Since I posted Friday's blog in the wee hours of Saturday morning, I guess it's only fitting that I post Saturday's blog in the wee hours of Sunday morning.
I just saw something beautiful unfurl on Twitter that I've seen a few times recently. But everytime I see it, I'm still awed by the wonder of it.
One of my newest followers is in a great deal of pain. I caught sight of his posts just as I was logging off to head to bed after a long day. They not only caught my eye but my heart, so full of pain, anquish and feelings of utter loss and aloneness. :(
I said a quick prayer to God and followed my heart. All it took was one quick message, and before my eyes a cascade of messages filled with Love and support flowed into his inbox.
No, he is not alone. None of us are. We're all interconnected in this world. And God is with each and everyone of us as well, and often touches our lives in ways we may never expect.
Sometimes all we need to do is hold out our hand and have the faith that another will grasp it with one and reach out with the other, forming a chain of Love and compassion.
We can all make a difference.
Reach out.
Grasp.
Love!
- ESA
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
When Former Friends Try to Become Your Enemy
I was going to post this last night, but I lent my laptop to my husband after work, so I needed to wait until this morning to do so.
Yesterday, someone sent me a transcript of a chat with another who was once a very close friend of mine. In fact, this former close friend is the very same person of which I speak when I first started posting under this blog name. There was a point reached where he gave into the hatred and anger and I would not walk down that path at his side, so we parted ways.
It appears he is still bitter about that.
In the aforementioned transcript he told my other friend some of the things I shared with him, but used lies, half truths and twisted what was true in such a way to purposely skew the information. I could easily see he was trying to drive a wedge in my friendship with another. I've seen it very often in my life and in the lives of others. Why do some people do that? Why can people not be happy for others but follow the belief that "If they don't want me as a friend, no one else should be as well?"
Sadly, I'd still like to be his friend, I just will not walk down the same path into darkness and destruction, anger and hatred and cries for vengence against one and all... It's not in my nature. My heart still carries Love for him and he is in my prayers every day.
Further, he also told my friend that he'll be posting a video of him burning a bible soon. He's aware that I look at his YouTube account and that my friend and I speak, so I wonder if this is his way of saying "make sure she watches it!" I don't know if I'm just assuming way too much of my influence on things, but of late, he's been "bashing" all the things that he knew are close to my heart. Christ and my faith are always close to my heart and he's been bashing both more frequently.
At first impression, I thought I would be outraged upon hearing it, as that is the response I've seen in others. But I'm not. I'm saddened. Very saddened that things have come to this.
I'm also a bit bemused. Growing up any religion, one often hears the stories of persons being persecuted for their faith. If my assumptions are correct, here is a case of a faith being persecuted because of a person. Now I feel REALLY bad (but still have to chuckle over the absurdity of the situation).
Will I rebuke him or lead an army of followers to his video so he will "get it in the neck" as he put it in the chat? No. I will keep my peace and not forward my knowledge of the link to anyone. If he wants to shout in an empty room to the surrounding silent shadows, let him. Most people can see the emptiness in his exclaimations from the replies I've seen where he's badmouthed Christ elsewhere. So I choose not to stir the embers of a dying fire.
Why return hate for hate.
It only begets hate.
Love instead.
- ESA
Yesterday, someone sent me a transcript of a chat with another who was once a very close friend of mine. In fact, this former close friend is the very same person of which I speak when I first started posting under this blog name. There was a point reached where he gave into the hatred and anger and I would not walk down that path at his side, so we parted ways.
It appears he is still bitter about that.
In the aforementioned transcript he told my other friend some of the things I shared with him, but used lies, half truths and twisted what was true in such a way to purposely skew the information. I could easily see he was trying to drive a wedge in my friendship with another. I've seen it very often in my life and in the lives of others. Why do some people do that? Why can people not be happy for others but follow the belief that "If they don't want me as a friend, no one else should be as well?"
Sadly, I'd still like to be his friend, I just will not walk down the same path into darkness and destruction, anger and hatred and cries for vengence against one and all... It's not in my nature. My heart still carries Love for him and he is in my prayers every day.
Further, he also told my friend that he'll be posting a video of him burning a bible soon. He's aware that I look at his YouTube account and that my friend and I speak, so I wonder if this is his way of saying "make sure she watches it!" I don't know if I'm just assuming way too much of my influence on things, but of late, he's been "bashing" all the things that he knew are close to my heart. Christ and my faith are always close to my heart and he's been bashing both more frequently.
At first impression, I thought I would be outraged upon hearing it, as that is the response I've seen in others. But I'm not. I'm saddened. Very saddened that things have come to this.
I'm also a bit bemused. Growing up any religion, one often hears the stories of persons being persecuted for their faith. If my assumptions are correct, here is a case of a faith being persecuted because of a person. Now I feel REALLY bad (but still have to chuckle over the absurdity of the situation).
Will I rebuke him or lead an army of followers to his video so he will "get it in the neck" as he put it in the chat? No. I will keep my peace and not forward my knowledge of the link to anyone. If he wants to shout in an empty room to the surrounding silent shadows, let him. Most people can see the emptiness in his exclaimations from the replies I've seen where he's badmouthed Christ elsewhere. So I choose not to stir the embers of a dying fire.
Why return hate for hate.
It only begets hate.
Love instead.
- ESA
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tribulation
I've debated about whether or not I should write what I have. But some days you just have to follow what's in your heart, roll the dice and face what comes from doing so.
Tribulation is a subject on many minds and in many articles, movies and books of late. I'll try to be brief as possible on the subject (brevity is not my forte, so please bear with me. :D).
WHAT
Tribulation is considered by many as the "end times" or "end of the world". While it may be "the end of the world as we know it" as one song goes, the Tribulation is essentially a period of change -- as brutal as puberty can be -- but not the end of the world. It’s the end of one period and the start of another. Any change is turbulent. But the next era will be something of Peace and Wonder...
HOW
Pick a subject from a long list: earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes, strong/violent storms, tsunami's, cyclones, war, famine, pestilence / pandemic, meteor strike, volcanoes, cats and dogs living together... You can find any of these in places ranging from the bible to Blockbuster video, from the neighbors to the nightly news. So I need say no more here.
WHY
What I would like to point out is that it doesn't matter so much what happens, but how humanity responds to what happens. Humanity will grow / change once pushed to our limits. What if that push is on a much larger scale than an individual, family, company or community? What if we're pushed on a global scale? How BIG would that change be?
The other question is what would that change be? My belief is that if we looked to our own needs and developed a bunker mentality, this will only lead to isolation and a "get them before they get us" attitude that could spell the fall of humanity. :(
Or, we could reach out to each other – from next-door neighbors to others in communities around the world. It's been proven that the combined efforts of human beings bring greater results than the sum of individual efforts. What would happen if we expanded our efforts, joining hands with those around the world? What kind of change would that bring?
WHO
There's been much debate about Rapture as a means of escape from Tribulation. But from what I've researched, my conclusion is that if there is an escape clause somewhere, it's certainly NOT at the before Tribulation. There are six of seven seals broken before the 144,000 are sealed in Revelation. So that means there are some events that will happen before that point. In one of the Gospels, Christ mentions that, even though it's going to be a time of grave horrors, "it will be shortened due to the elect." That makes me think the elect will still be around on this mudball at the time or why would it matter...
For myself, suffice to say that I'd rather prepare my heart to go through Tribulation and meet Christ face-to-face on the other side with my head held high rather than saying "I believe" because it will give me a ticket out of the horrors.
WHERE
I believe we shall see many horrors, but not necessarily all in one place (unless the sun blows up then all points above are null and void (save the paragraph above, of course)). Considering we saw a 7.1 earthquake off Honduras today instead of LA, and nuclear war seems nearer in the Korean peninsula than the Middle East, anything is possible.
Let's see, we have Who, What, Where and How... what's missing...? Of course, the first question everyone asks...
WHEN
I don't know. I don't WANT to know. I'm a person that will fixate on a date and needlessly waste the time I have. I'll take it day-by-day, living like it's my last moments instead. In doing so, does it really matter when?
Also, something else came to mind on the subject. Clocks and calendars are man's creation to mark time – not God's. All said and done, it's in God's hands, no matter what we do, say or predict. But God does not see time as humanity does.
I believe the true timing of "when" is similar to one of those little puzzle games where you have to line up the holes to get the ball to drop through. In other words, a series of people and events must line up just right for things to happen. If a person is not there or something does not quite happen in "just the right way" or in the proper sequence, the ball is still "trapped" and the major events are delayed. There have been hypotheses that the "end times" may have happened already. But I believe these were the times when things started to line up but then something changed – perhaps a change in policy or way people handled the situation before them.
But when the time does fall into place and the BIG event happens, it will be a bumpy ride. But at the end is something and Someone wonderful. I think that's worth going through what may come our way.
WHAT CAN WE DO
The answer is also found in the good book: pray. Christ instructed people to pray that it does not happen in the winter (at a time when local food is short, shelter is desperately needed and transport is difficult). I don't hear many people preaching that one. Repent, yes. Believe, certainly. But pray that the end times don't come in winter? No. Why? It makes a LOT of sense to me. That's why it's in my prayers.
In addition, there's some common-sense stuff. The CDC and FEMA have many guidelines and has been trying to get people to read them. Prepare a grab-and-go bag. List your medications. Have the family become familiar with a fire-drill. What would you do if you know a storm is coming - stock up on batteries and essentials. That's stock-up not stockpile – there's a difference; hording is not helping unless you plan to share with the neighborhood. And a room full of supplies isn't useful if you've been evacuated from your home. Again, common sense and reasonable preparations are recommended.
Lastly, get to know those around you. If a major disaster hits, phone lines and other contact with the outside world will be cut temporarily. Even cell phones are worthless if the tower is out of power or taken down – or the switchboard overwhelmed as seen on 9/11. Face-to-face contacts will be the front line to recovery immediately after the disaster. Start now and get to know people and things will run a lot smoother if you find a friendly, familiar face rather than a stranger working beside you.
Well, I've tried to keep it short. I don't know who or how many will read this. But I hope some of the advice above will be taken going forward. Thanks for reading.
Prepare and pray
Not prey
Today
- ESA
Tribulation is a subject on many minds and in many articles, movies and books of late. I'll try to be brief as possible on the subject (brevity is not my forte, so please bear with me. :D).
WHAT
Tribulation is considered by many as the "end times" or "end of the world". While it may be "the end of the world as we know it" as one song goes, the Tribulation is essentially a period of change -- as brutal as puberty can be -- but not the end of the world. It’s the end of one period and the start of another. Any change is turbulent. But the next era will be something of Peace and Wonder...
HOW
Pick a subject from a long list: earthquakes, hurricanes, tornadoes, strong/violent storms, tsunami's, cyclones, war, famine, pestilence / pandemic, meteor strike, volcanoes, cats and dogs living together... You can find any of these in places ranging from the bible to Blockbuster video, from the neighbors to the nightly news. So I need say no more here.
WHY
What I would like to point out is that it doesn't matter so much what happens, but how humanity responds to what happens. Humanity will grow / change once pushed to our limits. What if that push is on a much larger scale than an individual, family, company or community? What if we're pushed on a global scale? How BIG would that change be?
The other question is what would that change be? My belief is that if we looked to our own needs and developed a bunker mentality, this will only lead to isolation and a "get them before they get us" attitude that could spell the fall of humanity. :(
Or, we could reach out to each other – from next-door neighbors to others in communities around the world. It's been proven that the combined efforts of human beings bring greater results than the sum of individual efforts. What would happen if we expanded our efforts, joining hands with those around the world? What kind of change would that bring?
WHO
There's been much debate about Rapture as a means of escape from Tribulation. But from what I've researched, my conclusion is that if there is an escape clause somewhere, it's certainly NOT at the before Tribulation. There are six of seven seals broken before the 144,000 are sealed in Revelation. So that means there are some events that will happen before that point. In one of the Gospels, Christ mentions that, even though it's going to be a time of grave horrors, "it will be shortened due to the elect." That makes me think the elect will still be around on this mudball at the time or why would it matter...
For myself, suffice to say that I'd rather prepare my heart to go through Tribulation and meet Christ face-to-face on the other side with my head held high rather than saying "I believe" because it will give me a ticket out of the horrors.
WHERE
I believe we shall see many horrors, but not necessarily all in one place (unless the sun blows up then all points above are null and void (save the paragraph above, of course)). Considering we saw a 7.1 earthquake off Honduras today instead of LA, and nuclear war seems nearer in the Korean peninsula than the Middle East, anything is possible.
Let's see, we have Who, What, Where and How... what's missing...? Of course, the first question everyone asks...
WHEN
I don't know. I don't WANT to know. I'm a person that will fixate on a date and needlessly waste the time I have. I'll take it day-by-day, living like it's my last moments instead. In doing so, does it really matter when?
Also, something else came to mind on the subject. Clocks and calendars are man's creation to mark time – not God's. All said and done, it's in God's hands, no matter what we do, say or predict. But God does not see time as humanity does.
I believe the true timing of "when" is similar to one of those little puzzle games where you have to line up the holes to get the ball to drop through. In other words, a series of people and events must line up just right for things to happen. If a person is not there or something does not quite happen in "just the right way" or in the proper sequence, the ball is still "trapped" and the major events are delayed. There have been hypotheses that the "end times" may have happened already. But I believe these were the times when things started to line up but then something changed – perhaps a change in policy or way people handled the situation before them.
But when the time does fall into place and the BIG event happens, it will be a bumpy ride. But at the end is something and Someone wonderful. I think that's worth going through what may come our way.
WHAT CAN WE DO
The answer is also found in the good book: pray. Christ instructed people to pray that it does not happen in the winter (at a time when local food is short, shelter is desperately needed and transport is difficult). I don't hear many people preaching that one. Repent, yes. Believe, certainly. But pray that the end times don't come in winter? No. Why? It makes a LOT of sense to me. That's why it's in my prayers.
In addition, there's some common-sense stuff. The CDC and FEMA have many guidelines and has been trying to get people to read them. Prepare a grab-and-go bag. List your medications. Have the family become familiar with a fire-drill. What would you do if you know a storm is coming - stock up on batteries and essentials. That's stock-up not stockpile – there's a difference; hording is not helping unless you plan to share with the neighborhood. And a room full of supplies isn't useful if you've been evacuated from your home. Again, common sense and reasonable preparations are recommended.
Lastly, get to know those around you. If a major disaster hits, phone lines and other contact with the outside world will be cut temporarily. Even cell phones are worthless if the tower is out of power or taken down – or the switchboard overwhelmed as seen on 9/11. Face-to-face contacts will be the front line to recovery immediately after the disaster. Start now and get to know people and things will run a lot smoother if you find a friendly, familiar face rather than a stranger working beside you.
Well, I've tried to keep it short. I don't know who or how many will read this. But I hope some of the advice above will be taken going forward. Thanks for reading.
Prepare and pray
Not prey
Today
- ESA
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Little Something
I just got a letter from someone I know who is in prison. I've been writing to her, trying to keep her spirits up and even sent her a few of my stories. This is the first time she wrote me and I was surprised at how much my little notes and stories meant to her.
Sometimes the little things you do just to make someone smile can actually impact them strongly in ways you've never imagined.
Often we do a "little something" to help someone and walk away, continuing with our own busy lives. Rarely do we see the look on the face of the people we help, the tears of hope that shine in their eyes, or the light that gets rekindled deep within them. When we actually catch a glimpse of that, it's something wonderful.
Touch
And be touched
Deep inside
- ESA
Sometimes the little things you do just to make someone smile can actually impact them strongly in ways you've never imagined.
Often we do a "little something" to help someone and walk away, continuing with our own busy lives. Rarely do we see the look on the face of the people we help, the tears of hope that shine in their eyes, or the light that gets rekindled deep within them. When we actually catch a glimpse of that, it's something wonderful.
Touch
And be touched
Deep inside
- ESA
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Mighter Than the Sword (Story)
(c) 1999
The aged dragon, Glaston, slowly approached the counter in a tavern. The toad behind the counter looked up and let his face split into a broad grin. Then he glanced to the table where Glaston’s companion waited, and the smile fell from his face.
Glaston chuckled and leaned across the counter, speaking low. “Don’t fret, Patrick, we’re not here to hassle you about last night. But we do have a preposition. Bring over three lunches and join us.”
Patrick hopped into the kitchen and was soon seated at the dimly lit corner table with Glaston and Hereclitus, the heir to the Principality. Patrick wisely remained silent until he was requested to speak.
Glaston leaned forward and said quietly, “We heard about what happened to your storyteller last night.”
Patrick’s large eyes flickered to Hereclitus.
The heir sat back calmly. “I don’t agree with my father’s actions – especially of late.”
Glaston continued, “What do you know about this, Patrick?”
Patrick drew a deep breath. “I know that Connor is always one to tell things like they are. Lately, he’s told stories about Prince Hendrick’s … ah…”
Hereclitus raised a brow and suggested, “Cruelties?”
“Yes,” he croaked, “Cruelties is a good word. Anyway, late last night after closing, members of the royal brigade stormed in here and hauled Connor away. None of us dared to follow, but his wife has been worried sick since then.”
Hereclitus’ eyes turned sad, “You may tell his widow that Connor’s … remains … are two miles from this village in the woods.”
Horror turned Patrick’s pallor a shade grayer.
Glaston cleared his throat. “As to this situation, you and Connor’s widow are the only two witnesses left alive. I prefer that the two of you tell folks that Connor just left the Principality and keep it at that.”
“But-”
“For the sake of peace. Do you realize what Prince Hendrick would do to this tavern – to this village – if he knew the truth was known?”
Patrick turned white and quickly drained his goblet.
Glaston continued, “You will, of course, need a new storyteller.”
Patrick eyed him silently.
“I propose you hold a storytelling competition. But I also ask that you open the contest to peasants.”
“Peasants? I have nothing against them, but others –”
“Please see that they are invited. Merewin and Mallory will help you. Oh, and I need Leoni as one of the judges.”
The toad was dumbfounded. “But, Lord Glaston, she hates peasants almost as much as –” he cut off abruptly, glancing to the heir.
“As much as my father,” finished Hereclitus. “Fortunately, my view is not clouded by such prejudice. Please do invite the peasants; I would like to see all the classes living in peace together.”
“Y-yes, My Lord Hereclitus,” Patrick croaked. He rose, bowed and quickly excused himself, taking his plate with him.
Hereclitus sighed as he picked up a utensil and turned to Glaston. “I just wish Mother would let me confront him,” he said contemptuously. “Then all this insanity would end. I’ve tried to stop this many times, but Mother intervenes. I love her too much to hurt her.”
“Perhaps she believes that you are too young to assume the coronet.”
“Am I, Glaston? You’ve been my tutor from the cradle.”
Glaston studied him with wise eyes. “Perhaps you are ready. Perhaps you are not.”
Hereclitus sighed again. “Why all the riddles and games, Glaston?”
Glaston smiled. “That’s part of the world you come from. You need to learn to play the game as well as lead the people.”
The aged dragon, Glaston, slowly approached the counter in a tavern. The toad behind the counter looked up and let his face split into a broad grin. Then he glanced to the table where Glaston’s companion waited, and the smile fell from his face.
Glaston chuckled and leaned across the counter, speaking low. “Don’t fret, Patrick, we’re not here to hassle you about last night. But we do have a preposition. Bring over three lunches and join us.”
Patrick hopped into the kitchen and was soon seated at the dimly lit corner table with Glaston and Hereclitus, the heir to the Principality. Patrick wisely remained silent until he was requested to speak.
Glaston leaned forward and said quietly, “We heard about what happened to your storyteller last night.”
Patrick’s large eyes flickered to Hereclitus.
The heir sat back calmly. “I don’t agree with my father’s actions – especially of late.”
Glaston continued, “What do you know about this, Patrick?”
Patrick drew a deep breath. “I know that Connor is always one to tell things like they are. Lately, he’s told stories about Prince Hendrick’s … ah…”
Hereclitus raised a brow and suggested, “Cruelties?”
“Yes,” he croaked, “Cruelties is a good word. Anyway, late last night after closing, members of the royal brigade stormed in here and hauled Connor away. None of us dared to follow, but his wife has been worried sick since then.”
Hereclitus’ eyes turned sad, “You may tell his widow that Connor’s … remains … are two miles from this village in the woods.”
Horror turned Patrick’s pallor a shade grayer.
Glaston cleared his throat. “As to this situation, you and Connor’s widow are the only two witnesses left alive. I prefer that the two of you tell folks that Connor just left the Principality and keep it at that.”
“But-”
“For the sake of peace. Do you realize what Prince Hendrick would do to this tavern – to this village – if he knew the truth was known?”
Patrick turned white and quickly drained his goblet.
Glaston continued, “You will, of course, need a new storyteller.”
Patrick eyed him silently.
“I propose you hold a storytelling competition. But I also ask that you open the contest to peasants.”
“Peasants? I have nothing against them, but others –”
“Please see that they are invited. Merewin and Mallory will help you. Oh, and I need Leoni as one of the judges.”
The toad was dumbfounded. “But, Lord Glaston, she hates peasants almost as much as –” he cut off abruptly, glancing to the heir.
“As much as my father,” finished Hereclitus. “Fortunately, my view is not clouded by such prejudice. Please do invite the peasants; I would like to see all the classes living in peace together.”
“Y-yes, My Lord Hereclitus,” Patrick croaked. He rose, bowed and quickly excused himself, taking his plate with him.
Hereclitus sighed as he picked up a utensil and turned to Glaston. “I just wish Mother would let me confront him,” he said contemptuously. “Then all this insanity would end. I’ve tried to stop this many times, but Mother intervenes. I love her too much to hurt her.”
“Perhaps she believes that you are too young to assume the coronet.”
“Am I, Glaston? You’ve been my tutor from the cradle.”
Glaston studied him with wise eyes. “Perhaps you are ready. Perhaps you are not.”
Hereclitus sighed again. “Why all the riddles and games, Glaston?”
Glaston smiled. “That’s part of the world you come from. You need to learn to play the game as well as lead the people.”
*************************************
The cat stepped out of her home in the poorer section of the village and witnessed soap bubbles drifting across her small backyard. She glanced over the short picket fence and spied her neighbors, Rose and Moustrie, doing their laundry.
With a friendly smile, she called, “Fine morning for laundry,” as she carried her pots down the back steps. “Did you hear about the storytelling contest?”
“We heard last night,” Rose replied. “I’m trying to convince our local celebrity here to enter it.”
“Commoners don’t really want peasants around,” Moustrie replied with a frustrated swish of her tail.
“I don’t see why you won’t at least try,” Rose bleated.
The gray-furred mouse flicked her ears back at the reprimand as she scrubbed at a stubborn stain. “A formal contest is different than just telling stories at Riverside Tavern,” she informed the ewe. “Besides,” she quipped and held up the skirt she was washing, “my reception locally isn’t all that good.”
Rose raised a brow at the mouse. “We’re wasting time doing this now,” she chided as she wrung out a blouse and hung it on the frayed wash line. “And, you won’t be serving tables while you’re telling the story today.”
Moustrie’s large ears sagged. “I just wish people would give me more credit as a storyteller,” she muttered as she rinsed and wrung out her skirt. “If I win the contest…”
“You’re just a dreamer,” mewed the cat as she set down her pots. She licked her paw and pressed a few graying strands of sweat soaked fur away from her green eyes. “They’ll never let a peasant win one of their contests.” With a dismissive swish of her tail, she rolled up her sleeves and started to scrub the baked-on grime from the well-used tin pots.
Rose’s brows came down and she purposely put her back to the feline. “If you don’t take this chance, Moustrie, you’ll be telling tales of woe for the rest of your life. This is a chance many of us would give our tail for!” She glanced up at the summer sun, “Tails! If we’re going to make it, we’ve got to leave now.”
Moustrie frowned. “But this outfit’s all wet; I need a better dress for the contest.”
“No time,” Rose said as she pulled Moustrie through the dark, narrow alley between the buildings. “Besides,” she called over her shoulder, “you might talk yourself out of it again.” Together, the two hurried up the bustling street toward the better part of the village.
*********************
The upscale tavern, High Spirits, was clearly twice the size of Riverside Tavern. A bright coat of colored paint rather than simple whitewash covered the building, while a wooden sign with the carved images of a goblet and plate swung from a metal rod above the door. The pair paused in the deep shadow of the portico in front of an elaborately carved front door. Moustrie’s tail twitched as she poked her nose and whiskers around the slightly open door. “Look, Rose, the windows are colored glass and the walls – even the floor – are waxed beautifully!”
“And I’ll bet a pound of my winter wool that the food we smell is ten times better than what we serve too.”
The fur on the back of their necks rose as a low growl reached their ears. A burly black bear swung the door wide and emerged from the tavern. With a yelp, the pair leapt back as Brutis placed himself squarely in the doorway. “Can’t you read?” he snarled, pointing to the sign nailed beside the doorpost: NO UNESCORTED PEASANTS.
Moustrie shook her head, tucking her long tail down the back of her skirt. “No sir, we’re not schooled in letters.”
“Well, it says that –”
“Hold a moment, Brutis.” A well-groomed fox in good silks stepped out from behind the bear and squinted into the bright daylight. “Perhaps they’re here for the storytelling competition.”
Moustrie and Rose both nodded enthusiastically.
“Ah! Good, then we have at least two peasant storytellers.”
“Uh… no milord,” corrected Rose sheepishly, ducking behind her friend. “I’m just here for Moustrie.”
Disinterested, Brutis shrugged his broad shoulders and lumbered back inside.
A vixen’s head appeared over the fox’s shoulder, just before the door shut behind them. “Who are they, dear? What’s the fuss?”
The fox stepped aside and turned to his wife. “My dear, this is Moustrie and…”
“Rose,” the mouse supplied for her friend.
“…Rose. Moustrie will be joining our storytelling competition.” Then he faced the pair. “I’d like to present to you the Fair Lady Merewin, my beautiful wife and a member of the court of their Royal Highnesses, Prince Hendrick and Princess Galatea.”
The pair stepped back, eyes wide in awe. Then they quickly curtsied deeply, dropping their eyes.
Merewin stepped gracefully past him into the light. Rich folds of cloth enfolded her shapely figure, while finely cut jewels sparkled in the sun. “You girls don’t have to be that formal; we’re not in court here.” Then she frowned at her husband, “You’ll also have to pardon Lord Mallory, his title goes right to his – Tails and Whiskers! Is that the best garb you have?”
Moustrie’s ears drooped and she looked at the vixen sorrowfully. “I was doing my laundry, My Lady, and there was no time to change clothes.”
Mallory nodded. “That would explain the water stains. You can tell your story last; that will give you time to sun yourself in the garden out back.”
Merewin agreed, “You don’t want your appearance to distract from the story.” She gestured for Moustrie to follow and was about to open the door when Glaston stepped out from the portico’s shadows.
“Allow me, My Lady Merewin.” With as little difficulty as a younger dragon, Glaston swung the thick, heavy oak door wide.
“Ah! Glaston, I didn’t see you standing out here. Did you meet Moustrie and Rose?”
Glaston nodded eloquently. “Glad to make your acquaintances.”
The vixen then introduced him to pair, “Glaston is the Royal Heir’s tutor.” Gracefully stepping into the tavern, Merewin gestured for Moustrie to follow her through the crowded common-room to the back door.
Half-blinded, Rose paused just inside the doorway, letting her eyes adjust.
Glaston placed a clawed hand lightly on her shoulder and asked, “Have you eaten?”
Rose jumped at the unexpected familiarity and meekly bleated, “No, My Lord, not since breaking fast this morning.”
“There are complimentary meals with the contest.”
“Complimentary?” Rose asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.
“A free meal, then. The tavern-keeper adds it to Lord Mallory’s tab.”
“For everyone?”
“No, the meals are for the storytellers,” he explained in a deep, persuasive baritone, “but I’m sure Moustrie wouldn’t mind sharing a large meal with you.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Rose agreed quietly, unnerved by the noble’s attention.
“You need not fear me, Rose. I mean you no harm. I, too, am here for moral support.” He gestured to the young, richly dressed griffin at the front table. “Hereclitus is on the panel of judges for this competition.”
“The Heir is here!” she bleated and clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes very wide and fearful.
“Be at peace, Rose. Hereclitus is not his father’s son.”
The sheep studied Hereclitus for a long moment and then studied Glaston as closely as one of her station dared. “If I may be so bold…”
“…to ask a question of me?”
Rose nodded nervously.
“Go ahead.”
“Why…” She swallowed and looked around quickly. “Why are the nobles interested in a commoner’s contest?” she bleated out quickly.
Glaston raised a brow at the question.
Just as quickly, she apologized, “Forgive me, My Lord, my curiosity gets the better of me at times.”
Glaston studied Rose a moment, looking deep into her brown eyes. “No need to forgive when no offence was received. And curiosity is a great path to learning.” He paused, noting her deepening embarrassment. “You and your friend must be hungry.” He gestured for Rose to lead the way to the counter where the tavern-keeper stood. “Tell me, how well do you know Moustrie’s family?”
Rose shrugged, lulled into a strange calmness, and started to weave her way across the room. “She hasn’t much family left in this village. Moustrie and her sister both work at Riverside Tavern with me. Her brothers left to find work elsewhere, and both of her parents are gone now.”
As they reached the counter, the bovine tavern-keeper eyed Rose suspiciously. She ducked her head meekly and said, “I was told there was food for the storytellers.”
The ox was about to send her away until he spied Glaston just behind her. With a scowl, he bellowed the order into the kitchen and added another mark in the book.
As they waited, Glaston quietly asked, “Her parents are gone? Do you mean they left the village too?”
Rose shook her head as she reached for the goblet of wine that the ox had just set down. “Oh no, My Lord, they died … seasons ago.”
“A shame. How did they die? Was it an accident? An illness, perhaps?”
Rose shook her head. “Just old age.”
“Old age?” Glaston’s voice betrayed his surprise. He turned his head away, muttering, “Have so many years passed?” Then he shook his head and faced the counter. The ox was about to set down the plate – piled high with sliced meat, fresh baked bread and steaming vegetables – when Glaston smoothly reached forward and took it. “Thank you, Tavernkeep.”
Upon seeing the generous portions Rose was slack-jawed, but her shoulders and tail sagged when Glaston didn’t pass her the plate. She remained silent, but looked at his with pleading eyes.
The elderly dragon smiled, “If you have no objectives, I’d like to help carry the food out to your friend in the garden.”
“You … help me? But I’m a peasant!”
Glaston chuckled lightly. “That shouldn’t matter.” He turned and indicated that she should lead the way outside.
Rose was momentarily blinded when she stepped from the tavern into the bright sunlight. Moustrie waved to her excitedly. “Over here, Rose. Oh! Hello, My Lord.”
Glaston handed the plate to Moustrie. “I must return to my companion now. I’ll see you inside.” He turned and re-entered the tavern, leaving the two alone in the garden.
Moustrie sat dumbfounded and looked at Rose with wide, questioning eyes.
“I know,” Rose replied, “but I’m not about to argue with a noble. Are you going to eat that before it gets cold?”
Moustrie picked up a spoonful of vegetables and popped it into her mouth. “Wow! This is much better!” she exclaimed with a joyful swish of her tail.
“Told you,” Rose mumbled around a bite of the warm, soft bread. The two friends exchanged information between mouthfuls. Rose related what happened inside, omitting the fact that the royal heir was a judge; she didn’t want to upset Moustrie.
Moustrie, in turn, went over the competition details that Merewin gave her.
Rose took another swallow of the wine. “You mean you’ve got to make up a whole story based on what they ask? Can you do that?”
Moustrie nodded eagerly. “I think so. If they ask for a love story, I tell them one.” She wiped the crumbs from her muzzle with the back of her forepaw. “It can be a story that I already know.”
Just then the back door opened and a gopher poked his head out. “You’re just about up, Moustrie. You’d better get inside and be ready.”
They quickly gathered the dishes and went inside, blinking into the darkness interspersed with pools of colors from the windows. The room was quiet as everyone listened closely to the buck storyteller’s words. The gopher gestured for Rose to return the dishes to the tavern-keeper and led Moustrie to the front of the room, pausing just behind the judges.
Moustrie was more nervous than ever before and started trembling. “You’ll do fine,” came a deep-voiced whisper to her large ears. She glanced over her shoulder and glimpsed Glaston sitting in the shadow of a supporting beam just behind the judges’ table.
“…And when their eyes met, they both could look deep into each other’s soul. Tears welled up in joy; at last they found each other. Thus ends the tale of Nora and Jayson,” the stag storyteller finished with a flourish and bow to the judges.
As Mallory led him away, Merewin brought Moustrie before the judges: a boar, a toad, a lioness and a griffin. “This last contestant is Moustrie,” she announced. “Moustrie, this is Bannon, Patrick, Leoni and Hereclitus,” she indicated each of the judges in order.
Moustrie nodded her head to each in acknowledgement, but all the faces were new to her and she was too nervous to register any of the names.
With a graceful sweep of her tail, Merewin strolled to the chair that Mallory held for her, leaving Moustrie alone before the judges.
Leoni crossed her arms, leaned back in her chair and muttered, “Why is there a peasant in this contest?”
Glaston pitched his voice to her feline ears only. “Perhaps they want to bring nobles, commoners and peasants to the same level.”
Leoni’s ears flattened and she grimaced in disgust. She was about to reply but realized that the speaker was a noble.
By then Bannon had finished writing comments and checked the score-sheet on the table before him. “Moustrie? Ah, good. Leoni,” he said turning to the she-lion, “it’s your turn to decide – and please – not another mushy love story.”
“As you wish.” Leoni studied Moustrie as though she was an insect found in a favorite dish. The lioness grinned mischievously and said, “Then the story shall be this: a tale of true friendship and sacrifice between a noble and a peasant.”
Moustrie’s tail swished, and her forepaw rose to her muzzle in thought as her mind pulled a plot line together.
“Oh, and it must be a true story,” Leoni added as she leaned forward and casually raked one of her long claws along the table top.
Moustrie’s ears and tail drooped and her gaze fell to the floor.
A murmur rippled through the room.
Patrick rolled his eyes rafterward then sent a meaningful glance toward Bannon beside him.
The boar nodded and turned to the lioness. “Perhaps you misspoke. So seldom do nobles and peasants interact that closely; this is a difficult story to tell.”
The feline purred as she leaned back in her chair with a daring, devilish grin. “I spoke correctly. If she knows such a story, let’s hear it. If not, she’s out of this contest.”
Hereclitus was about to speak when Glaston hissed, “Let it be; let’s see how this plays itself out.”
Moustrie stood silent in front of the judges, her mind racing. Then an old story that her mother told her rose from her memory. “I… I know a story,” she quietly said, raising her eyes to the crowded common-room. She lifted her head confidently with an almost daring look in her eye. “I’d like to tell it.”
Murmurs rose to peak, then silence settled. All eyes were locked on her, and all ears were swiveled toward her. Leoni’s ears flattened along her head, her teeth bared in a silent snarl, and her full set of claws carved deeply into the tabletop. Merewin and Mallory exchanged puzzled glances and put their heads together, whispering. Bannon and Patrick exchanged smug smiles, then the boar gestured. “Proceed then.”
- - -
“Two generations ago, there was a peasant mouse named Seana who lived in a village not far from a great, deep wood. Oftimes when she was done with her work in the local tavern, she’d spend her free time in the afternoon exploring the woodlands. One day, she spied a young dragon there. Not quite sure how to approach this noble, she hid herself and watched him day after day.
“Some days, the dragon occupied himself by creating marvelous little creatures from folded paper, which he later gave to friend and stranger alike or left behind for someone to discover later. On windy days, the dragon was seen in a large clearing. Children’s laughter filled the air as he patiently taught them – noble, commoner and peasant alike – to make colored paper constructions dance like butterflies on the breeze.
“At other times, when people would wander alone and disheartened into the woods, there the dragon would be, ready to listen to their troubles and aid them anyway he could. And whenever people needed a safe haven, the dragon opened his home to them. As Seana witnessed all this, she learned that nobility could be courteous and kind to those stationed below them.
“A pawful of years had passed before the mouse gained the courage to approach the dragon in the woods. But when she did, she knew she had nothing to fear from him, and a strong friendship developed between them. The dragon taught her many things: how to open her eyes and see the world around her without prejudice; to think before acting; to understand the consequences of making a decision and to stick with that decision once made. She grew in confidence of her own capabilities and passed this wisdom to her husband and children. Seana also told the dragon much about her family in the village, and the years passed pleasantly.
“One day, a young griffin – just about the dragon’s age – came to the woods. Though the dragon would have welcomed him, the griffin used an illusion to disguise himself as a lion. The dragon, at this time, was busy teaching pages the proper handling and respect for weapons.
“The griffin drew his saber, boldly called his challenge and charged the dragon. The children panicked and scattered, but Seana found the courage to unsheathe her small utility knife and help her dragon friend. The griffin sought to dispatch her right away so he could focus on his fight with the dragon. The blow came fast, but the dragon was even swifter. Lightning-quick, he threw himself between his friend and the griffin’s blade.
“The move was hurried and miscalculated. The griffin’s saber slid along the dragon’s sword with the keening sound of steel on steel. Then the saber sprung from the tip of the sword and bit deeply into the dragon’s side.
“The blow didn’t kill the dragon outright, but his strength ebbed quickly from him. With the last of his reserves, the dragon slashed at the head of his attacker. The illusion broke as the griffin cried out in pain; a red line of blood dampened his facial feathers.
“When the dragon drew back in surprise, the griffin slashed across the dragon’s torso, trying to gut his victim under his protective plates. Holding his gaping side, the dragon collapsed into a growing puddle of blood.
“Seana squeaked a battle cry and scurried between the dragon and his attacker.
“With a graceful sweep of his saber, the griffin sent her blade flying freely through the air. Then he circled her, playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse.
“Thinking quickly, Seana seized a large rock at her feet – as big as her head – and positioned it shoulder high to throw it at the griffin.
“Not so fast, mouse” he snickered and neatly sliced open her throat.
“She collapsed and the rock fell from her forepaws and struck the dragon’s side with a crack that sounded like breaking ribs.
“With a tremendous groan, the dragon’s eyes fluttered close.
“Ready to deliver the final blow to the dragon, the griffin paused when he heard someone approaching them. Since the dragon’s pallor was death white, apparently beyond recovery, the griffin quickly fled the scene.
“What the griffin didn’t realize was that the dragon had carried a vial of water from the unicorn pool in his pouch. The falling rock had struck the vial, breaking it open. It took some time for the water to seep through the lining and into his wounds but it healed him sufficiently to live. Sadly, by the time the dragon awoke, the water was gone and it was too late to save his friend. Pale and weak, he gently gathered her in his arms and brought her into his home.
“Seana’s family sought her when she didn’t return that afternoon, but they were unable to locate her. However, late that night the dragon slipped unnoticed into the poorer part of the village and brought her body home to her family. Once inside, he revealed his identity and told them what happened in the woods. Then he slipped out and no one has seen him since.
“For two generations, this story lived, passed from parent to child down through Seana’s family. And it is this very story that I share with you this day. Thus ends the tale of Seana and the dragon.”
- - -
Stunned silence filled the room, and Moustrie trembled in anticipation as she studied the judges’ faces. Bannon grinned proudly as he scribbled something down on the papers before him. Patrick sat back, sipping wine and nodding his approval. Leoni glared silently at Moustrie. Hereclitus looked… confused, as though he was trying to understand a complicated puzzle. Merewin and Mallory had their heads close, speaking in hurried whispers.
Bannon cleared his throat and said, “Well, considering the difficulty level, I believe we have our winner.”
“WHAT!” roared Leoni, leaping to her feet, haunches rising and teeth bared. “That’s got to be a lie! No noble would sacrifice his life for a peasant!”
Bannon also rose, spines bristling. “You yourself placed the restriction that the story must be true.” He turned to Moustrie, “It is true, is it not?”
“Yes sir,” Moustrie answered proudly, “It is, every word.”
“How do you know this story?” inquired Patrick curiously.
“Seana was my grandmother. My mother was old enough to remember when the dragon brought her home.”
“Lie!” growled Leoni. “A savage lie! There’s been no dragon living in our woods! Why would there be?”
With her own teeth bared and ears flung back, Merewin snarled at Leoni. “There was such a dragon, long ago. If Seana was Moustrie’s grandmother, there would have been a solitary dragon living there. We have records of him in court.”
Hereclitus’ head snapped up. “Then who was this griffin?”
Rumors, questions and guesses sent up such a ruckus in the common-room that everything happened quickly. Bannon removed his notes from the table before Leoni could shred them. Merewin pulled Moustrie into the kitchen, but not before she noticed Glaston leading a very upset griffin out the front door.
A moment later, Mallory dragged Rose into the kitchen with him. He glanced over his shoulder indicating the rising noise level in the common-room. “Singed Fur! You sure stirred them up out there. That was a good tale. Your grandmother, you say? Tell us more about it.”
“That’s all I know, honest!”
“It’s all right, dear. You did nothing wrong,” Merewin said as she patted Moustrie’s trembling hands. “In fact, I think you’ve won the contest.”
“You did it!” Rose cried and hugged Moustrie enthusiastically.
Just then, Patrick peered around the door. “Ah!” he croaked and hopped into the kitchen. “There you are. I needed to speak with you before you left.”
Mallory held up his hand. “Moustrie still has one more requirement to fulfill.”
Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “I thought the competition was over.”
“I’m obliged to invite Moustrie to entertain the court and the ruling family with the story.” Mallory exchanged meaningful glances with Merewin, and she held her tongue. He faced the storyteller. “You’ll be guests of nobility this evening. Will you honor us?”
**********************
The room blazed with gold, silver and sparkling gems. Food was prepared and arrayed in the finest fashion. Wine chilled in buckets of snow brought back from the distant mountaintops by the fleetest feet. Moustrie hungered at the tantalizing scent of the bounty set on tables along one side of the feast hall. She absently fingered the simple dress she wore, quite out of place in all this glamor.
She hadn’t budged from the corner where she stood since Merewin brought her here – that was two hours ago. Lady Merewin and Lord Mallory had disappeared for a short time and returned in their decadent courtly garb. Jewels sparkled from both their outfits in the bright candlelight as the two foxes intermingled with the other members of court. By now, many nobles, lords and ladies were feasting, catered by silent yet swift servants. Moustrie glanced nervously to the high table where three vacant chairs sat in the radiance of polished plates and sparkling goblets.
Just then, a blare of trumpets announced the arrival of the Prince, Princess and their son and heir, Hereclitus. The entire assemblage rose as one and faced the ruler’s private entrance. Hendrick, a proud griffin, stroke forward confidently. His satin tunic and cape were trimmed with gold threadwork, while a finely-crafted golden coronet circled his head. With a delicate hand upon his arm, Galatea, the beautiful and well-loved griffin Princess, strolled gracefully beside him. Both her courtly garb and smaller coronet matched the Prince’s. Behind them, Hereclitus followed. His bearing wasn’t overly proud; he walked confidently and smiled warmly at their guests.
At first Moustrie watched the procession in awe; this was the first time she had ever seen the Principality’s rulers. Suddenly, she gasped when she recognized Hereclitus. He was one of the judges in the storytelling competition. He’s the heir? She started trembling and fought the urge to flee. Many tales of horrible things done to peasants by this family came to mind. Did I say something wrong when I told the story?
Merewin moved swiftly to the high table, kneeled and spoke with the ruling family.
When Galatea raised her glass goblet, a respectful silence dropped like a muffling blanket in the hall. “I hear we have a storyteller who will honor us with the tale that won a competition today. Please, Lady Merewin, bring her out.”
Malevolent whispers hissed across the feast hall when Merewin pulled Moustrie from the shadows. Moustrie’s eyes pleaded with Merewin, but the vixen told her in hushed tones, “Have no fear; you have friends here.”
Hendrick cried, “A peasant? What game are you playing, Merewin?”
Mallory stood up, bowed and replied, “If your highness would just listen to the wondrous tale that she has told this afternoon, you will hear the treasure we’ve found. She has a true story about a noble’s great deeds that I’m sure none of us has ever heard before.”
“A noble’s great deeds, eh? Very well, tell the mouse to get on with it.”
Before her first words were out, the murmurs of other conversations nearly drowned Moustrie’s story out. But the tale had to be told, so she strained her vocal chords, speaking her loudest and practically shouting at the royal couple who listened half-heartedly, engaged in their own conversations.
When she reached the point where the griffin disguised himself, Hendrick cocked his head and frowned. Then he signaled to a pegasus sitting in the room who rose and walked to another table, roughly nudging Moustrie out of his way.
Moustrie stumbled a step forward and her monologue stopped abruptly. Humiliated, tears threatening in her eyes, she swallowed her pride and continued. At another signal from Hendrick, the same pegasus rudely shoved the storyteller to the floor as he returned to his seat. Tears welled in her eyes, sparkling in the candlelight and leaving damp streaks down her furred cheeks.
Hereclitus slammed his goblet on the table and rose. All in the room turned as one to eye him. “Moustrie came a long way to tell you all something very important – something about our history. It should behoove you all to hear it.”
Hendrick’s eyes narrowed as he smashed his own goblet down, shattering it and staining the tablecloth with expensive red wine. “And what would a peasant know about our history,… Son?”
Galatea replied quietly, “Dear, this storyteller has lived in our Principality her whole life. Since you are from another realm, you may not have learned all of our history. It would be nice to hear some of the old stories again.”
Hereclitus studied his father with renewed interest. “Another realm?”
“You contemptuous upstart!” Hendrick snapped at Hereclitus. “You’re not yet Prince of this realm!”
Galatea restrained Hendrick’s arm and gently pulled the Prince back into his seat. “Now dear, we must not embarrass our guests with your temper.”
After a long moment, Hereclitus also took his seat.
The Princess nodded to Merewin. “Please have your storyteller continue.”
Merewin nodded to Moustrie who shook so bad she could not speak. Mallory strolled over to her and gave her a drink from his own goblet. “Calm yourself,” he whispered, “We can’t turn back now. You must finish your story.”
Moustrie drew a deep breath and continued her story under the suddenly rapt attention of all. Mallory stood by her side until confidence grew in her voice once again. Moustrie realized something in the story triggered this argument and tried to portray the details as best as she could.
When she told how the griffin dispatched Seana, Hendrick leapt to his feet, wings extended as he seethed in rage. “You lie! How can you know all this, mouse? No one witnessed this! It was years before you were ever born!”
Hereclitus’ eyes narrowed and Galatea’s eyes widened with horror.
Moustrie couldn’t take any more and ran weeping from the feast hall. Hereclitus quickly signaled to the guards to let her go.
Galatea grabbed Hendrick’s arm but he yanked it away. “Tell me you didn’t,” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “Tell me you did not kill the dragon in the woods.”
Members of the court exchanged a few glances and a few discretely drew their blades ready for action.
“Of course not,” he replied, suddenly remembering there were others in the hall. “It is all lies. We all know that the dragon left the realm when you sought to wed him.”
“Moustrie’s words are TRUE!” rang a clear, deep voice from a shadowed corner of the room. Glaston stepped into the light and strode purposely toward high table. “The story was about that mouse’s grandmother who was a dear friend of mine.”
“It couldn’t be,” snapped Hendrick. “That dragon was my age and you’re far older.”
“Am I?” asked Glaston as his image flickered to that of a younger dragon, then returned just as quickly back to the aged figure.
“No! It can’t be! I killed you! Gods of Thunder! And I let you help raise my son?! Begone spirit! She was only a mouse and you were my competition for the coronet.”
Confused and shocked, Galatea reached toward Glaston. “But why?” she sobbed.
Hendrick furiously backhanded her across her face, causing her to fall to the floor.
Hereclitus rose to intervene, but Galatea waved him back. The feast hall echoed with the sounds of chairs scraping back, as court members rose from their seats.
“How else would I have won you and the coronet?” Hendrick snapped at his wife. “That fool would have won the courtesy contest your father held.”
“But I loved him! That’s why my father arranged the contest thus. How could you?” She got up to hit him with her fists, but he struck her down again.
Hereclitus was in her place in a heartbeat, and the other members of the court flocked behind him with their blades sparkling in the candlelight.
Hendrick scowled at them. “I am still in power here.”
“Not anymore,” Hereclitus replied. “The power of the throne is the people who back it. You are alone and shall be exiled for your actions,… Father.”
“Traitors!” Hendrick squawked, “Traitors, one and all!” He turned and fled the room with a mob at his heels.
Hereclitus remained and helped his mother to her feet. Then he turned to his tutor and studied the aged dragon. “You’re not a ghost.” He paused, weighing his next words. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
Glaston dropped the illusion so all could truly see him. “You might have believed that I wanted your cornet, which I do not. But I did want Hendrick off the throne, and I had to wait until you were old enough to assume its responsibilities.”
Galatea stared in disbelief. “You are alive? And you never let me know? Why? I loved you!”
Glaston stepped back a bit, “I cared much for you too, Galatea, but you were the only heir to your father’s coronet. And the court and all its trappings,” he added with a broad sweep of his arm, “were not for me.”
Hereclitus weighed these answers and said, “I shall not forget what you have taught me.”
Glaston smiled. “I must be off; there’s one part left unfinished.”
She hadn’t budged from the corner where she stood since Merewin brought her here – that was two hours ago. Lady Merewin and Lord Mallory had disappeared for a short time and returned in their decadent courtly garb. Jewels sparkled from both their outfits in the bright candlelight as the two foxes intermingled with the other members of court. By now, many nobles, lords and ladies were feasting, catered by silent yet swift servants. Moustrie glanced nervously to the high table where three vacant chairs sat in the radiance of polished plates and sparkling goblets.
Just then, a blare of trumpets announced the arrival of the Prince, Princess and their son and heir, Hereclitus. The entire assemblage rose as one and faced the ruler’s private entrance. Hendrick, a proud griffin, stroke forward confidently. His satin tunic and cape were trimmed with gold threadwork, while a finely-crafted golden coronet circled his head. With a delicate hand upon his arm, Galatea, the beautiful and well-loved griffin Princess, strolled gracefully beside him. Both her courtly garb and smaller coronet matched the Prince’s. Behind them, Hereclitus followed. His bearing wasn’t overly proud; he walked confidently and smiled warmly at their guests.
At first Moustrie watched the procession in awe; this was the first time she had ever seen the Principality’s rulers. Suddenly, she gasped when she recognized Hereclitus. He was one of the judges in the storytelling competition. He’s the heir? She started trembling and fought the urge to flee. Many tales of horrible things done to peasants by this family came to mind. Did I say something wrong when I told the story?
Merewin moved swiftly to the high table, kneeled and spoke with the ruling family.
When Galatea raised her glass goblet, a respectful silence dropped like a muffling blanket in the hall. “I hear we have a storyteller who will honor us with the tale that won a competition today. Please, Lady Merewin, bring her out.”
Malevolent whispers hissed across the feast hall when Merewin pulled Moustrie from the shadows. Moustrie’s eyes pleaded with Merewin, but the vixen told her in hushed tones, “Have no fear; you have friends here.”
Hendrick cried, “A peasant? What game are you playing, Merewin?”
Mallory stood up, bowed and replied, “If your highness would just listen to the wondrous tale that she has told this afternoon, you will hear the treasure we’ve found. She has a true story about a noble’s great deeds that I’m sure none of us has ever heard before.”
“A noble’s great deeds, eh? Very well, tell the mouse to get on with it.”
Before her first words were out, the murmurs of other conversations nearly drowned Moustrie’s story out. But the tale had to be told, so she strained her vocal chords, speaking her loudest and practically shouting at the royal couple who listened half-heartedly, engaged in their own conversations.
When she reached the point where the griffin disguised himself, Hendrick cocked his head and frowned. Then he signaled to a pegasus sitting in the room who rose and walked to another table, roughly nudging Moustrie out of his way.
Moustrie stumbled a step forward and her monologue stopped abruptly. Humiliated, tears threatening in her eyes, she swallowed her pride and continued. At another signal from Hendrick, the same pegasus rudely shoved the storyteller to the floor as he returned to his seat. Tears welled in her eyes, sparkling in the candlelight and leaving damp streaks down her furred cheeks.
Hereclitus slammed his goblet on the table and rose. All in the room turned as one to eye him. “Moustrie came a long way to tell you all something very important – something about our history. It should behoove you all to hear it.”
Hendrick’s eyes narrowed as he smashed his own goblet down, shattering it and staining the tablecloth with expensive red wine. “And what would a peasant know about our history,… Son?”
Galatea replied quietly, “Dear, this storyteller has lived in our Principality her whole life. Since you are from another realm, you may not have learned all of our history. It would be nice to hear some of the old stories again.”
Hereclitus studied his father with renewed interest. “Another realm?”
“You contemptuous upstart!” Hendrick snapped at Hereclitus. “You’re not yet Prince of this realm!”
Galatea restrained Hendrick’s arm and gently pulled the Prince back into his seat. “Now dear, we must not embarrass our guests with your temper.”
After a long moment, Hereclitus also took his seat.
The Princess nodded to Merewin. “Please have your storyteller continue.”
Merewin nodded to Moustrie who shook so bad she could not speak. Mallory strolled over to her and gave her a drink from his own goblet. “Calm yourself,” he whispered, “We can’t turn back now. You must finish your story.”
Moustrie drew a deep breath and continued her story under the suddenly rapt attention of all. Mallory stood by her side until confidence grew in her voice once again. Moustrie realized something in the story triggered this argument and tried to portray the details as best as she could.
When she told how the griffin dispatched Seana, Hendrick leapt to his feet, wings extended as he seethed in rage. “You lie! How can you know all this, mouse? No one witnessed this! It was years before you were ever born!”
Hereclitus’ eyes narrowed and Galatea’s eyes widened with horror.
Moustrie couldn’t take any more and ran weeping from the feast hall. Hereclitus quickly signaled to the guards to let her go.
Galatea grabbed Hendrick’s arm but he yanked it away. “Tell me you didn’t,” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “Tell me you did not kill the dragon in the woods.”
Members of the court exchanged a few glances and a few discretely drew their blades ready for action.
“Of course not,” he replied, suddenly remembering there were others in the hall. “It is all lies. We all know that the dragon left the realm when you sought to wed him.”
“Moustrie’s words are TRUE!” rang a clear, deep voice from a shadowed corner of the room. Glaston stepped into the light and strode purposely toward high table. “The story was about that mouse’s grandmother who was a dear friend of mine.”
“It couldn’t be,” snapped Hendrick. “That dragon was my age and you’re far older.”
“Am I?” asked Glaston as his image flickered to that of a younger dragon, then returned just as quickly back to the aged figure.
“No! It can’t be! I killed you! Gods of Thunder! And I let you help raise my son?! Begone spirit! She was only a mouse and you were my competition for the coronet.”
Confused and shocked, Galatea reached toward Glaston. “But why?” she sobbed.
Hendrick furiously backhanded her across her face, causing her to fall to the floor.
Hereclitus rose to intervene, but Galatea waved him back. The feast hall echoed with the sounds of chairs scraping back, as court members rose from their seats.
“How else would I have won you and the coronet?” Hendrick snapped at his wife. “That fool would have won the courtesy contest your father held.”
“But I loved him! That’s why my father arranged the contest thus. How could you?” She got up to hit him with her fists, but he struck her down again.
Hereclitus was in her place in a heartbeat, and the other members of the court flocked behind him with their blades sparkling in the candlelight.
Hendrick scowled at them. “I am still in power here.”
“Not anymore,” Hereclitus replied. “The power of the throne is the people who back it. You are alone and shall be exiled for your actions,… Father.”
“Traitors!” Hendrick squawked, “Traitors, one and all!” He turned and fled the room with a mob at his heels.
Hereclitus remained and helped his mother to her feet. Then he turned to his tutor and studied the aged dragon. “You’re not a ghost.” He paused, weighing his next words. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
Glaston dropped the illusion so all could truly see him. “You might have believed that I wanted your cornet, which I do not. But I did want Hendrick off the throne, and I had to wait until you were old enough to assume its responsibilities.”
Galatea stared in disbelief. “You are alive? And you never let me know? Why? I loved you!”
Glaston stepped back a bit, “I cared much for you too, Galatea, but you were the only heir to your father’s coronet. And the court and all its trappings,” he added with a broad sweep of his arm, “were not for me.”
Hereclitus weighed these answers and said, “I shall not forget what you have taught me.”
Glaston smiled. “I must be off; there’s one part left unfinished.”
**************************
Moustrie made it back to the village by foot and met Rose and Patrick as they stepped out of the tavern. Rose saw Moustrie’s tears and ran to her friend’s side. “Tails! What happened, girl?”
“Terrible… so terrible…” was all Moustrie could squeak out between sobs.
Patrick draped a comforting arm over her shoulders, trying to add his support. “Lousy reception, eh?” he croaked. “Well, we’ve got better news.” He grinned broadly. “For one, I’ve just hired your friend, Rose, to wait on our tables.”
“Our?” Moustrie sniffled.
“You don’t think that thick-headed ox owns the whole joint, do you? Who do you think runs things?”
Moustrie smiled a little, feeling the warmth from the toad’s open personality. “That’s great, Rose; we’ll miss you at Riverside Tavern.”
“There’s more,” Rose added as she bounced on her toes.
“More?”
Patrick’s face split into a wider grin. “Our former storyteller has left the Principality and consequently our employ. And quite frankly, with him gone, you’re the best storyteller in the realm. I’d like to hire you too.”
“You want me to tell stories and wait on tables here?”
“Your talent is far too valuable for that,” he corrected. “You just tell your stories and keep our patrons entertained.”
“I say it’s a splendid idea,” came a deep, persuasive baritone from the dark. Glaston, once again the aged dragon, emerged into the pool of light before the tavern.
“Ah! Lord Glaston, what are you doing out alone tonight?”
“I only wanted to ensure that our storyteller keeps telling her stories. Remember,” he said turning to Moustrie with a wink and a gentle smile, “a sharp blade may kill many, but only the truth can bring whole realms down.” Then he turned away and faded into the darkness.
- ESA
Legacy (Story)
© 1996
Once there was a princess who lived not far from a very deep wood. Often she would find a way out of her lessons and spent the time exploring the woodlands. One day, she spied a dragon there. And not quite sure how to approach such a noble beast, she would often hide herself and watch him.
Some days, the dragon occupied himself by creating marvelous little creatures out of paper, which he later gave to friend and stranger alike. Sometimes his little creations were intentionally left behind for someone to discover later.
On windy days, the dragon was seen in a large clearing. Children's laughter filled the air, as the dragon patiently taught them how to make colored paper dance like butterflies on the breeze.
Sometimes, the princess would follow villagers and castle residents who wandered alone into the woods. There the dragon would be, ready to listen to their troubles and aide them any way he could. And when people needed a safe haven, the dragon opened his own den to them.
As the princess witnessed all this, she learned the value of courtesy and kindness – and remembered.
Several years had passed before the princess gained the courage to approach the dragon in the woods. But when she did, she knew she had nothing to fear from him. A strong friendship developed between them. And the dragon taught the princess much: How to open her eyes and see the beauty of the world around her; to think before acting; to understand the consequences before making a decision; and to stick with that decision once made. The princess grew to become a wise, gentile woman – the pride of her father.
So great was her father's pride that when it came time for her marriage, he wanted only the best husband for her. He sent messengers far and wide, into neighboring kingdoms and beyond! There would be a contest – the man who had performed the most courteous act would win his daughter's hand.
As it turns out, there was this young lord who decided he would enter the contest. He had heard that a dragon lived in the woods near the princess and her father, and thought, What better courtesy could I perform than by getting rid of this fire-breathing pest for them?
So the young lord packed his things, got into his armor, mounted his noble steed and headed off on his quest. Eventually, he came upon the dragon in the woods.
The dragon at this time was busy teaching young pages the proper handling and respect for weapons. Thinking harm was about to befall the children, the young lord boldly approached the dragon and bravely called his challenge. As soon as the dragons head was turned, the battle ensued.
One of the pages picked up a dagger and ran to help the dragon. Unfortunately, the young lord was so engaged in battle and had such limited visibility in his helm; he mistook the gleam from the dagger for a dragon's claw. The would-be-fatal blow came down fast, but the dragon was even swifter – lightning-quick, he placed himself between the innocent child and the blade.
The blow didn't kill the dragon outright, but his strength ebbed quickly. The king, princess and their entourage arrived just then, alerted by the commotion in the woods.
The young lord paused before landing the final blow. Before any word could be spoken, the princess took hold of her father's sleeve, getting his attention. “Father,” she said, “which is more courteous? The single act a man performs in his life, or the life one leads with hundreds – nay thousands of little courtesies along the way?”
Upon hearing these words, the lord took his sword and laid it on the ground. The dragon's life was spared so that he may continue his courteous acts for many, many years.
Once there was a princess who lived not far from a very deep wood. Often she would find a way out of her lessons and spent the time exploring the woodlands. One day, she spied a dragon there. And not quite sure how to approach such a noble beast, she would often hide herself and watch him.
Some days, the dragon occupied himself by creating marvelous little creatures out of paper, which he later gave to friend and stranger alike. Sometimes his little creations were intentionally left behind for someone to discover later.
On windy days, the dragon was seen in a large clearing. Children's laughter filled the air, as the dragon patiently taught them how to make colored paper dance like butterflies on the breeze.
Sometimes, the princess would follow villagers and castle residents who wandered alone into the woods. There the dragon would be, ready to listen to their troubles and aide them any way he could. And when people needed a safe haven, the dragon opened his own den to them.
As the princess witnessed all this, she learned the value of courtesy and kindness – and remembered.
Several years had passed before the princess gained the courage to approach the dragon in the woods. But when she did, she knew she had nothing to fear from him. A strong friendship developed between them. And the dragon taught the princess much: How to open her eyes and see the beauty of the world around her; to think before acting; to understand the consequences before making a decision; and to stick with that decision once made. The princess grew to become a wise, gentile woman – the pride of her father.
So great was her father's pride that when it came time for her marriage, he wanted only the best husband for her. He sent messengers far and wide, into neighboring kingdoms and beyond! There would be a contest – the man who had performed the most courteous act would win his daughter's hand.
As it turns out, there was this young lord who decided he would enter the contest. He had heard that a dragon lived in the woods near the princess and her father, and thought, What better courtesy could I perform than by getting rid of this fire-breathing pest for them?
So the young lord packed his things, got into his armor, mounted his noble steed and headed off on his quest. Eventually, he came upon the dragon in the woods.
The dragon at this time was busy teaching young pages the proper handling and respect for weapons. Thinking harm was about to befall the children, the young lord boldly approached the dragon and bravely called his challenge. As soon as the dragons head was turned, the battle ensued.
One of the pages picked up a dagger and ran to help the dragon. Unfortunately, the young lord was so engaged in battle and had such limited visibility in his helm; he mistook the gleam from the dagger for a dragon's claw. The would-be-fatal blow came down fast, but the dragon was even swifter – lightning-quick, he placed himself between the innocent child and the blade.
The blow didn't kill the dragon outright, but his strength ebbed quickly. The king, princess and their entourage arrived just then, alerted by the commotion in the woods.
The young lord paused before landing the final blow. Before any word could be spoken, the princess took hold of her father's sleeve, getting his attention. “Father,” she said, “which is more courteous? The single act a man performs in his life, or the life one leads with hundreds – nay thousands of little courtesies along the way?”
Upon hearing these words, the lord took his sword and laid it on the ground. The dragon's life was spared so that he may continue his courteous acts for many, many years.
--------------------------------------------------
This story was originally written for a storytelling competition in the SCA where we demonstrate the courtesy of someone we know. :D
- ESA
Friday, May 22, 2009
Numb
It's been a few hours since I read this article (http://abcnews.go.com/Nightline/story?id=7613395) and I'm still numb. I was angry - outraged that people can do such atrocities to children - in Christ's name! The money they take from people to "exorcise the demon" in the child only adds to the insult. While seething in anger, I was also weeping tears of sorrow for the horrors those children are put through.
Christ is about love; and He especially adores children! It's criminal what people do in His name but to do this.... ARG! I'm actually beyond words and my tears flow freely as I type this here. My heart goes out to those poor souls, children who suffer and adults who are so deluded into believing such rubbish!
Please take a moment to pray for those kids. Even if you don't follow Christ, please follow the Love present in your heart and pray for them.
Thanks. :*(
- ESA
Christ is about love; and He especially adores children! It's criminal what people do in His name but to do this.... ARG! I'm actually beyond words and my tears flow freely as I type this here. My heart goes out to those poor souls, children who suffer and adults who are so deluded into believing such rubbish!
Please take a moment to pray for those kids. Even if you don't follow Christ, please follow the Love present in your heart and pray for them.
Thanks. :*(
- ESA
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Planting the Seed (Story)
The early morning sun rose gloriously in the eastern sky as the two walkers set out for a stroll down a quiet Main Street in a small New England town.
The woman glanced at a sign above a new eatery as they walked past, "Mustard Seed Cafe."She smiled mischievously as she took a sip of her coffee and commented toward her companion, "That sign reminds me of something... Maybe something you said once, about a seed and a bush it grows into...."
The man walking at her side laughed, his white teeth showing clearly through his beard. "And what did you take away from that one?"
She shrugged and glanced around her looking for some inspiration for another witty remark. "Wasn't there a parable involved..."
A little wren dove down to the sidewalk a few feet before them and picked at the concrete sidewalk a moment, then fluttered away. "No, that's right, the parable I'm thinking about involved seed being tossed in different places, each failing save the seed that hit fertile grown and produced hundredfold or something like that."
A little wren dove down to the sidewalk a few feet before them and picked at the concrete sidewalk a moment, then fluttered away. "No, that's right, the parable I'm thinking about involved seed being tossed in different places, each failing save the seed that hit fertile grown and produced hundredfold or something like that."
He chuckled nodding, "...something like that. So what about the mustard seed?"
She grinned as she took another sip of her coffee from the travel mug. "Little seed becomes big plant. Right?"
His deep brown eyes took on a blend of challenge and mischeif, "Maybe you can write a story about it?"
She smirked, "Yeah, right."
He gestured expansively with his arm, "You are a writer; you were given that gift. Write a story about it. Maybe then you'd understand it better."
She took a good swallow of her coffee, while she started to wrap her mind around the challenge, knowing there was something there that maybe DID make a good story...
She shifted the story into the back of mind to simmer, and the conversation changed, covering a broad range of topics about what was going on in her life.
Before she knew it, the conversation arrived at the topic she needed to speak about. Part of her shyly wanted to hold back and digress, but another part knew this is why she asked her companion to walk with her this morning. She really needed his advice, his guidance. She rolled the still-warm metal travel mug between her palms as she searched for the words.
"I... I really don't know what it is I should be doing with my life. All these little projects get started, and then... they just seem to peeter off into nothing. I feel like I start so many things and just can't seem to finish them. What is it that I should be doing?"
He draped his arm lovingly across her shoulders and smiled gently. "Plant the seeds."
"And then?"
"Nurture them a little until they sprout."
Her hands paused as she glanced quizzically at him. "And then?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
He grinned, seeing she wasn't getting it, but - with infinite patience - gave her the time to think . "Nothing."
She knew that look on his face, she'd seen it before. She walked wordlessly at his side for a spell, fingers wrapped around the warmth of the mug and her shoulders wrapped in the warm embrace of his arm.
"But if I do nothing, what will happen to what I started? It would just unravel wouldn't it?"
"Not necessarily."
Again, she shot him an inquiring look, raising one eyebrow in his direction.
He smiled back at her but didn't say a word.
"Well?"
He paused and turned to face her. She stopped and faced him with a look that clearly read "Tell me or stop teasing me."
He playfully poked the bridge of her nose right between her eyes and quietly replied, "That's my job."
The challenge in her eyes faded as comprehension dawned in her mind. Then she smiled as they resumed their walk. She nodded and tossed back the last of the coffee. "You're right. I really should trust you more often."
Companionably the two continued their stroll down Main Street.
Two pairs of sandals crunched quietly on the sidewalk in the early May morning. One pair worn below jeans and a T-shirt; the other beneath a desert robe from a bygone age.
- ESA
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Listening
How often do we stop and listen - really listen - to what people are saying or trying to tell us? I'll admit, I'm as guilty as others of looking for some point or reference we can use to springboard our own thoughts, insights or comments.
Today, I had an eye-opening moment where I stopped dead and started to read and listen to what someone was telling me. This wasn't something they were saying from their head; it was coming from their heart - from a life of experience and a perspective that was different from any I've experienced in my life and one I really should take the time and effort to learn about and understand.
It takes a lot to keep putting the words out there over and over until someone actually stops and listens. I imagine that there were very many times that she did the same with others and people "listened" politely and never really heard what she said. It takes a special and strong character to keep trying to reach out to others after seeing that time and time again.
And I'm grateful that she took the time to keep up with me until that "ah-ha" moment when what she was saying started to sink in.
How often do I listen - really listen - to people and hear what comes from their heart? I thought I did all the time, but it takes these special "ah-ha" moments -- and more important special people like this woman who helped me open my eyes -- to really see that I don't as often as I thought I did.
Thank you, my friend.
Listen
Hear
Open my eyes and my heart
- ESA
Today, I had an eye-opening moment where I stopped dead and started to read and listen to what someone was telling me. This wasn't something they were saying from their head; it was coming from their heart - from a life of experience and a perspective that was different from any I've experienced in my life and one I really should take the time and effort to learn about and understand.
It takes a lot to keep putting the words out there over and over until someone actually stops and listens. I imagine that there were very many times that she did the same with others and people "listened" politely and never really heard what she said. It takes a special and strong character to keep trying to reach out to others after seeing that time and time again.
And I'm grateful that she took the time to keep up with me until that "ah-ha" moment when what she was saying started to sink in.
How often do I listen - really listen - to people and hear what comes from their heart? I thought I did all the time, but it takes these special "ah-ha" moments -- and more important special people like this woman who helped me open my eyes -- to really see that I don't as often as I thought I did.
Thank you, my friend.
Listen
Hear
Open my eyes and my heart
- ESA
Knot
Below is a beautiful post by someone I follow on Twitter: 1RzhaneR1
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As a knot appears unexpectedly in a thread, so disappointment blocks the smoothness of life. If a few deft strokes can untangle the skein, life continues evenly. But if it can not be corrected, then it must be quietly woven into the design. Thus, the finished piece can still be beautiful - even though not as perfect as planned.
- Retweeting 1RzhaneR1
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- ESA
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As a knot appears unexpectedly in a thread, so disappointment blocks the smoothness of life. If a few deft strokes can untangle the skein, life continues evenly. But if it can not be corrected, then it must be quietly woven into the design. Thus, the finished piece can still be beautiful - even though not as perfect as planned.
- Retweeting 1RzhaneR1
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- ESA
Monday, May 18, 2009
Ripples
Short one today
Fever makes my mind sway
And thoughts go astray... :P
When you reach out, reach out to every person you come in contact with no matter who they are or what they have to offer you in return. You may never know who you will be touching or how you will affect their lives.
Like little ripples on a pond, what you do does affect the lives of those around you. If you reach out in a positive way, an encouraging word, a helping hand, you may never see it returned from that person.
But if you watch carefully, you can actually see how your action does affect others. Your ripple sets off another set of ripples; positive thought and loving act is shared by the person you touched, who in turn touches and helps others.
Wouldn't it be amazing if you could watch how every thing flows from person to person and somehow even makes it back into your own life in a whole new and enlightening way?
You'd never know until you start the whole thing off and watch.
Reach
Ripple
Round the world
- ESA
Fever makes my mind sway
And thoughts go astray... :P
When you reach out, reach out to every person you come in contact with no matter who they are or what they have to offer you in return. You may never know who you will be touching or how you will affect their lives.
Like little ripples on a pond, what you do does affect the lives of those around you. If you reach out in a positive way, an encouraging word, a helping hand, you may never see it returned from that person.
But if you watch carefully, you can actually see how your action does affect others. Your ripple sets off another set of ripples; positive thought and loving act is shared by the person you touched, who in turn touches and helps others.
Wouldn't it be amazing if you could watch how every thing flows from person to person and somehow even makes it back into your own life in a whole new and enlightening way?
You'd never know until you start the whole thing off and watch.
Reach
Ripple
Round the world
- ESA
Sunday, May 17, 2009
The Fisherman (Story)
The dawn had barely kissed the eastern horizon, lightening the clouds with a peach blush when the fisherman reached the dock slip where his boat was tied. Piled in his arms was an old but well-maintained net that carried the scent of fish and saltwater within its webbing. The morning breeze was gentle but continuous; gulls and other seabirds called to one another as they rode the air currents rolling along the shore.
The lone fisherman lowered his bundle to the dock and climbed down into his small boat, transferring the net to its place at the bow. This was once a pleasurable weekend past-time, but lean times had come to his part of world. He lost his job a month ago and his wife was barely holding on to the part-time clerical job she had. While their meager savings helped keep a roof over their head, the days he could dedicate to fishing helped keep food on the table and -- on occasion -- bring in a little more money too.
Checking the fuel gage on the tank, he pumped the knob on the line to bring gas up to the outboard motor clamped to the back of his small boat. Habitually, he checked around the propeller to make sure it was clear and yanked the line hard, starting the little motor humming.
While alone in his boat, he wasn't the only one on the docks this hour. Several other fishermen were also underway - seemingly more every day he went out; all bringing home smaller catches. Pondering this, he maneuvered his small craft away from the docks and into the open water, where he cranked the motor to full power and felt the familiar vibrations run through his palm and up his arm.
He decided to try his favorite spot one last time, hoping to catch something. He got there early, cut the motor and cast his net into the sea. He poured himself a cup of still-hot coffee from his thermos and watched the waters beside his quiet boat. Not a ripple, not a stir. The larger fishing vessels chugged past him at a respectable distance, heading out to deeper waters. What would be the catch today? he wondered.
After a while, he concluded that, once again, there would be no fish here today. He grunted with the effort of hauling in the dripping nets, arranging them as he drew them in, so he could recast them. He started his motor and turned the bow toward where the larger vessels had gone. I'll find some fish in the deeper waters, he told himself, not really convinced. The motor's hum became a roar as he opened the throttle fully and the little boat leapt ahead.
Once he reached the deeper water, he cut the motor and paused, waiting and watching to see if the fish would approach. While he waited, he choked down a sandwich, ignoring the tang of the salt that transfered from his hands to the bread. First one, then another, soon a small school swam past and under his boat, as it rocked gently on the waves. Ah, this will do nicely, he thought.
He cast his net into the sea and waited, hoping to have some catch to take home to his family. But doubt still enshrouded his heart, casting the small hope in darkness.
Even though fish swam past his boat, when he hauled in the net for the second time, it was as before - empty. The fisherman cursed as he hauled the heavy wet net onboard. I can't come home empty-handed again. Not again!
He arranged the net for one final attempt and then sat in the stern to consider his next and final location carefully. The sun had already started its decent, and the gentle breeze had turned gusty bringing the scent of distant rain. The fisherman cast his eyes heavenward and called out "Hey, up there! Can't you help a man out down here? I'm just trying to feed my family. That's all! Give a guy a break whydon'tcha?"
Not waiting for an answer, he yanked the cord on the motor taking out some of his frustration. He checked the gage on the tank and calculated where he was to go by what he needed to get back to shore, pushing further out.
When he reached the last place, he spied fish coursing just below the surface, practically leaping out of the water as their dorsal fins broke through to the salty air. The fisherman grinned ear-to-ear. He cut the motor and cast the net immediately from his boat that was lightly tossed by the rolling waves. He waited and he watched. He watched and he waited. The fish danced to their own rhythms beneath the waves - all deftly avoiding his net.
As the sun sank in the western sky, dark clouds moved in quickly to cover it. The wind blew fiercer, tasting of rain now - cold and damp to the skin. The fisherman shivered and cursed even harder as he yanked in the net for the last time. In his anger, he tore it, setting off a long string of curse words and any thing his mind could use to season them.
He started the motor and kicked the empty net before him in disgust. Turning his little boat around, he headed back to shore. All that money for the dock rental and the gas to run this stupid boat out here - WASTED! He was in a foul mood by the time he reached the docking slip. The sky was leaden grey with the approaching sunset and incoming storm, helping to further darken his spirits.
When the fisherman reached his slip, he saw a man sitting there dangling his feet from the dock. He appeared to be in his early thirties, dressed in jeans and a loose fitting shirt below his shoulder-length hair, a very common sight among the docks. When the man saw him approach, he smiled brightly through his beard, then got up and helped to guide the boat home into its berth as through he had done this countless times before.
"Thanks," the fisherman grumbled, "but if you're looking to buy some fish from me tonight, you're out of luck. My net was empty all day. I don't even have a catch to share with my family."
"That's a shame," replied the stranger as he turned to face the wind and water, "I know there are fish out there." Then his contemplative look brightened. "Say! I know a spot that always has fish; it's not too far from shore either." He turned to the fisherman with a light sparkling in his eyes. "I could show you if you'd like."
The fisherman shook his head wearily as he hauled the net up onto the dock. "Sorry. It's getting late and I have no running lights for night. Besides," he scowled, "I tore my net hauling in the last cast. I need to take it home and repair it."
The stranger sat down beside the dripping net, ignoring the pool of water that snaked its way toward his dry jeans. "I can help there; I know how to mend nets." As if he knew where to go, his hand reached out and found the place the net was torn. Deftly, he worked the webbing and knotted the hole closed. Then he handed the section back to the fisherman to inspect.
The fisherman was awestruck. "How did you do that so quickly?"
The stranger smiled openly and laughed an easy laugh. "I've had lots of practice over the years."
The fisherman studied the stranger a moment, not sure what to say or make of this man.
"Shall I show you this spot I know?" the stranger asked again.
"Uh... Thanks, but no thanks. I appreciate you helping me with my net, but I'm also out of gas. I don't think you can magically make my gas tank full again...?" he chuckled with a blend of amusement and sarcasm.
"I don't need to," the stranger replied as he rose to his feet and pointed to the oars lying on either side of the boat.
The fisherman barked a bitter laugh. "I don't know about you, but my arms are tired from hauling this net in and out three times today."
Wordlessly, the stranger hopped down into the boat, placed the oars in the oarlocks and sat ready to pull them with hands that were used to hard work.
The fisherman stood there mute and dumb. Maybe I fell asleep out there and I'm dreaming all this... He shrugged and hauled his net back into the boat, sitting down beside it as the stranger pulled against the oars setting them back out across the water again.
The fisherman pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed-dial button. "Yeah, it's just me. I wanted to tell you I'll be getting home a bit later... No, I'm fine. There's a guy here that wants to show me a spot where the fish are. We shouldn't be long... Don't worry. I'll be careful.... Yes, I see the rain too. I should have time enough for one last trip before full dark though.... OK, love you too."
As the stranger checked their course over his shoulder and started a rhythmic rowing he faced the fisherman and asked, "Have you ever read the children's book 'The Little Engine That Could'?"
The fisherman smiled, "Yeah. When my kids were young. That was one of their favorites. 'I think I can, I think I can...' Why do you ask?"
"Why haven't you listened to the book's message?"
"What message?"
The stranger paused and let the boat drift forward under its own momentum. "You need to believe in something to make it happen."
"That works for kids, but reality sets in when your an adult."
The stranger shook his head, "It's the same no matter your age. That's why children can understand it better. They don't have the false notions that life places in our heads when we're older. If you think you can - you can. That's it."
"So what does that have to do with where the fish are?"
He released one oar to gesture over the rippling water as the oncoming storm's wind created whitecaps around them. "There is your hill." Then he pointed to the net. "There is your train. Haul it over the hill if you can."
I've got a loony in my boat, the man thought to himself, but he stood up to cast the net once again, trusting the stranger for some unknown reason.
"You don't have the right mindset," scolded the stranger with a gentle smile. "You really need to think it. Not just think it, but believe it with your whole heart."
"The 'I think I can, I think I can' thing?"
"Exactly! Try it. Trust in yourself. Trust that the fish will be there and that they will come into your net."
The fisherman shrugged and cast the net out again. Immediately there was a tug on the lines. Both men watched over the side of the rocking boat as the fish streamed into the net, weighing it down tremendously. The stranger laughed in delight, "See! I told you! It's a great spot." T
he two worked side by side hauling in the net. The net was so full of fish; it could not be hauled into the boat, even with their joint efforts. "Let's pull into the shore there," the stranger suggested pointing toward the beach. "The people there can help."
The fisherman hung unto the net dearly as the stranger rowed toward the shore with renewed energy. The fisherman's heart sang in joy. "What a catch! Can you believe it? In all my years, I've never seen the like!"
"I have. It's great - something wonderful!"
"It is," the fisherman agreed and grinned ear-to-ear despite the rain that started to pour down on their heads. The rain passed quickly and the dark clouds with it. By the time they reached the shore, the sun was peeking below the clouds, and kissed the western horizon. Soaked head-to-toe and still elated, the fisherman called to those on the shore. "Ahoy! If you could help us haul in this catch, I'll share it with you. Com'on! We need the help!"
Puzzled looks were exchanged between the onlookers, but they waded out into the water. First one, then two, soon a whole group gathered taking the net in hand and following the fisherman's instructions to safely land the huge catch they had made.
While they were hauling in the net, the fisherman turned to the stranger beside him, also tugging on the heavy net. "You've earned at least half of this for showing me what you did." I'll share my half with these people; you can take home or sell the rest - whatever you want."
The stranger smiled and shook his head. "I don't need any of this catch, not now. But I will ask you a boon."
"Whatever you want. You've made my day."
"There are others who are hungry. Take what you would give to me and feed them."
The last words rung a chord somewhere deep inside the fisherman and he paused in shocked stillness a moment. With an overwhelming feeling of awe, he slowly turned to face the man beside him -- to really take a good hard look at who he was -- but that man was gone, leaving him to distribute the catch and head home with a remarkable "fish story" to tell.
The lone fisherman lowered his bundle to the dock and climbed down into his small boat, transferring the net to its place at the bow. This was once a pleasurable weekend past-time, but lean times had come to his part of world. He lost his job a month ago and his wife was barely holding on to the part-time clerical job she had. While their meager savings helped keep a roof over their head, the days he could dedicate to fishing helped keep food on the table and -- on occasion -- bring in a little more money too.
Checking the fuel gage on the tank, he pumped the knob on the line to bring gas up to the outboard motor clamped to the back of his small boat. Habitually, he checked around the propeller to make sure it was clear and yanked the line hard, starting the little motor humming.
While alone in his boat, he wasn't the only one on the docks this hour. Several other fishermen were also underway - seemingly more every day he went out; all bringing home smaller catches. Pondering this, he maneuvered his small craft away from the docks and into the open water, where he cranked the motor to full power and felt the familiar vibrations run through his palm and up his arm.He decided to try his favorite spot one last time, hoping to catch something. He got there early, cut the motor and cast his net into the sea. He poured himself a cup of still-hot coffee from his thermos and watched the waters beside his quiet boat. Not a ripple, not a stir. The larger fishing vessels chugged past him at a respectable distance, heading out to deeper waters. What would be the catch today? he wondered.
After a while, he concluded that, once again, there would be no fish here today. He grunted with the effort of hauling in the dripping nets, arranging them as he drew them in, so he could recast them. He started his motor and turned the bow toward where the larger vessels had gone. I'll find some fish in the deeper waters, he told himself, not really convinced. The motor's hum became a roar as he opened the throttle fully and the little boat leapt ahead.
Once he reached the deeper water, he cut the motor and paused, waiting and watching to see if the fish would approach. While he waited, he choked down a sandwich, ignoring the tang of the salt that transfered from his hands to the bread. First one, then another, soon a small school swam past and under his boat, as it rocked gently on the waves. Ah, this will do nicely, he thought.He cast his net into the sea and waited, hoping to have some catch to take home to his family. But doubt still enshrouded his heart, casting the small hope in darkness.
Even though fish swam past his boat, when he hauled in the net for the second time, it was as before - empty. The fisherman cursed as he hauled the heavy wet net onboard. I can't come home empty-handed again. Not again!
He arranged the net for one final attempt and then sat in the stern to consider his next and final location carefully. The sun had already started its decent, and the gentle breeze had turned gusty bringing the scent of distant rain. The fisherman cast his eyes heavenward and called out "Hey, up there! Can't you help a man out down here? I'm just trying to feed my family. That's all! Give a guy a break whydon'tcha?"
Not waiting for an answer, he yanked the cord on the motor taking out some of his frustration. He checked the gage on the tank and calculated where he was to go by what he needed to get back to shore, pushing further out.
When he reached the last place, he spied fish coursing just below the surface, practically leaping out of the water as their dorsal fins broke through to the salty air. The fisherman grinned ear-to-ear. He cut the motor and cast the net immediately from his boat that was lightly tossed by the rolling waves. He waited and he watched. He watched and he waited. The fish danced to their own rhythms beneath the waves - all deftly avoiding his net.
As the sun sank in the western sky, dark clouds moved in quickly to cover it. The wind blew fiercer, tasting of rain now - cold and damp to the skin. The fisherman shivered and cursed even harder as he yanked in the net for the last time. In his anger, he tore it, setting off a long string of curse words and any thing his mind could use to season them.
He started the motor and kicked the empty net before him in disgust. Turning his little boat around, he headed back to shore. All that money for the dock rental and the gas to run this stupid boat out here - WASTED! He was in a foul mood by the time he reached the docking slip. The sky was leaden grey with the approaching sunset and incoming storm, helping to further darken his spirits.
When the fisherman reached his slip, he saw a man sitting there dangling his feet from the dock. He appeared to be in his early thirties, dressed in jeans and a loose fitting shirt below his shoulder-length hair, a very common sight among the docks. When the man saw him approach, he smiled brightly through his beard, then got up and helped to guide the boat home into its berth as through he had done this countless times before.
"Thanks," the fisherman grumbled, "but if you're looking to buy some fish from me tonight, you're out of luck. My net was empty all day. I don't even have a catch to share with my family."
"That's a shame," replied the stranger as he turned to face the wind and water, "I know there are fish out there." Then his contemplative look brightened. "Say! I know a spot that always has fish; it's not too far from shore either." He turned to the fisherman with a light sparkling in his eyes. "I could show you if you'd like."
The fisherman shook his head wearily as he hauled the net up onto the dock. "Sorry. It's getting late and I have no running lights for night. Besides," he scowled, "I tore my net hauling in the last cast. I need to take it home and repair it."The stranger sat down beside the dripping net, ignoring the pool of water that snaked its way toward his dry jeans. "I can help there; I know how to mend nets." As if he knew where to go, his hand reached out and found the place the net was torn. Deftly, he worked the webbing and knotted the hole closed. Then he handed the section back to the fisherman to inspect.
The fisherman was awestruck. "How did you do that so quickly?"
The stranger smiled openly and laughed an easy laugh. "I've had lots of practice over the years."
The fisherman studied the stranger a moment, not sure what to say or make of this man.
"Shall I show you this spot I know?" the stranger asked again.
"Uh... Thanks, but no thanks. I appreciate you helping me with my net, but I'm also out of gas. I don't think you can magically make my gas tank full again...?" he chuckled with a blend of amusement and sarcasm.
"I don't need to," the stranger replied as he rose to his feet and pointed to the oars lying on either side of the boat.
The fisherman barked a bitter laugh. "I don't know about you, but my arms are tired from hauling this net in and out three times today."
Wordlessly, the stranger hopped down into the boat, placed the oars in the oarlocks and sat ready to pull them with hands that were used to hard work.
The fisherman stood there mute and dumb. Maybe I fell asleep out there and I'm dreaming all this... He shrugged and hauled his net back into the boat, sitting down beside it as the stranger pulled against the oars setting them back out across the water again.The fisherman pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed-dial button. "Yeah, it's just me. I wanted to tell you I'll be getting home a bit later... No, I'm fine. There's a guy here that wants to show me a spot where the fish are. We shouldn't be long... Don't worry. I'll be careful.... Yes, I see the rain too. I should have time enough for one last trip before full dark though.... OK, love you too."
As the stranger checked their course over his shoulder and started a rhythmic rowing he faced the fisherman and asked, "Have you ever read the children's book 'The Little Engine That Could'?"
The fisherman smiled, "Yeah. When my kids were young. That was one of their favorites. 'I think I can, I think I can...' Why do you ask?"
"Why haven't you listened to the book's message?"
"What message?"
The stranger paused and let the boat drift forward under its own momentum. "You need to believe in something to make it happen."
"That works for kids, but reality sets in when your an adult."
The stranger shook his head, "It's the same no matter your age. That's why children can understand it better. They don't have the false notions that life places in our heads when we're older. If you think you can - you can. That's it."
"So what does that have to do with where the fish are?"
He released one oar to gesture over the rippling water as the oncoming storm's wind created whitecaps around them. "There is your hill." Then he pointed to the net. "There is your train. Haul it over the hill if you can."
I've got a loony in my boat, the man thought to himself, but he stood up to cast the net once again, trusting the stranger for some unknown reason.
"You don't have the right mindset," scolded the stranger with a gentle smile. "You really need to think it. Not just think it, but believe it with your whole heart."
"The 'I think I can, I think I can' thing?"
"Exactly! Try it. Trust in yourself. Trust that the fish will be there and that they will come into your net."
The fisherman shrugged and cast the net out again. Immediately there was a tug on the lines. Both men watched over the side of the rocking boat as the fish streamed into the net, weighing it down tremendously. The stranger laughed in delight, "See! I told you! It's a great spot." The two worked side by side hauling in the net. The net was so full of fish; it could not be hauled into the boat, even with their joint efforts. "Let's pull into the shore there," the stranger suggested pointing toward the beach. "The people there can help."
The fisherman hung unto the net dearly as the stranger rowed toward the shore with renewed energy. The fisherman's heart sang in joy. "What a catch! Can you believe it? In all my years, I've never seen the like!"
"I have. It's great - something wonderful!"
"It is," the fisherman agreed and grinned ear-to-ear despite the rain that started to pour down on their heads. The rain passed quickly and the dark clouds with it. By the time they reached the shore, the sun was peeking below the clouds, and kissed the western horizon. Soaked head-to-toe and still elated, the fisherman called to those on the shore. "Ahoy! If you could help us haul in this catch, I'll share it with you. Com'on! We need the help!"
Puzzled looks were exchanged between the onlookers, but they waded out into the water. First one, then two, soon a whole group gathered taking the net in hand and following the fisherman's instructions to safely land the huge catch they had made.
While they were hauling in the net, the fisherman turned to the stranger beside him, also tugging on the heavy net. "You've earned at least half of this for showing me what you did." I'll share my half with these people; you can take home or sell the rest - whatever you want."
The stranger smiled and shook his head. "I don't need any of this catch, not now. But I will ask you a boon."
"Whatever you want. You've made my day."
"There are others who are hungry. Take what you would give to me and feed them."
The last words rung a chord somewhere deep inside the fisherman and he paused in shocked stillness a moment. With an overwhelming feeling of awe, he slowly turned to face the man beside him -- to really take a good hard look at who he was -- but that man was gone, leaving him to distribute the catch and head home with a remarkable "fish story" to tell.
- ESA
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Heaven (True Story)
The below post was written in my journal over two decades ago - exactly as you see it. My writing skills weren't as developed, and it was never polished for publication; it's simply something I wrote in my journal to describe what happened to me that day.
I thought it would be something nice to share with you today.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
4/20/87
I sit outside in the sunshine on this warm spring day. I watch the sun sink slowly below the horizon from the top of a steep hill. I look into the sky where the clouds camaflage themselves to match the sunset. Tonight one cloud suspends over the sun.
The bottom of this cumulous cloud takes on no other color I've seen before: pink. But so soft a pink it looks like cotton candy, but not sticky. I guess it would be more like cotton then.
Then the tremendous view rose from there. Around the outside edges of the cloud, there is a billowing formation soft and cottony like. But the center wasn't as defined as the edges. The center was blended together smoothly. It varied in colors that we[re] constantly swirling. I saw greens, blues, purples, pinks, reds, yellows, oranges, browns, and white. But there was no black. No darkness existed whatsoever within that cloud. If I watched the center for a few minutes I began to see things. Places that I'd never think I would see, but places that I wanted to see so much.
Someone came up from behind me and sat down beside me on the hill. He looked at me and at the cloud I was watching. The clould that was beyond my description, because it was so beautiful. Then, this person pointed at the cloud and remarqued about its beauty. I nodded still looking at the cloud. Then the person told me that what the sight was wasn't just a cloud, but the outside of heaven. I turned around to look at this person, but he was nowhere in sight now. Strange. Then I turned my eyes back toward the sky to see the last of the cloud fading into nothing.
Next, I thought of the cloud and what the person had said. Then, I thought to myself if that was what heaven was like on the outside. It must be unimaginable on the inside.
- TM
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- ESA
I thought it would be something nice to share with you today.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
4/20/87
I sit outside in the sunshine on this warm spring day. I watch the sun sink slowly below the horizon from the top of a steep hill. I look into the sky where the clouds camaflage themselves to match the sunset. Tonight one cloud suspends over the sun.
The bottom of this cumulous cloud takes on no other color I've seen before: pink. But so soft a pink it looks like cotton candy, but not sticky. I guess it would be more like cotton then.
Then the tremendous view rose from there. Around the outside edges of the cloud, there is a billowing formation soft and cottony like. But the center wasn't as defined as the edges. The center was blended together smoothly. It varied in colors that we[re] constantly swirling. I saw greens, blues, purples, pinks, reds, yellows, oranges, browns, and white. But there was no black. No darkness existed whatsoever within that cloud. If I watched the center for a few minutes I began to see things. Places that I'd never think I would see, but places that I wanted to see so much.
Someone came up from behind me and sat down beside me on the hill. He looked at me and at the cloud I was watching. The clould that was beyond my description, because it was so beautiful. Then, this person pointed at the cloud and remarqued about its beauty. I nodded still looking at the cloud. Then the person told me that what the sight was wasn't just a cloud, but the outside of heaven. I turned around to look at this person, but he was nowhere in sight now. Strange. Then I turned my eyes back toward the sky to see the last of the cloud fading into nothing.
Next, I thought of the cloud and what the person had said. Then, I thought to myself if that was what heaven was like on the outside. It must be unimaginable on the inside.
- TM
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- ESA
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Believe
Belief can make the impossible possible.
This gift can be realized through prayer and positive thoughts. When we pray and believe undoubtedly in something, that which is within us can aide us in realizing that which we are trying to accomplish.
Belief is the key. If you are asking to test your faith or ask for proof, you are not believing - you still have doubt. In today's world, absolute faith in something or someone is exceedingly rare. Too often we have encountered doubt and have been let down by those we trusted in the past - parents, teachers, heroes... even God in the minds of some. So when asked to believe beyond any doubt, the world writhes its way into our heart and plants the seed of doubt there, unraveling the wonder before it can be brought to fruition.
It's hard. But it is still possible. Prayer is not only a means of communication asking for help, it's a bridge between us and God. He can help us achieve this. Does He remove the doubt and make it easy? No. But He provides guidance and strength, helping us to believe as we should. When we feel His Love anchor in our hearts, we realize that the doubt isn't as large or as firm as once perceived, and it will fade, allowing us to believe.
Once we can believe without a doubt, reaching out in prayer and/or positive thoughts toward others becomes second nature. That's when we start to see the impossible become possible.
Pray
Believe
Do
- ESA
We have within ourselves a birthright. With this birthright comes responsibility. What is this birthright? It's a gift given to humanity by our Creator - the ability to do the impossible when we have faith enough in ourselves and in others. The responsibility is to use this gift wisely in acts of love, not selfishness, greed or self-promotion.
This gift can be realized through prayer and positive thoughts. When we pray and believe undoubtedly in something, that which is within us can aide us in realizing that which we are trying to accomplish.
Belief is the key. If you are asking to test your faith or ask for proof, you are not believing - you still have doubt. In today's world, absolute faith in something or someone is exceedingly rare. Too often we have encountered doubt and have been let down by those we trusted in the past - parents, teachers, heroes... even God in the minds of some. So when asked to believe beyond any doubt, the world writhes its way into our heart and plants the seed of doubt there, unraveling the wonder before it can be brought to fruition.
It's hard. But it is still possible. Prayer is not only a means of communication asking for help, it's a bridge between us and God. He can help us achieve this. Does He remove the doubt and make it easy? No. But He provides guidance and strength, helping us to believe as we should. When we feel His Love anchor in our hearts, we realize that the doubt isn't as large or as firm as once perceived, and it will fade, allowing us to believe.
Once we can believe without a doubt, reaching out in prayer and/or positive thoughts toward others becomes second nature. That's when we start to see the impossible become possible.
Pray
Believe
Do
- ESA
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Smile :D (Poem)
When you are down
And you look around
You see the frowns
That keep you down
Look instead for the smile
In only a short while
Instead of wanton guile
You will see that smile
For if you look for the positive
And all that Love and Light can give
You find that you can forgive
Those who spread the negative
And when you see someone down
Do not return that solemn frown
Give instead a heartfelt smile
The result is worth your while
:D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D
- ESA
And you look around
You see the frowns
That keep you down
Look instead for the smile
In only a short while
Instead of wanton guile
You will see that smile
For if you look for the positive
And all that Love and Light can give
You find that you can forgive
Those who spread the negative
And when you see someone down
Do not return that solemn frown
Give instead a heartfelt smile
The result is worth your while
:D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D :D
- ESA
Monday, May 11, 2009
Story Beyond the Story (True Story)
M: "Who wants to hear a new story I'm going to write tomorrow morning?"
C: "I do! I do!"
C: "Memememe!"
A: "Let's hear it."
M: "OK. This is a story about three little pigs."
C: "Can I be a pig? We'll make it a princess pig who loves the color pink!"
C: "I want to be one too! Named Platypus. Oh wait, can we make it a platypus instead?"
M: "No, there are just three little pigs in this story."
C: "Why can't one of them be a platypus?"
M: "Because it's based on the story of the Three Little Pigs; there are no platypi in that story. We can name one of the pigs Platypus if you'd like."
C: "OK"
M: "So there are three little pigs, one named.."
A: "George"
M: "... one named George, one named Platypus and the porky princess who loves pink. These three pigs lived in southern California."
C: "We're gonna live there. We're moving to San Diego in ... ummm... six weeks!"
M: "I know. So let's say these little pigs lived in San Diego. Now the first pig wanted to use some local building material and he built his house out of straw."
C: "That can be C---'s pig; she's not in the room."
M: "OK So C--'s pig named George built his house out of straw. Then the Santa Anna winds came and guess what happened."
C: "It blew away."
M: "Right. And the second pig, built his house out of wood."
C: "That will be Platypus because my Princess Pig will have bricks - pink bricks."
M: "Fine. Platypus built his house out of wood and when the Santa Anna winds came, what happened."
C: "It stayed up."
M: "Right. But then the fires came down the hill. What happens to a house made of wood?"
A: "Uh-oh"
C: "It burnt down."
M: "Right. And the porky princess made her pink brick house using brick and stone. What happened to this house in the Santa Anna winds."
C: "It stayed up."
M: "Right. And what about fire?"
C: "Nope."
C: "It stayed up."
M: "Right. But then after the fire there was an earthquake. What happened to the brick and stone house?"
C: "It fell down. CRASH! Like that."
M: "Right. That's when the three little pigs figured out that working by themselves they could not build a house that would stand up. So they decided they were going to work together. George showed them how to use local materials; Platypus showed them how to make the house flexible for earthquakes and the porky princess who loves pink put up some stucco and brick barriers to protect the house from fire. When the Santa Anna winds blew now, it stayed. When the fires came, it stayed. When the earthquake shook the ground beneath them it stayed. Then they thought they had beaten all that Mother Nature could throw at them. Mother Nature said "Oh yeah?" and the rains started to come down."
A: "Oh no."
M: "Yep. A mudslide came and washed the house away."
A: "Boy, Tara! You're never going to let these poor little pigs have a house, are you?"
M: "Not yet... So, when these little pigs were sitting together in the shelter thinking where had they gone wrong..."
A: "Well pissing off Ma Nature didn't help!"
M: "They realized that they were missing one important thing for their house. They needed to have a solid foundation. Do you know what they used?"
C: "Concrete?"
M: "Close. L--, can you guess?"
C: "Ummm..."
M: "I'll give you a clue: Christ told Peter that He would use it to build His church."
C: "Ummmm..."
M: "Since it's late and been a long day, I'll give you another clue. It starts with the letter 'R'."
C: "Oh... Ummmm...."
A: "Come on, L---. You know this one. It's a four-letter word."
C: "Ummmm..."
M: "One more clue. The second letter is 'O'."
C: "Oh! A road! They built their house on a road!"
A: "It was a rock, L--. A rock, not a road."
A: "Well, Peter did take it on the road, didn't he?"
M: "Yes, but I think the California Highway Department would be a bit upset if the three little pigs built their home on one of their roads. :P"
- ESA
Sunday, May 10, 2009
The SoCal Pigs (Story)
Once there were three little pigs who lived in beautiful southern California. Each decided they would build their homes to their own design.
The first pig decided to use local materials for his home. Once the grass had grown tall and turned a delightful golden brown, he harvested it from the nearby hills and wove it deftly into walls and roof. It was a pleasant little house, for it breathed with the gentle clime of the area, keeping off the occasional rain and plentiful sun. This pig lived happily in his house until the fall when the hot, dry Santa Anna winds howled down across the area. With the first few gusts, the little house scattered on the wind, leaving the first pig to watch his home disappear.
The second pig knew about the Santa Anna winds and he built his house of wood. He was in his home much earlier than the first pig, as he didn’t need to wait for the grass to grow. He listened to the occasional rain on his rooftop and stayed warm when the cool fog was long lifting. When summer came, his home was pleasantly cool as the breezes blowing from the ocean gently rocked the house and the roof eclipsed the hottest part of the day.
When the first pig lost his home to the Santa Anna winds, the second pig opened his door and called out to his neighbor, “Come into my home where it’s safe. For you see, I have built it better than yours. I have been here longer and my home is strong enough for all the seasons this fine land has to offer. I will let you stay here until you can build a better one for yourself too.”
So the two little pigs shared the little home and together they listened to the Santa Anna winds howl down from the mountains, swaying the wooden walls and rattling a few loose boards on the roof. But the house stood strong against the winds… until the brush fires broke out in the brush.
Day by day the two little pigs watched the news in dread as the fire lines moved closer and closer to their little home. One day the fateful knock came on the door – time to evacuate. Fighting back the tears and fears, the two took what they treasured most and left, still hoping that they would have a place to live when they returned.
The fire swept through the homes in the area, sparing none. The little wooden house’s walls and roof had grown dry through the summer and the fire licked the beams hungrily. In mere moments, the home was ablaze and then gone – ash blowing on the wind.
The third pig was saddened when he heard the news of his neighbors, and he opened his home to them, saying, “Stay with me a while until you can rebuild. Don’t fear the Santa Anna winds nor the fires that ride them. For you see, I read up on the weather in this area and prepared for it. Not only have I built my home of brick and stone and made my roof of clay tiles, I’ve also designed fire barriers around my property. No, the fires will not touch my house.”
Though crowded, the three pigs lived in the house of stone and watched the news closely. The fires continued to spread further and further. When the day that they had to evacuate, the third pig said, “I have confidence this house will survive.”
The fires raged, but the barriers slowed them down. Smoke billowed thick and blinding and darkened the gleaming white exterior. Tiles cracked and popped in the unyielding heat of the inferno… but the house stood.
The three pigs returned and scrubbed the smoke from the interior and exterior, glad they still had a home. The third pig was very proud of himself and his wisdom to research the clime before building. He instructed the other two pigs that when they rebuild they must use brick and stone as he had for surely that was the best way to build a home in that beautiful part of the world.
Through the mild winter months, the third pig continued to boast as he kept his home warm at night with his brick fireplace. The other two grew weary of this, but with nowhere else to live until they rebuilt in the spring, they had no choice.
In the early spring, the San Andreas fault shrugged its shoulders. The ground trembled beneath the little stone house, rattling the windows and dislodging loose items. The three pigs scrambled to flee, just as the clay tile roof fell.
When the gentle breeze came to lift the morning fog, it also cleared the dust in the air, giving them a good look at their home. Bricks and stone were scattered everywhere, not one wall remained standing. All their belongings were lost, crushed under the crumbled stone and heavy roof. As one the two pigs turned to the third and remarked, “You forgot about the earthquakes when you designed this home, didn’t you.”
The third pig just sat there mute, looking at the remains of his fine home. As his ego came crashing down, he swallowed his pride and turned to the other two. “It appears I have,” he grudgingly admitted.
They agreed then and there to collaborate and design a home together. The first pig provided insight about using local building materials. The second pig helped design a house that would give and sway without falling in high winds or earthquakes. The third pig put his knowledge of fire barriers to use, making this home as resistant to the fires as possible.
The year rolled through the seasons, summer followed spring and fall brought the Santa Anna winds on its tail. The new house rattled with the winds, but did not blow away. The fires came and the house survived with only some charring, which was easily repaired. That winter, the ground shifted again, and the house remained firmly upright.
At the end of that winter, the three little pigs rejoiced, they had survived a year and their combined efforts had seen them through it all. With the rain pattering down on their roof they felt secure and comfortable in their home.
And the rains continued to fall – heavily at times – day after day after day. The little pigs looked outside gloomily, wondering if they will ever see the sun that made that area a wonderful place to live. Then they felt the ground shift under their feet – just slightly. Thinking it was one of the local faults sending out a minor tremor, the little pigs just shrugged it off, confident their house would withstand it all.
The next morning, the shift was felt again – more prominent. When there was nothing reported on the news, they decided to visit with a friend who was a local seismologist. He checked the equipment and shrugged, there was nothing registering that they would perceive. He was a little concerned and suggested they have someone check into the ground stability.
Baffled, they drove back to their home only to find the way blocked. When the police officer walked up to the car window, he told them the road ahead was closed.
“But officer,” they argued as they showed their ID’s, “we live up there.”
He walked back to his fellows and they called over the man in charge. Then a small group walked back to the car, very somber. “You can’t get to your house, but we’ll let you go a little way in to survey the damage. We’ll escort you; then you have to leave.”
Pale-faced they followed the patrol car into the neighborhood. Fresh sandy soil washed in muddy cascades here and there. When the crested a neighboring hill, they saw their home – or where the house had once stood. It had slid down the hillside from where it once stood, the roofline and chimney the only parts visible above the river of mud that engulfed it.
They gathered at a nearby shelter, wondering what to do. Then an understanding came to them. Cooperation was how they survived everything else, but they lacked one thing – a good, solid foundation.
They tried together one more time and this time found a solid rocky ledge to build their house upon. Through cooperation and collaboration, they built themselves a fine home. The seasons spun in their annual dance, winds, fire, tremors and mudslides came and went and the house survived it all.
They still live there to this day.
- ESA
The first pig decided to use local materials for his home. Once the grass had grown tall and turned a delightful golden brown, he harvested it from the nearby hills and wove it deftly into walls and roof. It was a pleasant little house, for it breathed with the gentle clime of the area, keeping off the occasional rain and plentiful sun. This pig lived happily in his house until the fall when the hot, dry Santa Anna winds howled down across the area. With the first few gusts, the little house scattered on the wind, leaving the first pig to watch his home disappear.
The second pig knew about the Santa Anna winds and he built his house of wood. He was in his home much earlier than the first pig, as he didn’t need to wait for the grass to grow. He listened to the occasional rain on his rooftop and stayed warm when the cool fog was long lifting. When summer came, his home was pleasantly cool as the breezes blowing from the ocean gently rocked the house and the roof eclipsed the hottest part of the day.
When the first pig lost his home to the Santa Anna winds, the second pig opened his door and called out to his neighbor, “Come into my home where it’s safe. For you see, I have built it better than yours. I have been here longer and my home is strong enough for all the seasons this fine land has to offer. I will let you stay here until you can build a better one for yourself too.”
So the two little pigs shared the little home and together they listened to the Santa Anna winds howl down from the mountains, swaying the wooden walls and rattling a few loose boards on the roof. But the house stood strong against the winds… until the brush fires broke out in the brush.
Day by day the two little pigs watched the news in dread as the fire lines moved closer and closer to their little home. One day the fateful knock came on the door – time to evacuate. Fighting back the tears and fears, the two took what they treasured most and left, still hoping that they would have a place to live when they returned.
The fire swept through the homes in the area, sparing none. The little wooden house’s walls and roof had grown dry through the summer and the fire licked the beams hungrily. In mere moments, the home was ablaze and then gone – ash blowing on the wind.
The third pig was saddened when he heard the news of his neighbors, and he opened his home to them, saying, “Stay with me a while until you can rebuild. Don’t fear the Santa Anna winds nor the fires that ride them. For you see, I read up on the weather in this area and prepared for it. Not only have I built my home of brick and stone and made my roof of clay tiles, I’ve also designed fire barriers around my property. No, the fires will not touch my house.”
Though crowded, the three pigs lived in the house of stone and watched the news closely. The fires continued to spread further and further. When the day that they had to evacuate, the third pig said, “I have confidence this house will survive.”
The fires raged, but the barriers slowed them down. Smoke billowed thick and blinding and darkened the gleaming white exterior. Tiles cracked and popped in the unyielding heat of the inferno… but the house stood.
The three pigs returned and scrubbed the smoke from the interior and exterior, glad they still had a home. The third pig was very proud of himself and his wisdom to research the clime before building. He instructed the other two pigs that when they rebuild they must use brick and stone as he had for surely that was the best way to build a home in that beautiful part of the world.
Through the mild winter months, the third pig continued to boast as he kept his home warm at night with his brick fireplace. The other two grew weary of this, but with nowhere else to live until they rebuilt in the spring, they had no choice.
In the early spring, the San Andreas fault shrugged its shoulders. The ground trembled beneath the little stone house, rattling the windows and dislodging loose items. The three pigs scrambled to flee, just as the clay tile roof fell.
When the gentle breeze came to lift the morning fog, it also cleared the dust in the air, giving them a good look at their home. Bricks and stone were scattered everywhere, not one wall remained standing. All their belongings were lost, crushed under the crumbled stone and heavy roof. As one the two pigs turned to the third and remarked, “You forgot about the earthquakes when you designed this home, didn’t you.”
The third pig just sat there mute, looking at the remains of his fine home. As his ego came crashing down, he swallowed his pride and turned to the other two. “It appears I have,” he grudgingly admitted.
They agreed then and there to collaborate and design a home together. The first pig provided insight about using local building materials. The second pig helped design a house that would give and sway without falling in high winds or earthquakes. The third pig put his knowledge of fire barriers to use, making this home as resistant to the fires as possible.
The year rolled through the seasons, summer followed spring and fall brought the Santa Anna winds on its tail. The new house rattled with the winds, but did not blow away. The fires came and the house survived with only some charring, which was easily repaired. That winter, the ground shifted again, and the house remained firmly upright.
At the end of that winter, the three little pigs rejoiced, they had survived a year and their combined efforts had seen them through it all. With the rain pattering down on their roof they felt secure and comfortable in their home.
And the rains continued to fall – heavily at times – day after day after day. The little pigs looked outside gloomily, wondering if they will ever see the sun that made that area a wonderful place to live. Then they felt the ground shift under their feet – just slightly. Thinking it was one of the local faults sending out a minor tremor, the little pigs just shrugged it off, confident their house would withstand it all.
The next morning, the shift was felt again – more prominent. When there was nothing reported on the news, they decided to visit with a friend who was a local seismologist. He checked the equipment and shrugged, there was nothing registering that they would perceive. He was a little concerned and suggested they have someone check into the ground stability.
Baffled, they drove back to their home only to find the way blocked. When the police officer walked up to the car window, he told them the road ahead was closed.
“But officer,” they argued as they showed their ID’s, “we live up there.”
He walked back to his fellows and they called over the man in charge. Then a small group walked back to the car, very somber. “You can’t get to your house, but we’ll let you go a little way in to survey the damage. We’ll escort you; then you have to leave.”
Pale-faced they followed the patrol car into the neighborhood. Fresh sandy soil washed in muddy cascades here and there. When the crested a neighboring hill, they saw their home – or where the house had once stood. It had slid down the hillside from where it once stood, the roofline and chimney the only parts visible above the river of mud that engulfed it.
They gathered at a nearby shelter, wondering what to do. Then an understanding came to them. Cooperation was how they survived everything else, but they lacked one thing – a good, solid foundation.
They tried together one more time and this time found a solid rocky ledge to build their house upon. Through cooperation and collaboration, they built themselves a fine home. The seasons spun in their annual dance, winds, fire, tremors and mudslides came and went and the house survived it all.
They still live there to this day.
- ESA
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