The Cult-Fabula &Gwoon's collab novel

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gwoonjustin -> The Cult-Fabula &Gwoon's collab novel (7/2/2008 3:03:00)
[image]http://forums2.battleon.com/f/avatars/AQWorlds/NPCs/aqwseppymn6.jpg[/image][image]http://forums2.battleon.com/f/avatars/DragonFable/Monsters/DoomKitten.jpg[/image] Gwoonjustin-----------Fabula The Cult Comments thread Fabula and I have been discussing a plotline for several days, and now the story hath begun. Though the title is quite revealing, prepare for suprise anyway. All left to say is enjoy!

gwoonjustin -> RE: The Cult-Fabula &Gwoon's collab novel (7/2/2008 3:04:10)
Prologue Preacher’s Doctrine “You don’t want to end up in Hell, do you? That’s what I thought. So why don’t you just try to be a nice girl now, and read aloud what you scribbled there?” The words were just the echoes of echoes of echoes, but they still hit her like anvils hit heads in cartoons. “I can’t, Mister. There aren’t any words.” she still felt like she could wet myself. An adult woman, wetting herself? Mister Jameson would’ve been outraged to hear that. Surely purgatory is the only place suited for adult bedwetters. “No words? Are you claiming you were paying attention? You wouldn’t lie, would you?” Slowly but surely, he made his way to my desk, like a lion ready to deliver the final blow to its mortally wounded victim. “Oh, you’ve been drawing, have you? What have we here…” The loud thud on a table only visible to her mind’s eye woke her up. Still scared by the intimidating man who had forced the Bible down her throat decades ago, but relieved to awaken before the physical punishment was repeated, she got up from her bed. She briefly glanced down at the piece of sleeping furniture that was long due for replacement, and wondered if she’d ever share it with anyone for a night, but soon told herself not to hope for too much, and made her way to the bathroom. In the dusty mirror she watched herself make the most important decision she ever had or ever would make; it’s over. All my life I've been unwanted-ever since my parents dropped me off at the . The monks raised me with great reluctance, and spewed me out into the real world with nothing but a book. A book that proved itself outdated within days. Never have I been blessed with acceptance; everywhere I went people would wait for me to leave. It’s time to make their wishes come true. Deep down inside she had expected this moment, where all the failure in her life would accumulate and she wouldn’t be able to laugh it off anymore. In fact, she always knew she would jump. She had known what her last actions would be. She would write a speech, and address the world from a rooftop. Delivering speeches was the only thing she ever did succeed in. People never liked her, but when she got on a stage and started talking, they were forced to gaze at her in awe. No one had ever dared do anything but applaud at whatever point she had made. This was the way she had been able to afford a small apartment, by delivering speeches on philosophy and religion in university and to whoever would pay her. It was not so much her knowledge of the subjects, but rather the way she seemed so convinced of her point, it couldn’t possibly be false. Without a single tear in her eyes, she sat down at her ebony desk, and got some pieces of paper and a pen from one of its drawers. At first she started making little drawings of smiley faces, the way she had always done when thinking about what to write or say, but soon she focused and spilled ink the same way war spilled blood. She began with a long, self-sympathetic rant about her life, but soon the subject seemed to change itself. She quickly concluded her autobiography, aware of the importance of what now seemed to come to her from nowhere. And now the end is so close, it’s almost like it already happened. Not fearing death feels like a blessing beyond what any sensation could possible cause. Now that my fear is gone, I have a bird's eye view of humanity. I am truly enlightened. Far more important than my enlightenment, is the clarity that has come to me through it. It is a clarity that many of you, my fellow humans, will take for the words of a madman. Only a chosen few will understand my words of wisdom, and join me. It was now impossible to stop writing. Words forced themselves from her brain, through her arm and straight onto the paper. She saw the words she had written, but was unable to register them. Utterly confused at the speed of her writing and its success without her cooperation, she threw the pen away. It was the only way she could stop and read the words that several pieces of paper had gladly accepted. Finally able to comprehend her own sentences, she came to the realization that this was far more valuable than her own life had been, and yet the reason she could not end it. This was no ordinary speech; no small point she felt motivated to convince people of. She had written a doctrine. Before she could ever start sharing it with the people around her, people who would surely be surprised at her boundless wisdom, she had to practice. First she spoke out loud, into her less-than-cozy living room. Then she could no longer keep this knowledge a secret to the world. It was her duty to let people know. She quickly made her way to the front door, fiddled with an abundance of locks, and opened it. She remembered to put on her Nikes and ran out, no longer concerned with the possibility of foreign intruders she had feared all her life. She ran up the staircase of her flat, to find a locked door at the very top. Her sneakers met the wood with great force, causing the structure to fall out of its hinges, and simply drop onto the pebbles that covered the roof. It was cold outside; she hadn’t realized up to this point that it was still night. She tried to make herself believe that the goosebumps were merely a product of the temperature, but she knew she was lying to herself. The real cause of her trembling wasn't the cold; it was the fear that her body would do what her mind had now sworn not to. Staying far away from the edge, so she would be able to stop her legs in time if they tried anything, she began to speak. As she had planned for different purposes earlier that night, she now read out the speech. Not from the paper she had left in her apartment, but from their engravings in her heart they’d left after she had read them for the first time. Soon whispers grew into screams, filling the indifferent skyline of San Francisco. Screaming at cars and buildings of her revelation, she came to a conclusion. I can’t just do this symbolic speech and let that be the end of it. I must go out into the world and deliver my message of hope. If I can convince people that I am right, the world will be a better place.

Fleur Du Mal -> RE: The Cult-Fabula &Gwoon's collab novel (7/7/2008 8:17:28)
Chapter One Old Wounds “Bye, Dad!” two bright-eyed girls waved their brisk goodbyes to their father, who stood on a gravel parking area. Josh Raven smiled and waved back, proud to see his two beautiful children walk towards the camp supervisor, full of anticipation, their shiny-black ponytails swinging along their pouncing, carefree steps. “I'll see you on Monday, girls! Emily, take good care of your little sister! And Wendy, you stick to the ponies, as agreed, right?” Josh gave his last directions before nodding to Glenn, the camp's instructor and his friend. Had he not personally known him, he had most likely denied his twelve- and seven-year-olds from participating on this weekend horse-trip without their parents. Knowing that he could trust this man to keep his daughters save – especially Wendy, who seemed frighteningly fearless for her age from her parents' point of view – Josh opened the door to his car, ready to head back to the city. Once seated in his light-gray jeep, Josh took a deep breath. The pleasant scent of leather originating from the newly refurbished seats surrounded him and overpowered the pungent smell of horse-dung in his nostrils. He waited for his daughters to vanish behind the near wooden barn before he buckled up and turned the engine on. As the air-co started to cool his skin with its steady hum, he gave out a sigh of relief. Even the forty-one years he had roamed the streets of Georgia, hadn't quite cured him from hating the humid mid-July air that drenched clothes already early in the morning. The motor ran smoothly, as he stepped on the gas and drove away from the farm, gravel flinging to the air from the spinning tires. Turning the radio on and switching between channels, he searched for any blessed wavelength that would carry funky jazz into his ears. Upon seeing a note on the dashboard, he remembered his obligations: Next stop, groceries... As Josh neared the outskirts of Atlanta, he felt inexplicably happy. Every single little detail of his life seemed to be just as it should be. His girls were happy, Emily was pulling straight-As in school, and his own job as a medium-rank project manager was more than satisfying, bringing enough money to spoil the girls once in a while like this. To add to the bliss, his wife was content with her job, and, most importantly, she loved him dearly. Thinking about his lovely Lizzy made him whistle as he pulled into the parking lot of the Ravens' regular shopping paradise. Spontaneously, he added Swiss chocolates and sparkling wine to the shopping list before getting all of his six feet five lean inches out of the vehicle, ready to commit his duty as the current weekend's appointed food-donkey. Back home, Josh picked up two heavy grocery-bags from the backseat of his jeep. Balancing them, he managed to push the car door shut and carry them from the driveway to the light-blue-painted front porch, where he laid them on a table to dig out his keys. He could have just rang the doorbell, since he expected his wife to be at home, but he was counting on her to be in the workroom, adding her famous finishing touches to whatever articles she currently worked on. Since the room in question had been built in the basement with a pretty effective sound-proofing, there was a good chance that she hadn't heard his car. Hoping to have an opportunity to surprise her, Josh used the finally-found keys to sneak in as silently as he could. The kitchen stood completely empty. Josh quickly emptied the bags, leaving the chocolates on the counter and putting the wine to ice. Then, just as he was planning to insert his favorite singer's record into the player, he heard a low sound of laughter from downstairs. The unknown voice was followed shortly by Elizabeth's bright, happy voice, as she joined in. Josh's face darkened. Please, God, not today, he thought, leaving John Legend's CD in its covers, and turning to the basement door. Elizabeth's job as freelancer reporter occasionally forced her to toil away outside the regular business hours. Despite the fact that Josh was fully aware of this, he still felt hurt that she had signed in for an unannounced interview for this weekend. Editing a set of nearly finished articles and hitting the send-button was something he could understand her doing today, but this... Realizing that his plans for spending some serious quality time were evaporating by the minute; he started to get ticked off. How often did we even have the slightest chance to spend time by ourselves, just the two of us. Hardly ever... Josh was acquainted with the working methods his wife used to fish out confidential stuff from the people she interviewed. When it came to creating a cosy atmosphere and making the whole session feel like it was just two friends talking, laughing, and sharing life experiences, Lizzy was the wizard. A stranger rushing into the scene without introduction would do nothing but damage to her work. Mr. Raven knew better than to interrupt the well-disguised third degree she was currently giving her guest, so he stopped by the the work-room's slightly ajar door, advancing no further, and listened. “So, you're not going to tell me how much the mayor in question has inspired you when writing the Frank Spears character, are you, Mr. Marshall?” he heard Elizabeth ask, her voice still full of laughter. Josh faintly recognized the name Marshall to belong to a young writer, who had just accomplished a best-selling novel about an arrogant, womanizing, and rotten-to-the-core politician. The majority of the public had connected the dots and figured out the resemblance between the fictive character and its possible real life counterpart, though the author hadn't spilled the beans about how he had made him up. Or even more interestingly, where he had dug out all the information that wasn't common knowledge. “Well, others have already tried to fish that info out of me. So far, none of them have succeeded. I don't usually go on exposing my writing methods,” came the author's amused reply. “You mean you couldn't cope with the lawsuits that would follow?” Josh heard his wife say, followed by a brief chuckle by Mr. Marshall. “As a beginning author, I wouldn't have the money to settle those, if my current lawyer should fail,” he answered, giving in a little, knowing very well that for Elizabeth, this was as good as an affirmation. “You don't have a girlfriend who could pay for a better lawyer?” his wife continued on with her job. “Please, tell me, why are all interviewers so interested in my private life?” came the man's answer after another hearty laugh. “It's not us interviewers, it's the readers,” Elizabeth answered “Oh, really? Prove that,” Mr. Marshall retorted with a tone that further increased Josh's annoyance. He decided to shift a little to take a peek into the room, cursing the whole situation: Had the door been closed to begin with, I wouldn't have even heard anything. And would've been spared from this stupid espionage... “Well, it's not all the interviewers. But let's go back to your writing. Is there going to be a sequel?” Elizabeth said, trying to return to their initial roles; she presented the questions, he was supposed to be answering them. The two people inside the room continued their conversation completely unaware of their audience. Some old devil, a ghost of jealousy, woke up deep inside of Josh as he looked in. Of course, he didn't suspect his wife to be doing anything inappropriate. In the past eight years, she'd constantly thrived in proving her dedication to him, steering clear from anything suspicious, being the perfected example of a perfect wife. However, as Josh took in the appearance of Mr. Marshall, he shook to the core, his hands clenching and his knuckles whitening. The man looked like an identical image of Mike O'Reilly. Mikey. The man, no, the boy who almost broke our marriage... Josh suspected that he could be clinically proven bi-polar by now, so fast this wave of rage rose to swipe off the inexplicable, all-encompassing happiness he had felt just a moments before. Maybe that's the reason... My fits of happiness are always inexplainable whereas the causes of my raging and depressing can not be refuted with reason... Of course, Mikey would now be a lot older, not looking like this twenty-something, grinning redhead with green eyes and pale, smooth skin, and teeth that had been recently whitened, courtesy of the publisher, no doubt. But seeing Lizzy chatting with this incarnation of the careless jerk who'd wounded him beyond reason, proved to be too much for Josh on that fatal Saturday. He turned on his heels and rushed out of the basement, out of their charming, renovated, Southern style bungalow, slamming the door shut behind him. Outside, he crammed himself back behind the wheel and started driving towards downtown with all thoughts blanked within his brains. As a cruel fit of irony, the DJ on the radio put on Slow Dance, twisting some tears out of Josh's eyes. The song ended before its time, as he quite violently silenced his insensitive radio, letting out a certain word he was happy his daughters weren't around to hear. Arriving at Piedmont Park, he got out of his car and started walking, to sweat out the rage. Despite an hour's worth of exercise, his insides continued boiling until he couldn't continue. Sitting down on a bench, he hung his head and tried to catch his breath. Out of the blue, a pair of bronze-tanned legs with regular sneakers without socks stopped in front of him. He raised his head and saw a youngish woman standing in front of him, dressed in a pink T-shirt and indigo shorts. Josh felt too tired to even notice how cute she was and how she turned some heads just by standing there. Without asking if he'd mind, she sat down beside him and started talking. “You look like you could do with a break,” she said, in between chewing some fruity bubble gum. Josh turned to look at this odd beauty. Her expression and the manner she assessed him surprised him with the intelligence she had shining beneath. Then he returned to study his own feet, a pastime he'd never get a degree with, thinking, So, she's not an airhead. Who cares? The woman's next question turned his life upside down. “Are you trapped because you do not know what you truly want?” she asked. Before Josh could recover from hearing such an intrusive inquiry from a complete stranger, she threw in another one. “Or is it because you already know what you want but are just too afraid to embrace your desires? Is that why you run around here, lost and trying to sweat them out off your system?” Who the hell gave you the permission to find me out?

gwoonjustin -> RE: The Cult-Fabula &Gwoon's collab novel (7/17/2008 13:16:34)
Chapter two A Cure Like No Other The sweat on his skin was no longer just that of men running in parks; armies of cold drops had joined them as a result of his fear. Yet, however petrified by the knowledge of a perfect stranger, he couldn’t help but feel a whim of fascination towards her. As Josh wondered about why she’d approached him, his curiosity managed to annihilate his discomfort completely. “And even if I didn't, it's none of your business.” He even failed to convince himself of being happy with his life. Her only reply was a condescending smile; the way you would smile at the bad joke of a child. “I know your kind of people,” she now said, almost arrogantly enough to upset him. “You’ve got a cute face, a brain, and a clear vision of your hopes and dreams. You just don’t have the guts to stand up and fight for them.” He had heard enough. A stranger, however pretty and interesting, had no right to attack him like this. I’ll show you how good I am at standing up for myself, he thought as he literally stood up. Struggling with his many doubts (If I leave now, will I ever get a chance like this again? Is this even a chance? What could she possibly have to offer?), his legs alternately hit the pavement with increasing speed, and soon he was jogging again. To the queen of my heart, whose name suits her royal status; Elizabeth, My love, I feel tempted to tell you that my affection for you defies definition, but I would lie. You see, that very affection has given me the ability to describe it; to let you know about its infinitely large caliber. I may be confusing arrogance with the aforementioned skill, but I will attempt to do so anyway, because I would never be able to forgive myself if I would keep these words bottled up. Allow me to rant the rant of a fool in love. Lizzy, you know how people in love start saying all those things that have been said a million times before? “Roses are red, violets are blue”, “We belong together”, the list goes on and on. Being a person in love, I am eager to obey this rule, but mindless clichés would be the greatest insult I could make to both you and the raging, unforgiving emotions that terrorize my heart to the point of collapse. Never have I felt so close to a heart attack, and yet I’ve never felt better. And it’s all because of you. You are the rain that washes away the sweat of a hot day in June. You are the teardrop of joy, the smile that shows it expresses no pain, and the gentle touch to remove it with before it becomes a burden. You truly are all I want, and all I need. Enough with the words that mean so little in the light of the feelings I bear inside of me. I should tell you what I want to happen after you’ve read this letter. I will ask of you to do this one thing, and after that you may forget about me forever if you wish, as long as you did this: When you finish reading this letter, close your eyes for one minute and think about me. Think about what you think about me and how you feel now that you know what I feel. If even the slightest spark lights, if but the shyest of moths flutters its wings in your stomach, please tell me. Perhaps we could become more than the friends we are now. Even though you may not like to see the name at the bottom of this letter, I will still be: Forever Yours, Josh While Robert Smith sang Play for Today from his tape deck (both the tape and the machine had been in his possession when he wrote the letter), tears formed in Josh’s eyes. He wished he could once again feel the love he had felt back then; ; he longed for the nervousness that had forced him to rewrite this crumpled proof of affection countless times, still with such a pathetic result. The Cure made him realize something on this dusty attic, where his written revelation had been jammed into a pile of worthless memorabilia. It happened when the intro finished, just as Josh read his own name on the now thumbed paper. An arguably annoying voice penetrated far deeper than just into his ears; it touched the very core of his being. It's not a case of doing what's right It's just the way I feel that matters Tell me I'm wrong I don't really care Suddenly he knew. He knew the woman in the park had been spot-on and he would have to do whatever he could to trace her back and accept any help she had to offer. The brown bench still reeked of her perfume; feminine enough to pass as a woman’s fragrance, yet not so nice it could attract unwanted attention. For a moment he wondered if she had intended on this effect, and if he had even noticed the smell that afternoon. He silenced his own thoughts when he realized why the smell was still present; the good-looking female still sat there. The twenty-or-so-year-old had now taken a bloc note from a purse Josh hadn’t noticed before, and was violently penning in it. Glancing over her shoulder, he discovered it was a poem. He had been a starting poet before he even met the woman he had recently ceased to love, but without a publisher and with his father pushing him to take after him and learn the craft of glassblowing, it hadn’t resulted in anything. Lizzy had read some of his poems and always praised them, but he could tell she was just saying it to make him feel good. He could always tell when she was lying. Except that one time. Suddenly she looked up to him from her collection of A6-papers and smiled with the same whim of arrogance he’d recognized in her earlier that day. “I knew it. I was right, wasn’t I? Yeah, I knew it. You’ve come back for answers, haven’t you? You want me to do something for you, to help you out of the void that your life has turned into, right?” Contrary to her previous questions, she seemed to want an answer to this last one. “What kind of answers do you have? What can you do for me?” She wasn’t eager to accept a question as an answer, or to give away her secrets this easily. “Admit that you want to change. Admit everything you do, like, own, and feel is fake. Tell me you hate your life!” She was now shouting, more like a gospel preacher than an angry person. With tears in his eyes, he couldn’t help but nod. “Good,” she said stoically. “Here you go.” With the friendly smile of a drive-through teller she gave him the piece of paper, and jogged away as if the only reason she’d stayed there was to wait for him and give him the note. Perhaps it was. He stared at the rear part of her body as she disappeared into the dusk, now fully aware of its enticing nature. He sat down on the bench where she had been seated recently. He wondered for a moment if his wife would be suspicious of him jogging twice on the same day, as he was not the sporty type usually. When he remembered the good faith of his wife (an attempt to make up for her past unfaithfulness?) he finally got a chance to read the poem. Desire Deep down we know what we want Why do we fear to obey our dreams? Is it because we think we can’t? It’s as easy as it seems! Don’t do what is deemed ‘normal’ But cast your conformist shackles off Adhere to your mind’s desperate call And life will be your true love If I have opened you eyes Should you admit your utter defeat Hear, speak and see no evil lies Go to the 8th house, Droze Street The poem wasn’t too good. In fact, he knew even he, being a complete amateur, could probably write a better one. It was what the poem meant to say that got him, not how it was said. He was not as familiar with Greenville as with his hometown, but due to the little machine that graced his dashboard he reached the building within half an hour. It was a rather big house, very similar to Josh’s own residence. Am I betraying my family by entering? It’s not wrong to meet some people with interesting ideas, is it? I don’t know what’s going to happen, so how can I even be to blame? Josh had no clue on exactly what he was going to encounter in this eerily normal house, but he knew it was wrong. He didn’t want to face it, but he knew that he was here to be cured. He was looking to be cured from Lizzy.

Fleur Du Mal -> RE: The Cult-Fabula &Gwoon's collab novel (8/25/2008 9:22:33)
Chapter Three Blackmail Works Both Ways “You have got to be kidding me!” Elizabeth Raven scorned angrily. Standing in the bedroom doorway with folded arms and fiery eyes, her posture spoke volumes of her resolution not to let her husband get away without confrontation. Like an Academy Award Nominee, Josh put on an act of indifference while he kept pacing back and fro between closet and bed. Two black suitcases lay open on the comfortable-looking bed, gorging on all the clothes he poured in them: shirts, trousers, socks, boxers, and whatever belongs to a man's wardrobe. Glancing defiantly at his wife, who trembled under her emotions fueled by hungry wrath, the raven-haired man stretched himself tall and stepped backwards into the closet. When he reached to the depths where a lonely, forlorn tuxedo hugged seldom-used evening dresses and serious-looking business suits mingled with flaunty, much promising and even more giving sleeky-black numbers, Elizabeth's mouth opened wide in disbelief. In the dusk of a warm September night, Mr. Raven dug out a warm winter coat he had purchased three years ago for a New Year's trip to New York. The revelation of what this meant hit her like a speeding truck, overloaded with lacerating gravel: He's not going to return anytime soon. A moment of hesitation turned into decisive steps on the front lawn at Droze Street, as Josh crossed that last imaginary hurdle in his mind. Pushing all expectations away, he knocked at the white, wooden door and listened intensively for any signs of life from within. Quick steps ran to the door, and a mere blink later he stared at a raised eyebrow on a softly drawn features that screamed Johnny Coltrane reborn all over the place. “How can I help you?” Without uttering a word as he suddenly found none, Josh folded out the woman's poem and gave the note to the man. Still refusing to let that curious eyebrow down, this unusual gate-keeper took the unassuming piece of paper and glanced at it before letting out a hearty chuckle and opening the door wide. With his arm covered in a sleeve of a nice-looking white cotton shirt, he motioned Josh in while he called for someone in the house: “Banshee, there's someone to see you!” As Josh stepped in past the fellow, he was halted by a warm handshake and an encouraging pat on his shoulder, “Welcome!” The visitor muttered a low thank you but before he could follow good manners and give his name, he noticed the girl he had met in the park, descending the steep steps of the hallway stairs. Her light skin made a stunning contrast with the wooden walls so dark they could only be called ebony. Weird name for a weird girl, thought Josh as he watched Banshee took the last steps that still parted them, her hair tangled heavily against her shoulders, still damp from the shower she'd obviously taken after the previous exercise. “I knew you'd come,” she said with that arrogant tone in her voice, lifting her face to compensate her short statue. Josh reached out his hand, offering it for something resembling a formal handshake but was instantly bewildered as she passed the extension and greeted him with a warm embrace. “I see you already met Luther,” she then said, backing off a little and taking her warmth away, and nodding at the other man's direction. Josh shook himself back to his senses and affirmed. “Come on, I'll introduce you to the others,” she continued, taking him by his hand and leading him past the stairways, and deep into the keep of secrets. “It feels like such a waste,” he heard Lizzie said with a shaky voice. “All these years we've known each other, all the way we've come together. Doesn't that mean anything to you?” Oh yeah, lay on your guilt trip, Josh thought bitterly, avoiding to look his wife into the eyes and packing feverishly. “Why does it always have to be about you?” he finally muttered, half-aloud like that would've been his private thought, but fully aware that Lizzie would hear that. “For this one time, I'm gonna do what I want.” “What you want!” Lizzie shrieked. “Excuse me? I thought we were in this marriage together. Is this some kind of punishment for me? Did you wait for eight years, watching me trying to correct and make up what I wronged, only to drop this bomb on me now?” Elizabeth's voice started to tremble again. Josh could see she was close to tears, but oddly enough, that didn't arouse that old protective feeling he had felt before. And he was glad it didn't. “You have been so flawless, so perfect, so devoted ever since...” he said sarcastically, his voice oozing poison. “How could I ever be mad at you? You made damn sure I couldn't even raise my voice against such a saint you have prematurely canonized yourself to be.” Something broke inside Elizabeth. He could see her shatter through her teary eyes. What was that? A glimpse of her losing control? That's a novelty... However, the will to fight didn't go away. He watched her to correct her posture for a final plea, “I promised to you to stand by your side. To that I hold. Please, don't throw me away. Please. Don't throw your daughters away, making them pay for whatever I've done to you. Take us with you where ever you go. Please, Josh.” “No.” On the other side of the house, a set of matching chairs and sofas encircled a thick woolen mat lying on the wooden floor of an old ballroom. Dark burn-marks from candles dotted the ample room's walls from the days when the upper-class family who'd built the house had given parties there. A few comfy pillows were laid at a half-circle on the mat in front of the chairs, in case anyone preferred to sit on the floor. Everyone in the house had gathered to the room, sharing a silence together while waiting to hear a lecture. Banshee had seated Josh beside her. She had told him the woman he was about to meet was very wise, that she could help him as she'd helped all of those dozen people now present. Josh couldn't help but stare at the longing profile of Luther in his meditating state as he sat on the cushions, his legs drawn to some kind of asana, holding his chin up, and the light of the setting sun highlighting his features to an expression of serenity. Could I find that kind of peace? Josh wondered. A soft rustle of clothes directed his attention to the doorway where he saw a timid, mouse-like woman enter the room. Ten minutes later, the turmoil of doubts he had fallen under because of some deep-programmed first impressions, had vanished, and he listened spellbound to this seemingly plain lady lit with flames of wisdom glorified. “Fine. Then you go and explain Wendy and Emily their dad don't want anything to do with them any more. You seriously can't expect me to do that. Because I won't. If you leave me to do that, I swear I'll make you look such a bastard they'll never want to even think about you again. And if you ever return from your little soul searching, you won't be getting any welcome from them.” It was her turn to inject the poison. Josh surprised himself as he realized that he still held a hope of returning as a new man from Switzerland after the message of hope would have swept across the globe. Feeling whole again, he could hold Emily and Wendy, be proud of what beautiful ladies they had grown into, and they could live free from the despicable constraints of today's reign of things. He knew he couldn't take them with him without Lizzie as they would never agree to leave their mom. On the other hand, if he left them with his wife now, she would surely carry out her threat. He had no choice but to take his family with him. Apparently, she had no choice but to follow if she wanted to win this fight. With these decisions, not made out of love but out of sheer will to win, they turned their children into pawns in a twisted game. “An old Persian saying goes: 'Knowledge of self is knowledge of God.' They couldn't have been more right to the point. Sadly, this saying has been gravely distorted and misunderstood during the turn of countless years. Under the wheel of time have arrogant priests, mediators and those who yearn to control their subordinates, lied so many times and hidden the truth that lies behind these simple words, that the message of wisdom has been crumbled, misinterpreted or even the whole proverb has been made to vanish in the vaults of slavery.” The words of the woman mesmerized her audience. With every word, Josh felt a thud of his heart, reaching out for the truth she was about to reveal. He forgot Lizzie, he forgot the pretentious obligations, the surface and appearances, the reputation he had to maintain to be counted as something, to be counted respectable. “To deny your true desires is to deny what's divine in yourself. To deny who you truly are is to deny God.”

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