Theatrical Definitions:
Eternity: The time that passes between a dropped cue and the next line.
Prop: A hand-carried object small enough to be lost by an actor 30 seconds before it is needed on stage.
Director: The individual who suffers from the delusion that he or she is responsible for every moment of brilliance cited by the critic in the local review.
Blocking: The art of moving actors on the stage in such a manner as not to collide with the walls, the furniture, the orchestra pit or each other. Similar to playing chess, except that the pawns want to argue with you.
Blocking Rehearsal: A rehearsal taking place early in the production schedule where actors frantically write down movements which will be nowhere in evidence by opening night.
Quality Theater: Any show with which you were directly involved.
Turkey: Every show with which you were not directly involved.
Dress Rehearsal: Rehearsal that becomes a whole new ball game as actors attempt to maneuver among the 49 objects that the set designer added at 7:30 that evening.
Tech Week: The last week of rehearsal when everything that was supposed to be done weeks before finally comes together at the last minute; reaches its grand climax on dress rehearsal night when costumes rip, a dimmer pack catches fire and the director has a nervous breakdown.
Set: An obstacle course which, throughout the rehearsal period, defies the laws of physics by growing smaller week by week while continuing to occupy the same amount of space.
Monologue: That shining moment when all eyes are focused on a single actor who is desperately aware that if he forgets a line, no one can save him.
Dark Night: The night before opening when no rehearsal is scheduled so the actors and crew can go home and get some well-deserved rest, and instead spend the night staring sleeplessly at the ceiling because they're sure they needed one more rehearsal.
Bit Part: An opportunity for the actor with the smallest role to count everybody else's lines and mention repeatedly that he or she has the smallest part in the show.
Green Room: Room shared by nervous actors waiting to go on stage and the precocious children whose actor parents couldn't get a baby-sitter that night, a situation which can result in justifiable homicide.
Dark Spot: An area of the stage which the lighting designer has inexplicably forgotten to light, and which has a magnetic attraction for the first- time actor. A dark spot is never evident before opening night.
Hands: Appendages at the end of the arms used for manipulating one's environment, except on a stage, where they grow six times their normal size and either dangle uselessly, fidget nervously, or try to hide in your pockets.
Stage Manager: Individual responsible for overseeing the crew, supervising the set changes, baby-sitting the actors and putting the director in a hammerlock to keep him from killing the actor who just decided to turn his walk-on part into a major role by doing magic tricks while he serves the tea.
Lighting Director: Individual who, from the only vantage point offering a full view of the stage, gives the stage manager a heart attack by announcing a play-by-play of everything that's going wrong.
OR
Lighting Designer: One who whines, bitches, throws fits, and says "this is the last show I'm doing here ! I swear to God !" (rinse, repeat).
Makeup Kit: (1) Among experienced community theater actors, a battered tackle box loaded with at least 10 shades of greasepaint in various stages of desiccation, tubes of lipstick and blush, assorted pencils, bobby pins, braids of crepe hair, liquid latex, old programs, jewelry, break-a-leg greeting cards from past shows, brushes and a handful of half-melted cough drops; (2) For first- time male actors, a helpless look and anything they can borrow.
The Forebrain: The part of an actors brain which contains lines, blocking and characterization; activated by hot lights.
The Hindbrain: The part of an actor's brain that keeps up a running subtext in the background while the forebrain is trying to act; the hindbrain supplies a constant stream of unwanted information, such as who is sitting in the second row tonight, a notation to seriously maim the crew member who thought it would be funny to put real Tabasco sauce in the fake Bloody Marys, or the fact that you need to do laundry on Sunday.
Stage Crew: Group of individuals who spend their evenings coping with 50-minute stretches of total boredom interspersed with 30-second bursts of mindless panic.
Message Play: Any play which its director describes as "worthwhile," "a challenge to actors and audience alike," or "designed to make the audience think." Critics will be impressed both by the daring material and the roomy accommodations, since they're likely to have the house all to themselves.
Bedroom Farce: Any play which requires various states of undress on stage and whose set sports a lot of doors. The lukewarm reviews, all of which feature the phrase "typical community theater fare" in the opening paragraph, are followed paradoxically by a frantic attempt to schedule more performances to accommodate the overflow crowds.
Set Piece: Any large piece of furniture which actors will resolutely use as a safety shield between themselves and the audience, in an apparent attempt to both anchor themselves to the floor, thereby avoiding floating off into space, and to keep the audience from seeing that they actually have legs.
Strike: The time immediately following the last performance that all cast and crew members are required to watch the two people who own Makita screw drivers dismantle the set.
Actors: People who stand between the audience and the set designer's art, blocking the view. That's also the origin of the word "blocking," by the way.
Stage Right, Stage Left: Two simple directions actors pretend not to understand in order to drive directors crazy. ("No, no, your OTHER stage right!")
"Just remember: It's only theater until it offends someone. . . Then it's ART!"
Monday, August 30, 2010
Scraps (writing during Saturday nights)
Something I can Never Have:
Dancing With Your Shadow
I spent the day next to you. I didn’t talk. You said nothing. There were no words exchanged between you and I. We just sat there; I wanted to hold your hand. I watched as the sun went down, signaling the end to yet another day. I didn’t want to leave you. I didn’t want you to go. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you. I couldn’t even think about me being alone.
I looked at the onyx stone again. The snow was slowly collecting on it. I always loved onyx. It was one of my favorite stones. I thought it did you justice. You were just like it, holding many of the same qualities. It was strong, beautiful, powerful. You were the same. It’s only fitting, don’t you think?
Everything looked so beautiful on the crisp winter night. I was scared to move incase I disturbed anything. The snow looked so beautiful, and I hated the thought of having to walk through it later when we parted. But nothing perfect can endure. I knew that as the night wore on, we would be forced to part. But in my heart I knew that you had already left me. I knew that you were gone. You weren’t mine anymore. I hated it. I wanted to burst into tears at the thought. I wanted the ability to grab onto you hand and nuzzle my head into your shoulder and tell you how much I love you over and over again. Now my words would fall on deaf ears.
It was getting colder. The sun was now fully down, and the raven sky was disturbed only by its frozen tears. I felt a few of my own slide down my cheeks. I batted them away quickly; I didn’t want you to see me cry.
Scraps (writing at 3am)
The path to Wonderland is laced with silent screams that I refuse to listen to. The graveyard is empty of all but me. I walk through its lonely, forgotten paths to where you lay. Snow falls softly all around me, and I can’t help but to remember. It seems colder than before now that I don’t have you to help fill the winter with warmth. The seasons have robbed me of all that they had come for. Now only winter dances here. It seems so fitting, don’t you think?
No tears. That is what I promised myself when you left. I would never cry. It is not what you would have wanted. But I cannot stop them from falling from my eyes. Circumstance have robbed me of all of my second chances to tell you how much I cared for you, and now all I can do is remember the times we had together as I wait for you here.
You said you loved me with your dying breath, and even then, as you clasped my hand, I could not force the words out of my mouth. I wished to scream at you how I cared; how I loved you, and yet I could not. The words died away in my throat, and now only guilt pangs in my stomach.
It is odd how we take the things that we think we can have forever for granted. I took you for granted, my love, and now you are gone. It is only now I can see how much you mean to me. How much I miss you. How dearly I love you.
"The Midnightmare Counting"
I told you that you shouldn’t have read those things so late at night. I told you, didn’t I? Don’t blame me for your nightmares. And don’t come and cry to me when you get scared from the wind blowing the branch against your window.
What was that? Yes, I know you’re scared. You want me to what? Oh, explain things to you. Yes, yes, I can do that.
Well, where shall we begin?
Sometimes many things cause us fear. They can be movies, events, or even something as simple and surprising as what someone says. Take, for example, The Near Departed by Richard Matheson.
The small man opened the door and stepped in out of the glaring sunlight. He was in his early fifties, a spindly, plain looking man with receding gray hair. He closed the door without a sound, then stood in the shadowy foyer, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the change in light. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt and black tie. His face was pale and dry skinned despite the heat of the day.
When his eyes had refocused themselves, he removed his Panama hat and moved along the hallway to the office, his black shoes soundless on the carpeting.
The mortician looked up from his desk. “Good afternoon,” he said.
“Good afternoon.” The small man’s voice was soft.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can,” the small man said.
The mortician gestured to the arm chair on the other side of his desk. “Please.”
The small man perched on the edge of the chair and set the Panama hat on his lap.
He watched he mortician open a drawer and remove a printed form.
“Now,” the mortician said. He withdrew a black pen from its onyx holder. “Who is the deceased?” he asked gently.
“My wife,” the small man said.
The mortician made a sympathetic noise. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Yes.” The small man gazed at him blankly.
“What is her name?” the mortician asked.
“Marie,” the small man answered quietly. “Arnold.”
The mortician wrote the name. “Address?” he asked.
The small man told him.
“Is she there now?” the mortician asked.
“She’s there?” the small man said.
The mortician nodded.
“I want everything perfect,” the small man said. “I want the best you have.”
“Of course,” the mortician said. “Of course.”
“Cost is unimportant,” said the small man. His throat moved as he swallowed dryly. “Everything is unimportant now. Except this.”
“I understand,” the mortician said.
“I want the best you have,” the small man said. “She’s beautiful. She has to have the very best.”
“I understand.”
“She always had the best I saw to it.”
“Of course.”
“There’ll be many people,” said the small man. “Everybody loved her. She’s so beautiful. So young. She has to have the very best. You understand?”
“Absolutely,” the mortician reassured him. “You’ll be more than satisfied, I guarantee you.”
“She’s so beautiful,” the small man said. “So young.”
“I’m sure,” the mortician said.
The small man sat without moving as the mortician asked him questions. His voice did not vary in tone as he spoke. His eyes blinked so infrequently that the mortician never saw them doing it.
When the form was completed, the small man signed and stood. The mortician stood and walked around the desk. “I guarantee you you’ll be satisfied,” he said, his hand extended.
The small man took his hand and gripped it momentarily. His palm was dry and cool.
“We’ll be over at your house within the hour,” the mortician told him.
“Fine,” the small man said.
The mortician walked beside him down the hallway.
“I want everything to be perfect for her,” the small man said. “Nothing but the very best.”
“Everything will be exactly as you wish.”
“She deserves the best.” The small man stared ahead. “She’s so beautiful,” he said.
“Everybody loved her. Everybody. She’s so young and beautiful.”
“When did she die?” the mortician asked.
The small man didn’t seem to hear. He opened the door and stepped into the sunlight, putting on his Panama hat. He was halfway to his car when he replied, a faint smile on his lips, “As soon as I get home.”
Well, sometimes the dead don’t exactly stay dead, even when we want them to. Or maybe it’s just our imagination playing tricks on us in the darkness of night when everything is so eerily quiet. According to Ardath Mayhar, sometimes the dead come back in Samhain: Full Moon.
She sat, hands busy with a homely task,
And watched a cold white moon trail wisps of cloud
Across the east. The last light died away,
Leaving the meadows shadowed, ghostly trees
Lurking about her house, and crawling mist
In chilly layers between hill and hill.
She shuddered –it’s not good to be alone
By night at any time, but at Samhain –
Oh, infinitely worse.
A rasping breeze
Rattled its fingers in the frost-killed vines.
She put away her sewing, took a plate
Of bread, a cup of milk, and set them out
upon the doorstone, keeping her eyes turned
up to the stone-crowned hilltop.
“Let them stay!”
she whispered. “Let them keep their place tonight,
but if they come, let me not be aware!”
She barred the door, but still the mocking moon
Peered through a crevice with its frozen eye,
Reminding her of gravestones slipped aside,
Of tattered flesh, stark bone, and flapping rags
That might come down the hill, scratch at her door,
Plead for a place beside her tiny fire.
A year ago her man had barred the door,
Made up the fire, poured spirits in the tea,
And they had huddled, warm and comforted
Against the peas and mewling in the night:
But now he lay above – up with them-
And all the children made their lives afar.
She pulled her shawl about her scrawny arms,
Drawn to the window, staring up the hill
At all those stones, stark black against the moon…
They moved in eerie dance!
A strangled cry
Squeezed from her throat; her hands clenched at her breast
Until the ancient fabric of her gown
Was crushed by frantic fingers, and it tone.
Dark shapes moved there, above, to turn their steps
Down to the foot-worn path; she moved away,
Knelt by her bed, pulled pillows to her ears,
And waited, pulses hammering with fear.
Cloud crossed the moon; a sleepy raved croaked
A protest as the shuffling footsteps passed
Its roosting place. A file of misty shapes
Drifted across the path, borne on the wind,
But not one face was turned to watch them go,
Not one looked up to see the flying cloud,
Or bat-shapes wheeling over mouldy skulls.
They stalked, the ancient dead, the newly-dead
To find a warmth that, dimly, they recalled
One time a year to send them striding down
To find a hearthfire and the smell of food,
A homely comfort, lost among the stones:
Just once a year some power called them home.
They crossed the frosted garden. Nora’s cat
Hissed curses and retreated up a tree,
Sat staring, moon-eyed, after that strange band
Upon the brittle grass.
They saw the mild,
The bread beside the door; the bone-white hears
Bent, grinning, over plate and cup, inhaled
The scents of life into their rotten lungs,
But didn’t linger long. One claw-nailed hand
Reached out to touch the door; the fingers moved
Mouse-quiet, but the scratching filled the night,
Sent Nora trembling on her aching knees.
She would not rise, unbar the door, admit
The grisly crew, all family perhaps
By terrifying, changed.
And one her man!
That was the hardest fact: the face she knew
Would be a fleshless blur, the well-loved hands
Reduced to bone.
Her tears came freely now:
Both loss and pain were standing at her door,
Returning tonight to something like a life;
How could she leave him there amid the chill,
Locked from his home, rejected by his spouse,
To plead the night away?
There was his voice,
Hoarser, perhaps, but welcome to her ear:
“Nora! Oh, let us in, for Pity’s sake,
to warm our bones once more before your hearth,
remembering we once were living men!”
She rose and dried her eyes, took down the bar,
And opened wide the door; her chamber filled
With scents of earth, decay, and harsher things,
But Kevin came the last. She stared at him
And saw, through shrunken skin, the face she knew.
Reaching to take his bony hand, she led
Him over to the fire, to join the rest
And sit in his old chair.
It was a night
Of strangeness; driest whispers passed among
That group, but there was little they could tell
Save tales of cold and darkness, damp and stone
That chilled her spirit, set a seal of fear upon her heart.
And yet she knew one thing,
Incredible and perverse. When dawn drew near
She straightened up the room and quenched the fire,
Looked once about her long-familiar home,
Then followed as her guests moved up the hill.
The gravestones shifted, and they were all gone
To rest again, and yet they left no track
On path or turf.
One set of footprints marked
The earth – a woman’s, leading to a stone
Unweathered, new… and ending at its base.
All-Hallows dawned, and the darkness drew away.
Man wears many masks. That is just one of them; the outright show of fear. What happens when man dons another mask of fear? This time the mask of insanity? What if man is so obsessed over something that he begins to see things, and it drives him to the point of hysterical insanity? Listen as Edgar Allen Poe spins his tale of fearful insanity in The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door--
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door;----
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
So we all don’t see talking birds we think are satanic prophets. What if our demons are real? So real that we can only pray that they were in our heads? Can the torrents of war be worse then what we are able to come up with in our twisted minds? Listen as Metallica spins its war-torn tale of a lost soul subjected to a life of tests and experiments in One.
I can't remember anything
Can't tell if this is true or dream
Deep down inside I feel to scream
This terrible silence stops me
Now that the war is through with me
I'm waking up, I cannot see
That there is not much left of me
Nothing is real but pain now
Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please, God, wake me
Back in the womb it's much
too real
In pumps life that I must feel
But can't look forward to reveal
Look to the time when I'll live
Fed through the tube that sticks in me
Just like a wartime novelty
Tied to machines that make me be
Cut this life off from me
Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please, God, wake me
Now the world is gone, I'm just one
Oh God, help me
Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please, God, help me
Darkness imprisoning me
All that I see
Absolute horror
I cannot live
I cannot die
Trapped in myself
Body my holding cell
Landmine has taken my sight
Taken my speech
Taken my hearing
Taken my arms
Taken my legs
Taken my soul
Left me with life in hell
Maybe the government and war aren’t your worst fears. Maybe you’re not scared of endless experiments. What if you dread looking in the mirror each morning as you awake for fear of what you might see? What if your own worst fear is yourself? Listen to the pain from the broken balled Sad but True by Metallica.
Hey
I'm your life
I'm the one who takes you there
hey
I'm your life
I'm the one who cares
they
they betray
I'm your only true friend now
they
they'll betray
I'm forever there
I'm your dream, make you real
I'm your eyes when you must steal
I'm your pain when you can't feel
sad but true
I'm your dream, mind astray
I'm your eyes while you're away
I'm your pain while you repay
you know it's sad but true
you
you're my mask
you're my cover, my shelter
you
you're my mask
you're the one who's blamed
do
do my work
do my dirty work, scapegoat
do
do my deeds
for you're the one who's shamed
I'm your dream, make you real
I'm your eyes when you must steal
l I'm your pain when you can't feel
sad but true
I'm your dream, mind astray
I'm your eyes while you're away
I'm your pain while you repay
you know it's sad but true
hate
I'm your hate
I'm your hate when you want love
pay
pay the price
pay, for nothing's fair
hey
I'm your life
I'm the one who took you here
hey
I'm your life
and I no longer care
I'm your dream, make you real
I'm your eyes when you must steal
I'm your pain when you can't feel
sad but true
I'm your truth, telling lies
I'm your reasoned alibis
I'm inside open your eyes
I'm you
Sad But True
But what if none of these things cause you fear? What if you are not scared of words or the living dead or fictions demons dreamed from obsession? What if you are not scared of war or yourself? What are we scared of? Dying ourselves? Loosing love? Do you fear werewolves, vampires, the beast within the beauty? Or do you fear only what you do not understand? The mists perhaps? Or the shadows? What happens at night when the sun sets? What comes out? Hum? What’s that? Oh. Yes. I see. You fear none of that. Then what is it you fear now? Ah. Your dreams. I see. Yes, sometimes nightmares can seem real. Take, for example, the poor visions of a young woman trapped in a world unlike her own in Frozen.
Tara knew something wasn’t right. They had gone from dark, spooky hallway to dirty valley. And the others were with her; not just Watch and Adam, but Bryce and Cindy and Sally too. And there, in front of them, stood the Phantom Master in all its hellish glory. It opened its fanged mouth and laughed.
“You chauvinistic pig!” Sally spat at it bitterly. “You bastard! I’ve waited long enough for this day to come! Today, I kill you!” she screamed. She raced toward it, sword pointed out, ready to run it threw. But the Phantom Master was quicker. In a blink of an eye, it grabbed the sword from Sally’s hand, turned it around, and impaled it in her stomach. She coughed, making a deep ocean of scarlet spray from her mouth. The crimson liquid also ran from the blade of the sword as well as her back and stomach. As it danced to the ground, painting it rose red, it made awful splattering, dripping sounds. Her face twisted in an unvoiced scream of agony.
“Come, come now,” the Phantom Master mocked. “Is that any way to treat your child?” It laughed again, smiling at her pain.
With her dying breath, Sally said raggedly: “I’m not your mother!” Then her eyes took on a distant cast as her hands fell limp away from the sword. She was dead.
“No!” Bryce screamed, his hand out stretched as if to grab her away from the animal. The Phantom Master looked up and smiled at him. He shook Sally from the sword, her body thudding as it hit the ground, splashing in its own blood. The demon stepped back. Bryce ran to her. He fell to his knees and held her in his arms, heedless of the blood. He cradled her, rocking back and forth softly, pleading for her life back.
The Phantom Master laughed harder. The creature walked behind Bryce slowly, sword in hand. Tara stood, frozen, helpless. She was like the others. They could do nothing as the demon braced the sword on his back behind his heart. Bryce didn’t move. He knew what was coming and embraced it. Life without Sally was no life at all. A single tear, perhaps of fear, perhaps of love undying, fell from his eye and rolled down Sally’s pallid cheek.
The Phantom Master thrust the sword threw his chest, the blood exploded, painting everything fiery red. Bryce’s eyes were closed, but now they flew open. Droplets of blood fell silently from the corner of his mouth. Bloody tears slid noiselessly from his eyes. He died because he could not live without the one he truly loved.
He collapsed on top of Sally. Tara flinched when she heard the horrid sound the sword made when the Phantom Master pulled it out of Bryce’s body.
Suddenly, the Phantom Master just disappeared; vanished into the ground. Tara looked around frantically until she heard a scream. She looked to her right to find that the Phantom Master had somehow appeared behind Cindy and was now holding the sword to her throat.
“Don’t!” Adam commanded. “Don’t do it!”
“Do what?” the Phantom Master asked. “This?” he mocked as he slid the blade of the sword dangerously back and forth across Cindy’s neck. Cindy whimpered. Tears began to flow from her eyes.
“Please,” Adam begged, “just let her go. She means nothing to you.”
“But she means something to you.” And with that, the Phantom Master made one last swift pass across Cindy’s throat, nearly decapitating her. Her blood washed over the ground, seeming to cleanse it of its sins. Adam fell to his knees in disbelief.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No,” he said rising back to his feet. “No!” he screamed. “No, you bastard; damn you, NO!” He charged at the monster.
“Adam, wait!” Watch called, but it was no use. Adam didn’t want to hear. He was hungry with the lust of revenge. Watch could do nothing but run to aide his friend.
Tara stood there frozen with fear. She couldn’t move even if she had wanted to. It was like the Phantom Master had put some kind of spell on her.
Watch and Adam double-teamed the hellish imp. Surely with both of them working against it, they would be able to kill the beast. Or so Tara hoped.
Adam attacked from the right with his axe, Watch from the left with sword. The clang of metal was deafening. The Phantom Master picked Watch up off the ground by his neck and threw him against the nearby valley wall. He grunted, but stayed on his feet. The Phantom Master then disarmed Adam and slid the blade of his sword just under Adam’s ribcage. Adam looked down as he felt the warm dribble of blood. The Phantom Master laughed. Adam fell to the ground. His breath hitched; his hands shook. Finally, he stopped moving; his chest stopped rising and falling; he was dead.
Watch looked at the Phantom Master helplessly. He knew all too well what was coming. He shook his head and tried to back away, but it was to no use. He was trapped between the Phantom Master and the valley wall. The demon grinned hellishly, bearing a mouth of fangs.
“Now, you die,” it whispered. The Phantom Master drew his sword back and thrust it forwards with the force of a hundred men, impaling Watch to the wall. But Watch, unlike the others, did not die right away. He looked at Tara.
“I love you,” he mouthed. Tara began to weep fiercely, her body being racked with sobs. Then Watch bowed his head and closed his eyes. He waited for Sweet Death to take away his pain. He did not have to wait long.
Tara whimpered. The Phantom Master glared at her.
“Not yet,” it rasped. “Not today.” And then it was gone. Tara looked around for it, waited, but nothing happened.
Tara fell to her knees. She looked at the carnage that lay before her. Tears began to well in her eyes as she looked around. The calm blue sea became violent with emotion as the storm of fear and sorrow raged on silently in them. Tara brushed a couple fiery red strands of hair from her face. The dams were breaking; her reserves shedding.
She turned her oceanic eyes upwards and began to pray for her dead friends. Tears streamed down her wind-burned face. She begged for them back; for even just a chance to say good-bye. But she knew there would be none. The monster had made sure of that. The demon took away her every chance at happiness. She beat the ground with her fists, screaming in her torment.
She couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t do it by herself. Tara saw Adam’s axe from the corner of her eye. If the demon wouldn’t do it for her, she decided, she’d do it herself. At least then she could see Watch’s smiling face again. Taking the axe in both hands, for it was heavy; she flipped it up and stuck the back hilt in the dirt ground. She flung her arms wide and opened her eyes. She knew what she was about to do. She was scared. What if it didn’t work? What if she went to Hell? She was in Hell, she reminded herself.
The marine eyes began to shimmer with fresh tears. The sea of emotion was raging again. Waves crashed up, mixing the colors of the storm-tossed eyes. The brilliant blue mixed with the zealous green; the saintly white became an ominous black; the sunrise orange and yellow became the purple and teal of night. She opened her supple lips and screamed as she let her body fall onto the blade…
Tara jumped, screamed, and opened her eyes. She was in the black hallway where she had fallen asleep. It was all just a dream; a delusion brought forth by the creature. Adam was looking at her, for it was his turn to keep a look out. What made it even better was that Watch was next to her. He was still asleep. She threw her arms around him, causing him to jump, and kissed him deeply. He opened his eyes wide. When Tara drew back from him, she saw that he was blushing bright crimson. It was then she began to weep.
“Tara, what’s wrong?” Watch asked.
“I had a dream. So horrible. The Phantom Master; it, he,” her words were lost to the sobs.
“It’s alright,” Watch cooed, holding her in his arms. “It’s alright now.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” she wept. “I don’t want to play this game anymore.”
“It’ll all be over soon,” Watch said. “All over soon. Just hang on a little longer. It’s going to be done. I’ll make sure of it.”
“I think we should keep moving,” Adam said. Watch shook his head in agreement. He got up and gently pulled Tara up.
“We’re almost out of here,” Watch whispered. “We’re almost home. We’re safe now. You’re safe now.”
“You mean we’re almost safe.” Tara said darkly. Adam shivered. She sounded like Sally. Too much like Sally for Adam’s comfort.
Oh. You want me to stop. I’m scaring you worse you say. I’m sorry. It is late. Perhaps you should get to bed now. You can’t sleep? Well, there’s nothing to be scared of. You just lie in bed and close your eyes. Soon, the sweet blackness will come and cover you over. Oh. That’s what you’re scared of. I’m sorry. Well, pleasant dreams.
What was that? Yes, I know you’re scared. You want me to what? Oh, explain things to you. Yes, yes, I can do that.
Well, where shall we begin?
Sometimes many things cause us fear. They can be movies, events, or even something as simple and surprising as what someone says. Take, for example, The Near Departed by Richard Matheson.
The small man opened the door and stepped in out of the glaring sunlight. He was in his early fifties, a spindly, plain looking man with receding gray hair. He closed the door without a sound, then stood in the shadowy foyer, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the change in light. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt and black tie. His face was pale and dry skinned despite the heat of the day.
When his eyes had refocused themselves, he removed his Panama hat and moved along the hallway to the office, his black shoes soundless on the carpeting.
The mortician looked up from his desk. “Good afternoon,” he said.
“Good afternoon.” The small man’s voice was soft.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can,” the small man said.
The mortician gestured to the arm chair on the other side of his desk. “Please.”
The small man perched on the edge of the chair and set the Panama hat on his lap.
He watched he mortician open a drawer and remove a printed form.
“Now,” the mortician said. He withdrew a black pen from its onyx holder. “Who is the deceased?” he asked gently.
“My wife,” the small man said.
The mortician made a sympathetic noise. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Yes.” The small man gazed at him blankly.
“What is her name?” the mortician asked.
“Marie,” the small man answered quietly. “Arnold.”
The mortician wrote the name. “Address?” he asked.
The small man told him.
“Is she there now?” the mortician asked.
“She’s there?” the small man said.
The mortician nodded.
“I want everything perfect,” the small man said. “I want the best you have.”
“Of course,” the mortician said. “Of course.”
“Cost is unimportant,” said the small man. His throat moved as he swallowed dryly. “Everything is unimportant now. Except this.”
“I understand,” the mortician said.
“I want the best you have,” the small man said. “She’s beautiful. She has to have the very best.”
“I understand.”
“She always had the best I saw to it.”
“Of course.”
“There’ll be many people,” said the small man. “Everybody loved her. She’s so beautiful. So young. She has to have the very best. You understand?”
“Absolutely,” the mortician reassured him. “You’ll be more than satisfied, I guarantee you.”
“She’s so beautiful,” the small man said. “So young.”
“I’m sure,” the mortician said.
The small man sat without moving as the mortician asked him questions. His voice did not vary in tone as he spoke. His eyes blinked so infrequently that the mortician never saw them doing it.
When the form was completed, the small man signed and stood. The mortician stood and walked around the desk. “I guarantee you you’ll be satisfied,” he said, his hand extended.
The small man took his hand and gripped it momentarily. His palm was dry and cool.
“We’ll be over at your house within the hour,” the mortician told him.
“Fine,” the small man said.
The mortician walked beside him down the hallway.
“I want everything to be perfect for her,” the small man said. “Nothing but the very best.”
“Everything will be exactly as you wish.”
“She deserves the best.” The small man stared ahead. “She’s so beautiful,” he said.
“Everybody loved her. Everybody. She’s so young and beautiful.”
“When did she die?” the mortician asked.
The small man didn’t seem to hear. He opened the door and stepped into the sunlight, putting on his Panama hat. He was halfway to his car when he replied, a faint smile on his lips, “As soon as I get home.”
Well, sometimes the dead don’t exactly stay dead, even when we want them to. Or maybe it’s just our imagination playing tricks on us in the darkness of night when everything is so eerily quiet. According to Ardath Mayhar, sometimes the dead come back in Samhain: Full Moon.
She sat, hands busy with a homely task,
And watched a cold white moon trail wisps of cloud
Across the east. The last light died away,
Leaving the meadows shadowed, ghostly trees
Lurking about her house, and crawling mist
In chilly layers between hill and hill.
She shuddered –it’s not good to be alone
By night at any time, but at Samhain –
Oh, infinitely worse.
A rasping breeze
Rattled its fingers in the frost-killed vines.
She put away her sewing, took a plate
Of bread, a cup of milk, and set them out
upon the doorstone, keeping her eyes turned
up to the stone-crowned hilltop.
“Let them stay!”
she whispered. “Let them keep their place tonight,
but if they come, let me not be aware!”
She barred the door, but still the mocking moon
Peered through a crevice with its frozen eye,
Reminding her of gravestones slipped aside,
Of tattered flesh, stark bone, and flapping rags
That might come down the hill, scratch at her door,
Plead for a place beside her tiny fire.
A year ago her man had barred the door,
Made up the fire, poured spirits in the tea,
And they had huddled, warm and comforted
Against the peas and mewling in the night:
But now he lay above – up with them-
And all the children made their lives afar.
She pulled her shawl about her scrawny arms,
Drawn to the window, staring up the hill
At all those stones, stark black against the moon…
They moved in eerie dance!
A strangled cry
Squeezed from her throat; her hands clenched at her breast
Until the ancient fabric of her gown
Was crushed by frantic fingers, and it tone.
Dark shapes moved there, above, to turn their steps
Down to the foot-worn path; she moved away,
Knelt by her bed, pulled pillows to her ears,
And waited, pulses hammering with fear.
Cloud crossed the moon; a sleepy raved croaked
A protest as the shuffling footsteps passed
Its roosting place. A file of misty shapes
Drifted across the path, borne on the wind,
But not one face was turned to watch them go,
Not one looked up to see the flying cloud,
Or bat-shapes wheeling over mouldy skulls.
They stalked, the ancient dead, the newly-dead
To find a warmth that, dimly, they recalled
One time a year to send them striding down
To find a hearthfire and the smell of food,
A homely comfort, lost among the stones:
Just once a year some power called them home.
They crossed the frosted garden. Nora’s cat
Hissed curses and retreated up a tree,
Sat staring, moon-eyed, after that strange band
Upon the brittle grass.
They saw the mild,
The bread beside the door; the bone-white hears
Bent, grinning, over plate and cup, inhaled
The scents of life into their rotten lungs,
But didn’t linger long. One claw-nailed hand
Reached out to touch the door; the fingers moved
Mouse-quiet, but the scratching filled the night,
Sent Nora trembling on her aching knees.
She would not rise, unbar the door, admit
The grisly crew, all family perhaps
By terrifying, changed.
And one her man!
That was the hardest fact: the face she knew
Would be a fleshless blur, the well-loved hands
Reduced to bone.
Her tears came freely now:
Both loss and pain were standing at her door,
Returning tonight to something like a life;
How could she leave him there amid the chill,
Locked from his home, rejected by his spouse,
To plead the night away?
There was his voice,
Hoarser, perhaps, but welcome to her ear:
“Nora! Oh, let us in, for Pity’s sake,
to warm our bones once more before your hearth,
remembering we once were living men!”
She rose and dried her eyes, took down the bar,
And opened wide the door; her chamber filled
With scents of earth, decay, and harsher things,
But Kevin came the last. She stared at him
And saw, through shrunken skin, the face she knew.
Reaching to take his bony hand, she led
Him over to the fire, to join the rest
And sit in his old chair.
It was a night
Of strangeness; driest whispers passed among
That group, but there was little they could tell
Save tales of cold and darkness, damp and stone
That chilled her spirit, set a seal of fear upon her heart.
And yet she knew one thing,
Incredible and perverse. When dawn drew near
She straightened up the room and quenched the fire,
Looked once about her long-familiar home,
Then followed as her guests moved up the hill.
The gravestones shifted, and they were all gone
To rest again, and yet they left no track
On path or turf.
One set of footprints marked
The earth – a woman’s, leading to a stone
Unweathered, new… and ending at its base.
All-Hallows dawned, and the darkness drew away.
Man wears many masks. That is just one of them; the outright show of fear. What happens when man dons another mask of fear? This time the mask of insanity? What if man is so obsessed over something that he begins to see things, and it drives him to the point of hysterical insanity? Listen as Edgar Allen Poe spins his tale of fearful insanity in The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door--
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door;----
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more!"
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
So we all don’t see talking birds we think are satanic prophets. What if our demons are real? So real that we can only pray that they were in our heads? Can the torrents of war be worse then what we are able to come up with in our twisted minds? Listen as Metallica spins its war-torn tale of a lost soul subjected to a life of tests and experiments in One.
I can't remember anything
Can't tell if this is true or dream
Deep down inside I feel to scream
This terrible silence stops me
Now that the war is through with me
I'm waking up, I cannot see
That there is not much left of me
Nothing is real but pain now
Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please, God, wake me
Back in the womb it's much
too real
In pumps life that I must feel
But can't look forward to reveal
Look to the time when I'll live
Fed through the tube that sticks in me
Just like a wartime novelty
Tied to machines that make me be
Cut this life off from me
Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please, God, wake me
Now the world is gone, I'm just one
Oh God, help me
Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please, God, help me
Darkness imprisoning me
All that I see
Absolute horror
I cannot live
I cannot die
Trapped in myself
Body my holding cell
Landmine has taken my sight
Taken my speech
Taken my hearing
Taken my arms
Taken my legs
Taken my soul
Left me with life in hell
Maybe the government and war aren’t your worst fears. Maybe you’re not scared of endless experiments. What if you dread looking in the mirror each morning as you awake for fear of what you might see? What if your own worst fear is yourself? Listen to the pain from the broken balled Sad but True by Metallica.
Hey
I'm your life
I'm the one who takes you there
hey
I'm your life
I'm the one who cares
they
they betray
I'm your only true friend now
they
they'll betray
I'm forever there
I'm your dream, make you real
I'm your eyes when you must steal
I'm your pain when you can't feel
sad but true
I'm your dream, mind astray
I'm your eyes while you're away
I'm your pain while you repay
you know it's sad but true
you
you're my mask
you're my cover, my shelter
you
you're my mask
you're the one who's blamed
do
do my work
do my dirty work, scapegoat
do
do my deeds
for you're the one who's shamed
I'm your dream, make you real
I'm your eyes when you must steal
l I'm your pain when you can't feel
sad but true
I'm your dream, mind astray
I'm your eyes while you're away
I'm your pain while you repay
you know it's sad but true
hate
I'm your hate
I'm your hate when you want love
pay
pay the price
pay, for nothing's fair
hey
I'm your life
I'm the one who took you here
hey
I'm your life
and I no longer care
I'm your dream, make you real
I'm your eyes when you must steal
I'm your pain when you can't feel
sad but true
I'm your truth, telling lies
I'm your reasoned alibis
I'm inside open your eyes
I'm you
Sad But True
But what if none of these things cause you fear? What if you are not scared of words or the living dead or fictions demons dreamed from obsession? What if you are not scared of war or yourself? What are we scared of? Dying ourselves? Loosing love? Do you fear werewolves, vampires, the beast within the beauty? Or do you fear only what you do not understand? The mists perhaps? Or the shadows? What happens at night when the sun sets? What comes out? Hum? What’s that? Oh. Yes. I see. You fear none of that. Then what is it you fear now? Ah. Your dreams. I see. Yes, sometimes nightmares can seem real. Take, for example, the poor visions of a young woman trapped in a world unlike her own in Frozen.
Tara knew something wasn’t right. They had gone from dark, spooky hallway to dirty valley. And the others were with her; not just Watch and Adam, but Bryce and Cindy and Sally too. And there, in front of them, stood the Phantom Master in all its hellish glory. It opened its fanged mouth and laughed.
“You chauvinistic pig!” Sally spat at it bitterly. “You bastard! I’ve waited long enough for this day to come! Today, I kill you!” she screamed. She raced toward it, sword pointed out, ready to run it threw. But the Phantom Master was quicker. In a blink of an eye, it grabbed the sword from Sally’s hand, turned it around, and impaled it in her stomach. She coughed, making a deep ocean of scarlet spray from her mouth. The crimson liquid also ran from the blade of the sword as well as her back and stomach. As it danced to the ground, painting it rose red, it made awful splattering, dripping sounds. Her face twisted in an unvoiced scream of agony.
“Come, come now,” the Phantom Master mocked. “Is that any way to treat your child?” It laughed again, smiling at her pain.
With her dying breath, Sally said raggedly: “I’m not your mother!” Then her eyes took on a distant cast as her hands fell limp away from the sword. She was dead.
“No!” Bryce screamed, his hand out stretched as if to grab her away from the animal. The Phantom Master looked up and smiled at him. He shook Sally from the sword, her body thudding as it hit the ground, splashing in its own blood. The demon stepped back. Bryce ran to her. He fell to his knees and held her in his arms, heedless of the blood. He cradled her, rocking back and forth softly, pleading for her life back.
The Phantom Master laughed harder. The creature walked behind Bryce slowly, sword in hand. Tara stood, frozen, helpless. She was like the others. They could do nothing as the demon braced the sword on his back behind his heart. Bryce didn’t move. He knew what was coming and embraced it. Life without Sally was no life at all. A single tear, perhaps of fear, perhaps of love undying, fell from his eye and rolled down Sally’s pallid cheek.
The Phantom Master thrust the sword threw his chest, the blood exploded, painting everything fiery red. Bryce’s eyes were closed, but now they flew open. Droplets of blood fell silently from the corner of his mouth. Bloody tears slid noiselessly from his eyes. He died because he could not live without the one he truly loved.
He collapsed on top of Sally. Tara flinched when she heard the horrid sound the sword made when the Phantom Master pulled it out of Bryce’s body.
Suddenly, the Phantom Master just disappeared; vanished into the ground. Tara looked around frantically until she heard a scream. She looked to her right to find that the Phantom Master had somehow appeared behind Cindy and was now holding the sword to her throat.
“Don’t!” Adam commanded. “Don’t do it!”
“Do what?” the Phantom Master asked. “This?” he mocked as he slid the blade of the sword dangerously back and forth across Cindy’s neck. Cindy whimpered. Tears began to flow from her eyes.
“Please,” Adam begged, “just let her go. She means nothing to you.”
“But she means something to you.” And with that, the Phantom Master made one last swift pass across Cindy’s throat, nearly decapitating her. Her blood washed over the ground, seeming to cleanse it of its sins. Adam fell to his knees in disbelief.
“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “No,” he said rising back to his feet. “No!” he screamed. “No, you bastard; damn you, NO!” He charged at the monster.
“Adam, wait!” Watch called, but it was no use. Adam didn’t want to hear. He was hungry with the lust of revenge. Watch could do nothing but run to aide his friend.
Tara stood there frozen with fear. She couldn’t move even if she had wanted to. It was like the Phantom Master had put some kind of spell on her.
Watch and Adam double-teamed the hellish imp. Surely with both of them working against it, they would be able to kill the beast. Or so Tara hoped.
Adam attacked from the right with his axe, Watch from the left with sword. The clang of metal was deafening. The Phantom Master picked Watch up off the ground by his neck and threw him against the nearby valley wall. He grunted, but stayed on his feet. The Phantom Master then disarmed Adam and slid the blade of his sword just under Adam’s ribcage. Adam looked down as he felt the warm dribble of blood. The Phantom Master laughed. Adam fell to the ground. His breath hitched; his hands shook. Finally, he stopped moving; his chest stopped rising and falling; he was dead.
Watch looked at the Phantom Master helplessly. He knew all too well what was coming. He shook his head and tried to back away, but it was to no use. He was trapped between the Phantom Master and the valley wall. The demon grinned hellishly, bearing a mouth of fangs.
“Now, you die,” it whispered. The Phantom Master drew his sword back and thrust it forwards with the force of a hundred men, impaling Watch to the wall. But Watch, unlike the others, did not die right away. He looked at Tara.
“I love you,” he mouthed. Tara began to weep fiercely, her body being racked with sobs. Then Watch bowed his head and closed his eyes. He waited for Sweet Death to take away his pain. He did not have to wait long.
Tara whimpered. The Phantom Master glared at her.
“Not yet,” it rasped. “Not today.” And then it was gone. Tara looked around for it, waited, but nothing happened.
Tara fell to her knees. She looked at the carnage that lay before her. Tears began to well in her eyes as she looked around. The calm blue sea became violent with emotion as the storm of fear and sorrow raged on silently in them. Tara brushed a couple fiery red strands of hair from her face. The dams were breaking; her reserves shedding.
She turned her oceanic eyes upwards and began to pray for her dead friends. Tears streamed down her wind-burned face. She begged for them back; for even just a chance to say good-bye. But she knew there would be none. The monster had made sure of that. The demon took away her every chance at happiness. She beat the ground with her fists, screaming in her torment.
She couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t do it by herself. Tara saw Adam’s axe from the corner of her eye. If the demon wouldn’t do it for her, she decided, she’d do it herself. At least then she could see Watch’s smiling face again. Taking the axe in both hands, for it was heavy; she flipped it up and stuck the back hilt in the dirt ground. She flung her arms wide and opened her eyes. She knew what she was about to do. She was scared. What if it didn’t work? What if she went to Hell? She was in Hell, she reminded herself.
The marine eyes began to shimmer with fresh tears. The sea of emotion was raging again. Waves crashed up, mixing the colors of the storm-tossed eyes. The brilliant blue mixed with the zealous green; the saintly white became an ominous black; the sunrise orange and yellow became the purple and teal of night. She opened her supple lips and screamed as she let her body fall onto the blade…
Tara jumped, screamed, and opened her eyes. She was in the black hallway where she had fallen asleep. It was all just a dream; a delusion brought forth by the creature. Adam was looking at her, for it was his turn to keep a look out. What made it even better was that Watch was next to her. He was still asleep. She threw her arms around him, causing him to jump, and kissed him deeply. He opened his eyes wide. When Tara drew back from him, she saw that he was blushing bright crimson. It was then she began to weep.
“Tara, what’s wrong?” Watch asked.
“I had a dream. So horrible. The Phantom Master; it, he,” her words were lost to the sobs.
“It’s alright,” Watch cooed, holding her in his arms. “It’s alright now.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” she wept. “I don’t want to play this game anymore.”
“It’ll all be over soon,” Watch said. “All over soon. Just hang on a little longer. It’s going to be done. I’ll make sure of it.”
“I think we should keep moving,” Adam said. Watch shook his head in agreement. He got up and gently pulled Tara up.
“We’re almost out of here,” Watch whispered. “We’re almost home. We’re safe now. You’re safe now.”
“You mean we’re almost safe.” Tara said darkly. Adam shivered. She sounded like Sally. Too much like Sally for Adam’s comfort.
Oh. You want me to stop. I’m scaring you worse you say. I’m sorry. It is late. Perhaps you should get to bed now. You can’t sleep? Well, there’s nothing to be scared of. You just lie in bed and close your eyes. Soon, the sweet blackness will come and cover you over. Oh. That’s what you’re scared of. I’m sorry. Well, pleasant dreams.
The Spider and the Flower
The day grows short
The flowers wilt
The birds stop their song
The spider filled with guilt.
The day grows cold
The stem no more
The river floods
The rain does pour.
The day grows dark
The color dies
The sun is gone
The spider cries.
The moon is out
The flower remembers when it came
The stars are out
The spider stops its game.
The web is done
The flower is dead
The spider weeps
And all is said.
The day is over
The sun sinks low
The spider sobs
The flower will go.
The time has come
The wind blows hard
The flower falls
The spider lets down its guard.
The flower is gone
The spider’s fame
The spider knows
The flower returned to the dust from which it came.
This is written about a friend of mine who was killed in a car accident when we were younger. I took it really hard, and this helped me get through it.
Ways to Come Down A Hallway
1. ambulate
2. bounce
3. bound
4. breeze
5. brise
6. cabriole
7. chasse
8. ciseaux
9. climb
10. coast
11. craw
12. creep
13. cross
14. dally
15. dance
16. dart
17. dawdle
18. dip
19. drive
20. fight
21. flip
22. float
23. flutter
24. fly
25. folly
26. foot
27. gait
28. gallivant
29. gallop
30. glide
31. hasten
32. hide
33. hike
34. hobble
35. hoof
36. hop
37. hop
38. hurry
39. hustle
40. jitter
41. jog
42. jump
43. lag
44. leap
45. leg
46. limp
47. march
48. meander
49. mince
50. mooch
51. mosey
52. pace
53. pass
54. perambulate
55. pivot
56. prance
57. promenade
58. race
59. ramble
60. ride
61. roam
62. roll
63. rove
64. sail
65. sashay
66. saunter
67. scuttle
68. shake
69. shimmy
70. shuffle
71. shuffle
72. skate
73. skip
74. slide
75. slink
76. slip
77. slither
78. soubresaut
79. spring
80. stagger
81. step
82. stomp
83. strain
84. stride
85. stroll
86. stroll
87. strut
88. stumble
89. swagger
90. sway
91. totter
92. traipse
93. tread
94. tread
95. trip
96. troop
97. trot
98. trudge
99. twirl
100. two-step
101. waddle
102. walk
103. wobble
104. wander
2. bounce
3. bound
4. breeze
5. brise
6. cabriole
7. chasse
8. ciseaux
9. climb
10. coast
11. craw
12. creep
13. cross
14. dally
15. dance
16. dart
17. dawdle
18. dip
19. drive
20. fight
21. flip
22. float
23. flutter
24. fly
25. folly
26. foot
27. gait
28. gallivant
29. gallop
30. glide
31. hasten
32. hide
33. hike
34. hobble
35. hoof
36. hop
37. hop
38. hurry
39. hustle
40. jitter
41. jog
42. jump
43. lag
44. leap
45. leg
46. limp
47. march
48. meander
49. mince
50. mooch
51. mosey
52. pace
53. pass
54. perambulate
55. pivot
56. prance
57. promenade
58. race
59. ramble
60. ride
61. roam
62. roll
63. rove
64. sail
65. sashay
66. saunter
67. scuttle
68. shake
69. shimmy
70. shuffle
71. shuffle
72. skate
73. skip
74. slide
75. slink
76. slip
77. slither
78. soubresaut
79. spring
80. stagger
81. step
82. stomp
83. strain
84. stride
85. stroll
86. stroll
87. strut
88. stumble
89. swagger
90. sway
91. totter
92. traipse
93. tread
94. tread
95. trip
96. troop
97. trot
98. trudge
99. twirl
100. two-step
101. waddle
102. walk
103. wobble
104. wander
Something I think I wrote when I was younger
It is in love that we are set free. For in love, we find joy, and in joy we are glad. Love is the key that shall set us free from our tombs of hate and grief. Love is a guide on this path of life that winds so hard ‘round things that try to block us. It is a light that saves us tears and pain and saves our heart the mess of an ache. It is at all times there for us in our time of need, and it shall never judge when it knows not of what has gone wrong. Love is kind and knows no ties. It does not look at us when we have done wrong with eyes of scorn.
Its eyes know just care with a soft touch. Its tone is low with no hint of ire. Love has a face of charm, pure skin that shines in the dim light of a sun that has set with the hues that dance ‘round high cheeks. Love has hair that falls as rain down a trim back of white snow. But love has no sex; it is not girl or boy. Love is what we make of it; it is just there to be with us in our time of need: a soul mate for rich and poor, for those who know no one, for those who have no hope left and lay in snug in the night.
Love can’t be sold. Love is not there for that. Love is not there at all, say some. It is just the mind. But they are wrong. They fear that which they do not know, and they do not know the joy of love. But love knows them and it calls to them with arms flung wide; it waits for them to come and to know it. Love does not care who you are; love will love you.
Love is no fool. The one thing that is a fool with love is that love does not stay gone though we may want it to. It will not go, and for that we must be glad. You may dance with lust, but love will not burn you as such. Love is not so harsh as to do that.
Love does not care that we are born to die, for love shall stay. When you close your eyes, you’ll feel the warm arms of love come ‘round you and keep you safe. Love will not hurt you, and if it did, it did not mean to. And love does not care what you have done in the past. Love shall love you for you, be it what ever you have done. Love shall be there to wake up with you and French kiss the first light of dawn. Love is just that way.
Love is a thing of joy! Sing out with love in your heart! Let those ‘round you know that you have found love and love has found you! Dance with love and not lust, for they are two things that are not the same. Find love and you shall find the very thing that sets us all free! And you will be full of glee, for you shall be warm in your mind and soul, and you shall be kind and fair to those ‘round you; for you would now know what love is and if you know, you shall know why it makes other full of mirth. And you shall love yourself.
Monday, August 23, 2010
And Two Huge Jumps Back!
This makes me really very sad. Very sad. And a little sick to my stomach as well. I mean, really... WTF! This is some crazy stuff here. Really. Real women have curves. Sorry, guys: not all women are sticks that you can wrap your hands around. We're not twigs. We are women and we have curves, damn it. Stop and think. It's one thing to be naturally skinny with your body height. But it's another thing to be so tall -- like she is -- and be a freaking stick. She looks ill. And she needs to eat a sammach. I will stuff a sammach down her throat into her stomach. Poor thing looks like she needs it. **Shiver**
LOS ANGELES (LALATE) – Tyra Banks’ Ann, the “smallest waist in the world” contestant, is sparking controversy Sunday. Banks is also under fire for praising Ann and her super skinny waist on the new season of America’s Top Model. Tyra Banks has in previous seasons hosted a plus-size models cast; Banks herself has even faced weight fluctuations her entire career and boasted curves coming in at size 8 to 16. But now Banks is now under fire for a model yet unidentified but only know as “Ann” from Texas.
In 2008, Whitney Thompson was a plus sized model winning the reality show. But now Ann is shocking the new ANTM season standing at 6′2” tall with virtually no waist. So far, local news doesn’t know her weight. While some articles claim she has a super skinny frame, her legs aren’t particularly skinny. And while her waist shocks the senses, her hips are not as narrow.
Tyra says about the contestant, “You have the smallest waist in the world. There’s something about her that I like.” The question is whether Ann is healthy and whether Banks is sending the wrong message for including someone with a waist of this size in her new season.
A year ago, Banks said TV needs to depict women in a real condition. Before the premiere of the 2009 season of the Tyra Banks talk show, Banks said “This season on ‘The Tyra Show’ we’re taking it to the next level and getting more real than ever before by encouraging women everywhere to own and rock what they’ve got and be proud.”
Tyra Banks’ Skinny Waist Contestant Ann Draws Controversy
LOS ANGELES (LALATE) – Tyra Banks’ Ann, the “smallest waist in the world” contestant, is sparking controversy Sunday. Banks is also under fire for praising Ann and her super skinny waist on the new season of America’s Top Model. Tyra Banks has in previous seasons hosted a plus-size models cast; Banks herself has even faced weight fluctuations her entire career and boasted curves coming in at size 8 to 16. But now Banks is now under fire for a model yet unidentified but only know as “Ann” from Texas.
In 2008, Whitney Thompson was a plus sized model winning the reality show. But now Ann is shocking the new ANTM season standing at 6′2” tall with virtually no waist. So far, local news doesn’t know her weight. While some articles claim she has a super skinny frame, her legs aren’t particularly skinny. And while her waist shocks the senses, her hips are not as narrow.
Tyra says about the contestant, “You have the smallest waist in the world. There’s something about her that I like.” The question is whether Ann is healthy and whether Banks is sending the wrong message for including someone with a waist of this size in her new season.
A year ago, Banks said TV needs to depict women in a real condition. Before the premiere of the 2009 season of the Tyra Banks talk show, Banks said “This season on ‘The Tyra Show’ we’re taking it to the next level and getting more real than ever before by encouraging women everywhere to own and rock what they’ve got and be proud.”
Friday, August 6, 2010
A Step in the Right Direction...?
Well, holy plus-sized panties, Batman...! Could Hollywood actually be heading a step in the right direction?
I was reading in a news article about how Christina Hendricks -- so far best known for her roles in shows like "Mad Men" and "Serenity" -- was named the new archetype of beauty. I was shocked, and it was in an entirely good way. Why...? Because she's beautiful. Because she's healthy. And because of her health, she's glowing and radiant. By far, I think that she is one of the prettiest women in Hollywood and/or on TV to date. Christina has that beautiful hour-glass figure that stars like Marilyn Monroe and Betty Page made famous -- and in their day, they were sex symbols. Now, those two women would be / have been pegged at fat in Hollywood -- all because they were healthy and you couldn't see their ribs. (Speaking of seeing ribs, aren't animals considered malnourished when you can see their ribs...? So, shouldn't someone be speaking out that they should eat more or something...? Just saying...)
Alright, so anyway, I think that this is a good thing. She's not a size two or four or six. I think the article said that she was a size 12 -- and please forgive me if I'm wrong. I read the article before I fell asleep the other night. And it's great that she's in the double digits when it comes to what size clothes she wears. Hell, even if she was a nine or 10 it would still be great, because it shows girls that they don't have to be so skinny that they make anorexic skeletons look fat. (And yes, I know that eating disorders are no laughing matter and nothing to thumb your nose at, but that's the image that younger girls and teens and even young women are bomb-barded with today. Likewise, the parent should be the one to talk to the girls about what's healthy and what's not, but that doesn't always work.)
I'm proud to say that the clothing size I wear is a nine. I'm proud because I'm healthy and I'm at a healthy weight. Yeah, maybe I could stand to lose five pounds, but it's not like it's going to hurt me dramatically if I lose or gain five in either direction. I'm not obese, I'm not fat - at least not in the sense of health; maybe in the celebrity standard - I'm comfortable in my skin. I'm comfortable being me. And now that a real woman has been named as the new archetype of beauty and sexy in Hollywood, it's my hope that more girls and women will be comfortable in their skin as well. Maybe with the old Hollywood coming back - the Hollywood that made those bigger-sized women sex-symbols - there will be a decrease in eating disorders that are seen in young girls and women today.
And no -- I'm not saying that you need to eat, eat, eat, eat, eat. I'm saying that you need to be at a healthy weight. You do need to eat - and you can eat whatever you want as long as it's in the right portions. That's the important part. And girls -- never ever let a man tell you that you're ugly because you don't weigh 90 pounds soaking wet. Never let them tell you that you need to lose weight because you don't look like a stick - like Keira Knightly. Don't stand for that shit. Be a real woman and bump titties with them -- you'll sure as hell win. Listen -- real women have curves. Get used to it. Grow up. Get real. REAL WOMEN HAVE CURVES. Women are supposed to be sexy and ample and supple and voluptuous all at the same time. If women were supposed to be as thin as twigs, then we would have been. 
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