song of the stars

Immortality

is a dinosaur

(or maybe a dragon)

a beautiful nightmare; a terrifying daydream

unending possibilities

unending heartache.

But you still don't know--would it be worth it?

You feel it stirring in your soul long before you give it a name. The eerie feeling you've been here and done this before, that you've known a thousand names and held a hundred hearts between your soft, living hands

but not here.

When you were twelve, you would lay under the stars and piece together constellations

tracing the stars on your arm

(Orion's belt--was it a sign? or just

a trick of fate)

They seemed to you kindred, singing

in voices as high and white as silver, of eternity

of oblivion

and you sang too

(but not aloud).

Now you sit in crowded coffee shops and stare across the table at

mortals. Caught up in their troubles, worrying

about jobs or romance or ethics.

You like being among them because

it grounds you and

keeps

     you

           from

               floating

away.

But when you feel 

the autumn wind in your hair

fresh from turning dying leaves into a dancing whirlwind

when you hear songs of kings and queens

or gods

or poets

when you stare up into the blackness of the night

and feel your heart whisper, "friends, I have missed you"

it is then that you recognize the dragon 

(or maybe the dinosaur)

for what it is.

Immortality.

The feeling that you alone know what it is

to live eternity over and over again

to catch a glimpse of the beyond

but never touch it

to always hear the song ringing in your ears

but never sing it.

Know this, mortals.

There may be only one of us

But we dwell among you

forever.

the first spring rain

A storm is rolling in.

I'm sitting outside the library when the temperature drops about five degrees and the sky starts turning dark. The clouds are like an ocean of gray and white, with purple undertones, but they are blotchy overhead, shifting, like shapes in a vision or dream. Twisting, untangling, rushing past.

It begins with the clouds. But then comes the wind.

It breaks upon me like a wave of furious seawater; I can hear the rumbling of its approach before it beaches itself, blowing dust into my ears and catching at my hair with trembling fingers. Lady Spring smiles seductively and blows and all the leaves of autumn flee (where do the autumn leaves go before the summer has come?), twisting in wild dervishes, scuttling about like bewildered sparrows and finches on the ground. A frenzy of frantic butterflies they fly, soaring in a twister in the air, then dashing themselves up against the walls of brick and stone.

But still, no rain.

I can hardly see (the wind tears at my eyes), I am beginning to shiver (who knew it was 80 degrees only a few minutes ago?), and I am starting to wonder if I should make a run for my car now, or simply wait out the storm and hope I can get back without dooming my laptop to a waterlogged demise.

There is electricity in the air. My teeth are beginning to chatter (but perhaps from excitement). The sound in my ears is only the wind, but I am waiting for the thunder.

I notice a rather large insect on the wall (not quite a beetle, but some kind of leafbug?). He stands unhampered by the wind, little caring as to the weather. He has weathered many storms in his time, and fears not wind nor rain nor lightening (I wonder, does lightening ever strike the unwary bug and burn him in his tracks?).

A few minutes pass. The wind dies down. The sky becomes a solid sheet of gray.

And then comes the rain.

It starts as a few large dragon-tears, dripping from the sky like a leaky faucet. Then more, and they're falling on the trees making a satisfying dripdripdrip sound that thrills me to the marrow. Birds sing to their young. A morning dove coos.

Something that maybe is thunder whispers soothing poetry overhead. I take a deep breath of the moist air and--yes, there it is. The smell of rain.

What does rain smell like? Well scientifically, it's ozone rising from the warm ground, but I'll tell you what it smells like:

East Texas mornings
and roadtrips
mist rising from South Dakota lakes
coffee shops in Colorado
poetry
scones
the feathers of finches
a little like chlorine and hotel rooms
hot showers
and a kiss from Mother on my cheek.

The thunder is artillery and the rain taps a tattoo on the pavement. The sky is a graphite drawing of the sea.

And at last I give in. I can't stand it a moment longer.

It is time to join the finches and autumn leaves and gently tapping raindrops
it is time to dance in the rain.

day after dreary day

It's been a week since the break, and I still find my mind wandering in abstract ideas and prosaic musings that don't add up to two. It's like having the attention span of a five-year-old because the world is so great and strange and new that you can't focus on the present activity of walking to class or even the future fear of finding a job because look there are fuschia flowers popping out of green buds and the grass is the color of unripened bell-peppers.

This morning I awoke inside a cloud. The branches on the ghostly trees hung silently until the spring breeze began stirring in the deep, sending the flowers trembling with a yawn, cartwheeling across the surface of the silent lake. And then the mist blew away like wreathes of smoke (where does fog go when the wind takes it by the hand and whispers "Run"?) and all that remained was a slight dampness and the smell of fresh grass.

Walking to class, I saw a child with skin as soft as silk and slight, slanting eyes. My mind memorized the way his arms swung out, the way his steps faltered and jerked along in the sporadic movements of a child, still learning to be human. Spontaneous, free, joyful. The world is new to him, and everyone's head brushes the sky.

Jets roared overhead. I stopped to stare, the roar resounding in my ears and for a moment everything was just blue--the blue of the sky stretching over me, flying, soaring over the surface of this spinning ball of mud. And when I turned to walk on, I was flying still.

The world is new and strange, because I am growing. My head is inches away from brushing the sky. I am learning to look at a couple holding hands and smile because He holds my hand and my heart, and a mere fifty years is nothing compared to eternity. They are an echo of the real, a shadow of love, but I have the thing itself, the unknowable, the vast, the magnificent, the glorious. I am learning that suffering is not meaningless, that waiting and waiting and feeling as though I am always sliding backward as day by day my sin becomes more evident in the light of His love and grace is only the fire burning those very sins away, the wine press that is making this bruised and broken skin less and less a part of me.

I am learning to pray for brokenness.

I am learning that only one thing matters in life, and all else is vanity. And the one thing--not only is it the pearl of great price, worth dedicating my whole life, day after dreary day, to serving, seeking, finding, preaching. Not only is greater than any loss I could suffer, greater than any sacrifice I could give, greater than any pit or darkness or despair or depression. Not only is it All, but it is already mine. All the answers to the questions I ask lie in the leather book I carry with me every day, sitting there in the worn backpack beside me.

O, that my heart would be able to say, in complete truth, "You are enough for me!" If only I believed His promises, trusted in His faithfulness, leaned upon His strength instead of blistering my hands digging into this hard clay.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.

Though you slay me, yet I will praise you
Though you take from me, I will bless your name
Though you ruin me
Still I will worship
Sing a song to the one who's all I need.

-Shane and Shane, "Though You Slay Me"

Screwtape Letters Revisited

My dear Gristletoe,

You were wise to write to me for advice concerning your patient. Although you admittedly have the most experience tempting her, having been watching her since her early defection to the Enemy, I have the benefit of thousands of years of knowledge in corrupting the most pious of the vile monkeys who crawl about the earth. You may remember that I earned my spurs in the Greatest Century of Victory--the age when all we had to do to convince men to stop believing in the Enemy was to make them believe they were being taken in by all this religious fiddlefaddle. Thus, I have great insight into human character, and especially in your human, I see some signs of hope for us--but only if we tread very carefully.

From your letter, it seems your patient has the benefit (from our perspective and hers) of being a follower of the Enemy for a long, long time. Naturally, this is not the optimum (she is, unfortunately, well guarded from the fires of Hell), but a well-timed lapse into complacency and a lukewarm spirit are quite satisfactory when trying to hinder the Enemy's efforts in many of his longtime followers.

Thus, encourage your patient to believe that she is doing just fine--just fine being the key term--just as she is. Certainly she may sin in a way she considers "badly" every now and again, but blind her to things less obvious than murder and lust. Let her gloss over her pride when she begs forgiveness for her sins, her false humility, her lack of compassion, her selfishness. After all, you must remark to her, these things are natural and human and they take so much time to conquer that she will probably never conquer them all.

If she must notice these things, then convince her, once she has prayed about them, that the problem is taken care of. Press the all-too-popular "easy-weight-loss" solution--let her believe that it is possible to overcome such things without the discipline of hard work and continual awareness. If you succeed in this, the selfishness and pride will only be briefly subdued by the Enemy's grace, and when it returns, she will be more apt to ignore it than before.

By far, however, our most effective tool in the case of little poppets like these is to whisper doubts in their ear. They have so many within them already that only a hint, a little nudge, is enough to send her spiraling into anxiety and hopelessness. Make her worry--not about her sin or about whether she's obeying her precious Bible in this moment--but about what happens after graduation, about the grim outlook for her romantic life. Let her worry about her eyebrows and hair and if That Boy has noticed her yet (I must say well done, inciting her to daydream about him and give herself a martyr complex and a crisis of faith all revolving around such a shallow friendship that might-have-been something more).

The main thing you need to be concerned about it that she will begin to counter your anxiety attacks by turning to her precious bible. Taking it to an extreme and reducing her to a tear-wracked mess has only resulted in her pleading for forgiveness and mercy and faith from the Enemy--I would not try that method again, if I were you. And I hear she has begun memorizing scripture--and worse, thinking about it. You can prevent meditation on the Enemy's words by bringing lots of distractions--the radio, television, other people, and best, more anxieties about the future! But I would try to wean her off the scripture memory. Perhaps once the storm wanes, and she is able to get sleep and read her blessed fiction (do encourage her to read fiction, but only the bad kinds) she will forget to memorize and forget to practice and forget what she has been learning in that Awful Group.

About the group: you would do best to discourage her from going at all. Your anxiety attacks were better at the beginning of the year, when she was still unbalanced from her self-imposed isolation (that was a good play, for instead of letting her soak in the bible, you kept her distracted with wonderful shows and social media). But now she has made friends and--even worse--begun overcoming her fears. She has been praying to the Enemy more regularly about those fears. Make it your business to keep her from evangelizing any more. Prevent her following up with that girl she met this week. Isolate her. Make her "tired" and make sure she believes she "better just go home and rest tonight." This is your surest way to derailing her and growing the fears once more.

When she must go to her Awful Group or associate with her friends, keep the conversation away from topics of the Enemy. Encourage them to talk about this latest episode or that latest exam or annoying teacher they had to endure. Let them complain and whine and talk about boys--whatever silly things girls will say. But strongly discourage all thoughts of spiritual encouragement.

This Spring Break will be a good time to further distract her from what is important, to lead her off the path little by little. You might even have a few choice victories and get to taste her sweet despair. Make sure she forgets her quiet times. Make sure she forgets to pray. Make sure she memorizes no more scripture. And above all, encourage anxiety. Lead her to despair--especially with this interview she has approaching for a job. Remind her that she hates sitting in an office all day and even if she is victorious in this, even if she gets the job she's been hoping for, it is the wrong choice; that no choice she can make is optimum or best, because there are so many 'what-if-I'd-done-it-differently's.

You are doing well, Gristletoe. But you could yet do better. If she at once guesses your meaning or has a moment of enlightenment, you are sunk. It seems that she likes to keep herself on the brink of discovery without often actually learning what she seeks, which can be dangerous but can also be to our benefit. Thus you must be extra vigilant in tempting her to mindless entertainment and self satisfaction.

I will write to you again to advise you further.

Your affectionate instructor,

Screwtape

wallflower in the ballroom of life

You move through the days like a machine--wake up, read your Bible, have a cup of coffee, classes, work, interact with people--but somewhere deep inside you is something troubling: a thought, a ponder, that maybe you don't fit in because you're not as real as everyone else (or maybe you're realer, and that might be worse).

You've stood at the edges of rooms and watched the grand dance take place around you. People talking. Laughing. Flirting. But wallflowers and shadows cling to the edges, like ghosts at the fringe of a living, breathing world, uncertain of how and where and when to join the dance. And once you finally step in and bat words back and forth with another human being, your smile feels stiff and false and your laugh a little forced and your eyes as hard and cold as diamonds (but maybe they're just cut glass). You wonder why the 'you' in a room full of people is a thousand miles away from the one who stands shimmering under starlight, like a tragic fairy tale or myth (your true form is only clear under the moonlight or in the dusk of evening, or when you're caught up in the mystery and beauty of a well written line of poetry) and you wonder if that's normal and everyone feels it or if you're just different that way.

You're pretty insecure about this life thing. Especially friends and goodness-let's-not-even-talk-about-boys because somehow, deep down, you feel like an observer on the sidelines, a reader of some epic tale in which you've accepted the role of a minor character. You don't deserve someone to love you, someone to sit with you in the dusk and listen to you spin your tapestries of fancy or woe. You're okay with being the sidekick--nodding and listening and "Oh, that's lovely!" or "I'm so sorry. I wish I could help," but some days you want to roar and don a crown and blast the hero to shreds with your diamond eyes (sharper than cut glass) because you are a person (and you matter too).

But mostly you just spend a lot of time listening and helping and hoping and loving and trying to believe that they actually like you because they like you and not just because they're being nice. Sometimes you catch yourself trying to earn their love and it makes you angry because that's not how it's supposed to work.

And then there's the future. A current tugs you along, persistent and patient as you struggle through the dregs of the river of indecision, but sometimes you just want to scream and smash something because you don't believe in destiny and why is it your fate to be human and limited to one lifetime, one century (or less--cut glass must shatter someday) on this spinning ball of mud and blood and angst and tears. You have had visions of yourself at fifty, at seventy, and you know that you cannot be contained by four walls and society's expectations

because

you are like ice and an autumn breeze, like
raindrops making ripples on the glassy surface of the lake
trembling with aliveness; quiet; and then still.

You can be anything. You can move mountains and write novels or be a pirate in the south pacific. You can open the best bookstore-library this side of Alexandria or lead little children on adventures that will shake their worlds to the core.

But some days you forget about the mountains (and the diamonds in your eyes) and it isn't until the moment when you realize that you are you that the sky opens up and you realize that you've been a character in this story all along.

(and no one, not even side characters, deserve less than a worthy ending)

Why I Don't Blog

Welp, it looks as though I've only posted twice since 2011 (not that anyone's counting) but lately I've had a lot of thoughts and a little time and felt the need to give this blogging thing another try.

So. New name. "Laughter like a lion" is a line from G.K. Chesterton's poem "The Wise Men." Read the full last stanza for some context:

"Hark! Laughter like a lion wakes
     To roar to the resounding plan.
And the whole heaven shouts and shakes
     For God Himself is born again,
And we are little children walking
     Through the snow and rain."

I really like this poem. I don't understand it by a long shot, but there's something about the lines (and that one line in particular) that stirs something inside me. Call it joy, the Flash, inspiration--it's pretty amazing, whatever it is.

So, me not blogging. The first blog I was ever exposed to was "Insanity Comes Naturally" by Anna, a person whose writing I very much admired. Really. Her writing is stunning. I still get swept away when I go through her archives and look at her poetry or musings on life and God. I wanted more than anything to write like that--to be able to express my thoughts in a coherent way, and online is awesome because it won't burn or accidentally get deleted.

Great, so I'd decided I was going to start a blog. But what kind of blog? Awesomely deep and writerly, like Anna's, with prose and poetry and musings? A place to spew all the crazy, funny stories of farm life/college life/life life? An actual, serious blog about writing or Christianity or something non-fictiony? Therein lay my problem--I WANTED TO DO ALL THE THINGS.

Actually, that's still my problem. I don't want to be just deep or just funny or just intellectual...I want to be ALL of them. So I deeply apologize if this blog ends up being a weird conglomeration of random things. Including stories about scorpions in the shower and how my characters talk to me sometimes. But I've been looking for a creative vent for months and I've finally given in and decided to give this one more try.

So, I decided I could blog about all the things. But then there was the trouble of the TITLE (Odyssean Journeyish Quest Thing just wasn't cutting it) and that's where Chesterton saved the day because "Laughter like a Lion" sounds both funny (laughter) and serious (lions are serious) and deep (why is the lion laughing?).

I don't anticipate readers. I really don't, because I've written papers about how the "Blogosphere" (y'all, that's the technical term for this imaginary internet world) is just too many people with too much to say to too few readers. But I do anticipate growth, and writing practice, and hopefully an artifact for me to find someday, carefully preserved in the dusty virtual archives of the internet.

(yes I know the internet isn't dusty, stop looking at me like that)

The Author and Perfecter

As a writer, sometimes I think it might be fun to meet my characters one day.

But most the time I have my senses about me and realize that they would probably kill me as soon as they figured out who I was rather than having any sort of gratitude toward me in the least.

Which absolutely makes sense. Allow me to explain.

One of my favorite quotes on writing sounds something like, "Figure out the worst possible thing that could happen to your main character--and then make it happen to them." Which for some authors has to do with physical torment, but for me means emotional torture that seems as though it is beyond all enduring--and indeed, it may be. I make young Prince Leo have to choose which of his brothers will be killed first. I force Theo into marrying (SPOILER ALERT) the bloodthirsty princess who merely wants the throne. I take two lovebirds like Livi and Agravaine and set them at odds so that they spend more time than not in anguish over the fact that they are always fighting.

But why? Is it merely because I am a masochistic mastermind who is taking out my frustration with the world and my life on these characters? Because I like seeing people suffer, even if they're only imaginary?

No. (Well, for some writers, perhaps, but not for me.) I make these things happen because in the beginning, the characters are not complete. Leo is spoiled and haughty. Theo is corrupt and sneaky. Livi is prim and quick to anger. But through their traumatic and sometimes horrible experiences, a change comes over them. None of them, coming out on the other side, would look back and say, "I'd rather none of that had happened."

(Except for maybe Theo, but he's an exceptional case.)

Still, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to meet one of them. To stand face to face with Leo and have him look me in the eye and ask, through gritted teeth, "Why? Why would you do that to me? Make me choose? Send me nightmares? Put me in the hands of evil men?"

He would ask it, of course, at the moment when things looked their darkest. Because he cannot see the future. He does not know how the story will end.

But I do. I have planned everything out from the beginning--knew the end before he was even taking baby steps, so to speak. And my time-frame is different than his. I can jump about, from the beginning to the end to the middle and back to each again, in ways that he never could. And because I know the end, I would be able to put my hand on his shoulder and look back into those tortured blue eyes and say, "It's okay. It's okay. They aren't going to die. You'll be alright. You even get a girlfriend out of it. Just be patient and trust me. I know what I'm doing."

--

How much more so is God the author of our lives? When things are the most turbulent and I can't possibly understand what's going on, sometimes I cry, "Lord, WHY?"

I can only imagine him shaking his head and smiling sadly and saying, "I'm so sorry, Dearheart, but you must persevere. And don't worry, my love--the ending is beyond your wildest dreams."

Even though I don't know what he's doing right now, I must simply choose to trust that his plan is best, that he has trials ahead for the purpose of developing my character (and the character of others), that he loves me more than I even love Theo, and that he knows the end and it is good.

Because God, unlike certain literary authors I could mention, has already decided on a happy ending.

The Arena: A Sutcliffian Short Story

 This is a short story I wrote about a gladiator. I was currently obsessed with Rosemary Sutcliff at the time, especially her book "Mark of the Horse Lord" (go read it. Or anything by her. Her stories are LEGENDARY!), which explains the stolen name "Phaedrus" (which just feels like it rolls off the tongue). The story is called "The Arena".

----

The sand of the arena was soaked with sweat and blood and riddled with wounds made from the sharp hooves of horses and the scars left by previous battles. Phaedrus stopped to stare at the desert of death for only a second, then letting himself be shoved forward until he and the others stood together in a tight band before the Emperor’s seat. His hands were shaking harder than they’d ever shook before—harder than when he’d faced the band of invading brigands who had plundered his family and stolen him from his homeland—harder than when the slavers had knifed his brother for trying to escape. Ander was next to him, fair hair rumpled and that familiar, eager grin twisting his face into an almost-grimace. Ander was excited about today—their first fight in the Ring. Phaedrus just felt sick.

“Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant.” It was a roar, rising up from around him. Hail Emperor, we who are about to die salute you. Phaedrus only barely remembered to lift his spear in salute to the man who sat in the Emperor’s seat. It was the custom, Ander had told him before, eyes shining but face stern in an attempt to look seasoned and at ease. The custom. The games were a custom too, which was part of the reason Phaedrus felt as if his insides had turned to snakes.

The audience roared back in response to the gladiators’ salute. A flower floated down into the arena and landed on the sand at Phaedrus feet. When he looked up, his eyes found another pair: dark, cool, thoughtful; he could see them clearly despite the distance between them. The girl watched him calmly, and then smiled as he inclined his head slightly toward her.

“So, sa,” shouted Ander at his side (one had to shout to be heard in the arena). “You have an admirer!”

His friend swept the flower from the ground and shoved it into Phaedrus’ hand—his sweaty, shaking hand that also held a round buckler.

“Keep it close to your heart. She may look for you after the games.”

After the games. If he survived. Phaedrus glanced up at the girl again and saw that she was still watching him. After the games, he thought, and decided that if he could remember her eyes and hold onto her flower, he might just make it to the end of this day.

The doors opened at the end of the arena, and a mass of brightly colored Somethings leapt through. Phaedrus recognized Demos, the new magnificent horned bull that Ander swore he could best. And there was Serpas, the beardless lion, striding forward with the grace of an enslaved monarch. Of the rest he could name only Junas and Tamar, the two leopards from the wilds to the south, but the others that followed were just as deadly as the creatures that had names. There was an elephant—not full grown, although his tusks were still sharp and deadly; two more bulls were released, and also some wild dogs that might have once been called wolves. The animals entered the ring lazily, as if they did not want to fight today. Someone jabbed Phaedrus in the side with a pole and shouted, “Stir ‘em up, boy! The Emperor’s in a foul temper today.”          

Ander was already halfway across the ring, running (of course) toward Demos. The striped bull held his head as if the long horns that hung from it were heavy, but he was already beginning to pound the earth with his bone-crushing hooves.

Phaedrus jogged toward the creatures as quickly as he could while holding a buckler and spear. He’d entertained hopes of being given a sword, but knew the idea was outlandish and silly. The trainer had given him a try with one the day before yesterday, and then decided that javelin and spear were better for a former hunter who’d never touched a sword—much less fought with one—in his life.

One of the three tigers turned its head to look at him as he ran towards it, and his stomach churned in anticipation. His feet kicked up claret sand as he stumbled; his buckler flew from his grasp, though he did not let the flower fall. Cursing, Phaedrus dove for the shield. It would not do to be caught without it—he’d seen the mangled bodies of strong warriors being dragged inside the gates after an animal fight. The tiger had veered away from the others and was moving toward him now. With a shudder, Phaedrus grabbed the buckler and hoisted it back onto his arm. He could feel the flower wilting in his sweaty clasp, its white petals no whiter than his bloodless face. He turned to face the tiger just as it sprang forward.

Time slowed. Phaedrus lifted his buckler and shoved his spear forward with a bellow of fear and bloodlust—a war cry. The spearhead sliced a ragged gash in the tiger’s leg and shoulder, and it screamed with pain and rolled away—but not before two searing claws raked across its opponent’s scalp. Phaedrus felt nothing until the first shock passed. The warm, sticky blood felt almost like sweat on his forehead, but it stung his eyes and made it hard to see. He swiped at it carefully, ignoring the throbbing as best he could, and then turned to look at his foe.

They circled each other now; the tiger's eyes were yellow like gold. As Phaedrus met its gaze, anger poured over him; hatred. Fear. The beast was afraid, and so was he.

Perhaps it was this, the strange understanding between him and his enemy, that created a strange kinship between them in that moment. The hatred did not fade from the tiger’s eyes, yet somehow Phaedrus knew that it was a shared hatred—a hatred of the men-like beasts that had taken them both from their homes and thrust them in this bloody arena to kill for the entertainment of others.

We are not so different, my enemy, he thought, and it seemed to him that the tiger agreed.

It turned and loped away slowly, limping from the cut he had given it. Phaedrus was not so foolish enough to think that the understanding they had found had anything to do with its retreat; the creature was tired and did not want to fight. He watched it run and took in the hollow sides and protruding ribs, the matted fur and stumbling limp, and knew that captivity had done more than give hatred to this beast. He watched it for a moment more, and then felt feeling return to his limbs. The sweaty flower was still clamped in his fingers. Perhaps the stem had been squeezed in two—he dared not look to see. There was a roar from behind him, and Phaedrus turned just in time to dodge the attack of one of the leopards. His spear moved before his mind could, and the leopard fell in a heap at his feet, snarling and clawing at him as he wondered about the easiest way to remove a spear from a carcass.

There was a sword on the ground a few yards away. That was the best bet, for a spear once lodged in beast’s body—especially a beast that was not yet dead—was a hard thing to get back. The sword was lying next to its previous owner, a man with a thick beard and no left arm. It surprised Phaedrus that the missing arm did not make his stomach swell with sickness again, but his blood was up; his battle-lust renewed as it had not been since the day he fought for his freedom.

Only on that day, he had not won.

The next moments were a blur to him. The sword was clumsy in his fist, and it was better to run and evade the elephant, using its bad eyesight as an asset, than to try to fight it himself. He led it to three men who had spears, and they killed it for him—although one was speared himself on the giant creature’s tusk before at last its great head rested on the sand.

It was now out of pity that he slew half-wounded cheetahs and bulls. They were often still fighting, but too slow to do him any damage, so that it was a little thing to dodge forward and cut their throats with the sharp blade that was now quite slick. His hands were sticky with the red stuff—what was it called?—and the metallic taste and smell were in his mouth and at the back of his nose. His ears were filled with the roar that rose up around him and swallowed everything else—swallowed his anguish and fear and left him with nothing but the systematic slashing and stabbing that was all he had left.               

Phaedrus had just put a wounded wolf out of its misery when someone shouted, “The tiger! The tiger!”

Everything else in the ring was dead, it seemed; what was not would be soon, and the only survivors were being led away out the gate. Phaedrus recognized the sturdy form of Ander, which meant his friend had made it out alive. A rush of exhilaration almost overwhelmed him: he had survived. It was over.

Unfortunately, it was not. Someone jabbed him from behind—the butt end of a spear, Phaedrus saw, as he stumbled forward and rubbed his ribs with his spare arm (he’d lost his buckler to the bull). The Arena Guard ignored his glare and jerked his head toward a group of three other men who were prodding along the tiger he’d faced before.

“The crowds want blood. Finish it off.”               

Phaedrus felt the blood-lust ebb as he gave the man an incredulous stare.

“The tiger? But it’s wounded—not a fair fight.”

“The crowd doesn’t care. They want it dead—and make a show of it, boy. This is your moment.”

Phaedrus’ head ached, as did his shoulder, where the wolf had bitten him, and his lower leg where he’d strained some sort of muscle running from the elephant. His breathing was beginning to slow as the battle-rage died down, and he shook his head stubbornly. Memories of his family—his stolen sisters, his slaughtered brother—give him strength through anger, and he wonders if he could take the guard if he tried.

“Just do it, boy!” the guard growled, and then turned his spear so the point was facing Phaedrus. “Or we’ll treat you like one of them!”

“Haven’t you already?” Phaedrus muttered, but turned obediently to face the tawny beast as his anger died down. What point would there be to attacking the guard? He would not escape the Arena—not now, or ever. His brother and sisters would be avenged, though—someday. Somehow he would find a way, if it took him a lifetime of weariness and hatred to do it.

The tiger was limping still, and there was a weary, defeated look in its eyes. Still, they hardened when they met his gaze, and the hatred returned in full force. He wondered it was fighting with family in mind as well.

Slowly, calmly, he raised his sword and saluted the beast. It pulled back its lips into a snarl, and then gathered itself for one more spring. His sword leapt forward of its own free will and cut its legs out from under it. The tiger screamed, as it had before, and its foreclaws raked his arm and side. The smell of blood was in his nostrils, pain hung on his lips as the world stood still. The tiger landed and rolled heavily on the sand. It did not get up.

“Go on, boy,” shouted one of the guards, one of the three who had been corralling the tiger forward. “Kill it.”

Phaedrus watched as the golden gaze closed, as the great tawny body gave a shuddering sigh, and turned away with blurry eyes. He let the sweaty flower fall from his trembling fingers and dropped to his knees in the hot, bloody sand of the Arena.

“I did.”

finis

Wordle

I discovered something epic on the web. Well. I've discovered /lots/ of epic things. But this was pretty cool. If you go to wordle.com, you can make this thingummy called a "word cloud", which basically measures how many times you use certain words in the document you upload and generates word sizes proportional to the number of times used.. Writers use it to determine the sorts of words that pop up the most in their novel.

This wordle is mine, from my pirate novel affectionately titled "Avenger's Quest". I was going to use the wordle for the book I'm working on right now (a mysterious story called "Theo"), but the pirate one is complete. Apparently I use "one" and "eyes" almost as often as I use the names of the two main characters, Alec and Tran.

And then, as I was sitting here thinking, "Hm...could I honestly fill up a whole blog entry with mindless babble about wordle?", it hit me.

What would our lives look like in wordle? It would be tempting to think that our names would be the biggest words /ever/, because it's our lives, right, but really, what would there be.

If I did a wordle of my life, I would want the biggest word to be "God" ("Jesus" would also be acceptable). I would want the words "faithful", "servant", and "joy" to be repeated so many times in my life story that they were bigger than "money", "writing", or even "fun". I'm afraid "sin" would be larger than I would like, as well as "pessimist", "grumpy", and "hurtful". Can't you just picture, on Judgement Day, God glancing in the book for your name, ticking at a few keys, and pulling up an image like the one above?

"Hmm..." he'd say. And you'd wince, because you KNOW what's on there. All the foolishness and frippery and novels and movies and things that "seemed important at the time". Oh look. The money you didn't tithe because you rounded down. Oh look. Sarcasm. It's awfully big, and so is Lie. You hang your head in shame, because why is your name so darn big in the middle of the page? Looking at the Huge Worlde of History, it's easy to see that God is the main character, God is the beginning and end of the story, and everything on earth revolves around the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Christ-not you.

Your life is like the part of an extra in Lord of the Rings (or another movie of a similar, colossal size). And yet, you (I) are foolish enough to structure your life, your wordle (and world) around self. How about Amy Carmiachael? India was probably big. And orphans. And prayer. And servant. Did you know that she refused to allow pictures of her in the books that she wrote, because she was so intent on shifting the focus from her to her Lord?

I know. We're not all Amy Carmichaels. But still, wouldn't it be the best moment in the world when God, staring at your wordle, looked up and said, smiling as He opened His arms wide to you, "Well done, my good and faithful servant!"? But when it comes down to it, the truth is that it doesn't matter what our wordle has on it.

For man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart.

Unceremoniously Redundant

I was reading a random fanfiction the other day (I think it was of the TV show "Merlin") and had a thought. I blame the thinking on the fact that I'd been reading fanfiction for the past few hours and my brain was getting bored. Anyhow.

Why do people use the words “sprawled” and “unceremoniously” together to describe people who are sleeping? I wonder what it would be like to sleep ceremoniously—observing proper sleeping etiquette, muttering polite things…or what? I don’t know…it just doesn’t seem like a very accurate description of sleep. I mean, people /always/ sleep unceremoniously. There has never been a case in which people have done the opposite (at least, not that I can think of and even if I could I probably would never be able to forgive myself for describing something like sleep as ceremonious).

Or perhaps I'm taking it wrong. Perhaps "unceremoniously" is supposed to describe "sprawled".

Right. Because there's even the slightest possibility of someone sprawling ceremoniously. Just had to clear it with readers so they knew that this case of sprawling was not ceremonious in the least.

I don't pretend to be better than that. I'm pretty sure I've used "sprawled unceremoniously" in a story or two...probably more than just two. It's one of those phrases that just flows, but this fanfic got me thinking: why do we restate the obvious? What is it with writers and being redundant just because it sounds good?

A few others that get on my nerves:

Huge big (because just huge or big wouldn't fully explain it?).
Let's continue on (because we wouldn't want to accidentally continue backward).
Repeat again (can you do it again again?).
Free gift (because I made you pay for the other gift).
Actual facts (because we don't want false facts, do we?).
Drop down (good heavens! Don't drop up!).

And so on.

And then it struck me: there is nothing new under the sun. Mankind is doomed to redundancy, because no matter what, history will repeat itself. Everyone does the same things over and over again...work, sleep, eat. People are born, grow up, grow old, and die. It's a cycle, and it's dreadfully redundant.

Except that someday, the redundancy won't matter. I've had days before that I wished would go on and on forever-beautiful summer days, days of rain, whatever. And heaven, I think, will be like that. It'll be so beautiful and wonderful and full of joy that even if every moment is the same, that's more than I could ever wish for.

Because if every moment is spent in His presence, than I have a feeling that redundancy won't matter anymore.

On Farmboys and Carpenters

Young heroes

If only we could win without ruining their lives.

If only they could become butchers and bakers and candlestick makers.

Instead of warriors.

But they are warriors. They know death and pain and blood and war.

They are old—old men and women in young bodies.

And we have made them so.

Every victory has a price.

We pay it with the farmboy’s hopes and dreams.

--

Why is it always the farmboy? Eragon. Luke Skywalker. Rand al'Thor. Shasta. They were innocent. Untouched by the world (in most cases). And yet in order for the victory of the story to be achieved, they all had to give up something (generally their future, innocence, family, or identity).

The above...thingummy is the beginning of an idea I had for a story focusing more on the unfairness of placing the responsibility on young heroes. My story, however, begins after the original "Coming of Age" part, where Veld, (the farmboy) rose through the ranks of the army and then ended up saving the kingdom in the battle. Indeed, it starts when he's still trying to adjust to life as the King's Champion, Betrothed to the Princess Diana (whom he does not love). He is trying to cope with the loss of his best friend, who died in his arms in the heat of the battle. But mostly he's confused. Confused about why it was him instead of a general or a noble-why he was chosen for this deed, and really, in his heart of hearts, is asking why couldn't it have just been someone else?

-

When presented with this ingenious plot, my sister wrinkled her nose.

"What?" I asked. "Don't you like it?"

"Well," she replied, carefully. "It's a little...depressing."

And so it is. But I had to do it, because there's something about it I don't understand. Why is it the innocent ones who must bear the weight of our victory? Why is it that, if a sacrifice has to be made, the one who least deserves the burden of the world must carry it?

If this sounds like something else, it's not my fault. Farmboys and Jewish carpenters are, it seems, doomed to save the world by their own sacrifice.

In other words, it was God's plot first.