The Fifth chapter

He who would lead. The words were ringing in Michael Dunhill's mind as he awoke. The dream had not quite let go of him, and so he hung delicately between waking and sleeping while it played and re-played quickly in his head.

Without a word he rose from his mattress and went about the room, rousing his newly discovered mates from their own dreams. He called into the dark corner where the young Finn McCool lay. When he received no answer he stepped forward and jostled the cushion with his foot. A groan was his answer as young Finn slowly pushed himself up from the bed. As his head turned towards the light Michael gasped at the sight. The entire left side of the his face was black and blue, angry red lines carved their way through the sea of color where the skin had split.

Young Finn smiled with the undamaged side of his face, "If you're frightened by this, Michael, you'll not like what is to come." With a shake of his head to clear the cobwebs from his brain the young man bounded out of bed. As he pulled a shirt gingerly over his head Collins asked from behind him, "What's the script mean?"

Finn glanced at the back of his shoulder where text was tattooed into the skin. A devilish grin lit the good side of Finn's face, "That is an old, old song. It's the marching song of An Cead Sluagh, The First Company. 'Hark to the tramp of the young guard of Erin. Firm is each footstep and erect is each head.'"

Collins nodded his head, "It's an inspiring song to be sure."

With a nod Finn dismissed the subject. He turned to the rest of the room, "Are we clear on tonight then? Do not run from the police, do not engage them either. Turn yourselves at right angles and continue walking. We will not turn about and flee, nor shall we force a confrontation tonight. Tonight we must stir the people, to do this we must avoid fighting, instead, we will simply show our presence. People will join up thinking we are a mob bent of destruction, but they will follow along when we lead. Let's show these Black and Tans a night they won't forget, let them quake in terror at the sound of our boots, only to be disappointed our pacifism. With no easy outlet for their pent up aggression, they will be forced to resort to taking the offensive."

"This is where I come in. While you," Finn pointed at Dunhill, "are taking a group around to the North. And you," this time at the two bearded brothers, "are moving to the south. I shall be going quietly up the center. When I meet them they will have no alternative but to engage me. This is where you come in, Mr. Collins. You must gather the evidence of this, and with this evidence we will hang them in the morning."

With this last exhortation they gathered their things, and left the small apartment. As the door closed behind them the bearded brothers, Sean and James, crossed themselves and muttered a prayer. Finn dropped back a step from the company to walk beside the two. It was quite a picture the three of them walking. The young clean-shaven and battered Finn with his short, powerful frame strode easily next to the tall brothers. Both Sean and James wore a recently trimmed beard as if they had just arrived home from the sea the day before. The salt spray over the bow of their fishing vessel had started to play havoc with the exposed skin on their faces, fading youthful softness to tanned leather well beyond their years. Standing well over six feet tall the brothers careers were told plainly in their faces, the strength of their arms, the coarse hands that seemed to be formed from the very wood and rope they controlled. The faint swagger with which Finn walked rocked back and forth, almost bumping the brothers on either hand while they crept forward, feet soft against the floor, waiting for the pitch and roll of a wave.

"Can I count on the two of you tonight?" Finn asked softly once they were far enough behind the others to avoid being heard.

Sean, the older brother, nodded. James assured Finn, "We weren't praying because we didn't think we could handle it."

Finn raised a hand, "Perhaps you misunderstood me. I wasn't questioning your faith or strength. I was inquiring about your patience."

Sean smiled ruefully, "We watched our family house burn to the ground under English torches when we were scarce tall enough to throw a line. What do you think we were praying for?"

Finn nodded, "Patience is just another kind of strength. Gather what you can, mates. This will be a long night."

The Fourth Chapter

Michael Dunhill laid down upon a mattress in a corner of the gloomy tenement. After the long day, and the fight at the bar he lay awake for only a few moments before sleep came, but no peace came with sleep.

When his eyes closed he saw the clouds race across the sky over Carrickfergus, as if they were trying to outrun the helicopters that circled above. Cries of mourning replaced the childish laughter that had once ruled the streets. It was a dark and dismal place, populated entirely by crying mothers and black-booted policemen.

In his dream he watched through a gap in the fence as the policemen came to drag off his older brothers. They were rounding up everyone in the city that was suspected of being a nationalist, loyal to Ireland. His two oldest brothers were led outside in handcuffs, grim gray eyes staring out from behind the bruises 'necessary' to arrest someone. His mother sat in the parlor, watching her two sons being carted away to the interment camps set up for those disloyal to the crown.

After the van with his brothers in it disappeared from sight the dream decided to forebear the tragedy of the next several years. Instead of the years of rations and starvation, abuse and cruelty handed down by the Protector he was transported across the rooftops to the moors. Consciously he was glad he didn't have to watch that again. The loss of his mother had tormented him all his life, and he was glad he didn't have to see it again in wretched detail.

The reality of the dream began to float away when he reached the moors. The empty hills were covered with formations of stone. As he stood on a hilltop with the morose skies floating above him he became aware of a movement behind him. He turned slowly to see a man towering above him. The giant was lifting stones from the earth to make the strange constructions that dotted the lonely hills. Michael gasped at the man's tremendous stature, at the noise giant turned to see what had made it. When he saw Michael he smiled, a gentle thunder, like that of the soft summer rains, questioned why he was there. Michael replied that he had been brought here without his consent.

The giant beamed and asked him if it was really so. Michael nodded and affirmation, but the giant still seemed quizzical. Was he sure that he hadn't been brought here on purpose, to learn what it was he truly desired? Was it really against his will, or just against what he forced himself to believe he wanted?

Under the great man's questioning Michael admitted that he was not entirely sure of the answers. With such honesty the giant became less interrogating and more friendly. Michael had come, the giant said, because he must. He was the subject of a fate far greater than himself, and he had come there to discover it, and find his part of that fate. Michael was not entirely convinced, he asked the giant why it had to be him, what made him so different than any other man. The giant knelt down next to him, he had come because he was the one needed, it was his differences from other men, but rather his similarities that made him the one required.

Michael asked the giant what made him so sure he understood the fates of the world. The giant rose, and parted his mantle to reveal the symbol upon his chest. The field of blue with an orange sun glowed with an other worldly light. Poor Michael Dunhill gasped again, it could not be that such a great hero really stood before him, yet there was no denying the crest of the Fiona. The giant asked if he understood. Michael could only whisper that he did, how could he not understand the great hero Finn Mac Cumhaill.

Finn Mac Cumhaill stood to his full height and looked out over the moors. After a moment of silence he turned to Michael and began to tell the history of the current world. He began with his death, the disbanding of the Fiona, the growth of Ireland, the troubled times, the forming of the Finn Eirann and their long, desperate struggle against the crown. Michael Dunhill already knew this story, after all he had sworn vengeance upon the head of his beloved mother and his path had led him already to the Finn Eirann. The naming of his pub Finneran's was no accident. Even though he knew the giant's story it would have been incredibly forward to interrupt such a man. And so Michael crossed his legs and sat upon the ground to wait the end of the giant's tale. Despite his existing knowledge of the story he found himself drawn in by the great man's rolling voice. In the midst of his rapture his conscious mind was checking off facts from the story against his knowledge of the Finn McCool lying on a cushion across the dark room from his sleeping body. The story of the Salmon of Wisdom rang over and over in his mind, the thought of the giant being burnt and placing his great thumb in his mouth to cool it, accidentally absorbing the wondrous knowledge, echoed through his memory.

After a long time the giant ceased his storytelling and turned to Michael. It told him, rather than asked, that he understood. Michael did understand, this was his future, it had been his from the beginning. He asked the giant how he should begin achieving his fate. Finn Mac Cumhaill smiled one last time and told him he had only to follow. After all, hadn't this story been written thousands of years ago, all that was left to do was follow it through to the end, and make sure that it unfolded the way it was told.

With this last piece of advice the giant went back to placing the great stones. Michael was borne up and away towards the ancient towers of Belfast. As he drew closer the towers seemed to age and crumble, by the time he was over the city it was the way he remembered it, dark and dismal. The unseen carrier brought him to the tenement where his body lay sleeping. As he entered and prepared to awake himself, the words of the giant echoed again through is mind, "Follow the one who will lead."

The Third Chapter

Seven men walked swiftly through the streets of Belfast. They were led by a young man who appeared to have engaged a wild lion in single combat. Through the streaks of blood and darkening bruises a pair of glowing green eyes stared at the buildings lining the street. These eyes were the most singular feature in a face that commanded attention, none of the features themselves were overpowering, each strong enough to hold its own, but not to take over. The crooked, one-sided grin gave a gentle touch to the face, while the fire behind those eyes belied the smile and left no mistake that this young man had a purpose. Below the face lay two broad muscular shoulders, rounded with heavy power. These shoulders had proved themselves capable of driving a fist into a man hard enough to break bone. The arms they supported were deceptively powerful, the hands broken from the recent fight and scarred from many before that. He was not a tall individual, he stood no more than five feet nine inches in sock feet, but he was clearly the type that was used to leading men in a fight.

Behind him walked the six best fighters from the evening's encounter at Finneran's. These men were also inspecting the buildings as they walked, yet they did it from curiousity, wondering what it was their leader was searching for. Their walking had taken them from the high streets near the pub, down into the slums, where the Black and Tans seldom traveled unless backed up by official police.

The buildings had faded from the quaint brick facade into a series of squat tenements, encased in concrete. Boarded windows had replaced geraniums, and street lamps were no longer friendly fireflies, casting their light on the buildings and lovers walking on the sidewalk. The magic of the shop window Ireland had disappeared, replaced by the harsh reality of Ireland under English rule.

At last the young man leading them turned into a courtyard on the left side of the street. Quickly through the door and up the steps to the second floor where he stopped at a door without a name on it. He pulled something from his pocket, the object was unidentifiable, but it was most certainly not a key. Five seconds later the door before him opened easily under his hand.

The seven slipped quickly inside where the young man pulled a string. The interior of the room was illuminated by a single bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. In the corner stood an old television supported on an orange crate. Couches and chairs in expected condition were scattered about the room with packing crates for end tables.

One of the younger followers dropped onto a couch and broke the silence, "I believe that you owe us an explanation."

The young man stood in the center of the room and motioned to the seats surrounding him. As the five left standing arranged themselves around the room he began to explain, "You have all been brought here because you will play an important role in the events of the near future. Tonight marked the beginning of what I believe will be a great period of turmoil and change in this country. I believe this because I have come here to effect this change. Many of you have already formed your own opinions of my identity and my origins. Anything I can say at this point will either be ignored, or discredited, therefore I shall refrain from a long winded story. Let it suffice to say that there is a group of people, both here in North Ireland and elsewhere, that would like to see an end to the English rule here. After many years of planning and studying they decided that this was the time to move forward. I am one of their agents, sent to fight for the freedom of Ireland."

Michael Dunhill raised an eyebrow, "So you have been sent here by a secret group of freedom fighters? And instead of bringing compatriots with you, instead you choose the first six people you meet during a drunken brawl. This hardly seems like a well laid out plan."

The green eyes softened for a second, "To you, Michael, this may seem like a random collection of men. However I feel that it is fate that brought this unique group together. While you may not realize it yet, each one of you has a specific purpose in this movement, else you would not have been chosen."

"For example," again the thumb went in the mouth, "Mr. Collins there."

A slender, but wiry, man with thinning hair and glasses widened his eyes, "Yes?"

The green eyes sparkled with hidden knowledge, "You, Mr. Collins are a photographer for a magazine."

The man with glasses gasped, "Why, yes! Yes, I am, but how did you know?"

The young man in the center of the room laughed, "You are because you must be. You must be because we need someone of your talents. Therefore you are, because we need you to be. This is the way of it. We were all chosen by fate, not because of anything we have done, but because of what we are going to do."

Right now there are reports being filed, and a squad has been sent to the pub to search for us. They will not find us, and that will make them nervous. Those two black and tans we left in the street will have woken up, and they will tell the searchers that there is are twenty devils about. Later tonight after the initial search has been abandoned, tensions will run high within the enforcers and the police. This is when we will make our first move."

For the next few hours the young man laid out the plan for those in the room. With a piece of charcoal a rough map of the city was drawn on the bare floor. Directions were given for movement and timing. Questions were asked and answers given, the men who began that first session were skeptical, yet as the time wore on they were soon on the edge of their seats, eyes glowing in the low light.

It became apparent soon enough that Michael Dunhill was the second in command of the small troop. The older man's gray eyes burned with a fire that hadn't been kindled for many years. His hands worked slowly around in his lap as his eyes darted back and forth over the map. The hair on top of his head was not white, instead it was the color of old iron. His face had been whipped by the harbor winds for many years, and the sting of the salt showed in the leather that had replaced the boyish face of years gone by. The wrinkles on his face were not made by smiling, in fact the one time he did smile all evening the lines bent like the grain of a board suddenly straightened after years of lying warped. His nose lay across his face like the path of a man who has forgotten something on the way home. One cauliflowered left ear gave away the years in the boxing ring. As if to enforce the point the thick neck that supported this visage ran away quickly down the sloped shoulders to arms that showed many years of hard labor. This was the current appearance of Michael Dunhill, many years out of Carrickfergus, and many thoughts away from that sunny harbor town.

Once the plan had been thoroughly laid out and all questions answered, it was decided to retire for an hours rest before the nights adventure began. While the other six lay down upon mats or couches the young man with green eyes went to the washroom and began to carefully wipe away the blood that caked his face and neck. Michael followed him as far as the door, "When it comes time to wake you, lad, by what name shall we call you?"

As the red water ran through his fingers the young one glanced in the mirror at Michael. "You can call me what you've been calling me in your head the whole time. Call me Finn."

The First Tangent

The sun beamed gently down on the waves lapping at the sea wall. This was not the same sun that looked down so sadly upon Belfast in the troubled times, this was the sun that danced merrily up and down over Carrickfergus some many years before. It was a gentle sun, a playful sun, much like the times and places it reigned over. Many years ago England didn't play nearly as heavy a part in the world around it. Back then Northern Ireland was just that, a free province of Irishmen. They had their differences with the Catholic Republic to the south, but each tended to their own fields, and peace was the predominant feeling.

Through the streets beneath this benevolent sun ran groups of children. Their joyful voices echoed off the walls, turning simple laughter into symphony. The bustling markets around them hawked fresh fish and all the latest trinkets to come in off the boats, or in on wagons from the surrounding County. The fishmonger's stand sent it's odor down the street, reminding all that this was a seaside town. The tourists wrinkled their noses, but to the children and old men this was the smell of home.

The fruit stand was a bustling place, always warding off groups of children who came to borrow a piece. Housewives in their best shopping clothes browsed through the beds of brightly colored morsels, trying to select the very best for their tables. A crew of masons came by moving to a new job, they stopped to fill a hod with shining oranges before moving on to the next site.

These were the simple times, the Secretary was far away in London, and the people were left to themselves, and doing quite well. No one saw the clouds on the horizon. Clouds there were, however, for the secretary had been replaced with a new man, and this new man had no intention of leaving people alone to rule themselves. People had to be governed, they had to be told what they could do, or else the entire fabric of society would tear apart.

In Carrickfergus there was no sign of the coming storm. The ancient gates and porticos bustled with activity and happiness. Out of this wonderful chaos a young boy of five sprinted towards the streets leading into the city. Lunch time was drawing near, and it was time for every child to be getting home lest mother be worried.

This one in particular had to hurry, for every morning he traveled down to the market to play with his friends, but because his family lived farther uptown he had farther to run when he forgot lunch time was drawing on, as he did every day. It was a mad dash at noon to be home before his mother found him to be absent, and put his lunch away, or gave it to one of his brothers.

It used to take him a full ten minutes to run from the wharf back to his house, but as the days wore on he learned the secret paths, as every boy will. With a cut down an alley and a quick scurry through a hole in a garden fence he could see the back of his house not far away. Three steps up the stones piled inside the fence on the other side and he leapt down into the back street that took him straight to his door.

The kitchen was quiet, four boys ranging in age from 7 to 14 sat around the table, calmly awaiting their midday meal. Into this tranquility stormed a whirl of arms and legs, still wiping the water from the washbasin outside from the attached eyes. This tumult spun to the end of the table and deposited itself in the form of a small boy with large gray eyes into the last chair.

With a slight smile the mother passed plates of sandwiches around the table. When she came to the end she sat down next to her youngest son, placed his lunch in front of him and asked, "Well, Michael, who were you today?"

The boys eyes widened, his breath drew in and he beamed, "I was Finn Mac, the giant of old." With the tap opened the stories poured out, describing the great battles fought all morning between the Irish hero and his loyal band against the marauding Vikings, English, Scots, monsters, demons and goblins. While she listened to the babbling stream of exuberance the mother could not help but feel some pity for the children unlucky enough to be elected to the marauding bands, for they never had a chance of winning. When the flow of words hesitated to take a breath she leaned over and kissed his forehead, "Don't forget, Michael, there are other men in this world than giants. Sometimes they are ordinary men that turn out to be the heroes."

The boy solemnly nodded his head, after all Mother knew a great deal, but obviously she had forgotten that great heroes were always giants.

Chapter the second

It was a quiet throng that watched as the young man rose. He wiped the blood from his mouth, ignoring the flow from the side of his head down his face and neck. The English crew had since fled the scene, hoping to avoid the fate of the black and tans. An older man in the crowd muttered, "You oughtn't to have done that. They'll be on us for sure."

The crowd murmured assent, it wasn't a pleasant thing to be on the wrong side of the black and tans. Their wrath was well know in this part of Belfast. The young man spat out blood and a piece of a tooth, "Do you not see it? We have them."

He was answered with silence, no one saw how they had the advantage over anyone. It had been far too long that the people here were driven into the ground under English boots. The province of Northern Ireland was only free in name, in all ways that mattered it was a protectorate of the Crown, with a governor appointed by the House of Lords. The plight of the Irish people here was a dire one indeed, they were the lowest class of citizens. They couldn't vote, demonstrate or bear arms. All that people in Belfast did from the day they were born was live so as to be invisible to the police and the state. When men felt brave they gathered around fireplaces in dark houses to tell the stories of old, of times when giants roamed the earth and kept Ireland free and safe. This was the reason there was no answer, every soul present felt what he meant, but none dared to consciously acknowledge it.

The young man spat again, "We have finally got the bastards right where we want them! Can't you see how this all plays out?" Again there was silence.

"Dammit all, am I the only one present who can look ahead and see what's about to happen? There is instability in the government, pressure is being applied from outside to force them to treat us better, and we have proven tonight that we have the ability to stand up for ourselves."

The young man's voice rose with passion and his brogue rolled off of his tongue into the darkest twilight of the streets. He spoke of the ancient ones, the warriors that had owned this land. He repeated over and over that this was the time for action. The crowd was beginning to grow visibly supportive when the same old man who had condemned him earlier asked, "What's your name, lad?"

The young man looked at him, "Don't you know me?"

The old man responded, "I don't know you. Where are you from?"

With a smile the young man stated, "If you knew me, you would know from whence I come," the young man popped a thumb in his mouth, then continued, "Michael Dunhill from Carrickfergus."

The old man raised an eyebrow, "That's a good parlor trick."

The young man placed his thumb in his mouth again, then went down the front row of the crowd, calling each by name and birthplace. County Down, County Antrim, County Armagh and County Londonderry. With each name he reeled off another man in the line began to nod his head. With each name the thumb went back in his mouth, only to be removed again for recitation of the next.

When he had finished he turned back to the old man and asked, "Have you seen enough? Or ought I to do the next row as well?"

The old man nodded, "That'll do, it's plain that your thumb does a lot of telling. But your tongue hasn't told us your name yet."

Another voice in the crowd piped up, "Isn't it plain? Only one man ever could know that much just by sucking his thumb. He's the great Finn McCuil!"

Instead of a cheer, a silence dropped on the crowd. All eyes were focused on the young man in front of them. Old Michael Dunhill's voice quivered as he asked, "How old are you, lad."

The young man smiled, "Would you believe me if I told you?"

Another murmur ran through the crowd. Surely this must be he, who else could fight like him, he's not tall enough, he fights well enough, he sounds like he's older than he looks, the thumb, the thumb, the thumb. What other hero in history has had such a definitive trait?

"We have to go," the young man said, "They'll be back on us soon enough, we need to find a place to lay quiet for a time. Then we'll come back out and teach them who's island they're on."

A cheer rose up from the crowd. How could they not? The legendary hero had returned to free them from the English. It was all the young man could do to calm them. He selected from their midst six men, all of whom had fought fiercely inside the pub. And so they went, the fate of a nation resting on the shoulders of seven men.

The first chapter

The evening shadows drew themselves about Finneran's Pub as a mantle drawn across a face, changing the familiar to the darkness of doubt. The buildings on this street were old, lacking in elegance what they made up for in mystery. These were the famous Old Streets of Belfast, the cobblestones had seen the passing of centuries, the brick walls whispered the secrets of generations and even the streetlamps glowed with their guarded knowledge of plot, purpose and espionage that pervaded this area.

Finneran's itself was a quiet building, standing back a pace from the sidewalk left it cowering in an alley all its own. As the old wood door was pushed open, leaving flakes of blue paint on the hand of the entrant, it revealed a scene of tempo driven madness. The calls for beer and whiskey echoed and re-echoed across the small room, filled beyond capacity by the most singular collection of patrons that the pub had seen in ages.

At first glance it was a swarm of Irishmen descended upon the small tavern for the purpose of celebrating the New Year, yet when one looked closer at the waitresses burdens the variety of the company stood out plainly. The pints slid down the bar to the old men who passed every evening with each other in this place, with no one left to turn to other than comrades in cups and tales of days gone by. Ales were borne across the doorway to the collection of English here for the New Years day match. Whiskey by the bottle flowed to the middle of the room and the waiting glasses of the younger Irishmen who loudly toasted the New Year, and less loudly the future of Erin's Isle, and muttered a curse at their English Governor. The collection of students across the back of the room was identified by bottles of Vodka for the Russians, Wine for the French, Schnapps, Grappa and Gin.

The friendly feeling in the room was weighted with tension as the time drained away, and the discrepancies between the English and Irish grew greater. The mutterings gained in volume, and became less veiled in meaning. Taunts began to fly back and forth between the crowds, with the travelers in the back of the room sitting quietly, hoping not to be noticed. The television showed a view of downtown London, where the crowds had gathered to count out the old year. The sight of a Union Jack flying in the square inspired one of the more passionate young Britons, who leapt to his feet and began singing 'God Save the Queen' at the top of his lungs. All of his comrades held their glasses aloft and chanted with him. When they had finished their final notes there was a thick silence in the room. Dozens of Irish eyes were locked on them, a quiet fire fanned by the passion of hate grew quickly until the blazing green could no longer be faced.

An old man at the end of the bar pushed off of his barstool and stood there teetering on the brink of balance. First quietly, in an unsteady voice, began the song. The old man looked firmly at the English as he began to swell with fervor, belting out the 'Rocky Road to Dublin'. A glass crashed against the bar near him, but he did not even pause for thought. Shouts rose from the front of the pub, and still the old man sang on. With a strangled cry the young one who began singing for the English sprang over a chair and backhanded the old man across the mouth, "You dogs'll have to learn that your howling is not wanted!"

In the silence that followed the group from the front stood and gathered around their mate. Up until this point their numbers had gone unnoticed, as had the relatively large size of most of them. With them all standing there in a group, however, it became quite apparent just how many and how large they were. The silence continued, as no solitary soul was willing to venture against so many strong men. The passionate one wiped his mouth with the same hand that had laid the old man low, he grinned evilly and muttered, "That's how you deal with dogs."

Even as he turned a voice raised itself and lilted across the tension to all ears, "Hunt the hare and turn him down the road and all the way to Dublin."

The young one whirled around to face the brave voice. It was an American. The American rose from his table and threaded his way towards the throng of angry Englishmen, all the while whistling and chuckling about a street fight in Edinburgh.

The Tommy cracked his neck and knuckles. Another grin passed across his face as he thought about how his fist would feel passing through this one's jaw. The American was right in front of him. There was an explosion from the Tommy's shoulder, and the American spun and fell onto a waiting table. With a laugh he raised a chair and brought it down across the American boy's back.

The American pushed himself to his feet and faced his attacker. The young one chuckled to him, "You should have stayed down." With a jerk he grabbed the American's lapels and drove his forehead towards his face. It never made it there. It was painfully slowly that he realized the American's hands had come up and pushed his own hands away. It was even more slowly that he saw the hands clench and sweep towards his face. This eternity occupied the half second it took the American to turn the situation and send the young Englander flying backwards into his comrades arms.

There was no hesitation on anyone's part. The American dove forward and buried another fist into the left eye of his foe. With a cry the Belfast boys finally moved and struck straight and true into the crowd of English. In less time than it takes to tell the English had been driven through the doors and windows of the pub.

Out in the street the fight continued to rage with the Tommys getting the worst of it. This attracted the attention of a pair of para-military enforcers down the block. They came swiftly running and began to lay about with their night sticks, driving the fighters apart. The trial was conducted on the spot, and there was never a chance for the defenders of Erin's honor. With a unanimous finger point the Englih identified the American who started the whole thing

The enforcers pulled him from the ranks of the irish, and with one blow from a club dropped him to his knees. The blows continued to rain down until the American fell prostrate on the cobblestones, blood flowing freely from several cuts. The enforcers ordered everyone back inside the pub, saying that they would take care of the offending individual. No mention was made of retribution for the Tommy who started the whole thing.

A stirring on the pavement behind them caused both enforcers to turn. The American had raised himself up to his knees again. With a grin that showed little but blood he began, "Come out you black and tans, come out and fight me like a man." The nearest enforcer stepped back and put all of his effort into swinging his club and the American's head. Before it could make contact though it was halted by the hand of the intended victim. The American twisted round and smiled into the enforcer's face, "Tell your wife how you won medals down in Flanders."

The second enforcer savagely cut at the head, but the head was no longer there. The American lunged forward into the knees of the first enforcer, a tearing pop echoed through the street at both knees gave way under the attack. The follow up too was ineffective as the American kicked like a mule, connecting solidly with one foot to create the pleasant sound of ribs breaking. A whirl and strike later the second enforcer crumpled to the pavement with a broken jaw.

The American, for so he was, though none yet knew it, turned to the crowd of dumbfounded Englishmen, "Tell your mothers, 'The Wild Geese have returned.'"

Tonight

The generations we know
love to put on a show
Cause the feelings we feel
Tell us everything's real
And the passion and anger
That fill up our minds
Convince us that nowhere
is a land of the kind

Hate is a thing that can take your life
Oh, nobody's growing old tonight
When you finally fall, to tired to fight
Oh, nobody's growing old tonight

So we pull back from extremes
And we live in the norm
But the truth is out there
Hidden in unfamiliar forms
From hostile takedowns to rational breakdowns
We've dissected the lies that we used to ignore
With jade for our hearts and a cynical mind
We're too apathetic to even follow the blind

Walk away from the stress and all the strife
But nobody's growing old tonight
When you're all alone and you missed your life
You'll see nobody's growing old tonight

The District Sleeps Alone Tonight

Tonight is interesting. It's been so long since I've written that I feel I should have some deep insightful opinions to share with you, but I don't. I have many deep-running emotions, but none of them lend readily to words. The Postal Service says it well, "I seem so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex". While I am not in any apartments, the sentiment holds true. I have a vision in my head, it is of me, my future, my destiny. However, to share it with anyone is madness, because none would understand. I am a paradox. I do not state this ironically in some emo self fulfilling dream of meaning that devolves into a love poem to the psyche. This sentence only makes sense if one has read the typical drivel of self-analyzing and situation-deploring that so often springs unwanted from tongues with no taste to fall unheard onto the concrete sidewalks where it fuels the fires of yet another narcissistic, indulgent 'artist' who cries against the 'machines cold heart'. There are some people out there who have true talent, these people are few and far between, and instead of loudly proclaiming their own ability they instead continue to write and sing and publish because it is what they love to do, not because it draws attention to them. If you're reading this you know who you are, tell Pandora I said hi (you're the latter, not the former).
My, I apparently did have opinions worth standing up on my soapbox of self-apparent superiority to express. I have some coherency beginning to form regarding emotions and other such things, however, I do not feel worthy of expressing them tonight. With that, I leave, feeling fulfilled that i have written, yet I did not make a point, nor did I convey emotion. Therefore i have failed both to express argument, or to create art. This is the fundamental difference between justifying one's existence, and living a meaningful life.


And now I have made a point.......thus, the paradox begins. /0

Pro Spem scribo, propter Spem pugno, cum Spem ibo

The frightened trapeze swinger

For starters, there is little better than standing around a camp fire, smoking hookah, and singing ska as loud as possible with a good group of friends.
I always wondered what drew the line between belief and knowledge. Tonight I've realized that there isn't one. Knowledge is belief. It must be, we don't notice it, but it is a conscious or unconscious decision to trust the inputs we receive as truth. We must choose at some level to decide what we will perceive as reality. I know that when a hand encounters a table saw a finger comes off, but I also know that when my grandfather used to 'pull his finger off' he was playing a trick. What is the difference? I used to believe he actually could pull a finger off, I knew it, but as I grew older my perception changed, and I believed in a different reality. With the saw, my perception hasn't changed, and I believe in that reality. Some people say that knowledge is based on facts, whereas belief is based on faith in unknowns. Well what are facts? Facts are things that we believe to be true so strongly that we don't question them. Things like, the earth is round, space is big, gravity pulls us down, these are facts. Then again these also used to be facts: the earth is flat, the sky is a roof on the earth, country music is good. What changed? Our perception? Our 'knowledge'? Our willingness to believe the things we experience.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not making the logical fallacy of saying that belief is knowledge. A=B, B~=A. Belief is having faith in what is truth without proof. God could come down and sign his name on your car, but if you choose not to believe in God, there is no knowledge of Him.

Really, that was just a rant of something I realized, not the actual point of the post, but it does sort of tie in nicely without being directly related. What point has to arrive before you realize that the gut feeling you have is not just a feeling, but a belief, and then a knowledge? Do you have to be shown proof? Or do you simply have to choose to believe strongly enough? I believe in something. Many do not approve, more don't understand, but that is their perception of reality. I'm not trying to disprove absolute objective truth, but who defines it? I agree it must exist, but right and wrong are a belief system. I believe in mine strongly enough that I feel (know) it is the right one, but that is my opinion. My opinion holds no weight in the jungles of Cameroon. The question is, once you identify a truth, once you realize a problem, can you really not acknowledge it? The question is not whether we should or should not act. The question is, can we rightfully justify inaction? I don't believe so. I do not relish the thought of people judging me harshly, being disappointed in me, or disapproving my actions, but in truth, the only real judge of my actions is not mortal. I must judge myself as I believe He would, in hopes that when the time comes for me to be judged in the only court that matters, I will be able to stand and say, "I did my best. It was not good enough, I fall on your mercy, but I did do my best. Forgive me, and accept what little enough I can offer." I'm not perfect, I'm not close, but I'm trying.


Pro Spem pugno

Kira

Lessons in domestication

Good morning dear reader, today, and probably for the next two days, we will be doing a bit on domestication and housekeeping. This is amusing because my mature big brother is our case study, and he is my primary follower on here, and, I'm kind of living with him for fall break.

Things to bear in mind, I do not have any false sense of being a good house(apartment)keeper. I am considered by college peers to be a slob, mediocre cook, and all around bum. Now then:

Lesson #1
Appropriate storage use

Beer is delicious
Beer is what's good
It makes us loquacious
But it's not really food
When in college we were
And Yoda was cool
One maintained a beer fridge
As a general rule
Yet as we are done
And on to real life
This you should remember
More goes in the damn refrigerator than just beer and good cheese and snack packs :)

Lesson #2
Proper food

When from whiskey I first weaned
At the meek age of three
There was naught I loved more
Than Chef Boyardee

But now I'm a man
I'm back on the bottle
This delectable dish
A distant memory
One does not make a dinner
On Chef Boyardee
Chicken nuggets and hot dogs
Macaroni and cheese
These are far better options
For an evening entree

That's all for now readers, I do have more lessons for tomorrow. Mom if you're reading this you should call and back me up.

Somewhere in the between

No, seriously. I mean, what else is there to do when you have to write and re-write everyone's slides and then write them scripts to go along with the slides so that you don't have time to review your own and end up winging it and still end up doing better than others so you have to help them improve and you remain mediocre.
Annnnnddd I love engineering. What I don't love is the arbitrary processes that are supposedly 'requisite' in American engineering society. Yeah, we have a code of ethics to stand up to, it's called help people and do it right. On the bright side I might have invented a new concept in my field, might have revolutionized everything, and become famous. Hooray bacon!
I totally got to run around in the woods today, crawling through deer runs and stuff looking for hazardous waste. Chyeah, love me some exploratizing.
And now I'm actually gonna go to bed, cause I'm past the sleep deprived slap happy part and on to the terminal depression part. Tomorrow is a long day, but it's another day.

"I'm not leaving this place
Unless I'm leaving with you
Cause you're the only person
With a half decent heart
And I know you will put it to use"

Our endless numbered days

I really should be asleep. But then again, there's a lot of things I really should do. It's kind of amusing in a sick and sad way, now that I know where I want to go, what I want to do, it terrifies me. As a far off dream it was okay, it was acceptable, but now that it's a tangible reality I am frightened away. What if I'm unworthy? What if I'm not able to live up to my own hopes? On the other hand there's the other fears, What if I let this chance go? What if I forget my dreams and become just another one?
My justification for my dream is this. I know that we're all put here to change the world in some way. For most of us, this will be a quietly significant way. It will be the loving of someone, the creation of children and loving them, who in turn will change the world in a quietly significant way. I won't deny that statistically this is what I will end up doing. However, as of now I have no prospects, no aspirations of that sort, so instead I must find my own way of changing the world. I refuse to plan to do nothing. Since I have no quiet prospects, I propose in my mind something a tad more garish, more my style. By and large my dream will be mocked, it's not the societal norm. I know and understand that the odds of me ending up with a prospect and settling down and living quietly opposed to following and achieving my dream is about 100-1 or greater. Should this occur I will reconcile myself to it gladly, because in the end, that might be my destiny. The changing of one moment, one day, one life.
The road from here is not easy, it is not marked, but the mountains lay spread out before me, and they call to me. No longer can I ignore them, I must take up my path and follow it where it leads. The path behind is nothing more than an access trail. I'm standing on the cliff, the plaque is here in the rock. So many have set out from this point, and none is the same, nor will I be.

This is Me, justified and stripped

So, it's kind of funny, taking personality surveys is something I abhor and find to be worthless in general. However, after taking two of them recently for a class I came to a realization. I didn't learn anything new about my strengths and weaknesses. I learned just how silly it is for me to take them. Each question, no matter what, both answers could potentially be mine. After thinking about this I realized why it was so silly, I might as well be two personalities. Sometimes I wonder where the quiet shy kid went from so long ago. This week I discovered where he went, or rather, why he went. When I became an SA it was imperative that I become something else, that I develop the ability to switch my personality like a lightbulb. On and off, on and off, time after time. After flicking my personality around like a switch for so long I wonder anymore which is the real me. Am I the quiet and shy boy from years ago? Am I the precocious and outgoing mentor that worked so hard to help people with their lives at the sacrifice of his own mental well-being? Or am I the third? This third one that has grown so much in the past year. The recognition of the stark realities of this world has left me jaded, my realization of weakness in myself and others has changed the way I see things. I have discovered despisal, abhorrence and hate. Some days it seems like that's all I remember.
Somehow, I think that I am none of them, or maybe all of them, combining again to form an animal of a completely different nature. Whatever it is it struggles and fights, continuously marching ahead into the darkness, only to run headfirst into a wall time and time again. Each time it picks itself up and sets out into the dark again, sometimes directly back into the wall it ran into.

On a completely different note, is it weird that after meeting an absolutely gorgeous girl who's nice, funny, easy to talk to and smart that I began considering her more as a little sister (despite her being just 1 year younger than me) before i even found out she has a boyfriend? If so, well, I'm weird, if not, well, it doesn't really matter anyway.
Sorry for not updating in a while, this whole school and having to invent and entirely new technology in the next two months is somewhat pressuring.

You must remember this
a kiss is just a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things in life
As time goes by

Iron & Wine

Sitting here at work, not much to do, listening to the Around the Well album. Wow! This guy's good. Take the poetry of Dylan or Simon, the voice of Damien Rice, and the guitar work that fades from Simon to Ry Cooder. My pants are dirty :( . That's what I get I guess for helping the delivery guys unload.

This is shaping up to be an eventful year. So far I've been contracted to invent sky hooks, I've already aced two quizzes, and I met a girl who's so far beyond ordinary as to be altogether surprising. Beer tastes good, family guy is still funny, homework has turned into project work which is much more fun. Oh, and the whole chance to make a lot of money thing, that's nice too. For right now though I gotta run, I might actually have work to do. Before I go, Butch Walker-Letters and Iron and Wine-Around the Well are stellar from what I've heard. These are two albums I'll be requesting int he near future. Check 'em out. Peace.

Mountains

This is. End of statement. No ifs ands or buts. This is life, life is this. Love, share, dream, do. We are not meant for these dilapidated shelters of fear. Our paths lie forward, up into the hills where the snows fall soft among the swaying pines. We see not one, but an array of peaks. All distant futures and dreams of serenity. As we set forth from our hovels and fires of present comforts we are aware that the path is dark and uncertain, we are cognizant of the danger and tribulations that lie before us. Yet we embark anyway without hesitation on what will be the greatest journey undertaken by mortals, that of life. We shall walk through the sun and the wind, when the breezes blow soft, and when the gales shake our very souls. The hills will try us, and the valleys will fill us with despair. Yet onward we shall walk, for this is not the destination. Our destination is not the next peak that we can see, but the one beyond it. The path will split, twist and turn until we might end up on a different mountain top that we originally intended. Does this make the peak we currently stand on any less worthy, any less majestic? No, it makes it ours. We can wish that we were on a different mountain top, or we can look around us and admire the views we currently have. Soon though it will be time for us to go, while the most beautiful panoramas are found at the very summit of the mountains, they offer no shelter, so we must plunge again to the valley floor before we begin the ascent of our next peak. So it goes, father to son, mother to daughter. This is love, this is joy, this is life. To love above self, to fight without fear, to forgive without hesitation, to seek beauty in every soul. Pax vobiscum fratris.


Kira

Ghosts of California Pt II

The summer wind waved the tall grass and the low bushes in the South Georgia heat. A tall rock to the east stood well above the meadow and commanded an excellent view all the way to the pecan orchards in the south. To the west there lay a few small trees and some thicker underbrush. Two men walked around that area and beat the bushes with sticks. Apart from the cracking of brush and the whisper of a specter audience from the fields there was a nerve-wracking silence, broken only by the muted static of a two-way radio.
Suddenly there came a deafening crack and a piece of metal clanged and then swung back and forth. Immediately the radios came to life and orders flew from the vehicles parked north of the target. The two men with sticks were joined by four more that were now searching with renewed vigor. Two officers stood in the back of a truck and scanned the brush with binoculars. One stared at a spot for a moment, and then tapped the other to draw his attention to the object. The second smiled, “We’ve got him this time. This will be one of my most enjoyable days.”
They both chuckled and then one spoke into a radio. The men out in the brush converged on the spot and poked their sticks into the bush that stood there, yet again, they did not find what they were looking for.
Again, there came that unnerving sound of impact and again the target swung in the breeze.
The senior officer swore, “Damn! How did he do that? We had him for sure.”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Well, he’s a fine soldier.” He picked up a bullhorn and spoke into it, “You win! You can come out now.”
The two waited expectantly to see a shadow move and their man appear, but nothing happened. There came a startled cry from the men in the brush and one of them gestured toward the rock formation. On the top of it stood a bush carrying a rifle.
The bush turned and jumped down from the rock. It began walking to the vehicles.
When it arrived it appeared to grab its chin and throw its head back, revealing the face of a grinning young man, smeared with dirt and charcoal.
The senior officer stepped down from the truck and extended a hand, “Congratulations, son, you passed. Better head back to the barracks and get cleaned up before evening role call, you look like you crawled out of a sewer.”
The young man saluted, “Thank you, Major. I did, on maneuvers this morning.”
The Major laughed and patted the young man on the back.

It was the ninth of September, when that young man walked into the recruiting office and joined a fledgling outfit known as the GHOSTs. The nickname stood for Guerrilla and Hidden Operations Strike Team. Many said that the ‘s’ on the end stood for Snipers. Be that as it may, it was an elite unit, intended for extremely dangerous missions behind enemy lines. The men were taught to live off the land, how to track, how to hunt small game with only a knife and, most importantly, how to do as much possible damage to the enemy without being harmed themselves. All that, and they were only just finished with Basic.
After that, things got tougher, guerrilla tactics, operating and disarming nuclear devices, jumping from airplanes, operating stolen equipment, sniping, camouflage, and psych warfare.
Then came the final test. The boots, often called ‘spooks’ or ‘haunts’ by the drill sergeants, were taught how to fly. Not how to pilot, they could already do that in their sleep, no, they were taught the fine art of being launched from an airplane several hundred feet above the earth at several times the speed of sound and coming down safely ready to fight. Since the system is wonderful to watch in use, I would love to explain it to you, however the technical details are highly guarded military secrets and I cannot reveal them lest I commit treason. Let it suffice to know that there was a special suit worn by the Ghosts for this kind of mission that enabled them to glide for short periods provided their speed was great enough.
After this training, the young man emerged alongside his mates, a lieutenant in charge of the 2nd platoon of the famous, in fact legendary, Ghost Company.

“Cass, you see that stump over there.”
Sergeant Jeffery “Casper” Kentworth nodded.
“Just to the right of it, behind that bush. You see it?”
“Yeah, lieutenant.”
“Range?”
“I make two hundred and fifty yards.”
“Close enough, I make it two forty-five.”
The lieutenant’s rifle barked.
“Good call, lieutenant, you got him.”
Lieutenant James Carver grinned, “Sure did. That will irritate Corporal Zane and Cpl. Logan.”
The two laughed together. It was about eighteen months after they had joined up; they had completed their intense training and were now simply staying prepared in case they were ordered out to battle.
Carver slowly stood, checking his surroundings all the while. It was habit now; it would have felt strange not to check. Cass rolled to his left and then rose so that he was several feet away from the lieutenant but still close enough for easy communication.
These two had been leaders from the start. The commanding officers had chosen them early on as possible officers and had made them buck sergeants. From that day forward, they had attracted attention as leaders. Many others came and went but these two stayed, and not only did James Carver do his best to keep his own boot chevrons but saw to it that Casper kept his. The men that had trained under their command had excelled all others. Now James was a lieutenant in charge of the 2nd Platoon and Casper had taken his place as Assistant Platoon Leader and commander of the 1st Squad in that platoon. What had set them apart was that they led instead of pushed; James was a firm believer in never asking his men to do something he would not do himself. He led the charges on fixed positions, if there was a difficult shot to take on maneuvers he took it. Any dangerous ‘missions’ were under his command or, if he was needed with the rest of the unit, Cass would lead. So it was that they were in command of one of the most lethal platoons in the most elite unit in the world when the war started.

I will not go in to the politics of the war, how it started and why, who was right and who was wrong. Some say that the U.S. had it coming to them. Others say that tyrannical dictators, trying to crush any semblance of freedom in the world, started the war. All I know is that it was war and there was a job for the Ghosts. Killing was their business, and business was good.
A coalition of Central and South American countries had invaded the Southwestern United States. It was broadcast on the news that there was sporadic skirmishing south of San Diego and east through Arizona and New Mexico, then down into West Texas. The real story was that San Diego fell, and two weeks later Los Angeles followed it. San Antonio was in danger and the enemy was overrunning Silver City and Tucson. The Americans were reeling back and trying to regroup after the onslaught. Someone decided that this was the perfect place to test how good the Ghosts really were.

Sunshine...details

Technically I'm about three days behind in posting the second chapter to the story...well, bite me. Three days ago I was under an overpass in Indy with rain blowing in on me and trucks going by at 70 mph and I was retying knots swollen with rain over and over again until they seemed secure. Two days ago I was manically cleaning, moving, setting up, and playing Halo. Yesterday...eh, let's face it, yesterday I was completely useless. Anyway, I'll put a new chapter up tomorrow for those of you that want to read it, those that don't, skip it. Here's a little rhyme to keep you entertained.

Softly sinking sunbursts and the red river rays
Do well to calm the aftershocks of haunting in your brain
But it's good to pass the ghosts in ghastly pupils often glazed
And the final fleeting sentiments will follow through the haze

Lying here in languid lazy lackluster shapes
Are toys that tell of toddlers teaching us to play
With whimsical enthusiasm wishing we were one
Till the alabaster albatross alights among the shades

So wearily I waited for a knock that never came
Wanting to forget the past upon this bed I lay
sneakily aslumber with a shaky sense of shame
It's a dogs life in digits dying pass away your days.

Ghosts of California Pt 1

Prologue:
“Times such as these, require heroes of a harder steel…”

Seldom is it given to a man to become a hero in his own lifetime. Even more rare is his passing into history, thence into story and legend, while he yet lives. Yet men such as this do dwell on the earth at all times. Often they are the man next door, the youth digging a ditch, the boy riding his bike, and the only thing that keeps them from being noticed, is that the normal fires of life do not rage hot enough to smelt them from the common iron.
When, however, the circumstances of the world around them call for it, these individuals are capable of rising to such heights, that their lives will become inspiration to a new generation of heroes, who cannot equal them, yet nevertheless aspire to show the courage and strength shown by their new idol.
And so men who in a quiet world would have gone unnoticed, suddenly find themselves in the fore, leading others to glory and death. Those that would follow them must eventually die, however those that lead need not fear, for even if they fall in battle, their names and lives will live on, told and retold until their greatest accomplishments in life have been eclipsed by those attributed to them by others.
Once in a great while however, times will arise that will call for heroes that stand taller than the legends of old. Times that will call for men so far above average that by mere virtue of accepting their fate they become irrevocably changed, and can never walk again as normal men. Men such as this never die, they merely fade away until all that remains are the stories, true stories so fantastic that they are believed legend, and legends that become myth, until the mortal nature of these men is lost entirely.
The only thing that is forgotten is the man himself, who can never return to normal life, and is condemned to wander forever a world that refuses to leave him at peace, and is simultaneously incapable of challenging him to new heights, or sending him through the door of death to eternal rest.
James Carver was destined to be such a man. Little did anyone suspect this young man would one day be a hero. No one expected times to arise that would call to light his superior will, courage and natural ability to lead. Not one person in his small Georgia hometown ever thought to themselves that this boy would grow up to be a legend among heroes, a warrior among soldiers, or the Commanding officer of the most efficient fighting unit that his country had ever seen.
Carver was a fun loving boy, like all boys, and he wanted nothing more from life than sunny day, when he was young, it was for playing in the yard, then for fishing, then baseball. As he grew older his sunny days became more and more mature, he worked on cars, laid concrete, planted crops, chopped firewood, yet through them all there was one constant. Whenever the trees bowed in a breeze James Carver would stop whatever it was he was doing, and enjoy his life.
By the time he reached high-school he had decided that he was in love. He never fell in love, never tumbled head over heels, instead he grew up with her, day after day they were friends. Until one day when the two of them were walking in the woods.
They had stopped to rest on a flat rock, when a slight buzzing caught their attention. As they both turned the snake on the rock behind her struck. Without batting an eye James reached out his hand and caught the snake around the neck before it could bite her.
This single act, the reaction of a split second caused both of them to realize two very different things. She realized that he was not an ordinary boy, and because of her telling of the story he became a local hero. Every girl at the school longed to be with the boy who caught a snake barehanded. His actions were those of a hero, one with ability beyond that of others, saving the innocent from danger.
He interpreted the action differently. He viewed it as a colossally stupid move made because of a subconscious will to protect this girl at all costs. James Carver had not believed that he could actually catch the snake, he merely wanted to keep it from biting her. It was at this moment that James Carver realized that he was in love with Katherine Jacobs.
James was no fool, he recognized even at a young age that he would need something to show if he were to propose to Kate. He had seen his father and older brother go to work at the factory, scraping enough each week just to stay alive. That was not the life that he wanted to offer Kate. He wanted to offer her something a little more secure, nothing fancy, but not tiptoeing the line his father walked.
To accomplish his goal he needed an education, and to get that education he needed money, neither of these were things that he had. Then one night he and two of his friends were sitting on his back porch drinking a beer and discussing their pipe dreams.

One of James’ teammates threw his empty can at the back of the trailer and swore, “Hell, we ain’t never getting out of this town. We can dream, we can talk, but it ain’t never going to do no good. Born poor, raised poor, live poor, die poor. It won’t change just because we’re young and we want it to.”
Jeffery Kentworth, James’ best friend for years, wrapped his hands around his can, “Sure it can. I turn eighteen tomorrow, and I’m walking down to the recruiter. I’ll get out.”
The first one to speak scoffed at Jeffery’s plan. He called it ridiculous, risking your life for nothing, foolhardy, and many other things. Jeffery only nodded his head and watched the sun setting. James saw in his best friend’s eyes the silent resolve to get out. Silently, not wanting to say things he couldn’t back up, he wondered about the military. He had never given it a thought, but now that Jeffery was going to join, it made sense.
James knew that his talents were limited to the physical realm, but he did have an ability. Even after the other two had left James sat on his back porch thinking. It was a relatively peaceful time in the world, the terms only lasted four years. The odds of him dying in combat when there wasn’t a war going on were incredibly small, and benefits would be enough to take the risk.
After all, in four years Kate would be a nurse, or a teacher, and he could come home, he could save enough money to last them while he went to school and learned a useful trade.
He pursed his lips and pulled the tab off of his last beer, he smiled as he flicked it towards the house, he had been drinking for years, and it had never been novel. Even the first night his father let him drink at home, he felt like it was just a way to unwind after a rough day. It had become a tradition for his father, brother and himself to spend Friday evening drinking and talking. Since his mom died when he was young, and his father had never remarried, there was no one to object.
At last his thoughts resolved themselves. He looked up at the moon, already high in the sky and smiled, it might be his last night here for a while, but he’d be back, and when he came back he would have something to offer her.
Slowly he stood, savoring the hot stillness of the summer night air, the singing of the tree frogs down by the creek as the crickets harmonized. Tomorrow he would join Jeffery on his walk to the recruiter, the cicadas would play them a farewell march, and he would be on his way to being somebody.

Stories and such

Awright chilluns, we's gwan do this proper. I intend to start posting a story or two as serials on here, since they're too long for one post. Hopefully it will be a weekly thing. Some of them don't divide nicely into chapters so it might be uneven. The second story and conclusion are still in development, so it may be a while until they come out to play. Till then I shall do my best to entertain you in various and sundry ways.

Turn back drop the bottle pop
Everybody knows that you gotta stop
With the flows here we go let your nose
Guide you cause it isn't gonna find you
Going by the back streets
This is how a heart beats
Never know the pattern I just listen to the rhythm
Let the sound control your body plug yourself into the system
Uh-oh here we go made a joke now it's told
On playgrounds and there's sounds of parents anger
Don't blame me cause your kid is spitting oaths
You should remember take a lesson get involved in his life
Cause, not because, the change in his jokes
His mouth is dirty but that's not an accident
Maybe you should practice this thing called parenting
Heaven forbid we teach a child right from wrong
Let them learn how it goes in the movies and the songs
Alcohol, drugs, rock'n'roll are in
And they'll pick 'em up if you don't tell 'em about sin
Yes, no, here we go tell me white from black
Never thought you'd hear another kid talking back
But respect isn't given it's gotta be earned
And parents never in the house won't get a turn
So the kids turn to friends who turn to me to tell them when
But I'm just as messed up as any of them
Point your fingers in a circle till it comes back again
Finally the problem'll be identified then

Rendezvous with the future
Or is that what we forgot
Don't tell me what to do
When you pop pills to stay on top

Prozac, valium, percoset and helium
Ritalin, alcohol, nicotine and vicodin
Drugs are our culture hiding from the world
Sure they have their uses like helping boys to get with girls
Wait no, uh-oh, I shouldn't have said that
I might have offended you, too late to take back
Like I really care what you think about this song
See caring is like sharing it helps us all to get along
Too bad I'm not in preschool I might even act like I care
But your fashion money lifestyle isn't getting you no where
So blame it all on culture, music and the world
Whatever helps you sleep knowing you forgot your baby girl.

Rendezvous with the future
Or is that what we forgot
If we want to make a difference
We need to hold on to what we got

Music

So, I got asked recently what kind of music I listen to, and I really didn't know what to say. I mean, everyone says, "Oh, I listen to it all...except this, or that, and that totally sucks." Do they really listen to it all? doubtful indeed sir.

So, what do I listen to? currently I'm jamming to some Shane McGowan. Post Pogues he went solo and tore the country to pieces in a figuratively awesome way.
Of course and always, Streetlight. I sometimes wonder how much I mean this, then I listen again and realize I mean it a lot, they are my favorite band, end statement, no question. They take ska from cheesy "Hurrr, punk with brass instruments, hurrr" to an art form. A lot of the fill music and solos they play are Jazz quality. As someone who's listened extensivelyl to Miles Davis and charlie Parker I'm qualified to judge jazz. the drumming is phenomenal, the tunes are upbeat, and not gonna lie, the few times the guitarist does go on a rampage he does it properly.

Other bands I quite enjoy and need more of their stuff include but are not limited to, Nightwish, Blitzen Trapper, Great Big Sea, Tyrone Wells, Mike Ness, Flogging Molly, Egypt Central...blah blah blah are you even listening anymore? Anyway, ending superiority diatribe. Here's a few lyrics though from a truly great song to start off your weekend.

"Oh the wind it blows to the north and south, it blows to the east and west
I'll be just like the wind my love for I will have no rest
Till I return to thee." -Aisling

Traffic and Weather

I swear, this post is serious. This is a true crying out of anguish in my soul, the angst in my heart cannot be contained any longer. Aw nuts, it's just messing around again. I would swear that the title means something and I'll talk about frustrations with cars and rainfall, but really it's just what's on. Hmm...odd enough...ya know what would rock? If Traffic and Weather Report did an album together with Story of the Year. Insert obligatory news joke.

Today is sad, I have no fruit snacks. :( I'm still a Viking though. Apparently Hrothgar the Norse god (read funny story character not in any way real) of Awesome wrote a letter to the editor of this movie that is my life and told him that I would have the most awesome weekend in the history of men chasing women and hitting other men with an axe and drinking meade. Yeah, Vikings. [don't know how long I'll be on this viking kick, settle down for a long hulled ship (that was awful {awful as in truly awesomely bad on a scale usually only reached by sci-fi channel original movies}) I should stop priority sorting my blogs]

Previous deviation from standard grammar can be blamed on my mother, she spoke of the over use of commas in writing, so I decided, "commas? forget that, I'll use bracketing and semi-colons to denote that stuff; see?"

But seriously, weekend plans, Suit shopping (suits=awesome), Six flags with fast pass and friends (lines~=awesome), Braves game with girl (;) winking smiley wants you to know that said specific girl is awesome and so are the tickets), GI Joe movie with brother and bro's friend (introducing new generation to awesomeness of GI Joe and the Baroness's rocking boobage)

This was supposed to be a music review about the subtle solo's and beautiful jazz influence mixed with punk that is Streetlight Manifesto. I'll skip that, if you're awesome you'll go check them out anyway, cause Vikings like them and vikings are AWESOME!

Colliding worlds and parting ways

Initial note, shark fruit snacks are just as awesome as dinosaur ones. While Churchill was an advocate of dinosaurs, it's a known fact that Vikings preferred sharks, and vikings are rad. Hmm? You didn't know that fact? Well I guess that makes 'you' O. That's you, and that's how out of the loop you are, now go cry tears of shame for not being awesome like Vikings.

anyway, this post really has nothing to do with the title...or does it? Let's play a game called "Can you guess the hidden meaning in the title while I laugh at you for playing a stupid game instead of eating fruit snacks and being a Viking?!" Yeah! homohibilusdiscoveringopposablethumbssayswhat...man, this is not your day.

Why am I openly mocking my reader? Because I feel rather ridiculous myself today and I decided you should share in that. I have discovered ridiculousity through repeated inquiry returning null set. When attempting to solve the equation x+v*t+1/2*a^2*t the loop exits and program terminates without closing to zero.

So, what do you do when you wake up and realize you're not who you want to be, the road in front of you isn't the one you took, and the day is drawing to an end. You can't turn around, you have to go forward and make due before night falls. Or ya know, you could just man up, pick up the freaking road, put it back where it needs to be and start walking. However, the likelyhood is that you will simply stumble forward improvising and trying to work your way back to your destination until you find yourself in an entirely new unknown place.

Remember, kids, "Life is a cesspool. Dig it."

Music and such

Lunch break at work, leads to music reviews. Why is there a comma there? Because I chose to put one there. Anyways, got into some different music while working here. Usually my playlist is dominated by Irish music (due to the deep seated rebel tones in the lyrics) Streetlight Manifesto (due to the upbeat happy music backing predominantly depressing lyrics that portray the reality of life and death). side note, in the words of the famous Winston Churchill, "Dinosaur fruit snacks? Hell yeah! If you don't like them, you're probably a nazi." Now, did Winnie really say that? I dare you to prove he didn't, the burden of proof lies with the negative, try not to embarrass yourself too much. Anyway, music.

The Killers-Hot Fuss

This album is old, it's not new, if it were new I'd be telling you something you didn't know. This album rocks. The singles off of it are Mr. Brightside, Somebody Told me, and Smile like you Mean it. Honestly, probably the most mediocre tracks on the album. If your experience with the Killers is over the radio, check out the album. The tracks Jenny Was a Friend of Mine, Ballad of Michael Valentine, and Believe me Natalie are great. For being a 'pop' rock band they have some actual musical talent. Their lyrics are interesting, often tell a story without being bland, oh, and the blues inflections done by the guitarist on Ballad demonstrate chops. Sadly there are some less than mediocre tracks (as with all albums) that really drag this one down.
Thumbs, stars, cred, props and such are for utter pansies unable to come up with anything more creative. People that couldn't improvise a wet fart after a bean burrito dinner. I'm going to rate this on my own damn scale. This album is a Pyrat XO rum. It's fairly common, most people regard it as cheap and overrated, however it's a well built solid pleasure that has subtle complexities that you discover each time you enjoy it.

"Baby, baby don't be so shy. Rock children hold your heads up high."

Sounds of Silence

Preface: here it is, it's not a zombie story, it's a story set in a zombie scene. While not written for the scare factor if you are easily scared you might want to skip this post. Yes, I know it's rough, it was written at one sitting. I make no claims, and I make no apologies, like it or lump it.

“Let man never forget that he was born in darkness, raised blind and will die alone. This is the solemn truth, that prejudice, hatred, and bigotry are all born of fear. All created in our mind from ignorance, changing friends to foes, people to monsters, and peace into terror.”

The red light glowed from the exit sign above Dmitri’s head. His eyes were accustomed to it, and the shapes around him stood out starkly from the pale walls. Left, right, up and down his eyeballs flicked. Trying to see everything simultaneously. From the corners of his sight the palm tree decorations seemed to rustle and grow into something far more formidable, so he would turn quickly to look at them, but again they were mere plastic and wicker.
He heard a groan and clenched his fists in preparation to fight before he realized it was his own voice. Just how long he had been sitting there he no longer remembered. His back itched so he scratched absentmindedly as he tried to recall when he had first sat against the wall. What had once been a sharp young mind darted back and forth, calling up images and noises that followed no order. He saw clearly a young man somewhat like himself walking into this old hotel with several others. They walked among the halls, jesting at the state of dilapidation. Gradually the images changed tone, one of the group screamed at another for no apparent reason. The mood continued to cloud as eyes changed from bright to brooding, a deep anger brewing in each mind. A room, suddenly all he could see was a room. On the wall there was red streaking. As the image rotated it became a series of words that trailed off in an arc to the floor. Dmitri sensed that the words of the image held some significance, but as hard as he tried he could not control his own memories to show them again. A door slammed somewhere, Dmitri could no longer tell if it was in his mind or outside his hallway. The images in his head swept left to show another member of the group panting and coughing up blood. The other man slowly looked up and the horror filled Dmitri all over again. The man’s eyes were no longer white with blue in the middle, instead they were bright green with a red center. The other man’s face contorted with fear as he looked around the rest of the group. He involuntarily licked his lips and Dmitri recoiled from the sight. Suddenly the man lunged at Dmitri screaming and trying to choke him.
Dmitri’s memories were so vivid that his body turned and tried to climb up the wall behind him to escape from the man. He could feel the man’s hands tearing at his throat, the man’s teeth lashing at Dmitri’s arms. Suddenly the sensation left and Dmitri lay back and watched as his mind showed the other men of the group seizing the afflicted one and crushing him with whatever objects lay at hand. As he lay there panting both in his mind and in the hall Dmitri could only see the dead man’s tongue, it was spotted with mold.
The next eternity was spent watching short bits of events that had culminated in the hall. The images were jerky and jumped from scene to scene wildly. Through it all Dmitri’s eyes darted back and forth seeing his past as a third party and frantically scanning the hallway for any signs of disturbance. Suddenly it all cleared, the images became coherent and for a brief span of time Dmitri was himself again. He saw it all, the realization that the mold was infecting them, then the terrifying moment when they learned that they were not alone in the hotel.
Dmitri pawed through his pockets till he found his wallet. He pulled a picture out of the sleeve and gazed at her. He was himself again, he was Dmitri. He didn’t know how long it would be till it got to him too, but for this moment he was aware, and all he thought about was her. “Diana…” the words trailed off. Even his own voice sounded foreign. He wished she were here, he would hold her and forget all that was happening outside. His finger slid slowly down the glossy image, caressing her cheek, “Diana, I’m sorry.”
He heard a sound outside, something in the ballroom beyond the wall had knocked over a chair. Dmitri knew what it was, it was someone driven mad by the mold. All reason gone they were skulking along the walls hiding from all others, savagely attacking those that they encountered out of fear. He knew that he should crawl to the window and look out, but Dmitri was shrinking back. He wanted to go out, to see, to stop hiding in the dark hallway, but Dmitri was too afraid. He pulled at Dmitri, trying to force him to look. Dmitri slowly moved towards the door, fear welling up inside of himself. Dmitri knew what this was, this was the transformation, the welling up of fear that would dominate his every action. Dmitri tried to resist, he clung frantically to the carpet and his clarity. The thoughts that had raced through his mind returned more vivid than before. He was standing up, peering out the side of the window. He could see shapes moving around outside, anger began to build inside. He was tired of being afraid, tired of hiding from those things. His arm muscles flexed and his lips pulled back as he snarled at the ones outside. He knew he was stronger than them, he would show them, they would see that they couldn’t scare him, no one could. He wasn’t afraid of her, he wasn’t afraid to show her what he was, they would all see.
Dmitri fought with him, screaming inside his mind against the change. Dmitri saw his intentions. Dmitri knew that he was strong, nothing would stop him. Dmitri shrugged and was surprised to see his shoulders move. In his mind Dmitri smiled slightly, I won’t let you go dammit, I’ll never let you touch her.
He laughed, he felt Dmitri struggling against him, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Dmitri submitted. He tilted back his head roared against the terror. The ones outside shrank away from the door. He smiled, soon they would find out what he was.
Dmitri seized his hand and forced it into his pocket. The hand retrieved a paper clip that was already bent out of shape. Too late he realized what Dmitri was doing. With one final effort, one last great exertion, Dmitri plunged the paperclip into the nearby white plastic socket. Dmitri wasn’t afraid anymore, Dmitri was calm. He screamed in anger and fear as he waited an eternity for the spark he knew was coming.
For one second Dmitri and he were again the same, one split second united them for all eternity. I’ve got you, you bastard. Di…

“Hello darkness my old friend…”

Irony

This post isn't really about anything. It's to maintain sanity. I'm currently writing a story, and this story is beginning to take on a somewhat dark tone. I don't do well with horror movies/stories/whatever so I'm taking periodic (read frequent) breaks to maintain balance and a sense of reality. What's that you say? Listen to mitch hedberg while writing horror stories? Okay.

Whew, second break. I had no clue I was able to write stuff creepy like this. Just a warning, I'm not planning to post said story on here, I might post the beginning paragraph, if you're interested in reading it all just tell me and I'll email you a copy. Okay, back to the gig, time to move from scary to mental.

Um...wow. Yeah, I'm not gonna be able to sleep tonight. Anyway, the first part is crap, but I feel pretty good about the last part. So, maybe I lied, I might post it on here. If I do it will be clearly marked, and if you're not into that kind of story, I strongly advise you not to read it.

Well, that's all, time for bed. On a brighter note two new songs in the works, one's decent, one's...okay. Will post when completed.

The Arnold Palmer

This entry is dedicated to the Daytona Crew. Phil, Troy, Brandon, Bill, Ray, Dave, Steve. This was the greatest group of guys you could pick to spend four weeks going through the crappiest hotels in Daytona. We kept things light, always joking despite the fact that we walked through crime scenes, faced actual danger from mold inhalation(finally put on the masks) and just in general had to put up with more crap than we cared to. The Deck was our retreat. It's lower room was at beach level, no glass or anything separating you from the ocean breeze, soft salt blowing through your hair as you enjoyed a beer...or four to unwind after work. I was introduced to a new world, the world of the traveling consultant. We are the few, the proud, the ones who don't have a home life. I can't say that I long to be just like them, but I do admire them, and find the concept to be somewhat tempting. I was introduced to a new drink, the Arnold Palmer. A florida classic it's simply made with unsweet tea and lemonade split 50-50. It cuts the overly sweet or sour taste of the lemonade while also adding flavor to unsweet tea (let's face it, unsweet tea is pretty rotten stuff).
This was the taste today as I left, it was bittersweet quite literally. I was glad to be finished with a project that I had labored on for 4 weeks, and I was sad to see the crew break up. Prose no longer sufficient, I turn to an ancient muse. The bog-sprite Lagavulin loosens my tongue and bids me sing.

It was a sunny morning when I pulled into here
Eager for the chance to make new start clear
When the wind blew my hair as I crossed over the bay
I knew something was a head of me on the road today
But I wasn't sure what I'd find here at 92 and A1A

It was a breezy evening when I sat at the bar
Mumbling about sore feet dragging me in from the car
It was a gloomy end to work when I looked up from my place
To see the ocean rocking gently and the caps on the waves
But I wasn't sure about tomorrow here at 92 and A1A

It was a rainy night as I walked down the strip
Crying about you and how I couldn't forget
The sand blew in my face and my eyes filled with flame
From my knees the lights in the towers were like sprites in the rain
But I wasn't sure how I'd gotten here to 92 and A1A

It was a clear afternoon when I drove away from the sand
I'd been beaten and offered no helping hand
My soul was at peace for I'd done what I had planned
Between surf shops and shanties and men shackled to land
I'd seen Heaven and beauty in a young mother's eyes
I've seen futures and pasts in the ocean and skies
It's as a new man that I'm leaving in the left lane
But it's because what I learned here at 92 and A1A

thought for the day

A bullet never created anything, but love never stopped a tyrant.

Five percent pleasure and Fifty percent pain

It's that time now. What's in a name? Would a rose by any other name smell as sweet? How much of identity is wrapped into a moniker? We instantly associate words based on our conceptions of them, "rose" means love, friendship, peace...take you pick. It certainly doesn't bear a connotation of dung heap. Call it a dung heap, would it smell as sweet? Would you choose to smell it? So often we make assumptions about people and things based on their names, or nicknames. Biff is a jock, Heather's probably blonde, Eugene probably hasn't had a date in six years, and Olga probably owns a viking helmet. This is the reason for my explanation.

Kira Karamazov. Already it's a contradiction. It is in and of itself absurd. The mixing of two cultures, Japanese and Russian, is the spring board of this absurdity. I doubt you could find anyone who would argue that the cultures are very much alike. It is two names from two very different worlds.

Taken at the level of inspiration also, it's a contradiction, a paradox. Karamazov comes not to quietly from the novel The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Kira is a bit more generic. The name in this instance however was lifted shamelessly from the Gundam anime series (Gundam Seed and Seed Destiny to be specific). This is the second paradox, to pull one's identity both from a novel of classic literature, and a modern animated tv show. The cultures again clash, not so much from a geographic sense this time, but a chronologic sense. It is two names from two very different times.

Karamazov is easy to explain, difficult to understand. It seems as though Dostoevsky uses the name in the phrase, "After all, I am a Karamazov" to express something more than family attachment. In the book, the Karamazov family patron is described as a sensualist, a perverse old man given entirely to self satisfaction. His three sons all take different roads in their lives, yet they all recognize the genetic proclivity towards self indulgence. It is almost as though the author, in the describing of the family, is instead talking about humanity as a whole. While all of the characters in the novel have their share of faults, the Karamazov's are the natural sins of mankind as a whole. While Dmitri is himself a sensualist, Ivan is a scholar, Alyosha is a lover and man of God. Dostoevsky himself said that the three sons are himself at different stages in his life, yet in their natures he captures all of mankind at once.
For me, it embodies my own nature. I am a thinker, I strive to be a lover, and I am a fighter, yet in all these three I am given to corruption just as every person is. Hence the surname, after all, aren't we all Karamazov's?

Now for the interesting part. Kira. Kira Yamato, coordinator. He is the perfect product of genetic engineering. He is pulled into a war he wants no part in, and ends up fighting to protect his friends. Along the way, the primary struggle he faces is this, When does wrong become right? When does evil become justified? At what point does war and fighting become a necessity. The answer is invariably the same, when the lives of the innocent are at stake. When your enemy is so corrupt and powerful that the only way to protect the innocent is by striking back, without thought, without hesitation against the monster. When the enemy makes it clear that there is no alternative that will prevent an atrocity.
The secondary question, who are the innocent? The natural and instinctive answer is civilians. However, the question is raised, at what point must the civilians who empowered the enemy take responsibility? Tyrants do not appear, they are made, carefully, by a knowing party who desires the ends that the tyrant can obtain.
This is a struggle I believe our society has a particularly difficult time with. No one wants to take responsibility for their actions. No one likes the thought of killing, but at some point it does become a necessity. For the protection of the innocent, the imprisonment or execution of the evil is a necessity.

I will be the first to say that this concept is absurd. At the same time, it is a concept that must be considered, it must be thought about in a rational manner for justice to be served instead of vigilantism. That makes it necessary. This is the necessary absurdity.

This is the contradiction, these are the two sides of the coin. Wickedness and justice. Who are we to judge? We are sinful by nature as well, and God is Loving. Who are we to stand back? We are God's image, and God is Just. Who are we to be apathetic, after all it's not us getting hurt? We are human, and this is humanity.

Kira Karamazov is a person of sinful nature, held to a higher ideal.

Travel Log: Endeavor

So this evening, after a round of drinks at the Deck (as usual) we decided to take a chance on going to see the shuttle launch. Normally I would have decided to stay at the hotel and sleep, but after all, how many times in your life do you get a chance to see something like that. So we drove down to Ponce Inlet to the lighthouse. We hadn't been at the top five minutes when a ball of flame erupted to the south. We all gazed transfixed as the ball became a stream of fire pushing away from the cape. The setting sun glinted off of the shuttle at the tip of the trail. As it arced up and out to sea the flame sputtered, then re-ignited and the first stage split apart and the debris floated towards the ocean. It's amazing how slowly something seems to move when it's almost 70 miles away and miles in the air.
Then, just like that, it was gone, the fire, the glint, the trail of smoke, just vanished. Everyone at the top turned and walked down the stairs. Not wanting to be in the press down the narrow flights of steps I turned out to look at the ocean. To the north of Ponce inlet lay Wilbur by the Sea then the Daytona strip. There were thunderheads rolling over the Daytona highrises, sheets of rain pouring down obscured the northern end of the beach. The lightning danced through the clouds 10 miles up the strip. I waited expectantly for the thunder out of habit, even though it wouldn't travel that far, then all at once it hit. Except it was distinctly coming from the other direction, and it didn't stop. It took me a second to realize the thunder I was hearing was actually the roar of the rocket, 50+/- south of me.
So I sat there for five minutes or so, looking out at the ocean, watching the rain, and listening to thunder, all while the sun shone overhead. Man florida's wacky.

Travel Log: Irena

Her name was Irena. She swayed slowly down the aisle to my row on the airplane. Now, understand, swaying gently down an airplane aisle is about as easy to do as pirouette in a church pew. Her hair was a natural golden blonde, and offsetting the anticipated blue eyes instead she had deep brown eyes that shone when she smiled. blah blah blah, cute flowery bs. She was hot. They ended up sitting across from me. Her mother was German, her father French. They had caught the flight over from Frankfurt, then down to Orlando for holiday. My french is somewhat lacking but I'm fairly certain her father was a banker and met the mother in germany while studying there...or maybe on business...dunno. Anyway, in short, she was gorgeous. Didn't talk much, but she had a beautiful voice, very little accent. We landed in Orlando, walked together to the baggage claim, then she left, I wished her a happy holiday.
It's late, maybe more on other subjects later. Bear in mind I make no guarantee of absolute truth in these writings, only that at the very core there is a kernel of truth.

Ghost of a Hero

Black army fatigues did anything but blend in with the well lit garden wall. Combat boots tapping slowly against the brick pavement clicked loudly across the full parking lot. Underneath the resting soldier the brick wall abruptly ended its travels from the side of the church. In the gleam of the lights one could see the ghostly branches of the birch trees growing just outside the wall, peering over it's top into the garden of the hero.
There was a metallic rasping, once, twice, and finally a flare of light as the soldier lit a cigarette. A long breath set the flame deep within the tobacco. The soldier turned and blew smoke over his shoulder, noting the statue set in the middle of the garden. St. Michael stood there, sword raised over his head as he looked to heaven for the signal to end the dragon. As the smoke diffused upward towards the statues face the old soldier nodded to it, winking at the ethereal warrior and murmuring something about long nights away from home.
He gazed out at the parking lot filled with cars, each one carrying a family to Christmas eve services. In his mind he knew exactly what each one looked like inside the heavy church doors. Small children, their faces lit by candles, watched expectantly and waited. Their youth and innocence kept them from understanding the full implications in the world around them, however they could sense a peace and calm in the light cast by a thousand candles. The thought crossed his mind that at one time he had been just such a child, bright eyed and naive. Then fate had caught up to him. A soul tortured by past sins had turned to fighting for justice as a way to atone for his crimes. Yet with each child he protected he had to kill another man, and the demons that now clawed at his heart were far greater than the ones he had been trying to appease in the beginning.
Snow began to fall from the sky, at first the small white flakes were indistinguishable from the stars above, but gradually they gained sway over the night until the stars disappeared. The falling crystals caught every passing sound and gently scolded it for disturbing such a night.
The soldier shook his head and put up a hood to protect himself. All these thoughts of innocence and peace would have once troubled his mind, however, he now knew that he was the one meant for this. He was the man destined to carry the burden. Deep within him he understood that he could not forgive, could not bring himself to be forgiven. All he could do was protect the innocent so that in time, they would be able to forgive others. It was not given to him to save them, only to preserve them so that they could be saved by another.
Slowly the church doors were opened and a joyous throng issued forth, singing carols. Even their exuberant cries however were immediately hushed at the sight of the falling snow. The soft quiet of the night insisted upon respect, and they gave it. A woman, who had been young not long ago, stepped quietly across the threshold of the church. At her side a man walked who had limped in his left knee.
A glimmer of recognition darted through the soldier's eyes as he saw them. To any passers-by it was apparent that he cared for the woman. It was not clear whether she was a sister, a lover or a friend, what was clear was that he was happy for her. He knew the man with her, by reputation or personally, and was confident that the man would care for her as he himself could not.
Her gaze passed over the wall where the soldier sat, it hesitated at the sight of his face. A memory passed across her countenance as her lips mouthed a name, but the name was lost in the falling snow.
She started to change direction towards him. Her step hastened a little. For the first time in a great while a forgotten emotion flooded her brain. Without allowing herself to name it she knew exactly what is was. Hope.
Even as her pace quickened and her heart with it, a friend called to her from the doorway. She turned for an instant to wave, and when she looked back, the wall was empty.
Black heels stood stark against the junction of vertical brick and walk. Soft crystals of white floated down upon the black, trying to quell the discord, yet as soon as they touched they disappeared into drops of water. Soon it became impossible to tell if the water on the walk and shoes came from the melted snow, or from the eyes of a woman who had dared to hope.
A lonely cigarette butt lay on the edge of the wall. Her instinct called out to pick it up, anything solidify the vision she had seen. Instead she turned, and hastened away to the man with a bad knee.
It didn't take long for the church to empty. The walk, wall, and garden stood alone in the falling snow. All alone but for the cigarette, inner coal still burning, sending up a thin trail of tainted incense at the shrine of the warrior's Angel.