Posture.

Sit straight you fools.

slumping over books and screens and mugs of coffee.

Sit straight.

He's coming.

let him know you expect it.

Wastes of time.

I'll drive my own car.

And when the skeptics ask i'll assure them that the best writing tool is a freshly sharpened pencil.

I look away from the screen as much as I can.

I need to save my site for the mountains and for my future child's face and elbows.

Staring off into the sky.

That is no waste of time.

Buying things that are built for dumps.

This is no form of longevity.

Buy to last.

Build to last.

Live to last.

How I Was Made II.

Dark.

Light.

Hands.

Dust.

Man.

Old Now.

Tomato, Tomäto.

Potato, Potäto.

Fruit to the counter and

bread to the bowl.

What once was in pieces

is now made whole.

Deer, buck, doe and fawn.

Peter, Paul, Jesus and John.

God took the dust

and from it came man.

All of this from an old

potters hand.

At this old table now I sit,

my stomach and kidney

within me are lit.

Remembering back,

when things were tough,

how they went from satin smooth

to sand paper rough.

But now I'm old

with little to do,

no more time

with which days to rue.

So now I lay me

down to sleep,

I pray the night

my dreams to keep.

From doe's and fawns

to Jesus and John,

I'll be thankful for them all

in the silver coming dawn.

Days.

They moved on like clouds in the sky. Some very fast and some very slow. But most of them just sauntered on like horses grazing in field. Time to spare. Time to think. Time to slow down even more.

And it was a boy who noticed all of this. The days and all their slowness and quickness.

It was his gratification in these days that made them his. No one else's. Just his.

He owned them. He found pleasure in them. For, to him they are all clips of a much larger show. A show that would go on forever and ever and ever.

The players of this show being an oak tree and a humming bird and a lion and some clouds and rain and boys and girls playing on some swings and dogs and pregnant mothers and daddies who go off to work early in the morning and flies caught in the blinds and old women reading books at breakfast tables and fish swimming in blue water.

These were his players. These were his masterpieces.

Boy and the days.

Just seconds really, nothing more and nothing less.

Rock.

In the hearts of men there is an anger that comes from a place far away. And it was in this place that the freedom and peace of man was stripped. But now, if nearness to these things is longed for, man must go down to the river and listen to voices of the people from ages past. They must lift the rocks of the bed and hear the words that made the mountains. They must try to remember the phrases that brought the mountains together and that formed the seas.

i carry your heart

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

~e. e. cummings

Young men, go and run to the fields.

Young men, go and run to the fields.

Take the money in your pocket and give it to someone to hold.

Tell your stresses and anxieties that you have lost all interest.

Tie your shoes tightly and pack away your favorite book.

For, where you are going there is time enough to sit and be still.

There is time enough to enjoy a horizon and a few good words.

Young men, go and cling to the cliff of the mightiest grace.

Remove your gloves and invite scars to join you.

Hold tightly to the handfulls of dirt, they worshipped before you were made.

Find a place to sit on the mountainside and rest easy.

Ponder the things that have no end.

Try and spot the face of the sun if you are able.

Young men, go and think of your love fondest.

Tell her how coarse the rungs of the latter were when lifting him from the wood.

Retell her the tale of when you spoke with him on the beach of the sea.

Remind her everyday that someone deep under the river rocks calls her name.

And that, for now, she will have to holdfast to hope and love and goodness.

Let her press her bear foot upon your thigh to help her over the wall.

Young men, stand next to your brethren and hold fast.

Hold fast to the conviction of eternity and speak it often.

In tempestuous moments grab one another by the nape and don't release.

The standard of which to be held must be one of unobtainable grandeur.

For, by this, your humility may still have a chance to remain intact.

Grieve with each other, by this you will knit hearts and souls together.

Young men, go and run to the fields.

Go and be nearest to something that you cannot understand.

Go and lose yourself to something that is larger than yourself.

Go and become something that the world will not recognize.

Go and be the freest of men by giving up all.

Go and run to the fields.

A dead story teller.

I sit quietly now on a desk in a room and in the room hangs a picture on a wall and a lamp on a table and a chair for sitting. And a man, every now and then, will come to see us and he will look upon the picture and sit in the chair and turn on the lamp for to read by. But I am kept still and quiet. I am the forgotten story teller. I am a teller of tales and an open door for the secrets of this man.

But some years ago he got to thinking about holding those secrets inside of himself. And little by little our conversations would shorten and more and more time would pass between meetings. And finally, none at all. No talking. No conversation. No secrets.

And now I am mute and silenced and forced to envy a picture upon a wall and a lamp on a table the chair that is for sitting.

My Sister in the Forest (Intro & Parts I and II)

Introduction – A Tale

This is a tale of a not so familiar girl in a not so familiar town. A tale where the aura or normality is lost and dark figures reign within forests…

Part I – The Twins

My sister loved when the fresh snows of November would fall slowly, trickling, sprinkling down upon the needles of the forest. One could, on quite a regular basis, find her sitting, staring with lingering thought, into the denseness of the Black Forest. Even with freshly laid snow she would find appropriate time to sit there on the edge of the small town. Constantly and frequently I would find myself sitting with elbows on windowsills watching her from behind the wavy, uneven glass panes of our home. Wondering, pondering her thoughts, sometimes in anticipation and other times in fear of the things that she contemplated.

From birth we were at odds. You see my sister was dead when she was born. The cord of my mother’s womb had strung itself around her neck and had made it impossible for her to breathe. The doctors fumbling old hands worked quickly to untangle the slippery mess and once free he patted her back with the heel of his hand. Two minutes had passed before she made the tiniest of coughs and came to life, animated into the residence of the living right before our mother’s eyes. They say it was a miracle. I leave this determination to the hearer of this tale.

We are twins of age seventeen, she and I, both having deep chestnut hair with fair skin. Our fingers were nimble as were our toes. The knobs of our knees were of disproportionate size to the rest of our legs. They jutted out like crab apples sitting atop a naked tree branch. They were the subject of many a joke aimed at us by the Gillings brothers. Another set of twins that lived across the town from us. Incessantly annoying and unforgivably ugly. Between my sister and myself though, from a merely cosmetic stance we were, for all intensive purposes, perfectly alike, except for the scar that ran along the flat of my left foot. From ball of heel to tip of large toe I had been run though by an orphaned hunters knife while running in the Black Forest.

My sister and I had been playing a game of hide and seek. The sun had set below the foothills to the west and twilight came on like a deep veil over the forest. I was seeking and could not find her. I shouted and shouted for her. I was beginning to become scared, my shoulders becoming tense, as I grew weary of the forest. Fear crept on like a cold blanket.

“Isabelle!” I shouted.

I knew not where she hid and thus found myself at a crossroads. Knowing that I could not bear to be alone in the forest at dusk I yelled,

“This is no longer fun sister, I’m going home!”

I ran as though being chased. I ran as though if I were not to run death would have me. I ran because of the tales that the hunters would tell at my father’s table. I ran because of the things that my mind had created from tidbits of wives tales. I ran because I wanted to live.

As I had finally reached the forests edge my thin shoe split and I found myself prostrate on the forest floor, bare stomach aching on the frozen, compact powder snow. I slowly rolled over, reeling from the pain, only to see a large swatch of blood creeping over the white snow that layered the ground. The hunter’s knife had cut deep and had made short work of my tender skin. I began to weep and that is when my sister appeared. The crimson cloud of snow continued to grow as my sister stood idly by. I looked up at her to see her staring, without movement, just watching as my blood pooled in the heel of my shoe proceeding to pour out onto the snow. She made not a sound and said not a word, just watched, standing over me. Then finally, in utter monotone,

“I’ll fetch Mother.”

She walked away slowly with a lull in her step that made me sufficiently uneasy. I began to feel woozy.

That is when Isabelle was lost as a sister. She had become something else. She was someone that I did not know.

Part II – The Hunter

William Forger was a man of gargantuan height and breadth. If you were to think of a large wooden cask of brewed hops then you will have an ample visualization of his chest. He rarely spoke to other people of the town and kept mainly to his cabin, which sat on the outer rim of the village. William was by far the largest man to ever live in our town. His shoulders were as broad as cliffs and in the snowy season children would follow him and jump, two feet at a time, into his boot marks as he sauntered from side to side with enormous lunging steps.

In the winters Forger would take two weeks time and cut wood in the Black Forest for all of the elderly folks in the village. For this he gained the compensation of baked goods and fresh bread year round from frail, withering old women. When he would go cottage to cottage to deliver wood the old women would, with shaking, aged hands, grasp his muscular forearms and think back to when their husbands were strong and capable. Many of them dead or deaf by now. Forger was the town’s head game hunter. He led hunting parties year round into the Black Forest to gather quail and deer for the town. He was fearless. He had a past that would make any man hard to the gentler side of life. Four winters prior he had lost his bride and his newborn son.

In the middle of a warm spring in 1806 he had taken a three days venture through the forest to hunt the elk of the western planes with three other men from the town. One day while he was gone his wife went to the edge of the wood to gather berries for a pie that she would bake for a family with a sick child. She gathered up her baby son in a basket filled with blankets and walked the two hundred yards or so to the wood’s edge.

She was more beautiful and graceful than words can describe. And, even if I tried, I would be doing the work of God’s hands a great disservice. Try to picture Eve if you can, the mother of all women. Her hair was an indescribable shade of yellow and her skin, flawless. If you were to look into her eyes on a clear sun-lit day you would think less of the day for it. She was kind and gentle, warm and giving. All of the women in the town loved her. All of the men wanted to be her husband and to do chores for her and to love her. But those jobs were for William.

In the summers leading up to her fifteenth birthday Forger would watch her as she would go to the creek in the wood and would wonder things about her.

How could something so beautiful be worthy of viewing by a man such as himself?

OR

How does a woman keep her skin so flawless in a world such as this?

He loved her from the first moment he saw her and when they were both of age they married. He built her the cabin on the edge of the town and they were happy and loved one another with an indefinable love.

When night had fallen and the lights of the cabin were not lit Ms. Kreps, a mid-wife who lived in town, became worried and ventured up the gentle hill to the cabin. No lights lit, no one in the beds, just silence. Ms. Kreps ran down to Roger Rawling’s cottage to tell of the missing pair. Roger Rawlings was the mayor of the town, a strong stolkey man with large hands a scar that ran from his left ear to the bottom of his chin. He was an Indian killer from the early years. He didn’t speak of it much and everyone in the village loved him and respected. To find the missing woman and child he gathered two separate parties of men. One party to search for the wife and baby and the other to ride the three days to fetch William’s hunting group. But before the men had reached William the towns people had found the wife and baby, or what remained. For fifty feet in any direction it was as if a cloud had opened up and rained down red water on the lush grassy floor of the forest. The town’s people feared for their own safety, gathered what they could and returned back to their homes. The basket, the damp red blankets and his wife’s spotted, torn summer gown were left on the porch of the Forger’s cabin.

It took seven months for William to come down into town after that, and even then he only spoke one or two words here and there. Mainly you could find him talking quietly to Roger Rawlings about the needs of the elders or about what level the meat supply was at. He came to church on Sundays but remained in the back pew with his head bowed low. I like to think he was in prayer but I never knew for certain. I never did speak one word to that man.

Once that first year had come and gone after his wife’s murder he would go into the forest every spring for the full length of a month. At first people thought it was to hunt, but he never returned with anything. Just his rifle, ax, knife and a large hook connected to a length of chain. The hook and chain were used for hanging and cleaning deer and other large game. So as to why he took it with him into the Black Forest every year was a mystery. For, cleaning had always been done at cabin side where he could hang the pelts and skins of his kill more easily. The men never asked why or questioned what he was doing out there in the bleakness of those woods. They just knew that he did what he needed to do and that was enough for them. It was enough for all of us.

Whispering.

There was some dancing and a bit of drink.

There was some staring from across the room and some winks.

A few sly grins made their way into the mix.

When you were passing by, the upper of your arm brushed my chest and that was nice also.

We smiled for flashes and hugged friends.

And there was a tad bit more drink.

I held your hand when my dad made the speech.

Colin whispered something into my ear and I cried a little at that.

Lights flicked and candles sparked.

You held my knee when we whispered for a short time.

Then the lights went out and the people all left.

The table cloths were stripped and the cups stacked.

Goodnight friends of mine.

Goodnight friends of yours.

Goodnight, goodnight fear and harm.

Goodnight, goodnight worry and alarm

We've got whispering to do.

We have some tales to tell.

Box.

There was a ring.

And that ring was in a box.

And that box was inside another box.

And those two boxes and that one ring were altogether wrapped in a red handkerchief.

And that red handkerchief and those two boxes and that one ring hid away in a dresser drawer for a long time.

And all of that was hiding down deep, deep in the heart of a boy.

And that heart was hid away deep, deep in the eyes of God.

And that God is the same God that told Pressure to fall in love with Time.

And when God did that, Pressure and Time had a child.

And that child's name was Diamond.

And Diamond made its way to that ring and that ring to that box and that box to that bigger box and that bigger box to that red handkerchief and that red handkerchief to that chest of dresser drawers.

And all of this was in that one boys heart.

And now that same boy has given this heart of his to a girl.

And in that heart is held the ring.

And that ring will sit atop her finger for all to know.

To know that there was once a boy who held much in his heart.

And that this boy who held much in heart had the beautiful audacity to go to the eyes of God to ask for something that he would never deserve.

A girl who would wear a ring that he'd found deep, deep down in his heart.

Blanket.

Bring your pillow and blanket.

Bring your dreams from when you were six.

Don't forget to let someone know where you are going so that, for God's sake, they might for once follow you into the night.

Bring that story book that your mother read to you when daddy stayed late at work.

Memorize the tune that you heard from gram when she was cooking that time in the kitchen at the house with the old porch and the big tree with the swing in the yard.

Wear those shoes that you wore to your last high school dance and your mom's funeral.

Pack away that book that holds those words that saved your life.

Pack away that heart of that girl who gave it to you as a gift.

Let's run.

Let's hurry because time is short and I am not really quite sure when he will be back.

The boy with the bat.

Mary-beth, even though she always played with the boys, was now running away. Her footsteps and sobbing fading into the forest.

Rem stood quietly at the edge of the wood, staring at the grass, at the ants, at nothing. John and Tony twisted their heads and eyes back and forth looking to see if someone had seen. Looking for adults. Looking for anyone, but there was no one. No one for a long long while.

Crandle sat in the tall grass with his arms wrapped around his legs and his face buried in his knees, crying.

Weeping.

Francis stood perfectly still over the body. The bat that he held in his hand dripping small dots of blood onto the golden summer grass.

"Y-y-ou guys saw, h-h-he at-t-t-tacked me." he stuttered in a raised voice.

His voice breaking.

Cracking.

Trailing off into a guilty whisper.

"Yeah, but you didn't have to hit'em so many times Francis!"

Crandle was now wide legged with his hands hanging to the grass, his head hung low. His back curving, warmed by the sun of the summer. Raising his head only to yell at the boy with the bat.

"I didn't do anything wrong!" shouted Francis.

Regretful words from a regretful mouth.

The boys body lay dead in the field at the feet of the boy with the bat. His head bloody and misshapen. His tongue hanging out of the mouth as if he had been caught panting by a still frame photograph. Or maybe he was licking crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

Rem got sick of having to look at the body and took off into the woods. Not ever looking back he disappeared into the thicket. Crandle is now standing and wiping his moist cheeks, reddened with shame.

"We have to tell someone." says Tony.

"Yeah, we have to tell our parents!" shouts Crandle.

"NO."

Francis is still looking down at the body, his eyes look crazy. Insane. He's out of himself.

"No one tell's anybody about this. I'll take care of Rem and Mary-beth."

They can tell that he knows the wrong that he has done. They know as well as he that things, from now on, will be different. They know that they all, whether in action or viewing, have done bad things. They also know that they'll have to do more bad things to make this bad thing go away.

They'll have to feed the river that nears the edge of the town.

They all huddle around the body and stare. Francis drops the bat into the grass and starts to talk softly about the lies that they will need to knit together so that they can all grow old and love women and have children.

But by now they all know that anything normal will never be possible. The reality of the bad thing has sunk into their stomachs like stones into a deep and dark pool.

Ten years from now they know that Rem will be at Dartmouth and that John will be at the state college and that Tony and Francis will be working at the mill and that once a day all of their thoughts will turn to the boy who lived one town over. The boy who died in the tall blonde grass. The boy who fed the river.

They'll remember the bad thing that happened on that bad day with the boy with the bat.

But for now they have to put a body in a dark place near the searching roots of the trees in the forest dark. And they'll cover it with earth and bark and leaves. Here for just a while. For just a moment before they take it and feed it to the river.

Lantern and Candle and Mouse.

I sit quietly so as not to disturb them.

They are tiny.

Small.

Demi versions of larger objects.

Miniatures from a dollhouse.

A lantern.

A candle.

They are talking but I can't make out what they are saying.

Quietly.

I slide my chair out and slump onto the floor.

I place my ear to the bottom of the table.

Listening.

Gently.

Lantern is pacing back and forth.

Wondering.

Questioning.

Pondering something.

Finally Lantern stops.

Turns to candle.

And says,

"Okay, yes."

"Are you sure?" asks Candle.

"Yes, please." Lantern assures.

I peek my eyes back up, over the edge of the table.

Lantern had opened one of his sides and Candle is crawling in.

There was a quick burst.

Brilliant light.

Then a flickering.

Then a strong, stable flame.

A light within Lantern.

Lantern burst with pride.

He smiles.

laughs.

Stares at the light for a long time.

He admires his light.

Brightly shining from within.

For all to see.

Then, Lantern ran.

He jumped from table to chair.

Chair to floor.

Sprinting.

He crossed the floor quickly.

Coming upon a hole at the base of the wall.

If you were of his size you might think this hole to be the entrance to a cave.

Dark within.

Lantern yells.

"MOUSE! MOUSE! COME AND SEE!"

After a moment or two a small, white mouse appears.

Timid at first.

But then more assured.

"Oh Lantern, it's brilliant!"

Her blue eyes widening.

She smiles.

Reaches out and touches lantern.

"I want to share this with you. Always. Forever."

says Lantern.

Mouse looks at Lantern.

Lantern gazes at Mouse.

"Do you promise to never let it go out?"

asks Mouse.

"I do."

promises Lantern.

200th POST!

If you read this, thank you.

- Jacob

Someone asked me what I like about you.

Someone asked me what I like about you.

I started by trying tell tell them about your skin and your laugh but that wasn't sufficing.

So, I started to compare you to Audrey Hepburn.

How she was loved by everyone and how she always seemed to be the center of attention. I bet she was always the life of the party, I bet other women loved her because she was in movies. I told them how I remembered how her hair was short and jet black and pretty when she starred in that one movie. And how I really like how your hair looks the same.

But then I thought, "That's not really who you are."

So really, you're nothing like Audrey Hepburn.

But just then a girl I knew from high school came up to me and asked me about how things were and then her boyfriend came up and started in on the conversation. He must have been a meteorologist or something because we got to talking about storms and clouds and lightning and stuff.

It reminded me of this movie I saw in middle school about weather and weather patterns. It talked about how when warm air and cold air and moisture all come together then storms happen. But what amazed me about the video was all the lightning.

It flashed and burst into life. It wasn't there and then it was. It would be pitch black one moment and then, suddenly, everything would be illuminated.

And even though it only lasted for what seemed like a tenth of a second, I knew how special it was. It etched itself into me.

I guess that's what I like about you.

To my son whom I have not met. (Revised)

Don't listen to the critics, they seldom know what they are talking about.

Open the door for her every time, she's worth it.

Read books.

Read lots of books.

They'll be your fondest companions from time to time.

Listen well.

Don't just hear people, but really listen.

Make eye contact.

Don't be distracted.

Be the type of man that others describe using terms such as faithful and true and humble.

Give yourself away everyday to everyone.

No, they don't deserve it, but no one deserves anything in life.

Knowing this, live in and by grace.

Be a dreamer.

Dream larger than you know how.

Be a man who knows the value of a hard days work.

Enjoy sweating.

Enjoy achy muscles.

One day the ache won't go away.

Watch sunsets and sunrises every chance you get.

Now and then share them with someone you love.

Know how to cook a great steak.

Take care of your body, you only have one.

Fall in love with a girl who is already in love with Jesus.

Call her your second love.

Hold money loosely. Give it away all the time.

Be someone who learns to suffer well through trials and sorrows.

To do this I encourage you to read God's Word daily.

Memorize it.

It will save your life.

It will be your most difficult ministry, but love your family with the love of Jesus Christ always.

If you move away always call home on Sunday's.

Learn how to play an instrument.

Remember birthday's.

Have a favorite beer.

Don't give people bad or corny gifts.

Give from the heart.

Know how to play one sport well.

Sport is physical glorification.

Have at least three men in your life that know you very well and know three men in the same way.

Be open with them about everything.

Pray often.

Eat good food.

Live for the Gospel.

Let Jesus be the all-encompassing fire of your heart.

Love,

Dad

Processes of Thought: Past and Present.

Never stop.

Keep going.

Don't get behind.

Remember everything. Always.

give your time only to those who produce profit.

Slosh with muddied boots upon those who can't help you.

Don't turn the other cheek.

Gouge our enemies eye out every chance you get.

Forget about the plank sticking out of your head.

Let it go unchecked so long so that sparrows and finches build nests upon it.

If someone asks for your jacket, slap them in the face.

If someone is hungry and begging for food, double-bolt the front door, close the blinds and stay as quiet as possible.

Maybe they'll go away.

Maybe.

But now siblings...

Go out into the filth that is this world and wait.

When that still soft voice speaks then adhere to the formula of action.

Nothing is your own.

Everything is a gift.

Naked as we came.

Let humility be your shirt and pants.

Let it clothe you in warmth and grace.

Be the one who shows others how to wear humility well.

Even though it's an impossible task.

Go and sit on the street corner with the man whose family released him into the wild twenty some odd number of years ago.

Remember his name.

Remember that story that he told you about his wife and how he still remembers what she smelled like in the spring time.

Try as hard a you can to pray for him.

I can promise you that when you get to heaven he'll be the one greeting you with open arms.

Every once in a while, go and be quiet.

Not in your room or in your closet.

Go sit or stand or kneel in front of something bigger than you.

Something you can't quite grasp.

Something that, even when you really try, you can't even begin to understand.

Always make sure that you are not your own.

Try real hard to remember that not even your limbs are your own.

All of you is for something and someone else.

Never you.

Never.

Without.

Rapid acting wrinkle cream.

Instant gratification.

A quick profit in the quick silver age.

Fast cars on faster roads.

You look fat you know.

People have been telling me.

Try this and do that and you'll be skinny.

But never skinny enough.

Don't forget to buy that thing that you saw on the TV because without it you'll die.

And remember not to listen to that small voice that tells you to simplify.

What does it know?

Be sexy.

Never forget to be sexy.

Sex is the end all be all.

By having sex with everyone you won't feel like you've missed out.

It feels really good.

If it's hard or difficult to do then leave it for the poor.

Sell yourself.

Sell yourself to the product on the shelf.

Sell yourself to the guy at the bar.

Sell yourself to the ideas of the politician.

Sell yourself to the people who are making you their god.

Cut down as many trees as you can.

If possible, clear cut a mile a day.

Trample the poor.

Laugh at the weak.

Ignore the lonely.

The man in the barn.

The drifter had been staying in the back of the hay barn for almost two whole weeks now. In the mornings he would help daddy move the horses to the feed pens. Throughout the day daddy would have him mend the fences on the back of the property near the oak hills.

On that Friday when he showed up I had been swimming in the tank that sits down below the road that leads to town. I stood behind the oak that gives shade to the tank as he went to the front door and talked to mama and then she called to daddy who was in the barn. He and daddy talked for a long long time, about what I do not know. But I do know that he scared me. He had a very ugly face and a scar on his left cheek than ran deep as if he was knifed by someone who really wanted to make sure that he would never forget it. His skin was dark from many days in the sun and dust and his hands were leather.

Sometimes I would look out of my bedroom window upstairs and would watch him. He didn't speak much and didn't do much else but help daddy with his work. When he wasn't working though he would sit in a chair leaned up against the west facing wall of the barn and just stair out into nothing. Sometimes I thought that he was thinking about a family that he might have had back somewhere else. or maybe he was just the type of man who didn't think about anything. But I knew one thing for sure, I didn't care for him.

The men in town who kept to themselves tended to be the type of men that everyone else whispered about at the grocery. They were the men that mothers kept their babies away from when they were shopping in town. And now we had one of those quiet men living in our barn.

The fairly Common Happenings of Peter Pajowski. (Part I)

Peter wears very common clothes. In some social circles he would be labeled as "Nerdy".

Every morning when Peter arrives at the office where he works he says "hello Mary" to the receptionist and she in turn says "don't even bother Peter". Peter never knows what she is talking about. He is not interested in her. He doesn't wan a date. He's just saying hello. He thinks her odd.

Peter is not the type of man to be judgmental. He does not think more highly of himself than others. But he does label people. For example, Mary.

Mary: Beautiful but odd. Does not like being said 'Hi' to. Likes cats. Hates me.

This is the categorical rubric that Peter uses for most people.

Or another example, Rob from accounting.

Rob: Loud. Funny to some people. Lives with Mother and Father. Potential villain.

Why villain? well, that's just how Peter's mind works. When he was small, a child, he loved comic books and the plot lines of good versus evil. Since then he has not been able to shake the idea that there are villains out there. And in turn heros as well. Maybe not super heros, but just heros.

Peter Pajowski, just a normal guy. Just the guy who works in cubicle 4B and who wears very common clothes.

Honey.

We let the words drip from our mouths like honey from the comb.

Have you ever watched honey as it dripped from the comb?

It's slow and methodical. It lingers and clings to the congealed mass for as long as possible so as not to be separated from its birthing place.

That was the word for us. A mass of sweet and satisfying words that longed to be together and spoken and hung onto. They were our birthing place.

They came from a place beneath the tongue of God himself.

Never harsh.

Never cruel.

We sat in the candle lit room, speaking these words to one another, and it was then that we realized that we were speaking life to one another. We were doing much more than reading words from a page. We were feeding one another, by hand and by mouth, the life giving words of God.

They tasted like nothing we had ever had before. They not only fed us but they sustained us. They gave us what bread alone could not give.

Life.

Eternal.

Peter.

Peter Pajowski has a pudged stomach and a balding head. He has on a short sleeved button polo with khaki dockers and a pair of Johnston & Murphy penny loafers. No socks.

His belt has a weave of thin leather straps running down the middle of it.

Peter sweats often. Even when not exerting heightened levels of energy.

The arena is filled with people from all over the world. Very important people.

Presidents, Kings and Queens, dignitaries, military leaders and other royalty. All are dressed in their finest tuxedos and gowns as if attending a celebration of creation itself. But no. That's not the occasion.

Peter feels confused and under dressed. The invitation within the large crimson envelope that he received read, "Dress as you feel comfortable." So he did. Peter's wearing the same thing that he wears every weekend. The same thing that he had worn every weekend for the past nine years.

The arena is filling up more and more rapidly now that the time is drawing near for the ceremony to begin.

To Peter's left is an asian woman who has cured cancer, heart disease and who created a new color called "Torg." It's a very pretty color to look at. She is very small and very quiet and is wearing a simple cream colored dress and slip on shoes. Her name is Sasha Shim.

To Peter's right sits a very old man who has, over the past fifty years, been creating an equation for world peace. He finished it. It works. He's also a poet and a lot of people think his poetry was really pretty but Peter has never read any of it. The old man has a long beard and deep blue eyes and he's wearing a very expensive grey suit. He has a flower in his coat pocket. His name is Sir William Willshire.

Peter has never done anything all that great. He's the head librarian of a small college. He's the type of guy that, when you look at him, you know that he was most likely that kid in middle school that got picked last for sports. Also, you most likely jump to the conclusion that he likes World of Warcraft and other things of the nature.

Peter doesn't like World of Warcraft at all. He thinks it's a waste of time.

It's just them three. No one else. Just them.

The curer of cancer.

The foundational creator of world peace.

And Peter. The Librarian.

Peter was just watching some TV shows one evening while he was reading his mail. At the bottom of the stack was the large crimson envelope. On it was his name "Mr. Peter Pajowski" and his address. Nothing more.

No postage.

No return address.

No nothin'.

The envelope was sealed with a wax numeral. "III".

Peter opened it and read it and then placed it on the coffee table which also held five issues of popular science, an out of date calendar of cats and the first Happy Potter book.

Peter couldn't think of one single reason why he would be invited to such a thing. He hadn't done anything grand. He'd never saved a life or made a famous speech.

He was just Peter. Peter Pajowski.

Just then a man in a dark blue robe walked on stage followed by the President of the United States, the Pope, the head of the EU and another man wearing all black. The man wearing all black has a large black raven perched on his shoulder. Peter is unsure as to why.

The man in the robe begins to speak,

"Welcome everyone to 209th Human of the Year Awards ceremony!"

Everyone cheered and clapped very loudly and still, Peter was not sure as to why he was sitting in between these two people. Or as to why he was at this event at all. Or as to why the man wearing black had a raven.

The robed man spoke again,

'This year our three finalists are of the finest pedigree."

Peter's parents were both overweight accountants with sub-par social skills. As far as Peter knew his "pedigree" was mediocre at best.

Again, the robed man,

"We at the Panel for Higher Humanity agree that the three individuals you see before are the pinnacle of perfection in regards to human achievement. Now, let us honor one of these three with the most prestigious award ever given to a human being."

The man in the rob then paused and he looked at the man with the raven.

Peter's eyes are as wide as they'll go. He has no clue what's about to happen. And again, why the raven?

Robed man,

"So, without further hesitation I present to you tonights award presenter, Mr. Rawllings P. Rawllings!"

Again, the cheers seem so loud that Peter feels awkward for not know who this man is. Rawllings? What kind of name is that? And why twice? And why a raven?

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen."

The man with the raven has a voice like a professional book reader. The type you hear from books-on-tape.

"This year's Human of the Year award goes to..."

ROOSTER

He sat in the back of the room away from the others. With his back against the wall he pulled his thighs up close to his chest and rested his forearms on his knees. He hung his head low. Breathing deep breaths he could feel the heat on his face from his shame and guilt and anger and fear.

“I am going to die.” He thought.

“I am going to die all alone with no one near me, just like him.”

He looked up from the corner of the room to see Andrew and James talking about something but he didn’t know what. It was as if he was deaf. Everything was internal. Everything was inside his own mind as if his ears had been shut off and he was left to his own thoughts for comfort.

“I want to die.” He said.

Murmuring so low that no one else could hear him. He hadn’t opened his mouth for a whole day, maybe two. He just sat waiting in the room with the others. But waiting for what?

“With the way that I have acted, I shouldn’t expect much.” His internal monologue was getting louder.

He took off his sandals and rubbed the ache out of his toes. He set the sandals beside him and then rubbed his face and his eyes and stretched his arms and cocked his neck back and closed his eyes.

“The narrow path.” He thought to himself.

“What does that even mean?”

He started softly weeping with his eyes towards the ground and even though the others could hear him no one made any notice of it. They all just went on with what they were doing.

Then he heard from across the room, “Peace be with you.”

Plague.

We, the rot gut sinners.

We are the locusts of consumption, You and I.

We devour and gorge on things that are not ours.

We question why nothing good is left.

We lie awake in the long winded hours of the night.

We stare at the hands God has given us and we are terrified.

Over and over again we recount and re-catagorize our inequity

like amnesia ridden librarians.

Innumerable lovers have we known.

We, the rot gut sinners.

Whorish desires that sparkle in the dim lights of want and need.

So easily we are lead to the slaughter by the promise of empty chests.

Upon poisonous figs of rot do we feast.

We, the rot gut sinners.

A beautiful shimmer in complexion but death from within.

For how long can this go on?

For how long can death sustain death?

I wish us not to be the generation of apathetics.

"Well they sure did have good intentions." They'll say.

We, the rot gut sinners.

We, those who are afraid to jump from any height.

All the pretty girls.

All the pretty girls leave the dance with all the hansom boys in their big red cars and drive to dark houses with darker upper rooms where clothes are dropped onto hardwood floors. But on the dock at the edge of the lake a lonely girl jumps heels first into the forgetful waters. Deep enough to dig her heels into the silty floor of the dark lake.

Bettery.

Books don't need batteries.

Neither do Pencils.

Paper Doesn't need batteries.

Nor dos the ink that I write with.

My eyes don't need batteries.

Neither do my feet.

My fingers don't need batteries.

And my heart runs just fine all on my own.

My faith doesn't run on batteries.

My feet are capable on their own.

My eyes don't use batteries.

My mouth works on it's own even when I don't want it to.

I guess in some ways, we're all batteries.

Bringing energy to one another.

But for now, natural is where i'll stay.

Keeping myself charged on something more pure.

Tellings. II

The proverbial post sin cigarette is commonly filled with a bland of guilt, shame and sadness.

Tellings. I

Flowers are a frivolous act of GOD's beauty and transparent artistry.

The inner workings of Peter's nose.

What is the fragrance of God?

Is it grace?

Then what is the fragrance of Grace?

Is it forgiveness?

Then what is the Fragrance of Forgiveness?

Is it love?

Then what is the fragrance of Love?

I do believe that I know that smell.

I most assuredly could describe it only as blood and flesh and wood.

A thought about nothing: 3

AS THEY SAT IN THE CAR HE WONDERED ABOUT THE POLAR BEARS AND THE ICE CAPS MELTING AND HOW THERE USED TO BE A LOT OF NEWS ABOUT IT BUT HOW ITS SLACKED OFF IN THE LAST FEW YEARS AND THEN SHE WALKED OUT OF THE STORE AND HE STARTED THE ENGINE AND THEIR SON ASKED ABOUT WHAT WAS FOR DINNER.

A thought about nothing: 2

HE TOLD HER MANY THINGS LIKE I LOVE YOU AND YOURE BEAUTIFUL AND IM SO LUCKY AND HE KEPT TELLING HER THESE THINGS FOR A LONG TIME BECAUSE HE WANTED TO BE SURE THAT SHE WOULD REMEMBER THEM ALWAYS.

A thought about nothing: 1

THEY SAT QUIETLY ON THEIR FRONT PORCH AND TOLD EACH OTHER OF BEAUTIFUL THINGS AND OF FAR OFF PLACES AND OF HOW MUCH THEY LOVED THE BREAD THAT THEY HAD BAKED AND HOW THEY CARED FOR ONE ANOTHER THEN THEY DECIDED TO WED BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT YOU DO WHEN YOU LOVE SOMEONE AS MUCH AS THEY LOVED BREAD.

Rusted.

"Isn't she beautiful?" he asked the Lion.

"What?!"

"Quiet down you overgrown cat! I said that she's pretty."

The Tin Man had all the capabilities of viewing something as pretty but no understanding of how to use that information. You see, Tin Man had not heart.

"You can't think those kinds of things." said the Lion.

The girl had paced herself a few steps away from them and was humming some beautiful tune, as was par for her.

Tin Man longed for her and for love and for a heart. But most of all for her.

Psalm 8.

The tilled soil of our hearts is irrigated and fed by the ever-flowing spring of life which comes forth from the veins of my sweet Jesus.

Strength in Him.

I shall not have the face of a sinner sown upon me nor shall I bathe in the filth of those whose ways are not His ways. I pray that the Lord might build my stride upon the foundations of truth and humility so that I might walk humbly but with the greatest of strength. For it is in my daily walkings, runnings and stumbling that I am reminded of my utter and complete requirement upon the Lord's strength. O that He might continue to find me worthy of his grace and giving of strength.

Names being defined in the aftermath of a party during spring break in a winter ski-town.

Corley was asleep face-down on the couch and Robert sat alone on the wooden deck that over looked the forest. William and Jen were asleep in the bedroom and Bill was staring at a book pretending to read but really he was thinking about Corley. Carl and Shawn were rolling a blunt in their car in the driveway which was un-exitable due to the new snow that had fallen. We would have to walk to the lifts in the morning. Kelly, Beth and Erin sat at the kitchen table slumped over in drunken postures supporting their heads with weak arms flicking beer can tabs and talking about how they wish they would have attended a university in the mountains rather than one near the beach. Robert came inside and sat by the fire and was joined by Carl and Shawn who were now plagued by blood shot eyes and horrible cravings for pop-tarts and red-drink. Bill came in covered in snow, shook off the powder, grabbed a blanket and covered Corley who was now in the fetal position with her knees pressing into her breasts. Bill and Robert motioned to Carl and Shawn who motioned to Kelly and Beth and Erin who motioned to me as I sat on the bar with my back against the wall. We all grabbed blankets and sleeping bags and pillows and hoodies and turned off the lights and laid down with the flickering flicks of the fire light pressing and patting our faces. We lay in rows and cross sections and diagonals of one another in the warm cabin with legs tangled and heads spinning.

In the northern room.

There was little to do that day so we sat, quietly together, in the northern most room of the house.

Your feet curled up under your tan thighs on the old red couch.

I watched as the cranes flew in and landed in the shallows filled with tiny sparkling fish that would become their early supper.

At length I watched and then turning I saw your dark brown hair sway from before your eyes.

You saw me and we looked at one another and fell in love all over again.

These are the times when I received gifts.

When you turned back from your drivers seat after dropping me off at my house.

When you were leaning your head against that wall that looked like the surface of the moon.

At the Christmas party when you were sitting on the floor, talking to Kelly about how good the apple cider was.

When we were laying on the asphalt in central Florida after the lightening had subsided.

When you quickly turned your head and your hair flipped out and your eyes looked like pools of sky with lumps of crushed ice dumped into them.

When you were washing those dishes and you looked back at me and asked, "How long have you been standing there?"

That time we talked at length about our relationships with depression.

After we sat by that fire at your parents house after having dinner with that foreign exchange student.

That time before summer had come when we discussed loving people well.

The Amazing Life of Masson Johnson. (Edit I) (Part I)

When I was born, my mother tells me, they marveled at my physical state. Nurses had to tear me away from other nurses who couldn't stop looking at me. My pop tells me that it took nearly an hour for them to finally get me into my mothers arms after my birth. People just couldn't keep there mitts off me. Apparently I was a pretty baby. From the womb I had thick golden hair that was wavy in the back. By age 3 my hair had turned golden brown and, never having been cut, was already at my shoulders.

If you go back and look at the books you'll find notes on my birth records.

Note of Birth: Masson Johnson - Amazing physical beauty. Like none I have ever assisted in birthing. Full head of hair at birth. Strong muscle tone at birth. (7/4/81)

Even from early in my youth my dad was awkward about all of it. I never got to go out for the baseball team or got to run track. I was kept from knowing the exact dates of sports tryouts and was never allowed to attempt any kind of flip our technical maneuver off of the neighborhood diving board. He always just told me that "You wouldn't like it" or "You should spend your time doing something more productive." I myself thought that I would be, in actuality, very good at these things such as running and jumping and throwing things. But, with respect for my dad I always found myself on the spectators side of things.

High school was difficult. I was the biggest in my class.

Being 6'6" with hair that, when un-done from a tie, lay just inches from the ground did not help matters much. Being as that I was never permitted to go out for sports I was also never introduced to physical exercise. But never the less, my muscle tone was, if I do say so myself, of exceptional grandeur. I had golden-brown skin year round yet rarely found myself outside for more than an hour at a time. I was a reader. A lover of words. Inside, in a chair was an ideal environment. My mother always encouraged me to go and play with the other kids my age but I never did.

My senior year I was accepted to Yale on a full scholastic scholarship. The day I left my mom hugged me and reminded me about keeping my hair out of my face. My dad gave me a firm handshake with a hundred dollar bill inside and a word of advise, "Stay away from those sports fields ya hear!" He seemed to be joking but his tone was as serious as death. "Your school work comes first, second and third" he would always tell me.

I drove away not know that would be the least time that I ever saw them.

Midway through my freshman year my house caught on fire in the middle of the night. The investigator told me that they died in their sleep. He told me that due to smoke inhalation they most likely never even woke up. He patted me on the back and handed me the card of some state recommended family counselor.

I never went.

Instead, I just went back to school and kept on living. I loved my parents dearly but what was I to do? I loved my mother dearly but she would have hated for me to stop living my life in the way that she had taught me. And as for my dad...well. What can I say about a man who treated me like a charity case my whole life? I had to expand myself beyond what he had limited me to.

After my sophomore year I found myself board with life. I was at the the top of all of my classes, student body president and chief editor for the Yale Daily News. I found myself daydreaming of running in-between classes. my dreams had become consumed with images of me lifting skyscrapers and stopping trains with just a fist.

I was jumbled.

Confusion was my constant companion.

Then, one day came a piece of paper that changed everything.

"Yale track team seeking fresh meat! Seek further info here:..."

After a phone call and a physical with my doctor I found myself in a pair of khaki shorts and barefoot. I had never had the need for running shoes so I thought it best not to wear my top-siders. I felt so out of place. I felt like such an outsider. But, at the same time, I felt to at home. With the grass beneath my feet and space to run it was as if I had found my most applicable canvas. My body being the medium.

The ten others that stood around me wore what seemed to be brand new, high-tech shoes and super light weight shorts and sports shirts. I had no idea what the brands were nor did I even know where to purchase these things. But all at once my thoughts were turned to a tall, thin man with brown hair and thick rimmed glasses.

My Button and Me.

My button is missing, my button is gone

From my shirt it was taken by a singer of song.

He was red and yellow and he flew through the air

I've looked for him here and there and everywhere.

But alas, there it is, in the tree up above

In the nest of a wren or a sparrow or dove.

I will climb that tree with all my might

I will climb that tree if it takes all night.

My button, my friend, in the palm of my hand

Upon this old shirt of mine you will look so grand.

I wonder "where is the bird who took you from me?"

Is he here or there, oh where could he be?

Let us descend from this tree to the grass down below

That is where the flowers and grass and other things grow.

With needle and thread, once again it will be

My button, my button, my button and me.

On the floor in the bedroom. (edit 1)

His hands are the jitters.

They are a swarm of lady bugs or maybe even locusts that will never find rest or calm.

They'll just keep flapping around in the summer sun with their millions of eyes.

His knuckles are cracked and dry and the ridges of the skin is deep like some smaller canyon that sits adjacent to the Grand Canyon.

His talking is not like my talking or like your talking but his talking is like his talking.

He groans with happiness and tears so you have to know him to know what's going on.

But even if you don't know him you already kinda know him.

He's an angel.

Did you know that?

It's true.

He talks to God and then he takes those conversations and relays them back to me and he tells me things like, "SLOW DOWN YOU ASS!" or "LEAVE ME ALONE!" or "BE STILL, YOU IMPATIENT JERK!"

He also tells me things like, "I love you" and "I'm so glad you're here with me" and "please stay a bit longer" and "Don't you think my dad's great?"

He's balding and his legs don't work but he's cooler than I am.

His laugh is more beautiful than yours.

His smile is grander than mine.

The sad story about the basketball player named Jerrold Folley.

Jerrold Folley was a very sad man.

You see, Jerrold Folley was a basketball player.

His three-point shot was mediocre.

His free-throwing ability was sub-par.

He excelled with his short game and loved a good assist here and there.

But Jerrold's real aspirations had been flushed away with a knee injury in his senior year at Duke. There, he played about fifteen minutes a game with little to no national recognition. He excelled in school and with girls, but his true love had always been basketball.

When he was young, before his dad lost the battle with lung cancer, he and his father would practice under the street lamp of their cul-de-sac. Short jumpers, bank-shots, lay-ups, hundreds of free throws before dinner.

His dad believed in him.

Told him he could do anything.

Be anyone.

Go anywhere.

Crazy things was, Jerrold believed him. With his whole heart.

So, after high-school, and after his dad's passing, Jerrold accepted the full-ride to Duke and went on expecting with every fiber of his being that he would one day play in the NBA.

Let me, with unbearable amounts of regret, inform you that Jerrold does not play in the NBA. He doesn't even play in the D-leauge. Nor is he coaching at the college or even the high school level. Jerrold, after college, became depressed.

With a torn ACL and after two surgeries that did nothing to help Jerrold left basketball behind and, with great anxiety, entered the financial sector.

Punching keys.

Crunching numbers.

9-5.

Single.

Drinker.

He would spend most nights after work at The Dog and Duck pub on Westover Ave. Two pints and a chaser were the usual fare. Nothing to impressive but just enough to take a brick and smash the edge that had built up around his soul from that days grind.

But then, one night, at the pub Jerrold saw a commercial on TV that sparked his attention and brought life back into his eyes.

The Harlem Globetrotters were coming to town.

"What if I tried out for the 'Trotters?" He thought to himself.

He quickly quit his 9 to 5 and found himself searching for opportunities to try out for the revered team. The team of laughs. The team of hope. The Harlem Globetrotters. His days became consumed with the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could play basketball again. Jerrold knew fully that this wasn't Laker's basketball and that he would be playing in college gyms around the nation and smaller venues around the world, but who cared? He wanted to hear the cheers again. he wanted to feel the pine beneath his feet. He wanted to feel the dimples of the ball rolling along his finger tips as he shot baskets once more.

"Please God!" He would day to himself under his breathe.

Again, I must be the bearer of bad news, Jerrold did not make the team. Besides the fact that he was white, had poor ball handling skill and a chubby beer belly, Jerrold was just simply not good enough to be a Globetrotter.

But...

Jerrold was just good enough to be a Washington General.

For those of you who are not up to date with your comical basketball acts, the Washington Generals are the team that the Globetrotters have beaten in every game since 1926. Fact.

It's a gag.

An act.

A play.

An exhibition.

But Jerrold doesn't care. How could he? He loves the game too much to throw away even the opportunity to lose every single night.

Jerrold plays the guy on the Generals who gets his jersey and shorts ripped off half-way through the first quarter and then proceeds to run around in his boxers. He doesn't mind, he likes making the kids and parents laugh. The smiles make it worth the effort. The pay doesn't seem so lousy after a good smile from a happy nine-year-old boy who is at his first Globetrotters game with his dad.

The teams travel by bus from town to town. It takes longer but Greyhound is an official sponsor so it's free. Free is good when you play for the Washington Generals. Sometimes, late at night, while in between towns with the rest of the team fast asleep, Jerrold will turn his eyes upward and, under his breathe, say in the most honest of tones, "Thank you God."

A conversation with my dad.

That evening, as we spoke he said,

"I believe today i'll use what they call cotton candy. What do you think?"

I nodded so as to aprove. Fathers like it when you approve of their choices. They feel cool. They feel hip.

"Yes, I think that'll do." He said in a very self gratifying tone. "Oh, and what about explosions? Do you think that would work?"

Again I nodded and laughed and smiled.

"Why do you laugh?" He asked.

I wasn't sure how to properly answer so I just said,

"Well Dad, when you have joy then I have joy."

He sighed approvingly.

I was unsure as to whether he was sighing for his sunset that he had just laid out before us or if it was for my comment. But, it didn't matter. I just sat down on the horizon and twiddled with the rays of the sun.

Her Eyes are Dilated Always.

There once was a girl who skipped down the road.

Upon the prettiest of shoulders did she carry her load.

With gumption and joy her life was forged.

Upon a promise of love her spirit did gorge.

Forever to know, a promise was made.

His son in a tomb for three days had been laid.

Water to wine and red to white.

Her life brought forth from dark to light.

Now in eternity her name to remain.

Days of worship and peace for her to gain.

Books. (full version) (non-edit)

You see Gow had always been the lonely book on the shelf. He thought of himself as special and slightly odd. His spine was slightly cracked and his pages were somewhat yellowed, but he liked that about himself. Gow liked the fact that hands had come to open his covers and had left him blotched with the soot of life. And that certain privileged eyes had read his words and had come to know him, even if only in the most minor of fashions. Sometimes, like the one in current description, he would cry. He would cry tears filled with tiny bits of cotton fiber and swirls of thirty-year-old black ink. The tears would run down onto the oak plank and along the notched grooves of the wood and would wind themselves back behind the shelves upon which he sat. Never knowing how high he was from the ground he always imagined that his tears fell forever. Gow hoped that they just continued on falling and holding those tiny pieces of himself that no one ever cared to ask about.

But alas, what was this? The Red Cart.

The red cart carried perspective friends. Once, during one of the many summer months, of which he could not specifically remember, the red cart ushered in a full volume of Mark Twain short stories. Gow always found it very exciting when new arrivals entered the shop; it meant new conversations and new bonds. A new way of thinking and maybe, just maybe, a new plan for becoming free once again. Gow had been sitting in his spot on his shelf for twelve years and in his mind this was much too long a stint for an individual such as himself to stay dormant and un-used. But, to Gow’s great disappointment, the Mark Twain Shorts were drab and dull and a pure bore to converse with, little to no help on the freedom front.

He sat, quietly crying, in between his unread fellows and sulked. He was sad. But this was not any normal kind of sad, it was a very real and deep writhing type of sad, the type of sad that some of his friends held within their pages. His pages became crinkled and wavy with the wetness of his ink-ridden tears. A voice from the shelf above spoke, “Stop sniveling you lil’ begga.” And another from below, “Crying is for the weak, are you weak son?” But Gow just ignored them and went on crying. But then, from what seemed to be right beside him Gow heard the most beautiful voice that had ever graced his pages.

“Why are you crying?” whispered the voice.

“Stop mocking me you un-read witch.” said Gow.

“I’m no witch, I’m a Jane Austen.” said Lady Susan. “And besides, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”

Gow choked and then coughed on his own tears and began to laugh.

“Was that an attempt at a joke my dear?” Gow chuckled.

“I suppose it was.” Lady Susan smiled and blushed.

Was this freedom? Had he been lying to himself this whole time? Gow quickly realized that being picked up off the shelf was not the only form of freedom of which he could attain. Freedom was bigger than open spaces and sprawling coffee tables set inside well kept English homes. It was laughter. It was love.

Books. (non-edit)

You see, he had always been the lonely book on the shelf. His spine was a bit cracked and his pages were somewhat yellowed but he liked that about himself. He liked the fact that other hands had come to open his covers and that certain privileged eyes had read his words. But alas, none had made him feel the way she did. When she entered the book store he knew right away that there was something different about her. That maybe she would have yellowed pages and a frayed cover. Only time would tell, but he flapped his pages with excitement, watching her being rolled away to her shelf in her corner of the store.