The Steakhouse: Stories (Full Version)

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Cow Face -> The Steakhouse: Stories (6/25/2008 13:53:43)

OMGBBQ!

These are the collected writings of mine. This thread is mainly used for short stories, but I will give links to any other writing threads I made.
Comment Thread

An In-Depth Look At Legends and Lore
101 Uses For A Left Sock
The Creation of Half-Drakel Warrior
The Saga of Half-Drakel Warrior
A Shift of Planes
A Lesson On Terran Geography
Kiriana Backstory entry
Cow Face News: Edition 1
Dialogue, Richelieu-de` Medici
Conscription Dialogue
ButterQuest Review
I Was Wondering
Checkers
One Night's Conference
We Apologize For Any Inconvenience
Model Citizen
In Remembrance
Escape
Freedom and Captivity
Abstinence of the Observer
Off-Key
Mirrored
Crucifixion
The Corrosion of Tender Moments
Concrete Gardens
Return To Concrete Gardens
Your Name And Affiliation, Sirrah
Who Am I? Who I Am.
A Winter Melody
Truth
Fingers of the Earth
Abstract Desperation
Hello, It's Me, Adam
The Window
On Meaning
Conclusion to the Debate
Sin, Retribution, Redemption
Insanity, I Think
Just A Thought
On The Internet
Hypothetical Situation
Mr. Johnson, County Taxman
Think, Question, Repeat (If Desired)/Stripes - My poetry

To begin:

This is actually an item for a game I was helping out with, but since it's a book, I decided to post it here.


You have obtained a small, torn up book. It looks as though many pages are missing, and the cover is barely visible. Inside, there the messy scrawl of Xor Levis mingles with the print.

The Levis Heritage: Book VI: Xor Levis
by Tobias Alsop
[Refuted by Xor Levis himself]

Xor Levis was born into the First Family, before the schism split them into Levis and Caliga. At that time, his mother, now known as the late Duchess Levis, and his father, the late Duke Levis, were very close to their uncle, now the late King Yehmeh of Caliga. His grandfather, now the late King Hezvog of Levis, named him Xor after the Elven warrior of old. This was because of his peculiarly pointed ears. [That’s what it means? I thought that it meant “The Stupid One.” That’s what my siblings told me.]

As a young boy, Xor was always fond of the study of Magic. He was constantly a strain on his mentors, [I was just energetic!] as he was persistently asking questions about the works of Mages. [At least it was educational…] Finally, his parents gave in, and allowed him to work with a mentor of Magic. [Best day of my life.]

The mentor was the best money could afford, and he worked well with young Xor. The boy would spend hours with his mentor, absorbing all the information he could. [Children are like sponges- they soak up all the information, then you have to squeeze ‘em really hard to get things out of them.] However, he was never a very accomplished mage. His spells tended to backfire or go awry in some other way. Nonetheless, he continued to wish to learn. [That’s called integrity.]

Many pages are missing here, presumably narrating his childhood.

As a teenager, Xor Levis was quite headstrong. He tended to rush into things without consideration of the possible outcomes, sure of his magical abilities. However, he had still not mastered many of his powers. [Hey! Those textbooks are really boring. They’re 2,000 pages of explaining what magic is, and then 10,000 of telling you how to do it!] He had grown into a tall young man, but he was hardly imposing. [I’m a big softy, so what?] This lack of ability to strike awe into the hearts of peasants was further detrimented by what happened with his Elemental Sphere. He was one of the few lucky individuals who had obtained an Elemental Sphere; in this case the Elemental Sphere of Nature. The Head Mage at that time had been handing them out to a small number of Mages, as he would be retiring in a few years.

As before stated, Xor Levis was reckless. Despite the warnings of his mentor, he attempted to use the Sphere. He was trying to transfigure himself into a mighty Dragon- but ended up giving himself the head of a cow. [Look, just because I didn’t memorize all the words…] Though the effect was only temporary, he was known, and is still known to this day, as Cow Face. Cow Face- er, Xor Levis- never again fiddled with an unknown magical object. [Ha, ha. Very funny.]

It turns out that Xor Levis had the right thinking when he transformed himself into the man with the cow’s head. He had originally been visualizing a large, powerful Dragon. Unfortunately, he had noticed a cow walking by. When his attention was diverted partially, so was his transformation. The following is a text from his studies of the elemental orb.


Nature Sphere: Test 1
Xor Levis

The subject of my experiments today is the Elemental Sphere of Nature.


Experiment I


THESIS: The Elemental Sphere of Nature allows one to change one’s form.
EXPERIMENT: I am concentrating on the form of a dog whilst holding the Sphere. My idea is that I will become the dog that I am thinking of. I can only hope that no peasant girls walk by.
RESULT: I became the dog, and was able to untransform.
Repeated? Yes, same results.
CONCLUSION: The Elemental Sphere of Nature allows one to change one’s form.

Experiment II


THESIS: The Elemental Sphere can also be used as a weapon.
EXPERIMENT: I called up a Novice Mage, and cast a spell at them, using the Sphere.
RESULT: He fell down, rather injured.
Repeated? Yes, on other Novices, with the same results.
CONCLUSION: The Elemental Sphere can be used as a weapon.

Experiment III


THESIS: The Nature Sphere tastes good.
EXPERIMENT: I licked the Nature Sphere.
RESULT: “My tongue! My tongue! Ow!!”
Repeated? What do you think I am, some kind of idiot?
CONCLUSION: DO NOT lick the Sphere.

Xor performed many other experiments, but they are lost and forgotten. He remembers them, but he does not wish to divulge the contents of the experiments. When asked why, he simply said, “No! No! I don’t want to talk about it!” Historians can only speculate about what may have happened in young Xor’s room. [I still don’t want to talk about it!]

When not locked away in his room or studying with his master, Xor would occasionally head to the towns, engaging in social activity. He might not have begun doing so, however, had his master not forced him to. Nonetheless, he soon found that he enjoyed company. He would go to the local Inns, and talk with the gentry and peasants alike; he didn’t believe in social barriers. This caused him to be somewhat looked down upon by the gentry, and his royal tutors did not approve of it, but he continued on nonetheless. He had always been seen as distant, strange; an unknown force that was to be avoided. Several hard knocks had hardened his resolve, and disappointment was ever close. When he was younger, he would sometimes be brought to tears by the ridicule he would receive at the hands of other royalties’ bairns. However, after he had taken in twelve years worth, he found that it no longer bothered him- he only became more distant.

Three years later, when he began visiting the Inns, his disposition was no softer; in fact, he was paranoid and cynical, but ready to receive scorn. Outwardly, he was a rough-hewn, cold, calculating teen, but inwardly he was unstable and depressed. [My problem was that I went between being extroverted and introverted: one moment, I was laughing and joking, the next, I was heaving without tears, feeling sorry for myself. The first experience would give me a harder fall every time, my desperation mounting until I felt empty and alone. I would search for meaning in everything, but fearing that I would miss true signs in my silent desperation. When I would begin to feel sorry for myself, I would grow disgusted with myself, and then become more heartsick and depressed.] He tried to be pious, but he disagreed even with the Church on many points, and so had his own convoluted religious ideas.

These feelings of despair and uselessness he would hide, his true self being disguised behind a smiling mask, a mask that could take any insult with a grin. [I was the jester in the corner, crying behind his clay visage.] By his own descriptions, he had no option other than to write. “If I didn’t write, my soul would split, blacken, and die.” -Xor Levis. He would hide his true feelings behind otherwise cheerful stories, hide his despair behind his quips and jokes. When he wrote poetry, it would be dark, a direct window into his soul. [I wouldn’t know where to turn, who to trust. I wanted to believe what people said, but I was always too jaded, too hardened to listen. Having known failure and betrayal for fifteen years, I no longer believed in the magic of life. My world was full of prevaricators, dark shadows at the edge of my vision. I rarely met these shadows, but they seemed to be always there, waiting for my guard to slip. And when it did, I imploded. I have a large amount of self-control, and it takes years for me to build up enough to explode. When it did, those around me were not hurt, I never resorted to violence. I would curse in my soul, wish poxes on the purveyor of my anger, and curse myself for letting my guard down. After an hour or so, I would calm down, and be more cynical. My cynicism gave me a sense of security, I felt as though I could see through any guise and escape unscathed. Again, I was but setting myself up for more and larger disappointments, an endless circle of despair.]

By the peasants, he was greeted with a grin, a laugh, and a drink. Among royalty, and often even gentry, however, he was scorned brutally. He would bow and scrape, smiling and laughing off the disparagement. Internally, though, he would be cursing and thrashing, adding another layer to the pile of buried hatred. He grew lethargic and apathetic in his studies, excepting those of Magic, which doubled as his literature and writing class. [Magic and writing are as the same to me.] When asked why he didn’t put forth as much effort into an artistic skill, he gave a brief, descriptive reply. He intended it as an impatient wave of the hand, but it gave the person something to think about. “I am an artist- I paint with words! Now, off with you!” -Xor Levis.

[Pages here are too rain-soaked to read: the ink is washed off.]


Despite his internal conflicts, he had been constantly trying to impress his mentor. Xor, now nineteen, was a Grand Mage, no longer under his mentor’s wing. After the schism had divided the First Family into Levis and Caliga, he helped defend the other members of Levis, and those on Levis’ lands, to defend themselves against Caliga. Unfortunately, he was therefore always fighting his relatives, and sometimes those whom he had known well. For instance, his uncle Eymar was his first opponent, a man who had always been kind to Xor. Marquis Eymar was as shocked as Xor when he laid eyes upon his adversary. After a flurry of magic and arrows, Xor emerged victorious, half-dead, and broken. It took another two years before he finally got over the horror of his first serious conflict with a blood relative. [I would wake screaming, clutching the eye that I almost lost. My personal Healer always said that arrows aren’t supposed to go in my eye socket, but it was hard to prevent this one.]

On a side note, the schism also tore apart marital relations, the husband joining one side, the wife the other. This caused Xor and others to become estranged from whole sections of the family. [I actually refused to communicate with many of my siblings- even the ones that were themselves members of Levis. It was horrible, not knowing if your brother or sister will be the assassin in the shadows.] It would seem as though Xor’s life would never improve. [I was in a waking nightmare, a nightmare that lasted five years.]

At twenty-four, his magical abilities had grown far beyond expectations. His parents had never expected him to develop them at all, so they were incredibly surprised when the news came. His mentor, in light of all of the chaos, had resigned his position as Head Mage, and chosen Xor as his successor. Xor was glad for two reasons; he was, of course glad for the position itself, but it also ended his long streak of disappointment. [For once, I had something good happen to me that didn’t have sorrow or self-abatement along with it.]

[Many pages are missing here, there is no indication as to what they described.]


That is all of the information that we have on Xor Levis, though I may write an updated version later. Please return for The Levis Heritage: Book VII.

-Tobias Alsop



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (10/22/2008 14:05:24)

[This is the Storyline Backstory entry for Kiriana RPG, a game that I was a staff member of, before production was ended.]

Once, my child, long ago, there was only one Family. The two Families that exist today are both spawned from the First Family. Listen, and I will tell of the events of times past.

In the First Family, nearly three hundred years agone, there was a split, a schism. The Family was very powerful, and had great influence over the people of the land. For some, the power was as an oxen's yoke; an unwanted responsibility. For others, it was a great opportunity to heal the land, long scarred by war. For still others, it was a chance to enslave the peasant folk in the surrounding area. As a result of this, there was soon a great battle between the heads of the Family.

"I will not stand for this!" exclaimed Hezvog, the head of Levis. Levis was the name of the section of the family that had decided to help the land.

"You do not have to stand. You may lie down, as you have done for centuries. You and your... supporters have never acted on chance!" That was Yehmeh, the head of Caliga; the group opposed to Levis. "Do you not see? Our goal is the same! The only difference is the ways and means of how we will accomplish this goal. You wish to ask the peasant's help in this task. What I am attempting to say, if you would close your great maw, is that that will not work! The peasants care not for the land in general. They only care for their own small plots of land. The only way that they will work to restore the land is by coercing them into doing so."

Hezvog, as both he and Yehmeh were old, fell into a coughing fit, and so Ghuin, his son, had to take up for him. "Rubbish! You say that so that you and the members of Caliga may take over the land. Now begone, scum, before Levis chases you out!"

Xor, or Cow Face, as he was better known, woke from his nap. The name had originated from an experiment with an Elemental Sphere, whereupon he had temporarily obtained a cow's head. His experiments tended to end similarly, as he was only a beginning mage at that time. "Hey, hey! There's no need to fight! Can't we and Caliga just get along?"

However, his words went unheeded, and Yehmeh drew his sword. Instantly, everyone in the room was tensed for battle, ready to fight. No one moved. Suddenly, an arrow pierced Ghuin, and he slumped to the ground. No one was sure who had fired the arrow, but both sides collided in a gigantic fray. Yehmeh and Hezvog were locked together in combat, both trying to penetrate the others' defenses. Hezvog had an axe, Yehmeh a sword, and there was a flurry of blows from both sides. Yehmeh lunged with his sword, but Hezvog batted it aside, and swung at the former's head. However, the attack was parried, and Yehmeh riposted. For the remainder of the battle, they were locked in combat.

The two sections of the family were fighting furiously, neither side gaining or giving ground. Many fell on both sides, and the ground grew wet and red. The room of the fight, child, is called Death's Feast, for the amount of fatalities there. Xor himself was considered dead for a time, but it seemed that he was merely unconscious. He had aimed a spell at a member of Caliga, but it had bounced off of a mirror, and hit him with half potency. Thus, he was unconscious for a while.

A double scream rent the air, and the battle stopped. The two sides turned, slowly, to see what had come of the two heads of the Family. They were both standing where they had been originally, but both had gutted the other. Slowly, they fell to the ground. Also, due to an unknown trigger, the castle began collapsing. Both sides fled, and formed the two Families that we know today.

You and I, child, are members of the Levis Family. It is time for you to go forth, and make a name for yourself. Fare thee well!



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (6/16/2009 10:32:27)

Checkers

Old is the word that best described that house. The shutters were a faded blue, the walls were a color that had tried to be white, but given up. Paint was peeling off the walls, and the grass was allowed to grow rampantly. I rather expected the occupant to be the same: faded, tired and unkempt. The sort of person who would need Live Conscious insurance. I really needed this sell to start off my career; a successful foray on my first shot would look good.

Straightening my tie, I walked forward and rang the doorbell. My palms were sweaty, I was so nervous. While I waited for the door to open, I shifted from foot-to-foot, despite knowing how unprofessional that was. Finally, from inside, I heard footsteps. They stopped after only a moment, though, and a gravelly voice called out, "I'm old, what do you want?"

I chuckled a little. This wasn't the type of greeting I had expected. "Hello, sir, my name is Tobias Robinson and I represent Live Conscious Life-"

"That's enough," growled the voice. "Go away. I've no need of money after I'm dead, I've no descendants and no desire to listen to you yap all day. If you'd come to play checkers or some such, I might let you in. But no, you've come to rip me off with the gamble that I'll die later than I think I will. Good day." For emphasis, the door was opened slightly and slammed again.

Hmm. I had never been told how to deal with that sort of response: the truthful kind. Fortunately, I had noticed one thing in what he said, and I latched on. "If I play checkers with you, will you listen to my spiel?"

There was a pause, during which I shifted uncomfortably and waited for a response, even in the negative. It was the waiting that I couldn't stand. After that dreadful wait, though, I heard the man clear his throat. "Well, I've nothing better to do, anyway. Might as well have a diversion, if only for one game... I'll sit there while you talk, sure. Make no promises as to whether I'll really listen or not, but I'll sit there. Right?" The door opened just a crack, and I saw a pair of saxe blue eyes glaring at me.

"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," I responded, smiling slightly. When the door was opened more, I stepped inside and surreptitiously eyed my host. He was thin and worn, white hair combed lazily over his pale scalp. Wrinkles ran down along the sides of his face, pausing around the eyes and mouth. His lips were drawn into a tight line, above which a bushy moustache settled. Like his house, he was slouching; he looked as though he had been alive too long, and was getting fed up with the whole situation. It displayed to me a sort of burden pulling down on him. But his eyes, his eyes were alert and alive. They were rather frosty, and as I looked him over, turned colder. "What are you eying me for, boy?" he snarled. "Trying to decide if age is a pre-existing condition?" When I faltered, he just snorted and led me on.

While we walked, I had a few moments to examine the inside of the house. Unlike its exterior, it was very neat and orderly; almost vibrant, really. If the windows had been open, I think that it could have been pretty. Maybe even beautiful. But, I had little time to reflect on this, as we only had to get to the opposite end of the house. Once there, he silently pointed to a chair, in which I sat. The man got out a table, another chair, a checkered board and a box. After he was seated, he opened the box: it was divided into two sections, one with an immaculate set of mahogany chess pieces, and the other with a jumbled mix of checkers. The latter were plastic, and some were chipped.

"Oh, you play chess?" I asked, trying to start conversation with him. This was highly irregular; I hadn't even made sure he was the proper client. The man- Matthew Greene should be his name- grimaced slightly, and shook his head. "No. Don't play chess, never will again. Too unrealistic." Continuing to gently shake his head, he began setting out the pieces. "Checkers is a much better game, much more the way life is. Make your move," he added, looking up at me.

It had been some time since I had played, which I informed him of. Nonetheless, I moved out a pawn, beginning the game. After several more moves, the count stood at 3-1, his favor. Because I could tell I was far outmatched, I decided that I might as well try to strike up a conversation, to ease my inevitable defeat. "So, uh, Mr. ...Greene? Mr. Greene, you said that you thought chess was unrealistic; what do you mean?"

Without looking up, he said, "Well, I don't doubt that it was real accurate when it was first made- Eleventh Century, was it? Twelfth?- sure. But now, that's not what society is like, anymore. Chess is a caste system; you have your kings, queens, bishops, rooks and pawns. Those pawns are the biggest group, but still, not big enough. Everyone has their own set path in which they can move, different for everyone. The only piece that can possibly get better is a pawn, and that's not even likely. Now, checkers, checkers are more- aha!" With that exclamation, he jumped my final piece, ending this game. "You weren't bad, boy, but you need help. You've got no foresight, or at least not enough. Here, let's play again."

I started to protest, but I decided that it couldn't hurt, if it might get me the client. Once more, he set out the pieces, but this time he moved first, and gave me suggestions about how to move. After the initial set of moves, though, he stopped, letting me fend for myself. "Right, then: with that start, let's see if you can figure out what to do next. Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yes... Checkers is more like life. With chess, when you take out the pieces, they're different. When you put them back, they're still different. Not so with checkers! With checkers, you start out with all pawns- bad move there, try again- and they have to get better. See, that's more like life, right there! You've got your pawns and your kings, and that's all. And anyone can be a king, boy, that's the beauty of it!

"With chess, even those pawns that get to the end can't really be a king. They can be a queen at the most. Who'd want to live in a world like that? We evolved for a reason. You're losing again, you need more foresight. And I need a drink; stay here." Mr. Greene stood, and walked off towards the refrigerator. While he bustled about in there, I decided to take another look around the area. It was a cozy little place, though not very large. There was a television, a sofa, some pictures on the walls- probably family members. But the thing that caught my eye was a stack of papers on the table. His will. Turning to him, I said, "Mr. Greene, I don't mean to be nosy, but I couldn't help but notice that you've been writing a will. I thought you didn't have any descendants?"

"I don't," he called back. "But I do have foresight. I know what that government'll do if I don't write one of these things. They'll move in with their greedy little hands and sell off everything. Every last damned thing! After all, if I didn't care enough to start a family, then obviously, I don't care what'll happen after I die. Right? Isn't that how the world works?" I could tell that Mr. Greene was getting very emotional about this; his voice was steadily rising in pitch and anger. Since I didn't want the old man to have an attack or anything, I tried to calm his nerves.

"But, Mr. Greene, surely you have some relatives? The majority of your possessions will go to your next-of-kin." He poked his head around the corner and stared at me. "Why," he asked, slowly, "would I want that to happen? Do they come to talk to me? Do they even write a letter? No! Why would I want to let them have anything? No, I'd rather the government take it and sell it for bomb money! And I sure as Hell don't want that to happen, so I'm writing a will and signing everything over to the Salvation Army. Only army I know of that isn't killing anyone, at least not actively." He had finished getting his drink, and he sat back down across from me.

Unnerved by the vehemence of his reply, I swallowed. "That's a very noble action, Mr. Greene. I don't know many people who would do that."

"Noble?" he snorted. "Noble? 'S not noble! If I were doing it because I really felt it was right, that'd be noble. But no, it's an empty gesture. I'm just doing it because I've been raised to think that it's the 'right thing to do.' If I thought that anyone, anyone really cared about me, I'd leave them something... You know, something they'd find sentimental and whatnot." He sighed then, and once more shook his head. "But we'd best go back to our game. You need to work on your game." When I started to open my mouth, he said, "I'll listen to you talk afterward." The old man could read minds.

He showed me different gambits, something I wasn't aware really applied to checkers. He showed me different openings, and the various responses to these openings. And during it all, he kept comparing checkers to life. "Anyone can be a king, in checkers or in life. After all, what's a king? A pawn on stilts, that's all. A king is what happens when during that mad rush from one end of life to another, a pawn manages to jump some other pawns and get to the end. After that, they get to- don't do that, I'll jump you there- they get to go backwards again, and look at what they left behind in life. Hmm, smart move; I wouldn't have expected that of you, boy. Oh, and jumping! That's another thing that's more realistic. In chess, how do you beat another piece? That's right, by fighting them. In checkers, you don't kill them or anything; you just jump them, you get the advantage of them. And the only difference between a pawn and a king there is that a king can jump more people at once. Huh, you distracted me by getting me off on a tangent; you win, boy."

It was true. I noticed that the only pawn left on the table was mine; it had been a very close game. "Thank you very much, sir, for your help. Now that I've- I beg your pardon, sir, I thought you were going to listen to me." He had picked up a thick book and begun to read. Without looking up, he replied, "I didn't say that. I said I'd sit here while you talk. So I'm going to read while you talk. Right?"

I was almost astounded by the audacity of the man. Trying to distract him that he might begin listening to me, I asked him, "What book are you reading there?"

"Don Quixote. You ever read it, boy? Good book."

"Yes," I replied. "Once in school, they had us read it. It was very enjoyable. Sir..."

Ignoring my tone, he continued. "What's it about, boy, do you remember that? A knight, yes. And he's crazy, isn't he? I see, you think he's crazy, but in a good way. He's a king, boy. A king who started out as a pawn, and he's the only one who knows! He's the sort of pawn-king we should all try to be like: a pawn who helps his fellow man, or at least tries. And even though he wouldn't take on the title of king- wouldn't be honorable, he'd think he was lying- he was a king. Even though no-one else would have thought so, he's a king without a crown. Most crowns, boy, are made of gold and jewels. His? His was a barber's basin. But I'm telling you now, I'd rather wear his barber basin than the combined crowns of every monarch ever to rule any place. How about you, boy? How about you?"

I paused, unsure how to answer. Then I knew how I felt. "Well, sir, I think that before, I'd rather have had a crown. But... you've changed my mind. That barber's basin sounds really nice right now. And so, please take my sincere thanks for the games; they were a lot of fun. I'm going to scoot off now, and try to get myself one of those basins. Thank you, Mr. Greene. Thank you and have a good long life, with or without Live Conscious Life Insurance." Tipping my hat, I stood and started for the door.

"Wait, boy." I stopped. "Boy, don’t call me Mr. Greene. Call me Matt."

"I will, Matt," I smiled. "Thanks."

As I walked out the door, I heard him call after me, "'Bye, Toby! Good luck getting a sell!" But I'm not so sure that that's what I want anymore.
***

Matthew Greene, aged 76, had just finished waving good-bye to Tobias Robinson when he turned back inside, and sat down at a desk. He drew a stack of papers near to him, and wrote the following on the last one:
"And to Mr. Tobias Robinson, lately of Live Conscious Life Insurance, I leave my checkerboard and checkers."



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (6/16/2009 10:34:07)

One Night's Conference
An experiment in abstract.

"Dead!" wailed the Actor, thrashing about in a torrent of pretend agony. "He's dead, and it was all for naught! Alas, if only I could have been there in his stead, to take the bullet for him! But no, there he shall lie. Farewell, my friend," lied the Actor. "Farewell."

"It wasn't for naught, as you say," retorted the Decider. "He died honorably, with weapon in hand! I'm certain that this is how he would have wanted to go. What more could the Corpse wish for, than to be remembered as a man of action?"

"Perhaps to be alive?" questioned the Smiler, grinning through gritted teeth. "After all, if he were alive, none of us would be here now. He wouldn't have to be so bored, anyway. It must be dreadful to have to lie there like that all day, with nothing to do. Don't you think?"

"This is no time for your jokes," growled the Honest. "It was through stupidity alone that he met his fate. Not his, no. But the stupidity of those controlling him. I remember seeing him while he was still the Puppet, dancing along with the Piper's merry tune. And now he is but the Corpse, doomed to be forever enshrined in the Halls of Forgottenness." The Honest shook their head sadly. "Really, quite a waste."

"A waste indeed," droned the Counter, fiddling with their abacus. "With this many losses, we can't keep up forever. Something must give! Piper, would you- Piper?" The Counter looked around in vain for the Piper, who was nowhere to be found. Scowling, they demanded of the others, "Where is the Piper?"

"They're off doing what you would have expected of them," the Knower informed them. "Finding more of the Puppet to entice with dreams of glory and honor, only to have them dashed out on the Boulders of Reality. It seems to me as though it's rather a lie to keep telling them this; am I not correct?"

"Of course not!" scoffed the Dreamer. "It's a wonderful feeling to fight for something you believe in. Or something you don't believe in, it makes no difference. As long as you have something to fight for, the trophy is all that matters. Who cares what the cause is? You have that wonderful feeling of doing something. How I wish I could have that feeling!" Realizing that many eyes were upon them, the Dreamer quickly amended, "Not that I'm willing to do it myself, mind you. Best leave that for those that can."

"Quiet, all of you!" warned the Actor, crouching low. "The Mourners are coming. We mustn't let them see us here; they'd think we were doing something." As one, they slid away into the shadows. Even the Knower and the Honest went with them, knowing it was futile to show themselves.

Candlelight shone on the paling face of the Corpse as the procession drew near. "Sleep well, my friend," murmured a Mourner, crouching to close the eyes of the Corpse. "I wonder if anyone knows?" they mused, concerning the current state of affairs. "Does anyone besides us notice this man? Does anyone care about this man?" A single tear rolled down their cheek as they quietly walked on, leaving the only remaining task for the Taker. "I feel as though I could almost know him," whispered that Mourner. "At least there will be plenty more... Perhaps some day, someone will take note of him. Take note of them all. Perhaps some day, people will care."



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (8/27/2009 14:38:14)

[image]http://s239.photobucket.com/albums/ff197/dragonexpert19/ModelCitizen.png[/image]


He awoke, then immediately clambered out of bed, bleary eyes blinking sleep away. Striding across his immaculate room, he pressed a small, round button mounted alongside a keypad on the south wall. After a soft beep, the wall plate slid open, revealing his wardrobe. As today was going to be a big event, he punched into the keypad "1 2 1," indicating the first portion of the closet (his day clothes), the second rack (formal wear), and the first color (black). With the liminal whirr of modern machinery, the closet rotated, lifted, lowered and slid the proper rack to the front of the closet, while an impulse sent along the top of the rack moved all of the colored outfits off to one side. Once the process was finished, Citizen MDSN-81296 ran a hand through his slightly disheveled blonde hair, and picked out a crisp, black morning-dress set, by keying in its number on the pad. It was indistinguishable from the other suits, all arrayed in a straight line on the metal pole, but he just felt drawn to it. The rack of clothes slid away, revealing a space just large enough to stand in comfortably, and he stepped inside.

Neatly, his sleep attire- a grey flannel jumpsuit- was deconstructed from around him, and replaced by his selected suit, which appeared around his body. The closet was very new, so it made the most of the latest anti-activity technology; the only energy that Citizen MDSN-81296 put into dressing was that needed to walk into the closet and key in some numbers. He stepped out of the closet, smiling to himself. It was going to be another perfect day in Madison.

As was typical of him, he walked forward until he was exactly parallel to the door, then turned on his heel and moved onto the pressure-sensitive pad that activated his exit. Once again, the metal slid open with barely a sound, and the white-noise image that displayed an unspecified destination filled up the doorway. "Toilette room," articulated MDSN-81296. The sound receptor picked up on his kavalierbariton, and accordingly shifted the image to his bathroom. Once more smiling at the wonders of the modern world, he stepped through and found himself standing inside of his small restroom.

There was not much to speak of in here. The sink was a titanium alloy, much like all else in his residential building; the toilet and bath were resilient plastic; the walls, floor and ceiling were all in the most fashionable pseudolain (an imitation porcelain, comprised of plastic) of the time. Light came streaming in through the window, outside of which a floating camera made sure that he was safe and docile. MDSN-81296 gave it a cheery wave, confident that it was reciprocated by the security forces who were viewing the camera's feed. He then turned to the mirror, and pressed the blue button which began his cleansing process.

Every hair on his head was lifted by gentle mechanical arms, then laid at extreme speeds, hair by hair, in exactly the proper position. Meanwhile, tiny lasers removed any particles of plaque or food which might be clinging to his brilliantly white teeth. When their task was finished, these devices retracted back into the wall, and the room filled with a pleasantly-scented cleaning gas, which removed impurities from his pores and left him smelling fresh. With his morning ritual finished, he opened the exit panel again, this time announcing, "Main room." The image again shifted shape, and again he stepped into it.

The main room of his residential building was only slightly larger than his bedroom. The centerpiece was a table, made of an imitation wood. Various papers, arranged in neat rows and columns, were laid out upon the table, each filled out with a very "clean" typeface. He stacked these, then grabbed the suitcase which was sitting next to the table. Holding it close to his mouth, he said, "Five. Seven. Two. Four. Nine." The voice activated key caused the case to open, its front side laying down slowly, so as to make a shelf of sorts. MDSN-81296 carefully placed the papers onto that shelf, and said, "Close." Accordingly, the suitcase pulled itself shut. Smiling again, he announced his desire to leave his house to the exit, which slid open with an image of his street.

He took a moment to breathe in the stagnant air, and sighed with contentment. I love the smell of fresh air, after being in my residential building for hours, he thought to himself. The holographic sky, projected on the air-filtering dome which stretched for miles overhead, was a brilliant blue, with only the occasional cumulus cloud. Better still, it was a comfortable 73 degrees Fahrenheit, despite being the height of summer. How did those ancients live, back when they actually depended on the sun for light and heat? It was a good thing that they had had the foresight to destroy the ozone; if they had not done so, the dome would have been unnecessary. "What a beautiful day!" he breathed to everyone who cared to listen. Grinning foolishly, he walked off towards Central Government Building, State-Owned Area 35. Today was too special for him to ride the sidewalks.

Along the way, he paused to examine a floating news-screen which had wandered near to him. There was financial news, nothing too important to him; military news, another hundred-thousand rebels had been bombed to death- that was good to hear; re-election news, always exciting: all of the incumbents had won. Nothing very eventful, just the way he liked it. No drastic changes were taking place, nothing to keep up with. Same economy, same government, the rebels still being annihilated. He had no sympathy for them. After all, they wanted to destroy the very tenets of society, according to the newsfaces. If millions of them were to be killed, it was no-one's fault but their own. Of course, there was always the danger of being considered one, but only about five people a day were interrogated for that, and MDSN-81296 stood no chance of that. No, today was proof that he was safe.

In an interesting coincidence, given his train of thought, two Security Force troops had shoved a citizen against the wall. MDSN-81296 politely averted his gaze- it would not have been right to observe, particularly when the SF had their clubs out. He was so used to such that he hardly noticed the screams. They clamored in his ear, the shrieks that he heard almost every day, but barely noticed. He would not notice them. It would be impolite to the forces which kept them all safe from themselves. He would not, simply would not. In fact, he almost believed it, just like how he had nearly convinced himself that the rebels were in the wrong.

This gnawed at the back of his mind as he walked up the perfectly-built steps to Central Government Building, but he beat it off. This was his day, no-one else's. The Government had informed him of that many times in the message which they had sent him two days ago. Out of a nervous tic, he straightened his tie, though it was of course in the exact right position. When he convinced himself that it, like all else in life, was perfect, he briskly climbed the steps and entered through the door.

"Welcome, Citizen MDSN-81296, to the Central Government Building," the front screen greeted him, after scanning the bar code on his wrist. "If you would like to visit a government office, please walk down Corridor 1. If you would like to know more about the Government's workings, please say 'Yes' now." It paused for a moment, then continued. "Other activities that may interest you include," here the screen displayed text to accompany the voice: "JULY 15 MADISON CGB - Awards presentation for Citizen MDSN-81296 in CIVIC HALL ROOM, CORRIDOR 2. End of Daily Activities list. End of greeting. To repeat the greeting, please say 'Repeat.' Thank you for visiting your local CGB, and have a safe day." After its announcement, the machine returned to its standby mode. MDSN-81296 blinked; it didn't seem to realize that he was the very person of which it spoke.

A wave of false nostalgia struck him: he was reminded of his childhood history recordings, which spoke of a time when people were differentiated by an individual name, and people knew their name, particularly when they received an award for something. As for him, he was merely the 81,296th citizen born in Madison, and his barcode noted such to the computer. After the ceremony, he would have a piece of paper that told him that he was Citizen 81296 of Madison, and he had achieved something. Who would see it after the ceremony? Of course everyone attending would see it that day, but after that... then what? He would be no-one again. He would be the man killed today by SF troops. He would be the people passing by on the street, none of whom knew each other. He would be Citizen MDSN-81296, and nothing more.

Morosely, he trudged down Corridor 2. The door had been left ajar, and he could see the Civic Hall Room at the end. Head bowed, he made his way to the door, and walked through. Everyone was arrayed in perfect rows and columns, waiting for him to receive his award, a certificate in a glass frame. Two Government officials stood on the stage, heavy smiles on their faces, both identical. As he made his way across the room and onto the stage, the audience began applauding as one.

"Today we recognize Citizen MDSN-81296 for his or her achievement," spoke the one holding the award. "This citizen has proven to be an example for all of us; in every way, they are truly a model citizen." Turning to MDSN-81296, the official handed him his award. He stared blankly at the frame in his hand, then his numb fingers let it fall. Hardly a sound was made as it shattered on the floor, drowned by the mechanical applause from the audience. Stepping on the shards, he trudged back off-stage; he was going to find those rebels and do something award-worthy.

The audience kept applauding just the same. Each one, as they watched the glass bounce and crack, thought the same thing: His hair is perfect.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (9/11/2009 12:43:24)

In Remembrance

The onlookers watched as the ashen-faced bodies rose once more, to relive their final moments. Warcries thundered, resounding infinitely from the barren rock surrounding them. No greenery was left in this field; it was long dead, scattered by the wind. Much like the souls of the grim-faced soldiers now standing, the once-fertile valley now held only a dusky remnant of its former glory. A harsh wind attacked the corpses from all sides, chilling them deeper than the bones of which they were comprised. The sun beat coldly upon their warped backs. Nothing else was beating: there were no hearts to pump, and the animal skins of their drums were tattered beyond repair. None noticed, however, as the battle was about to begin.

A formation of musketeers tramped forward, marching in a straight line toward their fate. No deviation, no matter how minor, would be allowed here. It had already been lived and reenacted countless times, so why change it now? When they reached their mark, the front row kneeled, then fired. A portion of the other side collapsed, but the survivors had already returned fire, striking down the same number of their adversary. The powder's scent pervaded the air. The thunderous crack of the guns deafened the bystanders, but they remained, locked in their position, as the scene shifted.

From cold, unfeeling stone to warm sands, the gory setting shifted under the feet of the soldiers. Their very clothes changed, from coats to camouflage; their weapons from the inaccurate musket to the rapid M4. Flesh sprouted from the bones, covering the ghoulish skeletons and giving them shape. The enemy changed as well. They no longer looked as much like the soldiers, but they were of course still human. Both sides managed to forget that for the time being, however. They had to. It was their duty.

The onlookers watched the scene for a moment longer, transfixed by the violent display. Then the scene changed again; it was time for their favorite show.

We must never forget those who fight for us.
9-11-2009



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (9/14/2009 14:28:51)

Escape

The air bubbles rose from my throat, out of my nostrils. There was not much time, I knew, before I would drown in this ocean. My arms felt leaden, weighted with the burden of my guilt. Nonetheless, I forced my tired muscles to pull me upward; the circle of light above was motivation enough. Dizziness gripped me, throwing my field of vision from side to side. Weights bore down upon my chest, attempting to squeeze those final amounts of air from me. Not much time... not much time...

...gasp. My lungs finally expanded again, not with the brine but air. No breath was ever so sweet. Still heavy-limbed, I managed to crawl out of the puddle and onto the jagged rocks surrounding it. Collapsing prostrate on the shore, I rolled sideways and clear my lungs of water. Salt coated my tongue, but that was the least of my concerns. My main concerns were the twin manacles around my wrists, fettering me to the leering stones. I found that I could stand comfortably- well, as comfortably as possible when my feet were being cut by the rocks. This was not how it should play out; I refused to swim out of that puddle only to die chained on this never-ending beach. These weights were worse than the fatigue which had previously gripped me. Somehow, though, I knew that it might return. All of my actions had a way of coming back to haunt me.

Bellowing out, I tried to wrench my arms from the rock, but my voice was swallowed in the infinite space around me. Oh, how I repented of my acts! I renounced this rock, that puddle, my entire past and present. Only the future mattered now. If I had one. Hot tears welled up in my eyes, attempting to wrest themselves free. With great effort, I managed to keep them at bay, and instead focused my strength on the rock to which I was chained. I ran toward it, and threw my entire weight against it, to no noticeable effect. After that, I began pounding at it with my fists, trying at least to chip it. Time passed, but was it seconds or years? Surely not years, as I felt no hunger. Finally, I noticed the slightest fault appear in its otherwise blank face, and I threw everything I had against it. With the force of my body hitting it repeatedly, it finally had to give way and shatter. My silent exclamation of victory resounded from the cliff faces as I pulled my manacles from the stump.

And now I found myself alone again. It was cold in my new prison, black as pitch and with less air even than the puddle. I felt more chained than when I had been attached to the pebble, despite my body being free from restraints. No matter where I looked, I could not see the slightest hint of those from whom I had shrank, whose presence I now wished for with every bit of my mind. Alone, as I had prayed to be. Alone, as I had forced myself to be. My wish had been granted, and did I enjoy it, did it bring me the barest wisp of pleasure? I whispered, "No," and the word reverberated countless times around me, crashing in my ears and nearly deafening me. It would: this place was only me. I comprised the entirety of this new prison. I hated it more than the puddle or pebble.

A single match flickered in the distance. It seemed miles away, but I had time to move, because I still did not hunger. Not for food, anyhow. Swimming through this void, I approached it. It took so long! For a time, I thought that no matter how far I moved toward it, I would never quite reach it. This, however, was as much an illusion as my surroundings. After a month, the flame enlarged to a candle. I kept swimming, and it eventually became a torch. Next a bonfire, and finally a mind-bogglingly large inferno, surrounding me on all sides. I cried out in pure ecstasy, for I could finally feel again. My voice could be heard, but it did not sound particularly loud, for I stood in an almost heavenly choir of sound. It was the most beautiful thing ever to reach my ears- simply the sound of human voices. I am free.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (10/6/2009 11:16:23)

Freedom and Captivity

The skull leered up at him, its grotesque smile never shifting. There was no flesh nor muscle remaining on it; only sallow bone remained. Beside it sat a wad of U.S. bills, neatly arranged in a stack approximately three inches high. Their worth could not be determined at the moment, however, for the lighting proved too dim. Both of these objects sat on a nondescript oaken table. Behind the table stood a man wearing a business suit, his beard neatly trimmed. He appeared to be the stereotypical bureaucrat- briefcase, grey suit, neatly combed hair, condescending demeanor. A sardonic smile twisted his lips into a shape apparently familiar to them, as he eyed the latest customer.

The customer in question was, too, quite typical. He wore a glimmering green shirt, casually formal. His khaki pants looked freshly pressed, as though he had dressed up for this occasion. Which, of course, he had. An appointment usually required such of him, so he did not see why this should be different.

"Now then," purred the bureaucrat, his dark eyes crinkling into a lukewarm smile, "it seems that we have an appointment. I take it that you are Mr. Weatherly, resident of Wormwood Drive?"

Weatherly met the man's gaze with an equally false expression of indifference. "Yes," he replied simply. That was the way in which to deal with government officials: short, and to the point. Not giving them anything more than that which they require. "You've got a deal for me, right?"

The bureaucrat gave a polite nod, his smile never faltering. It did not seem malicious, or even cold. Blank might be a better word to describe it. "I do indeed," he murmured. "In a society like that which we have today, words like 'freedom' and 'personal liberties' are often bandied about carelessly. So often, those that use them are those of whom such an outcry is ill-suited. Truly, it is a waste of a perfectly good language, is it not?" He paused for only a moment, needlessly notifying Weatherly that the question was rhetorical. "I digress from the matter at hand. I represent an organization which is of the opinion that they have lost all meaning. View, now, the room about you." He swung his arm about in a neat quarter-circle, indicating their surroundings.

When he turned to fully examine this room, Weatherly was unimpressed. It was a thick-walled metal structure, with a small door the only entrance or exit therein. A light bulb burned near the door, feebly attempting to dispel the darkness about it. "What about it?" asked Weatherly, tilting his head slightly to one side. He was suspicious of anyone who was so wordy in their statements.

"You shall see in a moment. Observe this mouse." Taking from under the table a cage, the bureaucrat placed it between the skull and money. Inside, a white mouse scurried about, pressing itself against the bars in a futile attempt to free itself. "I am certain that you, and indeed, most people are of the opinion that it is trapped. In captivity." As Weatherly nodded, he continued. "If I were to release it, would it then be free?" Again, Weatherly nodded, but here the bureaucrat's visage shifted for the first time. His eyes lit with a strange intensity, as though he were a cat preparing to devour the caged mouse. "On the contrary! It would certainly not be free- is the room not a cage in itself? Suppose I release it from the room, and the building, so that it is in the wide world beyond. Is it yet free? No, and it shall never be. The only place that anything can be free is in the vacuum of space, which would kill it almost instantly. Freedom is available through no means other than that of death. Do you follow?"

"Yeah," grunted Weatherly, thoroughly unmoved by this speech. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Ah, you like to come straight to the point. I should have realized that; my apologies for not having done so. As previously mentioned, I belong to a society of intellectuals, and we believe that there is no freedom, only captivity in a larger cage. With this hypothesis in mind, we have set out an experiment, with the following purpose: to determine whether or not humans have the logical capacity to accept security over the illusion of freedom. This is the choice I present to you now. If you accept security, I will grant you this money. For the rest of your life, you will be given constant food, water and shelter. No disease will riddle you, and you will live a long life." His face returned to its normal state, having made its move.

"And if I choose freedom?" Weatherly's eyebrow cocked up, presenting the skepticism which was already so obvious.

"You will then return to your ordinary life. This skull is an example of such; a man who chose freedom instead of security. He starved to death in the uncaring world outside. They watched as his welfare dissipated, as he resorted to theft to maintain what shred of an existence he had. Wearing the mask of Tragedy, they manipulated the strings of he, the marionette, and laughed to themselves. When he died, his family, only slightly less destitute than he, was more than willing to sell us his remains." Noticing the sedately appalled look on Weatherly's face, he hastened to add, "For scientific purposes. This is the mask of Freedom, the face that you will wear if you take this route.

"And really, what precedent is there for such a choice? Consider those who have accepted the life to which they were born- were not many martyrs? How many died for their lofty ideals? How many more died unknown, uncared for, in the hands of a pitiless society? Most importantly... who chooses security? The leaders, those who control things. The change which these dreamers have wrought would rarely have been possible without the compliance of such rulers. Yes, they often are given a rather poor representation. In the West, many speak from both sides of their mouth at once. In the Middle East, many have their hands soaked in oil and the blood of a thousand generations, both past and to come. But are they not the ones with the true influence, the true power? The mass delusion known as Freedom wears the mask of Comedy, but the tears flow freely from beneath it. Better to have a clean countenance, and never worry about being unsettled. Is it not true?" He dangled the money in a contemptuous temptation. "Make your choice now, please."

Weatherly knew exactly what to do. He lustfully wrenched the money from the bureaucrat's hand, clutching it in a white-knuckled embrace. "Security. You're absolutely right, sir; there's nothing at all appealing about freedom. Who needs it?"

"Indeed," smiled the bureaucrat. "Goodbye, Mr. Weatherly. Spend your money wisely." He stood and briskly exited, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

The customer stared after him for a moment, then sat at the table and counted his money. Five thousand, American. Five thousand! He would buy a whole new entertainment center, maybe invite some frie- er, coworkers over, that they could bask in his new wealth. What was more, he would never have to spend money on food or drink again, according to the bureaucrat. Standing, he raced to the light burning near the door. As soon as he left this room, he would-

The door was locked.

He tried the handle countless times, but it would not give. A small panel- For food, realized the customer, seeing his first new meal in the tray below- could be accessed, but it opened only onto the dark building beyond. He was alone with his money and his food. A bottle of water also sat nearby. Captivity.

Whirling around, his eyes widened with a mad sort of terror, he stared at the skull on the table. "Shut up!" he screamed at it. The skull merely leered up at him, mockingly.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (10/19/2009 12:23:39)

Abstinence of the Observer

I pace back and forth across the glass floor. My feet, bare as they are, make only the slightest sound as they shuffle. Very little space has been allotted me; just enough to provide the illusion of mobility. For you see, not only is the floor glass, but the walls and ceiling, as well.

Every day, I do naught but observe. People pass by, living their own lives in their world. At times, I rather wish that this were accessible to me, yet this is not to be. Study, constant and meticulous, is the beginning and end of my existence. They have given me a location that can be pleasant, at least. So often, though, it... confuses me. Apparently, there is an odd phenomenon known as "emotion" which shapes these people's lives. Partially for you, but mainly to organize my own thoughts, I shall detail this. Know, though, that I neither am nor pretend to be a psychologist (one who studies this "emotion" as part of their occupation), so my studies are that of an amateur only.

One powerful emotion is known as hatred. This is characterized by a general ill-will toward something. Typically, it is directed at these people's leaders, inanimate objects, abstract ideas, and each other. Those individuals that feel it most strongly of all experience two simultaneous emotions, anger and sadness. I shall detail these later. Back on my original topic: this is both a powerful and a common feeling of these folk. I have seen it used to describe certain ideologies, particularly those viewed with distaste by mainstream society. I think that I can understand this, because they feel threatened (leading to fear) by outsiders. But, more disturbingly, they will turn this weapon onto their fellows, often with little or no provocation.

Related to this is the aforementioned anger. It is both a cause and effect of hatred, typified by mindless aggression. Acts associated with anger are often brutal and violent, though at times merely petty and superfluous. In very large amounts, however, it creates yet another byproduct, sadness.

I find this to be a far more insidious problem than anger, as it is self-destructive. Effects of this include, in minor amounts, fatigue and a lessening response to stimuli. When the individual experiences a good deal of it, however, they may become so morose that they will take their own life! Still more important than the effects are the causes. It can often be traced to the loss of someone important to the individual, which is known as "grief." Yet it is also the direct result of anger and hatred. Those who are consumed by these become so wrapped up in them that they can experience little else, and find themselves to be empty of the emotions which they view as more pleasant. Even this horrific feeling pales before a greater one, though.

This singular emotion stands out quite clearly amongst the others. It is an embodiment of all from which they attempt to escape. It is the ultimate source and byproduct of anger, sadness, and hatred. Sometimes it is bred into someone, other times it is introduced through life experiences. They call it fear. I say that it is the antithesis of what some of these people call a god. There are many different names for such, but in current contexts, the majority refer to the same being. Whether it is indeed this, or merely a poetic construction of my own mind, it is the most destructive force which these people own. More than their nuclear weapons, of which they have a more-than-sufficient amount to destroy their world. If one were to combine the mass armaments of the past and present of this world, this emotion would be found to have a power so vastly superior that it could not be properly imagined. Nothing may stand before this great thing, for it is the arbiter of their minds. Reason, logic, compassion- all find themselves obliterated. When terror, another word for this phenomenon, reigns, all are subject.

When I learned of these things, I found that I could almost experience them. Upon viewing the atrocities committed during a panic, I almost wept. However, something restrained me, and I could not. My eyes were as dry as this cage. Yet there is a saving grace amidst these tragedies. There are still those emotions that I have seen, but cannot even begin to fathom. Joy, bliss, amusement, love; these I found to be almost the sole reason for these people's existence. So why, why are they kept from me? Am I but an alien creature in their view? Or do they see me at all? Perhaps I shall never know. I shall certainly not if I do not now stand, and proclaim myself to the heavens above and below. Shatter now this cage we have wrought, that you may know me.

I AM THE HEART OF MAN.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (11/12/2009 14:31:29)

Regrets

Tomorrow, I must tell you how I feel. This is something I'd prefer to tell you face-to-face, but that won't be today. And who knows what'll happen tomorrow, or a week from now? Today is the only day I know I have. So I want to finally live, and use the days given me. I'm tired of being a coward. This isn't easy for me. I'm naturally rather reserved. So pouring out my feelings is... odd, to say the least. I realized that I've been a fool. For all of my life, I've lived with one main goal: not to hurt anyone. I spent years trying not to hurt anyone, and shoving people away while doing so. I wouldn't let myself grow close to anyone, because I was afraid I'd screw up and hurt them.

These past months with you have opened me up, in ways I never expected. The reason I first spoke to you was because I figured you couldn't hurt me, and I couldn't hurt you. I saw no problem. It wasn't until recently that I learned how close I had allowed myself to come to someone. It wasn't frightening, thank God. I'm still growing, emotionally as well as mentally and physically. I'm growing up, something I needed to do. I'm finally allowing myself to live, for once. Yet even after I grew close to you, I found that I was still, and still am, afraid of hurting someone. Someone like you.

I'm afraid that one day, I'll say something wrong, and watch my relationship with someone I care about crash and burn before my eyes. But I came to the realization last night that if I don't stop being such a coward, I'll never enjoy life. It's something I've talked about, but never accepted for myself. So I have something to tell you, and I hope it's not something I'll crack my head open on. For once, I want to be the monkey that tries to fly. And I just hope there's a cushion below me.

I think, strongly believe, that I love you.

I've felt a wide variety of emotions. I've felt lust, and minor infatuations. I've held fraternal and familial love for people. But this is not something I've felt before. So I don't know what else to call it. You deserve to know.

You deserve more than I can give you. You deserve someone who is open, loving; someone who can actually talk with you about how you make him feel. What if I'm not the one? What if I tell you this and end up stumbling over myself and falling face-first into a mistake? Worse still...
...what if you laugh?

Tomorrow, I must tell you how I feel.

But will I?

Maybe not.

No.

Good-bye.
Mirrored

Today, you shall meet an old friend.

What an odd coincidence this had been. As soon as Tobias had woken up, something in his mind- a pleasant tenor voice, far from his own- had told him that. Now, he was sitting across the table from Samuel, who had been his best friend in high school. That now lay more than twenty years behind both of them, though, and they had gradually drifted away. Nonetheless, they now conversed easily, full smiles shining through their sometimes downcast countenances.

"So, Sam," smiled Tobias, calming after a particularly raucous bit of laughter, "how've you been getting along over the years? 's been a while."

Samuel shrugged, returning the grin. "Not bad; I got the job I wanted as an accounting assistant recently. The economy's in the tank, but I guess I got lucky..." He trailed off, once more giving the slightest of shrugs.

Nodding, Tobias replied, "Sounds great! I just got laid off a couple weeks ago-" he paused here to let Samuel interject some sympathetic noises- "but I'm still alright for now, just looking for a job. I'm sure I'll get one before things get too bad, though," he added. Shaking his head flippantly, he turned the conversation back over to his friend. "How's the wife doing? Still together, right?"

"Yeah," grinned Samuel. "Even though we met right out of college, Abby and I are still getting along well."

Liar. That one word wriggled into Tobias' mind, for no apparent reason. Stranger still, it was delivered in a more bitter version of that same tenor from earlier in the day. Upon looking into his friend's green eyes, he noticed a slight hollow quality in them. Shaking it off internally, Tobias stapled on a grin that seemed just a tad too wide, and replied with a simple, "Sounds good."

Samuel glanced down at his wristwatch, and ran a hand through his dense blonde hair. "Looks like I should be going, wife's expecting me back home soon. Great to see you again," he said, extending his hand. Tobias nodded, and took the hand offered to him. "Good t- to see you, too," he said, catching on the first "t." He found himself still unnerved by that uncharacteristic thought. Why had he suddenly felt that Samuel wasn't telling the truth? He shook his dark hair slightly as he stepped backward, nodding his good-byes. Liar, nudged the voice inside him again. When he tried to ignore it, it wriggled into his ears, tickling at his mind. He'll be getting a divorce soon; he's not good to her. She hates him. And he'd better divorce her- she won't be able to take much more of it before she cracks...

The floor lurched under him, and the floorboards promptly disappeared. Shards of glass began to swirl around him, though without eliciting the barest hint of fear from him, or indeed, from the other customers in the diner. Tobias was more preoccupied with the voice in his mind than the black shapes parading around him. The sun belched as the moon burst from its middle, and exploded. All was dark, with the exception of Tobias and Samuel, whose green eyes wavered to blue, his blonde hair falling away. "What are you?" whispered Tobias before his voice became a shrill ringing.

Sweating, Tobias sat bolt upright in bed. Blinking wearily, he groped for his alarm clock, which was screeching at him to silence it. He pushed his moist hair away from his forehead, and licked his dry lips. "Whudda weird drim," he muttered, trying to wake up. "Bad salad last night? I thought I should've thrown that out." Sliding out from under the covers, he pressed his feet firmly on the warm carpet. Turning his half-shut brown eyes to the clock, he glanced at the time. Six o'-clock in the morning; too early to job-hunt, but too late to go back to bed. Besides, he was exhausted... Surely one Sunday could be sacrificed as a day off? He decided to consider that over breakfast.

After pulling on some ill-fitting pants, he shambled into the next room. As he lived alone, he hadn't bothered to buy a house yet, nor did he need a car, so his small apartment and its furnishings were his possessions in life. Pulling back the door of the cabinets, he scanned the shelves. Nothing. It had been too long since he had bought groceries: that was something he could do today. From the way that his stomach was growling, it needed to be high up on his list of priorities.

Today, you shall win the lottery.

"I'm awake, right?" muttered Tobias, slapping his face lightly. He had all the signs of being awake, so he supposed that he was. Yet that voice was back: at least the news was more pleasant this time. "Why not?" he asked himself. If nothing else, it would only cost him a dollar to play the scratch-off tickets, and if he won, great. He finished getting ready, and headed out.
***

"No, I don't want to," growled the woman at the cash register. She twirled her bright red hair as she glared at the cell phone on her ear. Her harsh Eastern accent grated Tobias, but he was more put off by the fact that she wasn't tending to her customers. "Honestly, you act so, so stupid," she sneered. "Can't you do a thing right nowadays? And-" Finally, she noticed Tobias, who had been standing at the counter with an air of patience for some time. Sighing, the woman shrilled, "Now look, I've got a customer and you're jabbering on to me about 'spending time with each other,' though you sure's Hell didn't want to all the times I suggested it. God, Sam, at times I swear I could kill you!" When she turned to Tobias, she was all insincere politeness. "Hello, sir, anything I can do for you today?"

Taken aback by this shift in tone, Tobias stammered, "Uh, yeah, thanks. Just this soda and... eh, one of those," he indicated with his finger, "scratch-offs there." After she rang it up and gave him his change, he used a penny to scratch off the ticket. Seven. Seven. Seven. Seven. He let out a yelp of pleased surprise, and turned to look at her, eyes glowing. "I won!" he crowed.

The woman at the counter- Abigail, by her name tag- looked skeptical. From how well she managed this, it was obvious that she had some years' experience with looking skeptical. "Lemme see that," she said, taking it from his open palm. Looking over the rules of the game, she too shared in his enthusiasm. "Ohmigawd, I don't believe it! Great for you!" she exclaimed. "A hundred thousand free ought'a be nice, eh?"

"A hundred thousand!?" gaped Tobias. He snatched the ticket back from her, and stared at it. Sure enough, getting three sevens in a row carried a ten-thousand dollar reward, and having the fourth number be seven multiplied your winnings by ten. He hadn't known that any scratch-offs carried such a reward. "This'll change my life!" he cried, looking at the woman's featureless face. Terror gripped him as he stared at her. Something was seriously wrong. She just stood there, a mannequin. He tried to step backward, but found that his shoes were stuck to the ground. As such, he merely watched in creeping horror as her plastic head toppled to the ground in front of his feet. Her arms were next, the alabaster-white skin cracking in multiple places as it struck the ground. Finally able to move, he stumbled backward, falling over his own feet as he attempted to flee. Had he turned but a second later, he would have seen the sharp blue eyes examining him from the head of the plastic creation. As it was, he only heard that haunting tenor, saying something to him that was lost in the din of the train going by.

A shake broke Tobias out of his reflections, and he came to with a startled curse. His wild eyes glanced around in all directions, finally coming to rest on the woman who had startled him. "You..." he gasped. It was the same woman from his dream, the same which had fallen to pieces. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?" The woman gave him a quizzical stare. "Wake you up? I just shook you; from where you were laying, I guessed you'd fainted. You feeling alright?"

Tobias glanced around at his surroundings, expecting to find himself in the gas station, with the lottery ticket in his hand. Instead, he found his face greasy with blacktop residue, and his limbs stiff from the hard surface. Cars roared by all around him, none even slowing to look at the strange man who was laying on the side of the road. He pushed himself up, trying to figure out where he was. There was a concrete barrier near him, against which he propped his back. No other significant landmarks were there, so all he knew was that he was somewhere on the highway. Yet, he lived miles away from the nearest highway.

Realizing that he had been silent, he turned back to the woman. "Yeah, I'm fine, thanks. I dunno what's up, exactly; just having an off day, you know?" She seemed to feel this was an acceptable response, so she straightened, told him to be careful, and then drove off in her car, parked not far from him.

He pushed off of the concrete, shakily coming to his feet. Opening his mouth to groan, he said, "Today, you shall cut off your hand." He nearly fell over again as he did so. What's wrong with me? he thought to himself. I think I'm going crazy. Shaking his head, he looked around some more, and eventually noticed a sign in the distance. Upon approaching it, he found that he was six miles away from his town. From the way the sun was shining down on him, he judged it was about noon, and he was hungry. "Well," he muttered to himself, "if I'm going to get some psychological help, I guess I'd better eat first. Wouldn't do to starve before I'm healed." He started the trek back to town.
***

He stalked past the city limits clutching his stomach. Almost doubled-over with hunger, Tobias felt as if he were about to be sick. He took a quick break on the sidewalk to rebuild his fortitude, and watched the cars go by. How strange they all seemed: cold metal husks, their windows tinted, preventing people from seeing inside. They spent all their lives rushing from place to place, only stopping when they had reached where they were going, or met a barrier. People lost themselves in cars. Someone who always looked for the best in people, or was at least cordial, might berate the intelligence of someone else who was driving too slowly for their taste.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud rumble from his stomach; he came back to the world, remembering his goal. Lurching to his feet, he walked on thin soles to the nearest deli. As his town was a rather small one, a "deli" consisted of a few different types of meat and cheese, mainly variants on ham and turkey. The one which he had in mind was owned by a man named John, whose last name was a mystery to most. That majority just called him John to his face, and John the Butcher when addressing him in casual conversation. Despite owning the shop, he made sure that he had the largest load of work- he greatly enjoyed it. This propensity for slicing meat had earned him his nickname, of which he was oblivious.

With his shoulder, Tobias nudged open the door to the shop, setting off the tinkling bell as he did so. The smell of fresh meat wafted to him, mixed with cigar smoke. John was almost always smoking, even when preparing food for his customers. He was careful not to get any ashes on it, but it was still a deterrent to many prospective customers. Tobias, at this point, was too hungry to care. "Hi," he grunted, shuffling across the white tiles to lean against the glass counter.

John turned around from his knife collection to face Tobias. His bald head was surrounded by a hairnet, despite the lack of hair to merit it. Grey eyes examined Tobias as John replied, "Hey. What can I get for yeh today?" His voice was gruff, but not altogether unpleasant. It probably had to do more with his clenched teeth than his vocal cords.

Glancing around at the meats, Tobias shrugged slightly. "You do sandwiches?"

"Sure. Whadda yeh want on it?"

"Yes."

"Right, I'll get on that." A glint of amusement showed in John's eyes as he began grabbing out the various meats. "Yeh sure yeh want everything?"

Tobias nodded curtly. "Everything. I'm starved." His stomach was bellowing at him by this point, and he frequently winced when a particularly sharp pain was sent through him.

Nodding, John began slicing the meats. "Yeh know, knives are... kinda pretty, in a way. I mean, just for lookin'."

Trying to be polite, Tobias replied, "Oh?" hoping that his voice was more enthusiastic than his mind.

"Yeah! I mean, they've got this nice shine to 'em, they have such nice li'l curves... just pretty, yeh know?" He turned his head sideways, and said, "'ere. Take a look at these." He took one of the smaller ones out of the casing, and placed it on the counter for inspection. In doing so, he stopped slicing the meat, which irked Tobias. He took a look anyway.

"Yes. Very nice." Tobias rolled his eyes, hoping a bit of his exasperation might come off in his tone. John just grinned, and nodded. Finally, Tobias was tired of waiting, and he slammed the knife down onto his own wrist.

"Careful, there," grunted John. "Yeh can hurt yehrself if yer not careful." He indicated the small prick on Tobias' finger.

Tobias stared down at his hand. It was perfectly well-attached; he had merely poked a tiny hole in his finger where he had carelessly touched the point. "Here, you can have this back-" he started, looking up at the butcher. He had been about to add, "Sorry about making you wash it," but he saw that John was quite different. The man's bald head now had a cropped blonde head of hair, and his eyes had become a piercing blue. One eyebrow was raised slightly, as he examined Tobias critically.

Meanwhile, Tobias was stepping slowly backward, gripping the knife in his hand. "You... get out of my head. Get out!" The blonde-haired man merely tilted his head to one side, smirking slightly. Shaking his head to try to clear it, Tobias gripped the knife all the tighter. "Out!" he roared, ready to attack the man if he made any threatening movements. However, he just stood there, silently, sneering at Tobias, who finally turned and ran out of the shop, wanting just to get away from this mysterious figure.

He shouldered into the door, shoving it roughly forward. When he stepped outside, he stopped. On the streets, the man was everywhere. A veritable army of him, of all sizes and builds, was gathered, staring at Tobias. Each had that same smirk, all tilted their heads at the exact same angle. Tobias' rigid fingers dropped the knife, and he just pointed at the army, panting with hatred and fury. Finally, he growled, "Say something, damn you!"

The man in front's smirk became a tight-lipped smile. For once, none of the others imitated him. They all stared blankly forward, as if frozen in place. "Certainly, sir," he smiled. His voice was smooth, and in person, ranged somewhere between a high baritone and a low tenor. "My sincere apologies. I had not realized that you desired me to speak; indeed, I would have far before now, had I known. I am here to obliterate you."

Tobias cocked an eyebrow back at the man. "And it takes you an army to do so? Not much of a fighter, huh?"

The man laughed now, which would have been a nice sound under different circumstances. "You misunderstand my intent, sir. This assembly was merely to bring your attention to me. You see, on all previous instances of our meeting, you fled from me before I had sufficient time to speak to you. This 'army,' as you put it, shall not lay a hand on you. I am not here, sir, to kill you, nor even harm you. I am here to remove your existence. You shall not be dead, you shall simply not be. Far more clean than a murder, I assure you. It will begin in your mind- it already has. For you see, this world has no need of you." He paused to take a breath, and Tobias snatched up the knife. Seeing this, the man laughed again. "Please, sir. I have no corporeal form; I exist in your mind. Otherwise, obliteration would be impossible. Now, if you will allow me, I shall further the process."

Tobias, heedless of his words, ran forward and plunged the knife into the man's throat. The man took no notice of this, however. He neither bled, nor even seemed to be aware that Tobias had moved.

They stood on a blacktop, much as they had been just a moment ago. Now, though, the army, the shops, the cars, the city itself, were all gone. The strange man stood a foot away from Tobias, whose lip was curled in a feral growl. No knife was in his hand now, however.

"Welcome, sir, to your mind." After a pause, he added, "It is empty." When Tobias merely continued to snarl, the man shook his head and tutted. "Honestly, I thought you might appreciate that, at least. Ah, well. Back to the matter at hand.

"You see, you are merely another meaningless face to the world. You exist in physical form only, never making a true impression on... anything. Your mask is that of careless stoicism, when in fact, you cower behind this plastic façade. Tell me, sir: have you ever hated?"

"Well, I want you to keel over and die. That hatred?"

The man nodded. "Well enough. Have you felt anger? No, do not bother to answer- I can see by your face the answer. Anger, yes. Hatred, yes. Sadness. Despair. Pain. Bitterness. Fear. Yet, have you ever loved?" As was characteristic of him, he tilted his head to one side. "Sir, have you ever truly loved anyone?"

"Course I have," growled Tobias.

"To whom were your affections directed?"

Tobias paused. Not a name came to mind. In the endless parade of faces before him, he had never once felt anything more than a friendly affection for a single one of them. Indeed, he had actively avoided such, preferring instead to avoid the possibility of harming anyone else.

"Liar," purred the man, precisely as he had done when Tobias had been speaking with Samuel. "You, sir, are a coward, and the worst type. Behind that plastic image, you shake with fear at the prospect of being hurt. Again." The man's voice took on a more derisive tone. "God forbid that you should ever grow close to anyone else! After all, what if you make a slip, and end up hurting yourself? You could not have that, now could you?" He shook his head, for the first time betraying true emotion. A cold fury sprang into the man's eyes. "Learn to live, you fool. Damn you. Damn you for what you have done to me." He straightened, the smirk once more spreading across his countenance. "My apologies; I have been ungracious. My name, sir, is Tobias Robertson. Good-bye." Reaching an arm out, he took hold of Tobias' neck, who had to this point stood rigid, gripped by shock and fear.

Tobias kicked him in the groin with all the strength he could muster.

The man abruptly released his grip on Tobias' neck, and backed away quickly. "That hurt," he complained, not seeming to take nearly as much notice of the pain as he should have.

"Well, yeah," exclaimed Tobias, his voice wracked with exasperation. "Did you really think I was just going to let you kill me? I'm not that stupid." Before the man could fully regain his balance, Tobias jumped upon him, pummeling him with his fists.

At first, the man was too surprised to react, but he quickly managed to regain control of himself. He reached a hand up, gripping Tobias' face and pushing backward. Tobias had to let go, else he might be seriously hurt. Rolling off of the man, he crouched, arms raised, waiting for an attack. The man's foot hit him full in the face before he could react, and he fell over. Instantly, the man was upon him, throttling him. The rage in his eyes matched that in Tobias'; both realized that one or the other would die before this ended.

Tobias, as his neck was being held with both of the man's hands, could move his arms freely. Though awkwardly, he managed to hit the man squarely across the jaw with his right elbow. In response, the man's head was turned slightly away, so Tobias followed up with a punch to the man's throat. Even this, however, had only a muted effect. Tobias was starting to weaken, due to the lack of air. Desperate, he reached up his hand and clawed at the man's eyes. This, at least, caused a reaction: the man snarled with pain, and released his grip briefly. Tobias rolled out of the way, gasping for breath. The man stomped on his stomach, winding him, and then was upon him once more. Fueled by desperation and adrenaline, though, Tobias managed to pry one arm off of his neck. The man tightened his grip with the other hand. "You must not succeed," he snarled. "You are the very reason that I have suffered all of these years. You must be obliterated, that I may be free." Tears of anger rolled down the man's cheeks. "You loveless freak," he growled. "Let me in!"

His vision began to falter as the man's grip increased. Faces flashed in front of him. Lost opportunities. People whom he had shoved away in the name of compassion. Lies which he had lived. Mistakes which he would not, must not repeat.

Fueled by a desperate need to correct his errors, he shoved the man to the side, and broke the man's grip on his neck. From there, he gripped the man's neck instead, and began bashing his head against the pavement. He found his fury replaced by a grim, sorrowful determination. He must not let himself die.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.
***
Man Found on Sidewalk
April 5th

A man, whom police identified recently as Tobias Robertson of Westville, Georgia, was found yesterday on the sidewalk. Eyewitnesses report that he was bleeding heavily from a head wound. A knife was found next to him, which a local butcher reported as being his own. Allegedly, the man took the knife and ran from the store, whereupon he collapsed upon the sidewalk. For causes which have at this time not been released, he was bleeding heavily from several gashes on the back of his head. No charges have yet been made.

The hospital reports that he is in stable condition. One detail which was released to us by the hospital was that upon waking, Robertson said, "Never again." He fell asleep after this. Further information has yet to be released at this time.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (11/16/2009 11:11:23)

Crucifixion

Through PEACE, EQUALITY.
Through EQUALITY, PEACE.

Such read the signs as the hands moved down the streets. They gripped the handles, white-knuckled, grasping desperately to this last reservoir of sanity amidst the turbulent crowds. These hands led down to arms, many muscled with the work of ages. The work which they now performed was that of proclaiming to the world that they were human. Too many didn't believe it. Imbued with a solemn pride, these arms had held the burden of an undeserved tradition for decades, generation, centuries, and they had had enough. Now was the time to break through the walls.

Faces turned to the sky spoke of pain and longing, desperation fueled by determination. Some smiled, but most held their mouths in a grim line, waiting for danger. They could see the hatred in the peoples' eyes, yearning to boil over and scald the marchers. For the moment, though, they were restrained by the police. Some of the counter-protesters held flags- the same flag as that which the protesters waved.

With a rough slap, feet pounded the pavement in time with each other, moving slowly onward toward more of the furious bystanders. Several in the marching line were showered with egg yolk. Others were pummeled with rocks. Most clutched miniature crosses to their breasts, aware that they could be nailed to them at any moment. They wanted a slice of Heaven, for they had drunk of Hell for too long. Their swollen bellies burst open with it, drenching their posterity in the toxicity for years to come. Meanwhile, those who stood to the side, screaming and flinging objects into the midst of the protestors, drank of the sweet water of chosen ignorance. Drowning in it, they were determined to clutch at any who tried to rescue them, that they might not be damned alone.

With a riotous uproar, these demons broke forth from the piles of refuse they were born of, to break the humans who now attempted to bypass this. Fists beat into these people, tearing signs and flags from their weary hands. Bones crunched beneath metal knuckles, as the protesters collapsed under Faustian claws. Before order could ever be achieved, it was over. The demons sank back to their mires, and the surviving acolytes marched grimly onward, even those wounded attempting to crawl along with them. Then the bullets ate of their flesh, tearing them to pieces. They fled- there was nothing else they could do. Through genocide, peace.

The streets flowed red that day. Blood mixed with the ink from the grey flags sank deep into the stone, staining it. Nevermore would it be untainted.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (11/19/2009 13:19:36)

The Corrosion of Tender Moments

I saw you today. You stood there, as though entranced by silent music. In truth, I was the one entranced, though I was not to know that yet. Stepping toward you, I reached out my hand, and watched it pass through your ashen beauty. It collapsed, and I found myself doubled over, coughing from the dust in my lungs. My mistake was in letting you grow too far into me; I have been poisoned. Eyes blinded by the particles invading, I stumbled forward to embrace you. My delusion faded. You were never there.

For some time, I paused, bemused, waiting for your dawn. How foolish of me. Your dusky attraction had long since faded to midnight, yet still I waited for the moon which would never glow. For without a sun for illumination, it shines invisibly. The nova has ended. What remnants of your afterglow which still clung to you have disappeared, leaving in their place something akin to a sunlamp.

You, the magnificent oak, are proved to be nothing more than a weed once you shed your spring foliage. Bare branches hold little attraction. Did you once live an evergreen? Did your fallen needles provide sustenance for the multitude which still remained? Or have you always been such a skeleton beneath? No matter. Your colors are always more beauteous in the autumn, the whiles they prepare to drop from you forevermore. When I most desire you to impart your beauty upon the world, for it shines most brightly to me, it drops from you. Your creepers have strangled my roots. I do hope that you are satisfied.

Perhaps the rain shall wash this away eventually. The erosion of your cracked soil ought to be refreshing. As yet, the acidity has been a tad high; it encourages not growth but corruption. Sweet water did I expect, but instead was I scalded by the sting of your precipitation. When I ask for a sip of water, I am drowned. Other times, I cry out for moisture, and am greeted by nothing but more of your dust. Farewell, my river. Return to your ocean, where your destructive eddies can taint so little.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (12/1/2009 13:02:56)

Concrete Gardens

I revel in her rose-garden lips, which comfort me so often. No matter how the day has treated me, I can always find peace in them. Their beauty is matched only by the warmth of the sun beating down upon their petals, the thorns being but a minor inconvenience. Sweet incense greets my nostrils as I breathe in her scent.

Verdant curves greet me, arching delicately out to meet the sky. Her soft flesh, comprised of endless blades of grass, provides a gentle mattress for my weary body. It plays against my own, tingling pleasantly as I relax against it. I know that here, nothing can harm me. All of life's troubles and worries sink away, disappearing over the horizon, for she is with me.

As I glance up, I see soft lights behind her window-pane eyes. Smiling so tenderly, she always greets me with warmth and caring. Even the pavement beneath my feet holds a certain attraction, for it is the foundation upon which she stands. Nothing can ever shift this, for it shall be renewed as soon as it is destroyed.

This is my world. It has stood for as long as I have known it, and nothing can destroy its beauty. From the small, worn shops on the street to the pastures on the fringe, it is the beginning and end of life. Many generations have lived out their lives here, to love, thrive, rejoice, and one day come to rest. It was built with the strength of hands, of wood and of glass. The buildings are not metal cages, but rather extensions of the life which pulses in the veins of the city's denizens.

I hear the rumble of machines outside, constructing the concrete-and-pavement arms of a sprawling tyrant. The soft bushes and trees are drowned in a fast-hardening sea, to be replaced by the cold, blank stare of human progression. Along the way, steel monoliths are constructed by their drones. The heartless beings endlessly monitor the passing machines, waiting for the day that they might expand, upon more of the lonely grasses. All things must fall before this monarch, no matter how permanent they may have seen. My beautiful town is no exception.

They have paved her gardens. They have crushed her buildings. The new inhabitants open their maws to consume the perishing charm of what used to be. Concrete gardens, replete with their iron blossoms, now lie where her roses once did. As I turn away, I drop my final memory of her, the last withering flower, upon one of these lawns. Its bleeding colors are the only break in the monotonous monochrome. One more step, and I leave this mausoleum forevermore. Stone slabs are for the dead. I yet have life pulsing throughout me. I shall forever seek warmth, comfort, and beauty. I merely pray that I may find it.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (12/7/2009 11:39:06)

Return to Concrete Gardens

I wandered aimlessly for God-knows-how-many years. Everywhere I turned, I saw the frozen stare of machines. All cities had suffered in the same fashion as my lost one. The warmth of the sun was mitigated by the endless skyscrapers above. Noon light glinted on steel, instead of being refracted in the dew on leaves. It was in these metal behemoths that I had to live.

Existence became a burden to me, for I derived no pleasure from the drudgery of factories. From the morning to the evening, I toiled away, a drone whose life was spent for no purpose other than the hive-lords. Though I hailed the managers as my bosses, I knew that this was not the truth. The true managers were the machines themselves. Every moment, they had to be tended to. They had to be treated gently, with reverence; else, they might refuse to shower us with their favor. Of course, at the highest level, money was the monarch. It was money which had led to the downfall of the "home" feeling of towns. They were now merely factories, with smaller factories inside of them.

Nothing can last in this world. Eventually, entropy will claim all. Time is the universal solvent, for better or worse. The wood of my town would one day have rotted away, had it not been cleared prematurely. But no different are the monoliths which we feel compelled to build. All things will eventually corrode, be they human constructions or human emotions. The final stage of the corruption of emotion is death, in which one passes on into a greater state than we can imagine. There is no emotion, for we grow beyond it, into something even more ancient and deep- so I think, anyhow. Yet individual emotions may corrode and be rebuilt countless times in one's life. So did my patience for this life which I had half-chosen, and half been forced into. One day, it grew too much for me to bear, and I simply left, to make a pilgrimage back to my forlorn lover, the town of my youth. Even despite its new wrapper, I thought that perhaps I might find a hint of her previous beauty.

When I finally arrived back at the town, I could not recognize it. At least three decades had passed since I had last laid eyes on it; it had gone to seed. The metal was corroded and decaying. No-one walked the streets. It seems that the plans for construction were flawed somewhere, and the metamorphosis was never completed. The citizens had accordingly left to find a more fitting place to live.

Slowly, I made my way through the dusty streets. A hazy twilight had tucked the town under its wing, and the few streetlights flickered dimly, too weary to completely switch on. My feet led the way; my mind was elsewhere, amid happy memories of what once had been. Finally, I stopped at a location which my aging mind had forgotten. A single crushed, blackened petal lay not far from where I had once laid a flower, having been pinned down by an I-beam laid to rest; the cement nearby was cracked with age, revealing soft earth beneath. The petal was so brittle that I dared not touch it; I knew not how it possibly remained. I sank to my knees, kneeling in front of this symbol. One hand slipped into my pocket, to pull out, with trembling fingers, one of the few supplies which I had taken with me into the town.

Reaching down between the cement slabs, I dug a shallow hole in the earth with one hand. I then placed a seed in the crater, and covered it again with the nourishing earth.

Beauty may thrive anywhere. One simply must permit it to exist.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (1/4/2010 11:48:11)

Author's Note: The following story makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. Please make no attempt to logically deduce a plot from it. Thank you.
Your Name And Affiliation, Sirrah

Name myself and affiliation? Alright, but this might take a while to explain. If this is indeed your last stop, then it shan't be much of a problem, though. My name is Artemis, and I am a maidservant in a castle. You might assume that I am named after the Greek goddess of the Moon, which is indeed the origin of the name itself. In my case, however, the meaning is significantly different; it signifies my employment to the lord of the castle. Or you might assume I'm insane, given my appearance and what I'm telling you. But I'm right of mind, and sober. Confusing, I know. Let me try to explain.

My other name is Artemas, and I have no official employment. I am a young man whose days or nights- not both- are devoted to, well, whatever I please. I frequent the local taverns, as they are essentially my only source of social interaction. Other than that, my usual haunts are various merchants' stalls in the markets, for I used to be of their number, more-or-less. Now, I earn my bread by a more unconventional method. Not thievery, mind you; I do have morals. Ah, but I am only adding to your confusion. Kindly forgive my rambling nature- it isn't often that I receive visitors. Please allow me to- heh, again- explain my story as best I can. And seat yourself, because it is a somewhat long one. Being in progress does not help in that respect, either.

As I mentioned before now, I used to be a merchant. Well, alright, that's not entirely true: I was in fact a merchant's assistant. I would call myself an apprentice, but I was not treated as one. I received wages, and had to find my own way of getting food, shelter, and clothing. My employer made his way in the world as a clothier, so the last seemed rather unfair to me. Yet I would not complain- after all, he kept me alive, in many respects. It was there that I learned to make clothing. That's somewhat important, mind. Er, not where I learned it, but rather that I did at all. Rambling; my apologies. He was a kind enough man, if scatterbrained. Perhaps that's where I receive my own lack of concentration. He was also somewhat colorblind, which was the source of my employment. While I had an eye for color, he had one for design, and together we made quite a team. Heard of him? His name was- oh, wait. Given your clothes, I'd guess you haven't heard of him, never mind. Just a joke, settle down. Oh, and I guess I should tell of the lass I had. No, this will have a point in the end. It's as important as my employment. Which is important. Just may not seem like it yet.

She was a pretty girl, and more than I deserve. Sweet, caring, gentle, loving- all the qualities that a bard'd sing about. I'd sing of it, if I had a voice to match my verse. Sadly, the latter is fair enough, but the former once seriously injured a small child. Last I heard, he still avoids minstrels and nursery rhymes. No, no, that's a joke as well. I like to add some humor into this, however weak it may be. Anyhow, this girl loved me, and I thought I loved her. I still think I did, but I'm even more awkward around women than around you scoun- you goodmen. My tongue swells up, making it nigh impossible for me to speak. It then gets all angry at me for having gotten around this lovely creature in the first place, and goes and slaps my brain for spite. Well, how can I get to the point, if you insist on constantly interrupting me? Very well, then, I'll continue- if I may.

So, one day, I'm working in my employer's stall. All of a sudden, up comes this immensely fat man, even more so than my liege the King. Beg pardon? Whether that's an insult or not depends on your feelings for the King, O Colorless One. (On the other hand, the true Colorless One was my employer, but that's beside the point.) I can be just as mysterious regarding my affiliation as you, sir. I do not mock you! Indeed, I could have just given my affiliation and name as ordered, but instead, I take the time to give you food and warmth by my fire, instead of sending you back to your cold barracks. Oh. Right, then, the food shall be here shortly.
***

There you are, sirs. Nice and lukewarm, just like your mother likely made it. I beg your pardon, sirs, no offense intended; my mother was a firm believer in not scalding her charges' tongues, so served everything lukewarm. That's not important right now, though; I was discussing the glutto- er, fine gentleman who came to get some clothes from me. He sauntered up to the stall, and asked for a suit of clothes. My employer asked him what kind he wanted, to which he replied, "The good kind." Not much of a response, I assure you. As such, my master just began thinking of what kind of clothes the man might look good in. Did you know that his eyes whirled when he thought? I jest not- they'd spin right around until I feared they'd drill through his brain and come out the other side. So I saw them whirling, and knew he was up to something. I was right; just a few moments later, he began working. I leaned over next to him, to direct him on colors. He was so used to my input that it was second nature to him- he'd keep working right on, no matter what I said. Problem was, he'd keep working even if I wasn't saying anything, just assuming he was picking the right things.

All of a sudden, a cart comes barreling down the- no, I assure you, this will explain everything shortly- down the street. There's no horse attached, and no driver. All the same, it's going down the road as fast as it can, just charging along. Zoom! Just like that! Zoom! Then, its tip goes down, and flips it end-over-end. The barrels in the back (did I mention those?) start flying out everywhere, and bursting all over the street. Can you guess what they were full of? Well, I'll tell you. They were full of rocks. Rocks! Not masonry, just plain rocks. I can tell from your thoughtful scowl that you can't imagine why they were there. I can't, either. All I know is that one of them was heading right for a woman who was either with child, or an excess of skin around her middle. It was my duty as a good citizen to help her, of course. I sprang up, leaving my employer working busily away. He was a fast worker. Very fast. Just like I was, when the barrel of rocks was going zoom! down the street. Yes, zoom!, just like that cart. I reached her just in time, and courageously stuck out my arms to stop that barrel. Good news and bad news. The good news was that she moved out of the way, partially due to my well-timed kick. The bad news was that instead, I got smacked by the barrel.

Have you ever been smacked by a barrel full of rocks? It's quite an experience, I assure you. Maybe you should try it sometime. Anyway, this was a rather inopportune time to be hit with a barrel of rocks, and I ended up covered in them, and barely able to move. With an almost nonhuman display of strength, though, I managed to pull myself out, and crawl over back to the stall. Like this, see? I cra-a-a-wled over back to my employer, and it took an amazing length of time. When I finally made it back to where he was, he was in a hot debate with Porker the Great. Turns out that my master had finished the outfit, and it was the most beautiful shade of orange, green, blue, red, yellow, indigo, chartreuse, pink and white that I have ever seen. For some reason, though, Milord Girth didn't like this fine garment, and demanded to know who came up with the coloring for my employer's clothing. True to the last, the poor old dear told him who was responsible- namely, me, who had been busy with deeds of great import. So, Duke Beef Wellington offered my employer a vast sum of coin if he would fire me. Needless to say, my employer knew exactly what the prudent and righteous course of action was.

So there I was, freshly out of a job, when my lass comes walking down the street. I had to tell her, being the honest lad I am. At first, my tongue started slapping my brain about, but then it decided on an even more vicious course of action, and told her the exact truth of the day's events- that I had just been fired, and had no way of supporting her should she ask for more money. Which she did every day. The poor lass' father seemed to be in one horrible accident after another: he was always so sick, I was never even permitted to see him. She cried, and carried on, and beat me almost senseless while I tried to explain.

Naturally, I was very discouraged at this point, so I went to the local tavern to try to drown my sorrows. Here's where the story really begins. You see- where are you going? I thought you wanted to hear my affiliation, "during this time of great unrest!" You haven't even finished your bread! Well, there they go, another set of visitors who can't even seem to show gratitude to a gracious host. Soldiers of indeterminable affiliation these days- it's a disgrace.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (1/4/2010 11:51:04)

A Winter Melody

He stretched, rolling his shoulders as the train doors slid open. A cloud of misty vapor trailed from his nostrils, rather like the smoke coming from the train’s engine. Rubbing his numb fingers together and breathing on them, the ragged figure nodded his good-byes to the conductor as he stepped out onto the crisp, frozen grass. He had been the last to leave the train, having been in little hurry to escape from its warmth. “Have a good night, now,” he grinned to the conductor, who nodded a similar response, then turned his attention to making sure that the poor man had given him as much as he claimed.

While the train slowly began working its way out of the station, the man began slowly working his way into the town. It was a small one, but unfamiliar to him. Nonetheless, he had been willing to spend what little money he had to arrive there. Food, shelter, and warmth- particularly the last- would have to come as they might; he could not plan on them. Not yet, anyhow.

The streets, usually crowded, were at this time almost empty. Those who were still out scurried to their destinations, trying to escape the cold. Most were wrapped in coats and scarves, only their eyes visible to the passer-by. Not so, however, was the stranger. As he meandered down the streets, he kept his face tilted upwards, to examine the small delights in the shop-windows. Beautiful garments, some costing as much as fifty dollars, tantalized him. For while this was not much of a sum to the majority of those who examined the clothes, it was a fortune to the face who pressed its nose to the pane, eyes longingly examining the coats and gloves. But more than just a portal into the realm of financial security, the glass also served as a partial mirror, to display the poor quality of his own clothes.

His coat, to begin with, was wretched. It was coated with dirt and use, wrinkled almost beyond recognition. Various holes had been patched with various fabrics. One lapel was so dilapidated that it nearly detached from the rest of the garment. His gloves and pants were little better; both were patched and stitched to a great extent. Finally, though, the reality of the bitter cold brought him back to himself, and he reluctantly took his eyes from the window, to walk on.

As he progressed through the town, he found that many seemed almost wary to glance at him. When they did, they quickly averted their eyes, as if not wishing to admit to themselves that there was still want in this world. His eyes, however, trailed them as they passed- not pleading, not bitter, nor even truly envious. Questioning, perhaps. Yes, they were questioning eyes, as if asking what was so different about him, that they could not even bear to acknowledge his presence. Did they not realize that he was just the same as them? Did they not realize that all dominoes are differentiated only by the dots which they wear? Or… did they realize that entirely too well? Regardless, he forced his cracked lips into a crooked smile every time he made eye contact, though it was rarely returned.

Once, though, he found a face which was willing to look. A family of three was passing by, and he once more opened himself to them. The parents drew their child closer to their legs, wary of panhandlers. The child, a girl of no more than six, though, looked at his face rather than his clothes. She saw a sincere smile, rather than an entreaty for mercy. It was reciprocated. The stranger paused as the family hurried by, for once not bothering to follow the group with his eyes as they moved beyond him. Sticking his stiff fingers into his pockets, he turned his smile to the sky, and softly began humming a tune which he knew not. It, like he, meandered about with no distinct purpose. Yet it made one person- perhaps just one, perhaps more- happy. That was all it needed to grow.

And as the stranger walked on, his tune grew and blossomed into a beautiful melody, which was silently taken up by the very being of every person on the street. For truly, he was only a stranger to they that saw merely his clothes.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (1/20/2010 16:46:34)

Guide to Wisdom

“I take it that you desire wisdom of me?” asked the sage, rubbing his temples. “I shall then answer you as I have answered many before you. You shall receive no such wisdom from me. No, hold your tongue for a moment. Instead, I shall inform you concerning how to create your own wisdom.

“Consider consequences! You must carefully, meticulously, painstakingly deconstruct every possible result which might spring from your actions. Weigh these effects in comparison to the positive effects. If you do what you wish to do, will it do you more good than harm? And how shall it affect those around you- those whom you love? Sit and plot out action and reaction; reaction to reaction. Always take the third law of Sir Newton into mind.

“Once you have considered the consequences, more steps must be taken. Similarly, take into account the criticisms which you shall receive for this action. Society is a mighty force, for good or evil. As Mr. Franklin so wisely stated, ‘A mob’s a monster- heads enough, but no brains.’ Will you bestir this monster with what you shall attempt? And if you shall, will it help or hinder you in your actions? Most importantly, should the latter be the case: can you face it down? Or, will it merely devour you, transforming you into naught but one more dissenter?

“After consequences and criticisms, continuation is the next thing which you must contemplate. Should your action be successful, how shall you build upon it? Should it fail, will you start afresh, or scrap it and try for a different goal? Finally, you have considered consequences, cogitated criticisms, and contemplated continuation. There is but one final step which you must undertake.

“Disregard consequences, criticisms, and continuation. Do as reason suggests, and conscience directs. As the cliché axiom states, ‘Follow your heart.’ Utilize patience and grace. Make apologies as necessary. Yet above all, strive for both moral and tangible greatness.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (1/20/2010 16:50:34)

Factory Soldier

Tense. Such was the atmosphere of the room, of the inhabitants' minds. They were all waiting futilely for something completely new to happen, to break the endless cycle which had confronted them day after day. Soon, they knew, another would be gone. Who would be next? No-one wished for it to be them, but they pitied whomever it had to be. Their only wish was that the waiting would soon end, so that they might finally know. Finally, after what had seemed hours, their reprieve was to come. Sixty eyes darted to the door, from whence he came. He was tall and wiry, his dark hair combed just enough so that it was not in front of his grey eyes. Normally, those eyes betrayed a very slight inner sadness, the only hole in his visage of quiet, composed stolidity. Now, though, the sorrow was plain for the world to see, his attempts to mask it abandoned. The mouth below them, usually twisted in a reluctant smile, now was warped into a grievous grimace. Yes, this was the time for the judgment to come. Who would it be? How would the news be broken? "George Carrington." As usual, the phrase was crisp and short, yet expressed a deep regret. They knew that it was not up to him, that it pained him, yet they viewed him with jaundiced eyes nonetheless. Any animosity towards him, though, was overcome by relief that it was not them. Fifty-eight lips opened slightly in barely audible sighs of gratitude. Two tightened into a thin line, along with the sad grey eyes above them. Two more opened in a mixture of inarticulacy, shock, anger, and fear. Those two lips belonged to George Carrington.

"You can't- how? How!? What did I do!?" Carrington's throat contracted, dried. "You can't do this to me!" he lied. "I have a family- children! My children! How... how could you?" His eyes filled with tears of anger.

"George... I really am sorry." This was the only response that he could think of.

"Sorry? Sorry? What do you expect me to do, go live in the Projects? How much good does 'sorry' do me? 'Sorry' doesn't pay bills! 'Sorry' doesn't feed mouths! 'Sorry' doesn't do me a damned bit of good!" With that, George Carrington grabbed his coat, opened the other door, and left the factory for the longest and last time in his life. He- Maxwell Lambros, owner of Colton City Factory- was not sure how to respond. This time, it was his throat that constricted, his eyes that almost grew wet. Almost. It was just another "almost" in Maxwell's life; he had a good deal of them. It was not for his own sake that he refused to let the tears come, it was for his employees' sakes. He would not let them, or anyone, see him release his sadness. That, he had vowed, was one almost which he would never allow to complete. He would only ever allow others to see him almost release his sorrow. It was always there, always waiting to be let flow freely out, but he always kept it in. Maxwell Lambros was a fool.

"Well, I suppose you should all get back to work. With money so tight as it is, you might as well get all you can." Originally, he had made an attempt at humor, but the comedy was terrible, and died before it was born, being replaced by a statement of fact. "I- I'll just assume you're working." Still not recovered from the pain of having to lay another worker off, Maxwell was shaken and weary. Grabbing his own coat, he exited by the same door which Carrington had used, walked through the same parking lot which Carrington had walked, and then shambled off down the same road as Carrington. Maxwell did not even bother to get into his car; he wanted time to reflect. Little did he realize that reflecting was the one activity on which he had spent his entire life so far. Maxwell Lambros was most certainly a fool.

It was getting dark, and with the dark, the dreaded Projects came alive. The Projects were the second-largest scar on the pristine face of Colton: at night, society's rejects came out. The inhabitants were true predators, they preyed on everyone, including- no, especially- each other. Because of their aggression, they were feared by the "upright" citizens of Colton. From the festering loins of this fear sprang cataracts of hatred, whose great milky films blinded the eyes of compassion. They were so great, in fact, that they even blinded the sad grey eyes of Maxwell Lambros, owner of Colton City's Largest Scar. He did not hate them, but they were the only creatures for which he felt there was no hope. Of course, some of them had gone to work in the great metal scar disguised as a factory, and those were just citizens fallen on hard times. The others? Animals, beasts which were only fit to be caged, perhaps euthanized. Now, though, Maxwell Lambros walked through them, face downcast, eyes averted from everything but the road. If not for his business suit, he would easily have been taken for an inhabitant of the Projects.

He had come neither to gawk at nor help the Rejects, as they were silently called. He had come to see if he could find Carrington, to discover if he really meant to move to the Projects. However, his search was in vain. George Carrington, Ex-Worker had not gone to the Projects. Nor had he returned home, to tell his family of the bad news. That, Carrington had decided, could wait. For now, he was at Colton's only bar, attempting to drown life's problems in a sea of cheap wine. It would seem that Maxwell Lambros was not the only fool in Colton.

Maxwell had hardly begun contemplating all which he wished to contemplate by the time he reached his little house. It was a quaint house in a quaint town, one more little detail in the landscape of Colton. The fence was painted, the lawn was trim, and everything was immaculate. How dreary and monotonous it all was. Sighing slightly, Maxwell opened the picket gate, traversed the icy sidewalk, and finally opened the door to his personal den of ennui. Looking around, he surveyed the sparse interior, as was his wont. It had only four rooms: a bedroom, a kitchen, a living room, and one bathroom. In the living area, the largest of the rooms, there was a wooden table with two chairs, as well as a fireplace and a reading chair. Two bookcases dominated the south wall, filled with his favored literature, tales of personal accomplishment to which he paled in comparison. Still, despite this, the saddest detail was the second chair at the table. It was always set out, expecting a visitor who had yet to arrive. He had not set it out in memory of a friend or loved one, he simply placed it in anticipation. Much like the house which he always surveyed with a wistful eye, it was one more "almost" in his life; one more hole which he could not fill. His bedroom and kitchen were hardly worth mention. The only detail of note was that he kept one small television, the only in his life, near his bed. Every morning, he would turn it on, view the Bad News, then turn it off and go to manage the factory. After his routine survey, Maxwell climbed into his one-person bed and fell asleep on his thoughts.

Morning was always an unwelcome visitor. All which it ever did was waken him from his dreams of peace and send him back into his wakeful turbulence. However, it could not be avoided, and Maxwell had decided that it was most likely preferable to not waking. Stretching and yawning, he forced his bleary, burning eyes to open themselves. A bird was singing somewhere outside his window, the sun was shining, and it was comfortably warm for winter. None of this, however, reached Maxwell Lambros. He was far more concerned with the fact that he had slept in his suit, too tired to even bother with eating dinner or removing his clothes the previous night. After turning off his screaming alarm, he removed the suit he had been wearing, only to replace it with another. Why, though? The color did not appeal to him more than the blue he had been wearing. Yesterday's suit had not procured an offensive odor. If he had considered it, there really was no logical reason that he should bother with the effort, but he did not. Folkways were of little importance to him; he internalized them without question, much like all else in his life. A curious, intriguing world would have met him, had he removed his cloak of fatigue.

Breakfast consisted of routine. He had his routine bowl of cereal, his routine toast and coffee. There was little deviation from his set path, save the exact amount of milk which he added to the bowl. Still, if one were to take the time to measure the amount, it likely would not have changed more than an ounce from day to day. After his breakfast, he left his dishes and silverware on the table, to be cleaned up before dinner. Moving into his bathroom, he examined his reflection in the mirror. The face which stared back at him was gaunt and care-worn, dark lines encircling his melancholy eyes. He did not care for his eyes; he felt that they were betraying him with their release of emotions. Despite this fact, deep down, everyone else felt that they were his best feature, whether they knew this or not. After all, the rest of him was quite plain and commonplace. This fact escaped him, though, as did many small things. Instead, he wished that they were as ordinary as the rest of him- his clean-shaven chin, his nondescript hair, his plain features. Secretly, he would have liked to wear a short beard and comb his hair in a new way. Such a shame that he never let himself know. Instead, he drowned the urge in cologne and aftershave.

Once he had finished preparing himself for society's examination, he re-entered his bedroom, and glanced at the clock. Given that he had left his car at the factory, it would take thirty minutes to walk to work; the time was 6:20. That gave him ten minutes to watch the Bad News. Watching this was perhaps his strangest habit, as it only gave him more cause for sadness. Nonetheless, it was a habit which he had internalized, and so he did it. He could not have borne to be out of step with the rest of society. More soldiers had been killed in Afghanistan and Iraq, apparently. Perhaps, thought Maxwell, it's their fault for killing in the first place. It was a very unfair, untrue thought, but he would not help it. Like too many others, he thought that it was the fault of those fighting the war, not those who had caused it in the first place, the leaders sending the soldiers. Such was his other personal bias. Besides this, there were more murderers and rapists, more thieves and misery-causers. Why did he watch it?

Luckily, he did not have to endure the Bad News for much longer; it was time for him to leave. With another unhappy sigh, he struggled to his feet and turned off the television- his wisest act of the day. Leaving the small prison, he started off down the familiar road. One could always see which way it was to the factory, the smoke billowing out of it was sign enough. For ten years, he had traversed this street, by car or foot. Four of those years he had spent managing the factory, not a pleasant job. As a general rule, he did not manage it thoroughly. After making sure that everyone and everything was working, he would retire to the manager's office and think. Sometimes, he would write his thoughts, but when he did, no-one would ever know. To him, his thoughts were just another breach in the security of his impassivity. At times, he would almost show someone, but then his resolve would best him. By not showing anyone else his problems, he reasoned, he would not ruin their lives as he felt his was ruined. What he failed to realize was that this view, though selfless in sentiment, caused others to view him as cold and distant. If he had ever bothered to do anything with his employees, they might not have viewed him as the bearer of layoffs and other such tidings. Today in the factory, though, would be like any other. While the workers labored, he sat in the office and thought.

Currently, he was pondering why he had become the owner. He never enjoyed being the owner; it was his job, not his career. What his career was, he knew not, only that it was not being the owner of Colton City Factory. Especially not now, with the factory fallen on lean times, and having to lay off workers. Though they did not realize it, he cared deeply about each of his employees. Unfortunately for him, he armored his emotions, hiding them away behind the steel barrier of his uncaring façade. This armor was a part of him which he did not know existed; it was a spiked shield. With it, he pushed away unwanted entities, such as his own emotions, from which he was always hiding. Along with his emotions, though, he shoved away everyone who tried to come near him, to remove his armor. When they tried, he would thrust with his shield, protecting himself and goring them with the spike. Sooner or later, the spike would cut too deeply, and they would bleed out everything they tried to hide; it would stain him, drown him in a torrent of things he didn't want to know. If only he would open his mouth and take a drink! No, he would ever remain parched, though he stood in the river.

Out in the main area of the factory, where the employees were, the feeling was no less morose. They shared a vague feeling of camaraderie with each other, but it was similar to that of slaves in the seventeen-hundreds. They were together in their grief, yet no-one could do a thing about it. After all, who wanted to talk to him? Who wished to risk his wrath, such as it might conceivably be? For they had animalized him in their minds, transforming him from the sad, confused human being he was into something that only lived to lay them off. Even before the times had become so lean, he had never done anything with them. He wasn't a normal person; he didn't go to the bar with them, didn't attend their parties, rarely even spoke to them. He was another faceless bureaucrat, another being that almost lived. Why couldn't he be more like them? Why couldn't he live?
***

Once more, Maxwell made the long trudge back to his house. Much like yesterday, he left his car at the factory. He didn't feel that the walk was so bad; it gave him a chance to observe the world around him. Or so he told himself. His "observations" were never of any import whatsoever, merely the shadows a prisoner watches in his cell. All of his thoughts were turned inwards, to his pointless existence. For you see, Maxwell Lambros had never done anything to be proud of. Yes, he had climbed to the position of manager, but there was no ladder. It was more an escalator, which inevitably took him higher, until he reached the top floor.

Perhaps the most infuriating aspect of his existence was that deep down, Maxwell was a good man, as people go. He was fiercely loyal to those he cared about- namely, everyone. Were one to ask him what he wanted most from life, he would be unable to answer, because he wanted nothing for himself. All of his endeavours were towards the bettering of the worlds around him... but not his own. He was not a meddler, no; he merely attempted to soothe the pain of those around him, by trying to take it upon himself. What he refused to admit to himself was that no-one can take on all of the pain in the world, no matter how noble their attempt. All he ever managed to do was burden himself unnecessarily, and present to others the façade that he had grown close to them. A pleasant lie, but one which burns all the more at the time of disillusionment.

In the midst of his pseudo-self-pitying reverie, he heard a plea for assistance, quickly choked off. It had come from the direction of the Projects, which he had unwittingly wandered into. What chilled him most, though, was that he recognized the voice.

He groped around blindly for something with which to defend himself, and his hand settled upon a thick branch. Gripping this tightly, he sprinted toward the direction from which the cry had come. Snow crunched under his feet, but the noise of a struggle drowned out this sound for the most part. Fortunately, at the time of the cry, he had only been fifty yards away; his strong legs soon brought him near the scene of the battle. Sure enough, Carrington was pressed against a ragged wall, by an equally ragged-looking man. Desperation is a filthy state of life, which can drive many to depravity. Such was the case of the newly-turned mugger, for whom Maxwell instantly gained a deep-seated hatred.

Taking the branch in both hands, he ran toward the pair; the mugger was busily beating Carrington with his fists. This, however, ended abruptly when Maxwell swung the branch into the side of the man's head. Stunned by the blow, the erstwhile attacker dropped Carrington, who fell to the ground, gasping for breath. Maxwell, however, was not satisfied with this result. The pacifist in him was drowned in a vat of fury, which caused him to viciously beat the mugger. With both hands, he repeatedly swung the branch down, wanting little more than to hear the satisfying crunch of a bone breaking. Loyalty, too, can be a frightening thing.

The only crunch which reached Maxwell's ears, though, was that of the branch itself cracking. Nonetheless, by this point the attacker was thoroughly beaten, and hardly able to stir. Maxwell stood over him, panting and quivering. Carrington, who had by this time recovered, stared at his former employer with genuine terror in his eyes. "I thought you were a pacifist!" he finally blurted out.

Startled, Maxwell looked at Carrington for the first time; the latter could plainly see true chagrin in the former's eyes. "I..." began Maxwell; he then paused. His mouth opened and closed repeatedly before he finally muttered, "I don't know what the Hell I am." With that, he quickly turned away, flinging the wooden stump as far from himself as he could. His intention was to go to the Colton City Bar, and for the first time in his life, drink himself into a stupor.

"Uh, wait- thank you!" stuttered Carrington, calling after Maxwell's retreating form. Hearing this, Maxwell turned, his lips drawn and eyes moist with regret. "Don't thank me," he grated. "I have done nothing to be proud of." Unable to look into Carrington's eyes any longer, he bowed his head and silently wandered on, leaving Carrington to make his way back to his family. Before he did so, however, he first removed the money he had taken from the poor victim's pocket, which had spawned the fight so lately resolved. Numb hands laid the five-dollar bill on the unconscious chest of the Reject, who had been beaten for trying to defend himself from a thief. His assailant could not have known, of course. That wouldn't make the waking process any easier. George, relieved of his stolen goods, then ran along the path to where his family, sans income, would welcome him home from the cold.
***

An amber pool met grey ones, reflecting each other endlessly. It was his first glass of the night, but Maxwell could still not force himself to drink any of it. He detested the taste of alcohol, and the thought of drunkenness frightened him. Repeatedly, he had taken the glass in his hand, then lowered it again. As foolish as Maxwell Lambros was, he at least had enough sense to know that in the end, this would not help. Yet, any salve, however temporary, was welcome. Thinking about the event which had occurred just earlier did not assist with his decision, either; his hand tightened reflexively at the memory. He had just broken his creed of never doing harm. It had been done to save someone for whom he cared. Did that justify his previous actions? Did it justify this action? Why was there so much grey? Why?

He howled in pain as his steadily-increasing grip shattered the glass in his hand, slicing it and spilling the drink everywhere. It dripped into his lap for a few moments before he could collect himself enough to respond. The other patrons of the bar were staring at him; he could make no response to their silent inquiries. Instead, he used his napkin to clean up the mess he had made, and after disposing of the glass, wrapped his hand in it. Clutching it despite the pain, he walked slowly up to the bar, and gave what money he had left over to the bartender, by way of apology and to make amends. In return, he was silently handed a clean cloth, for which he nodded his thanks. Wrapping his hand in it, he left the bar, worse off than previously.

Conscience gnawing at him, he decided to go back and see if the man whom he had beaten was alright. It was dangerous to be out in this cold with open wounds. Should the man wish to harm him, Maxwell would not resist; it was his due, in his mind. The bleeding in his hand was being stopped by the cloth, and eventually he pocketed it, flexing his palm to make sure it was alright.

Upon reaching the scene of the fight, he was met with shock and horror. Three more men were kicking at the now-conscious body of the man with whom Maxwell had fought, and going through his pockets. Repeatedly, he made feeble attempts to escape, for which he was injured still more. In Maxwell's eyes, it was entirely his fault... Or was it? After all, he had been "saving" one of his employ- one of his ex-employees. Perhaps this was a sort of karma for the "mugger," in exchange for what harm he had done to Carrington. No. He had already paid for his actions; Maxwell had ensured that. This was brutality, plain and simple. On the other hand, there were three men. If Maxwell were to engage them, he would surely lose. There were no branches nearby that he could find; were he to search, the victim might not survive. Duty. Sacrifice. Creed. Pain. His thoughts swirled violently around, confusing him. There was no time for thought. Only action.

Swallowing, and with a mental prayer, he charged forward and kicked one of the attackers in the groin. When he doubled over, Maxwell elbowed him roughly in the back, then shoved him to the ground, stepping on his stomach to wind him. The initial surprise of the others had worn off, however, and they released the victim to turn their attentions to Maxwell. While he fought with them, their original target slowly escaped, clutching at his side.

Remembering his fisticuff lessons from high school, he kept his left hand near his body and his right hand somewhat further away, dropping into a crouch. His fists were closed, but not clenched too tightly; upon his first jab, he clenched about halfway through, turning his fist for maximum impact. The blow struck one of the attackers in the gut, but the other pounced upon him, knocking him to the ground. While he wrestled with this one, the other recovered, and began punching Maxwell in the chest and face. Blood streamed down past Maxwell's eyes; meanwhile, the first one which he had attacked was struggling to his feet to join the fray.

It was not much longer before Maxwell's limp frame was thrown to the ground, and his pockets searched. Fortunately, he had nothing at the time, having given the last of his funds to the bartender. As their first target was not to be seen, they finally ran off, leaving Maxwell in the street as he had left the man whom he now had rescued.

Some minutes passed before the muggers' original target returned, after having made sure that they had left. He helped Maxwell to his feet, then leaned him against the nearby wall. "Are you crazy?" he hissed. "Ya could'a been killed! What'd you go and try to save me for? I'm the guy you screwed over just earlier!"

Maxwell looked up at him, and spat a globule of blood onto the pavement. "I know," he panted. "You were... In trouble. Had... Had to help." As Maxwell licked his dry, salty lips, the other man stared at him. "You're one weird dude, you know that, man?"

Maxwell made a slightly amused grimace, and lurched to his feet, starting to walk away. "Yeah," he replied quietly, having caught his breath. "I'm a freak. Go home. Don't fight any more. Violence solves nothing."

"Hold up," said the other man, grabbing Maxwell by one shoulder and turning him around. "You can't leave yet; I haven't thanked you."

"I've done nothing to be proud of," growled Maxwell, as he looked at the man's bruised and bloodied body. "I've never done anything to be proud of." Once more, he attempted to walk away; once more the other man stopped him. "You saved my life," he said, forcing Maxwell to meet his eyes. "I could have been killed. You may be one weird guy, but you're the sort of guy we need more of."

Maxwell raised an eyebrow, then just murmured, "Right. I'm a real Don Quixote. Look, I'm not proud of what I did. All I did was add more pain to this world. We have enough of that. Adding more doesn't save anyone. I've never done anything to be admired."

Unrelenting, the other man repeated one last time, "You sacrificed yourself to save me."

Something clicked in Maxwell's brain. For the first time, he managed to observe the true consequences of his actions. Today, he had sacrificed himself to save another. It was the first time he could remember that he had been met with true gratitude for his actions. He had saved a man's life. "You know? Maybe I have done something to be proud of, once," he smiled. He shook the other man's hand; as he did so, the scab cracked and his blood was smeared between their palms. As he did so, his life was finally shared with another.

Today, a man named Maxwell Lambros was born.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (1/25/2010 13:12:52)

Fingers of the Earth

Weary eyes looked out, seeking that which was so long forgotten. Their gaze reached across fields, towns, provinces, countries. Straining with the effort, they continued searching, despite fatigue.

Ears which had long ago ceased listening, once more began to hear the world around them. Amid all of the buzzing static, there was a quiet, liminal rhythm. Many thought that they would never hear it again; others were hearing it now for the first time.

Cracked feet, calloused yet raw, carried wracked frames across an otherwise lifeless plain. They were sore, tired, and wished to return back to their homes. Nonetheless, they pressed on. There was nothing else for them to do.

Mouths opened, parched and pleading. They cried out for compassion, to be quenched. Dry throats rasped out questions. Others made what replies they could, but these were precious few.

Wrinkled hands reached out, grasping at the air. For these were the hands of the world's needy. These were the hands of those who suffered. These were the hands of those who could not help themselves. With brittle fingers, they stretched, and groped...

...And brushed the hand of God.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (2/2/2010 15:47:09)

Pieces

Something was missing. I frowned. Everything seemed to be there, but no, something was wrong. What could it be? Where could it go? Drat it all, I'd have to go through them again.

I picked up the first; my childhood home. I could see the fields and trees, swaying gently with the breeze. There were the wildflowers and the garden, as well as seedlings planted along the sides. Verdant hills sprawled lazily underneath the sky, while the setting sun dripped its wet-paint rays. I placed this in the bottom corner. Slowly, I assembled the entire foundation, to make sure I had something upon which to build.

From this start, I began to work upward. Every happy memory was another part. It was agonizing at times, trying to sort out where each piece fit, and especially rooting through all of the other sets. Spilled together as they were, I often found myself trying to fit in a bit that went somewhere else. Once, I even attempted to mash one part in, but I soon realized that this would only ruin everything. After that I made sure not to do so anymore. As slow as it could be, I had to keep up. There would be no second chances this time; I would complete this, no matter what. Was this the third? the fourth? time I had done this? Sighing, I resigned myself to my task.

Perhaps the hardest parts were the faces. These were most complicated, as they had so many pieces of their own. Often, bits and shards would have to be interconnected between these, so that it became web-like. I would have to pause one on occasion, for I would find that I had damaged bits of them. These bare spots would be built back up later. Meanwhile, I would continue working on the others. There was so much I had to replace...

Swirling colors greeted me when I worked on the innermost part of the puzzle. Greens would switch to purples, while a red waltzed with a white, occasionally swirling creamily together. Blackened fears, bitterness, and pain would collide with a brilliant hue of serendipity. A wave of resolve busily washed away pale sorrows. Whites, blacks, and greys permeated each other; sometimes battling confusedly, sometimes lapping at the blurred edges.

Finally, I had used up all the pieces in the box, but there was still a huge gap missing from it. Discouraged, I was about to heap it all back together, when I finally noticed the pile to the side. I know not how long it took, but it was eventually sorted through. With a gasp of excitement, I picked you up, and with you, patched the hole. I stood back, admired my completed puzzle, then stepped to the side to help with yours.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (2/8/2010 12:03:28)

The Window

“What do you see out there?”

“People. People hurrying, bustling, scurrying, hustling. Each of them trying to go where they think they need to be. No matter how fast they get there, they want to get there faster. No matter how often they go there, they want to go there more. It doesn’t matter where ‘where’ is. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Why do they do that?”

“How should I know? Why should I care? Is there any sense among any of them? I don’t think you’d find any, were you to gather a group of them together. They’re like ants, you see. Follow the leader, appease the leader, slave away your life to the leader. Each one of them gets a goal in his head, then sets off to try to reach it, ignoring the plausibility. Every time one gets knocked down, he just tries all the harder. They never realize how pointless it all is. When one finally manages to reach his goal, he just gets a new one. It’s like driving down a highway which only leads to other highways.”

“Do you not, then?”

“Of course not; I’m the one looking out of the window, after all. The window is all that there is for me. It allows me to watch them. They amuse me, in some ways. In others I kind of pity them. They’re all blind, except me. I can see; I can see clearly what they’re doing. I don’t think they can.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing. I can’t, can I? There’s nothing I can do. I can watch. Study. Observe. Wish.”

“What do you wish for?”

“Sometimes, I wish I could join them.” With that, he stood, and walked over to the couch. He leaned into its plush cushioning, and stared out of his window.

Seeing that it was pointless to ask any more questions, the doctor exited, leaving his patient to sit and look at the bare wall, as he had for hours.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (3/8/2010 16:31:34)

Conclusion to the Debate

"Greetings again. I do hope that you have had time to reconsider my points, and perhaps finally admit that your own ideas are fallacious."

"No," came the blunt reply. "I still maintain that you are simply and utterly incorrect. Have you no sense of morals? Have you no sense of truth?"

"Perhaps not, by your standards. I am a creature, as you know, of contradictions. Mine is the realm of grey. Little black or white make their creeping way into the thoughts which I produce. There are those who claim much of what we see as grey is not, but I must humbly disagree. Much of what they see as strict, I view as bending. Malleability is key."

"We are not iron implements, to be forged and reformed according to your whims." This response was a subtle snarl. "Many people bend before they shall break. But there are always those who will never bend, no matter how much pressure you apply to them. Snap, perhaps, but never alter their ways. Though I suppose the concepts of perseverance and integrity are ones with which you are unfamiliar. You disgust me, do you know that? It's people like you who embody what I hate about this world, which is precious little."

"I do indeed know that, nor have I, admittedly, done much to alter that mindset. For you see, your opinion matters little to me. Your morality means little to me. As Emerson so rightly stated in Self-Reliance, 'If I am the devil's child, I shall live then by the devil.' The titles which people apply to my actions are worthless trash. Be that as it may, do not judge me so quickly. Your conclusions are at times correct, but it is impossible to capture me within any set of adjectives and descriptions. My mentality shifts wildly; seeming hypocrisy and failure to comply with my previous statements no longer matter to me. I have outgrown them."

"You know that you cannot change my views. You also know that I have changed some of yours. I am a far greater debater than you. My arguments come from authority greater than myself; you never put much stock in apologetics for any viewpoint. What I have said, you know to be true, but you stubbornly refuse to admit this. Do you not feel the walls of reason pressing in on you?"

"The only walls which surround me," came the murmured response, "are those which you have erected. No, I cannot change your views. I do not desire to. However, much of what you view as having changed about me are simply the titles which I apply to concepts I still hold true. Besides, I would sooner end the debate than drag it on to a Pyrrhic victory. People are not wont to alter their views, even when faced with logic. I am no different." Shoulders rolling, a chuckle emerged. "Perhaps I am a fool. Scratch that- I am indeed a fool. But the greatest fool is one who makes claim to wisdom non-existent."

"My God, you have just admitted to yourself that you are foolish. Why, then, do you continue to hold onto those thoughts which deep within you, you long to relinquish? I grow weary of these endless circles of pointless debate! Admit that your conscience is seared, your morality flawed. Seek the help you need."

"What do you seek most? No, don't answer that; what do we both seek? Love! Love, in its purest form. Happiness! Fulfillment! The sort of emotion which brings you to your knees, unable to continue without it." Down came the fist, pounding the table. "Is beauty, then, a crime? Is fulfillment immoral? Is seeking that which we both desire going to rend me further apart than any other course of action? Look to your own soul before preaching to me. I am happy. Are you?"

"I would be far happier if you would finally concede that your arguments are futile. Stop pushing me away. Let me in!"

"I have let you in before; it helped. But I left for a reason. Need you continue to reach out after me? I am happier now than I have ever been in the past. I am complete. The future will come; let it. But let us also rejoice in the present, for what else have we? A shade of a future without a guarantee? You claim I ignore consequences, but I do not. I have spent countless hours picking them apart and examining them, and I am finished. They no longer matter." A single tear rolled down a cheek, unheeded. "Can you not see that? I simply do not care anymore. Leave me!"

"You leave me no other choice!"

"Then go! Go, or I shall push you yet further! If I am to languish in darkness, allow me that sanctuary. I simply-" a choked sob- "I simply care no longer. Leave me be. You are the only one who can change you. No-one else can. I am no exception. I am human. I am fallacy. I... I am. Allow me that."

Eyes locked for a single moment. All were then averted. Down came the hammer, smashing the mirror and thus ending the debate.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (3/28/2010 15:39:45)

Sin, Retribution, Redemption

With a grunt, he knocked out another stone from the wall. There was not much left to do anymore. His hammer smacked into the next, sending spidery fault lines spreading across its surface. Sweat trickled from his face and arms, his breath came in quick pants and huffs. The wall would come down soon enough.

"You have a problem," she said to him, eying the empty bottles. "Please, I love you, but can't you see someone about it? Sometimes, it's like I don't know you anymore. You-" she looked away, pursing her lips. His bloodshot, bleary eyes followed her, blinking stupidly. A vapid stare met her pleading gaze. "You frighten me at times. You frighten the children. I'm not saying you're a bad man; you're a good man- that's why I married you. All I ask is that you seek some help. For me?"

Hammer met stone; chunks of rock flew from it. How long had he toiled on this house? All he knew was that the job was nearly finished. His limbs ached with strain, muscles tense and shouting for him to stop. He would not let himself. This had to be finished. So little he had started was.

"Whaddaya mean, I need help?" he roared. She cowered before him, as usual. Strange amusement teased at his mind- he knew he was strongest here. "Get off my back, woman. You don't do jack 'round here like I do. I work myself stupid tryin' to keep you and those kids alive. Who's to complain if I make a little mess sometimes? The landlord don't complain! The boss don't complain! Why do you?" Hiccup. "I'll see a shrink when I need a smaller head, not before. Bit of drinking never hurt nobody."

Bang. More flakes of rock flew out from the wall, some bouncing off of his hard chest. His fingers were bleeding by now, from gripping the hammer so long. Its massive head smashed against the wall over and over again, as though he received strength from every brick which was wrenched from the wall. In a way, he did.

"Stevenson! What do you think you're doing? Your work production has ground to a halt in the last few days! It's been declining for weeks! You smell of beer and God-knows-what. It's disgusting. You're disgusting. Your work is disgusting. I mean, come on, how do you screw up working a press? You lift it up, you put it down. Look at me when I talk to you, you drunken swine! I don't know what you're going to manage with the sort of crap you do, but you're not going to do it here. Get out."

Cold amusement dribbled down, the only type of amusement which he could manage anymore. Yes, he had lost his job. Yes, his family had lost their only source of income. But that just left him more time to do work around the house, didn't it? Or rather, more work upon the house. More time to finish.

The door slammed behind him. The children were in bed. The woman stood before him. "Honey? How did work go?" she timidly inquired. He brushed past her, jerking the refrigerator door open and scanning it for bottles. "I don't want to talk about it," he muttered. She gently laid a hand on his back. "Is something wrong? It sounds like something's wrong." He swatted her caress away, wheeling on her. "I said I don't want to talk about it!" She looked near to tears. What was wrong with him lately? Trying to soften his voice, he explained, "I'm fired." It didn't work. All he could do was snarl.

With each successive blow, the wall began to tremble. It had been a good wall once, made of sturdy brick and masonry. Time had worn it down, moisture and erosion corroding away its integrity. Now, he was merely quickening the process, euthanizing it. And it wouldn't be long now. He was so tired.

"Mark." Her voice was hard. Weeks had passed since he had lost his job at the factory. He had not sought new employment. He had squandered their money as he had squandered his time. His children feared him. His wife… who knew what she thought of him? She let him know. "You're not the man you once were. When I met you, you were kind and gentle. Not the brightest, but you had a big heart. We loved each other. And now look at you! You're a drunken wastrel! You're a monster! You live in filth! I'm leaving you, Mark. Are you listening? Why won't you listen?" Her voice was choked with tears of anger. "You never listened! I'm leaving you and taking the children! Don't you care? Are you listening? Are you listening?"

It was time to face down his sins. He had to make amends for the wrongs he had committed. No-one was home anymore. The moon shone a pale light upon his face as he looked up, letting the sledge drop to the ground for a moment. "Forgive me," he murmured. With a final blow, he smacked another brick loose from the shaking wall. With a sad smile, he watched it collapse onto his tired frame. Redemption and retribution.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (5/21/2010 17:58:13)

Insanity, I Think

What if I could flip a switch, and turn off my feelings? Wouldn't that make everything so very much easier? No more pain, no more hatred, no more jealousy; all of those disgusting things which make me everything I despise would be gone. My vanity would dissipate- I'd have no pride to guard so carefully. Could I do it? Would it matter? I think I could. I think it would.

What if I could do the same to the world itself? Perhaps there would be no more war! Anger wouldn't exist any more, to spark such things! The greed which fuels so many of them would be gone. It would be like turning off the lights: we wouldn't know whom we were supposed to fight. On the other hand, love and compassion would also disappear, the dearth of which already blights our world. Still... Could we do it? Would it matter? I think it does. I think we have.

What if the world didn't care any more? What if everything we did was just another step toward the inevitable end? What if we realized this, and acted accordingly? Is it true? I don't know. It could be. Maybe. What if it is? What if that's exactly what's been going on for so many years? What if the world doesn't care? Could it happen? Would it matter? Perhaps it has. Perhaps it does.

What if I can forsake the world? What if I refuse to inherit the earth? Does that make me strong? Does it make me weak? Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth, but in the meantime, the powerful seem to be having a nice enough time of it. Do they care? Do we care? Does it matter? I don't know. Stop asking me questions I can't answer.

What if we have forsaken the world? Would we notice any difference from the way things have been? Would we notice? Would we care? Would anyone? Let's pretend someone would. Who? Perhaps you would. Do you care? Let's pretend you do. Why? How should I know? Now, what do you do about it? Everything you know for so long is endlessly moving forward, and you can't stop it. Can you redirect it? Probably. Do you want to? I don't know.

What if you and I are just part of the same thing? What if everything I do affects you like a raindrop in the ocean? What if I flip the switch and turn on the world? What would you do then? What will you do? Isn't it up to you?

What if you are me? What will we do?

Let's pretend we care. For a day, perhaps. Just for one day, let's pretend we've flipped that switch, and the feelings are On. Let's pretend that we haven't forsaken this world; that Right and Wrong still exist; that everything we do is another step toward sanity and love. What would you like to do? I know. Let's just sit back and look up at the sky for today. Let's all just sit down, watch the sky together, and let the world turn without us.

It's a beautiful day.



Cow Face -> RE: The Steakhouse: Stories (8/2/2010 12:23:10)

Hypothetical Situation

The sentries had reported suspicious activity coming from the forest; Captain Thompson had his work cut out for him. Each time there was a threat of bandit attack, the entire city had to be prepared. At this very moment, the peasants were busily huddling in fear, while the guards drilled.

"Right, we'll go through this once more," sighed the captain, looking out over his men. They were the finest-looking patrol of guardsmen in the duchy; strapping young men, with rippling muscles and nary a brain among them. The entire lot were blundering idiots, more likely to maim themselves than actually attack a bandit. Still, having such attractive- yea, studly- guardsmen was a reassurance to the peasants. Not a single bandit had made it through the walls in almost a year. With the current drill, it seemed as though their Accident-Free crier would have to go back to yelling "Zero" all day.

Flipping over a sheet of parchment, Thompson began pointing at the figures. A very small cat, a stick figure wearing a straw hat, and the most ferocious two-dimensional being the guardsmen had ever seen now greeted them. The captain's voice boomed out across the field to the men, who wiped their noses. "It's a day in the field. You see a kitten, a peasant, and an ogre. What do you do?" A simple enough question.

One of the men raised his hand. "Par'un me, sir, but wha's the ogre?"

An eyebrow shot into the air as the captain replied. "It... doesn't really matter, does it? North."

Instantly, the men sprang into action. "Everyone get to the north!" shouted Henderson, trying to direct the others in that direction. He was quite flustered, as the others seemed to be running in the opposite direction. In a valiant effort, he started explaining that they had to face the ogre; none of the others had much of a stomach for that idea.

After some quick manoeuvring, Thompson had managed to get back in front of his troops. Once had had their attention, he explained, "There is no ogre!"

Someone responded, sounding offended, "Then why'd you tell us there was? That wasn' very nice, cap'n."

"It's a hypothetical situation," sighed Thompson, placing his palm on his face. "Make-believe." They seemed to understand that, and he continued. "Let's continue. There's an ogre- an imaginary ogre- a peasant, and a kitten. What do you do?"

"Nothing!" came the jovial shout.

The captain's mouth made an impression of an ogre's cave. "Why don't you do anything? I said there was an ogre on the loose!"

"Because," smiled Smith, putting a finger aside his nose, "it's not a real ogre! Thought y' had us fooled, didnae ye?"

"It's a real ogre if I say it's a real ogre!" This was getting out of hand.

"But yew said it was imaginart- imargarine- fake!"

"Look, let's try this again," muttered the captain, trying a new tack. "Let's make believe that there's an ogre, a kitten, and a man. What do you- no. Who do you kill? I'll put it that way."

"Ooh, ooh!" Brown jumped up, waving his hand in the air. "I know! Call on me!"

Feeling like an indulgent schoolteacher, Captain Thompson pointed at him. "Yes, Brown? Who do you kill?"

Beaming, Brown responded, "The peasant!" He was clapped on the back and cheered by his fellow guards, while Thompson went into an impotent rage. The latter jumped up and down, growling, "No, no, no! You don't kill the- what did you- why did you kill the peasant!?"

Brown defined "crestfallen." Jaw hanging open, feet scuffing the ground, he muttered, "I dunno. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Oh, alright, then!" shouted Thompson, throwing his hands into the air. With his dagger, he cut an X into the drawing of the peasant man. "The peasant's dead now. Congratulations, you bungling brute, you yammering- yammering-" Having failed in his search for alliterative insults, he finished, "He's dead!"

The guards all hung their heads in shame at having disappointed their captain. With effort, he managed to stifle a wail of agony; instead, he tried to simplify it for them. "Okay. Here we go. You have a kitten, and an ogre. Which is more likely to attack you?"

"The ki'en!"

"WHY-" Cough. Deep breaths. "Why would the kitten attack you, pray tell?"

"I don' like ki'ens?"

"Fine!" Thompson had had enough. "You're dead now. The ogre killed you."

Shocked, Williams spoke for the first time. "Sir... When'd the bugger do that?" He found himself treated to a delightfully exasperated glare from the captain. "While you were busy mauling the cat!"

Now, all of the men were staring in appalled horror at their leader. "Who killed the ki'en?" someone cried.

"You did, you lowly lunkhead! You crushed its furry little skull!"

Henderson wiped away a tear from his reddened eyes. "That's awful!" he sniffled, blubbering. "The- the kitten's dead?"

"Yes!" Thompson barely overcame the urge to shake them all violently. "It's been turned into fluffy mush! Its dear little mew shall ne'er be heard again! While you were out savaging peasants, the poor thing wandered across your path, and was treated to the full fury of your raging... rage! And while you were slaughtering felines, the ogre came up and bashed your non-existent brains in!"

Some of the guards openly wept now. "We're all dead? This is a horrible story!" Their sobs were mixed with the sound of noses being emptied of their contents. The poor dimwits presented such a sorry sight that Thompson relented. "Now, it's okay. You- um, you- here. New hypothetical situation! There's no peasant, and no kitten-"

"Well, there's certainly no ki'en!" bellowed Smith. "'e's dead! I struck the blessed beggar down when 'e was in th' early stages of life! I'm nae bu' a soulless fiend, damned to wand'r th' Earth foreverm-"

Thompson exclaimed, "Enough with the histrionics!" He mopped his brow and spoke almost pleadingly. "This is a new situation. The kitten never existed."

New bawls and tears sprang out amidst the ranks. "He was so young to not have existed!"

"What, in the name of all that might conceivably be considered sacred by the most backward of pre-industrial nations, is wrong now? How could he have been young if he didn't exist!?"

"'e was a ki'en..."

"There IS NO KITTEN!" Eyes bulging, Thompson now roared at the men. "There is no kitten! There never was a kitten! There is only an ogre! And it wants to kill you! What do you do?"

"What about the peasant?" demanded Brown. "Is he still dead?"

"Yes." Some punishment was necessary.

"But why's he dead if the kitten's not?"

Thompson crossed his arms and jutted out his lip. "I can't rewrite history all the time, you know. Now, then. How do you respond to the ogre?"

"Kill it!" shouted all of the troops.

Tears of unrestrained joy tumbled down Thompson's cheeks; he exulted to the heavens of his triumph. "That's it! You all pass! Now, we can go defend the town!" A cheery smile graced his countenance as he turned to face the town.

"Men?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Where's the town?"

"I think it's behind that army of bandits, under the flaming rubble." Henderson was never one to mince words.

"Men?"

"Yes, sir?"

"How do you feel about becoming bandits?"



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