http://browse.deviantart.com/literature/?order=9&q=light+stencil deviantART RSS for boost:popular in:literature light stencil en-us Copyright 2013, deviantART.com Wed, 19 Jun 2013 01:51:23 PDT deviantART.com http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss http://st.deviantart.net/minish/widgets/apple-touch-icon-precomposed.png http://jerimiahwolf.deviantart.com/art/Dariens-Story-Introduction-1720435 http://jerimiahwolf.deviantart.com/art/Dariens-Story-Introduction-1720435 Sun, 20 Apr 2003 19:35:56 PDT Dariens Story Introduction nonadult literature/poetry/general/artpoetry jerimiahwolf http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/j/e/jerimiahwolf.gif Copyright 2003-2013 ~jerimiahwolf Once there was a small country known as Lennonsire, a small place that had lived in peace with its neighbors for generations. The country was mostly a forest, having a few scattered villages here and there with small farms generally clustered around the small towns. One was village known as Fallwood, the center of the Lennonsire and so nestled deep inside the thick surrounding forests and glades. Fallwood was a quaint little village, although it could really have been considered a small city. As it was the center of the country, it received people from all parts of the world, making the village roads often busy and very often crowded with travelers from every imaginable walk of life.
Merchants lined the streets, trying to sell their wares to any passerby that happened by their stands. The colorful cloth covered stands stretched to the very edge of the village, but the merchants never went outside the protective surroundings of the buildings for fear of the outlaws and thieves that lived in the forest. All around people lived and worked and played, making the town square quite a sight to behold. Small cubs laughed and squealed as they chased each other through the milling crowds of people that came to do business in the market. The pack animals pulling carts of goods grunt in surprise as an over-zealous cub makes a mad dash across their path and the driver shouts at the little one to watch where he is going. People haggle the merchants, trying to get the best price for their goods. Pushing, shouting and elbowing, people of all ages clutter the street almost shoulder to shoulder, cutting off any hope of traveling through. The chaos is homey though, hinting at a place that had lived and grown in peace.
Outside the hustle and bustle of the market, the homes and the shops of the village begin. The streets are not as crowded or loud as the market street, but the goods are still as good as the ones in the market. Homes spring up out of the top of the shops, making the streets look like it is walled in, and giving the street the sound of a cave. People hustle and bustle about, doing their business with the same gusto as the market street goers. Cubs run up and down the street, sometimes the more mischievous of them taking a cooling pie off a windowsill. The butchers and the bakers present their goods to the people, their simple cloth stands built out of their shops.
Just outside the protective confines of the noisy village, small niches were cut into the thick forest to serve as fields. The farms were usually small, as the owners never had the time to keep up the constant battle with the forest, nor the money to hire somebody to help them. Many of the farmers ended up losing the battle, and the forest foliage often reclaimed the small farms in less than a year. It was in one of these niches that a small cub by the name of Darien grew up.
Darien was of the family Greenwood, but parents had died when he was very young, leaving the young kit with nobody to look after him. Fortunately, a young couple that could not have cubs of their own found him and adopted him, giving Darien both a home and someone to call his mother and father. Their family name was Ridal, but insisted as soon as Darien was old enough to understand that he should still be called Greenwood, in honor of his dead parents. Many of the villagers had trouble believing that Darien was a son of Ridal, and many times Darien was called a liar when he was asked who his parents were and he pointed them out. Altogether the three of them did made an odd looking family, especially around the time of Peace, when the three of them all sat together on the floor of their cottage, opening gifts together. It made quite a scene: two wolves helping their yearling kit tear through the brown paper wrappings, scattering tattered bits of paper all around. Finally, the young kit coming up with a new toy or shirt or such, covered from the end of his nose to the tip of his tail with paper and string. Still, Darien grew up happy and the villagers soon became accustomed to him and his family. But, whenever somebody called Darien Ridal, he corrected them, true to his word to his adopted parents.
Adrian, Darien's father, was a farmer by trade, and he spent every day from sunup to sundown working his fields. The only days he was ever home were the holidays, the time of Peace and the first of the year. All others he worked, determined to make a good life for him and his family. Layla, Darien's mother, was a housewife so, while Adrian worked in the fields, she stayed at home with Darien, watching the cub and keeping the house in order. Darien would often cry to his mother, as he sometimes never saw his father for days on end. Layla would simply smile and pat his head, then tell him that his father would come around eventually. At night, Darien would stay awake, using his keen ears to listen in on his parents as they got into heated arguments over Adrian's prolonged absence at home. They whispered as quietly as they could, trying to prevent the sound from carrying and waking their son, but the look of tension on Layla's face as she tucked him in was enough to keep Darien up to try and hear what was wrong. Eventually the arguments stopped, and Adrian began appear around the house more often, to the delight of his little son.
Finally, when Darien reached the proper age, his father took him out into his fields, to help do some of the work and support the family. At first, all Darien could do was plant the seed and sometimes help pick the crops. His father pushed him hard though, expecting his son to be able to do the work that every wolf cub his age could do. Being a fox, Darien was at a natural disadvantage and all he could do was try to keep up with his father. Everything that his father made look so easy was almost impossible for the young kit to do, but he did his best in the hopes that one day he would be able to do the jobs with such ease.

* * * * *

Almost at the same time that Darien began to work in the fields, his father came to him with a sword in one hand. "Darien, when I was your age, my own father came to me and showed me how to use this." He gestured to the sheathed sword. "He told me that it has been thus for hundreds of years, that the eldest Ridal should teach his son the art of the blade as soon as he is old enough to work." Darien nodded his head, eyeing the blade as if it was some kind of a deadly snake. Adrian handed the blade to Darien. "Now it is your turn to learn."
Darien held the sword in his small paws, nearly caught off balance by the weight of the blade. The sword was polished and shinning, intricately stenciled with carvings of dragons on the hilt. Adrian turned the sword over in his son's paws as he explained, " This sword was my father's and my father's father's. It has been passed down over the generations, from father to son." He pointed to a silver stone and a small orange gem. "This stone is mine and this one belonged to my father." He pointed out several other small stones in order: red, yellow, blue and ivory, tracing the history of the sword back nearly five generations. "And this," he gestured to a small empty setting on the hilt, "is yours to fill." Darien stared at the setting, placed in the eye of one of the small dragon carvings.
Darien looked at his father questioningly. "What will I put into it?" he asked.
Adrian shrugged. "When it comes to that time, you'll know what."
Darien held the sword in front of himself, rubbing the blade gingerly. "It looks so new…" The blade did in fact look new, hardly showing a single nick or blemish on it.
"The blade is new…. The sword isn't… I broke it fighting off a bandit some years ago. " A look of guilt crossed his father's face. "He tried to rob us on our way into town and I had to defend what we had…. " Adrian's eyes lost focus for a moment and he seemed to go back to that day. He clenched his paw into a fist and grimaced as the image came back to him as clear as day. He simply stood there, remembering the face of the thief, his voice and, finally, the fight. The life came back to his eyes and he noticed the worried stare that Darien was giving him. He put a stout paw on his son's shoulder, "I pray you keep better care of it then I did."
Darien nodded, watching his reflection in the blade do the same. Adrian laughed and tussled his son's head fur. "Now go on inside. Put up the sword and wash up, dinner will be on soon." He gave the entranced kit a soft push toward the door. Darien nodded again, still staring into the blade of the sword, and hurried off into the house.
Adrian watched Darien go inside, wondering if he was doing the right thing teaching the art of the blade to Darien. It was hard training, even by wolf standards, but for Darien it would be near impossible. His son was strong for his species, but he was, after all, still a fox. And Darien was not his natural son, and so not a son of Ridal. For as long as it had been around, the Art had been passed only inside the family of Ridal. Darien did have a lot of spirit though, and as the proverbs said, "The hands can manage what the heart can handle." Adrian thought for a moment, considering, before deciding that it was the right thing to do. Unless he passed the art on to someone, it would be lost forever. The art was as old as the family of Ridal, and if it died, then it would make the end of the family complete. Adrian and Layla were unable to have cubs of their own, and they were the last of the Ridal. At least if the art were still alive, then part of the Ridal family would live on. Darien was not his natural son, but he would learn the arts and one day pass it on to his own son, just as it had been done for the last five generations. Adrian rubbed his ears thoughtfully, affirmed in his decision.
A faint whisper of cooking meat came in on the wind, followed by his wife's voice calling "Supper!", tickled Adrian's nose and brought him back from his reflections. His mouth watered as he thought of Layla's cooking. His wife was a wonderful cook, better than most of the merchants that peddled off their food on the side of the road. Besides being a great cook, she was as beautiful as a rose and in her day had attracted the attention of every male in town. It was pure good fortune that Adrian had won her hand in marriage. Had it not been for her father's cart throwing a wheel and it then hitting Adrian like a titan's mallet, the two of the never would have met or fallen in love. Adrian thanked the powers to be for the bad wheel and giving him Layla as his wife, before going back to his house for the evening.
* * * * *
Darien swung his sword high, toward Adrian’s face. Adrian leaned back, as the blade passed close enough to split the ends of the fur on his muzzle, then brought his own blade to Darien’s throat before he could regain his gaurd. Darien swatted the blade away with his own, and jumped back a step, then lunged forward with an overhead swing. Adrian sidestepped the attack, and drove his elbow into the small of Darien’s back.
Darien tumbled to the ground, muzzle first. He growled and hopped back up to his foot-paws, and made a quick lunge at Adrian. Adrian swatted Darien’s blade to the side, and gave him a hard kick in the tail end as he stumbled by. Darien yelped and fell to his knees, cradling his tail and whimpering.
“Remember, son: the art is the suppleness and speed of the warrior, not the strength. Use the momentum of your movements to give strength to your attack, not your muscles. “ Adrian hoisted Darien to his foot-paws. “Now, again.”
Darien continued to rub the base of his tail, not even looking at Adrian.
“Again!” Adrian barked. Darien blinked uncertainly, before lunging with his sword. With a lighting quick maneuver, Adrian sidestepped the thrust, and slammed his footpaw into the side of Darien’s muzzle. Adrian made a half wince as Darien’s muzzle cracked from the sheer force of the blow. The kick sent Darien spinning to the ground, where he lay, stunned.
Adrian shook his head and stared down at the young kit disapprovingly. “You’re getting careless, son. You could be dead now, even if I didn’t have a sword.” He buried the point of his blade in the dirt and extended his paw to Darien.
Darien accepted the paw gratefully, and Adrian hoisted him to his feet. “I’m sorry, father.” Darien’s ears laid back and he stared down at the dirt at his footpaws. He rubbed his muzzle experimentally and winced.
“Don’t be sorry. Do it right.” Adrian said, matter-of-factly. “In a fight, there is no room for error.”
Darien nodded, still rubbing his muzzle and staring at the dirt.
“Now, one more time, then you can go and have your mother look at that…”
Darien nodded numbly, and moved back into a fighting stance.

* * * * *

“Darieeeeeen.” Layla cupped her paws around her muzzle to let the sound carry far enough to reach her son.
Darien turned from the flock of birds that he was watching and scampered back to the house, his small foot-paw catching on a jutting rock and almost sending him sprawling. Darien regained his stride, and padded up to his mother. “Yes?” He tilted his head questioningly.
“I have something for you…. But you have to promise to take good care of it.” She smiled and reached into the folds of her breeches. “I think now that you’re working and training, you’re probably old enough to take good care of this.”
“Ooh! What is it??” He leaned forward, eyeing his mother’s paw excitedly.
Layla opened her paw, revealing a small pendant. It was shiny and shaped like a tear, deep green in color. She patted his head as she gently draped it around his neck.
Darien lifted the small pendant, eyeing it curiously. “What is it?” he repeated.
“We found that with you… when you came to live with us.” Layla replied. “We lifted you up and it fell out of your blankets. It’s called a maiden’s tear, I believe.”
Darien looked a bit confused, glancing from the pendant to his mother and back again. “What’s that?” He turned the pendant over in his paws, and sniffed it incredulously.
“Umm…” Layla rubbed her ears thoughtfully. “I’m not entirely sure. It’s a fox tradition, I think. The maidens left behind gave these to their leaving warriors, for luck and to remind them of what they had left behind.” She smiled again and rubbed Darien’s white muzzle gently. “Now I’m giving it to my little warrior.”
“Awww…. “ Darien pushed away his mother’s paw, grinning and blushing.
Layla giggled and tussled Darien’s unkempt headfur. “My son….” She smiled and licked the end of Darien’s muzzle. “Growing up so fast…” She patted him on the bottom. “Run along, now. Your birds are getting away!”
Darien grinned and rushed off, tail high and growling at the receding flock of birds. Layla smiled as she watched him paw at the sky, as if his tiny paws could reach high enough to catch his prey.

* * * * *

Darien continued to grow, and his body grew into that of a warrior, through training and work. He had a quiet nature, however, since the life of a farmer and the training of a warrior did not allow much time to build relationships. He always walked with a firm gait, and carried the same look of gentleness in his eyes, and very few who met him found a reason to dislike him. He grew as comfortable with his sword as any part of his body and wore it proudly, as if it were some great emblem of times long past.
Darien’s training was reaching its end, and Adrian was harder pressed every day to keep from being beaten by his son. Darien was finding it easier and easier to keep up with his father in his work, and took some small measure of pride in knowing he was getting better.
On his 13th season, around harvest time, Darien, Adrian and six other neighbors were working in the field, rushing to get the last few bushels of grain cut before the rains came. Darien made the final swipe with his sickle, quickly tied the bunch of grain and tossed it up into the massive bin on the produce wagon. He let out a tired sigh, and rubbed a paw on his forehead, trying to let some of the cool evening air under his fur and down into his broiling skin.
It started out quietly; so quiet that even Darien with his sensitive ears could not hear it. The sounds quickly got louder, until everyone heard the final crack of the wagon’s axle. Darien turned, and managed a small cry of horror as the massive bin tipped over and fell off the wagon, right on top of him.
Everyone was stunned at the sight and nobody moved, until Adrian screamed “Get it off of him!” Instantly, they all moved in, grunting and straining to get the bin off Darien.
After several minutes of effort, the men backed away, exhausted from straining against the weight. Adrian continued to try to lift it himself. “Get back here and help me!!” He yelled back to the others.
No one moved, until Adrian felt a strong paw on his shoulder. “Adrian…. He’s gone.” Maxim, the rabbit, patted his friend gently and tried to lead him away from the side of the bin.
Adrian closed his eyes and growled. “I’ll not leave until this is off him, dead or not.” He turned to Maxim, a glimmer of pain in his eyes. “We’ll need more hands…”
Maxim nodded, and ran off, clearing half of the field’s length in three bounds.
Adrian turned again to the bin and leaned against it, his muzzle resting on his folded arms. Nobody said a word, knowing Adrian to have a short temper and a firm dislike of sympathy toward him.
Adrian closed his eyes again, and whimpered quietly to himself.
Suddenly, he jumped back in disbelief. “Moved??” He thought to himself. He stared at the bin incredulously, wondering if it was his imagination, or if it had actually happened.
The neighbors stared at Adrian, wondering if he was going mad, until the bin jostled a bit more. Slowly, almost painfully slow, the bin began to rise, until they could see Darien underneath, covered from head to tail tip in black dirt, straining against the weight. Slowly, he made his way onto his knees, then to his footpaws and the bin rolled off his back neatly.
Darien stood up shakily and managed a small, tired smile. Slowly, he began to tip over backwards until he fell, out cold. Adrian quickly ran to his son’s side, and lifted him in his arms. No one else moved. They were all staring at the ankle deep indentations Darien had left in the hard-caked dirt.
Adrian began to carry his son home, and finally the others began to move, following behind the two as they made their way back home through the gathering twilight. No one spoke; they simply kept staring at the kit in his father’s arms. ]]> Once there was a small country known as Lennonsire, a small place that had lived in peace with its neighbors for generations. The country was mostly a forest, having a few scattered villages here and there with small farms generally clustered around the small towns. One was village known as Fallwood, the center of the Lennonsire and so nestled deep inside the thick surrounding forests and glades. Fallwood was a quaint little village, although it could really have been considered a small city. As it was the center of the country, it received people from all parts of the world, making the village roads often busy and very often crowded with travelers from every imaginable walk of life.
Merchants lined the streets, trying to sell their wares to any passerby that happened by their stands. The colorful cloth covered stands stretched to the very edge of the village, but the merchants never went outside the protective surroundings of the buildings for fear of the outlaws and thieves that lived in the forest. All around people lived and worked and played, making the town square quite a sight to behold. Small cubs laughed and squealed as they chased each other through the milling crowds of people that came to do business in the market. The pack animals pulling carts of goods grunt in surprise as an over-zealous cub makes a mad dash across their path and the driver shouts at the little one to watch where he is going. People haggle the merchants, trying to get the best price for their goods. Pushing, shouting and elbowing, people of all ages clutter the street almost shoulder to shoulder, cutting off any hope of traveling through. The chaos is homey though, hinting at a place that had lived and grown in peace.
Outside the hustle and bustle of the market, the homes and the shops of the village begin. The streets are not as crowded or loud as the market street, but the goods are still as good as the ones in the market. Homes spring up out of the top of the shops, making the streets look like it is walled in, and giving the street the sound of a cave. People hustle and bustle about, doing their business with the same gusto as the market street goers. Cubs run up and down the street, sometimes the more mischievous of them taking a cooling pie off a windowsill. The butchers and the bakers present their goods to the people, their simple cloth stands built out of their shops.
Just outside the protective confines of the noisy village, small niches were cut into the thick forest to serve as fields. The farms were usually small, as the owners never had the time to keep up the constant battle with the forest, nor the money to hire somebody to help them. Many of the farmers ended up losing the battle, and the forest foliage often reclaimed the small farms in less than a year. It was in one of these niches that a small cub by the name of Darien grew up.
Darien was of the family Greenwood, but parents had died when he was very young, leaving the young kit with nobody to look after him. Fortunately, a young couple that could not have cubs of their own found him and adopted him, giving Darien both a home and someone to call his mother and father. Their family name was Ridal, but insisted as soon as Darien was old enough to understand that he should still be called Greenwood, in honor of his dead parents. Many of the villagers had trouble believing that Darien was a son of Ridal, and many times Darien was called a liar when he was asked who his parents were and he pointed them out. Altogether the three of them did made an odd looking family, especially around the time of Peace, when the three of them all sat together on the floor of their cottage, opening gifts together. It made quite a scene: two wolves helping their yearling kit tear through the brown paper wrappings, scattering tattered bits of paper all around. Finally, the young kit coming up with a new toy or shirt or such, covered from the end of his nose to the tip of his tail with paper and string. Still, Darien grew up happy and the villagers soon became accustomed to him and his family. But, whenever somebody called Darien Ridal, he corrected them, true to his word to his adopted parents.
Adrian, Darien's father, was a farmer by trade, and he spent every day from sunup to sundown working his fields. The only days he was ever home were the holidays, the time of Peace and the first of the year. All others he worked, determined to make a good life for him and his family. Layla, Darien's mother, was a housewife so, while Adrian worked in the fields, she stayed at home with Darien, watching the cub and keeping the house in order. Darien would often cry to his mother, as he sometimes never saw his father for days on end. Layla would simply smile and pat his head, then tell him that his father would come around eventually. At night, Darien would stay awake, using his keen ears to listen in on his parents as they got into heated arguments over Adrian's prolonged absence at home. They whispered as quietly as they could, trying to prevent the sound from carrying and waking their son, but the look of tension on Layla's face as she tucked him in was enough to keep Darien up to try and hear what was wrong. Eventually the arguments stopped, and Adrian began appear around the house more often, to the delight of his little son.
Finally, when Darien reached the proper age, his father took him out into his fields, to help do some of the work and support the family. At first, all Darien could do was plant the seed and sometimes help pick the crops. His father pushed him hard though, expecting his son to be able to do the work that every wolf cub his age could do. Being a fox, Darien was at a natural disadvantage and all he could do was try to keep up with his father. Everything that his father made look so easy was almost impossible for the young kit to do, but he did his best in the hopes that one day he would be able to do the jobs with such ease.

* * * * *

Almost at the same time that Darien began to work in the fields, his father came to him with a sword in one hand. "Darien, when I was your age, my own father came to me and showed me how to use this." He gestured to the sheathed sword. "He told me that it has been thus for hundreds of years, that the eldest Ridal should teach his son the art of the blade as soon as he is old enough to work." Darien nodded his head, eyeing the blade as if it was some kind of a deadly snake. Adrian handed the blade to Darien. "Now it is your turn to learn."
Darien held the sword in his small paws, nearly caught off balance by the weight of the blade. The sword was polished and shinning, intricately stenciled with carvings of dragons on the hilt. Adrian turned the sword over in his son's paws as he explained, " This sword was my father's and my father's father's. It has been passed down over the generations, from father to son." He pointed to a silver stone and a small orange gem. "This stone is mine and this one belonged to my father." He pointed out several other small stones in order: red, yellow, blue and ivory, tracing the history of the sword back nearly five generations. "And this," he gestured to a small empty setting on the hilt, "is yours to fill." Darien stared at the setting, placed in the eye of one of the small dragon carvings.
Darien looked at his father questioningly. "What will I put into it?" he asked.
Adrian shrugged. "When it comes to that time, you'll know what."
Darien held the sword in front of himself, rubbing the blade gingerly. "It looks so new…" The blade did in fact look new, hardly showing a single nick or blemish on it.
"The blade is new…. The sword isn't… I broke it fighting off a bandit some years ago. " A look of guilt crossed his father's face. "He tried to rob us on our way into town and I had to defend what we had…. " Adrian's eyes lost focus for a moment and he seemed to go back to that day. He clenched his paw into a fist and grimaced as the image came back to him as clear as day. He simply stood there, remembering the face of the thief, his voice and, finally, the fight. The life came back to his eyes and he noticed the worried stare that Darien was giving him. He put a stout paw on his son's shoulder, "I pray you keep better care of it then I did."
Darien nodded, watching his reflection in the blade do the same. Adrian laughed and tussled his son's head fur. "Now go on inside. Put up the sword and wash up, dinner will be on soon." He gave the entranced kit a soft push toward the door. Darien nodded again, still staring into the blade of the sword, and hurried off into the house.
Adrian watched Darien go inside, wondering if he was doing the right thing teaching the art of the blade to Darien. It was hard training, even by wolf standards, but for Darien it would be near impossible. His son was strong for his species, but he was, after all, still a fox. And Darien was not his natural son, and so not a son of Ridal. For as long as it had been around, the Art had been passed only inside the family of Ridal. Darien did have a lot of spirit though, and as the proverbs said, "The hands can manage what the heart can handle." Adrian thought for a moment, considering, before deciding that it was the right thing to do. Unless he passed the art on to someone, it would be lost forever. The art was as old as the family of Ridal, and if it died, then it would make the end of the family complete. Adrian and Layla were unable to have cubs of their own, and they were the last of the Ridal. At least if the art were still alive, then part of the Ridal family would live on. Darien was not his natural son, but he would learn the arts and one day pass it on to his own son, just as it had been done for the last five generations. Adrian rubbed his ears thoughtfully, affirmed in his decision.
A faint whisper of cooking meat came in on the wind, followed by his wife's voice calling "Supper!", tickled Adrian's nose and brought him back from his reflections. His mouth watered as he thought of Layla's cooking. His wife was a wonderful cook, better than most of the merchants that peddled off their food on the side of the road. Besides being a great cook, she was as beautiful as a rose and in her day had attracted the attention of every male in town. It was pure good fortune that Adrian had won her hand in marriage. Had it not been for her father's cart throwing a wheel and it then hitting Adrian like a titan's mallet, the two of the never would have met or fallen in love. Adrian thanked the powers to be for the bad wheel and giving him Layla as his wife, before going back to his house for the evening.
* * * * *
Darien swung his sword high, toward Adrian’s face. Adrian leaned back, as the blade passed close enough to split the ends of the fur on his muzzle, then brought his own blade to Darien’s throat before he could regain his gaurd. Darien swatted the blade away with his own, and jumped back a step, then lunged forward with an overhead swing. Adrian sidestepped the attack, and drove his elbow into the small of Darien’s back.
Darien tumbled to the ground, muzzle first. He growled and hopped back up to his foot-paws, and made a quick lunge at Adrian. Adrian swatted Darien’s blade to the side, and gave him a hard kick in the tail end as he stumbled by. Darien yelped and fell to his knees, cradling his tail and whimpering.
“Remember, son: the art is the suppleness and speed of the warrior, not the strength. Use the momentum of your movements to give strength to your attack, not your muscles. “ Adrian hoisted Darien to his foot-paws. “Now, again.”
Darien continued to rub the base of his tail, not even looking at Adrian.
“Again!” Adrian barked. Darien blinked uncertainly, before lunging with his sword. With a lighting quick maneuver, Adrian sidestepped the thrust, and slammed his footpaw into the side of Darien’s muzzle. Adrian made a half wince as Darien’s muzzle cracked from the sheer force of the blow. The kick sent Darien spinning to the ground, where he lay, stunned.
Adrian shook his head and stared down at the young kit disapprovingly. “You’re getting careless, son. You could be dead now, even if I didn’t have a sword.” He buried the point of his blade in the dirt and extended his paw to Darien.
Darien accepted the paw gratefully, and Adrian hoisted him to his feet. “I’m sorry, father.” Darien’s ears laid back and he stared down at the dirt at his footpaws. He rubbed his muzzle experimentally and winced.
“Don’t be sorry. Do it right.” Adrian said, matter-of-factly. “In a fight, there is no room for error.”
Darien nodded, still rubbing his muzzle and staring at the dirt.
“Now, one more time, then you can go and have your mother look at that…”
Darien nodded numbly, and moved back into a fighting stance.

* * * * *

“Darieeeeeen.” Layla cupped her paws around her muzzle to let the sound carry far enough to reach her son.
Darien turned from the flock of birds that he was watching and scampered back to the house, his small foot-paw catching on a jutting rock and almost sending him sprawling. Darien regained his stride, and padded up to his mother. “Yes?” He tilted his head questioningly.
“I have something for you…. But you have to promise to take good care of it.” She smiled and reached into the folds of her breeches. “I think now that you’re working and training, you’re probably old enough to take good care of this.”
“Ooh! What is it??” He leaned forward, eyeing his mother’s paw excitedly.
Layla opened her paw, revealing a small pendant. It was shiny and shaped like a tear, deep green in color. She patted his head as she gently draped it around his neck.
Darien lifted the small pendant, eyeing it curiously. “What is it?” he repeated.
“We found that with you… when you came to live with us.” Layla replied. “We lifted you up and it fell out of your blankets. It’s called a maiden’s tear, I believe.”
Darien looked a bit confused, glancing from the pendant to his mother and back again. “What’s that?” He turned the pendant over in his paws, and sniffed it incredulously.
“Umm…” Layla rubbed her ears thoughtfully. “I’m not entirely sure. It’s a fox tradition, I think. The maidens left behind gave these to their leaving warriors, for luck and to remind them of what they had left behind.” She smiled again and rubbed Darien’s white muzzle gently. “Now I’m giving it to my little warrior.”
“Awww…. “ Darien pushed away his mother’s paw, grinning and blushing.
Layla giggled and tussled Darien’s unkempt headfur. “My son….” She smiled and licked the end of Darien’s muzzle. “Growing up so fast…” She patted him on the bottom. “Run along, now. Your birds are getting away!”
Darien grinned and rushed off, tail high and growling at the receding flock of birds. Layla smiled as she watched him paw at the sky, as if his tiny paws could reach high enough to catch his prey.

* * * * *

Darien continued to grow, and his body grew into that of a warrior, through training and work. He had a quiet nature, however, since the life of a farmer and the training of a warrior did not allow much time to build relationships. He always walked with a firm gait, and carried the same look of gentleness in his eyes, and very few who met him found a reason to dislike him. He grew as comfortable with his sword as any part of his body and wore it proudly, as if it were some great emblem of times long past.
Darien’s training was reaching its end, and Adrian was harder pressed every day to keep from being beaten by his son. Darien was finding it easier and easier to keep up with his father in his work, and took some small measure of pride in knowing he was getting better.
On his 13th season, around harvest time, Darien, Adrian and six other neighbors were working in the field, rushing to get the last few bushels of grain cut before the rains came. Darien made the final swipe with his sickle, quickly tied the bunch of grain and tossed it up into the massive bin on the produce wagon. He let out a tired sigh, and rubbed a paw on his forehead, trying to let some of the cool evening air under his fur and down into his broiling skin.
It started out quietly; so quiet that even Darien with his sensitive ears could not hear it. The sounds quickly got louder, until everyone heard the final crack of the wagon’s axle. Darien turned, and managed a small cry of horror as the massive bin tipped over and fell off the wagon, right on top of him.
Everyone was stunned at the sight and nobody moved, until Adrian screamed “Get it off of him!” Instantly, they all moved in, grunting and straining to get the bin off Darien.
After several minutes of effort, the men backed away, exhausted from straining against the weight. Adrian continued to try to lift it himself. “Get back here and help me!!” He yelled back to the others.
No one moved, until Adrian felt a strong paw on his shoulder. “Adrian…. He’s gone.” Maxim, the rabbit, patted his friend gently and tried to lead him away from the side of the bin.
Adrian closed his eyes and growled. “I’ll not leave until this is off him, dead or not.” He turned to Maxim, a glimmer of pain in his eyes. “We’ll need more hands…”
Maxim nodded, and ran off, clearing half of the field’s length in three bounds.
Adrian turned again to the bin and leaned against it, his muzzle resting on his folded arms. Nobody said a word, knowing Adrian to have a short temper and a firm dislike of sympathy toward him.
Adrian closed his eyes again, and whimpered quietly to himself.
Suddenly, he jumped back in disbelief. “Moved??” He thought to himself. He stared at the bin incredulously, wondering if it was his imagination, or if it had actually happened.
The neighbors stared at Adrian, wondering if he was going mad, until the bin jostled a bit more. Slowly, almost painfully slow, the bin began to rise, until they could see Darien underneath, covered from head to tail tip in black dirt, straining against the weight. Slowly, he made his way onto his knees, then to his footpaws and the bin rolled off his back neatly.
Darien stood up shakily and managed a small, tired smile. Slowly, he began to tip over backwards until he fell, out cold. Adrian quickly ran to his son’s side, and lifted him in his arms. No one else moved. They were all staring at the ankle deep indentations Darien had left in the hard-caked dirt.
Adrian began to carry his son home, and finally the others began to move, following behind the two as they made their way back home through the gathering twilight. No one spoke; they simply kept staring at the kit in his father’s arms.

]]> http://m35b.deviantart.com/art/Birthdays-13186909 http://m35b.deviantart.com/art/Birthdays-13186909 Wed, 15 Dec 2004 00:59:45 PST Birthdays nonadult literature/prose/fiction/romantic/general m35b http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/m/3/m35b.jpg Copyright 2004-2013 ~m35b
I was barely a year out of high school when I first stumbled into Jeanie. I was eating a bag full of Nova (or was it Piatos?) in the MassComm lobby alone and introverted as usual when all of a sudden she came right in front of me asking if she could have some of the snack that I'm at that very moment consuming. It was really weird every time I come to think of it and she was with her friends Angelica and Gisele at that time. But nevertheless that was simply the beginning or better yet a foreshadowing of something big that's to come.

It wasn't until the closing days of the school year when I later caught up with Jeanie again, it was my band's first gig at school and it was the foundation day of our college and we were about to play our set when I heard Jeanie screeching: "Go Chuck" as she sat on the floor perpendicular to where we were about to play our music and get ourselves humiliated big time. As I think of it now really I cannot help but laugh as well because after the 'go Chuck' was the sound of her voice yelling: "Whooo drums!" which was really all about sarcasm since our drummer at the time Jarme, (who also happened to be one of the lousiest drummers that I've known if ever there is one) was playing this pathetic beat mimicking The Offspring's 'Come Out & Play'. The gig ended right in the middle of our second song the organizers were poor planners and they could not accommodate all the listed bands that are slotted to play so they decided to cut off our playing time, so as to give way for the next band, and by the time that I was out and off the stage after a handfull of cursing the sight of Jeanie was there no more. But that again was still another foreshadowing.

A couple of days later I was surprised when Damaso, (the designated class irregular-student-bum in our block) asked me to write down my number on this piece of paper so as to give it to Jeanie. I was flattered so as if I was trying to impress her or something like that I wrote down 2 telephone numbers one is for our PLDT and another is for our Bayantel phone that was installed by my brother for his modem. It was around 10 when I got to talk to her via our Bayantel phone. She told me about how she was a friend with another band that played in the same gig, and how she loves Korn, Rage and a whole lot of other bands that played that angry rap-m stuff at the time. While I told her I was into punk rock and that my most influential musses are Greenday and The Cure. Again that was but another foreshadowing.

But as time pressed on and went into its natural course and direction things unfolded at the start with a symposium that me and Laix went to because Jeanie invited us. But going further it grew and blossomed into almost 6 full years of things that I could no longer make mention in a mere simple paragraph of sorts but instead I'll simply make mention of solidified independent sentences that speaks of that 6 full years.

Looking back I could all but remember the:

The Bible stories.
The nighttime prayers.
Playing Tekken 3 and beating up a host full of challengers and the occasional team-ups with Reginald.
The late night talks.
The long idle chitchat and gossiping at Ali's house.
The countless movies. The horror flicks.
The Cartoons: Cow & Chicken, Ren & Stimply, I Am Weasel, Hey Arnold, The Rugrats, Wild Thornberry's, Spongebob Squarepants, As Told By Ginger, GTO, Justice League, Teen Titans, X-Men Evolution, Beavis & Butthead, The Simpsons, Futurama etc.
The late night movies search for B-Flicks with gore and senseless violence.
The music we've listened to and sang: The Ramones, The Clash, Plumb, Texas, The Cure, Greenday, Letter To Cleo, Save Ferris, Gin Blossoms, The Sex Pistols, Rancid, Ash, MxPx, Sonic Flood, Jars of Clay, Sixpence None The Richer, Blink 182, Dashboard Confessional, United Live, Hillsong, etc.
The affiliations that have been: TABAK, KATRIBU, ANAKBAYAN, CEGP, Anarcho-Punks, BK, Youth On Fire
The dogs that have come and gone: Black, Jaguard, Murphy, Druiness, Jarod, Odie, Klondyke, Kuya, and Grownor.
Buying countless P35 cassttes on the sale bins at SM record bars.
The October and Novermber Christmas shopping.
Saint Jude, and Santa Clara churches.
The long conversations about how life is as a punk in his 30s with Darwin and Ab at Radiation Area Distro.
Our escapades on ACA San Juan, Star City, Bicol, Taft Avenue, Robinsons Place, Mendiola, Greenbelt, Tandem Recto, Ali Mall, Riverbanks, PCBS, Powerbooks Makati etc.
Our long walks in Ayala, Cubao, V. Mapa, UP, Teachers Village.
Me being hospitalized twice.
The hospitals we went to for a number of times. Most recently with the lung affliction diagnosis that she received from her medical exam at EAC which as of this writing has been healed, thank God.
The friends and acquaintances: Laix, Gisele, Angelica, Buddy, Cheng & Len Len, Ali, Raquel, Reginald & Weng, Cedric, Mark, Jarme, Melody, Mia, Fritz, Toto, Marlo, GL, Riva, Karl, Marianne, Edward, Jocson, Bunny, Delbert, Michelle, Gera, Ana, Rovic, Michael, Shirley & Ruth, Shondel, Lolo Eliseo, Mang Bruce, Aldy, Kiko, Gomer, Chris, Ms. Elaine, Charisse, Jem, Aga, Monica, Aina, Darwin, John Fishbone, Mang Jun Alberto as well as the lefties, greens, anarchists, skaters, goths, emo nerds, indie geeks, punks, and Jesus freaks that we've met along the way.
The stargazing at Sunken Garden accompanied by the talk about physics and light years.
Designing the layout for her magazine project.
Doing the graphic design and web maintenance for Pinaybloodrush.
The hypothetical questions game that we play.
The books that we've read: The Bible, The Little Prince, Philippine Society & Revolution, The Communist Manifesto, The Bob Ong Books and countless others which ranged from Socio, Philo and Communication textbooks, to theses, to fiction and novels, to cookbooks, to political manifestos and theological writings.
The comics: Wasted, Shade The Changing Man, Doom Patrol, Batman, The Death of Superman, Keith Giffen Era-Justice League, The Comical Tragedy of Mr. Punch, Pugad Baboy among others.
The bai and Saudi boy jokes that we've outgrown.
The VHS tape hunt for long since forgotten movies.
The ATM pin numbers based on our anniversary and our birthdays
The cell phones lost, gained and lost again.
The seemingly unending fights over palmistry and tarot cards.
The book reading at national bookstore main.
The 1 peso snacks at their sari-sari store.
The long talks with Tina, Tutoy and her mother.
The Bicol trip with her family.
Dissing rockers, fashion punks, mall emos, poser skaters and the beautiful ones.
Having her give me silly looking haircuts.
Conducting cooking experiments and mixing cool new kinds of beverages with her mother's blender.
Having my clothes fitted and sewn by her and her mother to make it fit to my frail skeletal frame.
Learning new arcade and PC games together with her sister.
Having our pictures taken together inside a 1-hour rush photo booth.
The imaginary character of Kiko Monster.
The Earth Day celebrations.
The long drunken talk with her father about this girl with 12 fingers in hand.
The restaurants and coffee shops like: Likha Diwa, Smokey's, Salt of the Earth, Along Came Mary, Kapnay, Earthlite, Figaro, McDonalds, A&W, Tokyo Tokyo Red Ribbon, Texas, Kenny Rogers and Ate Vi's Lugawan.
The meal fads: Quarter Pounders, Hot Shots, Wing Dings, Root beer Floats, Strawberry Jelly, McDips, Barbecue.
Having this Nakarami card that served us a free meal a Tokyo Tokyo on my birthday.
The Cubao Christmas fairs in front of COD.
The Ukay-ukay expeditions from Cubao, to Anonas, to Recto, San Juan and Quiapo.
The punk shows, Internet surfing, skateboarding and habulan at UP campus.
The mobilizations, rallies and campaigns that raged and fueled our aspiration to make a difference in the world.
The theses, reports, projects, photo essays and term papers that we either did or have checked together.
The days we got by with barely 20 or 30 pesos in our pockets.
The change in our lives from nihilism, to greens, to commie/ND, to anarchists, to Christianity.
The unwavering support, encouragement and faith at each other despite of our own frailties and limitations.
Playing Greenday's 'When I Come Around and Redundant'; Dashboard Confessional's 'Hands Down; The Cure's 'A Letter To Elise, Friday I'm In Love, Just Like Heaven' on the telephone for her.
Shared various silkscreen printing adventures most notable was the the trip to Tutuban & Divisoria to canvass cheap wholesale T-shirts; Bolstering Mark's self-confidence ultimately freeing him from the shadow cast down by Cedric and his skill in that craft, reinstating Reggie and Laix's self worth.
Painting her room with dark indigo and making stencils out of scrap pieces of cardboard.
Bringing her to Youth On Fire for the first time.
Sharing our PowerBooks discovery to Riva and Charisse.
Sharing a meal at Likha Diwa with Riva and Marriane and a whole lot more of other people that I've lost count of.
The numerous times I popped up on her location while she's helping out her students shoot their short films, Mtvs etc.
When she brought the mass comm faulty of San Sebastian College to watch our first gig at Freedom Bar.
When we frolicked through gangland past midnight carrying a puppy that led through a wild-goose chase in finding the house of Gegine.
When we she'd join me Reginald, Cedric and Laix at UP to skateboard.
The weddings we attended (Reginald's and he cousin's).
The infant baptisms that we weren't supposed to be in because the child being baptized were children of people that are totally strangers to us.
The times we went to the vet with her dogs.
Our shared lament for those who've departed this realm: Lolo Eliseo, Jaguard and Druiness.
The times we brought Lolo Eliseo his supper and our search for him when he was arrested for vagrancy and was later brought under DSWD custody.
The times when she depended on me and I failed miserably for the times I said promise and failed to deliver for all the tears I incited and all the screams I shouted and all the other humiliating things that I've caused us to suffer.
The love shared and cherished which bloomed into a greater love that is one that is shared with our kindred identities in Christ.
The tears wept and shared, the angst fueled and calmed, the storms that have brought our worst selves, the cruel words said but we never really meant and the love shared but realized as a part of something bigger that God asks back of us so as to follow his Lordship in our lives.
The indwelling and renewing of our broken spirits with the comfort of God's presence.
And for all the other seemingly unending, meaningful and worthwhile stuff that we've shared which we have both either forgotten or have been stored in the back of our minds which in their own little way have molded both of us to the person that we are now we give God for all the joy and the pain which manifested and resulted with the realigning of our lives to the center of His will.
Happy birthday Jeanie. ]]>
I was barely a year out of high school when I first stumbled into Jeanie. I was eating a bag full of Nova (or was it Piatos?) in the MassComm lobby alone and introverted as usual when all of a sudden she came right in front of me asking if she could have some of the snack that I'm at that very moment consuming. It was really weird every time I come to think of it and she was with her friends Angelica and Gisele at that time. But nevertheless that was simply the beginning or better yet a foreshadowing of something big that's to come.

It wasn't until the closing days of the school year when I later caught up with Jeanie again, it was my band's first gig at school and it was the foundation day of our college and we were about to play our set when I heard Jeanie screeching: "Go Chuck" as she sat on the floor perpendicular to where we were about to play our music and get ourselves humiliated big time. As I think of it now really I cannot help but laugh as well because after the 'go Chuck' was the sound of her voice yelling: "Whooo drums!" which was really all about sarcasm since our drummer at the time Jarme, (who also happened to be one of the lousiest drummers that I've known if ever there is one) was playing this pathetic beat mimicking The Offspring's 'Come Out & Play'. The gig ended right in the middle of our second song the organizers were poor planners and they could not accommodate all the listed bands that are slotted to play so they decided to cut off our playing time, so as to give way for the next band, and by the time that I was out and off the stage after a handfull of cursing the sight of Jeanie was there no more. But that again was still another foreshadowing.

A couple of days later I was surprised when Damaso, (the designated class irregular-student-bum in our block) asked me to write down my number on this piece of paper so as to give it to Jeanie. I was flattered so as if I was trying to impress her or something like that I wrote down 2 telephone numbers one is for our PLDT and another is for our Bayantel phone that was installed by my brother for his modem. It was around 10 when I got to talk to her via our Bayantel phone. She told me about how she was a friend with another band that played in the same gig, and how she loves Korn, Rage and a whole lot of other bands that played that angry rap-m stuff at the time. While I told her I was into punk rock and that my most influential musses are Greenday and The Cure. Again that was but another foreshadowing.

But as time pressed on and went into its natural course and direction things unfolded at the start with a symposium that me and Laix went to because Jeanie invited us. But going further it grew and blossomed into almost 6 full years of things that I could no longer make mention in a mere simple paragraph of sorts but instead I'll simply make mention of solidified independent sentences that speaks of that 6 full years.

Looking back I could all but remember the:

The Bible stories.
The nighttime prayers.
Playing Tekken 3 and beating up a host full of challengers and the occasional team-ups with Reginald.
The late night talks.
The long idle chitchat and gossiping at Ali's house.
The countless movies. The horror flicks.
The Cartoons: Cow & Chicken, Ren & Stimply, I Am Weasel, Hey Arnold, The Rugrats, Wild Thornberry's, Spongebob Squarepants, As Told By Ginger, GTO, Justice League, Teen Titans, X-Men Evolution, Beavis & Butthead, The Simpsons, Futurama etc.
The late night movies search for B-Flicks with gore and senseless violence.
The music we've listened to and sang: The Ramones, The Clash, Plumb, Texas, The Cure, Greenday, Letter To Cleo, Save Ferris, Gin Blossoms, The Sex Pistols, Rancid, Ash, MxPx, Sonic Flood, Jars of Clay, Sixpence None The Richer, Blink 182, Dashboard Confessional, United Live, Hillsong, etc.
The affiliations that have been: TABAK, KATRIBU, ANAKBAYAN, CEGP, Anarcho-Punks, BK, Youth On Fire
The dogs that have come and gone: Black, Jaguard, Murphy, Druiness, Jarod, Odie, Klondyke, Kuya, and Grownor.
Buying countless P35 cassttes on the sale bins at SM record bars.
The October and Novermber Christmas shopping.
Saint Jude, and Santa Clara churches.
The long conversations about how life is as a punk in his 30s with Darwin and Ab at Radiation Area Distro.
Our escapades on ACA San Juan, Star City, Bicol, Taft Avenue, Robinsons Place, Mendiola, Greenbelt, Tandem Recto, Ali Mall, Riverbanks, PCBS, Powerbooks Makati etc.
Our long walks in Ayala, Cubao, V. Mapa, UP, Teachers Village.
Me being hospitalized twice.
The hospitals we went to for a number of times. Most recently with the lung affliction diagnosis that she received from her medical exam at EAC which as of this writing has been healed, thank God.
The friends and acquaintances: Laix, Gisele, Angelica, Buddy, Cheng & Len Len, Ali, Raquel, Reginald & Weng, Cedric, Mark, Jarme, Melody, Mia, Fritz, Toto, Marlo, GL, Riva, Karl, Marianne, Edward, Jocson, Bunny, Delbert, Michelle, Gera, Ana, Rovic, Michael, Shirley & Ruth, Shondel, Lolo Eliseo, Mang Bruce, Aldy, Kiko, Gomer, Chris, Ms. Elaine, Charisse, Jem, Aga, Monica, Aina, Darwin, John Fishbone, Mang Jun Alberto as well as the lefties, greens, anarchists, skaters, goths, emo nerds, indie geeks, punks, and Jesus freaks that we've met along the way.
The stargazing at Sunken Garden accompanied by the talk about physics and light years.
Designing the layout for her magazine project.
Doing the graphic design and web maintenance for Pinaybloodrush.
The hypothetical questions game that we play.
The books that we've read: The Bible, The Little Prince, Philippine Society & Revolution, The Communist Manifesto, The Bob Ong Books and countless others which ranged from Socio, Philo and Communication textbooks, to theses, to fiction and novels, to cookbooks, to political manifestos and theological writings.
The comics: Wasted, Shade The Changing Man, Doom Patrol, Batman, The Death of Superman, Keith Giffen Era-Justice League, The Comical Tragedy of Mr. Punch, Pugad Baboy among others.
The bai and Saudi boy jokes that we've outgrown.
The VHS tape hunt for long since forgotten movies.
The ATM pin numbers based on our anniversary and our birthdays
The cell phones lost, gained and lost again.
The seemingly unending fights over palmistry and tarot cards.
The book reading at national bookstore main.
The 1 peso snacks at their sari-sari store.
The long talks with Tina, Tutoy and her mother.
The Bicol trip with her family.
Dissing rockers, fashion punks, mall emos, poser skaters and the beautiful ones.
Having her give me silly looking haircuts.
Conducting cooking experiments and mixing cool new kinds of beverages with her mother's blender.
Having my clothes fitted and sewn by her and her mother to make it fit to my frail skeletal frame.
Learning new arcade and PC games together with her sister.
Having our pictures taken together inside a 1-hour rush photo booth.
The imaginary character of Kiko Monster.
The Earth Day celebrations.
The long drunken talk with her father about this girl with 12 fingers in hand.
The restaurants and coffee shops like: Likha Diwa, Smokey's, Salt of the Earth, Along Came Mary, Kapnay, Earthlite, Figaro, McDonalds, A&W, Tokyo Tokyo Red Ribbon, Texas, Kenny Rogers and Ate Vi's Lugawan.
The meal fads: Quarter Pounders, Hot Shots, Wing Dings, Root beer Floats, Strawberry Jelly, McDips, Barbecue.
Having this Nakarami card that served us a free meal a Tokyo Tokyo on my birthday.
The Cubao Christmas fairs in front of COD.
The Ukay-ukay expeditions from Cubao, to Anonas, to Recto, San Juan and Quiapo.
The punk shows, Internet surfing, skateboarding and habulan at UP campus.
The mobilizations, rallies and campaigns that raged and fueled our aspiration to make a difference in the world.
The theses, reports, projects, photo essays and term papers that we either did or have checked together.
The days we got by with barely 20 or 30 pesos in our pockets.
The change in our lives from nihilism, to greens, to commie/ND, to anarchists, to Christianity.
The unwavering support, encouragement and faith at each other despite of our own frailties and limitations.
Playing Greenday's 'When I Come Around and Redundant'; Dashboard Confessional's 'Hands Down; The Cure's 'A Letter To Elise, Friday I'm In Love, Just Like Heaven' on the telephone for her.
Shared various silkscreen printing adventures most notable was the the trip to Tutuban & Divisoria to canvass cheap wholesale T-shirts; Bolstering Mark's self-confidence ultimately freeing him from the shadow cast down by Cedric and his skill in that craft, reinstating Reggie and Laix's self worth.
Painting her room with dark indigo and making stencils out of scrap pieces of cardboard.
Bringing her to Youth On Fire for the first time.
Sharing our PowerBooks discovery to Riva and Charisse.
Sharing a meal at Likha Diwa with Riva and Marriane and a whole lot more of other people that I've lost count of.
The numerous times I popped up on her location while she's helping out her students shoot their short films, Mtvs etc.
When she brought the mass comm faulty of San Sebastian College to watch our first gig at Freedom Bar.
When we frolicked through gangland past midnight carrying a puppy that led through a wild-goose chase in finding the house of Gegine.
When we she'd join me Reginald, Cedric and Laix at UP to skateboard.
The weddings we attended (Reginald's and he cousin's).
The infant baptisms that we weren't supposed to be in because the child being baptized were children of people that are totally strangers to us.
The times we went to the vet with her dogs.
Our shared lament for those who've departed this realm: Lolo Eliseo, Jaguard and Druiness.
The times we brought Lolo Eliseo his supper and our search for him when he was arrested for vagrancy and was later brought under DSWD custody.
The times when she depended on me and I failed miserably for the times I said promise and failed to deliver for all the tears I incited and all the screams I shouted and all the other humiliating things that I've caused us to suffer.
The love shared and cherished which bloomed into a greater love that is one that is shared with our kindred identities in Christ.
The tears wept and shared, the angst fueled and calmed, the storms that have brought our worst selves, the cruel words said but we never really meant and the love shared but realized as a part of something bigger that God asks back of us so as to follow his Lordship in our lives.
The indwelling and renewing of our broken spirits with the comfort of God's presence.
And for all the other seemingly unending, meaningful and worthwhile stuff that we've shared which we have both either forgotten or have been stored in the back of our minds which in their own little way have molded both of us to the person that we are now we give God for all the joy and the pain which manifested and resulted with the realigning of our lives to the center of His will.
Happy birthday Jeanie. ]]> http://scumdesigns.deviantart.com/art/lungs-full-of-paint-71878544 http://scumdesigns.deviantart.com/art/lungs-full-of-paint-71878544 Tue, 11 Dec 2007 06:58:17 PST lungs full of paint nonadult literature/poetry/general/open scumdesigns http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/s/c/scumdesigns.jpg Copyright 2007-2013 ~scumdesigns and said to my freind im light headed and got a lung full of paint. thought it sounded good.

might try and make it longer at somepoint. ]]> cap off, hood up and ready to paint.
allways on the look out
for cop callers and pigs.
but never taking my eye off what im about to create.

empty cans falling to the ground.
different spray nosels being swapped around.
rattling and shaking of the cans,
whilst perfect lines get painted beyond the sound.

light headed with lungs full of paint,
standing back to admire what i had just created.
adrenaline rushing grabbing the cans,
turning around to get back down on the ground. ]]> and said to my freind im light headed and got a lung full of paint. thought it sounded good.

might try and make it longer at somepoint. ]]> http://the-muppet.deviantart.com/art/Eliminated-3683998 http://the-muppet.deviantart.com/art/Eliminated-3683998 Sun, 02 Nov 2003 17:38:58 PST Eliminated nonadult literature/prose/fiction/perspectives the-muppet http://a.deviantart.net/avatars/default.gif Copyright 2003-2013 ~the-muppet
“Dolores, call the club and schedule a tee time for this afternoon,” he intoned, with practiced authority.

“Sir… isn’t it your wife’s birthday today?” buzzed the cheap speaker on his expensive phone.

“I’ve already arranged for some very nice flowers to arrive this afternoon. Please buzz me back when you have a tee time. Thank You, Dolores,” he almost snapped, irritably, making the capitals in “Thank You” audible.

“Yes sir,” came the resigned, buzzing voice from the tinny speaker.

Fred shook his head. The cliché really was true, good help truly was hard to find. He pressed the key for intercom two. “Jones!” he barked, “We’d better have over 500 units packaged by close-of-business today, or it’s your ass.”

One of the men outside the plexiglass window turned toward him, and nodded with a blank expression. Fred made a study of not looking at him. Idiot. Jones was costing him three dollars and twenty-seven cents per week in under-production. Didn’t the man realize that that amounted to one hundred sixty-three dollars and fifty cents per production year? Sure, Fred spent three times that on liquor for himself and his management friends out of petty cash each year, but that was a perk of being a man of his position. Besides, it was the principle of the thing. Didn’t Jones realize he was stealing from the company by not meeting the carefully researched and approved production standards? If he did, he certainly didn’t seem to feel guilty about it, only apathetic. Disgusting.

“I’ve reserved a tee time for five-thirty, Mr. Muntz,” squawked the speaker on his phone.

“Very good, Dolores,” he said, “Please call my wife and tell her I’ll be working late, give her my regrets as usual.”

Fred shifted into fifth gear in his expensive European sports car. The thing was costing him nearly half his salary from the plant, but he’d be damned if it wasn’t worth it. The car rode like it was on rails, and it had all the little touches. Wood trim around all the important bits, a six CD changer, stereo sound, an integrated phone; another perk of his position and well deserved for all that he had to put up with. He rounded a corner at twice the speed limit and felt the g forces press him against the safety belt. He smiled with the pure indulgent joy of the ride. He always wore his safety belt, a man could get himself killed in one of these cars, if he didn’t. He turned up the volume on his CD, and rock music that hadn’t been in fashion for twenty years – and hadn’t been too fashionable even then – poured from every direction.

“Mr. Muntz, can I see you for a moment please?” came a tinny voice from the speakers, clearly audible over the music.

Fred’s entire body tensed in surprise. The phone in his car was nice, but it certainly didn’t have an intercom. He picked up the receiver – nothing. He turned down the radio, and looked around, his motions causing his Italian leather seat to squeak.

“Mr. Muntz, I’ll see you now.”

Fred gaped. He tried to form words, but his mouth worked silently. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead, and he went ghostly pale. His eyes darted around, searching for any sign of the car he had just been driving. His hands were still held out in front of him, at ten and two o’clock, gripping nothing. He raised one to run it through his thinning hair. He was sitting in a white, linen covered chair. In fact, the chair was more than white, it seemed to radiate light, as did the walls of the room he was in. At least, he thought it must be a room. Everything glowed with a constant white light, not bright, but not dim; just white. There were no windows and no doors, just white. In front of him was a white desk behind which sat a man in a white button down shirt, with a white tie. Fred couldn’t see but he subconsciously decided that the man was also wearing white pants with white shoes and white socks. The man radiated the same light as everything else in the room. There were no fluorescent bulbs, no light sources to be seen. The light just simply was.

“Mr. Muntz, I’m afraid that your position has been eliminated,” said the man in white. Fred tried to focus on the man’s face as he spoke, but his features seemed to keep changing. He couldn’t decide whether the man’s voice was high or low, coarse or smooth, it just… was.

“My… my position?” Fred stuttered.

“Yes, Mr. Muntz, I’m afraid that you’ve become redundant,” said the man in his voice like a chorus and yet singular all at the same time.

“Re… Redundant?” stammered Fred.

“Yes, it seems that all of your functions are being handled by other souls,” said the man, matter-of-factly.

“Other souls?!” exclaimed Fred, starting to get a rein on his vocal chords once more, “Am I… am I dead?”

“Well, not precisely, not in the way that you’re thinking. Your position has simply been eliminated. You’re no longer needed, so we’re letting you go,” the man said.

“But.. but what about my wife, what about the kids?” asked Fred, starting to feel very uncomfortable in the white chair, even though it seemed to fit his contours perfectly, he sank just slightly into it.

“Are you serious, Fred?” asked the man dryly, standing up out of his chair. Fred started when he noticed pale, white feathered wings unfold from behind the man’s back. The man raised his arms over his head briefly, stretching, then did the same with the wings. Fred gaped. “You couldn’t even go home for Alice’s birthday today, Fred. You decided that golf and beer with your so-called friends was more important. Your sons took her out when they heard you were ‘working late’. Billy chipped in his paper route money, and Terrance had some of his allowance saved.”

“Well, I… wait… how do you know my family? How do you know my boys’ names?!” Fred began to raise his voice, he was getting red in the face.

“I know a good deal about you, Fred. Please, sit back down,” said the man softly. Fred hadn’t realized he was now standing. He sank back into his chair. “Thank you,” said the man, smiling softly. “Now, as I was saying, I know a good deal about you. It’s my job after all, as the head of S.R.”

“S…R…?” murmured Fred, his mind spinning.

“Soul Resources, of course,” replied the man curtly. “I’ve been evaluating your productivity for some time, and I’m sorry to report that you no longer serve any earthly purpose, to put it bluntly. In fact, you haven’t for quite some time, but I’ve tried to be lenient with you, give you some time to improve, as it were. Regrettably, I couldn’t inform you of your probationary status, against policy, you understand.”

“This… this is some kind of joke… right? I must have made it to the club and had a bit too much…”

“As much as you have indulged to a disgusting excess prior to today, Fred, that’s just not what’s happening here. You are exactly where you are, and everything that I’ve told you is exactly what’s happening. Look around you, do you think this is a joke?” asked the man, raising an eyebrow.

Fred swung his head from side to side, surveying the impossible room. There were no walls or ceiling or anything else that could be distinguished from the all-encompassing, white light from nowhere. He thought that there must be a floor, since the desk, the chairs, and the standing man all rested on the same plane, but all else was featureless white. “No… no I suppose not, but, I’m not useless! I’m not! I provide for my wife and children! They need me!” he protested.

The man in white cocked an eyebrow at him again, higher this time. “Think, Fred,” he chided, “Your wagering on your golf game, which is horrible, by the way, and your drinking have eaten up every cent you bring home. Alice has been borrowing money from her parents for the past six months. She’s just not told you. She didn’t want to injure your pride. But she’s neared the end of her rope, she doesn’t know what to do with you anymore, and frankly, we’re not quite sure either. That’s why your position has been eliminated. Your boys hardly know you, your wife never sees you, you’re just one more face at the golf course, one more guy with money to lose. If you died tomorrow, only your wife and children would weep for you, and that would be for a man who was already gone, only they haven’t realized it yet.”

Fred sagged his shoulders in resignation. “So what happens now?” he asked.

“Well,” said the man, “There are a number of options, actually. However, I wonder how well equipped you are to take advantage of most of them.” The man held up one closed fist, then raised one finger at a time as he ticked off items on them. “There’s soul retraining – you’d call that reincarnation – you go back out there as someone else, start all over, and try to make something of yourself. I’m not sure that you’re the sort to improve much, but then… miracles do happen,” that last came with a mild quirk of the lips, almost a smirk from the man in white. “There’s early retirement, but I must say, you haven’t got much for savings in your account –“

“My account?” interrupted Fred, “What do you –“

“Your karma account, of course. Yours is nearly empty. In fact, it was running in the red until you finally decided to come home from the strip club on Christmas after all, and spend some time with your boys. Normally that wouldn’t even have brought you into the black, but Somebody took pity on you and gave you a curve, on that one,” said the man.

Fred swallowed the lump that had been forming in his throat.

“Of course with your karma account nearly dry, I’m afraid that you wouldn’t be able to afford much of an afterlife just yet. Something on the south side of the Kingdom of God, where things can get a bit warm, if you know what I mean.”

Fred didn’t reply, he had no idea what the man meant, but he didn’t open his mouth.

“Another option is to go back as something not human. Not the most attractive option, I’ll admit, but perhaps the most realistic for you. A few lifetimes of being someone’s faithful canine companion, for instance, would replenish your account considerably, and would require nearly no effort since your propensity for greed is almost absent as an animal.”

Fred’s eyes just stared, wide open, not seeing anything.

“Of course, you haven’t got to decide right away,” said the man. “You’ve got time to – Oh!” The man stopped abruptly as a stack of papers materialized on his desk with a loud pop. “Here it is,” he said, “Your Agreement and Release. By signing you recognize and admit that I have fully disclosed your options, and that you understand your options and are satisfied with my explanation, furthermore, you agree to hold myself and my office harmless for your…”

The man droned on for some minutes, but Fred didn’t hear him. He was staring into the impossible white space that surrounded him. He blinked his eyes from time to time, but aside from that, he was perfectly motionless. How many times had he shuttled long time employees of the plant out the door, never with a care for what they did once they signed their release? He had lost count. He had laid off hundreds of men. Men with wives, children, elderly parents. It was only his job. Quotas had to be met, profit margins were all the investors looked at, they didn’t care for or reward humanitarianism… after what seemed a very long time, the man quieted.

“Fred? Fred!” he exclaimed, “I’ll need your signature here please… good… and here… there’s a good lad. Now, if you’ll just stand up, we’ll be going through this door…”

Fred started, there hadn’t been any door there before. A white ivory door with a tinted window halfway up, upon which was stenciled “Placement Assistance”. ]]>
“Dolores, call the club and schedule a tee time for this afternoon,” he intoned, with practiced authority.

“Sir… isn’t it your wife’s birthday today?” buzzed the cheap speaker on his expensive phone.

“I’ve already arranged for some very nice flowers to arrive this afternoon. Please buzz me back when you have a tee time. Thank You, Dolores,” he almost snapped, irritably, making the capitals in “Thank You” audible.

“Yes sir,” came the resigned, buzzing voice from the tinny speaker.

Fred shook his head. The cliché really was true, good help truly was hard to find. He pressed the key for intercom two. “Jones!” he barked, “We’d better have over 500 units packaged by close-of-business today, or it’s your ass.”

One of the men outside the plexiglass window turned toward him, and nodded with a blank expression. Fred made a study of not looking at him. Idiot. Jones was costing him three dollars and twenty-seven cents per week in under-production. Didn’t the man realize that that amounted to one hundred sixty-three dollars and fifty cents per production year? Sure, Fred spent three times that on liquor for himself and his management friends out of petty cash each year, but that was a perk of being a man of his position. Besides, it was the principle of the thing. Didn’t Jones realize he was stealing from the company by not meeting the carefully researched and approved production standards? If he did, he certainly didn’t seem to feel guilty about it, only apathetic. Disgusting.

“I’ve reserved a tee time for five-thirty, Mr. Muntz,” squawked the speaker on his phone.

“Very good, Dolores,” he said, “Please call my wife and tell her I’ll be working late, give her my regrets as usual.”

Fred shifted into fifth gear in his expensive European sports car. The thing was costing him nearly half his salary from the plant, but he’d be damned if it wasn’t worth it. The car rode like it was on rails, and it had all the little touches. Wood trim around all the important bits, a six CD changer, stereo sound, an integrated phone; another perk of his position and well deserved for all that he had to put up with. He rounded a corner at twice the speed limit and felt the g forces press him against the safety belt. He smiled with the pure indulgent joy of the ride. He always wore his safety belt, a man could get himself killed in one of these cars, if he didn’t. He turned up the volume on his CD, and rock music that hadn’t been in fashion for twenty years – and hadn’t been too fashionable even then – poured from every direction.

“Mr. Muntz, can I see you for a moment please?” came a tinny voice from the speakers, clearly audible over the music.

Fred’s entire body tensed in surprise. The phone in his car was nice, but it certainly didn’t have an intercom. He picked up the receiver – nothing. He turned down the radio, and looked around, his motions causing his Italian leather seat to squeak.

“Mr. Muntz, I’ll see you now.”

Fred gaped. He tried to form words, but his mouth worked silently. Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead, and he went ghostly pale. His eyes darted around, searching for any sign of the car he had just been driving. His hands were still held out in front of him, at ten and two o’clock, gripping nothing. He raised one to run it through his thinning hair. He was sitting in a white, linen covered chair. In fact, the chair was more than white, it seemed to radiate light, as did the walls of the room he was in. At least, he thought it must be a room. Everything glowed with a constant white light, not bright, but not dim; just white. There were no windows and no doors, just white. In front of him was a white desk behind which sat a man in a white button down shirt, with a white tie. Fred couldn’t see but he subconsciously decided that the man was also wearing white pants with white shoes and white socks. The man radiated the same light as everything else in the room. There were no fluorescent bulbs, no light sources to be seen. The light just simply was.

“Mr. Muntz, I’m afraid that your position has been eliminated,” said the man in white. Fred tried to focus on the man’s face as he spoke, but his features seemed to keep changing. He couldn’t decide whether the man’s voice was high or low, coarse or smooth, it just… was.

“My… my position?” Fred stuttered.

“Yes, Mr. Muntz, I’m afraid that you’ve become redundant,” said the man in his voice like a chorus and yet singular all at the same time.

“Re… Redundant?” stammered Fred.

“Yes, it seems that all of your functions are being handled by other souls,” said the man, matter-of-factly.

“Other souls?!” exclaimed Fred, starting to get a rein on his vocal chords once more, “Am I… am I dead?”

“Well, not precisely, not in the way that you’re thinking. Your position has simply been eliminated. You’re no longer needed, so we’re letting you go,” the man said.

“But.. but what about my wife, what about the kids?” asked Fred, starting to feel very uncomfortable in the white chair, even though it seemed to fit his contours perfectly, he sank just slightly into it.

“Are you serious, Fred?” asked the man dryly, standing up out of his chair. Fred started when he noticed pale, white feathered wings unfold from behind the man’s back. The man raised his arms over his head briefly, stretching, then did the same with the wings. Fred gaped. “You couldn’t even go home for Alice’s birthday today, Fred. You decided that golf and beer with your so-called friends was more important. Your sons took her out when they heard you were ‘working late’. Billy chipped in his paper route money, and Terrance had some of his allowance saved.”

“Well, I… wait… how do you know my family? How do you know my boys’ names?!” Fred began to raise his voice, he was getting red in the face.

“I know a good deal about you, Fred. Please, sit back down,” said the man softly. Fred hadn’t realized he was now standing. He sank back into his chair. “Thank you,” said the man, smiling softly. “Now, as I was saying, I know a good deal about you. It’s my job after all, as the head of S.R.”

“S…R…?” murmured Fred, his mind spinning.

“Soul Resources, of course,” replied the man curtly. “I’ve been evaluating your productivity for some time, and I’m sorry to report that you no longer serve any earthly purpose, to put it bluntly. In fact, you haven’t for quite some time, but I’ve tried to be lenient with you, give you some time to improve, as it were. Regrettably, I couldn’t inform you of your probationary status, against policy, you understand.”

“This… this is some kind of joke… right? I must have made it to the club and had a bit too much…”

“As much as you have indulged to a disgusting excess prior to today, Fred, that’s just not what’s happening here. You are exactly where you are, and everything that I’ve told you is exactly what’s happening. Look around you, do you think this is a joke?” asked the man, raising an eyebrow.

Fred swung his head from side to side, surveying the impossible room. There were no walls or ceiling or anything else that could be distinguished from the all-encompassing, white light from nowhere. He thought that there must be a floor, since the desk, the chairs, and the standing man all rested on the same plane, but all else was featureless white. “No… no I suppose not, but, I’m not useless! I’m not! I provide for my wife and children! They need me!” he protested.

The man in white cocked an eyebrow at him again, higher this time. “Think, Fred,” he chided, “Your wagering on your golf game, which is horrible, by the way, and your drinking have eaten up every cent you bring home. Alice has been borrowing money from her parents for the past six months. She’s just not told you. She didn’t want to injure your pride. But she’s neared the end of her rope, she doesn’t know what to do with you anymore, and frankly, we’re not quite sure either. That’s why your position has been eliminated. Your boys hardly know you, your wife never sees you, you’re just one more face at the golf course, one more guy with money to lose. If you died tomorrow, only your wife and children would weep for you, and that would be for a man who was already gone, only they haven’t realized it yet.”

Fred sagged his shoulders in resignation. “So what happens now?” he asked.

“Well,” said the man, “There are a number of options, actually. However, I wonder how well equipped you are to take advantage of most of them.” The man held up one closed fist, then raised one finger at a time as he ticked off items on them. “There’s soul retraining – you’d call that reincarnation – you go back out there as someone else, start all over, and try to make something of yourself. I’m not sure that you’re the sort to improve much, but then… miracles do happen,” that last came with a mild quirk of the lips, almost a smirk from the man in white. “There’s early retirement, but I must say, you haven’t got much for savings in your account –“

“My account?” interrupted Fred, “What do you –“

“Your karma account, of course. Yours is nearly empty. In fact, it was running in the red until you finally decided to come home from the strip club on Christmas after all, and spend some time with your boys. Normally that wouldn’t even have brought you into the black, but Somebody took pity on you and gave you a curve, on that one,” said the man.

Fred swallowed the lump that had been forming in his throat.

“Of course with your karma account nearly dry, I’m afraid that you wouldn’t be able to afford much of an afterlife just yet. Something on the south side of the Kingdom of God, where things can get a bit warm, if you know what I mean.”

Fred didn’t reply, he had no idea what the man meant, but he didn’t open his mouth.

“Another option is to go back as something not human. Not the most attractive option, I’ll admit, but perhaps the most realistic for you. A few lifetimes of being someone’s faithful canine companion, for instance, would replenish your account considerably, and would require nearly no effort since your propensity for greed is almost absent as an animal.”

Fred’s eyes just stared, wide open, not seeing anything.

“Of course, you haven’t got to decide right away,” said the man. “You’ve got time to – Oh!” The man stopped abruptly as a stack of papers materialized on his desk with a loud pop. “Here it is,” he said, “Your Agreement and Release. By signing you recognize and admit that I have fully disclosed your options, and that you understand your options and are satisfied with my explanation, furthermore, you agree to hold myself and my office harmless for your…”

The man droned on for some minutes, but Fred didn’t hear him. He was staring into the impossible white space that surrounded him. He blinked his eyes from time to time, but aside from that, he was perfectly motionless. How many times had he shuttled long time employees of the plant out the door, never with a care for what they did once they signed their release? He had lost count. He had laid off hundreds of men. Men with wives, children, elderly parents. It was only his job. Quotas had to be met, profit margins were all the investors looked at, they didn’t care for or reward humanitarianism… after what seemed a very long time, the man quieted.

“Fred? Fred!” he exclaimed, “I’ll need your signature here please… good… and here… there’s a good lad. Now, if you’ll just stand up, we’ll be going through this door…”

Fred started, there hadn’t been any door there before. A white ivory door with a tinted window halfway up, upon which was stenciled “Placement Assistance”. ]]>