Powers Pharm. Chronicles: Meredith Rosen's Journal #1

My name is Meredith Rosen. I'm an intern for Powers Pharmaceutical at their clinical trial facilities in the middle of Kansas. I don't want to sound melodramatic, but if you're reading this I'm probably either dead or missing. And for everyone's sake, let's hope I'm dead.

I hope I put this all down right. I don't completely understand what's going on, but Cal insisted that I be the one to write it out. He said it's the only way it'll be believable. I asked who needed to believe it. He said "anybody", but he paused first, and his eyes got real sad for a second. I would think he was hiding something from me if I didn't know it for a fact. He insists I'll know everything I need to know when I need to know it. I'm sorry. I'm getting distracted. I need to start at the beginning.

When I started my internship, I was nothing more than a gofer who occasionally got to work with testers. I never got to know what was being tested or even who got the placebos. I merely read a generic orientation packet out loud to test subjects and got them anything they needed. Yep, I was a gofer for them, too. That all changed the day of the fire.

I was getting more orientation packets from a supply closet when the alarm went off. We usually had drills that time of month so I didn't hurry up too much as I headed towards the exit. As I opened the closet door with an armful of packets, Dr. Newport slammed into me sending my booklets and his files into the air. "Watch it!" He scolded. "There's a fire coming from the South dorms, you should be already be outside." He quickly scooped up his files and continued down the hall.

I didn't know what Newport's deal was. The alarm had just gone off, and the South dorms weren't open. We didn't have enough testing to need the South dorms currently. At least, that's what I was told. Even so, I picked up my packets and then picked up my pace. As I adjusted my load, I realized Dr. Newport had missed a patient file. It wasn't a name I recognized though. The folder said "Calvin Berendt- Active". But I knew all of the actives. Didn't I? Even stranger was that the folder had a company logo on it but not Powers Pharm. It was for "Gall & Finn". The engineering firm? Why would they need a clinical trial report?

I finally made it outside and joined the rest of the staff. The doctors were in kind of a strange huddle by themselves with a security guard I'd yet to meet keeping watch. "Dr. Newport," I called, "you dropped your folder." Without saying a word, the guard stepped in front of me and blocked me from the doctors. As the occupants of the huddle turned towards me, a few stifled gasps could be heard. "Who's Calvin Berendt," I asked as Dr. Newport took the file back. "And why would his file be sent to an engineering firm?"

Dr. Newport's eyes and nostrils widened as his mouth tightened. "You're fired," he said plainly. I was taken back for a second. "I- I'm sorry?" I asked.
"And you should be," he retorted. "These are confidential files and interns are not to be viewing them."
"'Not viewing them'? I sort your files all the ti-"
"Leave now, or you will be sued as well."

My response stopped before it hit my lips. I sorely wanted to fight him on it, but Powers as some serious money and even more serious lawyers. My desk wasn't even worth emptying (there was nothing there but my lunch anyways) so I just got in my car and drove home.

I know what you're thinking; "Wow! That was quick. Not much of a story." That's what I thought too. Until I got home. I live in a puny little basement apartment beneath the house of a little old lady that only let me move in because she believed a pharmaceutical internship means free prescription drugs. Not the kind of place to have a Porsche in the driveway. Especially not a Porsche you know belongs to the president and C.E.O of Powers Pharmaceuticals.

Dr. Powers sat stiffly in a rocking chair on the porch while my landlady, Mrs, Wells, tried in vain to offer him refreshments. "Ah, Miss Rosen," Dr. Powers greeted as he stood without a smile, "I didn't think I would beat you here. You're landlady has been kind enough to -ahem- entertain me while I waited." "Can you get me my pills free or not?" Mrs. Wells interrupted. Dr. Powers responded with a sideways glance and a couple of blinks.

"Not to be rude," I said politely before Mrs. Wells could ask again, "but is there a reason you're here?" Dr. Powers shook himself out of the uncomfortable staring match. "Maybe we could continue this in your apartment," he suggested. I led him through the back door and slammed it shut before Mrs. Wells could follow. I offered him a chair, but he declined, so I stayed standing myself.

"I came to let you know that you will not be terminated," he said without any emotion. Dr. Powers is about 55 years old, average height, with dun colored hair. He spoke quietly but firmly and with little emotion. "Dr. Newport made a mistake," he continued, "there's no way you could have known it was a confidential folder he was borrowing from my own files. He dropped it, and you were just trying to help." I nodded in agreement. "And besides," he added, "It's not like you actually read it, right?"

He said it rhetorically, but he gave me a searching look. He was actually asking me if I read it. I hadn't, of course, but for some reason, I didn't want him to know one way or the other. I have no idea why, but I responded, "and what if I had?" He studied me harder as I just stared at him. What was in that file that he would come to my place to question me.

"Perhaps," he finally said, "I can make an apology for Dr. Newport's behavior by giving you a promotion." Not at all what I was expecting. "As you've no doubt figured out," he went on, "we have a few trials that aren't general knowledge to the staff." He studied my face again after making that comment, but I refused to give him anything. "We've recently had an opening in the staff for these confidential trials, and I would like you to fill it."

I should've just enthusiastically agreed and thanked him, but I still had an inexplicable urge to not give him too much. "What's the job?" I questioned. He gave up studying my face. "Daily interviews with a test subject," he explained. "You'll be spending time each day with him while logging his physical, mental, and emotional state every half-hour and conduct an interview before leaving each day. You'll report directly to Dr. Newport and sending me your logs once a week."

"All this for one tester?" I asked. "Who's the V.I.P."

"I thought that was obvious," he stated with a raised eyebrow. "It's Calvin Berendt."

                                                                             

After an entire day of orientation and signing of confidentiality agreements, I was led down to the South dorms. "I thought there was fire in here," I commented to Dr. Newport as we passed our key cards over the security pad to open the door. "Oh, there was," he assured me. He was much more agreeable now that I wasn't a security risk. "But we have fires all the time. We usually have them contained and don't bother with the alarms. This time, however, your predecessor, Cynthia Umber, was injured so we pulled the alarm to be safe."

"Why would you have fires all the time?" I asked bewildered, as I followed him through the halls. "It's a part of our weight-loss trials," he explained placidly. I stopped walking and gawked at him. "And why would fires be a part of the weight loss trials?" I asked even more bewildered.

Dr. Newport stopped at a door and turned to chuckle softly at me. He motioned for me to follow inside and brought me into what looked like a work-out room with no work-out a equipment. All it had was mirrors along one wall, a linen cart with fresh towels and sweat-pants of various sizes, and a fat guy. He was tall with short blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a sweet childish smile. He wasn't ugly by any means, just flabby.

"This, Miss Rosen," Dr. Newport explained, "is your test subject, Calvin Berendt." Calvin stepped forward to shake my hand, but he hesitated and looked like he was trying not to smile too much as he squinted at me. He finally snapped out of it. "Please, call me Cal," he insisted.

"Cal, don't you think we should show Meredith your work-out routine?" Dr. Newport suggested.

"Absolutely," Cal agreed. "Good thing I wore my asbestos panties," he said with a wink. I had no idea what that meant.

Cal stepped to the other side of the room in front of the mirror and took a stance with his arms by his side and his fingers slightly curled over his skyward palms. He took deep breaths and his chest puffed out as he flexed his every muscle. He just stood there concentrating for a while; his nostrils flaring with his forced breathing. After a few more moments, before my eyes, Cal Berendt burst into flames.

I screamed and grabbed a towel to go put him out, but Dr. Newport grabbed my shoulder and shook his head with a smile. "Just keep watching," he insisted. I set the towel down and looked with unease at the burning human in front of me. The fire had fully engulfed his body, so all I could really see was a pillar of flames.

After several uncomfortable minutes, the fire died down and there stood Cal, completely unharmed and wearing nothing but sleek black briefs. But this wasn't the Cal I just met. This Cal didn't have any flab. His fat had been replaced with tight well-toned muscle. His skin seemed a little loose, but other than that, this guy was perfectly fit.

"Tell me, Meredith," he grinned as he grabbed a pair of sweatpants off of the cart, "Can you tell I've been burning the calories?"

Harry Cleese: Part 6 "Driving Manny Boris"

Cleese gripped the wheel tight as he spun the car to avoid yet another charge from Manny's bike. Cleese wouldn't have thought a Harley would stand much of a chance against Elias' Chariot, but this hog had tusks-- literally. Manny had attached four-foot steel spikes to each side of the frame. Cleese had already narrowly avoided them once and then narrowly avoided the tree they tore down in his place. Every time he heard another squeal of the hog pivoting, Cleese's heart jumped as he sped out of the way.

Kieran's advice seemed so simple; chase manny up the mountain, find some ice, pull him out of the snow when he slips off the road. There was just one problem: Manny Boris didn't like being chased. In fact, he was the one that usually did the chasing. Compared to the Mitsubishi, Manny's hog had the better maneuverability and speed. Cleese just had to hope it didn't have the better traction.

It started to dawn on Cleese that guiding Boris up the mountain was going to be about luring, not herding. Cleese poked his head out the window and taunted Manny. "Boris, you fat pig! You really think you're a part of the ol' Empian family? Why don't you catch me, and I'll show you how a real enforcer acts." The loudest squeal yet could be heard as Manny peeled out after Cleese who had taken off towards the mountain range.

The mountains were the first place Cleese had ever learned to drive. Kieran had firmly believed the mountains were the only place to train a driver. "Go up a mountain and you've got the worst a driver could get," Kieran used to say. "Just in one trip, you've got winding roads, rain, sleet, hail, snow, cliffs and rocks. If you can master that, you've mastered the road." Kieran wouldn't even take young Harry in for his driving test until he could go up and down Mount Cadia thrice in one day without a dent. Cleese could handle a mountain. He had to hope Manny couldn't.

Cleese zig-zagged through the foothills. The twisting roads wouldn't be a problem until the higher altitudes. After getting just out of sight a little bit up the mountain, Cleese turned in to a hidden cave that was just big enough for the Chariot. He used to find shelter in it to avoid hail as a kid. Manny tore past behind him, and Cleese calmly backed out and followed the biker.

By the time Manny realized Cleese was now behind him, they had gotten to the narrow cliff's edge that required every bit of concentration to navigate. Boris had no room to turn around and didn't dare to stop with Cleese right behind him. Cleese wasn't going to run him off the side of a cliff (Manny Boris was wanted alive), but he had to make sure he kept Manny going until they got to the nasty stuff. Just as they pulled back onto more stable ground, it started to sleet.

In the Chariot, Cleese was pretty warm and cozy. On the hog, Manny wasn't. Kieran proved to be right about the ice causing problems. Manny was wobbling on slight curves so he certainly wouldn't try pivoting around in the sleet. Once it cleared up, Manny still couldn't turn around because he was too cold and numb to maneuver properly.

After a few minutes of clear weather, Cleese herded Manny up a dirt path. A few more minutes after that, the path broke into a clearing that was split perfectly into two halves: snow and grass. Cleese took his chance and just tapped the hog with the Chariot. Manny panicked and turned into the snow. Thrown from his bike, Manny landed in the soft thick snow.

Cleese climbed out of the Chariot and approached Manny cautiously. The biker wasn't moving. Cleese gingerly removed the helmet to reveal a plump face with a snout-like nose, mangled teeth that seemed to come straight out, and a thick bristly mohawk on top. Cleese bent down to check his pulse and was so surprised when Manny snorted that he thumped him with his baton.

Cleese drove all night back home with hog-tied Manny struggling in the back of the chariot with his disassembled bike. Cleese went straight to the tire shop where Gene was congratulating himself on finally finding the killing job. Cleese stormed in and pushed the snarling and snorting Manny at his cousin. Frightened, Gene jumped into a stack of tires.

"What are you doing!" Gene stuttered from his hiding spot. "Get that sick fuck out of here."

Cleese smirked and dragged Manny out. "That's one more favor done. I'll be back tomorrow when you will have the next one lined up."

Harry Cleese: Part 5 "Cry for Kieran"

After a full day's trip, Cleese pulled up to his uncle Kieran's ranch. Gene had sent him out of state to take care of a reputation problem. Years ago, Missy had had to hire an outside contractor named Manny Boris to find a man who had attacked one of her girls. The man had been a golden boy back in his home town and was being hidden by the community. Manny tore apart the city, threatening it's citizens, and asserting his dominance. The problem was that after he took care of his mark, Manny just stuck around causing trouble. Worse yet, he liked the effect associating with the ol' Empian family had on others and just kept doing it. Now he was running the town by throwing the Empian name about to threaten people. He was good at his job, just needed to be taught some sense. Cleese was to bring him in alive.

Kieran hailed Cleese from the back of a horse. Kieran loved horses and was rarely not riding one. It was almost like he was part horse himself. Kieran had trained Cleese early on, as he did most of the ol' Empian enforcers, to fight and shoot. Kieran was ancient and couldn't be active in the family, but was happy to run his ranch and train new recruits there as needed.

"What? My training not good enough to keep you safe that you had to get armor," Kieran teased as Cleese sat down with him on his porch. Cleese showed off his new body suit and the special shotgun rounds he loaded with the acid from the Neenan job as they visited. As it usually did, the conversation eventually turned to the sad fate of Kieran's cousin Peter Meehan.

Peter had once worked closely with Big Zed and Kieran's father, Sal. Peter had a gift for figuring out the good odds in any situation, which made him an important bookie for Sal's organization. That is, until Big Zed made a play for Sal's position at the head of the family and Peter saw the good odds on Big Zed winning the struggle and betrayed Sal. Big Zed had been pretty happy to have won over one of Sal's major players. Which is why he got vicious when Peter betrayed him as well.

Peter had seen signs that the community was in danger and that others beside the family would need to be armed and prepared. Big Zed forbade any arming of civilians for fear it would backfire on them and encourage the little man to attack Big Zed. If outside forces threatened the community, the family would need to beef up protection and hope for the best. Peter couldn't take that chance and enforced his own plan. Stealing firearms from the warehouse, he gave them to the local men and taught them how to clean and operate them.

When Big Zed discovered the betrayal, he exacted revenge. After a slew of set-ups and attacks, he finally took Peter out. Nobody was exactly sure how it happened, but Peter was first diagnosed with bird flu of all things. Then his liver started deteriorating. The doctors were able to slow it down, but Peter would be needing a new liver.

After commiserating over Peter a while, Cleese asked Kieran about Manny Boris. "He's feisty," Kieran warned. "He's been terrorizing one of the local towns under the family name, but he's not hiding behind it. The man has a formidable rage that shouldn't be trifled with. He'll tear through you if you take him head on."

"Then what do you suggest," Cleese asked. "I have to take him in myself or else Eugene won't count the favor."

"I'll have to do some thinking," Kieran responded. "Phil and the other ranch hands are having a bonfire and were hoping to see you before you left. Go have a drink with them and we'll talk in the morning."

Cleese bid Kieran goodnight and wandered down to the fire. He was greeted by Phil, a seasoned ranch hand that was as inseparable from a horse as Kieran was. Phil was just tapping the keg as the other ranch hands were showing up, some coming straight from the fields on their horses. These guys were known to get a bit rowdy.

As the party got louder, Kieran came down from the main house scowling. Cleese met him halfway, ready to apologize. "You best tell those boys to calm it down a bit," Kieran admonished. "I've got more than just them on this ranch and won't stand for their shenanigans this late."

"Sorry, Kieran," Cleese apologized. "They're just trying to show me a good time."

"No, they're just using you as an excuse," Kieran sighed. "They get too much of that liquor in them, and they're as wild as stallions. When they get this loud a fight is usually quick to follow."

As if on cue, angry shouting was heard clearly over the rest of the party. As Kieran and Cleese approached, the shouting picked up and two men could be seen shoving each other. One of them was quick to pull his sidearm and took a drunken shot that missed the equally drunk opponent. His opponent, who happened to be unarmed reached for the only weapon he could find: Cleese's shotgun. Cleese started sprinting and shouting at the man to put it down, but it was no use. The man took a little too long adjusting the gun, so the crowd around him dove out of range as he pulled the trigger. That left a clear shot at Kieran.

Cleese turned in horror as he heard a thump from behind. Kieran was down with his foot bloody and smoking. Cleese rushed over and gingerly pulled Kieran's boot off to see a smoking hole through his foot. There was only the one puncture, but blood was gushing and the veins were turning green up the leg. The man who grabbed the shotgun stumbled over and proclaimed, "just a foot wound. He'll be fine with a bandage and a drink." Without looking< Cleese planted his fist firmly in the man's crotch. As the man doubled over, Cleese grabbed his collar and slammed him face-first into the ground.

Cleese ripped the man's shirt off and wrapped it around the foot. He cradled his uncle in his arms and made his way to the main house.
Kieran gurgled out. "it's that acid shot, isn't it?"
Cleese just curtly nodded.
"I'm done aren't I?"
Again, Cleese just nodded.
"Then I've got a few things to take care of real quick. First, your problem. Manny's tough but he's a southern boy; never seen snow in his life. Drive him up the mountain and he won't know how to handle the ice. Secondly, if you can spare the liver, make sure it goes to Meehan; he'll make better use of it than I'll be able to. And most importantly, I love my family, make sure they hear it one last time."
Cleese nodded one last time.

Kieran was gone before they reached the house. Cleese fell to his knees and just held his uncle in his arms; a stone soldier trying his hardest not to cry. He failed at it.



This entry is dedicated to the memory of Harry Stone: beloved everything. Please visit www.helpharrystone.com

Explanations and a Baring of Soul

I'm not sure how many people are still looking at this (or even care), but my few loyal readers have undoubtedly noticed my lack of posts since the spring. I've had almost no new posts since April, and the few I have had have been either uninspired or postings of previously written pieces. There's a reason for this.

Anyone who knows me personally knows that I had a tragedy happen in my family this past Mother's Day. My uncle was suddenly and senselessly killed on a street corner in a suburb of my home town of Kansas City. You may have heard about it. Even with the limited grainy video from the local gas station security cameras there was hardly any evidence to work from. As of this writing there are no suspects and no significant progress has been made since that first month. (Anyone interested in learning more is welcome to visit http://www.helpharrystone.com/)

While that alone warrants an amount of time for mourning, my reasons for not writing for so long are a bit more complex. You see, one week before the tragedy, I had started working on the latest entry to the Harry Cleese series, which is my adaptation of the twelve labors of Heracles to a mafia crime drama (If you haven't checked it out yet, please do). That particular entry was to be an adaptation of the capturing of the Erymanthian Boar; a story better known for it's sub-plot then the primary events. In the original story Heracles seeks counsel from his mentor Chiron who is senselessly killed due to an unforeseen series of events. Due to the family tree of the Greek Pantheon and the fact that this is a mafia family story, I wrote Chiron as Harry's uncle.

I know it was impossible to know this would have such aching parallels, but I still feel a great deal of guilt for the story. As a result, I haven't been able post the entry, out of respect for my uncle's family's feelings as well as my own. Furthermore, I don't think I've been able to produce ANY decent pieces since stopping the Harry Cleese series. I need to change that.

I once had an amazing writing teacher who taught me that writing makes great therapy, but therapy doesn't always make great writing. I realize that's a little of what I'm doing right now, but I think this is necessary if I'm ever going to create any more decent pieces. I think it honors my uncle more to continue my work in spite of his passing rather than stopping it in mourning. Expect the next Harry Cleese soon.

Hank and Will: Busted

“Busted”

            Will crouched behind the dumpster at the edge of the park, coughing and holding what was probably a broken rib.  Hank was all but passed out next to him, wrapping his ripped off sleeve around the gouge in his leg.  Will looked around the dumpster to see a cop car drive by far off on the other side of the park without slowing down.  Will leaned against the dumpster and slid back down next to Hank with a sigh of relief.  “I think we’re good for now” Will wheezed, “but we need to get you to a hospital.”

Will grabbed Hank by his arm and pulled him to his feet.  Hank swayed and caught himself on the dumpster.  If the run from the cops wore out Will, then it was a miracle that Hank kept going with a gashed leg and, admittedly, a bit of a weight problem.  “I guess that’s the power of adrenaline” Will thought as Hank trudged on.  They got about half way across the park when they found a picnic table next to a drinking fountain.  Without a word, they silently agreed to rest and get a drink.

Hank sat down at the table and just stared at Will for several moments.  “Why are you helping me” Hank asked in a voice both strained and confused.  Will stared back with an open mouth as if he was going to respond, but couldn’t think of the right words.  It was a valid question, and Will had a valid answer.  He just didn’t know how to explain it.

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Earlier that night, Will had shown up at Vince’s party skeptical.  Vince liked to party a bit too much, as did Will… until he got busted four weeks earlier.  Vince offered him a beer.  Will declined, “no thanks, man.  I got five more months of sobriety after that M.I.P. last month.”  Vince just shrugged and drank the beer himself.  “Good old Vince,” Will thought, “you can be who you are as long as he gets his drink.”

Vince’s apartment was a two bed, two bath meant for a maximum of four people, not the twenty drunken teenagers scattered throughout.  The carpet was wet with spilled beer, the tables were marked from an intense quarters game, and the couch was occupied by a blacked-out teen with his shoes on and his face covered in marker.  “Your roommate lets you treat the place like this,” Will asked while moving the marker-faced guy’s legs for a spot to sit.

“No, man, it’s cool.  Hank knows I’m having a party.  I told him I’d be having a few people over tonight.”
“Wait!  Hank?  Hank James? That’s your new roommate?  Dude, he can’t stand drinking.  He’s going to flip when he sees this.”
“You guys haven’t been friends for like, seven years.  Why do you care?”

Vince had a point.  Will and Hank had a falling out after eighth grade, but this wasn’t acceptable for anyone.  Vince had a habit of trashing houses, whether it was his or someone else's.  It was a bit of a miracle Vince was even able to get a lease.  Hank didn’t deserve to get screwed over by Vince, but he should’ve known better.

Will shook his head and found a ladder to the roof out in the main hall of the floor.  He decided it would be safer to be alone and away from the beer.  There were a few people up there, but it was quiet and a good place to think.  “Who would believe I would ever be at a party at Hank James’ house,” Will thought as he stared out at the street.

The apartment below was quiet for awhile.  That is until Will heard a door slam and then some yelling between two guys.  The yelling went on for a bit, then there was stomping, and the roof hatch flew open to Hank grumbling to himself.  Hank pursed his lips and sighed deeply through his nose when he noticed Will.  “Of course you’re here, because that makes this whole thing better,” Hank said sarcastically. Will ignored him and continued watching the street.  He kept watching the street until he saw a police car turn down it.

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Hank stood up from the picnic table in better condition after the short rest.  “Maybe we should call someone to come help us,” he said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cracked phone.  The phone lit up but wouldn’t show anything but white light.  “Of course it’s broken, because that would make my life easier if it was working, and we can’t have that, can we,” Hank quipped.  He looked at Will expectantly, but Will just shook his head.  “Sorry, my parents stopped paying for my phone when I got busted” Will apologized.

“Of course you can’t help.  Why would I expect any help from you anyway?”  Will was struck by Hank’s attack but didn’t comment, as he rarely knew how to handle angry people.

Hank pushed forward through the park.  He spotted a pay phone next to the playground and limped toward it as fast as he could.  He picked up the phone but slammed it down when he realized the cord was cut.  He looked at the privacy glass for the familiar message.  “Get a fuckin cell” was scratched there as it had been on dozens of other pay phones in the area.  “You know, I actually thought that vandal was funny” said Hank as he kept walking.

“You actually found crime funny?  Dude, you’re like the straightest arrow ever.”

“Don’t act like you know me anymore.  You gave that up years ago.”

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Two weeks after eighth grade graduation, Hank walked into Will’s house at about mid-day.  Mrs. Dorian came to check the door when she didn’t hear a knock, but saw it was Hank and just smiled and waved.  Hank walked back to Will’s room and sat down to play video games with no more than a “hey, ‘sup.”  They played for an hour without saying a word.

Hank suggested taking a break and going outside.  They had been kicking a soccer ball around for awhile when Hank choked out, “I’ve been wanting to talk about my trip to the hospital.”  Will paused for a moment but didn’t say a word.  Hank picked up the ball and moved toward Will.  “It’s been two months since I tried to kill myself, and you haven’t said a word about it.”  They moved to the swings in Will’s backyard and sat on them without swinging.  “Well, what do you want me to say,” Will asked emotionless.

“I want to know how you feel about it.  I want to know what you did when you found out.”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?  Your best friend attempts suicide, and you don’t know?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Hank grunted and scowled at Will, but Will just looked at his knees.  Their friendship didn’t end right there, but it definitely declined.  Hank became more and more frustrated because Will rarely talked.  Will became more and more frustrated because Hank only wanted to talk.  Will didn’t have a problem with listening; he just didn’t have anything to say himself.  The decline of their friendship lasted one whole summer, half a semester, and a camping trip.

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When Will finally realized that the police car was coming to his location, he bolted to the hatch, slid down the ladder, and stopped outside the apartment door as he heard Vince talking to someone.  “Yes, officer, I’ve been drinking” came Vince’s voice from inside the apartment.  “Good for him” thought Will, “he’ll be much better off by telling the truth.”  “Do you live here,” asked a deep voice that must have belonged to the cop.

“Well, yes sir I do, but I’m not technically on the lease.  I’m under occupant on my roommate, Hank James’, lease.”

“And where did you get the alcohol?”

“My buddy, Will Dorian, bought it for me.  He just turned 21 a couple weeks ago, as did my roommate.”

“Well, Vincent, you’re looking at a ‘minor in possession’ charge, which can be taken care of if you go on the right program.  Your friends, Will and Hank, however, are looking at some more serious charges such as ‘hosting’, ‘distribution to minors’, and ‘contributing to delinquency of minors’.  Are they here now?”

“Yes, they're up on the roof.”

What the hell was Vince doing?  He was supposed to be a friend.  There was no way Will could talk his way out of this, not while he was already on probation.  He had to run.  As far as the cops knew he wasn’t there.  All they had was the word of a drunk teenager.  He ran to the end of the hall towards the stairs, but as he passed the ladder, he couldn’t help but think of Hank getting it in the shorts because of his roommate.

Will scrambled up the ladder and almost hit Hank as he threw open the hatch.  Hank glared at Will.  “What was that all about?  You ran down withou-”  “We have to get out of here,” Will interrupted.”

“What are you talking about? Why?”

“The cops are here.”

“Good! Maybe they’ll get the drunk people out of my house.”

“You don’t understand, man.  They’re going to arrest you.”

“Why? I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s not what Vince told them.”

Hank’s face took on a mixture of anger, confusion, and fear.  He stepped around Will and started descending the ladder.  “What are you going to do” Will asked, hoping Hank had a good exit strategy.  “I’m going to go tell them the truth” Hank stated plainly.  Without a word, Will reached through the hatch and yanked Hank back up, which would’ve been quite a feat were it not for the adrenaline coursing through his blood stream.  “Are you crazy? Vince and probably the 20 other drunk kids are already blaming you.  You really think they’re going to consider your one statement?  We have to run.”

Hank thought about it a moment and said “Fine, your right.  We’ll run, but as soon as we make it out of the building, we split up.  I’m not running with you.”  Will agreed and started down the ladder again when they heard a voice from the hall.  “Bush, you go to the roof and see if you can find the two legal friends the kid told us about.”  They were cornered.  Will zipped back up and whispered “shit! What do we do?”  Hank looked around the roof and saw nothing on it but two passed out couples and a couple of air vents.  Off of the roof was another story.  “When was the last time you climbed a tree” Hank asked.

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Will kept following Hank even though it was obvious he was trying to get away from him.  They eventually got to a busy street, and Will spotted a gas station.  “Look, a gas station.  I bet we can use a phone there,” Will said relieved.  “Fine, go.  It was nice seeing you or whatever, have a nice life” Hank said as he kept walking down the street.  Will ran in front of him.  “Whoa, man! I can’t let you go on your own.  You have to have that leg looked at.”  Hank breathed heavily through his nose and scrutinized Will very intently.

“Why do you want to help me so bad?  My leg is not that bad.  It might need some stitches but it can probably be taken care with simple first aid.  I know it, and I know you know it, so why are you so eager to stick with me?”

“We don’t what may have happened to it.  It could be-”

“Bullshit! It’s a flesh wound.  I didn’t tear any muscle and the bleeding is minimal.  There’s no way a sports’ medicine major doesn’t know that.”

Will looked Hank in the eye, but quickly averted his gaze.  “I want to help because I feel guilty.”  Hank softened his glare and sighed, “it’s not your fault.  It was my idea to go down the tree.  It could’ve happ-” “I feel guilty because I’m the reason you tried to kill yourself.”  And for the first time ever, Hank saw Will cry.

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The thrill Hank felt over being allowed to join his brother and his friends on their camping trip was quickly deflating.  He had waited so many years until he was in high school when he would be invited on the annual trip. What he thought would be an adventurous weekend of paintballing, swimming, and general fun turned out to be an uncomfortable weekend of sleeping all day until it was time to wake up and drink all night.  Hank wasn’t necessarily an innocent kid, but when it came to drugs and alcohol, he was out.

The first night of the trip, he tried his best to be social, but seeing his friends drink made him uncomfortable.  He tried to tell himself that he didn’t like it because under-age drinking is illegal, but deep down he knew it was because he felt betrayed.  He didn’t care what his brother and his friends did, but seeing Will drink hurt him.  In Hank’s mind Will should have known it would make him feel bad and leave it alone.  Hank couldn’t handle it any more so he made up an excuse and went to bed early.  The next night would be so much worse.

Hank spent the entire next day bored out of his mind.  Everyone else slept all day except for a few breaks to eat and go to the bathroom.  Once the sun had been out of sight for a while, the drinking started back up again.  This time Hank ignored the group and sat quietly by himself staring at the campfire they had made.
He was poking the fire absent-mindedly when Will approached.  “Why don’t you stop being such a pussy and just drink,” Will slurred loudly.  Hank stared at him silently and was going to respond, but he decided it was better not to argue with a drunk person.  “This is why I was your only friend,” Will continued, “because you refuse to socialize just because someone’s doing something that makes you uncomfortable.”  Will tried to say more, but the rest of the group came over and guided him away quietly.

Hank walked away from the fire and got in his sleeping bag and cried.  He wasn’t crying because Will was drunk, or because he was verbally abused, or because no one else really seemed to care.  He was crying because not only did Will say “I ‘was’ your only friend,” but because it was true as well.  After that weekend, their friendship stopped declining.  Because it couldn’t decline any more.

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Hank was speechless.  He watched the tears slowly roll down Will’s face.  “What are you talking about,” Hank asked confused.  Will wiped his face and tried to say something, but couldn’t get the words out.  “That suicide attempt had nothing to do with you,” Hank assured him.  “I was diagnosed with loads of problems:  ADD, SAD, depression, OCD.  None of those things were your fault.  You were my best friend.  You didn’t do anything to hurt me until after the whole fiasco.”  Will took a strengthening breath.  “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter now-”

“I was trying to help you.”

“Help me?  How were you trying to help me?”

“Listen! That week you were in the hospital under suicide watch was one of the worst weeks of my life.  My best friend tried to kill himself.  How do you think I felt?  I was fourteen years old, and my mom woke me up one morning to tell me my best friend had been found passed out on the floor with painkillers in his hand.  The kid who promised everyone he would go his whole life without drugs and alcohol had overdosed on painkillers.  And you want to know what the first thing I said to myself was? Huh? ‘Why would my best friend want to hurt me like that?’”

Will’s face was drenched in tears now, and his voice was strained with seven years of pent up feelings.  Hank felt numb.  He had never heard the story of how Will found out, and now he wish he hadn’t.  “I wasn’t thinking of you when I tried to kill myself,” Hank said calmly.  “No, obviously you weren’t,” Will cut back.
“The day my mom told me about your attempt, I went to the library to look up all these different disorders that you had mentioned but I never asked about.  And every single book I looked at said that the number one way to help someone with those problems was to be supportive and to listen.  At that moment, I realized not once had I ever talked about feelings with you.  You would try to initiate something, but I just didn’t know how to do it.  So I decided the best thing to do was to let you find better friends.  I was only making things worse.”

Hank leaned against a nearby fire hydrant.  “So, you let our friendship fade away because you were trying to save me?”

Will shrugged apologetically. “I didn’t know how to handle it.  I figured it was the best thing for you.”

“And the camping trip when you insulted me and told me why I’m a loser,” Hank asked tentatively.

“A night of black-out drunkenness, that I’m glad I don’t remember.”

After a long time of silence, Hank eventually agreed to let Will take him to a late night urgent care center.  Hank’s leg was fixed up pretty quickly, but he couldn’t exactly go back to his apartment.  Will took him to his place where they both slept off the long grueling night.

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After the cops couldn’t find any one over twenty-one on the roof, they went back to the apartment to question Vince again.  There, they found a collage of pictures of Vince showing off his handiwork of cutting payphone lines and scratching “get a fuckin phone” in the sides.  That vandalism charge on top of several other charges involving alcohol, minors, and large amount of pot found on his person got Vince a bit of jail time.
            With his roommate in jail, Hank was without an affordable place to live.  Luckily, he had an old friend that was able to help him out.

I Have an Idea

I Have an Idea

I have an idea
I don't have the audacity to say "I know"
I can't afford to say "I have faith"
And I'm reluctant to say "I believe" 
But I have an idea

Knowing seems so final
So stubborn
Because the truth is that I know nothing
I have lived and will live only so long
I have been and will go to only so many places
I can claim unlimited truths
I can prove those truths with logic
But what proof do I have that logic is truth?
Knowing is too final.

I have an idea
I can't afford to say "I have faith"
And I'm reluctant to say "I believe"
But I have an idea

Faith could get me in trouble
Earn me contempt
Because the truth is faith is knowing without proof
I have been told many things
I have learned many rules
I can claim unlimited truths
I can prove those truths with quotes
But what quotes are the truth?
Faith will get me in trouble

I have an idea
And I'm reluctant to say "I believe"
But I have an idea

Beliefs might be kind of wishy-washy
A cop out
Because beliefs are somewhere between knowledge and faith
I believe things I've been told
I believe I need proof
I can believe unlimited truths
I can see logic in those truths
But I'm not quite committing
Beliefs are wishy-washy

I have an idea

Ideas never commit
Or promise
Because ideas make no claims and have no proof
I think something might be
I think I'd like to know
I can think of truths
I won't claim those truths are true
But I don't have to
Ideas never commit or promise

I have an idea

5 Attempts At Something Profound

First, I'd like to apologize for the delay since the last post. I've had a lot of things I've had to take care of this past month and haven't been able to focus properly on my writing. But I have time now to jump back into it.

I'd like to return with something I hope to do on a weekly basis. You see, I'd like to have said something profound. I want to say something that makes life-changing sense to someone. Whether it causes them to think in a new way or it sums up what they already feel I want to affect someone with my words- even if they misunderstand my intent (because in my mind, that's the point of art and writing).

With that said, I'd like to present to you five attempts at something profound. Using the random topic generator on http://www.blogtap.net/blogtopicgenerator/, I'll take five topics and comment on them in the hopes that something I say will be profound. Are you starting to understand the title?

1)Your worst enemy.
I've outgrown the use for enemies. There is no doubt that there are people who I don't care for and people that need to stop what they do, but making them an enemy won't help. It is far better to fight against a bad situation than a bad person.

2)Movies to watch alone in the dark
That's inappropriate.

3)George Lucas
You can stop judging me for not liking Star Wars. I personally blame you. By the time I was mature enough to understand it, the pop culture references to it ruined the story.

4)Taking walks by yourself
I take walks by myself. I enjoy the chance to quietly think to myself... but I do that all the time anyways. I'd much rather have someone to share those thoughts with.

5)Television Series that have gone bad
I only have a rudimentary understanding of the finances involved in television production. But network executives cutting production costs because the production is sub-par seems to be counter-intuitive.

Magic Lessons: part 3

It had been almost ten years since my mother had died. Now, I was married and living with Kiera while Lucy and my father still lived in the house I grew up in. It had been pretty rough in the immediate aftershock, but Danny, my father, and I had coped relatively well with my mother’s death. We had some help from my grandparents, but my father and I worked together to try and take care of Danny and Lucy by ourselves as much as possible. My father would work long hours as a carpenter (which wouldn’t have been so long if he had just shifted his material into finished pieces), while I would babysit and take care of dinner after school. Danny took over my place once I moved out and started college, but I still helped on a regular basis. We worked together on a lot for Lucy’s sake. The only thing we didn’t do together very often was magic.

            Due to the stress of becoming a widow and a single parent all at once, my father had to put my magic lessons on hold. He offered to start back up again once he started teaching Danny, but by then I had started getting lessons from Kiera’s family. He wasn’t too happy about that, but he didn’t have the energy to fight me anymore. Occasionally, he would test me to make sure I was wherever I needed to be in my training or, even more rarely, to prove I was mature enough to make certain decisions. The last such test had been a demonstration of a complex fusion of styles two years prior to prove I was ready to propose to Kiera.

We were having Sunday family dinner at my dad’s house. It was me, my father, Kiera and Lucy. Danny couldn’t come home from school for the weekend. We had a good meal and were sitting back letting it digest while Lucy regaled us with her stories of her fourth grade adventures. My father leaned over and quietly confided to me, “I’m starting Lucy’s lessons next month.” Kiera heard as well, and the two of us shared a look. “Why don’t you show me that new make-up kit you were telling me about?” Kiera offered to Lucy, and they left us alone to talk.

I chose my opener carefully. “Dad, Kiera and I have been talking. We want to offer to be the ones to teach Lucy magic. We think we have a better…” “Not another word,” he interrupted, “it’s my right and my obligation to teach my little girl her magics. Why would you deny me that?” “We just think that Kiera’s family has more references to use. You’re just one teacher. Kiera’s family has dozens of experienced magicians that would be happy to help,” I pleadingly insisted. “No,” he refused, “I won’t have those people filling another of my children’s head with nonsense about druids and leprechauns.” “It’s what you learned from your parents,” I shot back. “Besides, is that any worse than telling her she’s some saint in training?”

            I endured one of the infamous intent stares for several moments. Finally he stood up, started clearing the table and, without looking at me, said “Test first.” I followed his lead on the cleaning and started washing the dishes he pulled off the table. “A test?” I asked, exasperated. “Dad, my lessons ended a few years ago. I have nothing new to show you.” “This isn’t a test of knowledge and education,” he explained without emotion, “this is a test of skill and power.”

            My eyes narrowed. “And how do you propose to test that?” I asked. He presented me with a butter knife he was bringing to the sink. “Shift this” he demanded. “Shifting?” I asked, unimpressed. “I’m not ten any more, Dad. I don’t need to shift when I can conjure.” “Let me finish,” he proposed, the familiar twinkle coming to his eye. “Shift this…using me as your tool.”

            “That’s impossible,” I laughed. “You know the truth. It won’t work.” Without another word, he held up the knife between his thumb and index finger. Hiding the bottom edge with his fingers, he slid the knife down with his other hand. As his hand came down from behind his fingers, I saw that he wasn’t holding a metal knife, but an ornately decorated strip of parchment paper. He handed it to me, smiling smugly. There, on this pretty piece of paper decorated with green Celtic runes and shamrocks, in my handwriting, was scrawled the words “I can’t shift using him as a tool.” That was the exact thought and wording going through my head before he demonstrated.

            “How?” I asked dumbfounded. “Oh, no!” he shot back. “Your lessons are done. Remember? You don’t need me to teach you this.” “And how do I know I was your tool? How do I know you’re not lying to me so you get what you want?” I challenged. He gently grasped my shoulders and regarded me with earnest. “I may bend perceptions, boy. I may omit some truths. I may even tell a real lie in a desperate situation. But I never lie to you.” He dropped his arms and then folded them as he stepped back and leaned against the sink.

            I studied him. Kiera’s family never mentioned using someone aware of the secret as a tool in any kind of magic. I couldn’t trick him. I couldn’t tell him a lie. The only thing I could think of was to use what he was thinking. I crushed the piece of paper in my hand and, using guessing magic, let go of the restored butter knife. My father looked at me expectantly.

            I stared him right in the eye and held the knife the way he just had. Without averting my gaze, I slowly pulled the knife down. As my hand came down, it brought with it a strip of leather. The moment I saw a twinkle enter my father’s eye, I redirected my focus of tool, and yanked my treasure the rest of the way down. I held in my open hand a beautiful leather-strapped wrist-watch.

            My father’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t think you understand it,” he sighed. “Look at the strap,” I suggested with a twinkle in my eye. He looked closely at the strap. Comprehension running across his face, he threw his head back and heartily laughed. He slapped the watch on his wrist, pulled me into a hug and kissed me on the forehead.

            A month later, on the first Sunday after her tenth birthday, Lucy sat at the dining room table eagerly awaiting her first magic lesson. “Science, my dear Lucy,” I started “is a matter of facts.” “Magic,” my father continued, “is a matter of ideas.” On his wrist, he was wearing the watch I shifted for him. And stamped into the leather strap, in the style of his handwriting, was scrawled the message “that’s my boy!"

Magic Lessons: part 2

When I was fifteen, I reached a new level of my training: self-altering. “Now, this particular style of magic,” my father explained, “can be used to change what you look like, what you sound like, even what you’re able to do. As always, don’t use this for your own carnal pleasures and personal gains. This magic can be very dangerous.” “But why?” I asked. “Because if you do it wrong, you could hurt yourself. This can be hard,” he replied without breaking his stride. “No,” I interrupted again, “Why can’t I use it for myself?” Until then, I had never asked a question. I never asked for an explanation. I just took what my father said for the gospel truth and trusted I’d understand it later.

            My father studied me intently, his curious look narrowing his eyebrows more and more until they turned his look into a scowl. “Because we weren’t given this ability so we could serve and please ourselves. The good Lord doesn’t bless us with gifts so that we can keep blessing ourselves.” I went for a second question, “Who do we bless with it then?” “Others,” he was quick to respond, “we are to use the gift of magic to help those who can’t help themselves.” “Who says?” I asked (this question thing was pretty easy), “it’s not like the Pope is giving speeches on the responsibilities in magic.” His cheeks reddened. “I say. The word of your father should be enough.” “And why should I trust you?” That may have been one question too many.

            Fights like that became more and more frequent. Most of them stemmed from the urge for self-serving magic. Another big chunk was due to my questioning of the origin of the gift. I didn’t understand how this could be a gift from God, if the church didn’t believe in magic. “They’re just miniature miracles,” my father tried to explain, “taught to the prophets by God and to the apostles by Christ.” It still didn’t sit right with me. I still received my lessons, but more often than not, they would end with a fight and a sentence to church to pray for forgiveness. My relationship with Kiera would be the final straw.

            Kiera wasn’t the first girl I dated, but she was definitely my first girlfriend. My father loved her when they met. How could he not? She came from a large Irish family, went to Catholic school with me, and even called David Copperfield an idiot. That first family dinner we had with her had been a huge success. At the end, my parents watched as I walked Kiera to her waiting mom’s car. After fondly watching us (and surreptitiously looking away when I kissed her cheek) my parents sat me down for a talk.

            My mother sat down gingerly at the kitchen table and signaled for me to join her. “We need to talk, Matty,” she began as my father walked in and stood behind her. “A girlfriend is a big responsibility.” “I’m not about to get the talk again, am I?” I asked, dreading the prospect. “Do you need it again?” my father asked with his familiar twinkle. “What we need to talk about,” my mother continued, ignoring the pair of us, “is what you two talk about, specifically about your special talents.” “You mean armpit farts and nose-playing?” I asked in an evasive tone. “You know what we mean, boy,” my father shot back, his twinkle dimming.

            “You are not to mention, nor use magic, in front your girl,” my father said sternly. “What! Are you serious?” I protested, “I’ve spent five years hiding an incredible gift from everyone I know. I couldn’t even tell Danny until two years ago. Haven’t I earned the right to tell who I want? This is my secret, so isn’t it my secret to share?” “This isn’t a bloody piece of cake,” he said threateningly. “This isn’t just your secret. It belongs to me, your mother, and your siblings. You give up yours, you give up everyone’s” “Still, it’s my choice. I can— wait… ‘Siblings?’ plural? As in ‘more than Danny’?” I asked confused. My mother’s lips pursed as her eyes widened. A smile widened across my father’s face, increasing his twinkle exponentially.

            My mother was due to have her first daughter in mid-April. Among other things the pregnancy helped bring peace between my father and me. Aside from being in generally better moods, we were deterred from fighting by my mother’s fragile state. She would exploit her pregnancy by coyly asking “you wouldn’t want to upset me in my delicate condition, would you?” We backed off for her, but we appreciated the respite. It worked pretty well until March rolled around.

            The first Sunday of March, my father was teaching me the concept of guessing magic in the living room. “There’re going to be a lot of times when you have no target; you’re alone, with other magicians, stuck with a bloody idiot; but you still need to use magic. The thing is there is always someone somewhere that believes that whatever you’re going to do is possible. It’s a simple concept, like most of what I’ve taught you, but difficult to put into practical use. You still need your tool. As long as you can get a good approximation of who might believe what you need to do.” His lecture lost steam when he noticed I was preoccupied with a key-chain I was shifting into a locket. His face reddened and he snatched the trinket just as I shifted it back. I had never ignored a lesson.

            “If you want to return to the basics, we can just ignore this impossibly useful practice and go back to candy bars,” my father seethed. It’d been months since we went a couple rounds so the pressure was building, but I was able to keep my cool. “I just wanted a gift for Kiera when I go to her parents’ St. Patrick’s Day party, and you still won’t let me use magic outside of lessons.” “Because if you still need lessons then you’re not ready to use it on your own. And what’s this about a party? I never gave permission. You’re not going to some irreverent excuse for getting drunk that insults my country and religion.” Well, there went my cool. “What? Mom already gave me permission. What’s the harm? It’s not like I’m going to drink. Besides, it’s an Irish tradition.” “No! My heritage is an Irish tradition. American St. Patrick’s Day is an excuse to drink and mock a great culture.”

            “Boys, please stop,” my mother moaned from her bed. The pregnancy had forced her to take frequent naps. “Sean, I talked to Kiera’s parents. Minors never get served, and the party is just a family get-together. But Matty, if you’re father says no, you can’t go.” “Then you’re not going,” he said calmly so my mother wouldn’t hear and get upset. I glared at him for several long moments, but pushed down my anger for the sake of my mother. “What if I made you a deal?” I offered when a compromise occurred to me. He studied me a little then nodded for me to continue. “You test me to prove I can do everything I’ve learned so far. I pass; I go to the party. I fail; I go to sunrise Mass with you instead.” As he considered it, a smug smile and his usual twinkle marked his face. He nodded and agreed.

            My test was to excessively use at least three magic styles to pour a glass of water. The catch was that we couldn’t leave the house to find unwitting tools, which meant I had to use the guessing process I had just learned. I got to finish the lecture, but no demonstration. I took the day to devise a plan and then, satisfied with what I had, I presented my abilities. My father set down a glass and pitcher of water and sat back with his twinkle.

            First, I showed my father Danny’s empty backpack and then reached in and pulled out a plastic action figure of the Thing from Fantastic Four. I then covered it with a white handkerchief (knowing full well the stage flourish would irritate him) and whipped it back to reveal it was now made of actual rock. Finally, I scribbled a command to pour some water and placed it the stone mouth. After closing the little jaw, the figure sprang to life and lifted the relatively giant pitcher to pour a glass. I grabbed the hero and tossed him back in the bag. It was back to being a plastic toy before it reached the bottom of the bag.

            “Explain it,” my father demanded, the lack of slyness in his speech not lost on me. “Magic is simple, right?” I asked challengingly. “Danny lost a toy he borrowed and the kid doesn’t know it’s missing yet. I used him to teleport the toy to the bag. There are kids all over the world that not only believe their action figures are real but also that their Thing toys are truly made of rock. I used that to shift the plastic to actual stone. Lastly, there are plenty of Jewish people that believe in golems. Take a stone man, place a written command in his mouth, and watch him carry out your every whim. All I had to do was write a message and I could animate him. The real problem was figuring out the necessary Hebrew. I couldn’t get past the language barrier of the myth.” My father stared at me hard and then finally grumbled, “Fine, you can go.” Unfortunately that would be the last lesson I would get from him.

            A couple weeks later, I was in Kiera’s grandmother’s basement with the rest of the “children.” Turns out my mother was right; half a dozen teenagers and not one of us could get a drink. It’s not like any of the adults would notice if we had a little, but not one of us was able to get to and from the liquor cabinet with anything good. After hours of whining and grousing, I decided to take a leap and save the party. I broke one of my father’s cardinal rules and prepared my first solo public practice of magic.

            The Canaan wedding wine pour is probably one of the easiest tricks I know. All you need is a convincing container and a convincible audience. You don’t even need water to shift if you’re good enough. I snuck upstairs and waited until one of Kiera’s uncles finished off a bottle of whiskey. “I can rinse that out and put it in the recycling for you,” I cheerily offered before filling the bottle for a rinse but not dumping the water. After that, I made a big production of “sneaking” back into the basement. What was my father thinking? I used magic in public, and I was a hero.

            After pouring several glasses I turned around to see Kiera wide-eyed and shocked. “How did you do that?” she whispered urgently. “That bottle was empty, and all you put in it was water.” Before I could say anything she poured some of the bottle’s contents into her glass; it was just water. Then she offered to top off her cousins glass: perfectly aged whiskey. I was baffled. “How did you,” I started to ask. “How did you do that,” she interrupted; her whisper getting heavier. She stared intently into my eyes, scrutinizing me, looking for something. “You’re a descendant!” she gasped.

            I don’t know what I expected her to say, but it definitely wasn’t that. “I- I’m what?” I stammered. “You know what,” she shot back, accusingly but excitedly. “You’re a great-great-great-great whatever of Irish spirits: druids, pookas, leprechauns. Their abilities and skills passed down parents to kids, keeping hidden to hide from religious fanatics. You’re just like me.” She pressed up close and whispered faintly in my ear, “you know magic.” It wasn’t a question.

            I ran the whole way home. After talking with Kiera for a couple hours, I learned some shocking things. She knew as much magic as I did: shifting, teleporting, vanishing. All of it. Apparently, her family had been teaching magic to each other for generations. When I brought up the idea of it being a gift from god, she got confused. “We don’t dare reveal this to the church,” she explained. “My gran says the Vatican is good, but they wouldn’t appreciate us associating our skills with God.” I had a lot of questions for my father.

            I stormed through the front door. “A gift from god?” I shouted, not noticing his red eyes or tear-stained cheeks. “Is that what you said our ability is? ‘A God given gift worthy of the saints and prophets,’ that’s what we have right?” He didn’t say a word. He just stared at me expressionless. “Why the hell was I just told that everything I can do is because somewhere in our ancestry we have elves and leprechaun and who knows what else? Why did you lie to me? Why did lead me to believe I’m something special when I’m just some damned witch-breed halfling?” He stood slowly; still no expression on his face, approached me, and gave me one hard slap across the face. He then immediately lost all calmness and broke down sobbing, pulling me in close for a hug.

            Soon after that, I found out my mother when into early labor. There were complications and she died during child-birth. The baby girl survived. My father named her Lucy Marie Lynch.

Magic Lessons: part 1

            I was ten years old when my father started giving me magic lessons. He was a devout Irish-Catholic who insisted that I was comfortable with God and had shared in my first communion before I learned anything that might make me question Him. I was seven when he sat me down after Mass and told me that magic existed and eight when he demonstrated his own skill in the art. But it wasn’t until my tenth birthday that the teachings began.

            “Science, my dear Matthew, is a matter of facts. Magic, however,” he said with his eye twinkling the way it only did when he had a secret, “is a matter of ideas.” He pulled two bags from his pocket: an empty Skittles container and a sandwich baggie filled with small pebbles. He emptied the pebbles into the Skittles bag plainly and then called my brother Daniel in. My father shook the bag for Daniel so that the contents clearly rattled. Daniel held his hand out, his four-year-old eyes widening with excitement, politely saying “pease” as he had been taught. Without the gaudy flourish you might expect from a stage magician, my father poured brightly colored candy into my brother’s hand.

            My father hated stage magicians, or the “bloody attention-seeking liars” as he called them, for the perversion of his sacred art. To him, the performers who called themselves magicians rarely were. Most of them used smoke, mirrors and sleight-of-hand. And the few who did use real magic made it even more of a production by “speaking against our Lord and Savior with all their witch talk and devil worshiping.” He believed that if you were going to use mysticism to make a profit (which he wasn’t too fond of overall) at the very least don’t draw attention to it. He constantly praised the works of Disney and Henson for their subtle magic doubling as entertainment (and it helped that they were good Irish boys, even if Henson was a hippie).

            I was given a week to imitate the candy switch. It took me a month. It didn’t have to be pebbles into Skittles necessarily, but I needed to somehow take an ordinary object and give my brother candy. I tried bouncy balls into gumballs, coins into sweet-tarts, and even my father’s cigarettes into candy cigarettes (lost TV privileges for a week after that one). It didn’t help that all I had to work with was “magic is a matter of ideas.” My father wouldn’t teach me any more until I accomplished the goal, despite my whining that I needed more lessons first. “You don’t need more lessons, you want more lessons,” he curtly explained, tired of my constant protests. “You have everything you need to accomplish this task.” I finally earned my second lesson when I took a scoop of mud and gave Daniel a chocolate bar.

            That following Sunday, I excitedly explained to my father how I had shaped the mud into a bar, wrapped it in foil, and left it where Daniel could find it. He smiled proudly but had that twinkle in his eye. “And how did you change the mud into chocolate?” I was perplexed at his question. I had just explained the whole story. What else was I supposed to say? The longer he stared at me, the more his proud smile started to look smug. “Every effect comes from a cause, Matthew, even in magic. We don’t always understand it, but even magic has a process. You used a tool to make that chocolate. What was it?” I studied his face trying to find some hint as to what the answer was. After several minutes I blindly guessed “Daniel?” He nodded, seemingly impressed.

            My father explained the magical process using baking as an analogy. “Think of how your mother bakes a cake. She has four basic necessities she uses to make a cake: ingredients, utensils, tools, and energy. The ingredients are raw materials that are unimportant on their own. It could be anything, rocks, toys, even thin air. Your mother uses cake mix and eggs; you used mud. Utensils are used to prepare the ingredients. A whisk beats batter while aluminum foil looks like a chocolate wrapper. That leaves the tool and the energy. The tool shapes the ingredients while the energy causes the actual change. Your mother puts her batter in a pan in the hot oven. Now, we know that Daniel was the tool that shaped your ingredients, but where did the energy come from?” It had become obvious to me that most of my father’s questions were best answered by first instincts. “From me,” I said hopefully. “Yes, Matthew,” my father whispered as he moved in close, “and that is something you must remember; magic cannot be done by one person. One person can do a lot, but you need more to do something magical.”

            We exhausted Daniel as a tool pretty quickly. If we wanted to produce more than candy, we were going to need more than a four-year-old. About five months after the first lesson, we started staying after Mass for coffee and donuts which we never did before (“the Lord’s day is not meant for finagling a free breakfast.”) But we needed more mature marks, not to mention multiple subjects for my training. “Now the trick to mystifying adults,” he explained as he put a tie on me before church, “is to never to tell them a lie. That might work on children, but adults are more likely to trust their assumptions than anything they might be told. Do you understand?” It was a simple concept, but I was still confused. “I understand that, but… is this going to make God mad? Doing magic in a church, I mean. I can’t imagine He’d like us working against Him in His own house.” My father chuckled as he smoothed out my shirt and wiped some dirt of my face. “’Working against Him?’ Where do you think we get our ability to begin with?”

            My mother wasn’t too fond of my magic lessons. She had no ability herself, but she did respect the art. What she didn’t like was that I was being taught how to trick and lie. I remember when I eavesdropped on my father assuring her magic lessons were important. “You knew our kids would have these talents, Marie. I have to make sure he knows how to do this properly.” “But through tricks and lies, Sean? Matthew’s an innocent boy. That means he’s corruptible. Teach him to lie for a reward, and who knows how it’ll affect him.” I heard what sounded like a kiss and then my father’s voice in a gentler tone saying, “That’s why I’m teaching him my way, instead of my parents’.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I trusted my father too much to ever question him.

After that my mother helped out with my lessons in her own way. While my father taught the “math and science” of magic, my mother taught the “arts and literature.” Which I found out meant, to my pleasure, watching old TV shows to see magic in action. We’d watch Muppets and Disney of course, but I learned so much more from Lucy.

I was the only ten year old who knew every episode of  “I Love Lucy.” My mother explained that “talking animals and goofy monsters are impressive, Matty, but that’s for children. You want intelligent enchantment, just watch Lucy.” Every night, my mother would feed us kids, bathe us, put us in pajamas, and turn on Nick at Night. My father even approved of this (again, it helps Lucy was an Irish girl.) Every episode, Lucy would drag Ethel into some crazy plot or situation that would always end OK, if not pleasantly. There was nothing “magical” about them, but these were impossible situations and Lucy had us believing them every night.

By my eleventh birthday, I had pretty much mastered switches: mud into chocolate, the Canaan wedding wine pour (juice only until I got older), paper into dollar bills (immediately put in the church donation box), and anything else I could get someone else to think of. Despite all of the possibilities that switching offered, I still had plenty to learn. My father had mentioned conjuring, vanishing, teleporting, and more complicated magic styles. As hard as the first year was, my father told me it’d take another ten to fifteen years to finish my training.

The Peasant Painter

In celebration of the kingdom's harvest festival, the king decided to give his wife, his brother, and his daughter each a painting of the proceedings. He called upon his servants and told them to bring him the three most unique artists in the lands. Within the hour the servants returned with the royal portraitist, an architect, and a street painter from the slums. He informed the three men that he wished to purchase from them paintings of the festivals key points. When they were finished, they were to bring their work back to the palace so that the queen, the prince, and the princess could pick their favorites. Since it was most important to the king that the princess be happy, he promised an additional three bags of gold to the creator of her chosen piece. He sent them off and ordered them to return before sundown the day after the festival.

The festival came and the King wandered around the town to check in on the three artists to see how their work was coming. He found the portraitist inside the palace capturing the nobles enjoying their private feast. Outside, he discovered the architect studying the special carts and kiosks used by the merchants for the festival. He searched for the street painter as he made his rounds, but found him nowhere. He was concerned about the peasant's progress, but decided he would just see the finished product.

The day after the festival, the king waited for the paintings with his family. Around lunch, the Portraitist arrived first with his piece. It was a bright and colorful display of the nobles with focus on their clothes and jewelry. The garments popped, the gems sparkled, and the faces were spot on. The setting seemed to fall flat and the background was plain. All-in-all, the queen found it pleasing as it captured her perfectly and showed off her possessions. The queen requested the painting should the princess not want it.

By mid-afternoon, the architect arrived with his piece. It was a superbly technical display of architecture and design. The buildings and carts were drawn crisply and perfectly with proper shading for the mid-day sun. The people, however, were too stiff and had no warmth. All-in-all, the prince was drawn to it's technical aspects and requested it should the princess not desire it.

Then they waited for the peasant. And waited. And waited. Finally, just as the sun touched the horizon, the street painter arrived with his piece. As he uncovered it, the royal family gasped. It was perfect. The peasant had captured the entire festival from the top of a building. He captured the nobles leaving the palace in their fine dress. He captured the merchants' carts and kiosks set perfectly throughout the square. He captured the people dancing in the streets. He captured the fields, freshly reaped, off in the distance. He captured everything one would think would be there at the festival and more. The queen and prince didn't even bother to request it as the princess claimed it immediately.

The king congratulated the peasant and presented him with his reward. As the artists left, the portraitist and the architect asked the peasant how he became so talented at painting.

"I don't paint," he told them. "I just look at everything I think is most important and put it on the canvas."

"But you got everything," they complained. "What was the most important."

"I got everything, didn't I?"  The peasant then gave each of them a bag of gold and went on his way.

"Wait," they called. "Don't you want these?"

"Maybe," he said over his shoulder, "but I don't need them."

Meet the Ol' Empian Family

I'm going to take a break from Harry Cleese and the ol' Empian family for a little while so I can play with some other forms and genres (and let's face it adapting greek myths to modern crime drama isn't exactly easy). But before I do, I wanted to give you a look at the bosses and lieutenants of the family and their original Greek/Roman godly counterparts.

Big Zed Empian= Zeus/Jupiter
Big Zed is an energy baron who has a monopoly on local utilities. He used his power and influence to take control of the ol' Empian family because his father, Sal (Kronos/Saturn), did not trust control of the family to his children. A strong leader but morally questionable man, Zed has many children out of wedlock. This is especially hard on his wife June (Hera/Juno) who, as the family matriarch, plans weddings and is a marriage counselor.

June Empian= Hera/Juno
As mentioned, the matriarch to the ol' Empian family and wedding planner. This may seem like a frivolous job, but June actually oversees proper pairings and unions in and out of the family to keep or create peace with the rest of the criminal underworld. She is fond of peacock print but not her husband's mistresses or bastard children. She is known to be petty and malicious to everyone involved in the infidelity except for Zed. She's not dumb enough to challenge a crime lord, even if she is his wife.

Paul Cyrus Empian= Poseidon/Neptune
Big Zed's older brother who captain's a smuggling ship for the family. He, Zed, and their eldest brother Hardy (Hades/Pluto) gambled on who would oversee what major operations after overthrowing their father. Zed won first choice and took over the front business, a thriving airplane parts factory and warehouse, along with general family management and his energy monopoly. Paul won second and took what was his first choice with the smuggling ship, preferring the vast freedom of the ocean. He's known to have anger problems but also a soft spot for horses and storm-watching.

Hardy Empian= Hades/Pluto
The oldest brother of the current generation leading the family, Hardy feels entitled to run it and is unhappy and bitter about his position in the operations. Hardy runs a morgue and funeral parlor specializing in foreign body recovery. This is a front and cover for the actual operation, which is hiding the contraband for Paul's smuggling ship. He is widely despised for forcing Zed's sister-in-law Demi's (Demeter) barely-legal daughter Steph (Persephone) to marry him.

Demi Turner= Demeter/Ceres
June's sister who runs a restaurant as a front for the family. Some-what considered ineffectual for the most part, Demi does control one important thing in the family. As a prenuptial agreement, Steph only stays with Hardy six months of the year. The rest of her time is spent with Demi at the restaurant where she is the star chef. Her cooking brings in many more customers which greatly assists in money laundering. Time without Steph is a financial winter for the family.

April Empian= Aphrodite/Venus
An outsider to the family who was married to Heywood (Hephaestus/Vulcan) as a political strategy by June to fold April's operation into the family. April is a madame who pairs certain important persons with her girls to cause trouble and to keep an upper hand on local officials. April is as notoriously unfaithful as Big Zed. Her preferred boy-toy is Aaron (Ares) who Heywood repeatedly catches and tries to exploit.

Heywood Empian= Hephaestus/Vulcan
One of Big Zed's few children with June, Heywood was guaranteed a spot at the family table. Heywood was born with a deformity and was initially shunned by the family. Proving himself by designing and building various weapons and devices for the family generals, he won respect if not adoration. Some of his best known creations are Big Zed's bolts, throwing blades equipped with stun-gun capabilities; Hardy's camo cap, a simple balaclava equipped with a device that disrupts electrical lighting systems allowing him to blend into the shadows; and Paul's tri-pole, a deep sea fishing pole that conceals a three-bladed staff perfect for retrieving contraband in those hard to reach smugglers' hallows.

Aaron Empian= Ares/Mars
Heywood's full brother and April's boyfriend (that's awkward). Aaron is the top enforcer and field commander of the family. Dishonorably discharged from the military for "excessive brutality" (fuckin' people up), Aaron puts his misplaced anger to good use for the family. A frightening father figure, he teaches each of his kids specific war tactics and ideals. His son Damien (Deimos) is practiced in puffery to put dread in his opponents while his other son Foss (Phobos) fills them with fear. His daughter Adrian (Adrestia) does nothing unless it's for revenge.

Missy Arte= Artemis/Diana
The daughter of Big Zed and an illegal immigrant named Lydia Arte (Leto). June is jealous of all of Big Zed's mistresses, but Lydia in particular threatened her power. Lydia was the daughter of the boss of an Italian crime syndicate that could bear Zed children with rights to both families. To keep Lydia from giving birth on American soil and therefore claiming citizenship, June had her deported. Due to the unexpected interference of a rogue fisherman (also known as Paul) Lydia's ship did not make it out of U.S. waters before she gave birth to her twins Missy and Palo (Apollo). Missy has been mistreated far too many times by men to trust them anymore. She is an avid hunter and uses it to help rehabilitate young battered woman.

Palo Arte= Apollo
The twin brother of Missy. Palo is the family's resident arsonist, poisoner, and medic. Like his sister, he is a perfect shot and used often as a sniper. He is also known to be very proud and vengeful when it comes to his mother. When it was rumored that June put a hit out on Lydia, he killed the supposed assassin without verifying. Further still, when Naia Bello (Niobe) claimed Lydia left home out of shame for only having two children who didn't even contribute to the Arte family, Palo murdered all seven of Naia's sons.

Minnie Empian= Athena/Minerva
The daughter of Big Zed and an unknown mother. Given her intelligence, Big Zed likes to claim she just came out of his head. The smartest of his kids, Minnie is Big Zed's personal strategist. She claims to have no time for men and as a result has never had one. When Big Zed had an some property he couldn't manage, a stretch of boardwalk restaurants and front businesses, Minnie and Paul fought over ownership. Tired of their arguing, Big Zed left the decision to the employees. Paul offered to put a pool in just for employees while Minnie offered free food for them at the restaurants. Deciding free food was more important than a pool on the beach, Minnie was chosen as their matron. Thus was created "Minnie's Boardwalk."

Herm Essex= Hermes/Mercury
Another of Big Zed's bastard children, Herm is the family's fence and product runner. He spends most of his time on the road, but caused some trouble when he was younger. When he was a boy his mother, May (Maia), forbade him from family operations. Herm snuck out his window and decided to pull off a heist at a music shop. He wasn't caught but didn't realize that Palo had been planning to hit the shop himself. Seeing him flee, Palo followed Herm home planning to beat him for his insolence. When Palo got there he discovered Herm playing an early Gibson Les Paul that had been secured in the owner's private vault. Palo was so impressed that he asked for the guitar in exchange for forgiveness for the rest.

Dino Cease= Dionysus/Bacchus
The youngest of Big Zed's children to sit at the table, Dino almost wasn't born. His mother, Millie Cease, was a woman unaware of Big Zed's criminal actions. Disguised as an old woman at the hair salon, June convinced Millie to walk in on a heist to see for herself. Millie, not believing for a second that Big Zed would do such things, stepped right in the middle of a stand-off between the Empian's and a rival team. Millie was gunned down instantly. Having already lost the mother, Big Zed huddled around her in an attempt to save the fetus. An ambulance eventually showed up and the small Dino was born prematurely thanks to the efforts of his father.

Thanks for reading. I highly suggest researching Greek mythology on your own. It's a hobby that satisfies several interests: literature, anthropology, theology, history, and many others. I do plan to finish adapting the rest of the twelve labors of Heracles (if you're just now realizing that's what Harry Cleese is, you really need to study mythology), but I need a break to work on other things. So keep an eye out for the eventual post of Harry Cleese: Part 5 "Cry for Kieran".