THE MUCH HAPPY CHANCE OF HAWTHORN AND GUENNIVERE:

Hawthorn found himself intoxicated by the memories of the night they had spent together; he could hardly extract himself from the burning notion of her embrace. She had been the dazzling, posphorescent spark the life that his drab and discontented little world had momentarily revolved around. Now that he had suddenly returned from memory, awoken to his former misgivings and responsibilities, he could not solve the startling problem of his overwhelming dependency: her bright and beautiful eyes, her warm and caring smile, the softness of her innocent touch; in fact, he had begun to recogize that only with great difficulty could he actually think of anything else.

Hawthorn feared altering her in any way, or causing her harm of any kind, or failing her, in a myriad of foolish and over-complicated ways, which he continued to feverishly devise. He wondered by what uncertain right he had come into her life, bearing gifts of little more than that same brave honesty which she had promised unto him. He had been so immediately smitten by her calm and knowing show of gentleness and grace; how then could he refrain from the feelings and the fear within him, which unrelentingly suggested that somehow he would bring about his own undoing within this happy escapade.

His heart was burdened, and often torn, wrent with many deep and unyeilding scars; yet he longed to know the warmth and peace he had seen within the hearts of so many others, who had been met with many forms of fortune, or of providence, within that throbbing course of love, which had served only to lead him to a lasting well of pain and tears. Hawtorn trusted her beyond any form of reason, and knowing not why it was that he should care with such enduring tenderness for her, strove to find or somehow capture the many words with which he believed he might then write to her of his ever deepening sentiments; ever complicated now by the distance put between them, and the sudden pangs of lonliness he felt.

Would she ever find the indwelling desire within herself to accept what little that he was? Would he ever feel worthy of her generosity and kindness? She had taken him in, had provided him with shelter, and had smiled with such a strange and stirring resplendence in her eyes; such that he had been both utterly and unquestionably captivated by her. He knew from what she said that she was in many ways imperfect: yet ever and alas, poor Hawthorn could hardly see such frail and meaningless imprefections, which she saw reflected within herself; he could only smile, and whistfully imagine her calm and yeilding touch, accompanied by the softness of her voice.

Hawthorn was afraid she might find the scars he had hidden within himself, and be repulsed by their brooding grotesqueries of nature; for he often worried that the ghostly troubles of his past might continue to haunt him even still, amidst this present joy. They had shared in much tenderness and laughter, they had walked together by sacred woodland paths, they had kissed and held each other, and spoken then with much honesty and softness. She had been pleasatly surprised by him, and also he by her; after pausing for a moment and comparing scars, it would seem that they had much to learn of one another. For should this much happy chance be somehow combined, in future, with their mutual desire for one another; perhaps both Hawthorn and Guennivere shall one day earn their happy ending, after all.

HOPE REVIVED:

More Reasons Not To Dispair:

Where’s my optimism?

Why is it always so easily slipping away?

I have no reason to fear

Except that fear comes so naturally,

In the world today.

Every piece of news we hear is

Telling us to worry about something,

Or everything.

But everything is still alright with you,

Everything is still just fine with me.

We’re still fitting together,

Almost seamlessly;

So there are no tears in the fabric,

No matter how hard I might try

To spot them, and stop them, before they spread.

Yeah, you’re still hoping to see me,

And I’m still hoping to see you,

And hope is something grand.

Small words can work miracles

On minds that are off-kilter.

So why should I dismiss this small talk?

It’s more than useless chatter.

Every word is a small step

In some future direction.

A building block to add to a stockpile of hope,

And these blocks have values, even in themselves.

If the mountain of hope does crumble,

The pieces will remain as

Pleasant memories.

VIBRANT MEMORIES HAVE I STOLEN:

Without Hope, What Then Do We Have?

Memory is indeed a precious thing -- but as I have experienced it, tenacious, fickle and ever-fleeting -- you who have the better memory must revel in its riches -- while I, ever the forgetful, am left only to hope; yet I often pause, when I am able, to partake of such fond rememberings.

I remember you wore a green dress, and carried a white parasol. We spoke with the vendors in the market, and played music on our balcony; I feel it did exist in truth, and yet it cannot -- whose memories are these?

It would have been a grand one -- think you not? Yet ever now, both alas and alas. How strange the world would be should they be enemies -- yet, who decides? Are we truly safe in one another's care?

What desires they would have, what untold potentials -- but would they share with us in our vision -- or would they turn, only to destroy, usurping their creators?

Whom would prove most cunning and most brave; most deceitful and most loyal; most hatful and most strong? Such worlds do but swirl into existence before our very eyes. How lonely we must be -- destined makers of such empty worlds.

The sunlight in your eyes, and the wisdom in your song -- we walked white beaches, amidst the call of many birds, and the flowing of pristine waters. Our travels were vast, but it was hardly the distance that was important -- rather it was always within the heart of the imagination, and within the depths of the illusion.

They must needs be -- for they are as glorious as they are intangible.

Perhaps I should write, one day, of our travels -- while it is not you, nor is it I -- who travel on this vast, translucent tide of odd, unsettled dreams -- we are altogether elsewhere. Yet something of us each remains within, lurking near the shadows of a vision of perfection.

If only because it revealed some truth we are, ourselves, somehow, uncomfortable to comprehend -- yet such truths are valuable -- even as they are unwanted.

We gave heed to none, passing through the vines of ancient gardens, peering through the gates of forbidden vales and holds -- we would speak with all the hidden peoples of the earth, and they alone would display for us their beauty. We climbed through vaulted palaces of marble and of gold, to reach the sombre, untamed peaks of long forgotten monastaries, where we studied in the libraries of the elder ones, and wrote of our discoveries, all within the sacred books we call the soul.

Who are these bright, uncanny travelers, and what secrets must they hold?

MY NAME IS JANE:

Spare Any Change?

I dunno why I want to talk to you, but it just seems right, somehow. I want to tell you a story. I ain't much of a storyteller, so I'll tell it just like I used to read those little stories to wee Ruth, my little girl.

Once upon a time, there was this girl. She wasn't no peasant girl, but she weren't no princess, neither. She didn't have so much money, but she worked hard. She wasn't too pretty or too bright, but she got along. Ordinary, y'know. And one day, she met this man. He was nice enough, pretty ordinary too, if anyone else had seen him, they'd hardly have batted an eye. But he was a good man, a gentleman, in his own way.

Well, you know how these things go. They were friends, and then best friends. They would hang out everywhere together, at the movies, in the little cafes all around. It was a great time. I don't quite remember how everything happened, but then one day, they were getting married.

The night before the wedding, they were out at the beach, just looking up at the stars, and the man said something I'll not forget. He was all quiet for a bit, and then he started saying to her, "I don't know quite how to put this. I'm not the best or the smartest man in the world, I'm no one special, really. But tomorrow, I'll be the happiest man in the world, because we'll be sharing the rest of our lives together."

I dunno if I'm quite remembering it right. It sounded real impressive at the time. Anyway, so the wedding went on and everything was as happy as happy could be. She gave birth to a beautiful wee girl, and the two of them, they loved the girl, just as much as they could.

As the little girl was growing up, she was a pretty wee thing, but there was one thing people were always asking questions about. Y'see, she didn't play with dolls and Barbies, like the other wee girls - she wanted to play with dinosaurs! She was so smart too - she knew all their names, and which ones ate plants, and which ones were bad and wanted to eat the other dinosaurs. So her mummy, she went out and bought her a big stuffed dinosaur, all cuddly and soft, and brought it home for the little girl. That big stuffed dinosaur became the little girl's absolute favourite! She would take it everywhere - sure enough, I remember she even brought it with her to the dentist and asked if the dentist could do a quick checkup on the dinosaur's teeth! She didn't want it to be getting no cavities.

Not long after that, the mother, she started forgetting things. It was kinda funny at first, but then it started getting scary. I can't remember much of this - strange, that.

Anyway, it got so bad that the man decided he couldn't live with the woman anymore. He took the little girl, and they moved far away. The woman was really sad, but what could she do? She knew she couldn't take care of the little girl anymore. one day, she was trying to clean the house, when she suddenly realized that the man had forgotten to take that big stuffed dinosaur with him! She rushed out of the house with the dinosaur, thinking that at least she could send it to her little girl.

But she got all turned around and lost. She didn't know what to do. She couldn't even get back to her own house. She wandered around the streets, clutching the stuffed dinosaur, looking in vain for anything familiar.

Finally, she gave up. She found a dry patch to lay down on, and fell asleep.

It's almost a year now, since she left that house, clutching her little girl's stuffed dinosaur. Today's her birthday. All she wants is to find a post office and have enough money to send the toy to her little Ruth.

Can you spare any change? And can you show me where the post office is? Please?

THE BUS RIDE HOME:

Reflecting On One Gray, September Day:

Welcome to the Great White North, both strong and free,
Tell me Ms. DiFranco, do you still want to move here
To escape from the powers that be?
'Cause down on de Maisonneuve the sounds of shots rang out,
We’re just of free here to buy weapons to scream to shout.

Hey, Coupeland, won't you come take a look,
Will these kids live and die living like those in your book?
Hey, Michael, your Canada theory doesn’t stand,
Because there’s no less fear in our native land.

There’s no explanation that quite explains the root,
Of why some folks transform pain to terror and then begin to shoot.

Guns flood the streets of Toronto, girls die on boxing day;
Young men terrorize students, with weapons both legal and paid,
And Bill’s in Japan, feeling this pain all alone,
While I ride past the school, everyday on my way home.

They used to ask, where you when Kennedy was shot,
Or when man landed on the moon?
Then, where were you on 9/11 when the war began again so soon?
And for the next day, for the next week, it’s all that’s on our minds,
Where were you when Dawson became a word synonymous with Columbine?

We search for some explanation but still we’re at a loss,
And the best we can do now is to ask,
How many lives will this one cost?

RETREAT OF THE FURIES:

My Cup, Overflows:

As the ravenous Occultists swarmed towards our pititful holding, I triggered the detonators, sending a hail of sickly, dismembered limbs in all directions. The explosions glared in frenetic blue and yellow, against the descending grey of night. Their screams of tormented anguish lingered onward, their bodies burned and flailing, as others stampeded over them, with voracious intent.

It seemed obvious to my companions that our current poke-hold amidst the blackened ruins was quickly becoming grossly inadequate, and they shouted something incoherent, amidst the blaze of our tachyon semi-automatic rifles. I was loathe to depart, yet necessity was loudly beckoning, as I raised my scope to gather Overlords and Automotons emerging also from the sordid depths ahead.

As we broke cover for the sewers, I clamped down a ragged trail of detonators covering our disorderly retreat. Arrayed against us the Overlords took wing, the seething fires of their rancorous swords reflected in their eyes, whilst the Automotons advanced, beginning a devastating missile barrage. Horrific plumes of purple smoke rose on high, as the ruins collapsed around us.

With reckless abandon did the Occultists continue to advance, trampling their fallen beneath a tide of cruel and heedless feet. The Overlords descended upon the ruins, slashing furiously through their lesser cohorts, intent upon themselves devouring the tender morsels of our wasted flesh. From deep among the shattered ruins, we gasped for breath; what few of us remained, not scattered, injured, deceased or leaderless.

As the torrential din of the malicious hordes above us drew ever near, I ordered all to tilt their visors and light their torches; we burned downwards through the hardened steel and concrete, expecting to eventually intersect with the farthur buried tunnels of the ruins which lay beneath. As we broke through, and the route of our escape seemed somewhat temporarily more certain, we abandoned both the wounded and the torches; yet before tossing my lumbering form downwards into the uncharted abyss beyond, I paused to activate the detonators with my last remote, which tore a twisted, malignant opening in the foul and frenzied mass of writhing minions lodged above us.

CREATURES OF THE NIGHT:

Who Art, In Heaven:

A silver figure emerged from the oppressive confines of the sweltering night, while the measured calm of the acid shower falling from the clouds slowly scarred the dank, harsh and yellowed hulking wreck of her surroundings. The complex was vast and desolate, populated by unthinking horrors, lurking savagely amidst the tarnished ruins; yet these were not her quarry, as she settled silently beneath a distaff and discarded member of a heavily armed patrol.

He paused to gaze over the gallant outlook, waving once, as he turned his back upon his comrads. The poisoned rain ever spilling downward, through the puddles at his feet; he scanned the dark horizon, stopping only once to check the proofing on his firearm, after clearing a troublesome blockage in his breathing apparatus. Returning once to the drab comforts of the gaunt horizon before proceeding any farther along the vile, infested exterior, before he was suddenly alerted by the scraping sound of movement along the wall below. Readying his weapon, peering desperately into the night through the mounted infrared sensor, he turned to flag his fellows for assistance which would never come.

They lay shattered, broken and dismembered, surrounding the tattered remains of the patrol vehicle, bent and acid-etched. At his approach he was surprised by the horror frozen in the faces of their fallen forms: limbs wrent, mouths gaping, acid seeping through disloged equipment, disfiguring what flesh would lay beneath. Aghast, he reached to report the grisly scene and at once desired aid, yet his transponder would fail to function as the silky creatures of the night descended, resplendent in their voracious fury, rivaled only in their prowess by she who now looked onward, from the slowly coalescing shadows.

TRIALS OF THE INNOCENTS:

Thy Will, Be Done:

In recalling our first meetings, brief, furious and deadly, we knew eachother only in passing, as shadows, purchased and manufactured. She as a rogue counter-espionage agent; he as a failed corporate entity, a commodity which would not be contained. Her knowledge of the craft, combined with her reputation for both proficiency and discrection unsurpassed, made her valuable; conversely, his value was quickly fading, as he dwindled upon the brink of obscurity, a discontinued prototype, malcontent and obsolete.

Within his pain and rage, those who had brought him forth, had unknowingly forged an inexplicable union of both sacred and profane. He was to be the first, the foremost of his bloodline, a new breed of holy warrior, scorched by the breath of the infernal, empowerd by the words of the divine. None would live to know the horrific magnitude of that ambitious error, for those who sought vainly to discover it, were only among the first of his tormented victims.

FLESH OF OUR FATHERS:

Forgive Us, Our Sins:

All records of our youth which yet remain, both distorted and uncertain in their own accounts, seem at once to confirm that the first of the killings and abductions were silent and painless; throats slashed open in the night, writhing bloodied fingers clutching, lungs quickly punctured, helplessly emptied of breath, before even the wind itself had heard a sound. Many children were taken in those early years, myself included; blinded and butchered by genetic tampering, altered and augmented, trained to walk unseen within the bitter unrelenting darkness, breeding slaughter, terror and dissent, for abyssal purposes which we ourselves failed to comprehend, at the maniacle behest of our wretched, cybernetic masters.

While none dared spin tales of our self-aggrandizing anti-heroism, some would find what few wild and bitter fragments of our voyage which remained. We brought ourselves together out of infamy; the dregs of society we were; a scourge upon mankind, armed and dangerous, thought better exterminated, slain in the streets, as a tribute to public safety and hegemonic dominion. The suffering and malice of our lives became both our blessing, and our curse; for we gained through it such harsh talents, which enabed our meagre survival, within the pestilent and shambled ruins of our tortured world.

THE LOSS OF PERFECTION:

The Nature Of The Divine, As Described By The Talented Hetanshi:

After all this time of witnessing the perpetual déjà vu he finally took notice. The sign read, “All I need is your kindness.” How odd, he thought. He expected a generic “Please donate food or money” sign, but this was just puzzling. For the first time in over a year of just walking past in a self-absorbed state, he stopped to look, really look.

The man was wearing a black cap, a black jacket with holes here and there, and black pants in the same condition. Everything he wore was black, he thought, also odd. Everything was black, except for the man’s shoes. They were white, a white so pure that they seemed to burn his eyes when he looked at.

“This is the first time you’ve ever stopped,” said the man. “Why after all this time would you stop now?”

“I just read your sign,” he replied foolishly.

“What’s your name?”

“Rydan,” he couldn’t pull his eyes away from the man, “What’s yours?”

“I don’t believe in names, Rydan. Other people give you names, everyone should give themselves a name.” His eyes burned into Rydan’s, but Rydan couldn’t figure out what colour they were; they almost seemed to be changing constantly.

“You look confused, why?” asked the man.

“I don’t understand your sign.”

“Then it seems I’ve proven my point.”

“What?” Rydan responded even more confused.

“This world is losing its humanity.”

“But there are plenty of people everywhere.”

“I didn’t say it was losing its people, I said humanity. What makes us human?

“Our intellects,” Rydan answered immediately, the answer was drilled into him from the moment he was able to understand it.

“Well, if that were true then by definition some people would be more human than others.”

“I’m lost again.”

“Some people are clearly smarter than others,” he didn’t even wait for Rydan to nod with understanding, “therefore, by your definition, some people are more human.”

“But -- then -- I don’t get it -- what makes a human?”

“Emotions -- every person has a range of emotions, and that’s what makes them human.”

“I still don’t get your sign.”

“All I ever needed in this life was to have someone come to me, to tell me that they care: that they care that people have no homes, that they care that people die of worthless causes everyday, and that they care about people other than themselves. But it’s never happened; not once. You’ve been seeing me here everyday for more than a year now, and in all that time no one has ever told me they care. I don’t even think people read the sign. Why do you think it took you such a long time to notice me, to actually read my sign?”

All the things this man was saying flooded into Rydan’s mind. Was it possible to be sane and insane at the same time he wondered, not knowing where the thought came from.

“Why, do you think that I’m sane and insane at once together,” the man asked. Rydan stared up in surprise.

“Did I say that out loud?”

“No.” The man lifted himself off the pavement and stepped toward Rydan, his black coat flowing behind him. With each step he took Rydan felt a weight pounding on his head, yet at the same time he felt light enough to float. The man put his had on Rydan’s shoulder, and the world became dark around him -- his world disappeared.

He opened his eyes to see the man standing over him.

“You were out for longer than I thought.” He stretched out his hand for Rydan to take. As Rydan grabbed for the hand he realized he was lying on a bed.

“Whose bed is this? Where am I?”

“In my world.”

“What?”

“Come with me.” Rydan followed the man out onto a balcony, and when he looked down he saw a field filled with people, all looking up and smiling.

“Where am I?” He cried on the verge of fainting.

“This is my world, here -- I am God.”

“What?” He looked at the man still wearing his black ripped clothes and white shoes.

“Can I not be a God because I have ripped clothes? Appearance does not matter, it is only in the mind. This is what is lost from your world.”

“But -- NO!” He had nothing to say.

“Why should God need money, or expensive things? Or beautiful things? I brought you here because you saw, and now you must see further.”

Rydan stayed with the man, the God of a mysterious world; and with him, he learned incredible things, saw colours that did not exist, and witnessed acts of selflessness thought to be impossible.

He was enlightened.

“He’s opening his eyes!”

“Everyone look. Rydan, it’s us, we’re all here for you.” He opened his eyes to see his entire family looking down at him.

“What happened?” He cried.

“You were in a car accident. You’ve been in a coma for over a month.” His eyes wouldn’t focus on the speaker.

“When was I in a car accident?”

“You were walking to university -- a homeless man pushed you in front of a car! Don’t worry, the police apprehended him; now he’s serving his sentence in a psychiatric ward; he won’t ever hurt anyone again.”

Rydan felt a single tear slide down his cheek, “But, all I want” he shuddered softly, “is to go back.”