Corn silks and carrot peel -
feed the maggots.
Mealy pale meal – we could eat them.

Show me something new, September.
Little leaves rooting.
The good feeling of roads.

Yesterday we saw the river.
Oh longing! Crooked Creek -
hot spots cold spots minnows.

In my strapless black swimsuit
I pretend at Anne Sexton.
It’s not the cold blues -

it’s the roads, the roads,
the sun hot river longing.

Breaking news: amoebas are just plain evil.

Apart from the unfortunate business regarding my parents’ brutal slaying, my arrival in Paris was pleasant. I was transported to the British Field Headquarters near the Rue de Roux, where I was promptly greeted by General Humphry “Humps” Billington.  Billington was a legendary British officer, known as much for his collection of tiny porcelain anteaters as he was for his military prowess.  He was rumored to have 18 on his person at all times.

“Ah, Major Tyree! Welcome to our little party with the Huns,” Billington said as he offered me a snifter of Brandy, while stroking an anteater painted blue.  “Sorry about your parents, what, but war can be hell.”

The General proceeded to inform me that due to my wealth and good breeding, he was going to put me in charge of a unit of aviators.  I informed General Billington that I had never so much as seen an airplane in person, but he assured me that I did not need to know what I was talking about to lead the men.  “All you need to do is tell them to fly about, keep an eye on what the Germans are doing, and report back. It’s quite simple, really.  It’s non-combat, of course, as it is impossible to attack anything with an airplane, what!”

The General also wanted me to keep an eye on the German aerial efforts.  The Germans had taken to utilizing their Zeppelins (named for Count Zeppo Pellingraff, a renowned chess master) for reconnaissance and for dropping things on allied troops.  Primarily anvils.

The General gave me my orders (in an appropriate tasteful frame) before handing me an anteater and wishing me luck.

A Irishman who was in my new unit drove me to our group’s headquarters near the Western Front.  This young private informed me that he was the group’s primary maintenance expert. “I can fix anything from a broken propeller to a rugby match, sir,” he said.  I enquired as to his name, which is the proper thing to do in these situations, and he advised me that he was Ian O’Toole, but that everyone simply called him Wrenches.

This conversation was pleasant for a few minutes, then I lost interest as he blathered on about airplanes and such.  I took the opportunity to draw a sketch of me sitting on a stack of gold while pelting servants with clams.  It was a remarkably good picture. Particularly the clams.

We arrived at St. Duprex airfield, where I saw a small hanger, barracks, and a headquarters building.  My private quarters were attached to the HQ.  They appeared to be ghastly and tiny, and only consisted of two stories. War, as the general had noted, can indeed be hell.

As I got out the Jeep, Private O’Toole asked me to follow him into the hangar to meet the men.  I obliged, and upon entering the hangar I saw 10 biplanes with British insignia, and 20 or so lads who popped to attention when I entered.

I knew it was incumbent upon me to make a stirring speech. So I did.  “Men, this war will test your mettle, and such! But if we do our jobs, we will be honored by a grateful nation, and a slightly less grateful world. Except for the parts that are not on our side.  Obviously.”

I was then introduced to the men.  There was Carlton Jodpher, who was skilled with maps and plotting courses.  There was Gavin St. Simons, the armsmaster and quartermaster for the group (he had recently been promoted from his role as a dimemaster).  There was  Harold “Cookie” Pottsmith, the unit’s cook.  There were a number of pilots, whose names elude me, but who were all dashing examples of British soldiers.  And, finally, O’Toole led me to our headquarters building to meet the unit’s medic, who I was informed was a new addition to the team.  The prior doctor had been killed by mustard.  Not the gas. Actual mustard.  He had managed to get his head stuck in the jar of the stuff and drown.

The new doctor was in HQ putting a stitch in the finger of a young mechanic who had accidentally cut it open while juggling screwdrivers.

“Hello doctor, I am glad to see you patch up the lads!” I said as I entered whatever it is you call the area where a doctor works.  The doctor turned around saying “With all due respect, I refuse to salute you, you old rascal!”

I was overjoyed!  Alfred “Doc” Javington was our unit’s medic! Apparently he graduated in record time due to his money and apparent skill.

We laughed and laughed, so much so that the young mechanic bled a little more than he should have. Ah well, war is….well, you know!

You might be wondering, of course, how a child as young as I was…young as I am…could be permitted to spend such an unhealthy amount of time amongst such characters as the Sorrows. It isn’t so hard—the typical working family provides ripe mulch for such a tragic harvest.

My father is an officer in the Navy. His work, for as long as I can remember, called him away for weeks and even months at a time to go across the country and do…well, whatever it is he does. Like so much in the government, details are not shared, and I’ve never really known—nor really been curious about—the exact nature of his work. His absence was the only thing that particularly mattered.

My mother, bless her, did try, for a time, to make room for me. However, she suffers an addiction—to her work. She’s a defense lawyer, specializing in murder cases. She spends much of the day pouring over case files, and always comes home late. By the time her day is done, she rarely has the time to really mind what her son is doing. Since I’ve always been so self-reliant, she never really had cause for concern.

I do not blame my parents, of course. They are guilty of nothing but trying their best to do what they can. How could they have known? The entire town was besieged by these despairing creatures, wrapped tightly in their intricate web of schemes and trickery. Besides that, it is to no small part thanks to my parents that I was able to break free of that torturous time…that I was able to open my eyes, and do what needed to be done.

It began in the summer. Both were given a reprieve from their hectic work schedules, and—perhaps caught up in the lingering cloud of guilt that pervaded every inch of the town—they decided that we needed to spend time as a family, away from our routine life. A vacation was planned—a month away, to the sunny shores of the Caribbean. For the first time in years, they both actually sat down with me together, and asked if I would like to come. For an instant, the dream haze that shrouded my cognizant existence cleared away. Some inner child was delighted by the prospect—for the first time in what felt like an eternity we could be a family together.

Yet any addiction is hard to kick. The Sorrows themselves were less than pleased to hear of my absence. They begged me not to go, pleaded, assured me that the trip would be miserable, would be rife with argument and resentment. Regret promised me that if I went, he would never give me another drug ever again. Yet emotional and physical addictions can only hold so much sway over a lost soul when that soul has finally been found.

The Son of Despair was the most upset. I remember his words, clear as day—they struck me like a thunderclap.

“Leave now, August, and you will never feel this way ever again.”

I so craved to stay. Every night for a week, I tossed and turned in my bed, awaking from lucid nightmares to find my body drenched with sweat, hands trembling. My mind was losing control, unable to fathom being away from my sweet-sweet sorrow. Yet my heart…maybe my soul, maybe some inner goodness still left untouched by them…it was stronger than anticipated. The Son’s words echoed in my head. It’s funny now, looking back on that day, because he was absolutely right. So right, in fact, that I don’t think he realized the impact of what he’d said.

We left early in the morning at the start of June. We took a two week cruise to tour the islands, enjoying each other’s company in the lavish confines of a premier cruise ship. Amidst the bright smiles, the music, the food and the warmth, I felt worse than I ever had before. I became withdrawn, and sickly. Violently ill at the best of times, and bedridden at worst, the withdrawal became a sort of consolidating factor for my family. They stayed by my side through it all, and offered nothing but support and sympathy.

I felt it at first, a fluttering sensation I mistook for nausea. As the days went on, and the sickness became less potent, the feeling remained, growing greater and stronger. I had forgotten what it felt like, so much so that it took a simple phrase from my mother as she kissed me good night for me to remember its name.

“I love you.”

Love. The source of all happiness in this world, summed up in a simple, four-letter word. From that moment on, my heart was full of light. I stood tall, and for the first time in three years I breathed free air, and saw the world through new eyes—eyes unfiltered by the dark misery of my town and my so-called friends. For the first time, I was free, free to be myself, free to enjoy the things I’d long forgotten I could. We watched the shows, wandered the islands, and once the cruise was up, we stayed in a rented villa on the beach for another week, enjoying simple things, simple joys. Walks on the beach. Setting up a nocturnal picnic on the balcony to watch the stars shine. Exploring the verdant forests and looking for monkeys hiding in the canopy. Together.

A family.

We returned to our town refreshed. All of us seemed better, and resuming the grinding routine was difficult for my parents…but impossible for me.

Amongst the Sorrows again, after a month away, I began to notice things. Strange things. Their habits…their eccentricities…the times they spent apart and the times they spent together…the very nature of their personalities…all of these things, the little details that had been so overlooked when I was under their sway…they became apparent to me. For the first time, I saw their flaws.

I am no fool. Do not mistake me for being stupid. I’ve always been proud of, if nothing else, my intellect. I began to put things together. I began to distance myself from the group, and stick to minding them individually. The difference in their influence, the powers they exhibited when together and when they were apart…that was the beginning.

I started to realize that I had never met their parents. Even the Son of Despair, who talked often of his enigmatic father, who lived in that fortress of a home…not once had I ever met the man he seemed so proud of in person. Melancholy didn’t seem to actually live anywhere. He never spoke of his parents. Regret lived in a small house in the poorer part of town—some ramshackle trailer, run down and broken. He was the only person who came and went, yet people in town did know of who lived there. An older couple, they said. Quiet and a bit unfriendly, folks who didn’t really take to the “community”. Nobody could remember seeing them in town for a long time. When pressed, a timeline was crafted.

Three years.

Nobody had seen them for three years.

Suspicion is a powerful thing. I began to explore other avenues of thought. The Internet provided me a bounty of unfiltered information. I studied web sites on psychology, on relationships and addictions. I learned of toxic relationships, of manipulation, of abuse…and symptoms began to overlap. My life and the examples I found on the web…while different in methodology and most certainly different in nature, the results were the same. I started to suspect that I was being used. But for what? I didn’t give anything to the Sorrows. All they did was just…make me sad. Make everyone sad. In fact, the only thing they cared about was bringing people down, so down in fact that they couldn’t even see a way back up.

I studied them. One by one, I watched and trailed and observed their every movement. Over a period of two weeks I compiled an extensive list of habits unique to each Sorrow.

Melancholy, their beautiful leader, didn’t actually sleep. Ever. He wandered from dawn til dusk til dawn again and again. When everyone else was asleep, I found, he’d break into their houses. One by one, it seemed, systematically, he’d just go into their homes, stay there for a few hours, and then leave. I began to notice that when he entered, he looked slightly—very slightly—different. A haggard look would come over him, he’d start to breath heavily and for a moment, a mere instant, the aura of beauty and seduction that surrounded of him faded. For an instant, he looked human…or less than that. Yet, every time he left a house, he looked completely refreshed. Back to his beautiful self. Similarly, when around one of the other “friends” he’d accumulated (I found that my circumstance was not as unique as originally thought), he never seemed to tire. The sadder somebody was, the more vibrant Melancholy became.

Regret did retire to his home. In fact, he was the least abnormal of them all. The only thing I noticed that was strange was his constant drinking. He was never without his large, sealed sipping cup. Similarly, despite his size, I could never catch him eating. He would pick at food offered to him, but if forced he would always complain of being on a “diet” and being unable to eat much. Considering his size, his diet wasn’t very effective…yet, at the rate I saw, the lack of eating would surely have resulted in him cutting down at least a few pounds.

Frustration was terrified of fire. Just seeing a lighter flick on sent him into a frenzy, and he would move as far away from it as he could. Like Melancholy, he too did not have any sort of place he called home. He seemed to sleep in the abandoned factory. He had a hiding place there, an old shack that he kept securely locked. He would retire there at some point, presumably to sleep, but the place was double locked and any windows were boarded up and covered in cloth.

Jack and Jill, ever inseparable yet always separated, never touched. They didn’t hold hands, didn’t even pat each other on the back…never touched. They stood a very safe six inches apart, and their motions, their gestures…everything they did seemed carefully choreographed so that they would never accidentally brush each other. When together, they were always very subdued—their disabilities were played up more, and they seemed almost completely helpless. Yet…and this was most strange…when apart, they seemed to be far more capable. Jack was hardy, boldly walking around despite his blindness, and Jill even more so. When they wailed—a very distinctive sound, I found—it seemed only to occur when they had completed whatever task they had set out to do. Of the group, they seemed the most purposeful. They gathered things…bits of wood, tools…and Melancholy’s menial tasks began to take on a shape.

The bark I peeled from the tree, for instance…that was crafted to form some kind of elaborate emblem. The Losses placed it over the door of their house, and on it I saw a strange symbol drawn. I can scarcely replicate it with my crude skills at drawing…but if pressed to describe it, I would say it looked like a crude stick figurine, enveloped in some kind of wavy cloud. The figurine seemed very small, very…sad. It looked almost like the kind of thing you’d see in some ancient temple.

A lot of the other tasks too—things like sawing chunks of wood into very exact shapes, straightening ten thousand paper clips in one hour…I began to notice that there were uses to these as well. They began to repair the factory. Fixing holes in the ground, cleaning up broken glass and rubble…and then, once that was done, construction began. A strange sort of scaffolding was being built, and the hollow smoke stack in which we spent so much time was slowly becoming less hollow. A circle of wood was carefully laid out in the floor—a dangling apparatus was built and suspended, forming a strange sort of ceiling. Heavy steel cords formed an intricate net in the center, as well as keeping it held aloft. One day, I stood in the center of the smoke stack and looked straight up at it. The sight sent a cold chill to my gut.

A shape was there. Quite clearly visible, though maybe it was just because I recognized it. It was the shape of a man—a little stick man—enveloped by a swarm of cords. Yes, that’s right…the same shape as was on the emblem they’d carved. On the walls of the factory, all over the place, I began to discover small drawings of that same symbol, along with…words. Written in a strange language, completely alien from anything I’d ever seen.

And The Grieving Maid…her task seemed the most distressing. There were plenty of oddities in her behavior for me to document. For one, she was very sensitive to direct sunlight. That veil she wore was more than just ornamentation—she seemed physically sickened just having the sun touch her skin. She had a similar aversion to sound. Loud noise of any kind caused her to break her cool and become very irate and bothered. Once, as a test, I had her listen to my headphones, without telling her that what I was playing. I had the volume set only about halfway high, but I played a loud, cheery song—Back in the USSR, by the Beatles.

She went nuts. She screamed and yanked the headphones out of her head, hurling them to the ground as if they were on fire. She stumbled away, disoriented, howling in a manner almost inhuman. She tugged at her hair, fell over a few times, and it took her about thirty minutes to fully recover her composure.

Besides these quirks, she—like the Losses—seemed to have some specific task to do. I had noticed before, back even before I started observing them, that she never stood by the same grave during her daily visits to the cemetery. She had started at one corner and, over the years, had slowly moved through all the rows. I began to note down the names on the graves she stood by, and did some digging around.

It’s hard not to hear gossip in a small town—especially if you start digging around for it. I began to learn that The Grieving Maid had been spending some of her weekends with various, seemingly random townsfolk. Over the past three years, she had spoken with nearly everyone who had family buried in that graveyard. When I asked, they said that the conversations were very strange—she had asked about the deceased, about how they were doing…and then she’d start to ask other things. Personal things—like if they’d been present at the person’s deathbed, if they’d had a good relationship with them, if there was any resentment or regret. Everybody added that the conversations always had the same effect—they were left feeling very, very depressed…and they stayed depressed for a long time after.

That wasn’t all. After a full month of interviews and observations, I stayed up one night in my room and started to try and piece all of the information together. I found a very disturbing connection—over the course of that month, the Grieving Maid had spoken to exactly twenty people. Those same twenty people…the night immediately after she had spoken to them, like clockwork, Beautiful Melancholy had gone into their homes, while they slept. It certainly wasn’t a coincidence—at this point, it couldn’t be.

I began to observe those people next. These observations didn’t take long—in fact, in two days, I’d made the discovery I’d needed. While only visible on a few, I saw that there was a strange marking on the back of their necks. The same strange marking—the exact same—carefully carved into their skin. Can you guess what marking it was?

That’s right. A stick man, surrounded by a wavy cloud.

I was becoming paranoid. Everywhere I looked, it seemed, people were bearing this mark. Most didn’t even seem aware of it when I asked them. Some said that they had been told they had it, but had no clue how it got there. Most just let their hair grow out and covered it up, choosing to forget it was there. Yet…

I began to realize that almost every single person, man, woman, and child, in my town bore that same mark.

I began to realize that the apparatus they’d been building in the factory was eerily similar to a pagan altar.

I began to realize that my “friends” grew healthier and healthier as the town grew sadder and sadder.

I began to realize that I was not dealing with just a bunch of Goth freaks…or even a bunch of humans.

And I realized that my town…everyone in it…even my parents…

Even me…

We were all being targeted. Systematically, one by one…we were all being marked. We were all growing sadder. Almost every day, thick fog blanketed the town. People were staying indoors.

I began to realize that we were under attack, by some force beyond reasonable or rational understanding.

And, finally, I realized that I was the only one who could stop it. I realized that it was up to me.

Up to me to kill my former best friends.

So instead of offering you fine folks no content this week, Zach and I decided to share with you some of the concept sketches I’ve been working on for his Fantasy/Noir concept comic. The style was deceptively difficult. How much of the design should feature noir trappings, how much fantasy is too much? The top four designs were my first attempts. I wanted to incorporate the 40′s style detective suit/trenchcoat with some fantasy accents. Unfortunately I wasn’t having much luck getting the two styles to merge well. The belt and holster looked too western, the spiked shoulders looked too “African Warlord”. It just wasn’t working.

After some feedback from Zach, I started on the second row of designs. I decided to keep it mostly noir, and then build up what little fantasy elements I could on top. The first sketch kept the leather shoulder pads, but added some design accents and flourishes. He came off looking a little too mystical which really wasn’t how this character was written. The second sketch I thought was closer, but my first impression looking at it was a raincoat with football pads sewn into it. Not exactly the aesthetic we were shooting for.

Finally I sat down and thought about it logically. A detective in this world would need the fantasy equivalent of a bullet proof vest, which would be a metal chain-mail vest. Opening the jacket gave him a slightly more imposing look and let me add in the armored chest piece. What I liked about this sketch is that the silhouette is still very noir, and makes sense immediately. It isn’t until you start focusing on the smaller details that you notice that something is slightly off. A lot of the good noir variant films pull this trick like Harrison Ford in ‘Blade Runner’ or The Strangers in ‘Dark City’.

The last sketch is an alternate version of the third design without the jacket just to make sure that the look holds up, which I think it does.

Well this was probably significantly more information than you ever needed about my crackpot concept process, but thanks for sticking it out. Hopefully by next week I’ll have my tools function again. If not, I may have to resort to macrame or interruptive dance to fill the slot. I leave you with that terrible, terrible thought.

–Pat

Chinese Wool Coat

Hamdeok is Cold and Boring

Hotel Robero (for Clara Ayers)

This week we delve a little more deeply into a five stories of everyday people in and around Our Fair City. You can read further about them on the newspaper’s website through the links provided below:

1) Ex-felons baptized in sunset ceremony at Forgiveness House
http://www.commercialappeal.com/photos/2010/aug/24/183639/
http://www.commercialappeal.com/photos/2010/aug/24/183555/

2) Elvis Tribute Artists take the stage during Elvis Week
http://www.commercialappeal.com/news/2010/aug/13/elvis-week-10-semifinalists-selected-ultimate-elvi/
http://www.commercialappeal.com/news/2010/aug/12/elvis-week-elvii-vie-crown-tonight/

3) Marla Rustenhaven inspires Hernando fundraiser – Community pitches in for beloved former teacher
http://www.commercialappeal.com/news/2010/aug/29/all-about-helping-out/

4) Able as ever: Paralyzed athletes training, competing hard — and helping others remain active
http://www.commercialappeal.com/news/2010/aug/30/able-as-ever/

5) Voting glitch casts shadow on Shelby County elections
http://www.commercialappeal.com/photos/galleries/2010/aug/05/election-day/26847/
http://www.commercialappeal.com/news/2010/aug/05/sheriff-its-oldham-v-wade-race-shelby-law-enforcem/
http://www.commercialappeal.com/news/2010/aug/06/shelby-democrats-demand-probe-election-irregularit/
http://www.commercialappeal.com/photos/2010/aug/05/180753/

“Aye son, keep at it.”

“And you father?”

“Don’t be smart son.”

As the two sat and bartered words with each other the country side surrounding them was full of life. Birds fresh from winter nests sang of their glorious return, various rodents sprinted for their short term lives at the hand of hard swung farm implements. Father and son continued to toil upon the field as the murky gray of transition gave way to the first feeble rays of springtime sun.

While once again resting upon his laurels, father took a long pull from the canteen strapped to his belt, the cool water splashing across parched lips. “ahhh…” he sighed contentedly. Son continued, back bent to earth, sweat and aches flowing profusely.

As son began to voice his next insult to hurl at his still lazy father, he paused as he heard the canteen tumble to the hard packed ground behind him. The water jug reported with a thick tink of a sound, letting the son know that father had indeed drained most of the relief granting liquid. It was the surprised gasp that followed from his father that caught his attention.

The boy turned to ask his father what in the seven layers of Heck he was thinking wasting their water and paused himself as his gaze fell upon the elder. Jaw hung ajar, eyes wide and mystified, father gazed intently to the nearby hillside silent in his shock and awe.

“Father, what’s become of you?”

Father gazed on in silence.

“Father?” the boy asked again as he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder to shake him from his reverie.

As he drew near father shook to a start, life returning to his eyes. A faint whisper escaped from his lips, the boy drew close in order to hear. “Faith and begorah…” father whispered in awe. “Twas but a myth, I thought for certain. Do my old eyes deceive me?”

A look of fear and uncertainty took up residence upon the boys faith, he had never seen his father act as such in his seventeen years. Quickly he spun to gaze out over the nearby hillside that held his father transfixed. Blurred by the mist of distance, the boy could make out two silhouettes marching across the peak of the hill. One stood tall and portly, the other short and still rather portly. What appeared to be the shapes of a man and canine friend had stumped his father into silence.

“Father” the boy asked. “Do we need to alert the village council? Are we under attack once again?”

“Nay son.” Father began to regain control of himself once more. “Tis no need.”

Father took a deep breath and reached for the canteen upon his belt, just now realizing it rested upon the ground, empty. He shrugged and pressed on. “Nay son. Tis an unexpected sight is all.”

“Who is it father?” the boy asked.

“Twas someone I thought but a legend, a myth one might say. When I was of your age, the village fell deep into the throws of such myth. Tales of a large man that stalked from hill to dale with his canine friend. ”

“Where they conquerors father?”

“Nay, nay. They were to be quiet friendly if truth be told.”

“Then what was their purpose father?”

“To journey you see. Nothing more than common wanderlust and such. Some say there was something deeper to their journeys however. There was a time it was said that the man was rather rotund, urged by friends and loved ones to take to his journeys as a cure for his girth. He grew lonely on his trek however and so his small furry friend took his place at his side. Together they could be seen at any random time, any random place. They spread good cheer and laughter across the land in a time that it was filled with naught but fear and sorrow.”

The boy turned and looked at the hillside once again and jumped when he discovered that the pair had drawn near. The man was covered in heavy furs to ward off the early morning chill, full beard and mane matted with sleep and common winter time detritus. He resembled that of a bear rising from his winter hibernation. His belly was portly and approached before him majestic and protruding. His canine companion bore an uncanny resemblance, complete with matted fur and distended stomach.

Father noticed their approach as well. A smile broke across his face briefly tainted with concern. “Aye, tis him, tis him!” His excitement rose unchecked “Granted, he looks like shit. But it’s him all the same!”

The boy grew both confused and concerned. However, he felt slightly bolstered by the sound of hope that tinged his fathers voice. “Who are they father? What does this arrival portend?”

“Tis they son. An arrival of hope, good cheer and if my instincts are correct, we’ll actually be able to stock the larder this year! You see, while each and all loved the man and his dog dearly, the two could eat.” Father became distracted in tales of the companions unassailable appetite as they spread good cheer about.

“Father,” the boy prodded. “You’re drifting. Stay on task.”

“Oh, yes, sorry” father jumped.

“Tis they son. The return of a myth, nay a legend and the good times they promise.”

“I still don’t know of who you speak father” the boy reminded.

“Oh, sorry again. This is their return son…the return of the Fat Man and his Dog.”

But all that was gone now, David thought to himself as he dabbed her forehead with a wet cloth, trying in vain to cool her burning fever. Two nights ago she’d been attacked by a group of normals while coming back from a gig in the Borderlands. Performing in the Borderlands was risky, but the mainly normal clientele could afford to pay nearly double what any magic could. Her husband, Philip, had tried to stop them, but all his bravery got him was a broken arm, a few cracked ribs and a rainbow of bruises across his body. Eliza Mae had tried to run, but one of the men had thrown a brick and struck her in the back of the head. She’d collapsed to the ground instantly. They beaten on her for a minute, but run away when one of them realized they’d probably killed her.

She hadn’t woke up since then, hadn’t been able to take food or water, David knew she was dying. But then again, everyone brought to the Candlemass Mission was dying. It was the reason his grandfather had founded it in the first place, to provide peace and comfort to those magics in need. It was dangerous work, sometimes. Dying magics can lose control of their power, making the Candlemass family business a delicate, unpredictable affair. And with both his father and grandfather gone, that business had fallen squarely on the shoulders of a now teenaged David Candlemass.

David had watched Eliza Mae closely, looking for any signs that she might be loosing control. The lights had flickered strangely a few times, but David couldn’t be completely sure that wasn’t just the crappy, ancient wiring in the mission. As he looks up and forces a smile at Eliza Mae’s battered husband, he has no reason to suspect that his patient will ever wake up again, or that she’s she a danger of any kind. Philip looks down at David, tears welling in his eyes, he tries to return the smile, but cannot.

Behind Philip, David can see Eliza Mae and Philip’s son, Charles, leaning against a wall, sulking. He was a few years older than David, and judging from his clothing, an initiate into one of the magic gangs. Charles and locks his blood shot eyes with David for a moment, tears pouring from them, a river of anger and hate streaming down his face. David can’t remember the last time he saw some one in so much pain.

Suddenly, Eliza Mae sits bolt up right in bed, her eyes wide, her mouth open to its fullest extent, singing a single note. David turns back to her, trying to get her to lie back down. All her muscles are rigid, and she won’t budge. Her volume grows, and so does the intensity of the light in the room. David stands clumsily to his feet and stumbles back a few steps. The sound from her mouth is becoming deafening, the light blinding. The walls of the mission begin to shake. Bits of black and yellow start to ebb in on the edges of David’s vision, spilling and twisting like oil on water. The black and yellow blocks out everything a stiff wind hits David in the chest, knocking him off his feet.

The impact knocks the air out of him. He squeezes his eyes shut, wincing that the pain, gasping for air. Opening them again, the black and yellow are gone. A dull grey sky wheels over head, and a very angry vice mayor is on the ground beside him.

“You broke my arm!” Kellerman rolls back and forth on what’s left of the platform, screaming at David. “You broke my fucking arm!”

David stands up, still wobbly from his magic taking over. “No. I tackled you. You broke it when you fell on it. Now shut up and stop moving, you’re just going to make it hurt more.” Squatting next to the vice mayor, David quickly checks his arm, eliciting a few more swears from Kellerman, but finding nothing to make him worry.

The same cannot be said about his view of the town square, though. Craters, still smoking and smeared with human gore are everywhere. Some people are running, some people are screaming, clutching others to their chests, one man is wandering around looking for his missing arm. And more, many, many more, aren’t moving at all.

“Oh my god.” Kellerman had finally gotten to his feet and is clutching his broken arm to his side. “You crazy bastards blew it all up.”

David wheels on him, clapping a hand around the arm Kellerman is holding to his side. “This wasn’t us.” He starts to squeeze, slowly letting the pain speak. “It was your aide. He was the one that started this. And he wasn’t one of us.”

Letting go of the vice mayor’s arm, Kellerman falls to his knees, breathing heavily. “No one…no one is going to believe that.”

“Then you’ll have to make ‘em. I saved your life, you son of a bitch. Now you get to save ours.” David walks away, leaving the vice mayor behind. He heads towards the place where Charles and Mary were, just before David sprinted to the vice mayor. The platform is a twisted mass of wreckage here, and there is a crater where his friends were. David feels a knot form in his throat, his body knowing what his mind won’t accept. He steps down off the platform, into the crater, and breaks down sobbing.

He grabs clumps of the loose soil in his hands and squeezes them. He feels the dirt shift between his fingers, slip under his fingernails. He stops, looking down at his hands, covered in dirt and ash. Tears fall form his face, hitting his palms like rain. David Candlemass falls to the ground, weeping into the scarred earth.

Two more friends, dead because of him.

Like a refracted shadow, I was with you when the raw chords curled around all of the threaded veins to form the first semblance of a song. Caressing the ruby endings of exposed and unformed currents, linked through the puzzle of your pre-existence, I swirled in the expectant sacs, poised to suck in the world as it became new again. And then the masterpiece was dug out of it’s amniotic tomb, and for a time the sun burned a new coda. The crescendo rose within the core and encoded secrets were ferried away from the covetous helixtwin into beautiful vessels that lay open mouthed and hiding. In the frenzy of the composition you were immortal. You rejoiced in the thunderous revelry of a thousand perfect pitches bellowing with joy. You were lifted into the stratosphere, held by hands that never touched you. Until they began to let go, one by one. Until you drifted back to earth, unaware at first that the march had become a nocturne, draining away, like an emptying concert hall. One by one, your rests become unpaused, circling around the brilliantly fractured melody. Snapping off and restarting, you are remade in an image broken down from a symphony and into a strain caught on a thin breeze. This is when I rise again to the podium, this is when you become part of my chorus. And so it goes that we are all serenaded by only our own voice when the music is fading to silence. When ghosts play the final refrain.

Morning makes tough.
Heavy thighs. My eyes,
my sore feet.

Holy basil and toast. Fall
just folds summer up

in slanting sun -
an origami bird burnt,
paper sun phoenix.

The whole world is windchimes.
Sleep just folds me up.

They are scary as hell for you and really annoying for me, since I know what part of the site was affected by the attack.

The Bad Things were hidden away in a part of the site that no use could actually get to unless they deliberately typed in the correct address. An address that you’d never have any reason to go, because until the malware attack, it didn’t exist.

I’ve cleaned it out, run some exploit checkers, resubmitted the site to Google, and closed off what I think was the loop hole that let them in.

Bottom line? The site is as clean as I can make it. But, don’t take my word for it – run your own virus scans and check your systems, just to make sure.

Again, my apologies for this.

1. I love scrap yarn projects. Previously I did rugs. I feel like the noble green knitter using the discarded trash of consumer thirsty beasts. Also, I am cheap and this means I can use every last drop of the yarn I have and beg/steal/trade others for theirs.

2. It’s knit in one piece. This is great because seaming (sewing pieces of knitting together) is A Fate Worse Than Death.

Also, each time I finish a square, it’s a tiny victory. And the whole thing will take about 8 weeks.

That sure is a badass rug.

Your baby is so gonna dig this.

I love the patchwork quality. It is very freeing. But I am also excited by the possibilities. With some time, planning, and a sheet of graph paper, I could do something very clever indeed. Hmmmmm…… As discussed previously, blankets are reserved for only the closest of friends. And as I have several women very dear to me who are pregnant or soon will be, I better stop writing and start knitting.

A glance backward in time from one battlefield to another.

Another little style experiment this week. I was going for a bit of a shadowy, dream world look. Also it turns out that the guy with the eyepatch is named Pete. We are learning these things together.