CloverFace

There is a bunny rabbit that lives around the radio station that I work at.
He greets me at sunset and sees me off just before dawn.
He's round and plump but stayed safe from traffic this long.
I've named him Cloverface.

A Tale So Possible It's True

I have been melancholy of late. In an effort of affect my blues, I'd like to speak today of something close to my heart. wine.

Yes, wine. It may surprise you, but my familiarity with the beverage dates to my earliest adventures. I am credited with saving an entire year's vintage from ruination as a youth. In actuality, it was my prodigious steed who saved that year's wine. she was a beautiful creature. the color of ash and spotted snow-white, like the granite topped mountains of New England. She was just old enough to saddle and I was just aged enough to ride. It was a sparkling spring in the American colonies. Talk of taxes and governance pursed everyone's lips. But not us. Concord and I rode blissfully up and down mountainous passes, too youth too care for politics, too naive to think about rebellion.  Mr. Delacroix, to whom I was employed, a rotund man cheerfully mustachioed was the premier viner of New France (I'm told, today it's called Vermont). 

A brawny voice boomed over the rows of vines, "Foutre! The day, she is beautiful! Abruti, boy where are you?" Mr. Delcrioux's English warbled heavily with french slurs, "Le vin, we must check the wine!" 

I, as I was most often at dawn, was in the barn collecting eggs from the chickens when I heard  Delacroix shouts. I saddled Concord and, with the eggs in hand rode to meet him near the cellar. 

"He's always like this in the spring." I reasurred Concord as I dismounted.

The viner wobbled about the the cellar with a taster of tokay in one hand and a sloshing glass of his prized chardonnay in the other. his night gown swirled about his short legs. I tiptoed down the cold, stone stairs. He whirled about and i gave a starteld cry. Delacroix's excited face was wreathed in an wild corna of thick, black hair. The egg basket tumbled from my hands.

"Merde boy! don't frighten a man like that!" he cried, "le cervau d'un sandwich au fromage! eggs in the cellar? to the house with you." Delacroix sipped the tokay. "you have that horse of yours with?" he smiled. "hurry, quick for some breakfest, I have an important task for you, mon grand."

I found Delacroix on the porch after a quick meal of croissant and preserve. Delacriox sent me on errand to Newport. I was to find a group of exotic traders and give them a sealed letter and directions to the farm. giddily, we set our sights to Newport.

The trip to was hardly adventureous. But to an eager lad and best freind in hoof, it was a trail forged beyond tale. I spun tall fables and epic poems of my heroic consqest through the hills of New France. the bards would caterwaul my deeds was they did for ledgends past. 'Lo!' they would sing 'hear now the tale of the boy- no the man -  who carried the message for Delacroix Vinery!' High above, my daydreams soars in a cloudless sky. Beneath bows spurting youthful leafs Concord's trot drew a hyonotic beat. The midday sun painted green the rocky path.

We reached Newport late in the day without incident. The tavern was easy to find, it's lanterns already lit in the reddening light of dust. 

...

A day in the life...

The door of the tiny Boston apartment flung open.  It hit the wall with a terrible Bang and slid back on it hinges. Edmond was through the threshold as the door rounded on its arch.  He looked around: a filthy couch, a coffee table cluttered with beer bottles layered in shirts and mail (most of which was strongly worded letters about a final something or other). Over a short bar -yep there it was- the kitchen light flickered. He’d hoped it would burn out while he was working. It hadn’t.  The tubes flashed suddenly bright then dim, it was laughing. The door gave a haughty, giggling creak as it swung back open. Somewhere above him pipes rang and cackled all joining in at his mockery.  Edmond lit a cigarette. Back lit by piss yellow hallway lights he cast a short, thin and insignificant silhouette. Smoke drifted around him, engulfing his form. It drew close, swarming him like a thick cottony fog. Edmond was oddly aware of the ground lifting from his feet. A moment later he was air born. His cloud bore him upward; he drifted through the crumbling ceiling tiles, through Garrison’s flat with its ceaseless, cackling pipes. Now he was peering down over Huntington ave. from atop a boiling storm cloud. A brisk charge of lighting rumbled in the surrounding nimbi. Edmond plucked out his cigarette and stomped out the clouds. The kitchen light flicked on then rapidly off. Two choices: stay and be driven mad -madder he corrected- or go and replace that -fucking- light.  . Edmond thumbed the pill bottle in his pocket. Danté, Edmond 2 tablets per day as needed. PR: Miranti, Vincent J. He concerted it, the way one considers a tooth canal. Do I really need it this time? Maybe it’ll get better.

                George’s was open almost all the time. Except Fridays and whenever the Patriots were playing. A great red sign announced: HARDWARE. SUPLIES. The door chimed as he entered.

“Eddy!” the cry came from a great mountain of a man sitting behind a stubby counter.  A swath of sandpaper-grey beard greeted him with a toothy grin. “How da Fuck ah yoo, man?” George’s bulbous form wobbled at some joke Edmond failed to understand.

Edmond had been attacked twice on his way over. Once by a loin and once by a twitchy man with ash'd skin. To the latter he’d offered his immortal soul which the man wanted nothing of and promptly let him alone. “Fine.” He answered.

“Da Sox’s on, watchu need?”

“A light.”

“I thought chu quit smokin’... c’mon, J.D.!”

Edmond was about to offer a reply but Sosa crushed a ball into far right field. He decided to leave George to his swearing at the Red Sox’s right fielder. Edmond found himself moments later staring at cardboard-wrapped glass. Most of them were frosted, some were clear. None, however, looked to be the ones he needed. Moments of thought came rarely to Edmond. Mostly driven away by the growing chaos of his brain; or ceaseless chaos of the world outside his brain. It these rare moments of tranquility he thought mostly of Sandra. Had she been real? That’s stupid. Of course she was real. She used to be a regular at Hitters. Mikey even talked to her.

 Sandra, of course, was real. Bourbon on ice Sunday through Thursday at 8pm at Hitters - she was clockwork. She sat at the corner of the rail in the inkiest of shadows. Black hair cascaded over her ears and pooled at her soft shoulders. Steel blue eyes pierced her bangs. Her eyes burned blue holes wherever she looked. Sadly they mostly looked down or away. She was impossibly pale. Her skin looked as if it should reflect silver light as the moon yet it was dull, almost hidden in the night. Edmond had never seen her outside the bar but he often imagined her – when he could. Not in a profane manner (though he’d not deny his brain bearing images of her supple body). Rather, he pictured her rare smile. Lips like merlot would part ever so slightly, revealing pearlescent teeth in a demure grin.  Those lips never showed more than a little incisor before falling away. Rarer still were her laughs. Her voice-

“Oi! Eddy!” George boomed from the store front, “ah yoo al’ight, man?”

“y-yeah.” Edmond held his head, “How long was I standing there?”

“Only, like, an inning – c’mon!” George swat the T.V., “Can yoo b’lieve dis?” He gestured to the fuzzy screen. “ne’ermind. Its 8.50.”

Edmond patted his pockets. “Shit.” He recalled, vaguely, giving his soul and wallet to a crack head earlier that night. “I forgot: I got mugged.”

“Only yoo, man” George shook his head.

“I offered him my eternal soul but…” Edmond shrugged. George wobbled with laughter. “Eh. I should've known it was worthless.”

A silence passed between them.

“Hey, I got these.” Edmond pulled the pill bottle marked: Danté, Edmond 2 tablets per day as needed. PR: Miranti, Vincent J. George looked at the bottle for a moment and handed it back, minus two tablets. “Thanks.” He collected the cardboard-wrapped glass tubes.

“Yoo workin’ tomah'o?”

Tomorrow was Friday. Sandra was never at the bar on Fridays. “Pr’oly not.” Edmond nodded and the two parted with farewells and went separate ways: George to his T.V. and Edmond to … well, who really knows?

A brief look inside The Iliad II

     The Iliad II wasn't a grand ship. A simple freighter used primarily for transport. It was dull and Spartan, lacking any real frills. Garret drifted in the dark, weightless bridge. The control consoles were dead. The Marshal hammered on three of them fruitlessly. Garret left the remaining one untouched, assuming it as lifeless and useless as the rest. He drifted towards the rear of the bridge, guided by chrome hand bars towards the Living pod. He paused at the bright, white door to check his pistol. It was secure in the shoulder holster. With a grunt he pulled the door and floated through. Simulated gravity grabbed him as soon as Garrett drifted from the sterile, weightless bridge into the Living Pod. The where the crew would've lived, he reminded himself. Immediately he felt the familiar draw of force pushing him to the floor. Grey steel greeted his boots with a thunk that echoed eerily in the empty Living Pod. Garret pulled his pistol from the shoulder holster. Its cold weight felt comforting in his hand. This ship, the Iliad II, was strange, though he'd been on ships like it. A sign nearby depicted a stick figure climbing stairs. The black symbol of a man marched unarmed up. Below the pictograph the letters F2 and an arrow pointed to his left. Garret went right. A few twists of the hallway brought him into a large, open lounge area. Here, the steel walkway turned to green carpet. Garret looked up instinctively. Above his head, across the length of the Living Pod the same green carpet stared back. The lounge stretched circular up and around, encasing the inhabitants in a calm, softness that Garret found unnerving. At the center of the cylinder, a ball floated, caught outside the artificial gravity. Garret imaged crew members having bets about lobbing objects across the space, trying to encourage them to get stuck in the weightless space above their heads. Furniture here was mostly spare. A few benches that mimicked the old wooden pews of a church lined up on the wall (floor) to his right. In front of him, a cupboard was securely shut, also in mock wood. Garret supposed that vainer served to remind deep-space travelers of more terrestrial times. A few extra bits of furnishings, a chair and a great couch offered seating. But Garret was focused on the ladder in front (and slightly left) of him. It ran up the far end of the lounge towards the center on the Living Pod, to an access door that would lead him to the engines of this space freighter. Suddenly, Pain split through Garret's side. Another bolt pitched violently through his chest. The shots came from two directions. Together, they forced him down –out- to the floor. The Marshal fell forward to one knee. His hand flashed out gripping the spongy carpet to stop his fall. The carpet was marred with the travel of hundreds of foot falls. In its grains Garret was reminded him of something - of somewhen. A shower of bullet hummed angrily above his head, crashing like hornets into to pews behind him. Garret saw none of this. Hot blood soaked into the green fuzz. His. Through the haze of gunsmoke the bright droplets bloomed. The worn carpeting rushed out. Before him a lush field spread green deep in the throes of summer. 
 

     As a boy he once stood in the same field. It was a planet Garret thought he'd never see again. Yet, he stood there now. Wind pulled at him rudely rolling across the field of -were they poppies?- red flowers. It carried the fragrance of summer and nectar. To the south a dark line of trees, an ancient forest, beckoned. The trees waved soft branches offering a delightful rest at the base of their trunks. Promises of easy life and whispers of pleasures lifted to his ears. The great red blossoms swayed in the afternoon breeze. Something else drifted in the wind. Something he hadn't noticed as a boy but remembered always. Smoke. And a tinge of salt. Like a roast dripping into the fire. It was the smell of burning flesh. He found out later it was the dreadful final memory of his father. Garret turned, whirling on his heels. Behind him those men -those Bastards- appeared. Just as he remembered. Only this time Garret's hand flashed to his left should where his Widow-maker waited in loyally in it's plain leather holster. To his fright, the pistol was absent. Garret stumbled back. Fear -was that the feeling?- squeezed his heart. Too long, the thought raced at the back of his mind, since I left fear. Southward the trees called to him. Louder now. The breeze smelled sweeter too not just inviting him to rest, to safety, but demanding it. They were only two. He could easily out run them, hide in the forest. Maybe even escape to the south where bliss was promised. He thought it a good plan. Gerald turned to flee. The green pasture spread out, flowers bright spots in the fading light.


     NO! A voice careened through his skull like a bullet. CAN'T REST, YET! The boy changed, then. The field dulled, its light sapped away. From green strains of grass to grey striations in carpet flecked with blood. STAND! The voice cried, FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR FATHER! Garret's gun was already in his fist -no need to draw. The hilt burned hot, wet with the stains of his wounds. A cruel life taught him well. The pistol blazed, his finger flicked the trigger until the cylinder clapped empty. The lounge fell silent again. Even the echoes of falling bodies held their breath. The marshal stood, his empty gun scanning the Living Pod for more blood to be had. None. He teetered. Then fell.

Chapter one, final

An hour later the two caretakers appeared at the church soaked and shivering. Paul had never experienced such a dichotomy of blistering sweatiness and chill. his fingers were numb and his testicles boiled in heat ridden underwear. where the rain hadn't seeped into his clothes sweat stained the rest. He threw the short shovel to the church floor, splattering mud as he cleared his boots. A call came across the mud spectled oak. it was muffled but distance and age. it was the over-joyes voice of Father Sabismo, "Paul!" it was from the church basement echoing loud up the stairs by the rectory, "a change of clothes on first row before you come join us!"

Paul gladly accepted. a short time later, he found himself down to the church cellers. He was sporting an old tweed sweater and an ancient pair of jeans. though the father was about a head taller then Paul and his waist doubled with beerful living, the father had dug through his ancient store to find jeans from less fruitful times. The jeans only sagged slightly, comfortibly. He turned the last corner of the winding stairs and saw three men around a short table. Granite stone held back the fall of the building above. the stones along the eathen side were stained with the ceaseless drip of water. not from the night's rain, but the ocean-bound conditions of Holy Isle. the basement was dry only literally. Great caskets adorned the room. Wines and whiskeys across the right wall, beers and ales at the far end. Spirited voices greeted him hardily. A strange man sat, red faced between Sabismo and Mr Reming. He wore the grin of a man not used to smiling. A pair of bottles passed the table, each stopping for a moment before the stranger. who dipped them to his cup with a merry grace Paul had not seen since New Year's eve. His thin blond hair and bright red complexion was stark contrast to father Sabismo's mahogony skin and thick, black mane. it shook with laughter as the father slapped the stranger's back. prehaps to dislodge the drink he was choking on. Paul doubted Sabismo's emphatic slapping was much help.
"Ah told ja no'tta mix wine an' whiskey!" Cried the father. then to Paul, " HO-HO! join us, sir!" He spat the greeting sah. Mr Reming cracked a smile and tilted his scare-crow head to the vacant chair. oh that smile, Paul shivered in his warm sweater, "no...no I, uh, gotta..."
"'fraid, no." interjected the smally dressed man. he slurred out, recovering from his fit of coughing, "the rein, iz to much, junger." He might've spoken in oxford english not but a few hours ago, but hints of the rhine swelled in his nasally slurs.
"What Mr. Nueman is tried to say, is that the weather simply wont allow." Explained Mr. Reming.
"Adelberto!" Nueman threw an arm across the table, "Charmed!"
"Paul." He took a seat, knowing he wasn't going anywhere and he was far too tired to protest. Paul was immedeately afered three briming pints of amber tokay. he downed two right away and sipped the third. A round a laughter set the company at ease. Paul had never drank with Mr. Reming before. But he soon discovered what a delight the scarecrow of a man could be. Adelberto took a nap on the table as the tokay flowed more freely. At glasss six, or was it seven, "AH! tis a fine brew!" Sabismo suddenly anounced. "To Munchausen!" he cried, lifting his glass.
"aye, to Munchausen." Mr Reming, Charles as he was more accostom, agreed. the too aged men tipped their steins.
when the toast finished, Paul was about to ask a question that would be forgot when Sabismo anounced that if not for the late baron, he'd never have come across this fadulous drink. "But tis a story for anodder time, prehaps! Paul!" Sabismo turned, almost savagely to the young drunk, "ya ever meet the baron? 'eard o' him at least, eh?"
Paul shook his head. Sabismo looked agast. his eyes doubled in size, popping out of his brown face like great white dinner plates. a cold look came over the merry drunk. He shook his head. his great black mane twisted sadly. Paul was about to offer some poorly thought condoleances for his ignorance when Charles spoke, "We knew him well, we did." he jabbed the slumbering German, Adelberto, with a long, bony finger. "so did this fop." He poured a thimble glass of the whiskey as the wine had ran dry, "aye! ain't that right, father? Regale us! tell the young'en 'bout the time youse had the Czar's herem an' how the baron tricked him in to paying you for it."
"no, no" the suddenly marose Sabismo chidded, "no the boy wouldn't appeariate such a tale of lust and wonder." silence. "but..." Sabismo's brightness rushed back, "you might appeareicate the tale of how you and the baron saved the barony's reputation by traveling to the future."
"w-w-wait," Paul was a self-accompleshed bluffer. he had, on more then one occation won this months rent from travern poker. he prided himself on being a great lier. and as they say, it takes one to know one. "what? you can't 'spect me ta belief that you went to da future!" he protested.
Charles turned to Sabismo, "aye, but he is too unnoble to grasp the possiblities of the possible."
"EE KNEW DAT FLUGGERT, VONMUNCHAUSEN!" Adelberto had arisen. Rested, he drew him self a tall glass of whiskey, drained it and refilled his glass. "that blowhard stole celestrial love zat shulda bein mein...


GASP!
end-o chapter one.
remember, these are the unrevisioned copies here, now.
the debut. if you will.
Next chapter, Adelberto Nueman's tale of the Lady Farfaraway
(sorry Fro, Martin Crabsith with appear in Charles Reming's story.)
update tomarrow tho not Munchausenly, that'll be next week...y

-marcus

Revision: the Fantastic Adventures of Munchausen

    A chill breeze harkens twelve strikes of the midnight bell. They came slowly, cold and bitter. Each strike a mourning wail. "A graveyard by the sea" was his request. A few hundred clicks south of edenbrough sat the Church of Sabismo. The church, in grand colonial style, sat boldly on a short peninsula ringing its chimes to the endless sea. Quaint wooden stairs twisted down the rocky knoll to guide visitors safely to the church doors. The wreaths of white lilies, that looked so peaceful in the morning, now, in the desolate gloom of the eve, haunted the stairs like drooping ghosts. the sky was black as pitch. Not even the crystalline grace of the moon could shine with such sorrow in her heart. At the tenth strike of the hour, the clouds unleashed a pouring rain across the English countryside with a thunderous sob. Twice more the church bell rang out before the rain. It started slow drawing slowly in to a deluge. Father Sabismo, from the doorway of his old church, watched the undertakers' work. It was slow and angonizing to watch. A falsh of lightening lit the miseriable task. In the roll of thunder, the ancient priest blessed his age. Just a few years ago he might've had the spirit to comdend the son of a dear friend by his own sweat. But these days… A another roar of thunder lit the grave yard. The Baron, Elie ___ Von Munchausen. He imaged the writing on the grave, still open. Sabismo shook his great, heavy head and turned to the only attendant of Elie's, a sharply dressed man.

    Paul wiped his brow with the back of a grimy hand. Sweat or rain. He couldn't tell. Mr. Reming was yelling something that could not be heard over the din of the growing storm. Most likely the old fart was calling him a pussy and barking an order. Paul dropped another shove full of mud with a plop over the find oak coffin. Mr. Reming was dark and cracked from years under the working sun. Tall and jagged as scarecrow he leaned against the tomb stone looking as a death itself wit a smoldering cigar clamped in his yellow teeth. "Why can't you shove s'um dirty 'round?" Paul asked.

    "When I was yer age, I never demanded work from folks my age." Inder his broad brimmed hat the cigar glowed. The old fuck smiled. Broad, yellowed grin showed off his missing tooth. Paul hated Mr. Reming's smile. It was the smile of a man counting bodies. In thruth, Mr. Reming only counted them as one would count the years of life. He was 2,029, by his count though most would recin' him to be --. Too, bad. He loved to smile. An hour of labor silent through the wind and howl of rain.

    

Chapter 1: Stranger Happenings (fin)

Bitter stung her nostrals. A brown blob filled Lu’s vision. Slowly she began to make scence of it. eyes. a nose. kindly wrinkles, short black hair unblurred. Father Sabismo’s ancient face brought a smile. “Child,” the voice, a gruff murmur at first, grew into his rich, heavy cockney accent, “you fainted, easy now.”

Lu swung her legs off the oak pew bench, “Je… ah, Pardon. I…” She fumbled far the thin case concealed in her blouse. She took one, lit it and drew a long drag of arid smoke before asking Father Sabismo if he minded her smoking. he only shook his head. They sat in silence for a while. Thin reeds of smoke drifting into the air. The coffin was closed now. Lu suddenly stood. “I’m going to look at that man.” Lu placed a palm on the smooth lid. She could not stop here. to have come so far to see the man who brought her mom such pain. With a breath, she shoved.

The church doors flung wide with a sudden gallantry that turned the heads of all in attendance. A deep faced man strolled through the threashold. For an instant,  Mrs. Carrebelle believed she was staring at Elie VonMunchausen himself. yet, this man strolling in lacked the luster of granduar that famed the baron. but such is the way when stories become myth. a strong, jaw jutted forward, proud and reeking of noblity. not but the grey stubble of mutton chops on the great chin like carved granite. Lu closed her eyes. She had toiled about what it might be like to see the baron, her grandfather again after so many year. The emotional upwelling she had expect, prepared fore, came not. She watched him limp, his left leg aided heavily by a cane. even at 109, she thought, Munchausen moved too achingly, too stiff, too... something not quite Munchausenly. And the short blond haired boy padded along too close as if lead by leash and his face  painted too much concerned.

Lu turned to the coffin. before her a man. This, she suddenly knew, with out question, that this was no imposter. Laying so still, once a source of terror, was no more than a lifeless doll, harmless even. at 109 years aged the baron was handsome. His noble brow furrowed with an extravagant air. his square jaw and unquestible facial hair rang with nobility. despire his pale, aged skin and heavy, sick-soaked lids eyes, he looked as if he might leap from this very box and catch the next cannonball to Hungary. Lu cursed her earlier fear. Lu recalled that she was once told, death humbles all. But the Baron took to the grave with a vainglorious flare that there could be no doubt. Lu felt her knees weaken as hot tears blurred the peaceful body. This was the man that mother spoke of him as a curse. The one person that caused her so, so much pain.  

Chapter 1: Stranger Happenings

A chill breeze harkens twelve strikes of the midnight bell. They came slowly, cold and bitter. Each strike a mourning wail. “A graveyard by the sea” was his request. In the north of Yorkshire, over looking the friged atlantic, this church, in grand colonial style, sat boldly. Pearched high on a short peninsula it over saw the rocky shoreline to the east and wind-scoured plains to the west. Quaint wooden stairs twisted down the rocky knoll to guide visitors up safely to the church doors. The wreaths of white lilies, that looked so peaceful in the morning, now, in the desolate gloom of the eve, haunted the stairs like drooping ghosts. Not a light fell from the skies. Not even the crystalline grace of the moon could shine with such sorrow in her heart. At the tenth long cry of the bell, the clouds, with a thunderous sob, unleashed a pouring rain across the English countryside. Below, a gaunt faced minister opened the doors of his funeral home to the awaiting grievers. Father Sabismo was less surprised that only one person had arrived, but that she had shown at all.
A black sedan rolled to a stop. The heavy rain pecked at the long Duisenberg. Lu stared out the rain spattered window. A once carefree young woman stared back, rain marred the face. She heard the Fredrick’s boots on the wet gravel. Guadalupe Carrabelle, Lu as she preferred, was a wealthy woman of the French aristocracy. At, least that’s what she wished people to believe. In truth, she was lowborn. Lu gazed past that tender face in the rain to the solemn church upon the ridge. How she missed the warm air of Haiti. The sweet tang of tropic rain. This place smelled of herring and sheep even when it was dry. She pulled the black, lance veil down and lit a cigarette. Blue eyes met her brown ones as Fredrick opened her door. A flush of red to his cheeks, he quickly dropped his gaze. They walked together. An umbrella with one hand and Mrs. Carrabelle in the other Fredrick lead her to the church awning. Lu whispered a thank you, pronouncing his name in classic French with a long /e/. She watched the boy trot, blushing back to the Duisenberg. Lu smiled slightly inside.
A gruff weather-beaten voice intruded on her. “Ms. Carrabelle? Ms. Guadalupe Carrabelle? ‘ello?”
Lu shook her head, “Mrs. Carrabelle. Je Suis.” Her red lips pulled a final drag from the cigarette, “Pardon, moi. dis is the Baron’s wake.”
“Father Sabismo.” the elderly man bowed. “Mrs. Carrabelle right-”
“Please, Lu es fine.” She interrupted, “to see an African child so far from home reminds me of mine. It is a comfort, father.”
“A child I ‘ave not been for a while, ma’am,” Sabismo chuckled, “nor ‘ave I seen Africa. Still I’m ‘appy to ease the family of the departed. Come,” the priest offered an arm. Lu slipped her gloved hand into the crook of the father’s elbow. He was a muscular man for the great age he carried. They stepped inside. The scent of pochulli hangs in the dry air. It is the scent of the grave. From far away a shadowed hand grips her soul. Each foot bringing her closer to the Baron then she’d ever been. Lu felt her heart jump. What cruelty was this! Certainly, the father could hear her heart pounding. It drowned out their footfalls, the patter of rain and the howl of the wind. lub-dub! It drowned her too. lub-dub! lub-dub! She fought to breath, to suck in that rank, grave air. lub-dub! lub-dub! lub-dub! The casket stood before her now. Open. The peak of his nose rose above the swells of his cheeks. lub-dub! lub-dub! lub-dub! lub-dub! Lu could take no more. She fell into blackness.



Ok, so I had hoped to get to the interesting, overarching, establishing plot part of this chapter, but today ran off, and i near missed my deadline.

STAY TUNED!

OK!
First: Thanks, all for reading
Second: backed by popular demand i will be updating this space (as intially intended) more regularly
third: updates will now be weekly on tuesday.


I wanna do an interactive story but i need people to create characters.
rather, i want people to create a character to attend a funeral. the funeral is for one Baron Elie VonMunchousen. Their are three other guests when you're character arrives. Pope Sabismo the second, presumebly at the funeral for the baron to read the lord's prayer, is renown as the first african pope. His mahony skin blends richly with his ornate robes. He is talking with the late baron's well-known cohort, Finnius Maximous. Sir Maximous, of course known most for his invition of the first steam powered spider. Unfortunately Finnius' mechanized contraption prove an unrelaible form of transportation. The third guest sits off in the corner of the room. She is a broading sort, it seems. She holds a great, black, leather-bound book which she occationally glances at and turns her mocha-soft face into a black lace hankerchef and sobs. whats most striking about her is the gothic, almost medevil mourning gown she wears.

So You all should submit a describtion of your character, how they are related to the baron and who they interact with to IRmiranti@gmail.com and next week (tues or Tues the third of nov.) we shall learn more about the Baron and his mystrious death and his astranged aacquaintances. ;)

-marcus

prologue

who cares? the story isn't about what happened prior; it's about the now (on 'now') in which the players act. if background is needed then it is only needed to establish setting, tone, pasing, or to frame the events -the interesting- events of the story. that said, this prologue is merely a history of an up coming story. truly a prologue of prologues. writen before the story has began. writen before the tale's undertaking. writen as a prelude to a parible.

is anyone reading?

for those hardened and curious, i will instill in you, my captive audiance, the start of a story - the section reserved for exclusion but editors

To start from the very begining would be to begin at the stare of my tale. instead let me begin by starting at the event just before the following enchantment...

The Driver

The bottle is my companion. Suzie? she follows me. Like vultures follow the cattle across the desert.

He is a broken man, Edger, slumped and bitter clutching a 750 in a pale-white fist. beside him, the impassive form of a cat curled a restful nap. He is curled him self, folded against the wall. Bent from end to end. A ragged, unshaven face is hidden behind bedraggled, dirty, wavy locks. If one were to approach, the figure would lash out with undetermined swipes. threaten to relive him of his precious liquid, and the slumped man would fight the devil him self. He is a naive, a braggart, a drifter. he is alone -at least he believes. Suzie, the feline companion that trails him, is a solid black Tabby. She was rescued from a cold, friendless future. In his leathered appreal she found safty and comfort. She is his traveler, for better of worse. Suzie lays inches away from her drunk Savior. In an hour she will awake, stretch, and position her self close to his heart -his chest- and purr with sleepy satisfaction should his breath be steady. Unbeknownest to the drunkard, Suzie has saced him seven time before. Once by viciously biting, clawing at his neck, she startled Edger to simi-consciousness from and opium induced sleep earning her a sprained paw and crooked tail in the process. Still she stubbornly stayed with him. He would tell you that Suzie traded two of her lives for his.

Tonight, Edger was in a foul mood. Even before he started drinking, he rolled into a local shop and flung open the doors. He floored a bar patron who voice his preference of dog to "useless, lazy, lady kittens" He left the premises quickly to buy a bottle of mid-shelf rum at a quaint liquor store with money earned as a working farm-hand. Edger loved his work. What ever it might be. Often he was paid the best to lift. seeding, and corralling was similar enough. He didn't even mind the Mexican laborers who shouted at him in a mix of Spanish and Spanglish (all of which he pretended to understand). He smiled and laughed when it seemed appropriate, or some times for no apparent reason. Working was when he smiled the most. He loved things that stole his time and concentration. Unfortunately, work was slow. Nothing to be harvested and no establishment were hiring in these times. So, with not buy his thoughts and Suzie to fill his down time, Edger turned to a patron this night.

Her name was Vidette. Silken black hair spun down, over her sweet round face. dark eyes, broad forehead and amber skin. Vidette, Ve, as she like to be called, was of Cazella stock. Born in another place, she served as a waitress at a local delicatessen while her brothers worked the same farm as Edger. She was a picture of Grace and discipline.


....So fore those not in the know, I've gained much time from my recent work place. not for them cutting hours but of my own accord. (they took full advantage of my willing absence.
Anyway, this has given me much time to write, write, write.
Like i've ment, to, every day i will.
This is a sample of the stuff i've been writing. Displayed, for the first time. Congratuations, world. Expect moar.
Based on what (how) people comment (if they do) will dictate my future postings.

-love, Marcus

this is the story of a rock

Backed by popular support, A story.

this is the continuation of another, unfinished post seen: here Which is the second part of tale. the first part

or, for the lazy (and my own interests of continuity):

She never liked to known "a rock." by rights, she was stone, a boulder, heaved and thrown, cracked and stolen from bedrock. time had placed her atop a screne hill overlooking a meandering river and, for the forseeible future, it was her final resting place. Stone had never bothered to count the laps of sun-and-moon as they chaced eachother across the heavens. She imagined that sometime ago, long ago, one had stared to chace the other; time had errased predtor from prey and the sun-and-moon simply followed.

In time a more industious spieces settled in the forest along the river. the herd called themselves "villiagers." Their herd lived in a village frequented by other, similar folk, "merchants," "travelers," "warriors," and more exotic and mundane names. it was all too confusing to the Rock. Soon she simply called them all "Folk." as it happened, one summer's morn, a Folk stopped by. It was a man. She marvled at the Folks' need to name themselvs.

this man was differnt then other Folk. the man stayed with her. He built a shelter by her and sang songs on the warm nights about her, about the wind, about anything and about nothing. Winter came and the rock began to fear the man would leave; as she had become so accoustom to him. She antisipated, like geese at the frost, he would take to the winds. When he didn't, the Rock was overjoyed. He sat on top of her in the setting hours and a woke each morning with the sun.

the winter was long, but so too was the following spring and summer. The rock had become found of this Folk. of this man. But she began to desire her solitude. His trips each evening wore a path in her moss. His dwelling buried around her and cramped her, ans stole her eastern winds. cooking fires scarred her and the man's present chaced away much of her beloved forest game. and the man's home attracted merchants to the village, to her; their steps wearing a trail in her beutiful prairy grass flowers. But still she loved the man. She love the man's love. so, again, she rejoyced when winter came and the man warmed her.

One evening, the man dragged home a deer. Normally the man cleaned his kills by the river, but winter grew close and winds were fierce. the man cleaned the deer and hide next to her. He had no time to sing that night. Time grew hasteily to Folk, and this man was no different. the rock knew the man was meant to be bird and not a rock.

that night when the winds tore and rain stung, she did not shelter the man as she had done before. The storm raged. late in the maelstorm, the rock, on Rain slick mud, moved for the first time in ages. as she slipped away, she turned a last, love long glance to the man hundled in deer furs.

The rock rolled down, down, down and with a mighty dive jumped in the river below.

The man looked on, traquility upon him. the rain softened and ceased. the skies lightened with the approch of dawn. the rosy welcoming hugs of dawn warmed the man's equanimity into a burning wanderlust. a song on his lips even before his first step.

Miles she rolled on the river bed, pushed brutally on by fridged waters the rock's heart suddenly warmed. The man's song reached her here. If it is possible for a rock to do so, She smiled broadly.


-marcus

this is the story of a rock

She never liked to known "a rock." by rights, she was stone, a boulder, heaved and thrown, cracked and stolen from bedrock. time had placed her atop a screne hill overlooking a meandering river and, for the forseeible future, it was her final resting place. Stone had never bothered to count the laps of sun-and-moon as they chased eachother across the heavens. She imagined that sometime, long ago, one had been prey and the other predator, but the roles where lost with the ages and only the path remained. although the hill was sparce of trees, the river feed the valley. It grew rich with greenery. fauna flourished and she watched with great interest the ballet of animal life, of caution and need, of death and survival, of sex and courtship, of solitude and socialism.

this is a story of a man

this man was a traveller by nature. he love the wind and the rain and the sun and all things that came and went with them. as it happens, in his travels, the man came to a great crossing. a fork. the path he could follow or the river. he sought a hillside to ponder. upon the hill sat a great rock. it was the most beautiful rock the man had ever seen. it was not precious ore from which this stone's beauty arose. rather the way it had been torn from the very earth and shifted and scarred bestowed it a sublimity unmatched by anything the man had ever witnessed. so awed was he, the man vowed to stay by the stone until... well, until even he didn't know.

the man had never seen such an unmoving object that was so well travelled. he lived by the rock. sat with it and watched the setting world. told it jokes, shared secretes. he would run his fingers over the moss on the rock's soft north side and caress the deep unhealed scars of it's southern. he would lay his back on the rock's warm western face and read long passages from his favorite tomb and some times from his own dairy. those were special times. in return, the rock kept him sheltered well against storm, as a small cavern it provided on it's eastern side. from there the man could wake each day to the river below. it kept him warm with the many game of deer, rabbits and more from the woods. feed well, too.

for many years the man lived with this rock. often other travellers would wander by going each their own way. each would stop and look out from the hill and breathe the rock's beauty before embarking once more. often the man would stare into the eastern sky and watch with tearied eyes the freeness of the stars, of the seasons, of the sun and moon and wind. he would stare down at the restless waters below in curiosity. where did that water go? for where did it come? he would lay a palm on the rock. it needed him and he could not leave it. "someday, someday," he told him self each night.

this story is not yet over. the man still waits, for what? he is unsure.