Saturday, April 28, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
The Truth Seeker Chapter Three
Midway through the third day of traveling, Aveion started to recognize the familiar sights of his hometown, Kilsinger Falls. Log cabins lined the Kilsinger River, each with a dock and small skiffs that lapped up against its side . They had turned off The Outskirts Highway and merged onto the Kilsinger town road.
Muddy children dashed into the road and ran along the side Aveion’s wagon. He smiled back and tossed them some sweets from his saddle bag. They resembled chickens as they swarmed and bobbed up and down for the wrapped candy on the side of the road.
The road slithered along side the river for several miles until it veered to the into the tall trees that canopied the road. Sunbeams cascaded through the open branches and spotlighted the passing wagons loaded with fresh cut timber, making their voyage to the river to float down stream to the mill.
Cabins appeared where Aveion had known only trees and the road widened to allow enough room for three wagons abreast. He could remember riding in his father’s wagon stuffed with produce, on their way to the shipyard. During the trip, they wouldn’t encounter another person until in eyesight of the docks. Now he dodged on coming traffic and a few people cursed at him for being to slow.
The road led right into the heart of town. Buildings lined both sides of the street with little room between them. Carts with colorful signs displayed wares and their occupants screamed at the milling throng, out dueling the competitor across the street.
Aveion was amazed at the sight of how much the town had changed. He felt a stranger in his own town.
He had dreamed of being recognized as he arrived and people would mill out to surround him and give him a hero‘s welcome. But all the faces were unrecognizable. He still noticed The Gathering Tavern, though twice its size. His father used to take him there. Aveion would sit on the wooden porch with his friends while their fathers drank and talked.
As Aveion passed the tavern, he peeked inside and saw a line of men sitting on the barstools. A small red headed boy, sitting on the same bench he had twenty years ago, tossed a ball into the air and caught it.
Aveion rode a few more blocks to The Maple Inn, a converted mansion. It was originally the first mayor of Kinslinger’s home but his estranged wife turned it into an Inn after finding him at a brothel.
A black iron fence surrounded the property and bright flowers that bloomed in the gardens lining the brick pathway leading to the house. When the wagon approached the front steps, three boys ran out from the stable yard on the side of the inn and grabbed the reins. Two adolescents trailed behind and helped unload the chest and other luggage from the wagon.
Aveion and Roddick walked up the steps and through the double doors, entering into a gigantic study. Bookshelves lined the walls and a fireplace that could fit a horse sat unused. A few merchants puffed on cigars, some eating at scattered tables, while others read. Servants glided by with trays of drink and food. Near the stairway, a woman sat behind a desk and dipped her pen into a bottle of ink, jotting down something in a large black book. She looked up and jumped at the sight of him.
“Is that Aveion? My, oh my, look at you,” said the old lady. She waddled around the desk and hugged him.
“Hello Madam Weaver. It is nice to see you again.”
“Come. Come. You and your friend must be hungry.” She showed them two empty chairs beside a small round table. “Dezeray go and get these gentleman some food and a bottle of wine. From my collection, dear.”
The young serving girl vanished through a side door.
“I am so glad that you are here. We all thought you would make it back home and boy look at you. You left a scrawny thing and now you’re a man.”
Roddick grinned; it left his face as soon as Aveion looked at him.
“It is nice to be back. Things have certainly changed in ten years.”
“Oh, yes. People have been flocking here by the hundreds, mostly from down south. Houses have extended back through May Graves property now and more are going up everyday. We’ve been through three schools already.”
The serving girl came back with two plates, steaming with sliced turkey and black beans. Roddick didn’t hesitate to scoop a forkful into his mouth.
“I’ll let you finish up your meal,” Sharli said and turned to go.
“Before you go, I was wondering if I could get a message over to Dewart?”
“Sure, sweetie. I’ll go get one of the stable hands to run it over for you. You can use the paper and pen at the desk here,” she said, turning to go and nearly bumped into a stable hand. “Kelvin tuck in your shirt you lack wit.”
Aveion hurried to get the letter written before she returned. It was short and to the point, letting his brother know that he was in town and staying at the Maple Lodge.
Minutes later, the same boy that had helped him with the horses took the letter and ran off before Aveion could pull out a copper piece from his pouch.
Roddick slurped down the final scraps of his meal with wine, as Aveion started his. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat and belched. Several well dressed men eyed him with raised eyebrows.
“What?” Roddick said to them.
“Try to act accordingly,” Aveion said. The turkey melted in his mouth.
“I’m going to check on Roast. Those kids probably don’t know his head from his rear.”
Aveion shook his head and went back to concentrating on eating. The turkey had a slight hint of honey to it. It had been a very long time since he had a nice home cooked meal. The serving girl came back, refilled his glass and took the empty plates.
“Aveion,” called Sharli from behind her desk. “I have booked you two rooms on the second floor. I’m sorry that I couldn’t give you the south side rooms but we have some contractors that have booked that whole wing.”
“Any bed will be fine compared to the military cot. I’ll take Roddick’s key. He went to check on the horses,” he said and took the keys from her.
“Just follow Dezeray and she’ll show you the rooms.”
“Thank you so much.”
He followed the swaying hips of the serving girl up the stairs and to his room. Slipping a copper into her palm, he asked for some tea and honey. The room had everything he needed, a small desk, a comfortable bed, wash basin and a window with a view of the maple trees out back.
He settled in and took off his riding boots and a knock came to the door.
“Come in,” he said.
Dezeray brought in the tea and excused herself. He poured himself a cup and set it on the desk to cool. Pacing the room, he finally felt the weight of what he had to do. His father could be as stubborn as a wild stallion and he had to convince the man that he had made the right decision to desert the family business. He knew Dewart was more than competent to take over the business. In fact, Dewart was the born farmer, picking intricacy of farming twice as fast as him.
By the time he had unpacked and stretched out on the bed, Roddick knocked on the door and entered.
He held a sealed letter in his hand and handed to Aveion. “This just came in and the horses are fine,” he said and looked out the window.
Aveion opened the seal of his brother, two wheat plants forming an X. It said that they would meet him at The Gathering Tavern after sunset and that he was happy that Aveion had come on such short notice.
“We‘re to meet him at the tavern at sunset,” Aveion said, crumpling the letter and throwing it on the desk.
“I’m ready now,” said Roddick. “I hate wine.”
Muddy children dashed into the road and ran along the side Aveion’s wagon. He smiled back and tossed them some sweets from his saddle bag. They resembled chickens as they swarmed and bobbed up and down for the wrapped candy on the side of the road.
The road slithered along side the river for several miles until it veered to the into the tall trees that canopied the road. Sunbeams cascaded through the open branches and spotlighted the passing wagons loaded with fresh cut timber, making their voyage to the river to float down stream to the mill.
Cabins appeared where Aveion had known only trees and the road widened to allow enough room for three wagons abreast. He could remember riding in his father’s wagon stuffed with produce, on their way to the shipyard. During the trip, they wouldn’t encounter another person until in eyesight of the docks. Now he dodged on coming traffic and a few people cursed at him for being to slow.
The road led right into the heart of town. Buildings lined both sides of the street with little room between them. Carts with colorful signs displayed wares and their occupants screamed at the milling throng, out dueling the competitor across the street.
Aveion was amazed at the sight of how much the town had changed. He felt a stranger in his own town.
He had dreamed of being recognized as he arrived and people would mill out to surround him and give him a hero‘s welcome. But all the faces were unrecognizable. He still noticed The Gathering Tavern, though twice its size. His father used to take him there. Aveion would sit on the wooden porch with his friends while their fathers drank and talked.
As Aveion passed the tavern, he peeked inside and saw a line of men sitting on the barstools. A small red headed boy, sitting on the same bench he had twenty years ago, tossed a ball into the air and caught it.
Aveion rode a few more blocks to The Maple Inn, a converted mansion. It was originally the first mayor of Kinslinger’s home but his estranged wife turned it into an Inn after finding him at a brothel.
A black iron fence surrounded the property and bright flowers that bloomed in the gardens lining the brick pathway leading to the house. When the wagon approached the front steps, three boys ran out from the stable yard on the side of the inn and grabbed the reins. Two adolescents trailed behind and helped unload the chest and other luggage from the wagon.
Aveion and Roddick walked up the steps and through the double doors, entering into a gigantic study. Bookshelves lined the walls and a fireplace that could fit a horse sat unused. A few merchants puffed on cigars, some eating at scattered tables, while others read. Servants glided by with trays of drink and food. Near the stairway, a woman sat behind a desk and dipped her pen into a bottle of ink, jotting down something in a large black book. She looked up and jumped at the sight of him.
“Is that Aveion? My, oh my, look at you,” said the old lady. She waddled around the desk and hugged him.
“Hello Madam Weaver. It is nice to see you again.”
“Come. Come. You and your friend must be hungry.” She showed them two empty chairs beside a small round table. “Dezeray go and get these gentleman some food and a bottle of wine. From my collection, dear.”
The young serving girl vanished through a side door.
“I am so glad that you are here. We all thought you would make it back home and boy look at you. You left a scrawny thing and now you’re a man.”
Roddick grinned; it left his face as soon as Aveion looked at him.
“It is nice to be back. Things have certainly changed in ten years.”
“Oh, yes. People have been flocking here by the hundreds, mostly from down south. Houses have extended back through May Graves property now and more are going up everyday. We’ve been through three schools already.”
The serving girl came back with two plates, steaming with sliced turkey and black beans. Roddick didn’t hesitate to scoop a forkful into his mouth.
“I’ll let you finish up your meal,” Sharli said and turned to go.
“Before you go, I was wondering if I could get a message over to Dewart?”
“Sure, sweetie. I’ll go get one of the stable hands to run it over for you. You can use the paper and pen at the desk here,” she said, turning to go and nearly bumped into a stable hand. “Kelvin tuck in your shirt you lack wit.”
Aveion hurried to get the letter written before she returned. It was short and to the point, letting his brother know that he was in town and staying at the Maple Lodge.
Minutes later, the same boy that had helped him with the horses took the letter and ran off before Aveion could pull out a copper piece from his pouch.
Roddick slurped down the final scraps of his meal with wine, as Aveion started his. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat and belched. Several well dressed men eyed him with raised eyebrows.
“What?” Roddick said to them.
“Try to act accordingly,” Aveion said. The turkey melted in his mouth.
“I’m going to check on Roast. Those kids probably don’t know his head from his rear.”
Aveion shook his head and went back to concentrating on eating. The turkey had a slight hint of honey to it. It had been a very long time since he had a nice home cooked meal. The serving girl came back, refilled his glass and took the empty plates.
“Aveion,” called Sharli from behind her desk. “I have booked you two rooms on the second floor. I’m sorry that I couldn’t give you the south side rooms but we have some contractors that have booked that whole wing.”
“Any bed will be fine compared to the military cot. I’ll take Roddick’s key. He went to check on the horses,” he said and took the keys from her.
“Just follow Dezeray and she’ll show you the rooms.”
“Thank you so much.”
He followed the swaying hips of the serving girl up the stairs and to his room. Slipping a copper into her palm, he asked for some tea and honey. The room had everything he needed, a small desk, a comfortable bed, wash basin and a window with a view of the maple trees out back.
He settled in and took off his riding boots and a knock came to the door.
“Come in,” he said.
Dezeray brought in the tea and excused herself. He poured himself a cup and set it on the desk to cool. Pacing the room, he finally felt the weight of what he had to do. His father could be as stubborn as a wild stallion and he had to convince the man that he had made the right decision to desert the family business. He knew Dewart was more than competent to take over the business. In fact, Dewart was the born farmer, picking intricacy of farming twice as fast as him.
By the time he had unpacked and stretched out on the bed, Roddick knocked on the door and entered.
He held a sealed letter in his hand and handed to Aveion. “This just came in and the horses are fine,” he said and looked out the window.
Aveion opened the seal of his brother, two wheat plants forming an X. It said that they would meet him at The Gathering Tavern after sunset and that he was happy that Aveion had come on such short notice.
“We‘re to meet him at the tavern at sunset,” Aveion said, crumpling the letter and throwing it on the desk.
“I’m ready now,” said Roddick. “I hate wine.”
Thursday, April 26, 2007
The Truth Seeker Chapter Two
Dismounting their steeds, Aveion and Roddick approached the gates of the Chamber’s office, a stone building in an outpost called Numeron, a four hour ride from their encampment on Bullon Hills. Aveion received, the formal letter during breakfast, giving him only time to change and trim his beard.
The Chamber’s office was in the center of the small town. An impressive structure from the outside, The Chamber’s office held towering ornate colonnades with two life-like statues of a robed bald man holding a chalice on one side of the entrance and a robed bald woman holding a pitcher on the other.
Roddick followed on the heels of Aveion, as they took the steps up the colonnade and toward the dark entrance. He stopped at the archway as Aveion entered. Rows of pews wrapped their way around the room. Torches flickered along the horseshoe, filling the room with a dim glow. A small wooden platform sat in the center of the room where the Answerer would stand to begin the questioning.
The room was empty and Aveion took a deep breath before stepping onto the platform. Once both feet were on the platform, figures entered from the dark entrances behind each pew. Their white hooded robes hid their downcast faces. They sat in high gilded chairs and when all were in place, they removed their hoods. Bald headed women of varying ages eyed him.
The oldest woman with deep wrinkles and drooping skin, sat in the seat in front of Aveion and held the title of, The Questioner.
“Aveion, with no last name, you have come here to ask permission to go home. Why?” She asked.
“I received a letter yesterday saying that my father is ill and I wish to see him before he goes.”
“He has stripped you of your last name. You are no longer part of his family. Why would you want to see someone that considers you a stranger?”
“I hope to regain my name.”
“What is done, is done. You must except your punishment.”
“I need to ask him for forgiveness. There are many things that I need to say before he goes and if I don’t, I’ll never forgive myself.”
A silence filled The Chamber as the women looked towards the floor. The woman at the beginning of the row to his left lifted her head.
“You may go,” She said and bowed her head.
“You may go,” said the woman to her left and bowed.
“You shall not go,” said the next.
“You may go.”
The questioner did not speak, but the next in line rose her head and said, “You shall not go.”
“You may go.”
“You shall not go.”
“You may go.”
Then the Questioner rose.
“The Chamber has spoken and you will have leave to go back to your home but as a stranger. You must respect the decision Sir Plowman’s has made. You have been stripped of your name but we also understand that mistakes can be rectified. So go, but heed your steps.”
They stood and turned, exiting through the dark entrances behind their seats. Aveion stepped off the platform and headed outside. Roddick watched the whole procession from the doorway.
“This place always gives me the shivers,” Roddick said.
“We must pack and be ready to leave as soon as the papers arrive.”
They left that evening and Aveion slid under his blankets with only a sliver of night left. Tossing and turning he dreamt of the day his Father had thrown him out.
Aveion awoke to a tapping on his cot and he opened his eyes to see the streaming sunlight silhouetting Roddick.
“What time is it?” he asked
“Three hours since daylight,” Roddick replied.
“You should have wakened me hours ago.”
Roddick extended to him a handful of papers.
“This just arrived. I believe it is your leave papers.”
“Good.” Aveion stood and placed the papers on his desk. He filled his washbasin with the cold water from an iron pitcher and began to trim his beard.
“Send me Telivar Fisherman,” he said, scraping the razor down his neck.
Moments later Telivar arrived. A stork of a man, near twenty-five years of age and not a scar on him.
“You called for me, sir,” he said and tapped his heels together, placing a fist to the side of his head.
“I am going on leave. You will be entrusted with command of the company.” Aveion handed Telivar the pile of papers from the desk. “These are the orders and forms for supplies.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. A grin slinked across his face as he took the papers. “Is everything alright, sir?”
“Yes. Everything is in order. I have full faith in you and your training. Make the most of it, for I too was in your position and rose in rank because of it.”
“Thank you, sir. I will.”
“I’ll be leaving soon. So the company is yours. You may go.”
Aveion waited until Telivar left before saying, “I hope he doesn’t trip on his own feet. He is a good boy but a little overzealous.”
“I agree,” said Roddick. “Maybe this will settle him down a little.”
“We shall see. Now there‘s are a hundred things I must do.”
Aveion summoned the servants. They arrived dressed in plain brown wool. They lugged out the large chest from beside the bed and folded and stacked his clothes inside until it took a hefty swing to close it. The trip would take several days and they needed sufficient rations.
Roddick set down a small bag tied to the saddle of his white and black mare, Roast. He waited while the servants finished tying the chest to a small wagon that would follow them. Grabbing the reins, he helped attach it to Aveion's gelding, Wisp.
Within the next hour, they were set to go. Telivar saluted as they spurred their way down the slope of Bullon Hill and followed the dirt path leading to Numeron.
“How are you going to approach your father?” asked Roddick after the watch towers faded out of sight.
“I have been pondering that same question myself. I truly don’t know. I must go there as a stranger. So the first step is to arrange an invitation.”
“Do you think he will except?”
“In my heart, yes but in my head, no. He is a stubborn man. I hope for the best though,” he said. “Either way it will be nice to see my family again.”
“You haven’t mentioned them before. What are they like?”
“Oh, it’s been ten years now and Dewart is married and has a son. Herald, my younger brother, is now eighteen and a man.”
“Will they except you when you arrive?” asked Roddick.
“I know Dewart will but Herald is another story. He always followed my Father like a hungry kitten.”
“Then we shall see.”
“So we shall.”
The Chamber’s office was in the center of the small town. An impressive structure from the outside, The Chamber’s office held towering ornate colonnades with two life-like statues of a robed bald man holding a chalice on one side of the entrance and a robed bald woman holding a pitcher on the other.
Roddick followed on the heels of Aveion, as they took the steps up the colonnade and toward the dark entrance. He stopped at the archway as Aveion entered. Rows of pews wrapped their way around the room. Torches flickered along the horseshoe, filling the room with a dim glow. A small wooden platform sat in the center of the room where the Answerer would stand to begin the questioning.
The room was empty and Aveion took a deep breath before stepping onto the platform. Once both feet were on the platform, figures entered from the dark entrances behind each pew. Their white hooded robes hid their downcast faces. They sat in high gilded chairs and when all were in place, they removed their hoods. Bald headed women of varying ages eyed him.
The oldest woman with deep wrinkles and drooping skin, sat in the seat in front of Aveion and held the title of, The Questioner.
“Aveion, with no last name, you have come here to ask permission to go home. Why?” She asked.
“I received a letter yesterday saying that my father is ill and I wish to see him before he goes.”
“He has stripped you of your last name. You are no longer part of his family. Why would you want to see someone that considers you a stranger?”
“I hope to regain my name.”
“What is done, is done. You must except your punishment.”
“I need to ask him for forgiveness. There are many things that I need to say before he goes and if I don’t, I’ll never forgive myself.”
A silence filled The Chamber as the women looked towards the floor. The woman at the beginning of the row to his left lifted her head.
“You may go,” She said and bowed her head.
“You may go,” said the woman to her left and bowed.
“You shall not go,” said the next.
“You may go.”
The questioner did not speak, but the next in line rose her head and said, “You shall not go.”
“You may go.”
“You shall not go.”
“You may go.”
Then the Questioner rose.
“The Chamber has spoken and you will have leave to go back to your home but as a stranger. You must respect the decision Sir Plowman’s has made. You have been stripped of your name but we also understand that mistakes can be rectified. So go, but heed your steps.”
They stood and turned, exiting through the dark entrances behind their seats. Aveion stepped off the platform and headed outside. Roddick watched the whole procession from the doorway.
“This place always gives me the shivers,” Roddick said.
“We must pack and be ready to leave as soon as the papers arrive.”
They left that evening and Aveion slid under his blankets with only a sliver of night left. Tossing and turning he dreamt of the day his Father had thrown him out.
Aveion awoke to a tapping on his cot and he opened his eyes to see the streaming sunlight silhouetting Roddick.
“What time is it?” he asked
“Three hours since daylight,” Roddick replied.
“You should have wakened me hours ago.”
Roddick extended to him a handful of papers.
“This just arrived. I believe it is your leave papers.”
“Good.” Aveion stood and placed the papers on his desk. He filled his washbasin with the cold water from an iron pitcher and began to trim his beard.
“Send me Telivar Fisherman,” he said, scraping the razor down his neck.
Moments later Telivar arrived. A stork of a man, near twenty-five years of age and not a scar on him.
“You called for me, sir,” he said and tapped his heels together, placing a fist to the side of his head.
“I am going on leave. You will be entrusted with command of the company.” Aveion handed Telivar the pile of papers from the desk. “These are the orders and forms for supplies.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. A grin slinked across his face as he took the papers. “Is everything alright, sir?”
“Yes. Everything is in order. I have full faith in you and your training. Make the most of it, for I too was in your position and rose in rank because of it.”
“Thank you, sir. I will.”
“I’ll be leaving soon. So the company is yours. You may go.”
Aveion waited until Telivar left before saying, “I hope he doesn’t trip on his own feet. He is a good boy but a little overzealous.”
“I agree,” said Roddick. “Maybe this will settle him down a little.”
“We shall see. Now there‘s are a hundred things I must do.”
Aveion summoned the servants. They arrived dressed in plain brown wool. They lugged out the large chest from beside the bed and folded and stacked his clothes inside until it took a hefty swing to close it. The trip would take several days and they needed sufficient rations.
Roddick set down a small bag tied to the saddle of his white and black mare, Roast. He waited while the servants finished tying the chest to a small wagon that would follow them. Grabbing the reins, he helped attach it to Aveion's gelding, Wisp.
Within the next hour, they were set to go. Telivar saluted as they spurred their way down the slope of Bullon Hill and followed the dirt path leading to Numeron.
“How are you going to approach your father?” asked Roddick after the watch towers faded out of sight.
“I have been pondering that same question myself. I truly don’t know. I must go there as a stranger. So the first step is to arrange an invitation.”
“Do you think he will except?”
“In my heart, yes but in my head, no. He is a stubborn man. I hope for the best though,” he said. “Either way it will be nice to see my family again.”
“You haven’t mentioned them before. What are they like?”
“Oh, it’s been ten years now and Dewart is married and has a son. Herald, my younger brother, is now eighteen and a man.”
“Will they except you when you arrive?” asked Roddick.
“I know Dewart will but Herald is another story. He always followed my Father like a hungry kitten.”
“Then we shall see.”
“So we shall.”
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Thursday, April 19, 2007
The Truth Seeker Chapter One
The Truth Seeker: Chapter One
Sitting at his desk, Aveion chiseled away at the enormous amount of tedious inventory paperwork before him. His lieutenant’s tent spanned twice the size of his soldiers but it still only fit a desk, chair and fold out bed. The desk and chair came apart to fit into a traveling chest.
The new candle he had lit was now halfway melted when he finished the first series of lists. He sealed them with his signet, a wheat and a sword that formed an X. There was still a daunting pile of paperwork to get to but he needed to stretch his legs. Exiting the tent, he passed the sentry outside and the man stiffened and saluted. Aveion nodded and the soldier brought his hand down with a swish.
“How goes it Roddick?” he said to his long-standing.
“All is well, sir,” he replied.
“I’m going to check the lines. Make sure no one enters unless it is vital.”
“Yes, sir.” Roddick kicked his heels together and put his fist to his ear.
His company was charged with protecting the high ground of an area named, Bullon Hills. This stretch of land rolled, like waves and had become a strategic position to hold since it bordered Saltarun, a constant adversary.
This particular hill garnered the name, Grandfather’s Grave, since the blood of their grandfathers was spilled over it. It is one of the highest hills in this expanse and from its crest one could overlook miles in each direction, a vital strategic position.
Aveion patrolled the tents that formed perfect lines. Men gathered around fires and waited for their dinners to be cooked. His breath came out in puffs of smoke in the chill air.
The men quieted as he neared. However, he didn’t stop and they continued their idle banter after he passed.
The large red tents of the Brotherhood, rivaled his in size and stuck out among the small plain white ones of the soldiers. Men in varying degrees of red robes, which defined their class among the Brotherhood, busied themselves with chores. They paid him no mind.
Making a circle around the crest of the hill, he stopped periodically at the outposts, large wooden towers that held four archers and he made sure they were alert. As he finished his circle and arrived back to his tent, Roddick emerged through the flaps.
“Sir, a messenger has just arrived.”
“Thank you, Roddick.” Aveion lowered his voice. “Is it urgent?”
“I believe it is of a personal matter,” he whispered and positioned himself in his normal stance at the entrance of the tent.
Aveion entered and the messenger with sweat dripping off his face and panting, stood.
“Please sit,” Aveion said.
The young boy sat. He wore the standard messenger’s outfit, green tights with dark brown wool shorts and matching thick wool shirt. The boy fished out a letter from a black casing attached to his belt and handed it to Aveion.
The letter had seal of blue with the symbol of wheat on it, his family’s seal. He hadn’t received a letter from home for over five years.
“You’re excused,” he said. “Tell the gentleman outside to supply you with a meal.”
The boy rose and exited in silence.
Aveion sat at his desk and turned the letter over in his hand, pondering its contents . He had left home on bad terms and his father had stripped him of his last name, Plowman, the worst punishment a father could impart upon his son.
His father had intended him to go to the University and take over the family farm but halfway through schooling, he joined the military. Furious, his father had considered that Aveion had thrown away the responsibility of the eldest son to take over the family business for a career in killing.
Aveion’s grandfather had died in the war and his father had resented it. So he stripped Aveion of his last name and disowned him. Aveion Plowman became only Aveion to the rest of society. Loss of his last name brought a taint that carried over to the military; for him there were no further promotions with such a disgrace.
Aveion broke the wax seal and ripped the letter open. It was written in his brother‘s hand and said his father lay on his deathbed. If he wished to say his last words that he had better come home.
Aveion and his brother, Aleial were close even through the name removal. Aleial had tried valiantly to persuade their father to take him back but the old man’s stubbornness would not relent.
Time was running out. He had to make amends or he would regret it for the rest of his life. But it would be like fighting an opponent on higher ground. There would be plenty of work for him to take a leave. The first step was to set up an appointment with The Chamber and that would take a formal letter.
Aveion dipped his pen in the ink jar and started on the letter. Once he was finished, he asked for the messenger to take the letter to the nearest Chamber. The young boy entered with his face covered in gruel.
“Wipe your face, messenger,” said Aveion and tossed him a handkerchief. The boy placed the letter in the case on his belt and wiped his face with the cloth, extending it back to Aveion. “Keep it as incentive to get that message to the chamber as soon as you can.”
The boy bowed and exited. Aveion was sure that the leave would go through. He hadn’t taken one during his ten faithful years of service. That wasn’t the hard part; seeing his father again would be like climbing Mount Krendle.
Sitting at his desk, Aveion chiseled away at the enormous amount of tedious inventory paperwork before him. His lieutenant’s tent spanned twice the size of his soldiers but it still only fit a desk, chair and fold out bed. The desk and chair came apart to fit into a traveling chest.
The new candle he had lit was now halfway melted when he finished the first series of lists. He sealed them with his signet, a wheat and a sword that formed an X. There was still a daunting pile of paperwork to get to but he needed to stretch his legs. Exiting the tent, he passed the sentry outside and the man stiffened and saluted. Aveion nodded and the soldier brought his hand down with a swish.
“How goes it Roddick?” he said to his long-standing.
“All is well, sir,” he replied.
“I’m going to check the lines. Make sure no one enters unless it is vital.”
“Yes, sir.” Roddick kicked his heels together and put his fist to his ear.
His company was charged with protecting the high ground of an area named, Bullon Hills. This stretch of land rolled, like waves and had become a strategic position to hold since it bordered Saltarun, a constant adversary.
This particular hill garnered the name, Grandfather’s Grave, since the blood of their grandfathers was spilled over it. It is one of the highest hills in this expanse and from its crest one could overlook miles in each direction, a vital strategic position.
Aveion patrolled the tents that formed perfect lines. Men gathered around fires and waited for their dinners to be cooked. His breath came out in puffs of smoke in the chill air.
The men quieted as he neared. However, he didn’t stop and they continued their idle banter after he passed.
The large red tents of the Brotherhood, rivaled his in size and stuck out among the small plain white ones of the soldiers. Men in varying degrees of red robes, which defined their class among the Brotherhood, busied themselves with chores. They paid him no mind.
Making a circle around the crest of the hill, he stopped periodically at the outposts, large wooden towers that held four archers and he made sure they were alert. As he finished his circle and arrived back to his tent, Roddick emerged through the flaps.
“Sir, a messenger has just arrived.”
“Thank you, Roddick.” Aveion lowered his voice. “Is it urgent?”
“I believe it is of a personal matter,” he whispered and positioned himself in his normal stance at the entrance of the tent.
Aveion entered and the messenger with sweat dripping off his face and panting, stood.
“Please sit,” Aveion said.
The young boy sat. He wore the standard messenger’s outfit, green tights with dark brown wool shorts and matching thick wool shirt. The boy fished out a letter from a black casing attached to his belt and handed it to Aveion.
The letter had seal of blue with the symbol of wheat on it, his family’s seal. He hadn’t received a letter from home for over five years.
“You’re excused,” he said. “Tell the gentleman outside to supply you with a meal.”
The boy rose and exited in silence.
Aveion sat at his desk and turned the letter over in his hand, pondering its contents . He had left home on bad terms and his father had stripped him of his last name, Plowman, the worst punishment a father could impart upon his son.
His father had intended him to go to the University and take over the family farm but halfway through schooling, he joined the military. Furious, his father had considered that Aveion had thrown away the responsibility of the eldest son to take over the family business for a career in killing.
Aveion’s grandfather had died in the war and his father had resented it. So he stripped Aveion of his last name and disowned him. Aveion Plowman became only Aveion to the rest of society. Loss of his last name brought a taint that carried over to the military; for him there were no further promotions with such a disgrace.
Aveion broke the wax seal and ripped the letter open. It was written in his brother‘s hand and said his father lay on his deathbed. If he wished to say his last words that he had better come home.
Aveion and his brother, Aleial were close even through the name removal. Aleial had tried valiantly to persuade their father to take him back but the old man’s stubbornness would not relent.
Time was running out. He had to make amends or he would regret it for the rest of his life. But it would be like fighting an opponent on higher ground. There would be plenty of work for him to take a leave. The first step was to set up an appointment with The Chamber and that would take a formal letter.
Aveion dipped his pen in the ink jar and started on the letter. Once he was finished, he asked for the messenger to take the letter to the nearest Chamber. The young boy entered with his face covered in gruel.
“Wipe your face, messenger,” said Aveion and tossed him a handkerchief. The boy placed the letter in the case on his belt and wiped his face with the cloth, extending it back to Aveion. “Keep it as incentive to get that message to the chamber as soon as you can.”
The boy bowed and exited. Aveion was sure that the leave would go through. He hadn’t taken one during his ten faithful years of service. That wasn’t the hard part; seeing his father again would be like climbing Mount Krendle.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Mass Murderer's Plays
It is really interesting looking into the mind of this mass murderer. Check out two of his sadistic plays. http://newsbloggers.aol.com/2007/04/17/cho-seung-huis-plays/
Monday, April 16, 2007
To Those That We Lost
Virginia Tech.
Every culture has this fascination with death. The Muslims strap explosives to their chests and blow up innocents, the Asians strap themselves to the seat of their plane and crash into the enemy and Americans strap themselves with ammo and gun down children and then kill ourselves.
It does seem that this dark cloud has loomed over America for the past decade. Kids killing in schools, Old men shooting Mormons, and now this new incident. I don’t think this is just an American problem, every culture possesses these tendencies. We have more access to the guns and the best press coverage in the world.
Imagining stepping over that line is inconceivable. The snowballing of emotions that must be going through your mind and the total narcissism. To take life so indiscriminately is so rehensible.
America’s freedom comes with a dark side. Evil is allowed to fester and grow, then given free reign to do what it wills. But humans deep down are moralists, compassionate and nurturing. Its just that the bad seeds get the airtime.
Every culture has this fascination with death. The Muslims strap explosives to their chests and blow up innocents, the Asians strap themselves to the seat of their plane and crash into the enemy and Americans strap themselves with ammo and gun down children and then kill ourselves.
It does seem that this dark cloud has loomed over America for the past decade. Kids killing in schools, Old men shooting Mormons, and now this new incident. I don’t think this is just an American problem, every culture possesses these tendencies. We have more access to the guns and the best press coverage in the world.
Imagining stepping over that line is inconceivable. The snowballing of emotions that must be going through your mind and the total narcissism. To take life so indiscriminately is so rehensible.
America’s freedom comes with a dark side. Evil is allowed to fester and grow, then given free reign to do what it wills. But humans deep down are moralists, compassionate and nurturing. Its just that the bad seeds get the airtime.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Intelligenceless
When looking at Iraq, it seems like we have not learned anything from 9/11. The seed of the problem was a bad C.I.A. policy. In the 80’s they waged war against the Soviet Union by funding small radical groups in Afghanistan, not caring of their convictions or beliefs. In the end one of the groups we helped support slammed two planes into our sky scrapers and killed thousands.
Four years ago the C.I.A. creates one of the worst botches of all time in the Iraq war and is now using the same useless cold war tactics against Iran by funding small tribes to fight. It is hypocritical to fund radical groups like the Jundallah group. This group is kidnapping Iranian officials and executing them, attacking in an Al Qaeda mold.
To change the image of America, we first have to stop these tactics. The rest of the world is catching us, talking out of both sides of our mouths. There needs to be accountability within the C.I.A. and their dead ideology. Combating evil with evil changes nothing.
The saddest part of all this is that nothing has changed. No one is questioning, why are they mad at us? There is no discussion. The crumbs of ineptitude leads to the C.I.A.
Four years ago the C.I.A. creates one of the worst botches of all time in the Iraq war and is now using the same useless cold war tactics against Iran by funding small tribes to fight. It is hypocritical to fund radical groups like the Jundallah group. This group is kidnapping Iranian officials and executing them, attacking in an Al Qaeda mold.
To change the image of America, we first have to stop these tactics. The rest of the world is catching us, talking out of both sides of our mouths. There needs to be accountability within the C.I.A. and their dead ideology. Combating evil with evil changes nothing.
The saddest part of all this is that nothing has changed. No one is questioning, why are they mad at us? There is no discussion. The crumbs of ineptitude leads to the C.I.A.
Percival Chapter Two Part Three
The companion looked over and their eyes met. The urge to kick the six doctors working on him welled up. He wanted to yell, scream or tell them that their priorities were out of whack and they should go help that sick man. The companion’s gaze moved back to his partner and he massaged his back.
Percival hated himself for not doing anything. What had he done with his life? He was living on borrowed time, wasted time. He did nothing but sit and rot in his motel room. Sure he went to school but he knew that it was for show. He wasn’t ambitious and lingered around because he knew death loomed over him. A transcript to the State University collected dust under a stack of old book reports. His attention once again returned toward the companion, who began to look agitated. He paced back and forth behind his partner, biting on his fingernails, stopping when the doctor said something. A minute later, he leaned over and whispered something in the sick man’s ear, kissed him on his bald head, and headed out of the laboratory.
“Percival, I’m giving you a new antibotic and we’re going to trace its pathway through your body. That means you must come here sometime next week. Is that possible?” The doctor’s voice broke him from his reverie.
“Yea, sure. How about Wednesday? “ he said and broke his gaze from the sick man.
“Same time then?” said the doctor.
“Sure.” The doctor marked it down in a black book lying next to the computer monitor. Another doctor walked up with a needle. Percival lost track of how many needles he had taken today, and the doctor, with the smell of aftershave, plunged the needle into his bicep.
“You can get ready now. We’re all done here.”
Percival put his shirt back on and headed out to the receptionist. She gave him an envelope with his check in it and exited. The casual dressed gentleman was just outside the hallway as he closed the door. He looked pretty disheveled with his eyes counting the tiles in hallway and his back pressed against a bulletin board poster of a child saying no to drugs. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
Percival wanted to say something to him but he passed by and pushed the button for the elevator. He could feel the gaze of the man against his back. But he couldn’t turn around. He was about to curse the door for not opening soon enough, when it dinged and opened. He rushed inside and let the doors close.
He felt ashamed for not achieving anything with his life and when he looked into those saddened eyes of that stranger, it seemed to tug at him. He let this disease live his life and he it frustrated him. The elevator stopped at the lobby and he shuffled his feet onto the marbled floor where he his reflection of a young man looked up at him, from the floor, very different from the zombie two floors up. He wanted to spit on his reflection.
He thought to himself that he was making a difference that he’s fighting for the cause of AIDS that he might even help with a cure, but as he walked outside, he’d his only motivation was to Clarrisa.
He grew excited on getting her a dress and he conjured a picture of her dolled in an elegant red dress. He needed to buy himself something smooth as well, so he headed down the sidewalk torward a busy intersection where a branch of his bank was so that he could cash his check and call then call a cab to get to the mall.
Percival already planned on getting reservations to the La Pierre Restaurant. He had heard about it was excellent from Philip, who had taken a date out to there and that it was a very upscale. He wanted to wow Clarrisa, make her eyes bulge and her heart thump. He exited the bank with a thousand dollars. He was going to go all out.
Percival hated himself for not doing anything. What had he done with his life? He was living on borrowed time, wasted time. He did nothing but sit and rot in his motel room. Sure he went to school but he knew that it was for show. He wasn’t ambitious and lingered around because he knew death loomed over him. A transcript to the State University collected dust under a stack of old book reports. His attention once again returned toward the companion, who began to look agitated. He paced back and forth behind his partner, biting on his fingernails, stopping when the doctor said something. A minute later, he leaned over and whispered something in the sick man’s ear, kissed him on his bald head, and headed out of the laboratory.
“Percival, I’m giving you a new antibotic and we’re going to trace its pathway through your body. That means you must come here sometime next week. Is that possible?” The doctor’s voice broke him from his reverie.
“Yea, sure. How about Wednesday? “ he said and broke his gaze from the sick man.
“Same time then?” said the doctor.
“Sure.” The doctor marked it down in a black book lying next to the computer monitor. Another doctor walked up with a needle. Percival lost track of how many needles he had taken today, and the doctor, with the smell of aftershave, plunged the needle into his bicep.
“You can get ready now. We’re all done here.”
Percival put his shirt back on and headed out to the receptionist. She gave him an envelope with his check in it and exited. The casual dressed gentleman was just outside the hallway as he closed the door. He looked pretty disheveled with his eyes counting the tiles in hallway and his back pressed against a bulletin board poster of a child saying no to drugs. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
Percival wanted to say something to him but he passed by and pushed the button for the elevator. He could feel the gaze of the man against his back. But he couldn’t turn around. He was about to curse the door for not opening soon enough, when it dinged and opened. He rushed inside and let the doors close.
He felt ashamed for not achieving anything with his life and when he looked into those saddened eyes of that stranger, it seemed to tug at him. He let this disease live his life and he it frustrated him. The elevator stopped at the lobby and he shuffled his feet onto the marbled floor where he his reflection of a young man looked up at him, from the floor, very different from the zombie two floors up. He wanted to spit on his reflection.
He thought to himself that he was making a difference that he’s fighting for the cause of AIDS that he might even help with a cure, but as he walked outside, he’d his only motivation was to Clarrisa.
He grew excited on getting her a dress and he conjured a picture of her dolled in an elegant red dress. He needed to buy himself something smooth as well, so he headed down the sidewalk torward a busy intersection where a branch of his bank was so that he could cash his check and call then call a cab to get to the mall.
Percival already planned on getting reservations to the La Pierre Restaurant. He had heard about it was excellent from Philip, who had taken a date out to there and that it was a very upscale. He wanted to wow Clarrisa, make her eyes bulge and her heart thump. He exited the bank with a thousand dollars. He was going to go all out.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Percival Chapter Two Part Two
“You’re not going there, man? They give out free pot. The real good shit. You know, government shit.”
“Why are they giving you pot?”
“They only let you smoke it there. You can’t take it with you. Then they give you a bunch of weird stuff to do, like throw a ball into a basket or read something out loud. Like I said though, their full today, so you’ll have to come again next week. Shit, they got enough stuff for twenty more people.” The kid turned and swaggered down the hall.
The Disease Lab Three that he entered was on the other end of the building. He entered a spacious lab room and was greeted by Dr. Marcowitz.
“Mr. Watkins, so glad to see you,” he said. He put down his clipboard on the table and reached out to grab his hand, shaking it violently.
“Same here. So what do you have planned today?”
“Just some routine tests and needle work. We’ve got to see how that new drug is holding out .” Percival assumed that he was going to go through the usual needle probes but he went through the formality of asking. He wouldn’t be surprised if they wheeled out a large mouse wheel for him to run on.
The first few tests used a variety of needles. Each time the needle pierced his skin, he would think about how Clarrisa voluntarily shot herself up. When he was a child he couldn’t look at the needle, but after the first hundred shots he grew fascinated with the process, how it first indented his skin, then slip inside like a parasite and slide out with only a slight sting. It really didn’t hurt until it left your skin.
Then the scavengers began to circle. Six doctors hovered over him, working on six different projects, while he rested on the cushioned examination table and watched the chaos around him. The doctors, all wearing protective suits and gloves, performed a choreographed dance, where one doctor would take a vile of plasma, and another would inject a drug into his shoulder.
They all talked to him as if they were close friends. “How are you feeling lately?” , “Have you been excersing because you look in tip top shape?” , “How’s school going?” Percival kept his responses to a few sentences each. These men weren’t his friends.
The only good thing that coming here did for him was to stop him from using illicit drugs because they would catch it in one of their tests. Anything that they found would go directly back to Philip and he didn’t want to disappoint him. A year ago he had arrived at the laboratory a little tipsy from a rare night with Franco and the doctors were pissed because they couldn’t get their tests done. The alcohol would mask some of the results, they said.
The tests switched over to the physical section. They attached wires to his bare chest and he jogged on a treadmill. They gathered around the computer monitors to watch lines bob and weave, giving them some type of information. Percival held his breath and watched the lines rise drastically and when the doctors looked at him, he would wave.
Halfway through the jog, two men entered the lab holding hands. A tall gentleman wearing a buttoned up dress shirt tucked neatly in a pair of browm' slacks and his friend, a bald pale-faced individual, that looked like the walking dead. They both took a seat in two chairs near the section of the lab were the paperwork was filled out and put away. They talked to Dr. Marcowitz. He gave the sick man a folder and a pen and the two men bent over and flipped through it, writing inside periodically.
The zombie coughed into a dark blue hankerchief and his companion kept patting him the back. During a loud cough, a glob of phlegm leaped from his mouth and splattered on a page they were working on. He smeared the stain with the hankerchief, while the well dressed man apologized to the doctor.
Percival felt the treadmill speed up and his legs strained to keep up. One of the doctors asked if it was up to high and he nodded no. I’ll show you, he thought and ran until his legs burned. This must have amazed them because he could hear murmuring from behind the monitors. Then the machine slowed to a stop and he hopped off. They removed the wires and gave him a bottle of water, probably putting a new prototype drug into it.
His eyes kept wandering to the sick man across the room. The man peeled off his shirt. His pasty skin was pulled so tight that his ribcage showed. His companion looked into his eyes and by the way he held him steady made it obvious that they shared a stronger bond then that of a family or friend.
Only a solitary doctor overlooked the dieing man, while seven worked on Percival. Percival was fine now but at any moment that could be him, fatigued and just hanging to a sliver of life. If it wasn’t for some miraculous barrier that prevented the disease from destroying his immune system, he would be dead.
“Why are they giving you pot?”
“They only let you smoke it there. You can’t take it with you. Then they give you a bunch of weird stuff to do, like throw a ball into a basket or read something out loud. Like I said though, their full today, so you’ll have to come again next week. Shit, they got enough stuff for twenty more people.” The kid turned and swaggered down the hall.
The Disease Lab Three that he entered was on the other end of the building. He entered a spacious lab room and was greeted by Dr. Marcowitz.
“Mr. Watkins, so glad to see you,” he said. He put down his clipboard on the table and reached out to grab his hand, shaking it violently.
“Same here. So what do you have planned today?”
“Just some routine tests and needle work. We’ve got to see how that new drug is holding out .” Percival assumed that he was going to go through the usual needle probes but he went through the formality of asking. He wouldn’t be surprised if they wheeled out a large mouse wheel for him to run on.
The first few tests used a variety of needles. Each time the needle pierced his skin, he would think about how Clarrisa voluntarily shot herself up. When he was a child he couldn’t look at the needle, but after the first hundred shots he grew fascinated with the process, how it first indented his skin, then slip inside like a parasite and slide out with only a slight sting. It really didn’t hurt until it left your skin.
Then the scavengers began to circle. Six doctors hovered over him, working on six different projects, while he rested on the cushioned examination table and watched the chaos around him. The doctors, all wearing protective suits and gloves, performed a choreographed dance, where one doctor would take a vile of plasma, and another would inject a drug into his shoulder.
They all talked to him as if they were close friends. “How are you feeling lately?” , “Have you been excersing because you look in tip top shape?” , “How’s school going?” Percival kept his responses to a few sentences each. These men weren’t his friends.
The only good thing that coming here did for him was to stop him from using illicit drugs because they would catch it in one of their tests. Anything that they found would go directly back to Philip and he didn’t want to disappoint him. A year ago he had arrived at the laboratory a little tipsy from a rare night with Franco and the doctors were pissed because they couldn’t get their tests done. The alcohol would mask some of the results, they said.
The tests switched over to the physical section. They attached wires to his bare chest and he jogged on a treadmill. They gathered around the computer monitors to watch lines bob and weave, giving them some type of information. Percival held his breath and watched the lines rise drastically and when the doctors looked at him, he would wave.
Halfway through the jog, two men entered the lab holding hands. A tall gentleman wearing a buttoned up dress shirt tucked neatly in a pair of browm' slacks and his friend, a bald pale-faced individual, that looked like the walking dead. They both took a seat in two chairs near the section of the lab were the paperwork was filled out and put away. They talked to Dr. Marcowitz. He gave the sick man a folder and a pen and the two men bent over and flipped through it, writing inside periodically.
The zombie coughed into a dark blue hankerchief and his companion kept patting him the back. During a loud cough, a glob of phlegm leaped from his mouth and splattered on a page they were working on. He smeared the stain with the hankerchief, while the well dressed man apologized to the doctor.
Percival felt the treadmill speed up and his legs strained to keep up. One of the doctors asked if it was up to high and he nodded no. I’ll show you, he thought and ran until his legs burned. This must have amazed them because he could hear murmuring from behind the monitors. Then the machine slowed to a stop and he hopped off. They removed the wires and gave him a bottle of water, probably putting a new prototype drug into it.
His eyes kept wandering to the sick man across the room. The man peeled off his shirt. His pasty skin was pulled so tight that his ribcage showed. His companion looked into his eyes and by the way he held him steady made it obvious that they shared a stronger bond then that of a family or friend.
Only a solitary doctor overlooked the dieing man, while seven worked on Percival. Percival was fine now but at any moment that could be him, fatigued and just hanging to a sliver of life. If it wasn’t for some miraculous barrier that prevented the disease from destroying his immune system, he would be dead.
Friday, April 6, 2007
Percival Chapter Two Part One
The alarm clock buzzed and Percival opened his eyes, dangling his arm off the mattress, searching through dirty socks and work shirts to shut it off before it woke Clarrisa. Slidding out from under the covers he went to the sink and poured himself a glass of water and threw down his daily pills. He only had an hour to get to Kermises.
Ever since leaving the orphanage, he was paid for his weekly visits to the doctors there. They took vials of his blood, ran bizarre tests and hooked him up to gadgets. At first they sent over one doctor to see to his tests, but soon after the discovery of his immune system the attention grew weekly. Now the team measured in the thirties.
The doctor's names flowed in and out of his head. The only one he retained was Dr. Marcowitz. There was something in the lead doctor's old eyes. He looked at Percival like a lock that he needed to break. They beemed a look of sympathy with consternation.
At the age of seventeen, the last at the orphanage, he waited for the ten doctors to finish their tests on him. Every other day they came and applied tubes, wires and needles to his body, circling around like vultures. He grew tiresome of the ordeal and with one frustrated swipe, he tore the wires out and turned to face the nearest doctor.
“I’m done with this. I’m not one of your mice. Am I sick? Or am I healthy?,” he asked, getting his shirt.
“Calm down Percival! What’s the problem?” asked Dr. Marcowitz, the scrawny head doctor who looked scared that his prized possession would scamper away.
“Listen, it’s been seventeen years. If you haven’t figured it out yet than thats your fault. What am I getting out of this? If you’re not helping me stay alive then you can all go Fuck Yourself!” He walked out.
The next week he got a phone call from Philip.
“I’m fed up with all their antics,” said Percival.
“I know it must be hard on you but you’re doing a very heroic thing.”
“I don’t want to be a hero. I just want to be left alone. They have been at this for seventeen years and what have they found out? Nothing. Absolutely nothing and what do I get from it all? Diarrhea from their stupid pills.”
“Would it make a difference if they paid you? It could help you get on your feet while you leave the orphanage.”
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.” The money tempted him. All he had to do was to go over once a week for a few hours and they would run several tests on him.
The cab picked him up and traveled just outside of town to an industrial park. The Kermises building was impressive, two huge glass spires thrusted out from a domed building. Paying the taxi, he walked up the staircase and entered. The lobby was pristine, with shiny marble floors, matching pillars and several potted plants that lined near the windows. Three large security gaurds lounged at the security desk. One grabbed the radio attached to his belt and spoke. As he walked past them, one of the monstrous officer’s tipped down his silver tinted sunglasses. Percival paid them no mind as he pushed the up arrow button on the elevator. The door dinged and opened. He waited for the business men to funnel out, briefcases in hand. Once inside he hit the third floor button. The door opened into a hallway. Posters plastered the walls, calling for roomates, used cars and volunteer work. He an arrow on a sign that read: Disease Three Laboratory.
Kermises Enterprises’ best known for its’ male enhancement and cancer drugs. Waiting for his lab work one day, he took a walk around. Most of the place was under very strict security. As he headed down the endless hallways, a long haired man walked towards him. The young man wore a pair of jeans with a large holes showing his knees, and a Widespread Panic shirt. Before he walked by, he stopped and faced him.
“You going to the lab?” he said. “Because if you are, they’re full today. They turned me away. Next week I’m getting here two hours early.”
“What are they doing in the lab?”
Ever since leaving the orphanage, he was paid for his weekly visits to the doctors there. They took vials of his blood, ran bizarre tests and hooked him up to gadgets. At first they sent over one doctor to see to his tests, but soon after the discovery of his immune system the attention grew weekly. Now the team measured in the thirties.
The doctor's names flowed in and out of his head. The only one he retained was Dr. Marcowitz. There was something in the lead doctor's old eyes. He looked at Percival like a lock that he needed to break. They beemed a look of sympathy with consternation.
At the age of seventeen, the last at the orphanage, he waited for the ten doctors to finish their tests on him. Every other day they came and applied tubes, wires and needles to his body, circling around like vultures. He grew tiresome of the ordeal and with one frustrated swipe, he tore the wires out and turned to face the nearest doctor.
“I’m done with this. I’m not one of your mice. Am I sick? Or am I healthy?,” he asked, getting his shirt.
“Calm down Percival! What’s the problem?” asked Dr. Marcowitz, the scrawny head doctor who looked scared that his prized possession would scamper away.
“Listen, it’s been seventeen years. If you haven’t figured it out yet than thats your fault. What am I getting out of this? If you’re not helping me stay alive then you can all go Fuck Yourself!” He walked out.
The next week he got a phone call from Philip.
“I’m fed up with all their antics,” said Percival.
“I know it must be hard on you but you’re doing a very heroic thing.”
“I don’t want to be a hero. I just want to be left alone. They have been at this for seventeen years and what have they found out? Nothing. Absolutely nothing and what do I get from it all? Diarrhea from their stupid pills.”
“Would it make a difference if they paid you? It could help you get on your feet while you leave the orphanage.”
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.” The money tempted him. All he had to do was to go over once a week for a few hours and they would run several tests on him.
The cab picked him up and traveled just outside of town to an industrial park. The Kermises building was impressive, two huge glass spires thrusted out from a domed building. Paying the taxi, he walked up the staircase and entered. The lobby was pristine, with shiny marble floors, matching pillars and several potted plants that lined near the windows. Three large security gaurds lounged at the security desk. One grabbed the radio attached to his belt and spoke. As he walked past them, one of the monstrous officer’s tipped down his silver tinted sunglasses. Percival paid them no mind as he pushed the up arrow button on the elevator. The door dinged and opened. He waited for the business men to funnel out, briefcases in hand. Once inside he hit the third floor button. The door opened into a hallway. Posters plastered the walls, calling for roomates, used cars and volunteer work. He an arrow on a sign that read: Disease Three Laboratory.
Kermises Enterprises’ best known for its’ male enhancement and cancer drugs. Waiting for his lab work one day, he took a walk around. Most of the place was under very strict security. As he headed down the endless hallways, a long haired man walked towards him. The young man wore a pair of jeans with a large holes showing his knees, and a Widespread Panic shirt. Before he walked by, he stopped and faced him.
“You going to the lab?” he said. “Because if you are, they’re full today. They turned me away. Next week I’m getting here two hours early.”
“What are they doing in the lab?”
Sunday, April 1, 2007
The Truth About Dishwashers
1. They do not wash pants. It is true that it would be easier to do the pots and pans and still do the laundry but this should not be attempted.
2. Do not use conditioner. Even though it makes sense that using conditioner should make those glasses have a glossy and shimmering exterior, it would be best to avoid this combination.
3. It does not eat food. Salad, sandwiches, steak and corn can not be digested by this machine.
4. Ten times around will not clean that crusty dried oatmeal stuck to the bowl. If it goes through twice, it is a good time to resort to the old fashioned way and find a sponge.
5. The bin on the door is for soap only and not for dirty change from the car cup-holder.
2. Do not use conditioner. Even though it makes sense that using conditioner should make those glasses have a glossy and shimmering exterior, it would be best to avoid this combination.
3. It does not eat food. Salad, sandwiches, steak and corn can not be digested by this machine.
4. Ten times around will not clean that crusty dried oatmeal stuck to the bowl. If it goes through twice, it is a good time to resort to the old fashioned way and find a sponge.
5. The bin on the door is for soap only and not for dirty change from the car cup-holder.
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