Triple Crown

Pendleton was relatively certain that something was wrong. Mere months ago, he had been rather comfortably munching on some cactus leaves, enjoying a nice sunny day, when suddenly he was in a strange, damp place with a small manling on his back. Then little creature had the gall to hit him with a stick. Infuriated, he took off running, trying to shake this little burr.

As he flew around a corner, he noticed the other creatures running beside him, each with their own tiny manling. They seemed to be somewhat related to the camelkin, though they were certainly distant cousins. He spared them little further thought as he sped past them, still bothered by the stick smacking his side. After almost two minutes of trying to dislodge the irritant, Pendleton found himself crossing a white line and the manling suddenly stopped hitting him. He pulled to a dignified stop, glad to be done with that strangeness.

Finally able to take a look around, Pendleton noticed the he was in a giant bowl, surrounded by hordes of the creatures that called themselves human. He spat nervously, startling someone who was approaching cautiously with a armload of sweet smelling flowers. All of the man creatures seemed nervous, disoriented. In a strangely accented version of one of the rarer manling tongues, Pendleton heard "Well, ladies and gentlemen, it appears that Lyapunov wins...." There was a smattering of confused applause. Pendleton ate one of the flowers from the sheet being draped around him.

The next few weeks were a confusing mess of manling arguments, sharp pricks from pointy things, and running in circles while being called Lyapunov. Before the second circle, Pendleton's tiny manling came into his stall, slapped him on the side, and said "Congratulations, kid, you're a Thoroughbred." It was all very strange, but at least by the time he ran the second circle, the manlings were cheering in earnest as he crossed the finished line. The yellow flowers didn't taste nearly as good as the red ones had.

Pendleton, who by then thought of himself as Pendleton Lyapunov, had grown accustomed to life in the strange oasis by the time of the running in the third circle. He had convinced his manling that the stick was unnecessary, and the food he got here was better than anything he had in the desert. The manling had moved him to a nicer stall, and let him wander whenever he wanted. The small creature had even prevented several taller manfolk from stabbing him with more sharp things. He wasn't sure why these were different from the ones before, but he was grateful not to suffer the sting.

As before, the third running pitted him against other cousins of the camelkin. He recognized a few of them from previous circles, and spat welcomingly at their feet. This caused all sorts of jumping and whinnying. He doubted he would ever understand his distant relatives. All of this angst was forgotten by the time that the circling started, and once again, he easily outpaced the others, even though this was a greater distance than before. The audience erupted in cheers, his creature wore a wide grin, and the white flowers were delicious.

Pendleton was absolutely certain that something was wrong, but he had long forgotten what he thought would be right. All he knew was that he loved the constant oasis, the tasty food, and the cheers of the manlings. 

Red Wine at Midnight

The day that I got the news was probably the worst day of my life. I got out of class to find this huge guy waiting for me in a dark suit. He seemed like a caricature of an FBI agent. It was bad enough I thought maybe my friends hired a stripper as a joke. I thought, at worst, that I might have been one of the unlucky people that the RIAA was prosecuting for five songs I downloaded in high school. 

His badge said DEA. That confused me even more. My friends always made fun of me for being a good girl. I couldn't tell them why I stayed away from drugs, why I couldn't afford to let my grasp on reality slip, but aside from a little teasing, they took it in stride. I had almost an entire campus of character witnesses. 

It turns out he wasn't there because of anything that I had done. My little brother had mouthed off to the wrong drug runner, and brought an entire cartel down on my family's ranch. From what they could tell, there had been no survivors. I suddenly felt like my brain had been dunked into a pool of ice. 

He told me he would spare me the details and the small part of my mind that hadn't completely numbed noticed that he shivered slightly when he said it. He said since my family kept to themselves it had been almost a week before anyone else had come by.  He said other things, but the rest of the conversation passed in a blur. I remember wanting to scream at him, hit him, call him a liar. Instead, I just leaned against the wall, detachedly observing the tears streaming down my own face.

I somehow made it back to my dorm room. Two days passed, two days that I don't think I would have survived had it not been for friends who kept me fed and put me to bed. The biggest shock to me was that anyone had dared to do this to my family. Everyone knew the stories about my grandmother, and her grandmother, and on, and on, stories stretching back to when our history was passed down orally. No one in town would meet our eyes and I would hear whispers of 'sawish' when I was little, before I understood what it meant. Even the drug lords were wary of her, of us. It didn't make any sense. 

The next day my aunt called, she had been able to cajole the locals into arranging a funeral, but it would be almost three weeks before the priest would be anywhere near the ranch. She even booked a flight home for me. I don't think I thanked her, but I should have. I certainly couldn't have made the arrangements on my own.

After two weeks, I began to be able to function somewhat normally again. I carefully controlled my thoughts, keeping my mind away from certain topics. I even attended a few classes, though I left most of them early, some overheard remark or questioning glance sending me into another fit of sobbing. 

On the long flight home, I finally began to poke at the knot of emotions that I had been trying to bury. To my surprise, inside the mess of despair and loss, there was a tiny ball of hate and rage. I explored these feelings in a way that went against all my training. Saya would have beaten me for the thoughts that flashed through my head, for the plan that began to form. 

By the time I landed, the plan was a little more formed. The two day drive into the wilderness was enough time for me to work out all the details. I could have made it in one, but I took a few detours to gather the components I needed. Besides, I had no real desire to show up early and deal with my distant relatives for an extra day. 

The funeral was quiet, simple. The priest performed the most basic rites, leaving well before the sun could set. At least he knew enough to respect and fear us. The rest of the relatives filtered out slowly, leaving me to my grief. I told my aunt not to wait up for me, gesturing with a bottle of wine to the emptying graveyard. 

I was alone by the time the sun peaked behind the foothills, pulling various items from my backpack. The ritual itself was simple enough, if you knew what you were doing. Saya had warned against the simple spells, out right saying that they were careless use of dangerous energy, things to avoid. She even implied these were evil things, things that belonged to true witches, but that night I was beyond caring. I needed my vengeance. 

Once I chanted the last chant, they appeared. Saya appeared first, in the distance. I could not bear to meet her eyes, but I could feel the disapproval radiating from her. There was a moment's pause, almost as if I was being given a chance to change my mind, then the rest rose from their graves. I nearly wept at the sight of them, translucent though they were. Mother, Father, Jorge, even little Alejandro. Their eyes burned with the the same hatred that beat in my heart. I called again, stronger this time, and from the depths rose generations of my family, ready for vengeance. 

It was nearly midnight when Alejandro led us to their camp. Waves upon waves of the dead came crashing down. When one of theirs fell, he rose again a few moments later, fighting for us. It was the stuff of nightmares and horror stories, and all around us rose cries of "La Brujita!". I basked in it, killing more than a few with my bare hands, others with my ceremonial blade. Before long I found the runner that started this whole tragedy. He was kneeling, crying, clutching a rosary as he prayed to a god that could not help him. 

I took my time, savoring it for as much time as I could spare, but he died all the same. When he rose again, a thing of spectral fury under my command, he mutely led me through the tents, to the last pocket of resistance. I pointed him like an arrow at the heart of their leader, and loosed him with no remorse. Oddly, I could not raise the drug lord. It seems his soul had already been promised to another. 

After taking care of the drug runner and the cartel boss, the joy of revenge seeped from me, leaving only emptiness. I let the few survivors run terrified into the dregs of the night. The story they told would spread, a new legend would grow, and our people would be safe once more. 

I returned home, reaching the ranch with the rising sun. To my surprise, the dead followed me, shimmering in the sunlight, but still, not fading as I expected. Saya chides me endlessly for not ensuring that the spell would expire. As she says, the easy things are easy because they are careless. Things could be worse, but I certainly couldn't return to school with things as they are. I now spend my days on the ranch, playing with my brother, talking with my grandmother, trying to find a way to let them have their rest once more. 

Some days I worry that I've actually gone insane, that my brain couldn't cope with the loss and that I'm really curled up in my dorm room, or a mental ward, or worse, bloody and broken in a cartel stronghold after drunkenly charging in to confront them. If it is madness, it is a nice madness. I've got the shades of my family, my home, and in the night I can hear the cries of "La Brujita" echoing in the hills. 

Parlour Tricks

      I've been travelling a lot and I've become famous in some pretty odd circles. It's not unusual for me to blow into town and be hit right away with four or five tempting offers from admirers of my work. I've learned there are things you look for in an invitation. Promises of complimentary service offset travel costs, but promises of unusual access is better. Everyone wants a write up, so it's tit for tat, as they say.
      When I blew into Seattle last time a friend of a friend told me about a bar called the Parlour.  She said that the owner would open up the back room for me, and added that this was a special treat; no one was allowed back there, not even staff.  How could I resist?
      My first question, upon arrival, was "How?"  How had they obtained the proper permits for a bar in the historic Underground?  How did it receive deliveries?  My friend, whom we will call Samantha, told me not to worry.  The owner had all the answers.  To my credit, I did not roll my eyes.
      The proprietor was exactly as I'd expected, which, at first, amused me.  The Seattle Underground is a tourist trap for people who find enclosed spaces thrilling and delight in the safe, historical distance of seedy history.  Who better to own a bar there than this man: ponytail, padlock goatee, white shirt, brown vest?  There was the glint of gold at the back of his smile and the glint of silver at the edge of his eye.  I put out a hand to introduce myself, but before I could finish, he clapped his over my back and said, "Oh, I know who you are."
      "Come inside," he said.  "I've got the finest collection in this world or any other and tonight it's all for you."  How could I refuse?
      You don't need the details of how much I drank.  The short version is it was a lot and Samantha had passed out long before our host began bringing by the really rare stuff.  I hadn't even heard of some of it.  We were finishing what I'm told was rum made when Barbados was a British colony when my host leaned across the table showing both of his glints and said, "So how's about it?  Do you want to experience the full collection?"
      With dignity and gravitas, I giggled and nodded.
      The bar, I should mention, looked old.  Every inch of it was period from a period before I was born.  Its furniture was a hodgepodge of battered antiques, its light fixtures hung like refugees of the great bars of the past.  Maybe they were.  Regardless, every wall was mirrored and each mirror was stunning and perfect.  There were no glassblower's distortions, no tarnished silver backings.  There weren't even smudges.
      The proprietor walked to one such wall and, producing a cloth from his waist apron, pushed.  The glass pivoted and I saw the depths of a room beyond.  He raised his head and tilted his eyebrows as if to say, "Go on."  I did.
      The room beyond was immense.  It was the size of an airport hanger or a Sams club, but full of rich old wooden shelves full of bottles.  It was the whole world's history of liquor.  When one passes through a hidden door one expects a bit of a hall and maybe a musty store room.  One does not expect to see one's whole life's work laid out for them.  I stopped, the strength sapped from me.  I had a million questions but what I asked was, "How?"
      The proprietor laughed again and said, "Vigilance and addiction make strange bedfellows," or something to that effect.  I was stunned and drunk and not paying much attention.  He put one hand on my shoulder and stretched the other out to the room at large.  "Take any bottle you like," he said, "and we shall drink it in my private sitting room."
      You don't want to know how long it took me to decide on something but I picked an absinthe, which pleased my host.  He claimed it was bottled in 1876 and I was skeptical of him then.  I am not now.
      He led me, clutching this very old, very green spirit, through the dusky backing of another mirror door.  He pushed it open and held out his big hand as if to say, "After you."  When I walked through, it closed behind me.
      I found myself in a room full of other men and women.  I believe that some of them are not human, but I could not tell you what they are, other than alcoholics with good palates.  They tell me this room, which looks just like the bar on the other side is the true collection: the fanciest drunks in the universe.
      At the time of my writing this, I'm still here.  It's taken me forty napkins to get this story down and my pen is running dry.  This bar is exactly the same as the one I came in save one difference.  There is a small window in the far wall that each of us strange drunken creatures staggers over to from time to time.  Through it all we see is stars.

Standing Outside a Bronzed Phone Booth With Money in My Hand

Inspiration comes from the strangest places. You see, I started casting bronzes in college. Before I left school to become a full time artist, I was a history major. I'd like to say that I had a grand plan to become a researcher or a professor, maybe even a biographer, but the sad reality was that I had absolutely no plans for the rest of my life. If I hadn't had taken a year off to travel Europe, if I hadn't missed my plane out of Rome, I might have never found my calling.

Left with a day to myself, I filled a conveniently open spot on a tour of Pompeii. As far as the sudden destruction of a civilization goes, Pompeii has fallen behind modern wonders such as the atomic bomb, but they lack the art and grace of a volcanic eruption. There's a special kind of beauty that you can only capture by preserving the last instances of a creature's life.

Back home, I didn't quite have a volcano at my beck and call, so I had to settle for the next best thing I could find. I enrolled in a casting class. Before long, I had a set of bronze candlesticks, a bronze pair of running shoes, and a bronzed music box that had once played a bit of Swan Lake. This kind of art was unsatisfying, to say the least, but it was necessary to learn what I was doing before I could get to the good stuff. 

Once I had graduated from household objects, I started small. It didn't take long before my apartment was empty of roaches, rats, and other vermin. I started taking long car rides to the outskirts of town. I added a chipmunk, a rabbit, and even a bluejay to my collection. 

There was one trip where I picked up a hitchhiker on the way home. The ride was fairly quiet for a few miles, but he got the brilliant idea that he could overpower me. He learned that I was stronger than I looked. I learned that human faces are far more expressive in death that your average rodent. That's also when I invested in a nasty little toxin developed by a bio-chem dropout. 

I sold almost a hundred pieces before anyone really began to notice just how nice my little neighborhood was getting. There were no drifters, no prostitutes, and no dealers crowding the street corners. I actually was in the process of picking out a new place in a worse part of town when I caught a snippet of a conversation between my girlfriend and her aunt.  The bits I overheard left me chilled. She knew. She was going to expose me. I had to do something. I didn't have a choice.

Officially, the statue is a memorial to my lost love, capturing the last time I saw her before she went missing. The collector I sold it to had taken it out of the States and didn't want to bother with any of the legal messiness. Besides, when they finally caught up with me, there were more than enough of my pieces out there. You live, you learn. 

But take my mistakes to heart. Find out what inspires you. Go out. Make art.

Out in London

In hindsight it was clear that Warren Zevon had ruined it for them all. Seamus had been living in Notting Hill in '78 when the song had come out and made their curse fashionable. Everyone tired of leading their double life had come out and it seemed for them the nights went from telly and Guiness to free drinks and fingers through your fur. The whole community showed up to see two of his old friends off when they'd carpooled out to the country for full moon, and Seamus thought, fuck it, what am I waiting for. When they got back, he'd shown everyone. The next weeks were nonstop parties. He'd been attending classes at the London School of Economics but he'd missed so much it wasn't likely they'd take him back. At the time it seemed not to matter. Every night was a new adventure and you never had to pay for anything. By 1980 nobody cared about that song anymore. There had been too much blood. If all you do is drink and party, you lose track of the days, even if you're a werewolf. News kept emerging of parties turning to bloodbaths in the early evening on full moon nights, strung out young men and women carving up their fair-weather-friends like Christmas geese in main rooms of pubs and in fashionable flats all over the city. Over night it wasn't cool anymore. He was known by that point, and his identity a matter of public record. No one would rent to him. No one would give him a job. He'd never killed (a person) and yet they treated him like worse than a criminal. They treated him like a monster. Even the wogs wouldn't touch him. But time passed and now he was less of a Bogeyman and more of a joke. That worked fine for a busker, though, and with the 10 or so quid he earned a day he could at least afford to keep his clothes clean. He hadn't done "private work" for anyone in over two years, and he was honestly starting to enjoy playing the fiddle. He was actually getting quite good.

When in Rome

The old cobblestone street was filled with tourists, people that simply lacked the ability to comprehend what was going about to happen. A melodramatic person might say that they were at the site of a battle between good and evil, between light and darkness. A battle in the war for humanity's soul. But I think we both know that the world is a bit more nuanced than that.

A cynical person might think that these battles are, to quote the bard, things of sound and fury, signifying nothing, but that's not quite right either. Yes, it is true that this skirmish, like many more before it, will have little to no impact on the day to day lives of the average person, but you don't dabble in metaphysics for short gains. You play the long game. 

I tend to think of this sort of encounter as a play on the butterfly effect. One side wants to squash the butterfly before it can flap its wings. The other side simply wants the wings to flap without any interference. If you ask me, neither side has a clue what the consequences of their actions will be. Sometimes it seems like they oppose each other just to have something to do. 

In the end, it doesn't matter much. I cast my lot centuries ago, and questions don't butter bread. I sense the lightning seconds before it strikes the statue. Before I have a chance to think about what I'm doing, I dive forward, tackling the small child looking up in awe at the display in the heavens. I'm rewarded with screams of terror, crushed ribs, and a punctured lung as the stone fist topples from the statue. 

As I stagger to my feet, wheezily cursing the dark humor of the literalists, a woman approaches me, concern mingling with the tears of joy welling in her eyes. The child's mother. I wave her off, somehow convincing her that it's not as bad as it looks. Honestly, it's not. A few more days and I'll be right as rain. The old ways are strong here. 

Back at the hotel I'm none too surprised to find an envelope on the bed. Plane tickets. Next stop, Arizona. 

Fighting the good fight

Everyone kept telling me that Los Angeles was like another world, but I refused to believe them. The movie biz had it's fingers in everything, they said. That didn't matter to me.

There are two schools of thought on environmental activism. The first camp tries preserve the few remaining untouched parts of the world. But like the observed quantum particle, their mere presence changes it. They fight the spread of chaos, holding on to their pristine biomes desperately, knowing that they will eventually fail.

Then there are the people like me. The ones that know there's no point in fighting the human impact on the world from the places humans rarely go. We go to the big places, the centers of pollution and corruption. Places like New York, or like Detroit. Places like LA.

Since I moved here six months ago, I've been to twenty protests, three green energy conventions, and two city council meetings where I spoke on ballot initiatives that would raise penalties on companies that violated EPA regulations and use that money to fund renewable energy research.

There's been a little less smog in the air lately. There's been a bit of order in the chaos. But as I stand here, drinking my latte in Starbuck's, I wonder if the city has changed me, too.

Walking in a winter wonderland

The beach is nice this time of year. Sure, the water is really too cold to swim in, but that means the crowds are gone. I got to spend most of the day just kind of lounging around, trying to stay warm and keep the sand out my eyes. I met these two girls.  

They said they were here for a sales conference. It’s pretty lucky to get a paid trip to the beach, even if it’s in the middle of winter. They didn’t seem to think so, I guess they’ve never had to spend a rainy weekend in the Lansing Ramada. We chatted a bit, mostly about our summer plans, before they had to head off to some meet and greet. I snapped this shot as they were walking away. 

The wind really picked up about an hour after they left and I’ve been forced to seek shelter in the hotel bar, where I’m having a margarita or two with a late lunch. The food’s terrible and I’m pretty sure the drinks are more water than anything else, but at least it’s warm. 

I think I’ll walk downtown tonight. There’s supposed to be a Mediterranean place that’s just to die for.