Her Teddy Bear

In all honesty, it was my fault. Yes shocking, I know. It was my fault that my little pumpkin's teddy bear needs surgery after his play-date with my fuzzy Schnauzer. In all it was not my fault. Okay, it was sorta...Fine, it was my fault.

"Daddy is Mr. Cuddles getting surgeree today?" My little girl stares at me with large soulful eyes, to be precise her mother's doe green eyes. It is not fair that she gets her mother's eyes. They have a magical power over them. I need to resist!

"Yes sweetie but its called surgery." I tell her with confidence though I still can not dare to look her in the eyes. I couldn't resist them. If I do I will end up buying her every toy in the store.

The same damn thing happens with my wife, Isabella.
She gives up puppy dog eyes and I fall for it.
Once more I must state, it is unfair.

"Daddy.."

"Yes.."

"Call me by name for now on." I shake my head. It was a dream. She is no longer my little girl. She is now a teenager, no a young adult. She stood with her hands on her hips tapping her foot waiting for me to say her name, not the nickname I gave her as a little girl. I stood and though as I remembered the argument we had over her clothing. Her shirt showed a little of her midsection. It was decent but as her father, I have the right not to like it. Her shorts were fine. I had allowed her buy nothing that showed or highlighted her...um...bumper.

"Got it swe.."

"Dad!" She gave me the same look of her mother when she wanted me to say what she wanted me to say. She still has that talent.

" Got it Catherine." I said in defeat

"You can call me Katy, Dad" I grinned. A moment to redeem myself

"Oh, that is not your name though." I stated that with a little sarcasm. She smirked

"Smarta-"

"What? Do I hear a certain curse word coming from your dainty lips. Must we make daddy a little richer with another dollar." She gave me her look. I must state this look is not pretty. Imagine a nasty glare mixed with the curve of the lips to appear like a half scowl. Just like her other looks, this comes from her mother. How I love my daughter and my wife, so filled with life and passion. Enough reminiscing back to the scowl, it is nasty but so satisfying to get out of my daughter. Oh, I love getting the look. It doesn't have the special magic as her other stares and looks that she gained from her mother. The scowl reminds her and myself who is wearing the pants in this relationship. Who? Me. Well, when her mother is with us, its her. Remember guys when the wife is happy, we, the husbands, are happy. For no fighting and a little, um, reimbursement.

"Can we get back to the purpose to our outing." She walked further towards the clothing shop. Yes, every father's worst nightmare. It was the time to go clothing shopping with my little girl.

"Is this okay Daddy?" She was twirling around in a little pink dress. I laughed as she danced like a ballerina. I guess the dance lessons her mother makes her take really do work.

"It is pumpkin but don't you want to fix Mr. Cuddles. " I said as I lifted up the torn teddy bear. His stuffing was falling out from the 'little' bite wounds from his play-date.

"Nope. Mr. Cuddles is fine as he is. It is like a new story! Right Daddy?"

"Right." I muttered under my breath as a grinned molded onto my face.

"What is right Dad?" She came out wearing a tube top that shows off ALL of her stomach and pronounces her chest a bit too much for any father's liking. By a bit, I mean a whole lot.

"I can tell you that the shirt you are wearing is a bit on the short side. Which translates from father-nese into not happening."

"But I like it!"

"You make like it and those boys might like it. But it still is not going to happen." She gave me the doe eye look that she used when she was a little girl. Before when she was that age, it would work every time. Though as I grew more and more into a father, I learned to resist partially.

"I'll get it BUT" I put a large emphasis on the 'but.' "The shirt will be glued to a longer long sleeved shirt."

"That will ruin the purpose though!" I scratched my head for I really do not understand who being a little more protective of her would ruin the shirt. She scoffed at me and picked up another one of her choices. She was so much easier to understand as a child. I reached into her bag to pull out...

"What do you want me to do with Mr. Cuddles when your older sweetie." I asked her. She rubbed her chin like I did when I thought. She grabbed her teddy and placed it within her little pouch.

"Put it in my bag."

"Your sure you won't forget it?" I worried that she might forget it and end up crying until I find a way to make sure every tear on the 'original' teddy bear are exactly the same. I have no idea how she finds out the difference in a millimeter of space of the actual cut and the manufactured cut.

"I'm sure!" I took out Mr. Cuddles. I squeezed Mr. Cuddles a little in between my hands and smiled at what he means.

What he means. She still has it...

"Dad what about thi..." She stopped as she saw at what I discovered.

"You still have him." She grabbed the bear out of my hand and places it back in the bag.

"No I don't!" She looked around worried if her friends had seen it.

" I'm touched." She looked at me and she waited. "Do you remember the day we came here to fix him." I chuckled to myself as every second of it returned in full clarity. She grinned a bit

"Yeah."

"The store's next door we could fix him for old times." She took out the bear and sat next to me. She held the bear close to her chest.

"No Dad...it's a memento to those good old days."

"Sweetie.."

"Yes Daddy."

"I love you, my little girl"

"I love you too Daddy."

2: The Golden Grunt

The Golden Grunt

The bumps and screeching metal reminds me of home; well, no home exactly but the road back to home from the BART train system that starts in San Francisco. In truth it is a bit better for someone scared by the intricate roads that surround the grand city and its eccentric airport waiting areas to take the simple sit and wait scenario of public transportation. I shall be honest; I was home sick; missing the smell of freshly blooming flowers arrayed by nature, a sight lost in modern society; a sight not lost in the social vision of landholders in a small hamlet. But an odd sight came to my view that day I was returning to the town of my childhood; a woman. Not to be confused with a lecher or a man born into a society that separates women from men, it is the type of woman that is odd to appear to the road to a small town such as mine. For one, she wore an overcoat of fine make; handmade probably and not a stitched handiwork of lovable grandmother's, this was a work of professional artisans. Two, she wore formal attire that did not fit the air of the city or town that this train points to; if the train pointed to the grand cities that are now in the trains hind-lights, it would be understandable; third would be the way she carried herself, she was no small town girl. She was no high town girl. By the way she carried herself she would be at the level of England's Royalty. Such regal nature is uncommon in modern American society; however, this should be expected from a nation built upon rebels. No disrespect meant due to the fact this is my homeland. I glanced as this woman sat next to me. I will say to see us sitting next to one another would be an unusual a sight; on one side would be a comely lass with golden hair and sapphire blue(once more, I am no lecher; any man worth his salts would stare this woman from top to bottom.) and a formal black dress with uncomfortable heels on her feet (that would be the fourth reason she is an oddity. Any native would know the oddity of such finery taking the average man's transport.). To her side would be a homely man wearing his father's hand-me-down leather jacket, a wrinkled flannel shirt and a worn pair of general jeans. We, the princess and the peasant, would be a fine title to express our difference. Though this did not stop me from talking to this fine lass, oddities excite me. Regardless of the old lesson of curiosity killing the cat, I am no cat; I am more of a stubborn or stupid bull.

"I do not mean to impose conversation but what is someone like you here on the poor man's savior" I asked a bit boldly; she gave me a look worthy of my gall.

"Poor Man's savior? Is that some form of euphemism for calling me either a gold-digger or old money?" Ouch, I like this woman! I grabbed my chest and pretended to be hurt.

"Ouch...you stabbed me with your wit. Ah! I am bleeding all over. Look at the amount of blood gushing from my wound." She started to laugh, "Yes, I am a ham." She nodded in agreement. "Let us start over in a more serious way."

"Really? Too bad, more bad humor would be too much." I grinned.

"Aiming for my pride, what next? Is castration coming up?" She shook her head in disbelief.

"Tell me is this how you pick up every girl?"

"Yep, works every time." I chuckled at this unexpected banter. "So can I be serious enough since the ice is not only broken but mauled and shattered into microscopic shards." She signaled yes with a subtle head bob. Good, we are getting somewhere. "By the way just for future reference, you may call me Thomas. My friends call me Tom."

"My name is Lizbeth, Beth to those who are close."

"Nice to know Beth."

"Who says you are close." I scratched my shaggy stubble.

"I do?" I said with a grin.

"Okay, the I shall call you Tom." Then in the seconds that a plan began to form within my mind. If it was cunning, I do not know. But was I going to go through with it, men before me have look down barrels of gun with curiosity. What is a little embarrassment to gunfire?

"Care to play twenty questions to pass the time." She seemed skeptical of my reason. I assured her I had no underhanded plan. Its true, my plan was despicable not underhanded. There is a total difference.

"Fine but nothing too personal. Deal?" I agreed. I was despicable not a lecherous idiot; standards I do have.

"You are not a native?

"No. You?"

"Born and raised. A double-sided blade, this fact is." She did not believe me. Giving me her inquisitive look, she does not trust me! Smart girl, a good head lies on her shoulders.

"Of what I have seen in your actions, your hometown probably is a fine place." I scoffed at her assumption.

"Trust me. I am the lucky one. My home town is not dangerous but leaks of arrogance and entitlement. I had some humility drilled into me. Also, I am asking the questions; however, this game of 20 questions has changed into a discussion." A wily smirk came to my face, "it seems I have imposed conversation on you."

"Indeed, a self-imposed conversation is such a victory."

"Ha! I am fluent in such comments that vary from sarcasm to satire. You cannot fool me."

"Really? I am shocked that you looked through my façade."

"Yep, I am one of a kind like a drunk puppy."

"A drunk puppy?" I chuckled at her expression.

"Yep." I paused for a second while the image of a drunkard pup walking around the yard physically crept into her mind. The picture is odd; however, a dirty lyric poem about a drunk puppy written by a fellow writer will definitely be even more fantastical. "So where is home." A more serious question. Once more I must repeat I am no lecher; I can tell you dirty readers think that! Dirty children, you are.

"That is an odd question."

"I'm not asking for an address just where you hail from!" She thinks I am a lecherous bastard. It's contagious!

"Europe." I felt my head drop.

"Uh...a little more specific. You know a country or region and the type of town. I will start. I hail from a small little town in central California. See? Easy, no?"

"I do not feel comfortable in saying this." A bit disappointed yes, but it is her choice.

"Is it too much to pry, why?" She just whispered that it was family reasons. Even I know that somethings belong unsaid. Of course, this does not stop me from endangering myself. I offered her to stay with my folks. They would not mind another body...though I should have seen what they would think when their son comes home with an attractive woman.

The question that first came at when the door opened at my home (this is after squeezing out of the train and driving in my old reliable, a car, to my family home. It is an arrangement to allow me to study in England for college.) "Tell me when do I get a granddaughter!" Let me clarify, this is my mother. She has always wanted a granddaughter to doll up in new clothes. Every girls dream right but not the would-be mother's. I shall just leave it that both Beth and I were red as beats (my father was the savior. He knew that there was probably a different reason why I would be a girl home. He calls it my "helping disorder" but that is a story for another day.) In time I came to an agreement with my mother that she is not going to be the mother of her granddaughter. I could not dissuade her from it or persuade a towards another less direct idea. She is stubborn; at least my stubbornness has an origin.

"So beside the unquestionable and direct assumption welcome to the town of my younger years. A humble hamlet filled with the self-righteous and self-important."

"You are pessimistic about your childhood." I shrugged.

"Nope, I am overstating the people so they seem more amiable when you actually meet them. A method to my insanity." A method that actually worked. She seemed to enjoy the people of the town. Each old friend I introduced to her she sincerely seemed to like. I must be honest; this plan is going very smoothly then what I expected and this is the hard part. The easy part is buying a ticket to the English countryside. I enjoy the countryside. Though this is when the misfortune begins to unfold. It is here where a conflict would lead too many problems...I discovered why she did not tell me her home was in the English countryside and that the certain shire I picked was where she grew up. As a person with limited mathematical skills can tell. Bad plus bad equals a lot of pain for me.

"You knew." I stayed silent as the trip back on the BART continue to rumble. I stayed quiet. I had no way of explaining that this was coincidence. "I cannot understand how you could have found out, but to create this plan to expose me to it! What were you thinking." She was angry I can vouch with my sour cheek when she learned of what part of England we landed in. I guess there is nothing I could do. I could say I didn't' mean it, but that does not change a thing. "What can you say to justify yourself!"

I muttered to myself and then said it again louder. "I cannot." She glanced at me and retorted multiple times of how 'I cannot' was not true.

"Why would I plan to damage our relationship. Our friendship has become very important to me. I enjoy your company! To jeopardize everything, I wouldn't do! I-" I bit my tongue. Yelling is not the answer; I calmed myself. "Nothing I can say can change this." I waited to hear her response. None came. "All I can say is that this damage is in the past. Can we not put this behind us?" Nothing, this will be my death for I tread into deadly territory. All this chance for her, why do I do this.

"What's done is done. Please, I ask you to trust me and look towards the future."

"And risk everything?" A response, a pessimistic one; it is still progress.

"I'll be there to catch you." I said to her teary face.

"What are you?" An odd question but a deep one from the light within her watery-eyes. I grinned though at the prospect.

"A golden grunt." She smiled.

"Not golden." Why? "my grunt" I paused and then smiled.

"I guess it takes my stupidity to be a cushion for your sanity. I shall be your source of bliss."

3: Paradise and Heaven

Paradise and Heaven

The first steps of winter set in as the courier set his feet against the hamlet's ground as snow melts off the turbid green grass. The all the trees were barren of any leaves and life for no chirping of birds, no songs of crickets, or young children wrestling among the ashen brown and bright reds of the piles of leaves upon the floor. The courier moved forward across the homes as he peeked at the package he held within his arms; he worried that the package covered in pure ivory silk would be stained by his coat, a ragged, torn, and dirty article of cloth. He scratched his scruffy beard as he passed the normal buildings of little extraordinary aspects; he stopped at pair of three buildings of unnatural color. They illuminated the rest of the neighborhood of small houses. The farthest house to the left opened up as a little boy scurried out of it; his clothes were ragged and unkempt; however, he ran out of a mansion of ivory statues in the front, and apparent silk and stain curtains that blocked the windows. The boy, once he had done his job which was picking up a nice piece of newspaper, ran back into the grandiloquent shelter. The courier shook his head as he glanced reluctantly from the home and walked up to the door of the middle mansion of the trio of manors. He knocked against the heavy oak door. The courier looked around for a second as he took in a deep breath; the area was comfortable, even in his clothes that itched and gave him constant rashes. He could see himself as living in a nice little tent near the trees. He raised an eyebrow as he saw a glimmer of green among the empty branches; it was a single evergreen among the seasonal trees. The courier must have missed it on his way up. Too bad, the courier thought. The tree was beautiful in its own rights, regardless of its never changing color. Stability breeds both contempt and content.

"Hello?" said a soft voice behind him. The courier jumped in surprise as he turned around to answer the query. First he glanced over the person that asked it. The young woman that stood before him wore clothes of a farm hand. He studied her face for a second as she had no markings of the working class: skin fair, hands of a scholar, and a figure too thin and dainty for labor.

"My pardon, Miss…uh, your name miss?" I asked as I bowed in respect.

"My name is Eve, good courier." She handed a glass of water towards him. He grinned and took the water, a grand gift for a thirsty man. He drank the water slowly as he thought of the other gifts given to him by the wealthy: wine, absinthe, and other fancy attire. It was a pleasant change for a layman's drink.

"Thank you Miss Eve. A wonder is a glass of water." He motioned to enter the house, "I have a delivery for the man of the house, one Mister Adam?" The young woman looked startled as she looked around. She whispered into the courier's ear about the one, Mister Adam. The courier took his boots off as he walked into the house to talk about the exchange further. The room he was asked to stay in was one of a grand crystal chandelier hung above and marble floor, it was more of a ball room then a family room.

"Mister Adam is very posh, my dear courier and will only speak with you once you are properly prepared." The young woman walked away to get the correct proper attire. Then a little girl walked up to me.

"Hi!" A paused came over the room as I just smiled. "Will you be my friend?" She said. Undeterred by such a quick comment the courier nodded.

"Tell me miss, what is your name." The courier repeated his question that the young woman before her asked. The little girl thought for a second and thought of one.

"Elizabeth!" she shouted, "I am strong like Elizabeth." The courier nodded as he smiled at the girl.

"Strong and wise as the Virgin Queen," the courier said, "A namesake worthy of such a darling lass." The little girl whispered a secret into the courier's ear which he thought as hilarious. Before he could finish his laugh, the first young woman appeared, now in a grand gown, a midwife's gown. She gave the courier a full suit, one that felt right for a king. The courier took to it of changing into the chosen suit; removing his traveling attire, groggy and wet as he aforementioned, to the point he stood in the room of grand finery with just his drawers on. Elizabeth was asked to change into her proper attire by the midwife. He grabbed the suit pants on and shoes and put them on. He smiled as the clothing fitted just right. The little girl giggled as she stayed, which the young woman, the midwife, found out to her utter dismay, the courier stretched in his new pants and shoes. Next came the shirt and the blazer; he brought it over his head; it smelled of a fine cologne and a scent of a fine mademoiselle with it too. He brought it down as he glanced to see the Elizabeth had changed into a fine lady, a proper change to literary grow older. They, Elizabeth and the midwife, both nodded and whispered words of inaudible to my ears. The young lady took the tie and placed it against my neck and whispered kind words into my ear. Then from there, the mature caretaker took me towards a new door which opened to a grand cathedral and at the end a minster with ancient markings on his face.

"Good day son," He remarked, "I am Mister Adam." I recalled the package and looked around to find it. "Don't worry son. Here it is, no?" The same silk package lay in his hands open with a diamond key in it on a bed of satin sheets. Mister Adam gave me the diamond and said to use it to find paradise. The courier walked down the cathedral aisle looking around at the marble statues of couriers before him each smiling with their own sacred keys. He continued down the empty whitewashed lane to see the grand door closed with the Gates of Paradise, a door of solid godly gold and engraved with saintly silver. Next to the ostentatious door stood the Elizabeth, who had refused to cross the aisle with the midwife and the courier, the little girl he had met years ago, stood beside it in her ordinary clothing. Compared to the alluring gold door she was homely. The courier muttered as he looked at the diamond as it glowed as bright as heaven, and then he tossed it. Mister Adam ran towards the key muttered curses in Latin. "How could you forsake the holy heaven? What is greater then the land of God?" The courier walked towards the young lady and took his blazer to cover both of them. As they held each other, the cathedral began to shake as the world around them transformed from empty lifeless marble giving way to vines and bright flora. The cathedral dissolved to reveal the blue sky and an idyllic garden with a little cottage with a wooden fence at the top of a hill. Mister Adam slowly dissipated as the rest of his home when the land finished its metamorphosis. The courier took of his blazer and kept it on the young woman and advanced towards Mister Adam.

"Good Mister Adam, Paradise is not a place but a person." The courier points to the young woman, "She is my Eden."

4: No Touching the Unchangeable

No Touching the Unchangeable.

No soul asked a simple question that haunted all their minds. Nobody knew why they cared about the old house in the center of town.
After all it was a house, dampened walls with mildew and mold covering every crevasse. No one disputed the thought that that house was ancient, or at least that is what the stories told by the elders to the grown, a piece of our town's history-maybe a monument. Though, No one dared to enter into the house due to its apparent nature: doors boarded shut, windows replaced by stone blocks, and the basement door locked shut. In a word no entrance was left to allow others in. Regardless of its misshapen form and the beaten up walls, the house, miraculously and unnaturally, maintained itself perfectly, no matter the storm, disaster, or man-made demolition.

The children would play in the area around the house, which was the size of long forgotten forest, or so they were lead to believe. The house, though, remained untouched and far away. The children would point away from the house when they played baseball, not giving any chance to lose their ball to the backyard of the ancient house. During Halloween, no child dared to make a bet upon entering the house. Day after day, leaves would cluster around the house, surrounding the house but never touching its base with any point. The house remained as it was: untouched, unchanged, and unaltered. No matter be it summer, be it autumn, be it spring, be it fall: changes did not come to the house.

The children would play far around it, but not near the house. Among the neighborhood children, they would make up tales of what the house held within its walls. On the bleakest of days and rain drenched the streets rattling against the windows and pattered the wooden ceilings, the children strung tales of the house's owner, though they never met nor heard of him. The eldest of the gang, about twelve, depicted it as the aged house of a powerful baron who gained eternal life by bathing and drinking the blood of the innocent and whose eternal life became barred to the space of his house after the local town folk turned the house into a prison. Another boy declared the house to be the base of a Covent of witches who would liquidized bones and feed on melted human flesh for power, while another (I believe this was one of the smaller girls) hoped it to be Eden and the impenetrable stone and wood were placed to keep the unclean and sinful outside. If they could, the children would take any route that bypassed the house, but no matter what, a parent would always take one boy or one girl to comment on its historic value and urge to the child to just walk up one of the loosen floorboards up to the door, then when confronted by the door, only a few would collect the courage to knock on the thick heavy boards on the door, then the child would sprint quickly to the arms of the parent and ask to leave the house now.

The children would play anywhere around the house, but not close to it. The children aged and changed and with this they left the town and its people for better pastures. The town soon shrunk as time passed by nearly everything about the town and the house dissipated.
Almost, but never wholly or completely. For one after another, single incidents, memories reemerged of the house staying still as an unchanged monument, as the town around it shifted its face time after time again, and he or she watched as seasons passed, other houses age and fell, but the house never fell. The experience was almost otherworldly, feet and arms acting like wings to glide up to the house in the center of town, bare feet touching the mold-infested boards of the front porch. He or she remembered the creaking of the floor boards, hearing the endless echo that resonated within the walls of the house, and the knocking against the dampened boards that covered the front door.

And swiftly the boards would fall and the door crept open, a stuttering rising moon, creaking after each centimeter as the hinges pull the brass apart. Two dark eyes, crimson red like soil stained by a thousand battles. They stared, but this was not cuddly monster from child's storybook or a whimsical tale. The monster's face remained behind a bleak façade as its tongue slithers down and flicks the ankles of her or him, tasting once more.

There in the frigid breath of the beast, it told the child secrets. Secrets of life and of death, each one could not remember but each one could not forget the moment.

Slowly they all took the memory to death. The eldest boy burned in a fire ten years after he left, a simple accident so it is said. Most of the lot ran away from the neighborhood. Soon all the parents and elders and the town turned to ruin. One of the grown children was even taken to an asylum; he tried to plant an incendiary bomb on the house in the center of town. He remains there, slowly his sanity dies.
The ones that did not leave with the lot or died, either by age or by dismemberment, were appealed them to return to the neighborhood to bring new life into the town's lifeless carcass. They declined to return. One plea after another, they declined to return to see the house once more. Soon the houses that surrounded the house in the center of town where churned to scrap, thousands of pieces of constant changing houses. The one in the center, the house, remained untouched. They, the ones that declined and still live, return to the grave of the eldest boy and to meet the mad boy, as much as they returned to see the house in the center of newly-razed town, in truth, never.
Years passed and decades decayed away, the only one left near the gone neighborhood was the littlest of the children. She, like those others, aged into adulthood then elder age, and with the age, trees began to surround the ancient house in the center of town. Those close bent towards the house, branches blackened as burnt charcoal. The plants grew with no regard for the silent sentinel of the past, the unchanging house in the center of town, or more precise the center of the woods.

The house remained as time past on. Not a sound, not a peep from within the house's hidden innards. All but a light growl behind the shadow, the house will stand forever. The house will remain unchanged and will remain standing until it is opened.

5: My Eden

My Eden

My family has always asked what do I believe. In all truth, it is not that surprising. They are, in the purest form, good believers and this moment is strictly them. My parents yelling at the neighbors (my best friend's parents) for criticizing their beliefs which will entice the battle of faiths. In all perspective, the fight has occurred with both group of parents arguing right in the center of the Grand Hall. They had two filled table flanking either side of them filled with family and friends. If they enjoyed the "view" or not I do not know. All I knew was that the argument was not going to end well. In all truth, one sprouts from the other..Damn it now is not the time for a lesson in faith evolution and who this two connect. Sorry, I get side tracked a bit to easily. Well, back to the topic which is...their argument on this wonderful day.

"Dad, it's enough" My best friend retains her unique nature. She is one hell of a woman. She plays the role of a queen so easily but still retains a sense of your average girl next door personality. She is...well...she. No way to express her real self in lifeless words. If I did, I would desire the damnation that my old pastor tells me I will get in due time.

"Fine." Her father backed down and everything calmed down. I sighed in relief. With the argument settled the air cleared up. The air still had a slight residue of disgust and anger in the air. Nothing was going to remove the thin scent of adversity. This day has already be scarred. I felt a slight tug on my suit's sleeve. She, my best friend, was smiling her special way. "It will be okay. The day is not over. We still can have a bit of paradise." I gritted my teeth. A bit? In this air any sense of brotherhood, virtue, duty, and honor would be reduced to mudslinging insults at each a single phrase, disaster is inevitable. But maybe...just maybe, I could turn this around. I smirked a wide grin. This grin only came out when I...had a scheme.

"Arthur, I don't like that grin."

" I know Isabelle." I walked out towards the front of the Grand Hall. From here I could see all eight circular tables. To the very front sat the closest relatives: Parents, brothers, sisters, and very close friends. The further back tables had my other friends sitting attentively or more likely in boredom as they wait for the point of today. "Friends and Family." I stated bluntly to the crowd. "Normally I would arrive straight at the point of today's reason for gathering. But..." I looked straight at my folks and Isabelle's folks "I had this great moment of nostalgia. I was a mere boy and in many ways a complete fool." The crowd a slight rumble. "I decided it would be fun to ride down a metal stairs on a thin flimsy pillow. Let's just leave the details to a minimum, my actions left me in the hospital. But...it was not my injuries that left me to wonder about life. I, against the doctors wishes, wandered around the mundane white washed rooms of the hospital. I limped away in a leg and an arm caste. As I clumsily limped around, I met someone important. A little girl, she was around my age, a bit younger. Wailing cries were all that came from her mouth. Casually I said, what's the hell wrong." To my surprise the whole house laughed a bit, even my folks. "I did not say hell back then. At that time I still did not understand the concept of hell. But never-less, it was my bluntness that lead to a great friendship." I paused for a second to recollect myself. "I never learned why she was crying. I did not but I said to one thing to her and she was better. I'll be here for you... This saying was all she needed to hear." I felt my heart get heavier as the story went on. "From that day I made a promise that I believed I kept to this very day. I promised her that I will be her knight. I will be her protector. I will be her Champion. I hope I am still her Hero." I took a deep breath as I straighten my tie. "Today my promise is in jeopardy because to keep it. I must become the hated." My friends and family looked confused and distraught. "Mom, Dad...please don't be made at Mr. and Mrs. Abramczyk. They are more like you the I am." They looked around to see if this is a joke. "I do not believe. I am an Atheist." Then an uproar came along. Screaming and yelling as it came out. Perfect...at least they have a common enemy.

I squirmed my way out silently and quickly under the hectic nature of the uproar in the hall. The dark night sky and the frigid teeth of the wind were prices I was willing to pay to still keep my promise. "See Isabelle. The promise I made all those years ago are done. No more arguments between friends."

"No more?" I turned around to see Isabelle. Her dress was ruffled and she had an angry look on her face. Shit. "How dare you do such an asinine and harebrained move. A single cell amoebae could do a better job!" I winced at her words. "Why? Why did you do it? You know them they will banish you from the correct crowd! You will become an outcast in our town! The reason why we kept your beliefs a secret is so that you could help me through this town's radical conservative nature! You could be harmed by the more extreme groups in this town, our home."

"This town is not my home." I said silently. "In truth you are the only reason I wished to stay. Do you remember my favorite writer." She shook her head a bit. "Yes, Mark Twain..." "He had a lesser known book called the Diaries of Adam and Eve. In the book Adam at first disliked Eve and by the way Adam is an idiot in this book." She chuckled a bit. "Yet at the end Adam is alone by himself. Eve had died...Yet Adam said one last thing. Wheresoever she was, there was Eden." She looked at me. I could not read her eyes or her body language but I could read her tears. Was she touched? Was she having an allergic reaction? Regardless I took her hand and pulled her out of the view of the hall. "I know I am being an idiot and I probably made a huge mistake but I want you to know that I have chained my tongue, my thoughts, my mind for you. I ask you to come with me. You are my Eve. No matter where we are, it will be Eden. I ask as a humble man. Will you marry me?" I pulled a small box that was well hidden within my pocket. My plan blew up in my face and I can only hope that she feels that same. My hands were trembling as she knelt to my eye level. The ring it fell, but in truth my hands held the something greater, a future. "Yes..."

6: Muse

Muse

We sat below the great weeping willow muttering to ourselves about possible ideas and plans. Much to my dismay, today appeared to be her day of utter writer's block, of which I do not believe exists.

"Writer's block is a mentality, not a condition." I said to her though her ears and eyes remained close to any outside force. She was hell bent to keep the idea of so-called writer's block etched into her very subconscious.

"Then why can I not think of any plausible ideas." A smile grew onto my face like vines inching across an old fence.

"Your ideas are not ready to be put to paper." I took her hand and started writing random ideas onto her page. One was the futility of mankind in a world of animal. Another was the fragile nature of human emotions, memories, and relationships. The last, my personal favorite, was a meta-cognition ideals of how all people, even non-artists, constantly travel and discard ideas because the ideas do not pass the mental gauntlet all people have but never truly think of consciously. "This last idea," I circled the last statement, "is what occurs currently in your head." She mumbled the beneath her breath. Eventually, she will find plausible reasons to declare me a hypocrite and the unoriginality of my thoughts. In all aspects, picking apart all the flaws of the y-chromosome seems to be digitally imprinted into the fuller and more stable x-chromosome. "See." I stated as I pointed towards the clouds and their dance of wind pressures and temperature fronts. "Writer's block is an illusion that has captured the imagination of the creative. It is an explanation for the large pauses in between an artist's works that make sure any craft committed shines out as worthy."

"Or," she paused with great emphasis on the pause. "it is my best friend's explanation for his own laziness. Maybe, this idea of a 'creative gauntlet' allows to dither away and create pieces at your leisure."

"Your not lazy" I retorted

"I know." I waited for a second to let the paradox set in properly to prevent further yelling on my part and her usual questioning. "Writer's block is what I have. You don't." The wind blew against the willow's long falling branches. A pleasant contrast against the bright blue sky, the weeping willow is.

"Defeat does not suit you." I opened my hands in front of her and made a hand butterfly. "Every act we commit. Every moment we live. Every common household item we throw into the incinerator that is time shall always be a plausible source of ideas." She refused to look up at me. "The Greeks would sing songs about the muses and their master Apollo. Impressionists and expressionists would break rules to recreate intangible ideas. Everything is a muse in someway." Still, no response from her. " I have a muse." I muttered. She glanced up from the side of her eye. The pupil was there; I could make out the slight tint of azure staring at me. " A young artist once fell into great despair over his irreversible lack of ideas. He continued to take commissions from patrons but never truly found his set ideal. For days on end, the artist would spend thousands of dollars on experiments that lead him down to the same abyss of intellectual limbo. After years of failed attempts, the artist decided to finally end his search and fell asleep under a weeping willow, just like the one we are under." I paused to see if she followed my word's coattails. The undeniable sight of her blue eyes encouraged me to make the story a bit more theatrical. "When the artist awoken from his sleep, the weeping willow was no more but now a pillar of marble with reliefs encrusted with precious metal and rare gems. Astonished by such ostentatious work, he glanced around to find the creator and in lavender robes stood a muse. Expected the muse went to greet the artist but he was not so glad to see her. The artist was furious that the great muses would be so enraptured with the materialistic art that he threw a fit equal to the passions of Aphrodite. But, the dream ended with a homely farmhand shaking him awake. The artist stopped and stared at the average girl. He paused and walked back to clearly see her. The farmhand, understandably, was a tad uneasy. The artist then whispered, a muse."

"So he found his muse in humility?" I nodded as she shook his head. "How does that help me?"

"Stop searching. Let the idea come to you." At first, the idea did not bode well for me. A simple deduction as soon as the last syllable escaped my lips, she got up and walked away. To be perfectly honest, it was not the terrible wrath I expected or maybe even hoped for. Anger is quick and dirty but disregard burns the soul like the famous Greek fire: all encompassing but slow as oozing temptation. This was the end of the argument, well, I cannot hide my satisfaction of what patience wrought.

"Your right." She mumbled. It had been days since the last comment between us. Satisfying, yes but it was not the emotion I had desired to create.

"Defeat was not the lesson." I hugged her, hoping this would rectify her sadness and muzzle her sense of defeat. "Did you find your muse?" Then and there she began to smile. Giggle even, either I have a magic touch, which I highly doubt as I am as clumsy as a three legged horse swimming in booze, or her muse is so amazing that she no longer has to fear reprisal from her so called "writer's block." She stayed quiet as she remained to giggle. "So it is your turn to make me suffer." She shook her head. "It is too embarrassing?" Denied but truthful. "I have never been a good guesser and normally I will pick the most Freudian approach to the situation."

"Now that is a lie." Uh, a fib caught in its birth. She leaned over and whispered the answer. At first I was stunned. Second, I was surprised. Third, I was shocked. finally I came to acceptance no matter how arrogant it made me.

"My dear did I hear your answer correctly" The weeping willow began to lose her leaves as the fall began to appear. "I must have had misheard you."

" Your story spoke of the muse being a commodity. A muse always being around." I did say that to an extent. "So I found my muse but the muse is no Rubenesque woman in her prime or a homely farm girl on the stands or a herculean Adonis or a stingy farmhand." I listened closely. "Its you."

7: I, an Angel?

I, An Angel?

Flames soaring- Blazes rising in chaos: I glanced around the smoke mucked up my visors as I push away charred wood and melted metal. I heard a cry and a yell for help. I tackle through the collapsing debris of shattered glass and wield doors.

"Stay calm!" I shouted, "I am coming." The cry was constant but the yelling turned into pleas. A child and a mother trapped within this burning inferno. I have to save them no matter the cost to myself.

The walls were white and stiff. I glanced around the crematory as my mother talked to the official. My father lies dead in an open casket with no embalming fluid and ready to be returned to the Earth. It was his dying wish to be once more apart of the very matter that created him. I recalled their arguments about how Mum wanted him buried next to her. She wanted them to be next to one another in death and life. So they could hold hands and embrace in heaven. Father would always appease her by saying if it exists, he will be their. No force, not even God, could stop him. At that time I considered him crazy? My sis though disagreed. She would always sing of father's indestructible will and that God would accept all that is good. I gulped; hope was all that I could give.

"Please, HELP!" I slammed against the tenth wooden door and I saw nearly covered in soot a woman in a fetal position. I gently placed my hand on her shoulder but she continues to cry. I noticed a burnt corpse was a few meters away; the originator of the voice, her husband. It appeared as if he was praying softly.

"We have to leave" I stated. She continued to cry and mumble. I grabbed her and was about to place her over my shoulder until I heard a slight cry.

"Leave me to die!" She shouted, "my baby will live on if I die." I felt compelled to just do as she said. This was her wish; a wasteful death it was.

"I'm sorry ma'am. Death's bus is full" I took the baby from her arms and hugged the youngling to my chest to prevent anymore smoke from clotting his lungs while I forcefully carried the mother out. He pounded my back and screamed. Too much death already happened, I am not letting another die for crazy madness.

"This will be the death of me." I laughed.

"Well mum, at least you could be buried next to him." She gave me a nasty look. I was just looking for a brighter side to this recent tragedy. Though it might have been a bit to early, he only died a few days ago.

"I cannot believe you would be so whimsical about your father!" she shouted. My father? I held in my laugh; my father was a minister. He was some stranger that saved my mothers life and left my father to die. Some hero, he was.

"Thank you." the woman said to me. She was hugging an accident blanket while I was being given pure oxygen.

"That was very brave of you, robbing a firefighter's gear to save a life." I laughed as the chief nodded his head. "I would've done the same. Did you ever given the idea of joining?" I shook my head. Fire was not my cup of tea. He patted my back as he left to check at the rest of the survivors. It was unfortunate that the truth had to be so brutal for this woman. Her son will continue his life but her husband died more then just a preacher. The man was a publicly known pyromaniac. The local church gave him the job to calm him down. The only one not told about his condition, his new wife.

"Hey," I sat next to her, "Let me help you out. It's the least I could do." She laughed and smiled.

"The least you could have done was to leave me to die in that fire. I did not stop you. I will not stop you now."

"I understand he was not your biological father, but he did raise you." I nudged her off. "Please just show your respect. He was good to us. He was good to you." I felt a mass fell from my chest;regardless, I shook it off. No matter how he treated me his was not my father.

"Why should I care if he is dead?" I shouted. "By his doctrine, this is it for him. No need to mourn his death. No need to care he is dead. His is gone! Nothing but chemicals!" My sister came up to me and wiped my face.

"Then why did you tear up. Everything in this world his chemicals, brother" My sister stated. "Father and I always understood this fact of finite existence. Though one thing is infinite in a sense the meaning behind the reaction. Love by itself is worthless until we give it meaning. I loved my daddy and I knew the meaning behind it. Do you brother?" I paused. My sister never gave a lecture unless it was profound. My father had that trait too; both knew when words were needed and were action was required.

"I do not know, Sis."

"Dad?" I glanced over to see my new son sitting impatiently on the waiting room chair. Three years past since the fire. Two years since I got married to the woman I saved, her name Elizabeth. Her son, my son, our son was named Issac. Four years since his birth. "Dad, mum is going to be alright?" I nodded.

"She's a fighter." I scratched my stubble as I paced back and forth. Issac was too young to understand the danger of a positive feedback temperature loop that comes with birth. Damn it, I wish I had his blissful ignorance of the cellular dangers of expelling a child!

"Dad...if that is true why are you nervous?" I paused both in thought and motion. My son was sharp and could easily read people but never was tactful. I doubt his ever will be tactful. I forced myself to set next to him.

"Issac. I will be honest. There is a chance mum might not make it." I saw his eyes turn from concern to shock. "But your mother is strong and willful. She will do anything, even cheat death, to stay with her family. She nearly gave up her life to save you. And if that doesn't show love then I do not know what love truly is in the human subconscious. Trust your mother and I, we will never abandon you and we will only let you go when you are ready to be your own man."

"I will never be my own man." he muttered to himself.

"Doctor Seth?" I glanced. He used my first name, odd. "Your wife and daughter are waiting at you." I paused...my daughter. I grinned.

"I do not know what he was to me." My sister walked over to the coffin and kissed our father's forehead. I heard her whisper her final goodbyes. I paced over to the coffin to see my father. He told me at the last Christmas of his wish for a finite end. I did not know what he saw in this when he told me but I remember what he said. "We all need an end." I muttered it. I understand. "Hey sis, "she glanced at me. "Father was a good man and he got what he wanted. He got an end for his story and it was a good end." I glanced at his remains and smiled with real joy for the first time in years. "I understand Dad, thank you. I hope I am half the man you where."
An angel he was even though he would answer with his iconic question: I, an Angel? You are dad. You are.

8: Aged Leather

Aged Leather

"Are you awake silly?" I jumped…shocked, lost, unsure, but not dead yet. My breath was warm as it fogged out into the chilled room. Cold…I was sure that a creature could freeze to death in this temperature. I'm surprised I didn't. I guess I'm just used to it. I flexed my muscles to regain some heat but nothing. My arms and legs felt harsh to move against the frigid silent breeze. I clenched my teeth as I forced myself up. It hurts to move but not enough to make me wince. I slowed my breath and stared at the too familiar room. The bland brown hues that made up my natural dwelling, I never liked living here. It had the smell of death and decay. Something must have died in here. I wonder what poor creature decided to lie down and die in this creepy crypt. I don't blame it though; this place is very much like a cemetery. All desolate and grotesque, I winced as I flexed my hand. My fingers were white; I have frostbite but that is nothing new. I always have frostbite in winter in this damn house. Yet I felt a tinge of warmth, it was strange and surreal.

A funny type of surreal, no, it was a nerve wrecking one. Well, I never really had a fun moment in this dingy cave of a room. Always hiding from the truth that I had lost everything, including the dream that caused me so much fright and wonder. It was alluring. But I soon shivered again. This room loves absolutes. Too arid and blistering in summer, oozy and frigid in the winter, winter was the worse. Other families would revel in their heated rooms and…families. I walked a few steps forward to see nothing but the emptiness of the room.

It was not always like this. I just can not remember those good times. No matter how much I do want to remember them. I can not remember. I hate this lack of knowledge. I hate this lack of happiness. Father Time has done a number on me.

I dragged my feet until I stopped. I glanced at the object. It was a coarse leather book. It did not smell damp of decay. It smelled like spring…life. The strap that held it down was shriveled due to the cold but it still warm to touch. It felt coarse and rugged; it was beaten and aged but not rotten. This book survived. This book…this is…

"Ha! Ha!" they laughed and played all jolly and happy. The children jumped up and down playing with their new found toys. The boys wrestled with their fathers playing a Father Vs Son football game. The girls played in the snow making snow-angels as their mothers placed clothe on the newly sculpted snowmen. I wanted to play but I have nothing. I have no father; I have no mother. I should be happy still; it's Christmas. Though I guess this holiday does not have the same effect as it does if you are alone in the cold. So I just stood in the snow; I was waiting for the frostbite to nip my toes. My fingers already have been hit last Christmas; I am lucky to still have them at all. Probably you are wondering how? I stared at the ground to see my bare feet burn in the soft cold snow. Does that answer the question? The cold bites me hyperactively like rabid dogs attacking sweet innocent babies. I shivered and bite my tongue. The snow blisters my exposed skin which was from my feet to my knees. I felt a tear inching off but I can not let it happen

I wish I had shoes back then. I wish I had other stuff too, but that would be asking too much wouldn't it. After all, in this story, I'm a poor little bastard of an orphan. Funny, is it not? No, it is not funny after all.

I continued to stand knee deep in the frosty bites of the snow. I was desolate, alone like always. I laughed at my misfortune. "Hey do you want to play?" I glanced in the direction of that new odd sound. It was a girl. She smiled a large toothed grin and her hair hung in the fashion of a tapestry. She smelt like a new spring day. It was her.

I remember other things like the color of her eyes and the color of her hair. Yet, that is unimportant. But definitely not impotent, she was definitely fair.

"Sure…" I mumbled under my voice. I was poor and alone but still prideful.

"Come on then!" She grabbed my hand and tugged me along. I noticed she had a leather strap across her waist, probably to keep her dress down.

In all honesty there was no wind so that deduction has no meaning.

I had found a playmate. I had found a friend.

This memory was good one but all good memories are attached to a less thrilling one. Some memories should remain forgotten. This is one of them. This one…is terrible.

"Father no!" I worried and cringed at the percussions of acting or not.

"This child is hell spawn, a bastard of the devil!" I winced at the word. It was true I had neither father nor a mother so I guess I could be a demon spawn. In my entire mind, I had no one but her. He was going to take that away. I stepped up and placed my hand on her shoulder. Her skin felt soft and warm. Her skin was inviting to touch more and more but to do that in this atmosphere that only worsen her day.

"It's okay." I stated. My voice didn't shake but I could tell she knew I was not fine. I hated the thought of losing. I hated this man, her father, for threatening her. I wanted to kill him. To make him pay, the act will do nothing in my or her favor. I didn't do it but I wanted to. She nodded at me; her eyes watery as if she held back tears from falling. It was if she wanted to stay strong for her father or for me. Maybe she tried to stay strong for herself. She kissed my cheek and whispered "Good bye." She handed me a journal with the strap she had when we first met.

"Here take this. I want you to keep it for as long as you remember me" I was speechless. Her journal…I didn't know what to say. Dumbfounded did not do my shock justice.

"I will." I felt the coarse cover and the distinct smell of spring. The smell of spring was hers.
I stood as still as I could, which in retrospect was not very still. I was shaking as if I was having an epileptic seizure; I was surprised I did not fall. I should have fallen do the shock of the memory. I pulled back the cover of the journal. The coarse pelt felt normal to touch but it was the inside that felt unreal. It was a letter. A short little letter from her, she wanted me to have it. I read it and I started to shake, to wonder, and to cry. I closed the book. I went to the window and looked out into the frigid air. Regardless of the iced winter temperature, I was warm. For she said those words, she said those words.

"I will come for you."

I wanted her back then so I stayed with her. I still want her so I will find her someday. The question that is left is what I will do when I do?

9: Giver's Gift

Giver's Gift

No man I know remembers the day that changed the little hamlet that we call home. After all, the extraordinary and supernatural symbols that foreshadow the massive change were unnoticeable to the unwary eyes of the common. Shocking isn't it; however, if no one was to recall the event then there is no story. True, this is. Storytelling remains forever ingrained in humanity's psychological state as a message of some greater good. A greater good, how strong the facade is! A true way to tell an event is through a memory. For can story enhance the masterful feelings of granting nostalgia and longing? A simple story cannot. Only an experience can be truly told and all the great tellers of tales understand this. So listen to a simple boon, A telling of the experience, not the tale, of the famed figure of Winter Solstice, Christmas, and corporate frenzy.

When the word Christmas arrives to the tongue, many images flash into the minds of the recipient. To a young child, Christmas brings the magic of the generosity of Secular Santa Claus or the facade of generosity to capture the wealth of the day. To a weary man or woman, Christmas refits the nostalgia of childhood or the promise of renewal by Saint Nicholas and the Christen Savior. To the followers of the ancient and forgotten ways, they worship the day the Winter sorcerer releases the land from his icy tyranny. All these beliefs are legitimate and true to those who believe but they are all mismatch of the true event. They stated he was the generous son of a powerful lord in Germany; others call him a long lost orphan in Turkey, and some claim he was raised by woodland pixies who presented him in time a cloak of immortality. This is true to a point, well, from a romantic and fantastical point of view. The real story unravels like this.

"No!" The heavy oak door clamored shut. Poor Nicholas Christopher Kringle, he was trying the impossible, help the poor by asking for charity from the rich. He grinned as the kicked the pillowed snow that danced along the floor in an icy waltz. Kringle knew this would not be easy, but it was down near impossible. With his ragged coat and patched up pants he scurried across the way returning to his cottage among the trees and woodland creatures that he grew accustom too. Though this walk was not a simple dreary waddle but strut saturated with his thoughts about his travel to town.

In short, it was nothing as the groggy journals whispered of. Or what he hoped for. Unconsciously, Kringle strung an idea that soon manifested itself in a pious yet devious plan.

He told me this plan. Of course I told him it was completely insane and that he had to check into the local asylum. What was he thinking sleighing down the hills then sneaking in a thick white coat and boots with the crazed plan of shimming down a brick chimney into a blazing hearth. Nonsense! Of course did Kringle listen?

He scratched the growing stubble under his chin as he questioned the change in his overcoat and pantaloons. Both had been dyed red (of course they had to be red!) by the reddish plants and dyes that he had saved for a local spinster. With a large sigh, he trudged forward with his plan. (A five year project, no matter how crazy, must be seen through) He filled his deerskin bag with wooden trains with engraved animals gracing the sides, straw dolls firmly stuck with arms up and the legs diagonal like a newly lit star in the north, and even new smith hammers made from rocks he found beneath the crescent moon. Smiling from cheek to cheek, dimple to dimple, ear to ear: Kringle knew he could finally bring joy to the town below without the need of wealth, influence, or extravagant supplies.

Kringle placed the goods on the back of his handmade willow sleigh and looked down at the hill then a grand question came along; how will he stop? Rather then break down crying or roaring spouts of terror, Kringle smiled. He had his distraction. Kringle took the bag off the beloved sleigh (it took him a year to make) and aimed it at the very heart of town, the local church. He knew this would be blasphemy but it would be worth the knowledge of the smiling faces after the original shock. So with no hesitation he slammed into the sleigh forcing it down the hill. People screamed and yelled as large foreign object came tumbling down (wouldn't you?). But Jolly Kringle, he took his sweet time shimmying down people's chimneys and placing all sorts of goods from a sweet little angelic girl's porcelain doll to a bag of illuminating golden mint.

And Kringle was right. The very next morning, after the shock of broken church property came to settle, the folk and their children danced in glee and euphoria. Yet among the laughing faces, the spouting hail-Marys, and yelling praises, Kringle chuckled his first "ho-ho" that day. Soon it became his drive to bring this very spell of joy to the world. He succeeded soon enough, though it took him decades to complete his ultimatum of giving instead of receiving. With this, Nicholas Christopher Kringle died and from his old alias came along Kris Kringle. Or was it Saint Nick? Maybe it was that new one, Santa Claus? Or was it something else?

Even I cannot contain all the names and calls he has taken. But that is why he is truly an immortal among us simple mortals., a Saint among the pure, a hero among the strong. Kringle, Claus, or whatever we call him these days. The contagious virus of another person's smile and happiness remains the driving force for all holidays. Be it Christmas, Hanukkah, the Winter Solstice, the Great arrival of the Winter Spirit: the spread of pure contentment transcends society, race, culture, faith, and belief. But only if we as humans allow this feeling of whole be separate from the controversial dogma of today. Once it is over, If we must then laat het: weapons free.