Putting Pen To Paper

The Festival of Atlcualo

2006-10-11T17:49:00.000-07:00

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."

Outline for “Festival of Atlcualo”

2006-10-05T13:52:00.000-07:00

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.

"Atlcualo" Characters and Chapter 3

2006-09-24T20:09:00.000-07:00

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.”

Prelude To Sacrifice

2006-09-17T16:55:00.000-07:00

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.

First Empires: An Alternate History Shared World

2006-09-16T20:31:00.000-07:00

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.

A Little Prose

2006-09-02T11:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Inner Child

2006-08-31T12:21:00.000-07:00

Inner Child

The young child,
closed its eyes so tight,
its life 'came darker,
than the night.....afraid
to open to the light,
the child
died
quietly
of fright.

Untitled Photo Poem

2006-08-26T12:27:00.000-07:00

Behind a Thousand Smiles

2006-08-25T09:56:00.000-07:00

An Ode to Red Bull

2006-08-24T18:26:00.000-07:00

Ours was a chance meeting, my peachy little sweetheart, do you remember? It was at that chic corner lounge in the warehouse district, oh, so many years ago now. I was draped languidly against the bar with my companion of the moment, and you, my darling, were nestled in your little cooler underneath a soggy bar rail. You were waiting for me, I know it.

I asked the bartender to mix you with vodka, and when he pulled you out and I saw your stylish little outfit – all shiny and metallic blue, I was smitten. Your golden contents sparkled with the refracting light of the disco ball as he poured you, gently, into the glass.

Ahhh, memories. You tasted so refreshing and delighted my senses which had been seriously dulled by my idiotic date. We kissed languorously through the ice and vodka while that other guy swilled whiskey and jabbered with his friends.

The next day, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. My head hurt from the night before and I dragged myself through the morning, wondering when I would meet you next. I went to the hardware store at lunchtime for a pack of paint rollers some Behr interior flat in the shade of “Chianti” and as I approached the checkout counter… what a shock! There you were, sitting in the pop-cooler next to the front door! My heart leapt and I flung the glass door open in excitement. I saved you from the doldrums of association with such bothersome characters as the Mountain Dew and Lipton Brisk, between whom you had been offensively wedged.

I drank you greedily that morning after, but I knew you like it. You loved me too, it was obvious. We didn’t even need that pesky little vodka standing between us… she was too much of a troublemaker the night before anyway.

I knew then that I had you forever. We will always be together now, my darling. I have since found you at the grocery store in four-packs. What luck! I will always keep you near me, both at home and at the office. We will never move to France, my love, or anywhere else where the cold, cruel world has seen fit to ban you. Don’t worry, I will protect you… after all, you give me wingssssssssssss...

Help Title This Picture/Poem (clik on it to make it bigger)

2006-08-24T10:23:00.000-07:00

Help Title this one too.... if you like.

2006-08-24T09:04:00.000-07:00

Winds and seas shaping
sands, drifting, sweeping,
memories remind us where
our love and hate might
intersect in hearts, in minds
in moments gone and new.

Making Joy

2006-08-22T13:57:00.000-07:00

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?

Skyblue Boredom

2006-08-19T16:56:00.000-07:00

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

A Billion Tiny Men

2006-08-17T09:50:00.000-07:00

A billion tiny men . . .

And yet the ink drops of each pen, differs.

Twenty six letters is all,

A cap a dot a comma, we all fall,

Oblivious to the characters of our time.

Not a one would match rhyme for rhyme

Though we have the same breath

Drink of the one rain,

Under the singular blue sky.

One language,

Even if; one people,

No match

Watch it divide.

Twenty six letters

Match your; Billion tiny men.

Prior Quigley

Excalibur (499 words)

2006-08-11T10:17:00.000-07:00

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

Dad's Visit

2006-08-06T20:47:00.000-07:00

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.

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.
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.
l, new, putting the squeeze on what has been....time for change.

Character descriptions...

2006-08-04T11:53:00.000-07:00

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.

Taken For A Ride

2006-08-03T18:13:00.000-07:00

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!

Haikus

2006-08-03T03:01:00.000-07:00

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

The New Neighbors

2006-08-02T13:15:00.000-07:00

I was surprised when I looked out the window this morning...
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.

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
BMW Vixen about it, and now I'm an expert on BMW Vixens too.

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
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.

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,
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.

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.

Workshop Exercise

2006-08-01T16:01:00.000-07:00

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.

Silly Rhymes...

2006-08-01T09:23:00.000-07:00

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

Runaways

2006-07-31T21:59:00.000-07:00

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.

The Lamppost

2006-07-31T05:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Always On My Mind

2006-07-28T22:12:00.000-07:00

Cant seem to get him off my mind.

It's been 3yrs, but still I want him here.

He left me broken hearted, torn apart inside.

He fed me sweet lies that I believed with time.

Fell for the game he was runnin', when at first I didnt care.

But it was too late to let go.

He had we wrapped up.

So much wanting to be in love.

Who would of known I've picked the wrong one.

He departed from my life to never see him again.

Rivers of tears I shead for him.

Not wanting to believe he wasnt true to me.

Tried to deny the love I had for him.

There was no sense in runnin' from it.

Cause he constantly stays in my mind.

The Sea of Why

2006-07-26T09:13:00.000-07:00

This is my first time blogging and really my first time sharing writing publicly... I am looking for any kind of critique... good or bad :) I wrote the Sea of Why off the top of my head just trying to express some feelings that have been screaming to get out. I have always been happy, but recently I have felt very dragged down. I am clawing my way up through God's grace, but it has been eating at me to figure out why these feelings are coming up now... It is only when I let go of the Why and have faith that God has put me exactly where I need to be right now in my life, that I feel peace.

The Sea of Why

Faith is a vessel that floats me across the sea of why.
> Atop the waves of emotion
> Through the storm of transition
> To the rainbow of promise
> and supreme inner stillness
> Faith reminds me why I push on and try
> when the days come around and I feel I could drown
> in the unanswered questions
> in the vast sea of why.

Pedestrianism: 2nd Version

2006-07-25T22:51:00.000-07:00

July 25, 2006

This
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.

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
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.

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
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?

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.

God's Red Shoes

2006-07-25T19:47:00.000-07:00

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.

The Firefly

2006-07-23T17:50:00.000-07:00

Putting Pen To Paper

Hi! This is Ruth2 or wootiegirl, whichever you prefer. I m new to Blogs, so bear with me as I learn to navigate my way around.
Here is a recent poem. feedback appreciated! I'd like to hear what works for you and what doesn't. Thanks!

The Firefly

They come to stay,
traveling only a few yards
from where they’re born, and
as July dusk deepens into night,
flash bits of yellow-green luminescence
from inside their bellies,
a Morse-code waltz in search
of their mates, paying no attention
to fireworks from the county fair
or celebration in the streets.

One of them finds his way
into my home. A single beacon
journeying from room-to-room.
I follow him into the study,
kitchen, bedroom, take inventory
of my life: books with dust
on their jackets, faded wallpaper
nodding its head over stale
baked goods, linens from
last night’s dreams thrown aside.

I see work to be done.
He takes only obligatory
notice, hovers near the doorway,
beckons me in dashes and dots
to join the dance.

The Exorcist

2006-07-23T14:18:00.000-07:00

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?”

The Button

2006-07-22T18:15:00.000-07:00

I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a chest that big, but I could be wrong. I am here to get my eyes examined after all. The waiting room where I was placed between dilation and examination is just a tiny nook with four seats on each side and hardly room between them to negotiate to the last remaining seat, but she managed. Tip-toeing, gently and with determination, she came. Stopping, she hovered over the chair, bent to pick up a magazine left there by some former occupant, and gave us all an excellent view of the smooth curve of her buttocks straining against her tight fitting navy blue gabardine slacks.

My male brain quickly calculated those hips to measure about 38”, a good and proper size for a woman of her maturity - but those breasts… 46”, 48”?!

She smiled brightly as she caught my eye, her blue eyes moist from the dilation drops, but she said nothing, just opened the magazine and flipped page after page until she found something of interest. Squinting, she pulled it closer to her face to read, and then realized that she couldn’t read. With a great sigh, she bent too quickly to retrieve her purse from beneath her chair, going for glasses I guessed. A loose button, straining for release, finally popped its last remaining thread and shot across the aisle from the expanse of her chest to the cuff of my jeans, disappearing… taking refuge there. I wonder if anyone else saw it go. I wonder how they could have missed it.

Glancing around at my seat mates in our intimate little nook I saw a child of ten or so engrossed in some electronic game or other; her mother crocheting to pass the time; two elderly gentlemen comparing their aches and pains; a middle aged woman, her red hair askew against the wall behind her, mouth gaping, but not yet snoring; and one teenage boy openly staring at that expansive chest. Grinning, he made what he thought to be a surreptitious “thumbs up” signal between his legs. “Sweet!” he mouthed in my direction.

“Mr. Johnson?” the nurse called, forcing me to avert my bulging eyes and pick my way through seven pairs of fidgety feet to follow her into the doctor’s office.

Fingering the button I’d retrieved from my cuff, I stared into the doctor’s eyes during his examination, I wondered what he saw in mine. Were those 48’s as indelibly imprinted on my retina as they were on my brain? My cheeks reddened at the thought and I dropped the button into my shirt pocket, a bit of memorabilia to reflect upon some other time.

“Now read the smallest line on the chart which you can read comfortably,” he repeated robotically.

I guess there’d been no imprint.

Veggie Villanelle

2006-07-21T20:43:00.000-07:00

This is a villanelle. One of its main features is that entire lines are repeated. The repeated lines must rhyme with each other. The second line of every stanza must rhyme with each other. The first lines of every stanza after the first stanza must also rhyme with the repeating lines.

Veggies

Man, I can't eat any meat!
Green vegetables I do detest.
Being a vegan is quite a feat.

Turn on the stove, turn up the heat.
I can't wait to have that chicken breast.
Man, I can't eat any meat!

Maybe I will enjoy fields of wheat
And also a peel of lemon zest.
Being a vegan is quite a feat.

Broccoli has become a tasty treat.
I am serious, I do not jest.
Man, I can't eat any meat!

Hey, this weight loss is really neat.
I think I have become obsessed.
Being a vegan is quite a feat.

I will be tempted to cheat
But I will pass this taste test.
Man, I can't eat any meat!
Being a vegan is quite a feat.

My Father's Son

2006-07-21T13:41:00.000-07:00

This is a sestina. It doesn't use rhyme; instead, it has six keywords essential to the poem's structure. The poem's 39 lines - six 6-line stanzas followed by a 3-line tornada - all end with one of the keywords; in the tornada, there are two keywords in each line, one of them at the end and the other somewhere in the middle. There is a prescribed order for the keywords in a sestina, and you may notice that each one eventually appears in each line of a stanza.

My Father’s Son

When I was born there was plenty of time
for you to avoid me and go on with your life.
You could not see me when you looked in the mirror
because you lived as you were taught in the past.
Children were a bother who had no worth.
But I loved, and was lost in the glare of your reflection.

As I grew I saw the dimming of your reflection
and my admiration lessened with the passing of time.
It was obvious I had very little worth
because you had yours and I had my life.
Childish love was a thing of the past.
I could not see you when I looked in the mirror.

Who did you see when I looked in the mirror?
Was it yourself, or someone else's reflection?
The screaming and fights are now in the past
but healing these wounds takes time.
I have wasted many days of my life
waiting for you to show me that I do have worth.

As I matured I discovered the true meaning of worth.
It is what I see when I look in the mirror
and does not have to be given to me by others in my life.
I can find value in my own reflection.
This knowledge has been within me all this time
but I could not see it in the dark days of my life.

Now I must reconsider my actions of the past.
Did I ever try to show you that you had worth?
So many wasted days and now so little time
for me to repair the crack I find in my mirror.
You are not the monster I used to see in your reflection
but a kind and loving role model in my life.

You did not know how to express love in your life
because you lived as you were taught in the past.
Again I love, and am lost in the glare of your reflection.
Yet, I am unable to express to you the value of your worth
as I stand here alone looking at you in the mirror.
After all, I have been my father's son all this time.

There comes a time in every man's life
when he looks in the mirror of his past
to see the worth of his reflection.

try not to think

2006-07-20T23:22:00.000-07:00

I try not to think that you don’t want to be with me
I try not to think I am old news to you
I try not to remember the last time we touched
I try to tell myself its all a dream, wake up!
I try to convince myself love has left my heart
No more pain,and that nothing can tear me apart.
I try to not wait by the phone for you to call
I try not to act like I am not waiting around for you
It is hard enough to pretend you are here
I think of you and here it comes, a tear
Not only for sadness but fear and doubt
That one day I will come home and find that you have ran out.

I Could Give It A Title But It Would Give It Away

2006-07-18T22:31:00.000-07:00

I miss the old days, the days when people cherished me. There were times when I would glide along twisting, turning. Sometimes I would lift into the air and land again at a precise location emphasizing the obvious. How important I felt when my movements would express a wide range of emotions and opinions. I had the power to change people’s lives, to make them smile, cry, laugh, or turn red with anger. I wasn’t just some cheap thing to be tossed by the wayside.

People today like to pretend they don’t need me, but always they come looking for me to help them with something in their lives. They should be careful though because I can still cause good and bad to happen. I can give the gift of love or bring on financial doom. My movements can still mesmerize those who are willing to watch as I dance. My lines are more intoxicating than the clicking of my new age replacement. I don’t require power and electricity from a plug, as it flows through me with the touch of a hand. I would like to think that I will always have a purpose, but the day is coming when I will do nothing more than sit around and dry up like a withered leaf falling from its tree branch as winter approaches. No longer will people need me to tell the world who they are, a finger print or retinal scan will be all that is required.

Yet some still hold me gently and stroke me across the page like a parent would stroke the head of their child as they sleep. I suspect that there will always be those who keep me hidden around to dance again another day, those who will still allow my lifeblood to flow from me as I portray their ideas to the world. There will, I suppose, always be those who need the feel of something solid in their hand, something to tap gently on the table or chew on as they struggle to convey all that is within them. These are the people I live for, the ones who will give me a transfusion as my insides fade away to nothingness on the paper, the ones who need me as much as I need them.

Tree in the Sky

2006-07-18T16:54:00.000-07:00

Since Peter has challenged us to take a piece of his work and put a new slant on it, I chose to use his photo for a poem.

I awoke about 5 am
to a strange swishing
noise outside my
window.
Peeping out through the
blinds,
I gasped and blinked my sleepy
eyes.
A tree was hanging there in the
sky
swishing back and forth
in the brisk New England
breeze.
Side to side it swung
suspended from a rope of red
attached to a silver
cord.

Awakening too soon,
I had apparently caught
God
in the act of replenishing his
garden.
We cut ‘em down,
grind ‘em up,
chop ‘em up,
and burn ‘em up
and God just drops another
one,
puts it in place,
cuts the red
rope
and retracts the
cord.

I always wondered
how that worked!

Pedestrianism

2006-07-18T09:28:00.000-07:00

June 21, 2006

I was surprised when I looked out the window this morning...
hanging olive tree there was a tree hanging in the sky. It was doubley strange because, at this time of year, the sky is usally covered in fog so thick it could take all day to burn off.

Was I dreaming? Was my head in the clouds wishing?

Trees have been on my mind lately for another reason. I've been having tingling and numbness in my left arm and fingers. The guy at the local Chinese pharmacy checked my pulse. He assured me it's nothing to do with my heart... he says my kidneys are too weak to support the ulnar nerve in my arm. If I drink his tree bark and dried snake soup twice a day for awhile, that should clear it up... and it is clearing up.

I liked the medicine connection: trees have many arms; snakes have many joints. So, I'm taking this tree theme as some kind of special symbol for the summer. Clear skies ahead hopefully, and, since I often find my head up in the fog above the trees -- maybe a season of keeping my head close to me ~~hear~~ here on the ground too.

I've been making that ~~hear~~ here typo a lot lately... that's because these days, I spend a lot of time hearing new (to me) music in my relentless search for podsafe music on the internet. Podsafe, meaning free to put on my music player, free to listen to, and free to share with friends. You know... without worrying about some big music corporation threatening to sue me for ~~downloading~~ theft.

I need the music...
earbuds I'm really trying hard to get a one hour brisk walk in each day. I love to ramble off in anticipation of the new sounds that will stream through the earbuds I plug into my head, even if they make it hard to keep my head near me here at street level. Today I was daydreaming away on some cool new grooves in hot sunny weather... only 5 or 10 days like this per year here in San Francisco.

It's one of the best cities in the world to just watch and enjoy... even if the earbuds block all the sounds around me. During any day in my neighborhood I probably pass more tourists on sightseeing walks than I do real neighbors. And the tourists, usually earbud-less, look at everything but the traffic. It's a wonder more of them don't get hit in traffic here.

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, to ensure that my head avoids any moving vehicle that might be taking aim for it. 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.

3. Avoid buses and trucks -- they are much harder to stop than cars and bicycles.

They obviously
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 who was far too busy for eye contact. That's because he was still driving through the intersection. He was not jamming on the brakes; he was going to weave through the busy crosswalk, hopefully avoiding as many pedestrians as possible. I thought to myself, couldn't he lose his job for that?

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! 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.

WATCH OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I never saved somebody's life before... it's a pretty interesting feeling... it stayed with me the whole day... so much synchronicity... you never know what you might miss if you don't wait for the little white man.

Assorted Haiku

2006-07-17T18:05:00.000-07:00

The road to nowhere
Is easy to get onto
harder to get off

Snow is falling hard
Even more than yesterday
Snowman is drowning

Ice covered forest
Caught by bright morning sunrise
Crying tears of joy

The death of winter
Is just the circle of life
The rebirth of spring

Under bridge tonight
One man shivers in the cold
Solitude and death

The intersection
Of life and death is only
A new beginning

When I turn from God
Will He still be there waiting
If I turn again?

Love licking myself
But hairball is annoying
Dogs have it easy

Heavy golden rain
Driving down the mountainside
Autumn wind blowing

How far can I go
And still feel your love with me?
The ends of the earth

Today may look hard
It might seem unbearable
Tomorrow will come

Flowing downstream
River settles into creek
Caressing the stones

Creature of ancient
Sits atop hoarded treasure
Eating crispy dwarf

Forty days of rain
God's judgment on all mankind
Rainbow, God's promise

Bright summer morning
Dirt road leads to mountain lake
Barefoot and skipping

The pain is too much
How long must this go on Lord?
You have heard my cry

Your Cup of Life

2006-07-17T04:15:00.000-07:00

Drink deeply from your cup of life.
Savor each precious drop.
Sip lightly to taste each flavor.
Lick the foam from off the top.
Control the list of ingredients.
Make sure they're the very best,
For what you put into your cup
Should never be taken in jest.
Add a lot of joy and laughter,
A touch of heartache for spice,
A trace amount of pain,
Just enough to make you think twice.
If you make it three quarters love
It would then be just about right.
Add integrity and honesty
To help you sleep better each night.
With diligence to each detail,
What a brew your life will be...
Intoxicating and valued
And your very own recipe!

These Arms

2006-07-17T03:52:00.000-07:00

These arms are my love, they will pull you in, bringing you comfort and peace.
These arms are my strength, they will protect you, building safety showing you a love that cannot be torn down.
These arms are my soul, they will be still for you guiding intimacy, calm silence and unconditional love.
These arms are my excitement, I will raise them high to celebrate you, bringing freedom to those who notice them , so they can embrace the joy.
These arms are my heart, they will wipe away our tears driving away clouds.
When I dance they will dance with me and give the power of self-expression to my heart.
These arms are my eternity, when I pray or rest, my brow will be lowered to their palms.
When I die, they will be my wings formed by the dreams of my life, and I will fly to heaven.

Interpreting Childhood

2006-07-16T20:26:00.000-07:00

Interpreting Childhood
By W. David MacKenzie

Any person picking through a junk drawer or scanning the dust-covered items on a knick-knack shelf or searching the nearly forgotten trunk in the attic will come across the mementos of youth. Those relics of days-gone-by will stir memories of a play-filled childhood, an awkward adolescence, or love’s first blooming. Trying to connect those items to universal themes or imbue them with significant life lessons, however, is ultimately counterproductive. Forcing adult meaning upon the artifacts of childhood is an attempt to define oneself as a victim of circumstance, to rationalize away the responsibilities of one’s choices, both past and future.

Did my G.I. Joe with fuzzy beard and crew cut provide a thousand imaginary mission ops for his action-figure bravery, or indoctrinate me into the homoerotic subcultures of uniform fetishism and physique worship? Was my plastic armory—filled with six-shooter cap guns, rubber bowie knives, and sparking M16’s—an arsenal for make-believe battles, or a collection of violent idols promoting imperialist America’s quest for power? Did countless hours spent watching sci-fi films and reading fantasy novels feed an unquenchable thirst for wonder and fuel a budding urge to write, or offer easy isolation from a confusing coming-of-age in which I fit none of the acceptable male stereotypes?

I’m not homosexual because my mother gave me hyper-masculine dolls to play with; I’m gay because that’s the number that came up when my parents rolled the genetic dice. I’m not proud of America because I bought into the establishment’s propaganda machine; I’m patriotic because I truly believe that America, regardless of who sits in the Oval Office on any particular day, is the best society that six thousand years of civilization has produced. And I’m not an introverted geek because escapist fiction stunted my emotional development; I’m thoughtful and forward-looking because each tomorrow shines with glorious potential for those who open their minds to welcome its coming.

I don’t live in yesterday. I don’t discount what I am today by second-guessing my past. I live in today. I consider today’s choices, one by one, and go to bed knowing I’ve lived the day as best I could. And each night, before I go to sleep, I set my alarm clock to meet tomorrow’s sunrise.

Extraction

2006-07-14T20:48:00.000-07:00

Extraction
By W. David MacKenzie
July 14, 2006

The chair was tilted back at exactly the wrong angle for comfort but that seemed fitting since the chair was located in a dentist’s surgical suite and I was about to have my wisdom teeth extracted. To be fair, I was only having two of them removed since my questionable genetic heritage didn’t include a full set of four. Nevertheless, when you’ve managed to get through forty-four years on this earth without a single surgical procedure, the relatively simple act of removing two useless molars is enough to make you worry. I worried—a lot.

As soon as I sat down in the green leather chair my first thought was that I should get back up again and run for the nearest exit but the nurse…surgical assistant…orderly…whatever he was, was one step ahead of me. He handed me a tiny paper cup.

“Take a mouthful of this and swirl it around in your mouth for twenty seconds then spit it out.”

That did it—I wasn’t going anywhere. That little cup might as well have been a seat belt strapping me to the chair. Now I had a task to do; I had ticking seconds to count in my mind and tingly antiseptic mouthwash to swish between my teeth and over my gums. Fifty thousand years of human evolution had primed me with a lifesaving fight-or-flight instinct and it had all been derailed by a Dixie cup of blue mouthwash.

As I spit the frothy liquid back into the paper cup the—oh, let’s just call him the nurse—the nurse started checking the equipment at the back of the room. I was taking in the cityscape view through the expansive windows while behind me the nurse fiddled with things that clanked and dinged in metal trays or beeped and buzzed at the push of a button. I was wondering what interesting little sound he would make next when the jarring roar of an industrial strength buzz-saw drained the color from my face.

Time to leave! Time to run!

I shot a glance left then right…no tables, no flat surface to set down the cup so I could get the hell out of there. In a moment of blind panic, I rushed the cup to my lips, gulped down the used mouthwash, and crushed the empty paper cup in my fist.

The antiseptic fluid burned and scratched and fizzed as it went down my throat. I coughed and gagged and wheezed trying to force it back up. The buzz-saw sound stopped and the nurse hurried to my side.

“You’re supposed to spit it out,” he said, prying the crumpled cup from my clenched fist. My eyes were watering, and breathing was still an iffy proposition, but I could tell he’d sized me up as the dumbest thing since Project Monorail. Luckily he mistook my bright red face for asphyxiation instead of unparalleled embarrassment. He produced a plastic bag that I held to my mouth while I retched up most of the noxious liquid, and all the while he patted my back in a “good thing I’m here to save your stupid butt” kind of way.

After that, the rest of the extraction process was all down hill. They injected me with anesthetic, put a gas mask over my nose, and I floated off to la-la land. I don’t have any memories of anything else until I woke up in my own bed three hours later, but my father says I kept mumbling about poison mouthwash and the monorail all the way home.

Here I am

2006-07-14T10:31:00.000-07:00

As a bit of introduction to those of you who may not know me as David's (this blog founder) mother, I have been writing poetry since elementary school, but only started saving it since the 1970's. My rhyming, mostly Christian, and usually understandable poetry, is not what is generally published these days; so, I have had only a few published over the years. I did self-publish a book of poems for family and friends and helped other family members self-publish a family anthology of our work. I took a class recently and got David interested in taking writing classes which he seems to thoroughly enjoy.

My aim is to post a little something on the blog here now and then and welcome comments from the members here. I'm trying to learn to write in different styles, but it isn't easy for me.

As my first post, here is a poem I wrote three or four years ago.

Here I Am

My Smiles emerge from deep within;
But, I cannot, will not, even begin
To search for the why of it.

I barely skim the surface of life
A stone hop-skipping the waves of strife.
No need to cry of it.

Here I am as was intended
Broken dreams and heartaches mended;
Still, in nightly dreams I roam.

Always onward I must go
As water down the hill must flow
Finding comfort in the touch of earth its home.

----------

They say a poem is never finished and I'm beginning to believe that. Every time I thumb through my notebook, reading over them again, I stop to make corrections to typos, or change a line that just doesn't seem to flow, or find a better rhyme. Just in putting this one into this post, I made changes to all the stanzas but the last one. Oh well, this is the version you get. Tell me what you think.

Cool City Limits

2006-07-12T19:52:00.000-07:00

Cool City Limits
by W. David MacKenzie

Jimmy bounded out of the minivan as soon as his mom opened the sliding door and tugged at her jacket excitedly. "Did you see that sign back there, Mom?" he shouted as he pointed back down the winding road. "This is where I wanna live. Cooooool!" He drew out the word into a whole sentence and stuck out his thumbs like Fonzie from Happy Days.

His mom tousled Jimmy's hair affectionately then met her husband at the front of the minivan where he was already stomping his feet for warmth. "They sure named this place right," she said as she zipped up her jacket and looked around at downtown Cool. The sign showed a population of 235, but the isolated convenience store and the solitary clerk inside made her wonder where the other 234 people were hiding.

While his parents were talking Jimmy slipped quietly into the shop. The clerk had his back to the counter as he tapped keys on his notebook computer and watched the array of colored dots swirl around in different patterns. Different keys strokes made different patterns and the clerk jotted down notes about each one, oblivious to the young boy staring over his shoulder.

Jimmy, too, was engrossed in the colorful display and noticed a pattern to the flying dots on the screen, a tendency for them to congregate in a certain way. When Jimmy said, "Try pressing Control G three times then Option W," the clerk jumped like a snake had bitten him. He stared wide-eyed at the boy, but Jimmy just nodded at the computer. "Try it, I wanna see if they'll all line up."

The clerk, a twenty-something man with a buzzed haircut and smooth face, shook his head and drawled "Kid, I've been working on this simulation for almost a month and they ain't gonna do no such thing."

Jimmy arched his eyebrows and said, "Try it."

The clerk shook his head again, turned back to the keyboard and tapped out the key combinations Jimmy had rattled off. With each keystroke the dancing dots moved closer together and when he'd finished all four he gawked at the screen. The thousands of individual points had formed a solid column of light on the screen. Slowly, the clerk tapped two more keys on his own and the column changed from red to green. He flopped back into his chair and gawked at the boy. "How did you...?"

"I hope Jimmy's not bothering you." the man and woman said as they entered the shop. They walked to the counter and the clerk pushed the notebook screen closed as he stood up, but his eyes never left Jimmy's.

"I'm just watchin' him play a computer game, Mom." Jimmy said.

"It's always computer games with you, kiddo." His dad snorted then turned to the clerk. "It's impossible to beat him on any computer game, even ones he's never played before."

"Ya, he just taught me a new move," stammered the clerk.

Jimmy's parents grabbed a few snacks and drinks, paid the clerk, and the three of them returned to the minivan. The clerk was watching them climb into the vehicle when the store's backdoor opened and a soldier walked in.

"What are you staring at, Lieutenant?" he barked.

The clerk snapped to attention. "Sir, that boy..." his gaze drifted back to the minivan as the family backed out of the parking lot and into the quiet road, then turned back to the Captain. "He solved the cryo-stabilization simulation."

Both men turned to look out of the store's large front window just as a logging truck sped around the curve in the mountain road and barreled into the minivan sending flames and shredded metal flying everywhere. The Lieutenant and Captain raced out of the shop, their screams of "medic" echoing through the air as they ran toward the wreckage and were joined by a dozen camouflaged soldiers who emerged from the shadowy forest to aid in the search for survivors.

***

The Colonel paced back and forth in the dimly lit observation area. Just beyond the foot-thick glass wall the Army's best cryo-surgeons worked quickly and carefully on the mangled body of a ten year old boy while a score of thermal-suited technicians hovered nearby, ready to leap into action as soon as the extraction was completed. The boy should never have been here, but now the Colonel and his team were this boy's only chance at life and the boy was their only chance of progressing this program beyond the theoretical stages.

He had always argued that this installation needed a secure perimeter, but his superiors believed hiding in plain sight was a less costly option. So few cars used the mountain road that it seemed impossible an accident like this could ever happen. That was one of the reasons why the Army had bought the town in the first place. The other reason was that someone higher up had a sense of humor and couldn't resist placing the Cryogenic Operations and Optimization Lab in a place actually named Cool.

For the tenth time the Colonel asked "Are you really certain the boy solved the simulation?"

The Lieutenant stepped out of the shadows. "Yes sir. Jimmy, ah, the boy, seemed to sense what needed to be done. I just pressed the keys he called out and then tweaked it a little."

"And why did you have the simulation above ground in a non-secure area in the first place?" the Colonel moved toward Stephens as his face reddened. "You were supposed to be on store lookout duty!"

A cough from an aid diverted the Colonel's wrath, turning his attention back to the operating room where the surgeons seemed to be finishing up their procedure. The cryo-surgeons stepped back from the operating table and the technicians elbowed their way in and surrounded the table, bringing new equipment and bizarre appliances with them. The Colonel moved to an intercom and pressed a button. "How long before I can speak with the boy?"

The technician replied without even looking up from his work. "It'll take us a couple of hours to hook up the interface wetware and test the new cryo-stabilization parameters," said the tinny voice from the intercom. "If that works then give us another hour to make sure he's acclimated and the wetware actually functions in real-life conditions, then you can speak with him."

"And if these new parameters don't test out?" questioned the Colonel.

"Then as soon as we make the insertion the cryo-solution with flash-crystallize and we'll have another freezer-pop on our hands just like every animal test we've run before now." The technician pause then faced the Colonel. "I sure hope you know what you're doing with this boy's life, Colonel."

"So do I," the Colonel whispered under his breath as he clicked off the intercom button and the technician went back to work.

***

"Colonel," said the female cryo-tech as they stood outside the recovery room, "we've dimmed the lights to be on the safe side and Jimmy is aware of his surroundings to some degree, but he's having a little problem with visualization at the moment." She paused to consult her clipboard full of charts.

"And his hearing?" asked the Colonel?

She smiled, "Oh, his audio pick-ups and comprehension are perfect and the speech synthesis is working better than expected. He actually sounds like a kid and that has some of the technicians stumped since the vox unit should be nearly monotone."

"What about movement?"

"We have not connected the relays for any of the mobility servos," she said. "We didn't want to take the chance that he might injure himself accidentally. He'll need a lot of retraining until he's able to move on his own."

The Colonel considered a moment and then asked, "Does he know what's happened?"

"No," she answered. "I'd say he's recovered from the anesthetics, but he may be experiencing some emotional shock. He's been pretty quiet, just giving simple answers to our simple questions."

The Colonel turned to enter the boy's room. "I don't want to be disturbed unless your monitors show he's in some sort of danger."

"Yes sir."

As the technician had said, the room was nearly dark except for the soothing blue glow emitted by the equipment. The Colonel walked quietly over to Jimmy and put his hand on a piece of equipment. "Hello Jimmy. My name is Joshua Hood," he said quietly. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes sir, but I can't see you very well, it's dark." His voice did sound like a boy's to some degree and Colonel Hood detected a note of worry in the mechanically accented sound.

"Your vision will improve in a day or so." Colonel Hood paused and the whirs and clicks and beeps of the machinery filled the silence. "Jimmy, there's no easy way to say this so I'll just say it. Your family was in a bad accident and your parents, well, they did not make it, but they didn't suffer either."

He watched as the patterns on Jimmy's EEG monitors became erratic and a few other machines beeped faster than before, but soon they all settled down and Jimmy asked, "Did I die, too?"

"You were seriously injured, and we thought we wouldn't be able to save you, but that trick you did with the man's computer game helped us. It's hard to explain, but you solved a problem that we've been working on for a long time."

"And that saved my life?" asked Jimmy's new voice.

Colonel Hood walked forward and placed his hand on the side of the transparent insulating cylinder on the table in front of him. Though it was warm to his touch, it was filled with a super-cooled blue fluid that was in no danger of crystallizing thanks to Jimmy's help with the simulation. Inside was the delicate brain and portion of spinal cord that was everything that remained of Jimmy. Micro-thin wires extended from the organ like a wild head of hair and connected to a host of equipment that replicated Jimmy's senses and allowed him to experience and interact with the world.

"Yes, Jimmy." He patted the cylinder as he would have patted the boy's shoulder. "And you're going to be one amazingly important young man."

"Cooooool!" came the boy’s synthesized voice.

***

Lieutenant Stephens made a short sweeping motion with the paint brush and stepped back to admire the small change he'd made to the sign: “Cool City Limit Population 236.”

Sinister

2006-07-12T19:38:00.000-07:00

Sinister
by W. David MacKenzie

The leafless trees and abandoned picnic tables eased out of the cold night, casting sinister shadows as dawn forced its way into the snow-covered park. In a few hours kids would be playing noisily, but for now the silence was broken only by the soft crunching of my boots through the day-old snow as I walked toward the wooden bridge and the frozen tire tracks leading into the river. I was fairly sure what I'd find, but I needed to be certain so I could put this case to bed and then hit the sack myself.

There was a lot of disturbed snow at the river's edge but enough of it was frozen into crystal-clear tread patterns to give the crime lab boys some good solid evidence, if they could get to it before it melted. I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my parka as a shiver passed through me and tried not to think of what must have happened here in the wee hours of the morning.

I'd made a night of it, going to the darkest bars downtown, making enough easily overhead comments to be certain my target knew I wanted to meet with him and where. Of course I was nowhere near there--here, when he arrived. I was home leaning over a steaming mug of coffee, reading the file on his grisly deeds and the months of police work that had finally pointed me in the right direction. I was reassuring myself that I'd made the right decision. I was leaving the dirty work to others better suited to it.

I kicked a clump of ice and it slid down the tire tracks like a bobsled, plopping into the water as I trudged over to the bridge. The boards were slippery and I shuffled up the incline carefully until I was on even footing then stood leaning over the handrail, looking down onto the roof of a car just barely submerged in the shallow river. "Did you have to drag the whole car in there?" I snorted.

Water lapped noisily among the bridge supports as something moved in the sluggish river and a deep voice, its labored breathiness breaking the cadence of the words, filtered up from beneath the bridge. "He wouldn't get out of the car and it seemed the easiest thing to do." The speaker drew in a long gravely breath. "Even so, if the riverbank had not been icy I might not have had the strength to do it."

"When the squad cars get here they'll need to call in a water rescue team, so you'd better be gone by then." I stepped back from the railing and looked down through the gaps in the boards beneath my feet. It was too dark to make out anything other than a vague shape, but I knew what I would have seen and I wasn't disappointed that I couldn't see it.

Water splashed around again as the shape beneath the bridge moved, probably trying to look up at me. The wheezing growl came again, "There's another bridge a ways up the river. I'll be safe enough.” The voice went silent for a moment then resumed hoarsely, “This one was particularly evil.”

"I'm not surprised, with the number of women he'd slaughtered."

I paused and gazed back down at the car in the water, nodding my head toward it as if the thing under the bridge could see me. "Is there anything left in there?"
More movement churned the water as the thing coughed out a malignant chuckle. "It was difficult, but I left a morsel or two."

My stomach tightened. It wasn't the first time I'd used my contacts to bring a case to a speedy and certain close and I doubted it would be the last time, but I didn’t like being reminded what took place when I made these bargains.

An oversized arm, thick with corded muscles, reached up from beneath the bridge holding a nylon wallet between its gnarled and boney fingers. It deftly deposited the soggy item near my feet then slowly withdrew into the shadows. I stared at the wallet, simultaneously wanting to know who the anonymous serial killer had been and not wanting to know whom I had lured to his death. I kneeled down and reached for it then stopped. I would read the reports soon enough; for the present, not knowing made it easier. I left the wallet on the bridge and stood up. "Thanks for the help."

I turned and walked carefully down the bridge toward my car a few hundred yards away. Above the crunching of my boots I heard the troll's gruff voice call out, "Thanks for the dinner."

Welcome to "Putting Pen To Paper"

2006-07-12T15:21:00.000-07:00

We hope to make this a supportive and helpful group of aspiring writers who seek the assistance of their peers to review their works and improve their writing skills. The idea is for you to post your creative work here so that other members can comment upon your work, offering constructive criticism to help you improve the piece.

Membership is free and open to persons eighteen years or older. Just click the link in the right side column to request membership through email. You'll be asked to state your age and submit a sample of your work to prove your sincerity. We'll send a formal invitation in email within 24 hours.

Our creed is stated at the top of the right side column, but let me go over it here in detail.

(1) Posting your work here does not constitute publication. We offer no payment and we expect no fees. You are posting your piece to solicit comment and critiques from your peers.

(2) The members retain all rights to their work. All work is considered to be copyrighted by the author and plagiarism at any level by any member will not be tolerated.

(3) PPTP is an adult community and posts with adult language or adult situations are fine, but we will not accept erotic or pornographic works or gratuitously violent works.

(4) Comments and critiques must be helpful, supportive, and specific. The writers want your assistance, but it does no good to tell someone their grammar needs work without showing them exactly where they've made the mistake.

(5) Flames, gossip, or rudeness will be deleted. We will not tolerate any hateful or hurtful comments. It is perfectly easy to point out a story's weak spots without trashing the author.

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Well, that about wraps up the preliminary details. If you're ready then jump in, request your membership and let's see your stuff!