Jack Frost

       Monica hugged herself tighter as she crunched through the snow and tried to hold back tears.  Tall evergreens towered over her, watching her slow passage through their icy domain.  Every now and again the moon shone out from behind dark storm clouds.  Occasional flurries muted the nighttime sounds of the forest so that it seemed to be holding its breath and all Monica could hear was her clothes sliding together and her footsteps in the snow.  A frigid wind picked up and blew freezing air straight through her body, in spite of her many layers.  She was wearing thick waterproof overalls, boots, gloves, and jacket that she had gotten during a skiing trip her mother had taken her on for her thirtieth birthday, but the cold kept creeping in.  The sun had set hours ago and the temperature, already in the single digits around noon, had dropped drastically since then.  Her ears had long ago lost feeling despite the thick toboggan and earmuffs she had on.  Monica couldn't feel her toes or fingers except for a dull ache.  Her eyes were burning and dry from the icy wind and her nose wouldn't stop running.  She was miserable, alone, and very very lost.
       This solitary hiking trip had been decided upon the day before after Monica had decided she was fed up with all the stupid people in her life.  It seemed all they wanted to do was nag, complain, and say idiotic things.  She was done with them all.  Her resentment had been building up and festering for a long time now.  Two phone calls finally pushed her over the edge and made her feel like she needed to escape.  The first was from her overbearing mother who told her how well her sister, Kathy, was doing both in her job and her family life.  Kathy had recently been promoted and their mother wouldn't shut up about it.  Her sister was also pregnant again-this made the third-while Monica hadn't been out on a real date in over six months.   It was the same old thing: Why wasn't Monica married yet?  When could her mother count on seeing more grandchildren?  She must not be giving her job her all if she still hadn't been promoted in the seven years she had been working for the company.  It drove Monica insane!  She didn't want a bloody husband to clean up after and she was very happy with her current job, thankyouverymuch!  The second call, the straw that broke the camel's back, was from drunken Uncle Ted.  He hadn't even said hello when she picked up the phone.  Instead, he slurred and fumbled around for words, not letting her speak.  Finally, after an excruciatingly round about rant on Uncle Ted's part, he had asked her to lend him some money-again.  He had a really stellar thing going with his pal Johnson and with a little backing, they could make it big.  Monica had stopped believing in her Uncle's enthusiastic speeches on investments years ago.  He inevitably gave up on it and drank away his salary, shamelessly asking around for funding when the next fleeting opportunity came along.  She was sick of it.  She was sick of her whole stupid family and most of her coworkers too.  She needed an escape.  She needed somewhere to be alone for a while and just focus on herself.  That's why she decided to go hiking in the mountains a few miles from the small town she lived in.
       Monica wanted to be totally alone without any annoying reminders of what awaited her back home, so she left that cold Saturday morning without telling a soul and decided to leave her cellphone behind.  She was bitterly regretting that decision now.  It was dangerous to hike alone, especially in winter, but she hadn't planned on going too far.  However, she also hadn't planned for the snow storm.  Now her stupid impulsiveness was going to get her killed.  All her relatives would gossip and bicker at her funeral, no doubt.  She could see it now: Uncle Ted would embarrass himself by getting drunk at the wake with Aunt Brenda, his sister, causing a big scene by yelling at him.  Kathy would come with her husband and parcel of kids and have her swollen belly cooed over by the ladies of the family.  Mother would doubtlessly feel relieved that at least her favorite daughter hadn't been the one to die.
       Monica caught herself on a sapling as she tripped over a hidden rock in the snow.  She pushed her bitter thoughts to the back of her mind.  She had to think about surviving and finding her way back.  Maybe if she found a tall enough tree to climb, she could get an idea of where she was.  Encouraged by having some sort of plan, Monica picked up her pace and began looking for the right evergreen.  After about ten minutes, she settled on a sturdy pine that seemed to be taller than the ones around it.  The climb proved very slow going.  The limbs were pressed close together, which meant Monica always had something to hang on to, but it also meant she had to wriggle and squeeze through branches of oozing sap and rough bark.  The trees that covered this mountainside were exclusively evergreens, otherwise she would have chosen a more practical climbing tree.  Her numb fingers made it difficult to grasp the limbs and Monica clenched her teeth in frustration and pain when she kept clumsily hitting her aching digits.  Once she almost fell when a branch she stepped on broke away under her foot and went tumbling down to earth.  Luckily she had a firm grip on the limb above her and was able to hold herself up long enough to carefully place her boot on a sturdier surface.  After what seemed like an eternity, Monica finally reached the top.  There was still more pine that stretched upward to the dark sky of roiling clouds, but the branches further up would not support her weight.  She looked out into the night, tired but triumphant, and saw...her stomach dropped.  Everywhere as far as she could see, were trees.  The forest surrounded her on all sides like a vast, deadly ocean.  And she was stranded in the middle of it with little hope of rescue.  After all, no one would even know she was missing until she didn't show up for work Monday.  She could be dead by then.
       Monica eyes welled up with hot tears, but she couldn't cry here.  She had to get down first, high up in a tree was not a smart place to break down.  Her nose ran furiously on the way down and she had to fight to hold back her despair during her descent.  She kept concentrating on where her hands and feet should go so that she wouldn't have time to think about her dreadfully hopeless situation. 
      When she finally dropped down onto pine needles and solid ground, huge, loud sobs racked Monica's body.  How could she have been so bloody stupid?  She didn't have her cell phone, no one knew where she was, and she hadn't even brought a GPS or adequate supplies.  Monica plopped down on the cold, hard ground beneath the tree and hugged her knees to her chest.  The pine she was sitting under was thick and healthy, so there was a ring under the tree where the snow could not reach.  Through her tears, Monica noted that it was beginning to snow harder.  What had been the occasional flurry was now gaining in intensity and was moving toward full on blizzard.  Fat flakes of snow and ice sped past her sanctuary horizontally, driven forward by the cutting, relentless wind.  The wind picked up even further and blasted collected snow from the trees all around.
       Monica had stopped crying now.  It was useless and only made her nose run more.  Now she stared out at the snow storm despondently, still hugging her knees to her chest.  After about half an hour she scooted back through the pine needles to lean against the trunk of the tree.  There was nothing she could do in such a ferocious storm, so she might as well resign herself to waiting it out in the shelter of the great pine.  Monica tilted her head back until it rested on the trunk and put squeezed her gloved hands between her thighs to keep them warm.  She closed her eyes and waited.
       Some time later there was the unmistakable sound of crunching footsteps in the snow very near her tree.  Monica sat up, heart pounding in equal parts fear and hope.  Briefly she imagined being confronted with a bear or a wolf and being mauled to death in the snow.  As boots came into view, her fears vanished and she crawled toward them as quickly as she could, desperate joy flooding her mind.
       "Help!"  Monica cried out in a voice turned croaky in the freezing cold.  "I'm in here!"
       A figure bent down in front of her hiding place and a face ducked under the branches to look at her.  The face belonged to a man, a wonderful man, who was going to save her.  As Monica scrambled toward him, he opened his mouth to speak.
       "Ma'am, do you need help?  What's your name?"  His voice took on the tone of a worried member of a rescue crew.
       Monica's body flooded with relief and she started crying again, overwhelmed by being rescued from almost certain death.  She closed the distance between them and clung to his knees like a small child.  The man let her cry for a moment, then stepped back from the tree and pulled her to her feet.  He wrapped his arms around her and held her close.  Monica was happy to be allowed to compose herself in the stranger's kind embrace before leaning back and telling her his name and that she was lost. 
       "My cabin's not far from here," he informed her.  "We'll go there and see about getting you warmed up.  You can stay with me as long as it takes for the storm to pass.  Then we'll get you home, okay?"  Monica nodded, pushing back fresh tears, then she let him lead her through the storm toward safety.  After they had trudged through the deep snow and battled the fierce wind for half an hour, Monica saw a warm glow among the trees.  Shortly afterward she could make out the shape of a small cabin with light pouring out from its windows like a beacon in the night.  Monica stumbled in her haste to get into the warmth and shelter of her rescuer's home but he caught her by the arm before she could fall.  The pair stepped up onto the covered porch of the cabin.  The heavily bundled man swung open the door and ushered her inside before stepping across the threshold himself and closing the wooden door behind him.  What followed was a complicated ritual of unwrapping, unzipping, and unbuttoning thick layers of winter clothes.  Monica had trouble undressing herself since she could barely feel her fingers, so her rescuer helped her after he had taken off most of his layers.  She stood complacent as a child as he helped her slip out of her heavy coat and step out of her boots and overalls.  Near the end, as the warmth of the cabin began to revive her, she started to feel embarrassed.  After she was down to her jeans and long sleeved shirt, she stood awkwardly by the door and watched the man sit down on a hand carved bench by the door to unlace his boots.  He looked up briefly when he noticed her studying him.
      "You can sit by the fire and wrap yourself up in some blankets while I finish up," he said.  "Blankets are in the chest behind the couch.  I'll fix up some soup and hot cocoa when I'm done."
       Monica nodded mutely, went over to the chest he had indicated, and pulled out two thick quilts.  She took her bundle with her to the couch in front of the large stone fireplace, eased down on the cushions, and draped the blankets around her.  Her face, fingers, and toes were still numb and they were starting to sting from the transition of the freezing cold outside to the warmth of the cabin.  The fire in the hearth had burned low but still radiated enough heat for her to feel it on her cold face.  Clattering noises came from across the room where the kitchen was situated.  Monica stared into the flickering flames as they licked over the charred wood and listened to her savior open and close cabinets and start up the stove.  She was broken from her blank staring by a hand holding out a steaming cup to her.  She jumped slightly because she had not heard him approach, and then gingerly accepted the mug of hot cocoa.
       "Careful, it's still very hot," the man cautioned.  He placed a bowl on the worn coffee table in front of her.  "Chicken noodle soup-also quite hot."
       Monica cradled her cup and gently blew into it as she looked over at the man sitting next to her on the couch.  He was absorbed in cooling his own drink and was not looking at her, giving her free range to study him.  She hadn't looked at him closely since he pulled her out from under the tree.  He was a very handsome man with a strong but lean build, dark wavy hair, and stubble running across his strong jaw.  He was wearing a woolen red and blue plaid button up shirt with a collar and worn but clean jeans.  His hands were rough and stained in the way of all men who do manual labor for a living.  No amount of scrubbing would ever erase the dark stains running through the cracks of his hands.  He finally noticed her staring and smiled at her, revealing beautiful straight white teeth.  His eyes were icy blue and lent a gentleness to his face.
       "What's your name?" Monica asked, surprised she still didn't know the name of the man who had rescued her.
       "Jack Frost" his crooked grin was playful and his eyes slightly mischievous.  "So tell me: how did you end up out here at night in this wretched storm?"
       "No, really, what is your name?"
       "My first name is actually Jack," he replied, taking a sip of hot cocoa.  "The last name's Connor.  It sometimes feels like it should be Frost, though, since I live out here by myself.  You know, the snow never completely melts here.  All year round it stays cold enough for snow to hide out in these mountains."
       His voice made Monica feel oddly peaceful and she felt herself relaxing, unaware that she had been tense before.  "I decided to go hiking early today and I had intended to be back home long before now, but I got lost."  Monica fixated on the milky brownness of her hot chocolate in embarrassment.  "I didn't tell anyone where I was going or bring my cell phone because I just needed to get away from everyone.  I felt that if I didn't get out by myself for a while I would snap.  It's stupid, I know.  I should have told someone for safety's sake, but I was at the end of my rope and wasn't thinking clearly."  She hazarded a quick glance up to see Jack's reaction to her story.  For some reason she desperately wanted him to think well of her and she was afraid that he would be disgusted by her stupidity.  To her surprise, Jack smiled at her sympathetically.
       "I know how you feel," he replied, voice faintly sad.  "One after another people I trusted and relied on kept letting me down.  I began to grow bitter and turn into something hateful that frankly scared me.  I didn't like what I was becoming, so I left behind all the pettiness and vice of man to live out here."  Jack paused, a faraway look in his eyes as he stared into the fire.  "Here there is only nature.  I know what to expect from these mountains.  Life here is as treacherous as it is beautiful but I live in peace on my own terms.  No one expects anything from me and I am only answerable to myself.  There is a wonderful freedom in that."
       Monica's heart lifted and she could feel a smile creep onto her face at Jack's speech.  The thoughts he was expressing resonated with her.  Here was a man who shared her frustration with humanity and all its frailty.  Here was a man who had taken it upon himself to leave the world of modern society behind and live a life of freedom.  Suddenly Monica realized she did not want to leave this haven in the mountains.  If he allowed it, maybe she could stay here, at least for a little while, to escape the life awaiting her at home.
       She set her mug on the wooden coffee table in front of her and lightly touched Jack's arm.  Broken from his reverie, he tore his gaze away from the fireplace to look into Monica's hopeful face.  Her brows knitted in nervous apprehension as her eyes pleaded with him to accept her.  "Please, Jack, let me stay with you," her words tumbled out in a breathy whoosh as if she had just gotten the air knocked out of her lungs by some strong impact.  Before he could reply, Monica hurried on, voice gaining in strength. "I promise I won't cause you any trouble.  I want to get away from it all too and live like you do.  I want to be my own woman and not have to deal with anyone else."  Jack opened his mouth to speak but she quickly jumped in again before he could make a sound.  "Except you, of course, but I like you and I think we're a perfect match.  We could have a good life here with no one to bother us.  I could help you with anything you needed done.  I promise you won't regret it."  Monica bit her lip nervously, hoping she hadn't made a fool of herself by prattling on. 
       Jack stared at her for a long moment, then looked back at the fire and smiled softly.  Without looking, he reached over and covered her tiny hand with his large, rough one.  His fingers wrapped around hers and his thumb began a sweet, caressing sweep across the back of Monica's hand.  Monica's face flushed and her heart thumped wildly in her ears.  She had a squirmy feeling in her stomach that was unfamiliar yet not unpleasant.  After a few moments, Jack finally spoke.
       "You are welcome to stay as long as you like," he said, as he turned toward her on the couch to face her.  "I hope I'm not being too forward, but I feel a connection with you like I've never experienced before."  He chuckled and his mouth twisted into a wry smile.  "I know next to nothing about you, and yet I feel like I know who you are.  I'd like you to stay and share this life with me.  I would love to learn all there is to know about the person behind the beautiful face."
       Monica flicked her gaze down to his hand on top of hers, momentarily unable to meet Jack's penetrating, icy blue eyes.  This was absurd, her sensible side cried out.  She had only just met this man, and now she wanted to live with him.  There had to be something wrong about that, and yet...she felt like she was in love with Jack already.  Monica pictured herself cooking in the kitchen, humming merrily as she listened to the sound of Jack splitting logs outside.  She imagined him walking in, handsome and smelling of the forest, and coming over to kiss her as she stirred the contents of the pot on the stove.  Her heart flipped pleasantly in her chest and she couldn't help grinning at the thought. 
       "So, will you?"  Jack asked, his voice carrying the same pleading note that Monica's had only moments before.  "Will you stay with me?"
       Monica looked back up at his face and gave him a huge smile.  Suddenly she was absolutely certain about what she wanted.  She was more certain about this than she had ever been about anything else in her entire life.  "Yes, I would love nothing more than to be here with you," she replied.
       Jack leaned forward and kissed her lingeringly on the forehead.  He then scooted closer to her and gently pulled her into his arms.  Monica snuggled closer to his side, contentment settling over her like a warm blanket.  They sat in silence as Monica watched the snapping flames through half-lidded eyes.  The fire had died down so low that she could no longer feel its heat.  Monica shivered and pulled the quilts she had gotten from the chest on top of her.  There also seemed to be a draft somewhere.  They would have to fix that soon.  She snuggled closer to Jack, trying to soak up heat from his body.  Even with the thick quilts, the cold seeped through and raised goose pimples on her arms.  Monica considered asking Jack to put more wood on the fire and get more blankets, but the words wouldn't come.  She could feel herself drifting off into sleep.  Blackness closed in from the edges of her vision and her eyelids became almost too heavy to hold open.  She wanted to sleep, but she kept fighting weakly to stay awake with a feeling of vague, inexplicable unease.  Monica stopped shivering, but it was still so very, very cold.  It shouldn't be this cold, she thought, as she felt her consciousness fading.  Moments later the blackness enveloped her world and pulled her under as she finally surrendered herself to sleep. 

Trying to Remember a Feeling

Last night I had yet another dream of my ex boyfriend being jealous and trying to get me back.  It was distressing and I knew no matter what he said or did, my mind wouldn't change.  All emotional ties and feelings of love and happiness had evaporated, only to be replaced by unease and dread.  When I awoke, I went through this most recent dream of him and recalled another dream I'd had. 

In the other dream, we were at my house in my room like we'd been so many times before.  He started kissing me while pushing me up against the wall, then he moved me to the bed and lay on top of me to make out with me.  Then, all of a sudden, I remembered that this was no longer the way things were and that I very much didn't want to be there with him.  I pushed him off and went to the kitchen.  He didn't quite understand my refusal, still caught up in believing we were together.  He followed me and tried to start undressing me but I got angry and fought him off.  The only feeling I had toward him was anger and disinterest.  There was not even a small part of myself that missed him or wished I was free to kiss him again.  I remember him becoming jealous and bitter, saying mean things, but then the dream ended.

Usually when I have dreams like this (my dreams are varied and weird, but there are some loosely like this) I really care for the person I'm with but then remember I have a boyfriend and am heartbroken that I cannot be with the new person.  Each time I've dreamed about my ex since I've been with John, I just feel uncomfortable and wish that my ex was not around so I wouldn't have to deal with the awkwardness of having absolutely no feelings for him when he obviously still wants me.


Today I tried to remember how I felt when me and my ex were dating.  I struggled to stoke the fires of my memory and my past emotions to remember how I used to feel.  I loved my ex.  Some of the happiest moments of my life so far have been with him.  But I couldn't for the life of me feel anything when I remembered him or thought of our time together.  I simply recalled what we have done together as pleasant memories, without being able to feel a tug of longing or a thrill of happiness at the remembrance.  I even perused through some pictures I have of me and my ex.  Still-nothing.  Looking at the pictures didn't make me feel anything whatsoever.  Not happiness, sadness, anger, or any derivation or degree thereof. 

I went through a few pictures of Courtney and my heart leaped and I instantly smiled, unable to contain my feelings of love for her.  Although me and my dad do not speak to each other, I can still look at his pictures and think about pleasant memories with him and feel something.  Sometimes I feel fondness, sometimes a little bitterness or sadness.  But I can always feel something.  When I try to remember my ex, knowing how madly in love we used to be, I can't feel a thing.  I wonder: is there something wrong with that?  If we were really so in love for three years, then why can't I remember how it used to feel?  Even if I don't feel anything for him now, I should still be able to remember how I used to feel, right?  So why can't I?

A Christmas Memory

       It is dark in the living room besides the Christmas tree, which softens the darkness and drapes a wall and nearby objects with a faint multicolored glow.  The tree has been decorated with care, like it is every year.  Me and mother spent an hour or two laboriously combing through boxes of old ornaments that do not match and picking which ones will go on the tree.  It is tradition for us.  She has had a few boyfriends since her and dad got a divorce when I was a year old, so the adorning of the tree rarely ever includes a man-just us two girls.  We play Christmas music and sometimes drink hot chocolate while we decorate the tree.  I pull out yards of tinsel and a wide array of ornaments that we have accumulated over the years.  They live in a few old boxes shoved away in the attic and the basement until the few weeks before Christmas when they are lovingly taken out and put on display.  Mom almost always wants to tie the big red bow on top of the Christmas tree, but I always want the star and I usually win out in the end.  Likewise, I always insist on colored lights although mom favors the white lights (we usually go with the colored). 
       This particular tree is clothed in both colored lights and the metal star.  I have won out again it seems. There is something about this room and this moment that holds a secret magic and wonder for my eleven year old self.  Even now, at nineteen, I can walk into a darkened room by myself and experience this same awe upon seeing the Christmas tree.  Each light shines off of a twinkling ornament or strand of tinsel and the effect is spectacular.  I am alone in the room with the exception of our kitten, Oreo.  I am afraid of the dark, but not this kind of dark.  With the magic of the tree and its little lights, I feel like everything is holding its breath, in complete awe of the scene and its atmosphere.  
       The tree itself is about four feet tall and is sitting atop a coffee table directly in front of a dark blue love seat.  I climb carefully behind the tree and lie down on the love seat.  I pick up Oreo and place her gently next to me.  Then I roll over on my back and wiggle under the tree.  Oreo snuggles up to me and lies down with me between my arm and my side.  Together we look up into the Christmas tree.  It is a whole new world.  It is like I have stumbled upon a mystical fairy world that is supposed to be kept secret from humans.  I pretend it really is a fairy village and I share the beauty and wonder with my kitten, who gazes upward in adorable wonder and peace, just like I do.  Together we survey the fairy court and the magical lanterns that light up the wooden pathways those magical creatures travel upon.  We glance through pine needles at what might be a carefully hidden and intricately decorated house in the evergreen.  I imagine the fairies themselves, gracefully floating from one branch to another and meeting up with friends and loved ones.  All of them would be dressed in delicate shimmery material that glows all different colors-just like the Christmas lights-and illuminates their beautiful faces and flawless skin.  I smile up into the tree, happy to share this moment with the little purring creature at my side.  

Imaginations are wonderful things-may they never grow dusty with neglect.

Escaping with the Arts

Plays, movies, television shows, artwork, books, etc.  The reason why many people say they enjoy these things is that they offer an escape from real life.  But do they really?  Surely, most forms of art tell an outward story different from the individual person's own experience, but underneath lie many of the same issues and feelings that exist in everyone's lives.  If art did not reflect our own problems and feelings, then we would likely not feel a connection with it.  In order for art to be successful, it must provoke thought or emotion.  Therefore, art is not really so separate from our daily lives.  All the things you would think people want to escape from: hatred, betrayal, poverty, despair, are usually included in art forms (whether that art be in the form of a book, play, movie, etc.).  If one of the appeals of art is that it provides a way to escape from everyday life, then why include all those things that tend to make our lives harder?  If art's purpose was to help its audience escape, then why include anything other than rainbows and butterflies-surely THAT would be an escape.  So, really, art brings us deeper into ourselves and the problems in our lives and in our world.  It brings attention to such things and does not seek to push them tidily away in order to present a flowery version of life.  To look at it another way: through art, we are brought closer to the heart of feelings and issues that plague us, not led away from them. 

Rain and Fire

The patter of rain sounds similar to the crackling of fire.  The sound of both holds great comfort for me and taps the shoulder of my subconscious, trying to make me remember.  What it's trying to remind me of, I don't know.  But there is always magic, discovery, and nostalgia in those sounds.  I can never quite grasp what it is that I'm making a connection with when I hear them, but it's always there just the same.  What is it in those sounds that bring such curious emotions to the surface?  I can't even say what emotions I have when I listen to the snap of firewood burning or the smack of rain as it falls against the roof and the ground outside.  If I could define it, would it hold the same magic?  There is something in the rain and in the fire that make me feel like my true, secret, inner self but also like someone I do not know and may never really know-someone whose personality and abilities hold endless possibilities that cannot be contained.  I like the mystery and I like the magic.  I love that the sound of rain and fire stirs up something within me I do not understand.  The beauty of it is that I do not have to understand to experience the wonder-it is there regardless, waiting for me to stop and listen.

The Adventures of An Evil Overlord (2)

Episode 2: In Which Clarence Finds a Friend

*Evil Overlords are people too*

     "Why are they rioting?  And why couldn't it have waited till a decent hour!?"  The Evil Overlord of Tarelia was not a morning person.  He was especially not a crack of dawn kind of guy, but no one had stopped to consider his sleep habits before deciding to form angry mobs at around 6 o'clock that morning.
     The guard visibly shrank away from his Overlord, who was still sporting a night robe and cap.  "The leader of the uprising wrote up a list of grievances and demands.  Here it is O Glorious and Terrible Master."  The man dropped to his knees, head bowed, and raised the scroll with both hands as if presenting a legendary sword to a mighty hero.  Clarence snatched up the scroll impatiently, unrolled it, and began to read it with a scowl.  He was still upset about being dragged from his warm, comfortable bed at such an early hour.  These country folk had came into the city about an hour ago, angry about something or another, and began making a mess of things.   Really, some people had no manners at all. 
      "It says here that they want us to stop taking such a large portion of their crops and livestock or else they won't survive the winter," Clarence informed the kneeling guard.  "How do they expect us here at the castle to eat if we don't take food from them?  They're the ones who have farms and such.  Not much room for raising livestock and growing produce inside the fortress.  They should be worried about us surviving the winter!"
      "Quite right, sire, couldn't have said it better me self."
      "These people are being unreasonable and selfish!  I am their ruler but they don't think me, my court, or the army that protects them should eat!  Astonishing!"
      Clarence thought in silence for a moment.  He was still furious about being woken up.  His dream was quite a pleasant one.  It involved some very pretty young ladies wearing rather less clothing than is generally considered decent.  For that, they would all pay.  Fuming, the Supreme Dictator pulled out his Evil Overlord Handbook and quickly flipped through to the section that covered uprisings.  After a few moment's study, Clarence closed the book with a definitive snap and sent the still-kneeling man to go fetch the captain of the guard. 
      In less than a minute, the huge wooden doors of the throne room swung open to admit an impressive-looking man followed by a dozen other high-ranking guards.  The captain's name was Jared and he had held his position for over fifteen years.  He was a tough, scarred man who looked as if he could take down a giant with his bare hands, then eat him-without any utensils.  Rumor had it that he actually did once, but reports were never confirmed since there were no survivors to witness it. 
     "Send out as many of your men as you think you'll need to stop these whiny country bumpkins," Clarence ordered, in the style of a true tyrant.  "Kill any who resist, then burn their little town to the ground.  Tell them they had better think twice before rebelling so damn early in the morning!  If they had waited till past noon, their pathetic little town might have been spared.  Go-make sure they know that."
      "Yes my liege!  The screams and weeping of their women and children shall be music to my ears as I make the streets run with the blood of the menfolk," declared Jared grandly as he saluted.
      "Yes, well, try to keep the bloody street thing to a minimum, okay?  People have to clean that up you know."
      Jared and his posse gave sharp bows to their merciless ruler and then left the throne room to a chorus of clanking metal and jingling chain-mail.  Clarence sighed.  It was going to be a long day.


*******************************************************************************
 
      The Evil Laugh was not going well.  After breakfast Clarence had shut himself up in his bedroom and ordered that no one was to disturb him on pain of death.  The Handbook said that every Evil Overlord had to perfect his Evil Laugh so that he could create a sinister aura and strike fear into his subject's hearts.  No one was going to be intimidated by his Evil Laugh.  He sounded like a mall Santa Clause who hadn't had a break all day and was starting to feel the strain.  It was hopeless.  Clarence had been trying for three hours and just couldn't seem to get it right.  He slumped against the stone wall of his bedroom and slowly slid down to the floor.  He pulled his knees in to his chest and buried his face in his hands.  If he couldn't even do an Evil Laugh, how could he possibly do all the other things an Evil Overlord was supposed to do?  His parents would be so disappointed in him if they could see him now.  Overwhelmed by frustration and suffering from cripplingly low self esteem, Clarence began to cry. 
      At first it was just a few hot tears rolling silently down his cheeks, then it escalated into full-on, snotty, red-faced sobbing.  After about ten minutes of this misery, Clarence heard a soft knock on his door.  In a panic, he wiped his runny nose on his robes and dried his eyes with the tapestry hanging behind him. 
      "I thought I said no one is allowed to disturb me!"  He tried to sound low and gruff, but the effect was rather ruined by his voice cracking halfway through.
      The door tentatively creaked open and a young woman entered the bedroom.  Clarence shot to his feet and tried his best to look powerful and menacing (and definitely not like he had just been crying). 
       "Who are you?" he demanded. "What are you doing here?"
       She turned to look at him but her eyes refused to meet his.  "My apologies, young man.  I did not mean to intrude, it's just that I heard crying and I..."  She searched the air between them for understanding, her eyes darting back and forth as if she were at a loss.  The young woman was pretty, Clarence noted, and she appeared to be a servant of some kind.  She had light brown hair that was pleated into a long braid.  Her dress, a faded light blue, fell halfway between her knees and the floor.  Her sleeves stopped at her elbows, revealing sun kissed skin.  For some reason, all of the noble women Clarence had met firmly believed that having the complexion of a ghost was attractive.  He didn't have the heart to tell them that their deathly pale skin made them look sickly.  This girl, however, obviously didn't fool around with parasols and bonnets.  Her tan made her look healthy and strong.  Why didn't the other women at court see this?
       "Were you crying?" the girl asked softly, snapping Clarence back to his present situation.
       "I don't see that it's any of your business," he said defensively.
       "It's not a sin to cry," she said.  "Tell me what's bothering you.  Maybe I can help.  At the very least-it feels good to talk to someone when you are sad."
       "Do you know who I am?" despite his best efforts, Clarence's defenses were slipping and his voice was reverting back to its normal wimpy state.  The truth was, he wanted to confide in her.  He was so tired of being alone.  Usually women made him nervous, but for some reason he felt perfectly at ease in this girl's presence.
      "No, I do not.  What is your name?"
      He hesitated.  Finally, so quietly he was surprised she could hear it, he said, "It's Clarence."
      "Nice to meet you.  My name is Theresa."  Although she didn't seem to be frightened, she still wouldn't look him in the eyes.  Instead, she was staring at his neck as she spoke.  Something occurred to Clarence.  He stepped closer to Theresa and slowly waved his hand in front of her face.  Her eyes didn't follow it. 
      "Are you...are you blind?"
      Theresa nodded once, "It happened ten years ago, when I was eight.  I was in an accident."  She didn't elaborate, so Clarence didn't pursue the topic further.
      "What are you doing here?  Do you work in the castle?"
      "I wash and press clothes for the people who live here.  I'm usually very good about finding my way around the castle, but it's just so large-I got lost.  Then I heard crying from the hall and came in here."
      Clarence thought for a moment.  Here was someone who didn't know who he was-who he was supposed to be.  He could tell Theresa about his problems, provided he didn't reveal too much, and she would think he was just some duke's son who lived in the castle.  Here was his chance to be around someone with whom he could be himself and not worry about trying to act like the Evil Overlord.  Clarence smiled.  This could be the beginning of something great.  
       He took her elbow and led her over to a richly upholstered couch and sat down.  Then they began to talk.  Clarence told her some of the problems that had been bothering him (leaving out important context, of course) and she listened with the utmost compassion and sympathy.  Theresa asked questions here and there, but mostly she just listened, which was something Clarence discovered he desperately needed.  After he had exhausted himself by talking about his issues, he started asking her questions about her life. 
      Theresa told him about her childhood and how she came to work at the castle.  She was sweet and humorous, making Clarence laugh more than once.  When she finally had to leave to finish up her work for the day, Clarence escorted her out to the hall and directed her back into familiar territory.
        Theresa turned to face him and put a hand on his forearm.  "Thank you for helping me find the way back, and for confiding in me.  I'm glad I met you.  You're a kind person-keep your chin up."
        Clarence smiled down at her.  "No, thank you.  Before today, I didn't have anyone I could talk to.  It really helped-being able to tell someone.  Do you...do you think we could meet up again sometime?"  He asked, apprehensively.
        Her laugh was warm and bright, "Of course we can.  Just come and find me whenever you want to talk."  With that, Theresa turned and walked away down the corridor, eventually disappearing through one of the many doors behind which the servants conducted their private lives, unseen by the people they served.  Clarence went back in the direction of his rooms, whistling cheerfully and thinking about his new friend. 

From a Safe Distance

        Nathan, Brian, and TJ were well into their high.  A smoky haze lazily gathered near the ceiling of the basement at Brian’s parent’s house.  The room smelled faintly sweet with the distinctive aroma of Amathin, a hallucinatory drug that had only been developed a few years ago.  The boys were all juniors at Melbrook High School-that was where they had met.  For three years they had suffered through classes together and snuck off after school to smoke Amathin under the bleachers at the football field.  A boy named Devin in the grade above them ensured they were always well-supplied with the drug, providing they had the money of course. 

There were usually four of them, but Alex had to help over at the auto repair shop his dad owned before joining them.  The three boys had gotten tired of waiting and had started without him.  Brian’s parents were out of town for the weekend, so the boys were making the most of having an empty house at their disposal.  TJ slowly exhaled the smoke in his lungs, watching the thick, milky smoke undulate upwards like a water snake in its natural habitat.  Everything was slowed down.  It was all so graceful and beautiful when one had the time to look at the way things moved. 

Brian slowly unfolded from his chair and sailed gently across the room like an ancient galleon.  He bent down as if bowing to a queen and changed the CD in the stereo system.  After a year of silence, sound again spread through the basement and flowed through the boy’s bodies.  TJ felt the magic of the music come to life-something that he could only fully experience with the help of Amathin.  He could see waves of color flow through the air, making shapes and scenes that dispersed as soon as he thought he could make out what they were.  It moved him, made him feel like everything was connected in infinite ways.  TJ couldn’t see the connections when he wasn’t sharing Amathin with his friends.  Without the drug, the whole world seemed out of sync and he felt so alone.  
       Brian felt the magic too.  He raised his hands out in front of his face and marveled at their complexity.  The fingers moved separately in a complicated dance, yet they worked together to help him do so many things.  Their friend Nathan, sitting motionless on a couch, was obviously experiencing the magic too.  His head was tilted back and his eyes were closed as he let the song envelop him.  They were all having their own private interlude with the magic, but they were still connected in beautifully intricate ways that the normal mind couldn’t begin to fathom.  Amathin awakened extraordinary awareness.  It opened sectors of the mind that slept at all other times.  It was sad, TJ thought to himself, that every day people walk around wrapped up in the busyness of their own lives without ever seeing as he was seeing now.

            Brian crossed the room, still exploring the versatility of his hands, and reclaimed his favorite armchair.  Finally he lowered his hands and became absorbed with the way smoke rolled out of his mouth when he exhaled.  He tried unsuccessfully to make smoke rings, but it didn’t really matter.  Nothing mattered really, it was all just experience.  Doing and not doing.  Everything just was, it didn’t have to be good or bad or be anything more than itself.  Nothing was dangerous or safe, either.  Amathin was supposed to be an extremely dangerous drug, but nothing bad ever happened to them.  All that talk of danger and risk was just society’s way of restricting their thinking.  The adults didn’t want them to feel this way or know the things Amathin helped them to understand.  No-they wanted to trap their youth into tiny lives and small thinking.  Everything was structured and pretty-nothing out of place.  That kind of world didn’t belong to them, and they didn’t belong to it.  They belonged to this.  They belonged here.  They were the children of now.  They didn’t have to face the world their parent’s formed for them.  They could exist in glorious harmony down here in the basement for the rest of their lives. 

            There was a knock from somewhere at the edge of the universe.  Then Alex descended the stairs to the basement looking for all the world like Jesus floating down from the clouds to collect His children.  He waved at them and went to sit down next to Nathan, who was still caught up in the music and hadn’t even opened his eyes when Alex arrived.  Alex stopped in front of Nathan and leaned down over him, studying his face.  TJ tried to suppress a giggle.  He couldn’t wait to see what Alex would do to mess with their friend.  From far away, like from the end of a long tunnel, TJ heard Alex say Nathan’s name.  He repeated it, shaking him this time.  TJ wanted to tell him to leave Nathan alone and let him enjoy the moment, but he couldn’t remember how to make words.  Then he lost himself to wondering about how strange it is that lips, teeth, tongues, and vocal chords interact with each other and enable people to understand what each other is saying.  Alex was shouting now, but it didn’t matter.  It was too far away.  There was nothing to be done except let it happen.  What did shouting mean anyway?

            TJ was dimly aware that Alex left and sometime after that people flooded down into the basement.  He was irritated that they would dare come in and violate the sanctity of their world.  Some adults were asking Brian questions but he was too confused to give the answers they wanted.  Everyone was so rushed.  They all just needed to slow down.  Brian was starting to get upset, like a hibernating bear being woken from its sleep too early to find that the world is still cold and barren.  He stood up and started pleading and shouting.  Brian’s parents couldn’t find out about this world they’d made for themselves.  Nathan was all right-he was always all right.  Why were they making a fuss?  He was just caught up in it.  Just shake him-say his name-then he’ll open his eyes.  Brian clumsily made his way over to Nathan and tried to touch him, but the intruders were keeping him back.  Why wasn’t Alex doing anything?  TJ thought to himself.  Why did he let them all in?  It all was getting to be too much.  The basement was crowded.  He had to get out.  He couldn’t breathe in here.  Why wouldn’t they all just get out?

       Nathan’s funeral was on a Saturday.  It rained that day but the three boys didn’t have umbrellas with them.  From their sentry position on the hill they looked down on all the people gathered around the hole in the ground.  All of them had black umbrellas to protect them from the cold droplets that fell down from the clouds like tears.  Brian, TJ, and Alex weren’t protected.  They felt every drop that burst and scattered on their heads and shoulders.  Alex looked down at the funeral party with a stony face that knew how the world was really like.  Brian stared at the hole his friend would be lowered into with disbelief and vague terror.  TJ was numb, unable to sort it all into a shape that would make everything okay again.  No one outwardly blamed them for Nathan’s death, not even his own parents, but the three boys banned themselves from the funeral party anyway.  If they joined all those mourning people, reality would come smashing down and destroy their fragile illusions.  Without that, they’d be lost.  So the three stood on the hill looking down at the world from a safe distance while the rain pelted their faces and slowly soaked through their clothes. 

Memories Old and New

I have been writing creative things today, but I don't want to post them yet because they are not done.  I could just put up what I have so far, but I can't bring myself to do that.  Even if I continue a short story in a later post, I need to at least be at a decent stopping point so that the post can stand on its own somewhat.  So, this is why my post for today will be me just talking.  I don't know about what yet-It'll be an adventure.  Could be dull, could be interesting, might be quick, might be long.  Uncertainty has a charm all its own. 


I went to my Granny Huff's house Saturday and spent the night.  It's been about two years since I last stayed with her.  I've been afraid to go back ever since the incident with my dad.  I was afraid he would find out I was there, then come over drunk and mean and do something horrible.  For a long time after the night when everything finally fell apart I was afraid he would come to my house and kill me.  Now I don't think he would, but I couldn't stop myself from thinking about it.  He was at my graduation and he was wonderful!  He actually acted like my daddy, and not like the thing he becomes after he drinks and does drugs.  Before I saw him that day, I was worried he would show up and cause a big ugly scene or even shoot me and my family.  But when I spoke with him, he was far more than I even dared hope he would be.  That's the daddy I remember and that's the father I can still love.  It's just hard when that side of him keeps getting pushed under by alcohol.


Anyway, I drove to her house by myself for the first time and it was great!  I had the TomTom just in case, but I didn't need it.  I remembered the way because it all looked so familiar.  I was surprised by how much I remembered.  The views were spectacular.  I saw frozen creeks and snowy woods.  When I got to the tops of the mountains, nearer her house, I got to occasionally look out on the rolling hills below and more pine covered mountains in the distance.  Up where Granny Huff lives, the snow stays much longer than where I live so it still covered her yard and the vehicles parked in the driveway. 


Christmas is Granny's favorite holiday and she wants the world to know.  She starts playing Christmas music in October and keeps it going throughout the house all day long.  I don't mind it when I'm there.  It's part of her and I remember it being the same way growing up.  When rounded the last bend before pulling in her driveway, I could see her house shining like a welcoming beacon from the top of the hill.  The house was strung with lights of all different colors and there was a whole civilization of lawn decorations.  They all lit up and several of them moved as well.  There was a polar bear who moved his head from side to side, and two delicate reindeer that shone blue (there were others, but I remember those the best).  Inside the front door I was welcomed by red and green everywhere.  A huge, heavily decorated Christmas tree was situated near the faux fireplace.  Smaller ornaments and decorations adorned tables, shelves, and whatever else had a decently flat surface.  There was even a sparkly, glittery conglomeration hanging from the ceiling light.  I loved it all.  It put me in the mood for Christmas even more than the past few day's snowfall had. 


Granny herself looked as she always has.  For as long as I can remember, she has looked almost exactly the same.  There is a great comfort in that.  I am instantly thrown back to my childhood memories when I'm around her.  It's so easy because she remains constant.  I find out new facets to her personality and new facts about her life, but who she is at the core and how she acts has never changed as far as I've known.  She wears long skirts, usually made out of jean material, because her church frowns upon women wearing pants.  Her long black hair is thick and curled, like it's been my entire lifetime.  She says she doesn't know what to do with it otherwise, so it stays the same.  When she goes out somewhere-usually to church-she puts rollers in her hair the night before and sleeps with them in so her hair will be neatly curled in the morning. 


I was greeted at the door by her and by her little white pekingese dog named Maggie May.  Maggie is so adorable!  She's slightly bigger than a football and she sounds like she's suffering perpetually from a bad cold.  She snots and snorts and snores nearly all the time because her breed's noses are so smushed into their faces.  I played with her with her favorite toy: a hairspray bottle lid. 


Granny Huff took me down nostalgia lane by making my favorite childhood foods: mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, and chicken nuggets with Dr. Pepper.  I tried to get my own plate and fill it with food, but Granny said: But I always used to get your food for you.  Her tone sounded wistful and a bit sad, so I sat at the table and waited for her to bring it to me like I used to when I was young.  She even poured me my drink and placed it next to my plate.  I remember how she used to spoil me so much when I'd visit her that mom would fuss at me when I'd come home and expect everything to be brought to me. 


There is an old, very large vase Granny keeps next to the refrigerator.  I told her that I remembered putting trash into it as a kid.  She then proceeded to tell me how she punished her son, my uncle, Todd when she found a huge stash of paper, cans, and the like inside of it.  She said she didn't believe him when he told her he didn't do it.  The next day when we went down to Todd's house and we related the story to him, he said that he actually did it too and that everyone did.  I don't know what it was about that vase that made it so tempting to drop trash into.  There was a trashcan right next to it, but I preferred the vase.  Maybe us kids were making a subtle statement about its aesthetic value. 


Granny told me the story of how I picked every single leaf off of one of her plants because I thought I was pruning it.  My Granny Keister worked with plants a lot and I'd watched her pull dead leaves off her plants to encourage new growth.  Granny Huff was so upset when she found me sitting in front of a stripped stem with a pile of leaves at my side that she locked herself in the bathroom and cried.  She described to me how I got on my knees in front of the bathroom door and put my mouth to the crack near the floor to appeal: but that's how Granny K always did it!  The plant in question is now growing quite magnificently in a corner of her kitchen.  It survived my attack and I firmly believe I helped make it more resilient.  Now she has problems keeping it from outgrowing itself and its pot. 


Another story I was regaled with was the time I took dip that goes with chips and painted the dining room table and chairs with it.  I do not remember this, but my aunt Sharon and Granny certainly do.  We also discussed how I sucked my thumb till I was almost in middle school and how I was (and still slightly am) obsessed with rolling and picking fuzzies off blankets.  Sharon told me about how I was at their house many years ago and they couldn't find me anywhere.  She started calling for me and I called out: I'm under here where the BIG fuzzies are!  And they discovered me buried under a big blanket. 


Anyway, back to the more recent past.  Granny, Paw Paw, and I played Rummy for hours.  Paw Paw beat us miserably, but I still had fun.  Granny kept looking daggers at him every time he laid down anything and Paw Paw kept saying "well that don't help me none" and "I reckon I don't have a chance this time around" and "ya'll're too smart for me, I caint do nothin with you."  And yet he beat us with over 500 points when we hadn't even breached 400. 


I love hearing my family on my dad's side speak.  Although I don't live far away and am also a southern girl, they really speak country.  They use words and phrases I don't hear very often at home.  One of my favorites is when Granny or Sharon will be talking about how someone is mad and they'll say something like: she gets so ill in the mornings!  And "ill" sounds like eel, being drawn out with lots of emphasis.  Reckon and a lot of other southern words originated from Old English, which I think is pretty interesting-nifty, if you will.  (I like the word nifty)


I think I'm going to go to bed now.  I've stayed up way too long again and I will wake up bitter and resentful when my alarm goes off at 7am, which is only 4.5 hours away.  I've enjoyed writing about memories as they came to me.  They may not be beautifully structured or connected in chronological sequence, but that's not how my brain works when it comes to memories anyway.  'Night ya'll!

The Adventures of an Evil Overlord (1)

Episode 1: In Which We Meet the Supreme Dictator of Tarelia

*Evil Overlords are people too*

The slave shook uncontrollably as he was roughly pushed through the heavy doors that opened into the throne room.  The man was so frightened that he was barely able to stand on his own.  It hardly mattered though, since he was escorted by two stony-faced guards who half-dragged half-carried him across the room toward the most feared man in all of Tarelia.  The slave began to whimper as his eyes flashed around the room, looking for some way out-for something or someone to save him.  There was no one.  The guards stared straight ahead, as cold and unfeeling as their intimidating metal armor that was dented and tarnished from many battles.  A long scar ran across the cheek of the guard on his left and the guard on his right wore an eye patch.  These were hard, cruel men who served an even crueler master (whom the slave was soon going to see).  The unfortunate soul looked desperately at the tapestries covering the walls, the rug that ran the length of the room, the clanking boots of the men to either side of him, anywhere besides the throne at the end of the long hall.  He found no comfort in any of these sights.  They simply reminded him of what lay before him.  The tapestries showed scenes of war and devastation.  The rug was dark red, the color of blood, and the boots carried him ever closer to his doom.  Stone walls pressed in on him, seeming eager to hear his fate.  A vaulted ceiling stretched far above the helpless man, bouncing back echoes of what the slave imagined to be the screams of the tortured and anguished humans that had walked this hall before him. 

            The sound of clanking armor and jingling chain-mail was silenced as the guards stopped before the raised throne.  The slave was shoved forward and he fell in a heap among his heavy iron shackles.  His knees banged painfully upon the stone floor, but he didn’t dare cry out.  He kept his head bowed, too afraid to look up into the terrible face of his ruler. 

            “This slave was caught trying to escape this morning, O Great and Terrible Master,” came the harsh, booming voice of the guard to his left.

            “Why?”

            The guard hesitated.  “Because…I guess he didn’t much like changing out chamber pots and the like….um…I reckon he got beaten pretty regular too.”  The man sounded unsure of himself.  Slaves tried to escape all the time, he never really thought about the why of it.  His job was to catch them and bring them back, and that’s what he’d done. 

            “I see,” came the voice at the top of the steps.  “I suppose that’s a good reason to run away.”

            The guard shuffled his feet in distress and said nothing.  This was not going the way he had planned at all.  The silence stretched on….and on…and on.  The guard to the slave’s right cleared his throat awkwardly.

            “Do you need a lozenge?” asked the voice, considerately.

            “Um, no thanks,” said the guard with the eye patch.  “Um, you see, we…ah, brought this guy to you to see what we should do with him.  Uh…I guess we figured you’d want to do something about it…so more slaves don’t take it in their head they can just up and leave.”  The last comment was phrased as a question.  The guard knew there was a certain structure to these sorts of things and this was definitely a deviation from time-honored traditions. 

            “Oh!  Right!  Just a moment.”  This time the voice sounded slightly embarrassed and was shortly followed by the rustling of pages.  “…secret, shower, silver…” the voice muttered to itself.  “Ah ha!  Here it is: slave!” There was a silence.  “Says here he should be made an example of.  You know-to scare the others a bit.  Um, I guess you could torture him a little, then stick his head on a pike in town.  Is that doable?”

            The guards exchanged glances over the slave’s crumpled form.  They were getting back into familiar territory and gaining confidence by the second.  Torture they knew.  Pikes they knew even better.  “Yes, Overlord," one of the guards bellowed.  "His head shall be skewered by the main entrance to the city and left there for the birds to pick clean!”

            “Excellent!  Well done men.  I know I can always count on you.”

            The guards saluted smartly, picked up the limp slave who was now sobbing in terror, and turned to go.

            “Oh, Richard, I almost forgot to ask you something.”

            The guard with the eye patch stopped and turned back around.  “Yes my lord?”

            “How’s your pinkeye doing?  Awful stuff, that-itches like the dickens.  Did you know you get pinkeye from fecal matter coming into contact with your eyes?  You should really wash your hands and try not to rub your eyes so much.  But I must say the eye patch they gave you looks great on you!”

            The guard’s visible eye twitched and his face flushed an unattractive shade of red.  “It’s doing fine.  Thank you for the compliment, O Terrible One.”

            “Great!  See you Monday!”  The cheerful voice echoed in the doomed slave’s brain over and over as he was dragged, screaming, from the throne room. 

The Evil Overlord of Tarelia, supreme dictator of a vast and terrible empire, knew what he had to do next.  Finally, after three hours of judging all those who were brought before him, he was alone.  The time had come.  Clarence hopped up from his throne and pulled out the wedgie that had been bothering him all morning.  He sank back down on his chair of power and sighed with relief.  It was an extraordinarily uncomfortable seat.  With all the treasure he got from tribute money and plundered villages, someone could have at least installed a cushion on his throne.  He would have to ask someone about that.  All this business with dark mahogany and carvings of demons was well and good for looks, but did nothing for comfort. 

            Clarence had barely sat down when the ancient, towering double doors of the throne room creaked open to admit a rather short, chubby fellow dressed ridiculously in purple velvet that made him look very much like a plum.  “Sire,” the man said in a lofty tone.  “The war council is about to begin and they require your superior insight.”  He bowed low, almost losing his balance while performing a complicated flourish with his right hand. 

            The Destroyer of Hope sighed wearily.  “Will there at least be some decent finger foods this time?”

            Clarence is no name for an Evil Overlord, thought Clarence as he waited for the food and wine tasters to sample his dinner for poison.  No one called him that, of course.  No one even knew that was his real name except for his mother.  Everyone else just called him one or another of the sinister-sounding titles available to an evil dictator.  He would rather they just call him something like Jason or Steven.  Those were good, solid names.  (The slave who had just taken a sip from Clarence's goblet crumpled to the ground, twitching, while yellow foam frothed at the corners of his mouth.) 

Freckles were out of place for an evil ruler as well, but Clarence was plagued with them.  He’d tried to use powder to cover them up, but there were just too many of them.  (A team of kitchen servants hurried forward to remove the now-still man from the dining hall and carried him off toward one of the many passages known only to servants, slaves, and rats.) 

The Evil Overlord had thick, unruly orange hair that his mother had tried many times to dye black, but for some reason the dye never took.  It was hopeless.  He was hopeless.  Everyone expected him to be scary, fearless, and cruel but Clarence just couldn’t seem to get the hang of it.  He didn’t mean to let everyone down, but even after eight months of being Supreme Evil Overlord of Tarelia he still had to refer to his handbook.  He pulled the worn book out of his richly adorned robes-standard black-and stared bleakly at its cover: The Evil Overlord’s Ultimate Guide: Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Being Bad.  He sighed.  It had been a present from his father, the last Evil Overlord, that he had given Clarence when he retired and passed the throne down to him. 

Clarence put the book down and wearily picked at his food.  Tonight his plates were piled high with seasoned pheasant, rolls glistening with butter, mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, steamed vegetables flavored with twenty different spices, and a plethora of exotic foods from far off countries he had never visited but that his father had conquered and added to his empire during his reign.  A new wine taster stepped forward nervously and sipped cautiously from a new goblet.  He paused for a moment, head cocked to the side, then sighed in relief and placed the drink back on the table. 

All around the vast dinner table, ambitious men and their conniving wives talked amongst each other in code, always plotting on how to one-up the people sitting near them.  False laughter and cutting remarks delivered with a smile were the common language of the upper class and it was in full swing tonight.  Astrid, the wife of a duke, was particularly in her element this evening and had just called the woman to her right a tacky barnyard animal with a pension for necrophilia in such a way that it was taken as a compliment.  All of them pretended to like Clarence, but they were all so mean and they kept hinting things at him that he didn’t understand.  For some reason, he always felt nervous and a little sick around them.  None of them could really be called his friends.  In fact, Clarence didn’t have any friends.  He had combed through the Evil Overlord handbook several times but could find nothing about friends.  He’d looked for “friend,” “companion,” “partner,” and every other synonym he could think of but came up empty.  The only word that was even in the guidebook was “partner” but all it had said was: “can be potentially useful, but will eventually betray you.  Kill after they are no longer useful.” 

Clarence was lonely.  His parents were far away and he didn’t want to confide in them anyway because then they would discover what a failure he was.  He couldn’t let that happen.  No matter what, Clarence had to become the best evil dictator Tarelia had ever known.  Then his family would be proud of him.  No matter how hard it was, Clarence would work diligently and eventually surpass his father.  He would strike fear into the hearts of the masses.  He would wipe out whole civilizations with a wave of his hand.  He would…

Mashed potatoes slid off Clarence’s spoon and plopped down onto his lap.  He sighed and looked up to see if anyone had noticed.  No one seemed to be snickering or paying him any attention at all.  He wiped off his robes as best he could with his cloth napkin and pushed back his chair to leave.  Everyone at the table fell silent and looked down the unending table at him.  Clarence stared back.   Silence.  Someone near the far end of the table coughed nervously.  Clarence felt like he should probably say something.  They seemed to expect it.

“Uh…I hope your food isn’t poisoned.  G’night.”

Clarence exited the cavernous dining hall as everyone looked apprehensively down at their plates.  A couple of noble ladies delicately spit out the contents of their mouths into dainty hand-sewn napkins. 

The Poisoning

January 15th, 11:30am

It started a few days ago.  First she wouldn't let me go to school, now she'll hardly let me leave my room.  I don't know why she's doing this to me.  What did I do to deserve it?  I thought my mother loved me, so why is she acting this way?  Dad doesn't seem to notice anything's wrong.  Am I the only one who sees it? 

If anything happens to me I want dad and sis to know the truth, so I'm going to write it all down in this composition notebook.  

January 15th, 5pm

She's tried it again.  The first time she told me to drink the liquid it tasted so vile I almost threw it up.  She says it will make me feel better, but there's nothing wrong with me.  This time I refused to take the little cup and she got mad at me.  She yelled at me and threatened to take away all my toys if I didn't obey, but I still wouldn't accept it.  Mother left my room with an angry, determined gleam to her eyes that made me frightened.

January 15th, 6:30pm

Mom cooked my favorite foods for dinner, knowing I wouldn't be able to resist her for long if hot dogs and macaroni and cheese were at stake.  She told me I couldn't have a single bit until I took the little cup.  I relented and drank the nasty tasting substance she gave me.  It took half a hot dog to erase the taste from my mouth, but I enjoyed the rest of dinner.  Mom sat at the end of the table, looking up at me every now and again to give me an evil, smug smile.

January 16th, 9:00am

It must be that stuff she gave me yesterday.  I'm starting to feel weak and a little nauseous.  When I tried to get out of bed this morning, I had to lay right back down because the room kept spinning.  Mom said I couldn't go to school today and that I had to lie down in my room and get some rest.  Mia came to see me before she had to get on the school bus but mom wouldn't let her in.  I'm totally isolated in this room.  The only one who goes in or out is mom. 

January 16th, 12pm

She tried to force the little cup of horrible liquid on me again, but this time I knew better.  I gave in last night, and now I'm so weak I couldn't go far away from my bed even if mother let me.  She was furious when I refused.  She lectured me about how bad little boys who didn't take what was given to them only get worse.  I wouldn't listen and finally she left me alone.

January 16th, 3:30pm

She tricked me!  When I told her I was thirsty, mother brought me a glass of milk.  She helped me sit up and guided the cup to my lips with a small smile.  There was something wrong with her eyes.  They were too shiny.  There was something wrong with the milk.  It tasted wrong, just a bit off, but still I could tell.  I spit my second mouthful back into the glass and shoved it back at her.  Her face changed completely and what I saw made me so afraid my throat closed up and I couldn't speak.  Mother was livid but she wasn't defeated and she wouldn't give up.

January 16th, 4:00pm

Almost as soon as she left my room she stormed back in and put the nearly full glass of milk on my nightstand.  She said I would get nothing else all day until I drank every last drop of milk.  Mother crossed her arms and smiled smugly down at me, triumph written all over her.  But I won't give in.  I know what she's doing and I won't give up without a fight.

January 16th, 10:00pm

I failed.  I was just too thirsty.  I thought I would die from dehydration, so I drank it.  I'm scared now.  If one little cup made me feel this bad, what will this new dosage do?

January 17th, 6:00am

I woke up an hour ago and threw up in the floor next to my bed.  Mother must have heard me because she came rushing in and grabbed the tiny trashcan in my bathroom for me to use.  She cleaned up my mess as I continued to throw up for the next hour and a half.  Long after I had gotten rid of all I had eaten for the past day or so, I still kept heaving.  Thin strands of bile came up, then nothing, yet I still heaved something awful.  I'm so weak now I can't sit up in bed.  There's no doubt about it now: mother is poisoning me.

January 17th, 9:00am

Dad doesn't believe me.  I called him in and told mom to leave us alone for a few minutes.  Anger flashed across her face for a moment, but then she put on a mask of sympathy and quietly left the room.  I told dad about how mom was poisoning me and keeping me away from everyone else so I couldn't tell anyone.  He laughed at me-actually laughed-and said I was being silly.  He said mom would never do anything to hurt me and that whatever she does is for my own good.  I told him-I told him all of it and he STILL wouldn't believe me!  I don't know what to do.  I'm all alone in this and I'm too weak to fight her.  No matter what, I CAN'T let her win.  Mia needs someone to look after her in school and keep her out of trouble.  I must live-for her.

January 17th, 3:00pm

I've found a way to thwart her!  Every time she brings me a drink laced with poison, I pour it into the trashcan that she moved next to my bed for when I get sick.  After she sees I've finished her death drink, she brings me plain water.  I've done it!  Now all I have to do is wait until my strength returns and I can get out of bed.  Then I'll take Mia to grandma's house and ask her to hide us.  Until the time is right, I'll wait here and pretend to get sicker so mom won't become suspicious.  I can't let mother get to Mia!

January 17th, 9:00pm

Mother caught on to my trick two hours ago.  She went to empty my trashcan and discovered all the milk I'd poured in there.  She was so angry with me that her face started getting splotchy like it does when she yells at dad about how he never does the dishes.  She marched off and burst back into my room with another glass of milk and held it out to me.  When I refused to take it, she put it on the nightstand and sat down on a chair in my bedroom, arms crossed in a determined pose.  She told me she would sit there as long as it took for me to drink the milk and for every minute she had to wait, she would throw away one of my baseball cards.  She was desperate to win.  Those cards are precious to me-I've been collecting them since I was six.  Dad gave me my first one and I've been obsessed with them ever since.  I only lasted three minutes.  When she picked up my autographed card and moved toward the trash bin with it, I cried out for her to stop.  She calmly tucked the card back into its protective sleeve and stood over my bed to watch me drink, malice and eagerness written across her face.  Then she walked out and left me alone again.  Mia isn't allowed in here although I've been asking for her since she got home.  I think mom doesn't want me to tell Mia what's really going on, afraid that together we'll escape.  I don't know what to do now.  I feel so alone.

January 18th, 12:00am

I've thrown up more times than I can count.  That last bit of poison really did me in.  When I'm not puking, I feel like I'm going to at any moment.  I've had to keep my head buried in the trash bin because I'm too afraid I'll have to use it as soon as I put it down.  There are rare moments when I feel like the nausea is dying down, but they never last long.  I'm having one of those moments now, or else I wouldn't be up to writing this.  I've started getting hot and cold chills all down my body.  One moment I'm burning up, the next I'm shivering uncontrollably.  Mom came in about half an hour ago and made me drink another little cup of liquid.  I didn't have the will to fight her.  I felt so miserable and out of it that she made me drink it without a problem.  I'm so afraid I'm gonna die.  Then Mia will be alone.  Mom will hurt her too.  Dad didn't believe me and he won't believe her when it starts for her.  He's too taken in by mother's act.  He can't help us.  I can't help myself.  And I can't help Mia.  Mia: if I die and you find this, please keep fighting.  Escape, go to grandma or ANYONE who will believe you and hide you from mom.  I love you, Mia.  I'm so sorry I failed you.

January 18th, 7:00pm

I'm starting to get better!  I've stopped shivering and I don't feel very nauseous anymore.  I'm still weak and my stomach's not totally right, but I'm definitely better than I was.  Maybe there's still hope!  Maybe I'm becoming immune to the poison mother's been giving me, or maybe it's just stopped working for some reason.  Mia, we'll get out of here yet, I promise!

January 18th, 9:00pm

I guess I was wrong about everything.  Mom and dad came in a while ago and had a talk with me.  They explained to me that I came down with the flu and that my fever broke today, which is why I'm feeling better.  Mom's been giving me medicine to help with my symptoms, but since I kept refusing to take it, it didn't help me as much as it could have.  Apparently dad told mom what I said about her poisoning me and they agreed to talk with me about it together.  Mom apologized, saying she should have explained to me exactly why I needed to take my medicine instead of just trying to force it on me.  She's promised to take me and Mia out to our favorite restaurant when I'm completely better!  Mom even fished my baseball cards out of the trash and said she was sorry for being so harsh with me.  I may have been wrong about the poisoning thing, but can you blame me?  I just don't understand why medicine has to taste so horrible!  Oh well, at least Mia and I are going to get to go to our favorite place when I'm better!  See you then, Mia.