see any of those other hacks. Eduardo and I are off to Madrid tomorrow and I simply cannot go in my current condition. Elijah, I must have my dream treatment at once. It’s like I’m sleeping in a cave now. Totally dreamless. I’ve never been so bored in my life.”
“Wilhelmina, I’m sure you’re exaggerating.” Actually, he was sure she wasn’t. Total dreamlessness, what physicians now called anorphia, was a persistent side effect of the gene therapy and often lead to acute depression and even suicide. Happily for his patients, however, Elijah offered a treatment that was effective. The fact that Elijah’s treatment was expensive, temporary, and somewhat addictive was not coincidental. However, with more people taking the gene therapies and competing anorphia treatments cropping up, he’d met with skyrocketing expenses for his raw dream recordings. After the disaster at Pinnacle, another source was closed to him.
Elijah moved to the console behind the couch and pressed a few buttons—the instrumentation inside the couch hummed to life. “As it happens…” He paused to ease a brain interface helmet onto Wilhelmina’s head then plugged the bundled wires into the console. “…I can give you a treatment right away.”
“Oh Elijah, that’s wonderful. I just knew you’d be able to help me.”
Elijah extracted a holographic disk from his vest pocket and studied it for a moment. He recalled the price that had been paid for this particular dream recording, paid by him and paid by Sara; a price he’d have to pass on to his patients if he was going to start the search for another source of dreamers. He slid the disk into the drive slot on the console.
“You do like puppy dogs, don’t you, Wilhelmina?”
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Hi Everyone…Sorry I’ve been away from PPTP for nearly a whole week, but I’ve been struggling with a story and today I finally finished my first draft. Well, second draft, really. I’ve been getting a lot of private input from Ruth1. Here’s the genesis of the piece: The assignment from my in-class lesson was to write a four to six page (double spaced) story based on a dream. Well, I hardly ever remember my dreams so I commented to Ruth1 that there should be a dream repository to help people who didn’t remember their dreams. That triggered a thought about a world where people had lost the power to dream and needed to have other peoples dreams implanted. The story above is my take on that world. The piece is 14 double spaced pages…WAY over the limit so I won’t be able to have it read in class but I’ll hand out copies to the students and get their comments the following week.
I welcome any and all comments and critiques: typos, plot holes, logic flaws, anything you can come up with. If you happen to get them in quickly then I can consider any suggested changes before I submit the lesson, if not, then I’ll consider them later. I like this piece and feel it might be publishable. With your help I hope I can refine it. I do not bruise easily so be as harsh as you like. It’s what I need to improve my craft.By
WDavid, at 7/23/2006 02:27:00 PM
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Very interesting story. Was trying to figure out what was really going on while reading it. Since it was obvious the guy was a fake exorcist at the beginning I thought maybe the demon possession would end up being real. But I was confused as to what all the computers and gadgets were for. And wondered why he made them go thru the exorcism if they were instructed that they wouldn't remember any of it. You know, just hypnotise them, wake them up then tell them it worked. Of course, that was revealed later. After the beating I just figured he had changed cons. Didn't catch on right away that the cons were connected. Nicely done.
There are a bunch of typos though. Here are the ones I saw, in order of appearance.
"Sitting at the computer terminal tucked in at front end of the caravan," (should have the word "the" before front.)
"Elijah supposed they were the girl's parents, though they seemed scarcely old enough for job." (should have the word "the" before job.)
“Does the demon temp you every night?” (tempt)
"Sara eyes showed her confusion and fear so Elijah’s changed his tone to a joyous piety that lightened Sara’s mood." (Sara's) (Elijah)
"A bundle of colorful cables protruded from the apex like a pony of hair" (Did you mean to say ponytail of hair? Or is this the correct wording?)
"Occasionally people waked in or out of the general store" (walked)
Also when you use words like He or His or Him, referring to God, you inconsistently capitalize them.
I like the story, very interesting idea. -
Fred...Thanks for the comments. I fixed all of the typos you found in my WORD copy and I'll go back here and fix them as well.
I checked the only place I remembered where I use dhte God pronouns and they're all correct. Can you tell me where you found the inconsistencies?
Elijah went through the "exorcisms" or hypnotic therapy, if you will, to relieve these people of their dreams/possessions and give himself credibility. Hynotic suggestons are rarely permanent so when they dreammed again they'd chalk it up to some sin, real or imagined, and welcome another exorcism when he passed through town again. i hope that come through in the story and that you didn't have to struggle too hard as a reader to get the scope of what was going on.By
WDavid, at 7/23/2006 06:20:00 PM
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Great story idea -- I took it as a parable of modern day evangelists with their hi-tech communications systems, hi-tech "medicine" with it's deadly side effects, and closed minded individuals who can only see things their own way.
I also like the leapfrogging through time idea... I was imagining a "snake oil" salesman going from town to town 150 years ago -- but then the salesman worked in what sounds like a big church -- and then in some ultra modern wacked out new age therapy clinic.
However put together, I think the time shifting makes the story too complicated/compressed. Particularly that first transition... I think if you develop the issues that the townsfolk of Pinnacle have with the computers, we can be better prepared for the hysterical mob that chases him out of town. Also, I think the presentation of the computer gear was too sudden. A suggestion:
Tucked in the back of the Caravan was a media drawer where Elijah kept recordings of all his treatments. If the people of Pinnacle saw these, there'd be trouble. That's because the people of Pinnacle thought recordings where the work of the devil. So a week in Pinnacle was six and a half days to many...
Sorry -- I can't mimic your voice -- but something like that.
I liked the writing -- it was a page turner -- and the ending seemed like it could be the beginning of another story.By
Peter, at 7/23/2006 11:13:00 PM
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I tell you what, that Fred has an eagle eye. I'm glad he and Peter gave you some other feedback that was different from what I gave you privately before you posted it here. I guess we all definitely need more than one set of eyes and ideas to truly see how a piece might look to the general public.
By
Ruth, at 7/24/2006 01:38:00 PM
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Fred...I found one place where I was talking about "The Saint and MArtyr and used the word "his" with a lower case "h". That's probably what you were referring to with the comment about inconsistant capitalization of the God pronouns. I changed it to "God's love" instead of "his love" just to clarrify things.
Peter...Thanks for your comments. The events of the story happen over about one month. Elijah starts off disguised as a no-tech exorcist, then we see a little of the tech he's hiding, then we see him use the tech, then he's discovered and beaten for using the tech even though he really was exorcising their perceived demons, then he goes back to his hi-tech society to sell the remnants of his scammed goods. So, it's not a time-hopping tale but one of a con game spanning both no-tech and hi-tech cultures. To help make that a little clearer, I changed "yokel" in the first paragraph to "anti-tech fundamentalists". LEt me know if that works to make things a little clearer.
Ruth...Your personalized help in the writing stage of this piece was invaluable. I can't wait to get started on the "Crafy Ladies". :-)By
WDavid, at 7/24/2006 02:57:00 PM
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I didn't mention it earlier but I also thought the beating seemed strange to me. I couldn't figure out just what I thought was wrong but Peter said it well, I think. There just wasn't enough reason to think something like that might happen.
I was thinking there were more than one instance of the capitalization issue, but probably not. I'll check again later.
Ruth, It's pretty ironic that someone with such bad vision has an eagle eye. -
David, I know you appreciated my help in being a sounding board for this story while it was being written, but I can see there were things (such as Peter's confusion, and the apparent lack of enough information for the average person to figure it out)which I was not able to help you with simply because I knew from the very beginning what your intentions were with the story, and, knowing that, I understood it completely and didn't notice the places where more information might have been needed for someone who wasn't privy to the plot before it was written.
Good grief, does that make any sense to anyone? I don't know whether I said what I meant to say or not!
We've just learned a good lesson here. So don't stop asking for my help, but maybe you need to post bits of the story as you go and get a feel for what others think too before you actually finish it.
I'm stopping now. My brain if fried!By
Ruth, at 7/24/2006 05:09:00 PM
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Well, A young woman read my story aloud in class tonight. I feel silly that I don't know her name but hopefully she'll join up here and tell me. :-) She did a great job.
To my ears the story read very smoothly and natually and in the round-robin commenting afterward the smoothness was remarked upon. Overall everyone seemed to like it. There were plenty of comments on technical aspects that needed tweaking as well as plot aspects that need examining, such as...
There's no need to say Sara blinked HER EYES because she's unlikely to blink anything else...no need to say she nodded HER HEAD for the same reason.
A couple of people commented on Elijah's arc....scammer to concerned and introspective...and back to scammer.
Some thought it seemed wrong for him to be concerned about Sara and then go off and sell the dream anyway. In my mind he might have had second thoughts about his whole scamming business but the beating he got from the fundamentalists basically put him in "screw 'em" mode.
Others pointed out that the "God uses all his tools" theme near the end gave Elijah a "way out" that allowed him to use the dreams with a clear conscious.
Another asked why Elijah was so morally troubled about wiping out Saras's dream when the hypnotic suggestions were just going to wear off in time anyway.
One commenter said that he wanted the story to go a little further and have Zeke actually BE a demon and get transferred into Wilhelmina.
I really enjoyed getting the comments and made lots of note...thought I may have difficulty deciphering my chicken scratch. They also made notes on the copies that everyone read along from so soon I'll go through all their written comments and see what else I can glean. There's bound to be something that I missed.
I must say I was very nervous when the teacher said my story was going to be read but in the end I found it quite exiting and energizing too.By
WDavid, at 7/24/2006 10:33:00 PM
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I thought you said stories couldn't be read if they were over assignment length. I wonder what made your teacher change her routine for this story?.... Must have been because it was so good, eh? ;-)) Anyway, congratulations on some good reviews.
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Ruth, at 7/25/2006 09:47:00 AM
5 Comments:
This is the complete "Festival of Atlcualo" story. 5,100 words. The longest thing I've ever written. I have to turn it in on Sunday but I'd like to turn it in sooner if it's ready. I'd love to get your opinions on it. In the class, I've submitted Chapters 1 and 3 for assignments and the biggest comments I have are that Three-Crocodile is hard to connect to and that my point of view needs work so that I am consistently relating the story from Three-Crcodile's perspective. Of course, there's a lot of complaining about the names being unpronouncable, but that just takes practice. Perhaps I'll put a pronunciation guide with the final story. Anyway, any comments at at all are welcome.
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WDavid, at 10/11/2006 06:01:00 PM
I submitted chapter 1 of this story in my last class assignment. Here are the class comments on Chapter 1.
Cathy Chance: David: Just a question: what is a "cenote"? I realize this is an exerpt, but in the full story, defining this would be a help. Also, instead of repeating the term, perhaps use descriptors to help us visualize what it is. This is certainly a dramatic scene. I would assume in the full story that most of these characters would have already been introduced. Thus, in this scene, I'd limit the identifiers. This can help pick up the pace. Also, you might need to pay a little more attention to point of view. Are you using an omniscient narrator, who can tell us what everyone is thinking or are you using a more limited third person, such as 3-Croc? I personally think focusing the pov on 3-Croc would be most effective. In that case, show us what is happening through his eyes. The "fear and horror swam across Three-Crocodile's face" if we are in his pov, doesn't work. You next go into 3-Croc's thoughts, so it does seem we're in his pov. So: pick up the pace and work on the pov. This is shaping up well.
Kim Huett: Apparently, a cenote is "a deep sinkhole in limestone with a pool at the bottom that is found especially in Yucatán." I actually thought it was something else (related to ashes b/c of the Spanish word 'ceniza'). Regarding this sentence (and perhaps others like it): “Lord Pochotl, Ehecatl's First, pointed to the inside edge of the cenote.” For the purposes of moving the story along, I think it might be better to remove the appositive “Ehecatl’s First” from the line…unless it’s vital to the story at this moment that we know his position. I do not have a problem with the nature of the Nahuatl names, but the number of names can get confusing and distract from the action, I think. In the first paragraph, you say “the rain god, Tlaloc.” In another paragraph you say “Tlaloc, god of the rains and waters.” Later, someone says “Tlaloc sends nourishing waters to the Lords of..” Unless you’re emphasizing Tlaloc’s function to heighten the ornate feel of the passage, I don’t think that it’s necessary to remind the reader of who he is. Once is enough for me, anyway. I thought that “ceaselessly noisy jungle” could be simplified if you find one potent adjective to cover “ceaselessly noisy.” I think this is a very well-written piece. It is elaborate and ornate. You have done so much studying, thinking, and imagining to get this all together. And I really kind of envy your passion for this setting and culture, etc. I will say one thing regarding my personal reading of this piece. And that is, that I don’t quite know how to relate to it. I don’t feel like I care much about the characters—or even just 3-Croc. I don’t know why, and maybe it’s not even necessary. It’s possible that earlier in the story these characters have been established, and the reader already cares for one or several of them. In this scene alone, though, I see them as an outsider, if that makes sense.
Cathy: A couple of things and I will try to not to restate what Cathy C and DeChancie have already stated. Try to keep wording simplistic and descriptive as possible, if a reader has to take the time to look up achaic or difficult terms they may feel that the reading for fun has turned into work. Is the Cenote hold some spiritual or sacrificial function? If so that should be better described and may add to the background of the story. This start demonstrates your creativity and imagination, interesting story.
WDavid: Mr. DeChancie....Overwriting is, I suppose, akin to overacting and the Ham seldom sees it, himself. Thanks for pointing it out. :-) This is a solemn religious event so my goal was to impart that feeling and to deliver high "church" ritualism. I'll review it and see if I can tone it down a bit and still maintain the mood.
WDavid: Cathy Chance...Kim gave the textbook definition of cenote. I thought it was a common enough term, myself, and knew it long before I began my research into this world. I tried to work in enough description and several synonyms so as to make it clear, but I'll review it and see what I can to to improve things. Sinkhole just doesn't impart the sense of mystery. :-) This is the first scene in the story (see the outline from assignment 4). This is the first time we are introduced to the characters so I had to give a bit more info here. Thanks for the comments on POV. The story is intended to be told from Three-Crocodile's POV and appreciate you pointing out that gaff. I'll keep my eye out for others.
WDavid: Kim...Thanks for the cenote definition. Actually, many cenote, this one included, have underground rivers at their bottoms, not just pools. Grammar theory has never been my strong suit so "appositive" was a new word for me. Thanks for making me look it up. :-) My use of "Tlaloc", "the rain god", and "the god of rains and waters" was my effort to avoid using "Tlaloc" every time I referred to that particular deity. It was done just to add variety but I will look things over and see what can be done to simplify the character and god name references. Scene one is a little crowded as it strived to introduce the characters, the setting, and the initiating event all at once. In scene two we see a bit more into Three-Crocodile's character and, I'm hoping, people really start caring about him there. There's only five scenes to the story though, so I guess I have to work hard and fast to get the reader's attention if I want them to care enough to finish the piece. On the topic of "outsider", Three-Crocodile is an outsider here as well. He's only marginally a priest and is looking in on rituals he's only just started to participate in (the blessing of the water and sealing of the vase) and he feels he may have screwed them up by mistake and cost the lives of his foster-father and friend. So, perhaps you perceiving yourself as the outsider here means you are already identifying with Three-Crocodile.
WDavid: Cathy...I will see what can be done to streamline my writing style. As for the purpose of the cenote, I thought that I made it clear that it was a holy place for sacrifices...a chasm to the underworld...twenty offerings to keep the evil spirits at bay...a river that carried offering to the lords of the underworld. I'm note sure how much clearer I could be that this is an important and sacred place. I'll look it over though and see what can be tweaked. :-)
astrogirl: You've certainly put a lot of thought into the setting. It has the feel of an Indian ceremony. I liked the detail where Lord Tayauh "extended his arms as he had two lifetimes ago..." It shows the disconnect for ThreeCroc between the beginning of the ceremony, the deaths, and the continuation, but I agree with some of the others that it would be nicer to be more inside ThreeCroc's head from the beginning. I think it would strengthen our response to the deaths.
laf: In a lot of ways, you're obviously very close to what you want ... powerful story, well thought out. I think Kim's suggestions on dealing with the names and titles is a good one (because you have us narrow-minded English speakers for an audience, it's something you'll need to keep in mind throughout). The POV at the end [of chapter one] is a minor problem ... but the bigger piece in identifying with 3 Croc could make the piece even stronger. If you let more of his emotions through, we'll be more involved: his excitement about having participated for the first time, his horror at seeing his foster father fall, his guilt as he blames himself ... You might try interspersing more of his thoughts, feelings, reactions, observations throughout the ceremony, so that you can strengthen and highlight more of these items.
Kim Huett: WDavid, I have great faith in your work! I think you're on a great track here. What you said about the outsider-ness and 3-Croc makes sense now. Keep on keepin' on, as they say.
Instructor DeChancie: Nothing wrong with solemnity. Just unbusy those sentences; don't make 'em work so hard. They'll do more for you, and the solemnity will be increased, churchy or not.
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WDavid, at 10/12/2006 08:40:00 AM
Only a few comments.
Should "priest" in the first paragraph be priests?
When he opens Pochotl's chest on the altar and reaches in for his heart, I would think the guy would already be dead from all that, but you say he's still alive until his heart is jerked from within. I find that hard to believe.
I like how Lord Tayauh seems to take Three Crocodile under his wing afterward as though he enjoys becoming his new tutor. I wonder though what your intentions are.. will he remain the comforting counselor, or is it all a ruse to draw close enough to find a way to eliminate Three-Crocodile?
I love how this story is progressing. Is it going further? I think you said once it was only a bedtime story someone is telling their child, so is there more, or is this it? I hope there's more. You have gained enough interest in Three-Crocodile that the reader wants to know what happens next.... not only in his life, but in the life of the babe.
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Ruth, at 10/12/2006 03:42:00 PM
Here are the comments from the instructor and the class on the complete "Festivla of Atlcualo" story.
Instructor DeChancie: "Fear and horror tore through Three-Croc." -- OK, fine. But then he "folds into a shivering crouch." One or the other, but both is too much. Better to stick to the concrete. He folds into a shivering heap or whatever, a concrete image that *conveys* the horror and that the horror is overwhelming. Keep to the concrete, the specific. "Monochrome costumes" is abstract. Better to show colors, even if there's only one. Impart the definite, the precise. Avoid the vague, the generic, the blanket term. You settle down eventually and begin to tell the story. That usually happens; you can't waste words if there's a story to be told. And this moves along pretty well. You have a clear protagonist, an antagonist (who gets what's coming to him), and a moment of revelation for the main character, and a final triumph. I can see nothing wrong with the dialogue, except that it may need some loosening up so as to distinguish ceremonial language from ordinary speech. Let's take a step back. I note the chapter headings. I take it this is a section of a novel. However, it won't work as a short story, I don't think, unless you somehow make bring the background forward. You [previously] mentioned contact with ancient Chinese culture, and I wonder if you can't bring some of that into this piece. That would alert the reader that this is an alternative version of history. Otherwise, the reader is going to be a trifle lost. Now, if you have no intention of sending this out as a stand-alone, then it becomes a matter of when you will let the reader in on the background. In a novel, you have all the time in the world, so it might not be so critical. You can take your time. But for a short piece, it's crucial that you get some of that exo-historical background to the foreground.
Instructor DeChancie: Let me add that I think WDavid has a shot at being a real writer. This shows though, care, and skill. Also knowledge of his subject matter. I think also that he needs more development and more of an eye toward the broader contours of his fiction. I do like the Chinese connection, and hope you develop it. That makes the Meso-American setting something other than historical, and therefore fantastic, squarely within the genre. OTherwise, this would be a quasi-historical novel. Not many of those.
Jeff: I must admit, I was a little lost at first. I like knowing something about the people I am reading about. That said, I liked the rest of the story. The writing is crisp and kept me wanting to read. Background on Three- Croc would have allowed me to feel more for him.
laf: It seems to me that anyone who could have invested the effort to research the history, and then extend to build an alternate history, certainly already has the "sticktoitiveness" needed for a novel (give yourself credit)! (and I don't have any new comments beyond that, except to mention that it is a good, complete, short story ... I think Mr. DeChancie's final comments are that it isn't in this genre (sf/f) without the elements that let us know we're in an alternate history, as it is, standalone right now)
Cathy: You are on your way...I find your story very interesting...and you are off to a good start on character development with Three Crocodile. You are, apparently, knowledgeable of the history of this area, and aware that this setting makes for an excellent story. This story is complex, because the lives of these people was complex, but your writing really highlights the issues. As you revise and work with an editor it will become even more refined. Go to some writers conferences if there are any in your area, I just returned from one and learned so much.
Robert: I enjoy your writing. You have a real knack for storytelling, and your world is quite well developed. I was wondering why Three Crocodile had the name he did - I'm glad it was finally explained. The problem I had with this story was that it just seemed a little rushed. Three Crocodile's vision and quest to save the children just seems to come out of the blue. I really didn't see it coming. I think your story could use more development of Three Crocodile's character so that the driving reasons behind his desire to change tradition are more apparent, so that his sudden conversion appears less arbitrary. Also, I don't know that the other priests would react so calmly to what amounts to a 13 year old boy seizing power. There needs to be some reason why the Old Priest was so accepting, otherwise it doesn't ring true based on our knowledge of human nature.
WDavid: Mr. DeChancie...Thank you. I appreciate all of the advice. This is exactly the kind of thing I need. :-) Yes, the world is an alternate history and I see this story as part of the world's ancient history...before contact with the Chinese and at least a century before Columbus...It's the culture in evolution from one with little regard for human life and heavily into human sacrifice to one with some basic human respect, if not actual rights. A culture that respects its citizens, at least in a small way, more will be more stable in it's long-term growth. This was meant as a stand alone short story and the Chapters were just a way to separate the scenes in my own mind and in the structure of the class. That said, I showed this to a couple of others and they are interested in the story going on and following Three-Crocodile to see how he develops in his new role as First of Tlaloc, how his new relationship with Tayauh evolves, how established powers in the city react to him and his "new path". Old traditions do not give way easily and this culture is not known for subtlety. If I carry it on perhaps I can even work this into a time period where first contact with the Chinese occurs in the story. I'm not really sure I have the sticktoitiveness to write a novel anyway. :-) In any event, I need to get this short story fixed first and your assistance here is GREATLY appreciated.
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WDavid, at 10/18/2006 10:40:00 AM
This - "Instructor DeChancie: Let me add that I think WDavid has a shot at being a real writer." is what I've been telling you all along. Congratulations!
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Ruth, at 10/20/2006 06:41:00 PM
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