(Creative Work Weekends: On Fridays The Heathernet will feature a completed or in progress work of creative writing. Constructive feedback and ideas/prompts for more CWWs are always appreciated in the comments.)

Read: "Caravan"

Note: Something a little different this week. Instead of getting something for Michelle for Valentine's Day (since I think it's an abomination of a holiday) I thought about her and was inspired to write a song. A video of me playing the song will be posted later this week if I get up the guts to record it.

1.

I’ve thought myself

To be the perfect man

A million dreams

Will come true

I’ve failed to see

Just how hard it is

To make the world

See you for you

PC

I find myself

Wading every day

Waist deep

In things I’ve left behind

Something drags me on

2.

Define my friends

I’m not sure I can

Fraternal bonds

Forged in song

The lighter things

Like lifting up a glass

Cheer our lives

Make us strong

PC

Chorus

I know

It all can fade

It all can burn

Away

Except for you

3.

Define my love

I’m not sure I can

Safely caught

In the high rise net

A feeling so safe

More than I deserve

After tossing fire

Beneath the circus tent

PC

Chorus

4.

Define my faith

I’m not sure I can

And I’m not sure

I ever should

What I know

I’ve found all I need

My caravan

Through the woods

PC

Chorus

Read: Excerpt from 'The Field'

Note: This is an excerpt from a longer piece I wrote for a fiction class in Spring of 2007 called 'The Field.' For those of you who know me best, the subject matter of this piece will certainly make you snicker at me.

            Each time Brock answered his door there would be someone standing in the garage holding a ball underneath his arm. As the years passed and the sample size grew larger Brock learned to love and loathe the objects that waited for him just after the knocking.

            He dreaded the whiffle ball. It seemed to occupy most of the year with its impossible to hit loops and endless innings of boredom. A spot was worn away in his yard where he spent most of his summer toiling away as the all-time pitcher. He learned to like the football, the foam becoming easier to catch every time it took to the air. He learned to enjoy tucking it away once he had it, dodging would be tackler until he was crushed to the ground in an inevitable human embrace. Most of all, he learned to adore the rubber playground ball, the one that meant four square was about to be played for unending hours in the chalk lined court on the street just below the field.

            Everyone on the street lined up to play four square. While waiting to play kids would swap stories and make plans. It was around the four square games that one learned about Junior High. It was here that you got the phone number for the soccer coach. It was here that everyone could assault the ice cream truck at the same time and lounge with creamy treats on each other’s yards.

            “See, we’re playing with Junior High Rules,” Adam said from the fourth square, effortlessly passing the ball into Brock’s square.

            “Ok, what’s the big deal?” Brock asked, sending the ball back.

            “Well,” Adam said, again returning the ball,  “There’s no stupid kid rules, and all slams, spikes, and spins are legal.”

            “Really?”

            Brock excitedly just skimmed the bottom of the rubber ball slightly, yet whipped his hand through so fast that the ball whirred in the other direction; squirreling like a chased rabbit through Adam’s square. Brock let out a shout, not of ego, but of surprised pride.

            “You’re out! Woo! Server square time!” he said.

            Adam froze in his square and watched in disbelief the ball continue to roll away down the street. Then, something changed, and his face clouded over.

            “Shit,” he said.

            Everyone was silent. The only sound was the ball continuing to roll away, picking up speed as it caught up to the hill. A girl had been giving chase but she slowed to a stop, mouth agape, and stared at Adam. Nobody dared move, no one had ever cursed on Rockdown Street.

            “What?” he said, shoving his chest at the kids in line. The little ones broke their trance to stumble back.

            Others began to move and shuffle.

            “I, what’s that? I hear my mom, time for supper,” a voice scraped out. Several kids departed from where the voice came from.

            “No one said anything, Adam,” Kevin said. He had suddenly appeared with the ball in his hands. He tossed it over to Brock, “Serve it up. Let’s go.”

            Brock spun the ball in his hands and took tentative steps towards Adam’s square. Adam looked at Brock, lip in a sneer. Then he turned, hung his head, and headed towards the line. Instead of joining it he shoved the last kid in line to the ground and departed for his house.

            Brock took his spot as the game’s server. He looked around, the rest of the neighborhood anxious to move on. He served the ball, not sure that he ever wanted to go to Junior High.

Read: Boggart and Boogin Scribbling

Note: There's no story here. Without any direction for my protagonist I had no idea what I was trying to accomplish here. I knew I was trying to be silly, but silly without a reason... is simply silly.

            No matter how much the occasion called for rapt attention Paul would still let his mind wander. It was as though he had no choice. Sometimes the circumstances would seem to actually demand insubordination from within his cranium. Now was certainly such a time. The office was the surely the biggest room in the entire building. Lavishly decorated and subtly lit, it was as if Paul had passed from the bland and fluorescent hallway through a door that represented a backwards leap to an era where beefy workmen in dungaree coveralls did the bidding of monocled gentlemen straight off the Monopoly board.

            His eyes scanned, and scanned, (and scanned,) the length of desk. He fancied himself a clever thought, wherein he realized that his desk was probably an eighth the size and three feet deep in paper work while this desk was adorned with nothing more than a bankers lamp and a golden pen stand. 

            He wondered if anyone had ever had the thought to use the desk as an air hockey table.

            He wondered what the weather was like outside.

            He wondered how many rhinoceroses could fit in here.

            He wondered if “rinocerosi” was a word.

            The man behind the desk laid the pile of papers flat in front of him and set his glasses to the side. While pondering the information in the papers he stared intently at the resting spectacles. That seemed backwards to Paul, but who was he to judge, he wasn’t the man behind the desk. That was Mr. B.

            No one knew his full name. From the day you arrived at Boggart and Boogin Incorporated you knew to be wary of Mr. B and no one had ever referred to him as anything else. It was always “Mr. B isn’t happy” or “Mr. B needs to see you” or “Mr. B said no croutons.” True, he must be either Boggart or Boogin, but with only a fifty percent chance it wasn’t worth the risk of being wrong.

            “Mm,” Mr. B said.

            “Mm?”

            “Paul.”

            “Yes?”

            Mr. B picked the papers up and added the glasses back to his face. He was round and white haired; he was Santa Claus sans facial hair, especially if all the friendliness of St. Nick was kept in the beard. He was also mostly bald, but for some reason held on to the tuft protruding from his widow’s peak, like a rabbit was sitting backwards on his head. The little white orb was like one of those deep-sea fish, dangling it in front of your eyes, and hypnotizing you while he prepared to strike.

            “Do you like root beer?”

            “Yes.”

            “Mm.”

            He took a pen and marked some things down on the paper. He flipped the page over; cross referenced some items on the other pages, and made some more marks on the front and back.

            “That was ‘root’ correct?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Ginger?”

            “I haven’t tried it.”

            The glasses came back off and the papers were set back down. Paul felt Mr. B’s truth scan wash over him.

            “Very well,” he said after a moment.

            He separated the pile of papers meticulously into two, held the divided halves up, cast looks at both sets, and shredded one under the desk. Then he set the remainder back down on the desk.

            “Birch?”

            “Uh, occasionally.”

            “Paul, this is big time, we’re going to need big time answers.”

            “Yes, then, yes.”

            “Very well.”

            The pen went to work again. When he was finished Mr. B stapled the pile and stamped it twice with two different stamps. He reached under the desk and pressed an unseen button.

            “Lucy.”

            Lucy appeared, all in gray.

            “Put these in his file.”

            She passed back out through whatever door or elevator she came from.

            Mr. B looked to his left and sighed, put his glasses back on and looked to the right, sighing. Finally he looked at Paul again.

            “We’re done.”

            And Paul left, never knowing what this was about.           

(Creative Work Weekends:  On Fridays The Heathernet will feature a completed or in progress work of creative writing. Constructive feedback and ideas/prompts for more CWWs are always appreciated in the comments.)

Read: The Instrument (Part 2)

Kicking sand on the fire Meralock went to a crouch and backed away from the sparking mess with both hands going to his hilt. He couldn’t tell from the sound of the intruders gait if either the firelight had been seen or his scuffle to the dark had been heard. He waited, silent, watching and listening to whatever was on the path.  The glow of torchlight appeared and the sound of jovial humming. Meralock relaxed and called out.

“Kuipo!”

The intruder gave a high-pitched and startled cry and the woods rustled with the clatter of a fallen pack.

“By the Mercies!” shouted the voice, “Be you friend and you have not been friendly, or be you foe and have you been foolish? Answer, and I’ll know which way to run.”

“Relax Kuipo of Gern, it is Meralock of Fueradale, neither friend or foe today.”

Meralock knelt by the fire pit, stoked the coals with his sword, and blew the flames back to life. Kuipo drew up from the path dragging his dropped things. Meralock looked up to see a slender man in chocolate brown leggings and tunic with flamboyant violet flourishes. In his outstretched hand he was juggling three coals lit with long colorful flame through his fingers. He narrowed his eyes at Meralock and sneered through thin lips.

“Fool, you tempt fate calling at me in the darkness, I should singe your fur for nearly making me shed my soul.”

Meralock rose to his full height and raised his hand glowering intensely. Kuipo’s menace melted immediately and he stumbled and stammered backwards. 

“Relax, friend. Merely the words of a constant showman is all.”

He worked to regain his composure while tossing each coal in the air, spinning underneath each before catching them in his mouth. He made a concentrated face before spitting out a single white marble, which he held on the tip of this finger for Meralock to see.

For a moment Merlaock appeared ready to swat his raised hand at the trickster’s prop, but a thought occurred to him, and he dropped his hand while giving Kuipo an inquisitive stare.

“Enough, come and sit by the fire. Bring your things.”

Kuipo raised his finger and rolled the marble up his arm and into some hidden compartment of his sleeve.

“I have a schedule to keep Meralock, I will rest for just a bit. Perhaps we may share some libation to make it worth my delay?

Meralock smirked.

“Of course, I have some wineskins in my saddle bag. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Ah! And I have always thought it was your brother who was the gentleman, you are most kind.”

Meralock erased his smirk and studied Kuipo some more as he propped up his bursting bag of props and instruments for a makeshift backrest. He felt for a moment as though the Mercies were toying with him, pushing him gently from within his skull and making his skin crawl. Justice, he felt, could very well have been sitting with him at the fire pit tonight.

He returned to the fire, wineskin in each fist, and found Kuipo using a length of oiled wool to polish a foot long wooden instrument resting in his lap. It was almost as thick as his arm, one end was whittled to a thin mouthpiece and the other was carved to look like the roots of a tree. Finger holes littered the entirety of the cylindrical body and the shapes of animals made of blonde wood were inset down the center. Meralock paused a moment, remembering the wondrous music Kuipo was playing while walking on the trail.

“Fire,” Meralock said, handing a wineskin over.

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s new, the fire, I’ve never seen it in your act before.”

Kuipo’s face flashed a hint of something briefly, before breaking in an ego dripped smile. Meralock could not be sure it was the emotion what he sought. It was fear, he was certain of that, but was it a fear from guilt?

“It has been a while since I have been in Fueradale. Earning a livelihood from my crafts means I must pick up a few new things along the way, does it not?

He indicated the instrument to prove his claim.

“I’ve been away securing this,” he looked down the length of it with tenderness, “I spent three years in personal service of the Windlemere court to seek this out. You know their people only create a new instrument once every 26 months? Each one unique in form and function.”

“I did not ask how long you’ve had your flute, I asked how long you’ve had your flames!”

“If you insist on knowing than consider yourself a lucky spectator Meralock, my flamework is untested on the mass—” he stopped, “Did you just call this a flute? I’ll have you know they call this—”

“Enough! I will discuss your flute in a moment. Kuipo. Answer me, please. Does my brother still give shelter you in his barn during your visits to Fueradale?”

“Why?” Kuipo asked, rigid.

Meralock watched the man try and keep still while he must have been writhing inside. With the eyes of a battle tested interrogator he tried to interpret the story Kuipo’s body was silently telling him. He chose his words carefully, speaking evenly and without emotion.

“There was a fire at my family farm today, Kuipo. Faligaard. My brother. He died in the barn.”

“I, Meralock, I—”

He looked away and took a sloppy gulp of wine. He turned back, grave.

“I am sorry,” he said, “But I have not been to Fuerabush in three years.”

This was a shame Meralock thought. He knew there was no malice here, but as talented as Kuipo was, he was a poor actor and Meralock knew Kuipo was in that barn today. He closed his eyes and sat back, imagining himself eating the rage he felt. The Mercies had shown him a path. He drank slowly from his wineskin. He opened his eyes and looked at Kuipo next to him, clutching his instrument and staring at the stars.

“About that instrument, Kuipo, what is it called?”

Kuipo visibly relaxed.

“This is the Liferoot Hollow of Windlemere. I could tell you the story of how this came in to my possession. Truly, it is my greatest affection.”

“No,” Meralock said, “That won’t be necessary. I request a song. The song you played on the path just now. It reminded me of younger times, running the fields with Faligaard and our dogs.”

“Of course,” Kuipo said getting up.

He lifted the flute to his mouth a moment, and then paused.

“I understand you have suffered a great loss, but I’m not used to performing without pay.”

Meralock gave a grim smile, “There will be pay, Kuipo.”

“Very well,” Kuipo said, “Let us dance and celebrate.”

Meralock stood as Kuipo sounded the opening tones. His fingers moved magnificently around the holes on the instrument. Meralock let himself feel lifted. He drank deep and knocked his wineskin in a friendly manner against the musicians shoulder. The men circled each other and the fire, Kuipo masterfully playing his instrument and Meralock shouting exaltations. Together they were momentarily joined together with the third personality that now appeared at the fire, the one created by the connection of a performer and his audience. When Kuipo finished he bowed to Meralock, and Meralock imagined that third personality thanking them both and leaving the fire to once again leave nothing in between the two men and the truth. Meralock bowed back to Kuipo.

“I should take your life,” he said, drawing his sword.

“Meralock!” Kuipo tried to back away quickly but Meralock’s free hand lashed out and caught his ruffles.

“Yet my life is not the one you took.”

He shoved the frightened man away and as Kuipo fell back he flailed his arms, trying to gain some sort of balance. Kuipo’s instrument floated free in his weakened grasp and Meralock batted it to the ground. Kuipo went to the ground, his eyes riveted to the fallen Liferoot Hollow.

“Were you in my brother’s barn today?”

Kuipo’s jaw shuddered and opened, tears began to well in his eyes.

“Meralock, I would never want to harm your brother! He was always so kind to me when while I was a mere amateur! I owe him my career.”

“Were you in the barn? Did you start the fire?” Meralock shouted at the collapsed man.

“Yes,” Kuipo gasped, ‘Oh, the Mercies, yes I was.”

Meralock put his boot to the instrument on the ground.

“You would never want to take the life of Faligaard, and yet you did. I would never want to destroy an instrument as beautiful as this Liferoot Hollow, and yet I must.”

Meralock resolutely pushed the instrument into the fire. For a moment nothing happened, then the oil caught fire and the surface was ablaze, the beautiful insets fell out of their hollows, and the instrument burnt away.

“The instrument of my affection for the instrument of your affection. Our debt has been settled.”

Meralock took the reigns of his horse and walked down the path, silent and head down. Kuipo remained at the fire, pawing at the coals and letting out the wailing moans of a grieving man.

End.

(Creative Work Weekends:  On Fridays The Heathernet will feature a completed or in progress work of creative writing. Constructive feedback and ideas/prompts for more CWWs are always appreciated in the comments.)

Read: The Instrument (Part 1)

The flames were a jail cell for his gaze and they held his thoughts deep in their dancing tongues of fire. The evening was clear and cool and Meralock’s winter fur was unpacked and laying across his shoulders as he sat still by the small fire. The pack bag of rations was untied and propped up on a rock beside him but the dried meat inside was undisturbed and attracting the attention of a few hardy gnats. Somewhere in the darkness his horse pawed at the ground by his tethering tree; this too went unnoticed. Meralock remained locked in the hypnosis of the flickering blaze.

He was forcing himself to think this pile of smoldering logs was no different than any other, set with the care of a warrior seasoned by many nights camped out on worn out patches of grass just out of sight from worn out trails through the dust. The silhouette of charcoal and timbers however was unmistakably similar to the smoking shambles of his brother’s house he had discovered just six miles down the path seven hours ago.

His hands were still caked in ash with red and raw fingers peering through cracks in the soot and the smell, the stench of burnt flesh was seared onto his skin and hair. Meralock found his fool brother crushed under the heavy timbers of his barn with little of either his body or the body of the lamb he had tried to save not turned to coal. He buried Faligaard in the family plot nestled in the farmlands now untended by any of their clan. No one had seen anything except for the fire, no one had heard anything but the alarm and an explosion, and the footsteps of the responding rescuers had beaten the ground clean of any trails. Already aloof to the people of Fueradale, Meralock turned from Faligaard’s grave and set off without a word in search of answers.

There were no answers in the crackle of the flames but the arrhythmic flickering calmed his soul and cleaned his mind of the clamoring thoughts that followed him out of town. He had pushed his horse to its limits in search of smoke and marauder’s flags on the horizon. Dismounted and crashed headlong into the brush to chase imagined bandits. Finally, when both creatures had too much travel underfoot he walked his horse with slumped shoulders and a stumbling gait back to this site, a favorite spot for those both exiting and entering Fueradale with a nearby fishing pond and boundless rabbits. Not a muscle moved after the setting of the fire until, on the cool night breezes, distant music wafted down onto the crumbled man’s ears.

Meralock could hear two lines of melody haunting and rich in tone but filled with a light woodwind air. One line floated above the other at a mid-high pitch while the other quietly supported mid-low. The tune was reaching and hopeful, like something you would exalt from the top of a mountain. Meralock could not deny his mind the pastoral images the music conjured, he could not deny the innocence and wonder he remembered. The last notes of the music sounded and as it died away in a sweet sustain Meralock let himself breathe out with it. Then, in the silence, footsteps sounded on the trail. 

To be continued...