VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 5

As we begin walking Earnest’s phone begins to ring. He looks at the display.

“I have to take this. I’ll catch up with you?” He asks.

I nod and with a turn begin walking away. Slowly, but not so slowly that I can overhear. I am not sure if it is out of a need to be polite or because Earnest is a hallucination and I don’t want to add any more details to the mess that has emerged so far. The less that I know at this moment will make things easier later. You know, when I’m in the nut house and they're deciding on treatment, not hearing his conversation may save me from electric shock therapy or something worse. Can it get worse than electric shock therapy?
  I walk at my chosen pace and find calming thoughts. When I hear his footsteps come up behind me and feel him come into step at my side I start asking questions. “So what is it that you do for a living?”

“What does it look like I do for a living?” An irritated voice asks.

I turn and find myself looking at the groundskeeper. He’s not happy.

“Where did he go?”

“Where’d who go?” He asks.

“I’m sorry. I thought that you were someone else.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He grumbles and continues his way down the walk, collecting discarded bottles, containers, juice boxes, and empty potato chip bags.

I turn and look back at the bench Earnest was headed to when he left me. No one is there. I make a slow 360 turn, studying my surroundings. He’s gone again. Panic pushes at my insides. Fight it...fight it. Whatever this is...fight it!

Deciding that I’m stronger than whatever is happening, I continue on as originally planned. This time opting to enjoy the park instead of going to the art museum. I walk around for a bit until I spot the gazebo. A large white gazebo sits alone on a peninsula in the center of the park’s lake. No one appears to be sitting in it. I walk out on to the path leading to it and study the lake. There are couple of kids on paddle boats, no one seems interested in the beautiful gazebo. I decide to claim it for my own if only for a time. I have an urge to run to it, secretly wishing that I had the supplies necessary to lock myself in, indefinitely. Into peace, solitude, and safety. I settle for a seat that affords me views of the park, the lake, as well as the gazebo’s entry, and a long meditation.

“Are you ready to trust me?” Earnest asks.

I open one eye. Earnest is sitting next to me and looking at me intently. He’s studying me. My eyes, my face, the angle of my head, my body language.

“And I should trust you, based on what?”

“I’m not a Spaniard.” One corner of his mouth raises in a grin.

I do not smile back.

“I’m not the Spaniard in your story.” He corrects.

“That is still a weak argument for trusting you. What is it that you do? For a living? The thing that makes you disappear for random bits of time without explanation?” I ask.

Earnest’s eyes change. I feel like I’m watching a wall go up.

“That’s classified.” He says.

“As in what?”

“That’s classified.”

“Why are you following me? Why is it so important that I accept that you exist?”

He looks away and studies the lake in front of us. His eyes return to mine before he answers.

“Let’s just say that it's important to me that you know that you’re okay.”

“Why?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?”

“Once or twice.” I answer, attempting a sly grin.

My lack of control over my facial expressions must not have changed because Earnest smiles. It's a lovely one. I use the lull in the conversation to calmly communicate what's most important at this moment.

“You need to go Earnest. I need you to go.”

He looks at me. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” I say looking at the floor.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Why?”

I look at him. “You aren’t real. I need you to leave so that I can accept that you aren’t real.”

“I am real.” Earnest says. He smiles reassuringly.

“You’re a hallucination, an eerily good hallucination, but still, a hallucination. I need to challenge the hallucination. I can’t do that until you leave.”

He reaches out, takes my hand, and places it to his chest. “I’m real.”

“No.”

“You can feel my heart beat. How can I not be real to you?”

“I have never hallucinated before. There could be tactile aspects to a hallucination. I don’t know.” On the other hand, his heart is beating at an alarming rate. “Have you been...running?”

There is no response.

It is my turn to raise a wall. “It’s time for you to go. It was nice meeting you Earnest.”

“No.” Earnest says. “I’m not going. I agree that you believe something that’s not true. I agree that you need to challenge it. The idea that you’re hallucinating is what’s not true. Challenge the hallucination, accept that I’m real.”

I shake my head.

“Vin. Listen to me, if I go, no matter how the rest of your life continues, you’ll always worry, something inside of you will always be a little bit less than sure of whether something is real or not. You’ll always be questioning. You need to accept that I’m real. That others see me as real. It’s the only way to get through this. It’s the only way to move forward.”

I find myself unsure of what to do. This could be a moment to call for help and be in and out of therapy for the rest of my life or a chance to change things. Do I trust him?

“Let me in a little bit Vin. Let go of the burden that you’re carrying. Tell me about your world. The one in your dreams.”

I want to let go of it. It’s difficult. I feel as if I’m adrift. I have crafted a beautiful dream world. The ultimate fantasy, but to describe it to someone...

VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 4

After a few moments, I feel like I can breathe a little better. I look around. People are still smiling and walking around me. No one is showing concern. I must be hiding things well. I need to get out of the way, find a quiet place. There’s a park close by. Where? I join the rest of the foot traffic and head east. I walk two...no three blocks. I turn to the left and find the open space of the park and notice a narrow trail on the far side of the parking lot. I take it. A pair of kids ride up the trail on their bikes in front of me. I follow quickly hoping to find a secluded spot and end up on the outer fringe of a rose garden. This must be part of the museum grounds. There’s a stand of shade trees and a bench at the garden’s entrance. The bench is empty until I claim it.

As I sit down, the panic that I have been holding back pushes forward. The waitress’ words echo in my mind, “He left. Ten minutes ago.” Oh my god, I was talking to someone who wasn’t there. What do I do now? I let go of the thought as quickly as I can and substitute it. I settle on. It’s never happened before. It’s never happened before. It’ll be okay.

Eventually, I shorten it and ‘it’ll be okay’ is the phrase that I hold on to. I start to go home with a plan to lock myself in the apartment with Don Quixote and concentrate on not having a full blown melt down. I stop myself in the middle of the park. Isn’t there this thing about challenging things that you believe to be true? At the moment, I believe that for some crazy reason I spoke to someone that wasn’t there. How do I challenge that belief? By proving that Not-Necessarily Mean Man is real. I shake my head. There’s no way that he’s real...why? It reads too much like my story notes. Hiding really won’t help. I decide to continue my outing and put my mind to work on the problem. That will give it something else to do besides panic. I turn around and retrace my steps, walking through the rose garden and around to the front of the art museum.

Not-Necessarily Mean Man stops me just outside the door.

“Where did you come from?” I ask

“Where did you go?” He asks.

“The waitress said that you left ten minutes ago. I went to look for you outside and you had disappeared. I’m fighting off a panic attack right now. If you don’t mind.” I say gesturing towards the door.

“Don’t go in. Please.”

I look at him. Normally, I would have ignored him but today...“What do I get?”

“A piece of candy.” He says with a grin.

I glare and reach for the door.

“Oops. Not funny.” He says and reaches out to stop me. “Sorry. I am sorry about everything. Will you please talk to me? I’m Earnest, by the way.” He smiles.

It is a charming smile. Disarming to many I’m sure. I am not one of the many. “Earnest..like anyone names their kid that anymore.”

“It is my name.” He says. “I can offer you another if you’d like.”

I think for a minute, wondering whether I should believe him. Who goes around offering other names, hookers? Maybe. But on the other hand, who would admit to having a name like Earnest if it wasn’t really their name? Against my better judgment, I let Earnest lead me to a nearby tree with a bench under it, explaining his lack of physical existence to him all the while.

“I am a real person.” He says.

“If you’re a real person, explain this.” I order, handing Earnest my notebook.

“If I wasn’t a real person could I be doing this?” He asks as he sits down and flips through the notebook’s pages.

“Probably not, but on the other hand, I do have a vivid imagination.”

Earnest looks at me. “Where is it?” He asks.

“At the front. You have to go back to the front.”

“It just says, ‘Vin’.”

I sigh. Explaining my insanity is becoming frustrating. “The page before that one.”

He turns another page. “This one? With all the writing on it?”

I give him my ‘duh’ look.

“From the top?” He asks.

I nod.

“Okay, from the top.”

He reads without making a sound. “Very interesting. This is almost our exact conversation.” Earnest looks at me. “How do I know that you didn’t write this after our conversation in the diner?”

“Let me think about that, write it after, claim that I wrote it beforehand, and then freak out? Why would anyone do that?”

“Attention?”

“Getting carted off to some hospital while half the city watches is not the kind of attention that I would want. Under any circumstances.”

“Nor I.” He says as he looks at my story.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“The difference between your story and reality. Something that proves to you that I really do exist. Ah! Here it is. The handsome stranger in your story is described as a Spaniard. I’m not a Spaniard.”

I lean in close and read over his shoulder, “What else?”

Earnest offers no other supporting evidence of my sanity.

“That’s it?” ‘I’m not a Spaniard’ is your entire argument?”

“It’s what I have for you.”

A feeling rolls through my stomach, one of pure fear. My hands begin to shake.

“Whoa. Whoa.” Earnest says when he notices my response. “Wait a second. That’s not everything. There’s something that I want to tell you.” He gestures towards the trail in front of us. “Shall we walk?”

The Eleventh Hour

There’s a famous quote about writing: Writing is easy. You just open a vein and bleed. 

   Last night upon arriving home from work, I counted the days before my next blog post and I realized that the two weeks that I had so looked forward to in which I planned on finishing “Untitled” had quickly evaporated. It was time to push that puppy out and my project was due tomorrow. I put on my work clothes and angrily proceeded to mow my yard. It was hot but the heat index was predicted to shoot up dangerously high on Saturday and I wanted to see the work done before then. As I said. I angrily mowed my entire yard. Taking stock of everything that put me in this position, after five minutes, yep the storms are big but they tend to be short these days, I began to look at what was really keeping progress from being made. I was blocked. Yes, blocks do exist. Not in the way most people imagine. But I am one of the writers that knows first hand that writer’s block does exist. 

   Why do I normally become blocked? I usually become blocked for one of two reasons. 1. I don’t have the story fleshed out in my mind enough. 2. Emotional block. The cure for the first block is fairly simple. When the mind is thinking, put it to the story. Flesh it out. The second cure is difficult but easier than one might think. Find the emotion(s) causing the blockage and release them. 

   It did not take long to identify my offenders. During the last several weeks I have been working on some personal things. Trying to make changes, be a better me, live a happier life. All that happy crap. Sorry I had to throw that in. It’s negative, but I love that expression which might be part of my problem. Any who, I opened up some deep vulnerabilities hoping for a change that did not come about. A couple of days ago I decided to tuck a few things back in, temporarily at least. The problem is that some of the emotions that helped me to craft and propel the story are intertwined with the vulnerabilities. Oops. You see the problem. How do I change it? 

   I came up with a solution. It was a messy one but I was pressed for time. I let myself open up a vein and bleed. I usually keep that crap in the house. I was tired and frustrated. I was already sweating anyway. I let her rip. I cried all over the damn yard. As I mowed, I have a push mower just so you know by the way, the sweat from my head diluted the tears that fell allowing a stream of consciousness to come forth. That and one really bad poem.

  With the vulnerabilities out there again, I am feeling better and I can focus on what I want to say. There were already notes before eight o’clock this morning. I don’t know if I will get to the end by nine o’clock tonight, but I will work for as long as I am able. As my mother always says, “We’ll see what we get.”

     May your day be sunny, your temperatures mild, your journey easy.

--Respectfully Yours,

   HR Apostos

   A Writer Lady, Teller of Tall Tales, Weirdo

Unexpected Gifts

I woke up to one of the greatest gifts that I could have hoped for this morning. I am not sure how to describe it. About six years ago, I decided that I got so much enjoyment out of writing that I wanted to make a conscious effort to hone my skills. I wanted to treat it like a second job. I wanted to do the work and find a way to make my way in this world as a writer.

I cut back on the baking, I put away the quilting, I put less thought to fun activities and focused as much of my life as possible to telling good stories.

I also set up a five year plan. A plan to be supporting myself with my writing at the end of five years. Five years came and went. The ultimate goal had not been reached. I kept at it. I decided that if I dedicated myself more fully to the work things would happen for me as I had planned. I started thinking about changes. Am I doing too much of what everyone else is doing? Is it just the wrong time? Am I just not very good at this? Going into year six, I found myself at a crossroads.

I have been standing at that crossroads questioning everything. From approach and Internet accessibility and geography, to officially choosing my audience and actively pursuing them.

I have put in the time, the hours, the work, began learning marketing, cover art, and other essentials. I have even delved into the world of YouTube. I have had lots of fun with all of it but still, as my sister Vonda loves to say, no joy. How could something that is giving me new skills, helping me to grow as a person, and generally makes my life fun and meaningful not be my purpose? How can I not be reaching the goal completely? What am I doing wrong? What is wrong with me?

This morning, I realized the most important thing. I am still here.

It is something that I ran across while grieving the death of my late husband, Sam.

The concept is that you accept that one of the worst things that you can imagine has happened to you. You also recognize this one thing. I am still here. This morning I was able to do that.

I worked out a specific plan for my future that did not work out. I am still here. All of the hours, the weekends and vacations spent writing. I am still here. Lightning has not struck me down because the pursued success was not achieved within the preset time line. I did not wake up one day with a second head. I am not a pariah of society because the first plan failed. It was just the first plan.

I looked at what these last 66 months have gotten me. Over 200 posts on my fiction blog, two novels, the beginnings of two screenplays, and ideas for two more novels. Two novellas as well as all of the lovely other bits and bobs that have popped up randomly over the years. I have never been without something to do on a Saturday night, my clothes are always comfortable, and shaving my legs is my option. The venue is also always my option. I never have to argue with someone over what music I decide to play. I have laughed and cried a couple of times. I get a sense of accomplishment and I know that something solid will still exist long after I am gone.

If the writing is the potatoes and the plan for being successful is the gravy...I may not have gravy, but I do have one helluva pile of potatoes. Gravy is nice but you don’t have to have gravy to enjoy a good batch of mashed potatoes. Good cooks know that.

Do I have a second plan? I am glad that you asked that. I do. The second plan is to call over one of the flying bubbles that is so common in Faerie and let it guide the way. Flying by the seat of my pants has been working so far with the fiction, why not let it help me in other areas as well? Things may not work out but at least I get to see more of Faerie this way. I know that there will always be potatoes waiting for me. There is nothing like a good batch of potatoes.

Today I would like to raise my fork in acknowledgement of everyone with naked potatoes. We’re still here.

VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 3

“Vin. Is that short for Vincentia?”

“No.” I answer. “Vema.” I look down at the table.

“Vema? I don’t think that I’ve heard that name before.”

“It means, ‘goddess of sex.' Hopefully there aren’t too many people out there lined up to name their daughters Vema. Which would be why you've never heard it before."

“Where does the ‘Vin’ come from?”

I could say something rude. It really is none of his business. Today things are not what they usually are. I decide to answer, honestly. “When I was in high school I had trouble telling the difference between the brake and the accelerator. There were a couple of really wild rides during Driver’s Education. The Fast and the Furious had just come out.”

“Vin...as in Vin Diesel.” He says aloud, trying out my explanation. “Interesting.” 

Not-Necessarily Mean Man shifts from foot to foot. I can’t help but wonder if he was on his way to the restroom when he stopped at my booth.

“We’ve had a nice exchange of words here. It would be customary for you to invite me to sit down.” He says.

Really? “Or you could ask permission to sit down.”

“Not a people person?” He asks.

I could take his cue, apologize, and ask him to sit down. But, he did invade my space by looking over my shoulder uninvited.

“I didn’t say that I’m not a people person.” I answer. “I’m...choosy.”

“Choosy?”

“Yes.”

“So when you see someone that you want to befriend you reach right out and start talking to them?”

“Yes...no.”

“So you don’t get out much which makes you not a people person.” He concludes.

I could lie about such matters. I am tempted to lie about my social life several times a day. I don’t. “Growing up was unique in my family. As a child, I recognized the need to learn how to be alone for several hours at a time. So I learned how to be alone. And be okay with it. Even happy.”

“Doesn’t it feel empty to spend so much time alone?” He asks.

“Yes and no.” Not-Necessarily Mean Man is quickly becoming Nosy Man.

“My life doesn’t look like everyone else’s does but it works for me, much of the time.”

“If you don’t spend time with other people, doesn’t that go against nature? Human beings are a social species. It’s why we live in communities.”

Nosy Man. He has definitely become NOSY MAN. I think about his comments and decide to hit him from the other side of his own argument. “Let me ask you this. If I spend my afternoon today at home in my apartment with a cup of tea, and a book and you spend the afternoon in a coffee house surrounded by people but you spend the whole time with your face to your phone...what’s the difference?”

He doesn’t stop to think before answering, “I’m with other people.” He says.

“You aren’t talking to them. You aren’t interacting with them directly.”

“I have the option to interact.”

“True.”

“You don’t.” He counters.

“I still do. Granted, I do have to gather my things, lock the apartment, and take a walk to get to a place with people that I can interact with. But it is only a brief walk.” I ask again. “How much of a difference is there, really?”

He didn’t have a quick comeback for the question.

“Let me ask you something else. Do you know how to be alone and be comfortable with it? Do you know how long you can be alone without any human interaction whatsoever before it has a direct effect on you?”

“No.” He answers.

“I do.”

“Does that make you better than me?” He asks.

“Not better, just different.” I counter without looking up. Part of me is hoping that the conversation is over, another much smaller part of me is alert and enjoying the exchange of ideas. I wait for Nosy Man to say something else. I decide that if this stranger had been dangerous the waitress or the kid would have given off some physical cues or he would have stabbed me by now. Plucking up some courage, I ask. “Would you like to sit down?” I look up to find the waitress smiling at me.

She refills my coffee cup as she answers. “That’s real sweet of you but I get done here in about five minutes and Timmy has been waiting for me for the last two hours. I’m not sure that he can take much more of this.

“Timmy?”

“Timmy. My son.” She gestures to the boy sitting at the counter with a nod of her head.

“Where’d he go?” I ask.

“Where’d who go?” The waitress repeats loud enough for the firefighters down the block to hear.

I compensate for this by lowering my voice further, hoping the cue that this is a private conversation will be picked up. “The man that you were talking to? You and your son?”

“Oh him. He is the nicest man. Kind of handsome too. Why? You interested?” She asks.

I shake my head. This is not going well. “I just want to know if you know where he went.”

“He left...about ten minutes ago.”

“Thank you.” I answer meekly. I don’t move. My hand starts to shake, I leave it in my lap. I don’t want the waitress to see it.

“Are you okay?” She asks. “You’re getting a little pale.”

“No. I’m okay.” I offer up a less than convincing smile.

“You didn’t eat the ham did you? They always keep the ham longer than they should.”

I shake my head. “There was a death in the family." The story doesn't fit the situation at all but it's the best I can do at the moment. "I must have gotten out and around people a bit too soon.”

“That happens.” She says, patting my arm. “We all want to get past the hard stuff as soon as possible. Too soon sometimes. You take yourself home and lay down. I’ll sure you’ll feel better in no time. 

 I wait until the waitress leaves to pay my check with shaking hands. It’s difficult to stay calm. I practically run out of the diner. The waitress was kind and had good intentions but talking to men that aren’t there is not likely to be fixed with an afternoon nap. 

  I stand on the sidewalk as people walk past me. They're on their way to movies, festivals, dog parks...or whatever else. Most are smiling. I wonder what it's like to be them. To have a quieter mind. 

To not see all the possibilities to the point that it's overwhelming.  

To be focused on the present moment. 

To not need daydreams about handsome Spaniards.

 I envy them.

VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") Pt 2

What do you do after an exit like that? Nothing much. I continue scribbling and decide that the handsome Spaniard doesn’t have to be as tall as I originally pictured him. Average height is okay for the Spaniard. He is handsome after all. I sip on my coffee for a bit and wonder what a woman does with a handsome Spaniard. Is finding oneself alone with a handsome Spaniard any different than finding oneself alone with an action hero, a prince, or the funny, sweet man that lives down the block? Yes. Adventure...there has to be an adventure when one meets a Spaniard.

“What are you doing today?” Kelly asks. She’s standing in the kitchen entry as she puts on her coat.

“There’s a new exhibit at the museum that I was going to check out. Paintings, windmills, I think.”

Kelly nods but does not respond. She doesn’t get my fondness for a good art exhibit but she respects it. There’s a knock on the door.

“I’m late.” She says as she hands me her empty mug. “Pizza and binge watching later?” She asks.

“That was our plan.”

It was our last Saturday night binge. Next Saturday she’d be cuddled up with Tulio, his kids, and the latest from Walt Disney.

“Feed Don Quixote for me?” She asks.

I nod. There’s more knocking, urgent this time.

“In a minute.” Kelly calls. “No “Masterpiece Theater” this time.” She says, looking at me.

“That’s what you get for your “Call The Midwife” marathon.” I respond with a grin.

“‘Call The Midwife’ is an excellent show.”

“Not for anyone who’s planning on breeding anytime soon.”

“What are we watching?” She asks.

“I haven’t decided yet.” It isn’t a lie. I haven’t decided yet. It’s a toss up between an old series about Henry VIII’s wives that explores each individual marriage. One hour per marriage and the most in- depth documentary to date on Vincent Van Gogh with special emphasis on the events leading up to as well as including the ear incident. It’s a little bit mean, I know, but that’s what she gets for abandoning me to lead the life that everyone is supposed to be working towards. Home, family, dog in the yard, white picket fence. Dog poop kind of stinks. I hope she knows that. If she doesn’t know it, Tulio’s in for a really bad day.

One last burst of knocking.

“I’m coming! Keep your shirt on.” Kelly calls. “I’ll see you by eight? Bye.” She says as she opens the door.

“Okay bye.”

I hear Kelly as she enters the hallway. “Tulio, what are you doing? Put that back on.”

“I thought that you said to get undressed, you were ready for me.”

“Why would I say that? You know that I don’t do those things in public places.”

“There’s a first time for everything?” He offers.

“Put your shirt on!”

Have fun Tulio. You picked her.

It’s Saturday. It’s supposed to be an easy day. Today is one of the most difficult Saturdays that I have had in a long time. The pending loss of my roommate and my therapy cat, my inability to get a raise that would cover the rest of the rent so that I could keep the apartment on my own...did I mention that? Now, the empty day before me...it all feels like too much. I’ve worked so hard to do all of the right things. It’s not fair!

“It’s not fair!” rings through the diner. Did I mention that I’m in a diner now? I left the apartment and walked four blocks to my favorite diner while I was rattling on about my problems.

“Whoever told you that life was fair?” A tallish man asks a dark-haired boy sitting on the stool nearest the cash register. He looks to be about ten. The kid, not the man. For a moment I’m irritated. The man is being mean.

Mean Man hands the waitress cash, looks down at the kid, and says, “Life says ‘no’ to you now, so it can say ‘yes’ to you later. The ‘yes’ you get later is usually better than whatever you lost the chance to have to begin with.”

The kid looks up at the man who’s accepting his change from the waitress, he looks down at his comic book before the man notices.

Mean Man leans down and whispers something to the dark-haired boy. I can’t hear what it is, it must have been funny because the kid, the Not-Necessarily Mean Man, and the waitress all smile and laugh. For a moment, I wish that I could have heard him too. I spend most of my time shutting other sounds out, not letting them in. I smile at their happiness in spite of myself. I’m hoping that I’m giving the usual non-committal ‘you can’t tell if I’m smiling or not’ half-smile; I must have slipped and smiled more because the man turns his head, looks right at me, and smiles back. That was an accident right? Yes, an accident. It’s just a piece of the smile remaining from the moment that came before.

I look down and begin writing something. Anything. Quickly. V-I-N.

“Vin.” Not-Necessarily Mean Man’s voice reads from behind me. “What’s Vin?”

He’s looking at my notebook, he’s talking to me? What the hell? Okay, it’s fine. Breathe deep and answer calmly.

“Vin is my name.”

VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled")

  True confession: I am a dreamer. A hard core dreamer. When life gets to be too painful, overwhelming, scary, difficult; when I can’t understand why something is the way that it is...whatever you want to call it. I dream. I write elaborate narratives with my imagination to make things more...palatable. For a time, it got me into a little bit of trouble.

  There are one or two people who will never speak to me again. There is a year or two that I don’t remember very well. You might say that I have coping issues. My coping mechanism wasn’t, healthy? I don’t know. I do know that like alcohol, drugs, or sleeping around, every time that life got difficult I would imagine a different life. Not just wish for it. But imagine it, down to the last detail. One where the career of my dreams, the adventure of a lifetime, or the man who I decided was the one to complete me would sweep in and make it all better. Or at least make me feel like it was all better. When the going got tough I spent every spare moment that I could dreaming of something better.

  Was I delusional? Yes and no. My roommate’s ex says that I am...was...am? Who listens to that ya-hoo anyway. The dipshit sleeps around. My roommate insists that I’m not. She says that I kept myself from becoming delusional and that I should be proud of it. I want to believe her but, to be honest, she has her own issues. She may or may not stalk her ex by reading his books and then reading all of the books that he references in his books while she’s practically engaged to somebody else. Apparently good mental health is hard to come by these days. If you have it, cherish it.

  Back to my point, in an effort to pull myself out of this pattern of this delusional/borderline delusional behavior, I began to weave stories. Ones that others could read. Ones that weren’t so centered on what I was hoping for. I love it. It is an endeavor that propels me through life. When times are at their toughest, I know that I can always pull out pen and paper. I can write about other dream worlds. Much healthier ones.

  During the hard times, just like the urge for a shot or a cigarette. Just one...to take the edge off, my need for other options pulls at me fiercely.

Today is one of those days.

  My words stare at me from the page, messy and frantically scribbled: what it, what if, what if...my...no... a tall handsome man…no a Spaniard...

“What are you writing?” My roommate Kelly asks as she enters the kitchen.

“Nothing.” I answer. I cover the words with one hand and lift my mug of coffee with the other.

Kelly doesn’t look alarmed or ask questions. She removes a clean mug from the cabinet and pours herself some coffee. She’s wearing one of her “Saturday Out With My Man” outfits. I can always tell what Kelly is doing on any given day by her outfit. I like that in a roommate. I know what to expect before I even talk to her.

“Tulio and I are going to look at dining sets.” She announces.

“Why?”

“With me moving in soon and his kids having their long summer visit, even longer if Maria goes through with her wedding...the table at his house doesn’t seat six.”

“He has three kids. That’s five people.”

“Dining sets are typically built to seat even numbered groups of people. The dining table should seat six. At least.”

“It’s official, you should dump him.”

“I thought that you liked Tulio.”

“I do.” I say. “But, that man is moving way too fast with all of this ‘longer dining table’ business. He needs to let you get used to kids’ meals in the mini-van before moving on to the dining table.”

“You just don’t want me to leave.” Kelly says with a grin.

“I don’t. I’ll be living alone. I suck at living alone.”

“No you don’t. You won’t be living alone. You’ll need to get another roommate in order to cover the rent.”

Which is the exact moment that Don Quixote jumps on to the table and demands attention. The calico cat looks at me with his calico eyes (one green and one blue) and meows. I pet him, he collapses on to my notebook purring loudly.

“I choose, Don Quixote.” I announce looking at the cat who in return looks at me adoringly. “I will be expecting his half of the rent a week before the end of every month.”

“The Don is coming with me.” She says.

“Don Quixote is my therapy cat.”

“We’ll get you your own therapy cat.”

“I already have Don Quixote.” I counter. Don Quixote looks at Kelly and meows.

Her phone vibrates on the table. The display reads: Tulio.

“It’s Brutus.” I announce.

Kelly rolls her eyes, picks up the phone, and leaves the kitchen with my therapy cat on her heels. Traitor.

Not Another Christmas Romance PT 1

*For my cousin Jennifer and everyone else who loves a cheesy Christmas romance.  


It's hard to believe that my life started seven years ago. Seven years ago, when everything that I knew and loved about it left town. In order to tell you how I got here, we have to go back there. To 2009. This should be quick and relatively painless. If you aren't me at least. 

2009--

The clock turned six a.m. and the music started. “I'll Be Home For Christmas” by The Carpenters. I reached out for...I'm not going to say his name because on this day he had only been gone for six weeks. My voice would still catch if I said his name. He was “My Ex” for the first three months. Six months on birthdays, anniversaries, and other days that we had considered important as a couple.

“I wonder what would happen if I left a note at the radio station asking them to only play this song between the hours of 8 am and 6 pm.”

“They would think that it was a joke and probably play it anytime except between 8 am and 6 pm.”

I glared at my brother as he stood in my bedroom doorway.

“Hey, it's a small town. They have to find their entertainment some place.”

“What are you doing here Ben? How did you get in?”

Ben threw the spare key at me that I keep at my parent's place.

“Dad sent me. We are to pack up the dipshit's...shit.”

“Don't call him that.”

“He didn't know what he had and he broke my sister's heart. He's a dipshit.” Ben held up a box. “What room should I start in?”

“None of them.”

“Carrie...you don't think that he might come back, do you?”
“It's Christmas. People see the errors of their ways and do wonderful things at Christmas. Besides it's only been six weeks.”

“He isn't coming back.”

“You never know. Zelda read my tea leaves and she said...”

Ben shook his head, “He isn't coming back.”

“I know that tea leaves are silly and something that should only be read for fun.” A newspaper landed on the bed in front of me.

“He isn't coming back.”

I looked down at the newspaper. A wedding announcement taking up a whole quarter of a page verified what my brother was saying. The dipshit was smiling at me plain as day cuddling his new wife.

“How long does it take to plan a wedding?” Ben asked.

“A quick one that's still nice? At least six weeks. He walked out of my house and proposed to her.”

“Probably the same day.” Ben said. “So. Which room should I start in?”

“Start in here, with the random clothes he left behind.” I answered as I got out of bed. “I'll make you some breakfast.”

“I already ate Sis.”

“Just coffee?”

Ben nodded.

“Coffee will help me think. I have to figure out what to do with the stuff once it's been packed.”

“It's okay. I've got it covered.”

My eyes teared up and my voice cracked a little. “Thanks Ben.”

“It's no problem Carebear. I'll just drop it off to his Mom on the way home. She works at the homeless shelter.”

I was on my way out of the room when I heard Ben whisper.
 “This box can sit next to the other donations.” 

The 2010 incident came and went a lot more quietly. The alarm went off, the song played, I threw a pillow at it, cried in my other pillow for the rest of the song, ate cookies for breakfast, took a shower, and moved on with my day.

When 2011 came I was over What's His Name. The song played. I listened quietly and lingered in bed as a new day began. I marveled at my lack of sadness upon hearing the tune, my growth, my inner strength. I remember smiling. The words “It's a sign” crossed my lips. I basked in my new found contentment.

In 2012, I woke to “I'll Be Home For Christmas,” knowing that nothing had changed and any signs from last year had been meant for someone else. It was all a huge load of crap and I was not listening to the damn song next year. I would definitely be writing that letter to the radio station.

In 2013 the radio station played “I'll Be Home For Christmas,” by the Carpenters. All The Time. If they had three minutes and fifty seconds that they did not know what to do with they played the song. I sent the letter and just as Ben predicted, they took my request and ran with it. Assholes. I was not listening to that damn song again. Next year...I would be ready.

I was. 2014 dawned sunny and bright, one December morning they played the song. I took aim. Unfortunately I don't know much about firearms. I stopped the music when I took out the alarm clock. I also took out the wall behind it. I was thrown back against my headboard which hit the wall behind it too hard. The headboard became one with the drywall. I bruised my shoulder pretty good too. Never ask a little old lady if you can borrow a firearm. Little old ladies tend to carry more firepower than they will ever need.

“Mom wonders why men don't ask you out.” Ben said as he grinned from the doorway to my bedroom.

Word got around about the incident. How could it not? “I'll Be Home For Christmas” was not played again in 2014.

The first time I heard it in 2015 the day had dawned...it was well before dawn actually. I woke to the feeling of something sharp puncturing my toe. I moved a little bit, pulling my foot out of target range, which only hastened the assault. It quickly turned into a game. Two fully armed attackers against one half-asleep human. The kittens that I had adopted a few months before decided that it was time to get up. It was a joy to wake to such sweet faces. I laughed so much during our game that I barely noticed the music.

Song morning started abruptly in 2016. I was lingering in bed, mentally laughing at how much I used to hate “I'll Be Home For Christmas”.

Whoosh. Next came the sound of tinkling glass. I know that sound. “The Tree.” I raced out of bed to find the kitten standing on the tree looking triumphant, proud of her new kill. The tree had been subdued and was now laying on its side.

“Down.” I said, clapping my hands and chasing her away. “Nothing is broken.” I said to myself as I put the tree back in an upright position. It was still dark. I took a look at the clock. Five-Thirty? “Five-thirty? Really kitty?” All three cats lined up and listened to me for a moment. Soon they lost interest and began racing through the house, jumping across furniture, using the back of the couch to ricochet off of for their zero point turn, rustling the Christmas tree's branches but never touching it. “I'll make some coffee. There's no sleeping through the ruckus you three are making. Just remember that it is Sunday. I am home today. When you go to sleep I will be waking you up...every chance I get.” All three cats stopped in front of me. They looked at me, looked at each other, and took off again at a full sprint.

I heard the sound of something being knocked over in another room of the house. “I heard that. Leave that alone. It's not yours!”

As it turned out the source of the noise was not feline. Ben walked into the kitchen as I was nodding off, waiting for my brew. “It's like you have kids not cats Sis.”

“I haven't lost it completely. I'm not like Aunt Ethel with her 15 house cats.”

“Talking to cats like they’re kids? I hate to tell you this Carrie but you passed up Aunt Ethel months ago.”

I glared at my brother.

“What are you doing here?”

“I bought something for Tiffany. Can I hide it here?” He asked.

I nodded. “Remember the rules.”

“Wrap it first. Hide it yourself or we may never see it again.” Ben pulled a small rectangular wrapped box from his pocket and started looking around.

“Keep it out of the cats' reach. They know how to unwrap presents.” I called after him.

Pirate's Epilogue

With Pirate’s return and the waning of The Lady With The Long Golden Hair’s Treimhse Ar Adoration, it does not take long to put House back together. She wants many improvements none of which she receives. Writer Lady’s excuse is that the house has been through so much already, wouldn’t it be nice to rest for a bit. House does not think so but cannot get anyone to take her side.

“Isn’t this nice, everyone sitting together?” Aunt Purdy asks.

The entire group is crowded into the living room. Pirate sits on the couch. The Lady With The Long Golden Hair sits on one side of him, Writer Lady, the other. Monitor Man stands by the front door. Carp stands next to him. Tinkletoes stands in front of the entry way between the living room and the kitchen.

“Do you get the feeling that Pirate is the reason for this gathering?” Carp asks Monitor Man. “It almost feels like an intervention.”

“Or a firing squad.” Tinkletoes says.

“When Pirate first came to me,” The Lady With The Long Golden Hair begins, “he was deeply saddened and angry with himself. I will not share details, those are not important. He told me about something that he had done that he was not happy about and asked me for punishment. After much thought, I agreed to it. He stayed with me and served as my champion. With all that has happened and all of the progress that has been made, especially with all he has done during this most recent period of adoration, I have decided that it is time for Pirate’s punishment to be over. He has served me and served me well. He has faced many demons, several of his own. He has been victorious time and time again.”

Tinkletoes leans over and whispers. “That’s what a woman looks for. Stamina.”

Writer Lady looks at Carp. Carp smacks Tinkletoes on the back of the head. She nods.

“I want to tell him that he is no longer bound to me in any way. What he does from this day forward is of his own choosing. I wanted to announce it in front of witnesses. He will argue if I don’t have witnesses.”

“Pirates don’t argue Milady. We listen then do what we want to.”

“What are you going to be doing now?” Writer Lady asks.

Pirate looks at Writer Lady then The Lady With The Long Golden Hair. His eyes pan the room looking at all of the faces. He spots something shiny in the corner of the room and smiles. The smile disappears as quickly as it appears. “First I must see the Lady With The Long Golden Hair back home. Her lodgings must be put to rights.”

Pirate leaves with The Lady With The Long Golden Hair. There is still much to be done at her house. A new champion will need to be found as well.

The children play as the adults visit. A writer lady doesn’t visit Faerie every day does she? Dylan runs through the room, chased by his brother and the baby dragon. The boy stops on his way out of the room and asks, “Where did the magic sword go?”

“It’s in the corner. TP is taking it back to Faerie later.”

“I don’t see it.” Dylan says.

“It’s in the corner Sweetie.”

Peter looks at all four corners of the room. “No, it isn’t.” He says.

“That means...” Monitor Man says.

“It means that Pirate is running loose with Excalibur.” Writer Lady begins looking under the couch, in other rooms. In the refrigerator. Hey, you never know. “This is not good. Not good at all.”

“Hey. Doesn’t that mean Pirate’s the Queen of England now?” Tinkletoes asks.

P.S. If anyone meets a pirate wielding a magic sword please tell him that the Queen of England would like to have Excalibur back now.

Excalibur and The Pirate

Pirate looks at the sword. It is displayed prominently in Lady Gray’s solar. The light illuminating it pulses gently.

Lady Gray jumps on to the platform the sword, scabbard, and stand are on. She rubs her body along the side of the sword. “Excalibur, wake my lovely, you have a visitor.”

The pulsing stops. A glow that travels from the tip of the sword travels up until it illuminates the weapon all the way to the end of its hilt.

“You may remove Excalibur from her bed to speak with her now.” Lady Gray says.

Pirate slowly reaches up and removes the sword from her scabbard. He holds it up in front of him and waits.

“Tell her what you told me.” The smokey gray kitten instructs.

Pirate tells the story again. When he finishes the hilt’s glow travels down towards the tip of the sword. The hilt is no longer illuminated.

“There is something wrong. You are not being completely honest about who you are.”

Pirate takes a breath and begins talking. Fast. “I know Luv. If I speak the words out loud then all of The Lady With The Long Golden Hair’s magic will disappear. I need that magic to save her.”

The glowing begins to travel back towards the hilt. Illuminating half of it.

“There is another way.” Lady Gray says. “You must put your finger to Excalibur’s tip. She must taste your blood.”

Pirate makes a face.

“It is the only way to keep your secret Sir.”

He lays Excalibur on the floor. Laying down next to it, he reaches out and puts an index finger to its tip. A drop of blood is left on the sword. Within moments it is once again glowing completely.

“It appears Excalibur is in your charge Pirate. Stay true to her and to your cause. When you are finished you can either thank her for her help and tell her that it is time to return to Faerie for a rest or you are more than welcome to come back to Faerie and return her to me in person.”

“Thank you Milady. The Lady With The Long Golden Hair and I are most grateful.”

“Don’t tell me that. Stay true to Excalibur and she will feel your gratitude.”

Gordon the Giant’s hand breaks through the window glass knocking down, nothing. Everyone manages to get out of the way. The giant’s eye glares into the house. They scoot back and watch as Gordon begins to tear away the window frame with one hand.

“My glass. My frame!” House screams.

Dylan and Furnatche look at each other. Dylan crooks a finger at his older brother Peter gesturing for him to lean down. He whispers something, Peter nods, runs into the kitchen, and returns with a loaded plate. The tow headed four year old and the baby dragon take their places in front of Gordon’s eye. Dylan picks up a carrot. The dragon steps forward, sniffs, then sits back down and waits. Dylan puts down the carrot and picks up an apple. Furnatche sniffs, he swishes his tail and then sits back down. Dylan replaces the apple with an onion. The dragon sniffs, whimpers, and sits back down.

Gordon tilts his head. He curiously waits for whatever is coming next.

Dylan picks up a piece of chocolate. The baby dragon’s eyes light up. He wags. “Furnatche. No! Aunt Purdy says that chocolate gives you diarrhea.” The boy lifts the piece of chocolate to the window and says, “Chocolate?”

Gordon accepts the candy and devours it.

Dylan holds up a cookie. Furnatche’s nose changes. Several tendrils emerge from around the outside of the dragon’s nose. Each tendril has a small bean (like you would see on the end of a sprout). The tendrils move back forth around the dragon’s nose. Each bean opening and closing as it takes in the cookie’s scent.

To Gordon it is an amazing sight. The giant is entranced. Everyone, especially House, breathes a sigh of relief.

“Super Smeller, we call this Furnatche’s Super Smeller nose.” Dylan says as he looks at Gordon.

The Lady With The Long Golden Hair watches smiling. Diomedes and Ray stand next to her on either side.

“Her Ladyship, now would be an excellent time to get you out of harm’s way. Let me introduce you to a most fascinating place.” Diomedes says, “It is called a ‘bathroom’.”

“Duuude.” Ray says. “Excellent idea.”

The three quietly exit the room.

Gordon continues watching Dylan and Furnatche for several minutes. Amazed by the baby dragon’s nose, disappointed when the tendrils disappear. He then becomes happy when they reappear as if the giant has never seen it before that moment.

Then Dylan runs out of food. “There’s no more.” He says. The beans close and the tendrils around the baby dragon’s nose droop. “Uh oh.”

Gordon looks away from Dylan and Furnatche. The giant looks further into the living room. He’s looking for The Lady With The Long Golden Hair.

“GRRRR!!!” The giant growls and takes out his frustration on the other side of the window frame. Then he begins pushing against the house.

“My foundation! My foundation!” House screams.

The carport and Writer Lady’s car disappear, a small strip of meadow appears in its place. A silver unicorn with two riders, the first with a glowing sword lifted to his enemies enters the driveway.

Pirate turns Siva to face Gordon. “Gor-don!” He calls. “Gordon Behold.”

“Gordon Behold?” Writer Lady whispers in Pirate’s ear.

“I’m a bit new at this. If you don’t mind.” He whispers back. Pirate turns Siva to face the mob of men, animals, and mystical creatures standing in the street and various neighbor’s yards. “Hear me male creatures. You have been enchanted by magic. You do not belong here. Her ladyship does not fancy you. It is time for you to go.”

“Says who?” One of the policemen ask.

“Me.” Pirate says.

Several men laugh.

Siva snorts and stamps his hoof.

“What now?” Writer Lady asks.

“I don’t know.” Pirate says.

“You have to do something.”

“Enchanted swords don’t come with instructions, do they?” He asks.

“No.” She answers.

“Would you please dismount my steed so that I might work properly.”

“But if you don’t know what you’re doing...”

“Milady. Please.”

Writer Lady jumps from Siva’s back and takes a place near the closest door to the house.

Siva steps forward just as Leitis arrives with Tinkletoes and Monitor Man on her back. The white unicorn walks to Writer Lady’s side and stops.

“Get thrown off the bus already?” Tinkletoes asks, grinning. He looks at Monitor Man. “I told you that she’d be too bossy to ride with him.”

“I’m not bossy. I was...helping.”

“Helping?” He looks at Monitor Man. “That’s when she questions your every move.”

“Not every move.”

Leitis snorts then shakes her head.

“You need to get off Leitis.” Writer Lady says.

Leitis shakes her head.

Monitor Man dismounts.

Leitis snorts.

“Tinkletoes get down.”

“Me? No. It’s time to do man things.” He says with a smile.

Leitis smoothly bucks Tinkletoes off of her back, turns, and goes back to Faerie.

Tinkletoes is laying in a pile on the driveway next to a trash can.

“He looks very manly doesn’t he?” Monitor Man asks.

Pirate continues forward and faces the crowd of males. He lowers the sword, holds it to his head, closes his eyes. The sword begins to hum. Sounding as if lightning itself is growing within Excalibur’s blade. Pirate raises his hand once again. He waves the sword in the air above the crowd. A bright flash of light is expelled from the sword , its rays covering any who have been enchanted by the unconstrained magic of The Lady With The Long Golden Hair.

“It is time good men. You must go home.” He calls.

Slowly, one by one, every man, every animal, every mystical male creature take their leave. All except one.

Gordon the Giant is quiet. He sits in front of the picture window looking at Pirate, Tinkletoes, Monitor Man, and Writer Lady. The giant then peers through the picture window and longingly into the house.

Tinkletoes looks at Writer Lady and says, “Why isn’t he going?”

“He likes the view? How should I know.” She says.

Pirate puts Excalibur back into her scabbard, rides to the rest of the group, and dismounts Siva. “I think I know what needs to be done.” He looks at the silver unicorn. “Thank you Siva for serving us so well. I will send word to Lady Gray describing your loyalty, speed, and bravery.”

Siva bobs his head, neighs, and takes the entrance back to Faerie.

Pirate enters the house followed by the others. Within minutes he is standing on the front step next to The Lady With The Long Golden Hair.

“Thank you Gordon.” She says. “Thank you for your loyalty and kindness. Thank you for protecting me. Pirate has returned and I am safe. You may go now.”

Gordon smiles. He heads for the open entry to Faerie, walks into it, and the entry closes behind him. The giant is gone.

Lady Gray

“Where are we gonna find one of those?” Tinkletoes asks.

Everyone looks at Writer Lady.

“I have to have all of the answers now?”

“You did come all this way to take over.” Tinkletoes says. “You might as well.”

Writer Lady mutters and looks around. She sees two figures on horseback in the distance. As the figures come into sight, she recognizes who or rather what they are. Ogres.

“We could just wait to be captured.” Writer Lady says. She looks at Tinkletoes, “What are they doing here?”

Tinkletoes watches the ogres and says, “They look relaxed, they're riding at a leisurely pace." He squints. "I’m not sure they can see us." Tinkletoes looks at Writer Lady and says, "It’s probably just your standard patrol.”

“Why wouldn’t they see us? Haven’t you all been on this road for a while? Why didn’t they see you earlier in the day?”

“Ahh...” Pirate says. “That would be the magic. Ogres only see magic. Magic is the only real threat to Lady Gray or the Graylands. None of us have enough magic to be noticed.”

“We blend in?” Monitor Man asks.

“In your case, yes, literally and figuratively. After the ogres have gotten a look at us the others will see us as well.”

“The pretty boy blends into the woodwork.” Tinkletoes says with a grin. He looks at Monitor Man. “I bet you never expected to be invisible, did you?”

“If we’ve been invisible in The Graylands so far, then what changed?” Monitor Man asks.

Leitis nudges Pirate’s hand with her nose. He absentmindedly complies. “Most likely these two.”

Black Buck the Antelope agrees. “He’s right. Unicorns are highly magical. They have also become very rare in many parts of Faerie. A unicorn usually means one of two things: lost travelers or illness.”

“Lady Gray would want to know what we have brought to her lands.” Pirate says.

The two ogres approach. Everyone tenses up. The humans do at least.

“Greetings. I am Arnwolf of Castle Glas. How may we serve you?”

Everyone looks at each other. Well...the humans do.

The silver unicorn neighs.

“Siva, you have returned.” Arnwolf says looking at the silver unicorn. “Her Ladyship will be most pleased to see you.”

The silver unicorn, or Siva, neighs and scrapes at the ground with his hoof. He walks over to meet Arnwolf with Leitis in tow.

The ogre reaches out to greet Siva and then Leitis. “I see that you’ve found a friend. Lady Gray will be most pleased.”

Pirate leans over and whispers to Writer Lady, “I do believe that we may have found our “In”.”

Writer Lady nods.

The ogres once again address the visitors. “How may we serve you?”

Tinkletoes coughs but no one speaks. Tinkletoes takes a few steps and stands next to Monitor Man. The self-proclaimed mercenary nudges the actor with his shoulder.

“We would like an audience with Her Ladyship.” Monitor Man answers.

“Yes. Of course. Follow us.”

“How are things, really? Pirate asks Writer Lady as the group follows their escort.

“With the Lady With The Long Golden Hair?”

He nods.

“Fine. Tense but quiet. The giant is a little bit unusual. It’s so quiet. I have been wondering why we are working so hard to procure Excalibur. I don’t know if we'll need to use it.”

“You have not dealt with the Treimhse Ar Adoration before. Things tend to get ugly very quickly Milady. When a giant is around, a champion is in need of a much bigger stick.”

Dylan and Furnatche run to the picture window to see where all of the music is coming from. They see the parade led by the police cars, lights merrily flashing, coming towards the house. So does Gordon. A strange noise comes from him, growing into a rumble that rattles the ground. The giant rises to his full height. He roars, tightening all of his upper body muscles at the same time.

The parade of admirers keeps advancing.

“Duuuuude.” Ray says.

“He stole that move from the Hulk.” Carp says looking at Ray. “Do you think he knows?”

“It didn’t work.” Dylan observes. “Does it matter?”

Gordon begins thrashing around, attacking anything and everything within his reach. Within seconds, a hand is headed straight for the picture window.

“Oh sh….”

“Please make yourselves comfortable. Her ladyship will be with you shortly.”

Writer Lady, Pirate, Tinkletoes, Monitor Man, and Black Buck the Antelope have all been led to a sitting area at the far end of Castle Glas’ Great Hall. Everyone, except the antelope, sits down in elaborate handcrafted chairs made of dark woods and rich fabrics. They take in their surroundings, paying attention to the beautiful work that has been put into everything around them.

Tinkletoes looks around. “I wonder where she’s gonna be sittin’.”

“There is only one throne here.” Black Buck the Antelope points out.

“Look at it.” Tinkletoes says. “It’s all beat up and stuff. The wood looks scratched, the upholstery is torn up.” He looks at Writer Lady. “It kinda looks like some of your furniture.”

Writer Lady glares at Tinkletoes for a moment and says, “Maybe she has a cat.”

A pair of ogres enter the hall. Each take position on either side of the throne.

One of them says, “All rise for the Ancient One, Lady Gray, Keeper of Castle Glas, Protector of the Graylands, and Trusted Advisor to The Lady of the Lake.” Both ogres say. “Long Live The Cream.”

A smokey gray kitten with matching gray eyes enters the Great Hall along a wooden beam that runs just below the ceiling. She continues along several beams and follows a set of stairs to rest gracefully on the seat of her throne.

“Maybe she’s a cat.” Monitor Man says.

“That gives getting some pu.” Tinkletoes feels a slap on the back of his head before he has a chance to finish the word.

Writer Lady glares at him.

“It does.”

“Hello.” Lady Gray purrs. “Welcome to my home. How may I serve you?”

There is no answer.

“Does no one require help?” She asks.

Pirate stands up. “I do.”

Writer Lady reaches out and touches him on the arm. She nods and smiles at him. Pirate turns to Lady Gray and tells her absolutely everything.

“That is why I need Excalibur.” He finishes.

“I need you to do something for me before this can go any further. Do you see the window over there? Next to the square made of stone?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to stand by it. I need to look into your soul.”

“He’s a pirate. Pirates are bad.” Tinkletoes says. “What’s the point?”

“He’s right.” Pirate agrees. “There’s nothing good to be had.”

Lady Gray looks at Pirate. Pirate crosses the room and stands next to the stone square.

“I thought that you humans would be more enlightened by now. All is not black or white. Good or bad.”

Lady Gray crosses the hall and jumps on to the stone square that stands next to Pirate. She raises her head for a pet and nips at his hand when he obliges her request for attention. She does not draw blood but does break through the topmost layer of skin releasing the essence of the buccaneer’s soul. The smokey kitten inhales deeply, taking it in. “You are on a journey Pirate. A long journey. A journey for your soul. The further you travel, the less time you spend in darkness and more in light.” She looks at Pirate and studies his face. She licks at the wounded finger. “You are motivated by...love?” She says with surprise. “Not lust, nor romantic love but by kindness, caring. A true and selfless love. Your capacity for love is tremendous, Sir.”

“Let’s not share that bit of information shall we?” Pirate asks.

“Of course. If you prefer it.” She says. “Regardless, the dirt that you have so prided on coating your soul with only keeps the love closer. Just as the mud that is on your boots and the dust on your coat helps to keep the remnants of salt close to your skin, the sand between your toes as pure as the first beach you walked on the first time that you ventured across it. You are loved.” She says, looking at each of her other visitors in turn. “It is clear to me how loved you are and why.”

“You sure about that?” Tinkletoes asks. “A guy who doesn’t clean between his toes for that long...he’d be hard to get too close to.”

“I am sure Sir.” Lady Gray responds, with that look of irritation at interruption that cats are prone to give. “I will confer with Excalibur. We will let her decide if she wants to help you.”