Emaline of Earthica

Posted in Uncategorized on May 10, 2017 by finepewterportraits

Emaline hails from Earthica, a near-sliver in the universe prism (the prism being a an origin myth of her brood). Her tale begins in the wilds of the Hildenbard region, a once-peaceful glen wherein mighty creatures breathed the same sweet air as those whose ancestors staked their claim as recently as the Akdoon Age. Hildenbard’s forests are legendary among Greater Earthica’s lore, brimming with magical flora and fauna, engendering a sense of worldly unification in its visitors. Its iridescent coves are the dwelling places of imps, the forest floor a place for dormice and bronze-winged beetles and the highest reaches of the Alanpool trees a home for owls of enormous size. Truly, more magical environs could not be envisioned by those who counted themselves fortunate to see generations of their families flourish there.

Owing perhaps to the abundance of magical and non-magical treasures in its boundaries, Hildenbard was a thriving community comprised of numerous species of sentient nature: humans, whose brashness was tempered by the gentle winds passing through the ancient trees; elves, whose haughtiness and prejudice of their neighbors was soothed by the unique natural order of their chosen land; dwarves, whose natural prejudices (of another nature from the elves) were allayed by the good relations between the humans and elves, and who contented themselves with mining and smithing in the bountiful caves near the basins in the lowveld; and countless others who existed in smaller number but were held in no less esteem.

All was well in Hildenbard for a dragon’s age. It is perhaps fitting that a new Draconic Era ushered in great change and strife.

Emaline was a bright and happy child, imbued with the beauty and grace of her elven mother, Eralain, and the industriousness and cunning of her human father, Herinstead. Though no law or Hildenbardian custom prohibited it, Herinstead and Eralain had had but one child, to whom all their love, wonder and gracious care was given. Herinstead, a blacksmith of unmatched skill, tirelessly worked his forge to supply Hildendbard’s Defenders with magically-imbued armors and weaponry. Though this was a peaceful time, the Defenders–mostly Elves–had lived long enough to know that good times gave way to leaner times and struggles between races (and inside species’ own communities) were a constant, even in Hildenbard. Eralain was a scholar in Hildenbard’s revered and ancient center of learning, The Chromitonicon, studying ancient healing and working with the Elders of the Forest Order to create poultices from magical herbs and spices and apply the ancient knowledge of her brethren to advance the cause of crafting remedies that would benefit all species. Her work was embraced by Hildenbard’s residents, but was likened by some in distant villages to heresy; for though Hildenbard was a place of harmony, not everyone in Earthica was so enlightened.

Sects of humans, elves, dwarves and other races across Greater Earthica felt supremacy was their birthright, that other species were lesser than, and led separatist movements in attempts to divide and conquer great swaths of land whose own harmony was tested and sometimes, if scarcely, extinguished. The Benevolent Emperor of Earthica, Eraloth of Bordenmyre, had promoted tranquility and unity among his subjects, and though most saw wisdom in his decrees, some saw foolish naïveté, for if the Gods had intended them to be the same, so would they be. In their view, one species was greater than the next; and of course, each species had their own belief of which species supplanted the others. To combat the separatists, Eraloth deployed Defenders from every corner of the Kingdom, and for many years, this was enough to maintain peace across the land.

At 20 years, Emaline had grown taller than her father and surpassed even the beauty of her mother. She was willowy but strong, as a branch that bends but does not break. Her skin was closer in hue to her father’s, more olive than fair, her hair a dark brown that seemed to gleam alternately black and red in the glow of the sun. Her eyes were her mother’s: jade green and soft. Her fellow schoolmates had the impression she was always smiling, even when she wasn’t, and felt a deep kinship with her almost immediately: a mix of compassion and loyalty, strength and honor. Emaline had grown to know her father’s craft well, and while still a child, had spent a great deal of time at his forge, gazing on as he carefully crafted weapons, armor and jewelry imbued with the magic of her homeland. Just as eagerly, she had watched her mother tend to the sick and wounded, whether dwarf or elf or man, knowing little of the strife between some of the warring clans. By all accounts, she’d had a good life. But nothing gave her more pleasure than her books. For while Hildenbard was a haven of peace, a refuge for those who valued life more than its division, its quietude left her hungry for adventure. She yearned to gaze upon the broader land and meet its settlers. She longed to know their stories, as she knew innately–having experienced little pain herself–that wounds bore wisdom and strife made a compass for its wearer.

She joined the College of the Bards at the Chromitonicon, hungering to read more tales and knowing someday she would travel far and spread knowledge from village to village–from the poor to the rich, from species to species–to fill the voids in their knowledge and ensure their hearts swelled with the empathic vision of a Hildenbardian. Among her peers, her gift was oratory. The great speeches of her elders from which action had arisen from vision, swayed her also. And in kind, she could sway those near her with a well-reasoned argument, passionate discourse and the honeyed words of poetry. She took to those whose values were most closely aligned with hers: dreamers and idealists. She shunned the divisiveness of the separatists’ oratory, though she knew well its power to blind its followers with fear and hatred. In her idealism, she was blinded herself to the innate differences between species and the pride in their own cultures that shaped their division. As she spent more time in the company of tomes, she grew less sympathetic to the plights of common creatures whose education was left wanting, whose beliefs were ill-informed, prideful or specific to species. The warmth her old classmates had felt emanating from her was present but had grown fainter, even as her ideals blazed at a fever’s pitch. She took on lovers, though she did not find love. Her companions seemed always to lack something: the spark that made her strive for unity (while pushing others away); the love of learning that led to enlightenment, yet closed the window to her soul from the roughshod and common.

Just as she left the College to speak the truth to which she had devoted her voice, Earthica changed. The peace, long-held, had soured. The Emperor’s power, unquestioned ’til then, had been thrust into upheaval. The separatists, long-believed to be a nascent minority, sprang swiftly into action and began overtaking the Defenders–first in small skirmishes, and then, as they grew in number, in greater battles. And then came the dragons.

Lying dormant for hundreds of years, the sowers of discord promised to align themselves with the separatists, who were all too eager to believe them. The Dragonstayne Army, cunning and vicious, brought fire to the villages and great cities of Earthica. Staynetooth, the most ancient and leader of the Dragonstayne, gifted the separatists with armor shed from their spent husks. The separatists claimed more victories. At last, they marched upon Bordenmyre, home of the Emperor, and took their greatest prize: his head. Along with it, they claimed sovereignty over Earthica, a reign of power that would last but hours.

Divided, their ranks diminished, the Earthicans faced the foe they’d fallen into bed with: the legion of dragons who brought ruin to all they touched. The land was now in their control, all other species subjugated and subject to the whims of a bored and angry ancient race.

Emaline disappeared, taking the first hot air balloon–the only means of leaving her realm–through the universe prism into the next dimension. There she wandered for a few years, hardened but alive, in a world where evil was not so evil as the place she had left, but was everywhere, lingering like a fog over a moor. She earned her bread traveling the land and telling empty stories from the happier tales of her world, and sometimes, when the mood struck, of vicious dragons and great discord. She met no one who would rekindle her light, until she stumbled across two men possessing qualities she’d scarcely dreamed to see again.

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Keisha baby.

Posted in Uncategorized on January 15, 2009 by finepewterportraits

This is formatted a little strangely; please forgive that. It’s something I started a while back, in the first weeks of my study abroad in England. I didn’t have enough distance then, and even now, it’s less a piece of art than an example of the function my writing always takes: unloading. Still, it means something to me. Picking it back up was inspired by a post from Barbara Ganley, whose beautiful dog Finn recently passed away.

This is less a chronicle of how Keisha
died than a remembrance of some of the moments in that day.

 

I had wrestled with Fate for awhile
after her death.

Those words are jarring to write even
now.

She was a good dog. And she was more
than a dog; she was family.

Everyone says that. But that’s one
thing that draws us together, isn’t it? After a breakup. When the
chips fall. Following a death. When nothing will be the same again.
Those are the times we come together, and it’s impossible to
begrudge anyone their cliches; their crutches; their choices.

But Fate interceded in the most awful
way, cutting her out of our lives, choosing that
day to cash in on the Inevitable.

And
it wasn’t that she was gone, although, who am I kidding? It was. But
the worst part was that the one person she loved the most, the
person with whom she’d grown to share so many similarities—of
character and otherwise—wasn’t there to say goodbye.

He
told me, after she died, that in the mornings, when he rose early,
the first thing he’d do was wait until he heard the beating of her
tail (gaining pace against the wall by her bed) to know she’d made
it through the night. And then she’d greet him, sometimes getting
up—lately, not— so pleased to see him. Sundays, he’d fry
her an egg… “for her coat,” but not really. Every other
day, they’d take their supplements together. Joint medication for
their arthritis. A coated aspirin for the pain. He’d bundle them up
in peanut butter and dab it on the end of a bone for her to eat.
Those were most mornings.

But
that one morning, when he rose early, I don’t know what he did. The
night before, he was frustrated and angry. She’d lost control and
made a mess in the house the last two days. He was overstressed
and frustrated, and he’d been mean the night before. She’d been
outside for most of it, old and afraid. And I was a story for another
day. But when I got home, there was no sign of him or her, and I
was scared too. The next morning, he rode away in the truck to
deliver the goods he was supposed to have done the day before.
Only the truck had broken down halfway there and his frustration had
mounted. So he was gone that fateful day.

There’s
no use in saying how it happened, except that it did, around 3:15 in
the afternoon, the day before I was scheduled to fly away to England
for a semester and not come home until it was done. She fell very
suddenly and only stood again one more time. For most of it, she lay
there panting, her breathing shallow and fast. She didn’t respond to
the tests I’d been conducting all summer, my scientific mind doing
the thing to which it was most accustomed: diagnosing a problem;
seeing how bad it really was. She didn’t respond to her nicknames, or
the tone of voice we reserved for getting her tail to wag. Her ears
didn’t perk to the sounds of my excited calls of “Chicken?”
Her favorite food. The thing that, all summer, when she’d looked like
she was sick or dying, she’d responded to. And while I was inside,
calling the vet, saying I think my dog is dying, she died.
Surrounded by family, but not by him. Not by the one person who’d
been with her for ten years, playing in the best of times, rubbing
her belly in the worst. Not by the person who did silly voices and
made her eggs and took the same old dog medication. Just by us, doing
the best we could, but not being enough.

I
called to tell him. All of us were crying. “Oh, God.” And
just like it always does, that said it for dad. The tone of voice
in those two words. The words following. “I’m sorry you had
to be there for it.” I wasn’t. I was sorry he couldn’t be. It
didn’t seem fair, to her or him.

When
he got back home, my niece cried into his stomach, and I think it’s
the first time I saw
him
cry. He looked like a ghoul, his mouth turned downward in the surest
sign of sorrow I had ever seen. It was the confirmation I’d had the
summer before, when all of my shit was collapsing, that sadness
isn’t histrionics or flair. Real sadness just is. He didn’t blubber
or shout. He just had some tears in his eyes and that look on his
face. His best friend had died.

Maybe
the best deaths require ceremony. She’d gone without it when she
passed, but we were determined to do something for her in
remembrance. It was somewhat impromptu, the result of
needing
to do something. My niece and I went to Wal-Mart to print out
pictures we’d taken of Keisha on our digital cameras. My sister
Tracy asked us to pick up a basket to put some of Keisha’s things
into; she’d reimburse us. We piled mementos into it. Everyone got
a copy of the pictures. My brother Troy—big Troy—had
carried her body onto the back porch and covered her with a tarp,
the only thing to keep her body apart from the ambivalent elements
of nature.

We
lifted the tarp when it was dark and carried candles outside, each of
us holding one…even my young nephew, Dalton. We said our goodbyes.
For whatever reason—for the guilt I’d always felt at not being
a better owner when I was young; for the things I’d tried to do to
make up for it in the last summer I had with her; because of the way
she was always so stoic in the face of her mounting disability and
the loss of what she enjoyed the most—I said my goodbye,
“Keisha, you were better than any of us.” And that was
it. The candles dripped wax on the porch. We covered her under the
tarp and lifted her into our car and drove her to the pet
crematorium, almost impossible to get a hold of because apparently
dogs don’t die on Saturdays.

 

I
left for England and didn’t think much about it for the first few
days. But then I did, and I tried writing about it. I discovered how
bitter I was that he couldn’t be there for her when she died. That
the day before, Fate had made it so—that his van would break
down THAT one day and he’d be gone the day after. And so I held a
grudge for Fate, because he’d never apologized—not once—for
tearing a good man from his dog the day she needed him the most. The
day we’d discussed so many times, when he’d always been in the
picture. I held the grudge until a few weeks later, when I had a
phone call with my mother.

“Did
I tell you about the dream your father had the other day?”
“No?
Well, it was of Keisha. And he was in Goose Island”–Keisha’s
favorite place, a woodsy “haunt” where the deer roamed
free from fear of gunshots–“and there was a mist covering
the ground. He walked until he saw a gate in the middle of a
clearing. When he crossed through the gate, he heard a voice.”

The
voice had said he had five minutes. And then Keisha had walked out
into the clearing. And she’d told him everything she had to: that
she was fine. That she was free of pain. That her only pain was in
watching him suffer, so distraught at not having said goodbye, of
comforting her in her last moments. And she motioned to a spot in
the clearing where another dog stood, a Golden Retriever he and the
rest of the family had owned in his past. She said they were the best
of friends. He’d been waiting for her. All was well.

My
mother told me what my father never would have. That he’d woken up
and told her the dream and they’d cried together. And it was the
restoration I’d needed of my faith in Fate. It was the apology I’d
never gotten, but granted to the right person at the right time. It
was a soothing balm for a pain I held so close to me. It meant that
it all meant something. Our love for her. The ceremony of her
death. The pain we all felt. Such human feelings for a dog who
never really was. To a dog who was always more.

 

Jerusalem Bells

Posted in summer writing on July 23, 2008 by finepewterportraits

You’ve got one good great quality: you appreciate good things in other people. In that way, people would say you have good taste.

You may be a festering pit yourself be a void, but you’ve got this capacity for knowing the potential in others. If you could shed your baggage, you might make a good teacher. But who would take you as you are? You’re too judgmental. That’s the other thing: you’re judgmental, so the good must be really good. It’s a shame you don’t like art. You’d make a great art critic.

You’re a lousy partner in a relationship, but you pick great partners to be with. You’re like the guy who picks the girl in the movies who desperately needs a makeover. You watched a movie once that spoofed that. The girl takes off her glasses and lets down her hair and suddenly she’s seriously hot shit. To you it’s not so different in real life. You wonder how other people don’t get it to let this girl fall through the cracks and into your hands. When you’re done molding her–when she’s discovered that she’s sexy and only needs to let her hair down and take her glasses off–she’ll move on. But until then, you’ve got months of satisfaction before she realizes how much better she could do with someone of substance. You’re a great critic, but you’ve never created anything of your own.

It’s not so different with your friends. You’re a facilitator. You have good taste, and other people see that in you, and somehow they see the veneer and extrapolate too much, and you’re a “nice guy.” A funny guy. You’re a facilitator because you see the good in them and want to emulate it… and then the thing they had in them all along begins to blossom, and the good qualities they thought they saw in you, they borrow. After a while, they embody. Believe. They form a code based on a version of you that is better than you and impossible to attain. Not so long in the future, they abandon you, because the part of you they “borrowed”–the bullshit detector–alerts them to of your scuminess hollowness. Until then, you borrow memories from them of times you had when you were similar, in the overlap between their growth and your good image. This sustains you until you find someone else who latches on to something you said that had promise. Maybe they’ll have the strength to finish your thought. Maybe they’ll grow.

You wonder how it will end for you. In the back of your mind you think that you have never seriously imagined yourself old. To do so would be depressing. You know that you’re incapable of growth. At this young age you feel retarded. Imagine 50. Your friends would have outpaced you in every conceivable way. They would have had major successes; houses; children. You see yourself in an apartment with debt. You don’t have promise. You lack potential. Potential is a thing for young men. When you reach a certain age, it’s squandered; and squandered potential is like an oil field burned out of spite from a carelessly struck match. When you burn it you decide you want to be smiling, so at least you give the impression of wanting to be destroyed. Really you just want to be loved. But who would love you as you are?

100 words: the stupidest person you know (real or imagined)

Posted in Uncategorized on June 17, 2008 by finepewterportraits

You wonder what energizes these people, and then you see the crowd, and it all makes sense in that “REALLY?” way you have of asking questions you don’t want the answer to. You think, “It’s the people.” And it’s then that you stop wondering what she’s thinking but what THEY’RE thinking, and all sorts of questions emerge, like things involving accomplices and who really killed whom? You’ve got to wonder which is the bigger sin. You’ve got to wonder what they’re thinking.

Is it the spectacle that turns them on, or is it the fags they hate that drive them ever harder?

You’ll never know.

the difference is all the difference

Posted in Uncategorized on June 15, 2008 by finepewterportraits

She isn’t a smart Midwestern woman. Those are the best, he thinks. They’re not prudish, because they’ve seen their drunk uncles’ dicks, but they’re still a little modest. They tend to brandish their sexuality less than the ones on the East Coast, who use it as a currency, a stepping stone to the corporate ladder or a vault into the splendors of the marriage bed, whose furnishings are discarded expensive robes and blouses. Midwestern girls just like to fuck, because they know they shouldn’t be ashamed. East Coast girls bite it down to get what they want, and for that they are brave.

This girl isn’t East Coast, either. She’s a dumbshit Midwestern girl, the kind who thinks they know everything for the cost of nothing. She struts mightily, and most of the girls she spends time with are impressed with her bravado, and can’t think to say anything about how full of shit she is. It’s only when she gets too big for her strained sweatpants that the girls think it isn’t right and tell her so, and then she’s nothing, just a small deflated version of her old fat self. Without her friends there to agree with her, she has nothing but herself. When that happens, she’s faced with two options: either scurrying away and finding another group to infect with her substance-less sputum, or sucking up her pride for the moment when they’ll take her back, and then slowly ingratiating herself on them again, slowly gaining confidence, slowly talking shit.

This is one of her favorite stories: “So I says to her, I says, ‘Dawn, that’s bullshit. Lori gets away with doing half the work of the rest of us, all because she’s on slight disability. And that’s bullshit too. Everyone knows Lori only got it because her husband’s on the board decides those things.”

She’s so pissed off and drunk she’s forgetting every second breath, and the words come out as gasping. “This job has done its toll on my body just as much as it has on hers. I told her, ‘Dawn, I’m getting fucked on my insurance, and my body—lifting these bodies off and onto hospital beds—it’s all a bunch of bullshit.’”

So Dawn says to her she’d better back down or she’s going to get fired, and Julia hauls back and slaps her in her face.

No. She doesn’t. She really would have liked to. That’s what she says when her friends ask, “Did you really?” Julia sometimes mixes up the facts and their supplements, those things she would have rather done than listened and not done shit.

She’s proud of the number of citations she’s gotten. Otherwise, she wouldn’t talk about them so much. When she does (and it’s almost everyday), there’s that dignified and heated tone, the words tumbling out too fast to be anything but self-righteous, and the love she has for her foolish self is most apparent when she talks about her butting heads with her superiors.

midwestern girls know how to fuck

Posted in Uncategorized on June 15, 2008 by finepewterportraits

The beginnings of something?:

She isn’t a smart Midwestern woman. Those are the best, he thinks. They’re not prudish, because they’ve seen their drunk uncles’ dicks, but they’re still a little modest. They tend to brandish their sexuality less than the ones on the East Coast, who use it as a currency, a stepping stone to the corporate ladder or a vault into the splendors of the marriage bed, whose furnishings are discarded expensive robes and blouses. Midwestern girls just like to fuck, because they know they shouldn’t be ashamed. East Coast girls bite it down to get what they want, and for that they are brave.

Georgie.

Posted in summer writing on June 4, 2008 by finepewterportraits

I don’t know where this came from. I just started writing about Georgie, the figure of one of my earlier, weirder attempts at pseudopoetic form.

Georgie says to me to lean closer. When I do, he says, “Janet never knew anything about me.” He says it more tenderly than most old men say anything, unless they’re on their death bed, and then they’re suddenly devoid of masculinity, and the only thing that matters is that they’re touching a human hand, or feeding off of someone’s love embrace. Georgie is on his death bed.

He says to me, “Ronald, think about that. I knew her for thirty years, and the most we ever said was how pissed we were at one another. That was the common theme.”

To that I don’t answer. Georgie never seems to invite an answer. His words are proclamations. I think he thinks there are things to learn from his speech. I think he wants there to be. Instead, I stand stoically, and every so often I pat his hand, and when his grip becomes uncomfortably tight, I disentangle our hands and make a show of flicking the cord of his IV with my fingers, like they do on TV. For someone as bright as Georgie was in his day, I don’t know if he understands my discomfort, or if he is by now oblivious. Neither would surprise me; both speak to Georgie’s condition. In the former, he’s an ass, or just lonely; in the latter, he’s a little too numb to be alive.

“Ronald?”
“Yeah, Georgie?”
“Janet doesn’t clean my shit up anymore.”

Pause. Beat. Put your hand back in Georgie’s? Keep him from saying anything more…?

“She put me in this place so she wouldn’t have to clean up my shit. I read somewhere that true love is when the person you’ve been with forever is willing to clean up after you when you shit your pants. What does that say about us?”

I want to tell Georgie it means nothing. Cleaning up shit is dirty business. Not everyone is equipped for it. My own mother was a germaphobe; hated cleaning up after our messes. She made our father change our diapers. To this day I wonder how they had sex. Probably they used a condom, even after his vasectomy… Maybe we were adopted.

But that doesn’t wash with Janet. Janet was a nurse during the war. I don’t think there’s much that Janet hasn’t seen, and most of it had to have been worse than shit.

I think the simplest explanation is that Georgie slept around, and Janet always knew, and for a long time that was fine. She would wash his clothes, and listen to him bitch, and when he started to get sick, she would pick up his prescriptions at the pharmacy and agree with him when he thought the game show host on TV was sitting at the couch in their living room. But there was that demarcation line of disgusting things that Janet must have thought she didn’t have to deal with, and, in all fairness, probably shouldn’t have had to. Besides, the war’s long done.

To Georgie, that sort of thing shouldn’t offend. To Janet, it means everything. To Georgie, cleaning shit is love. To Janet, love is when your dick stays in your pants for more than five minutes. There’s a demarcation line.

I finger the IV bag for five minutes before I can think of anything to tell Georgie. He might be kind of an asshole, but he’s a dying man, and there’s going to be no real comfort in his remaining days. The progression of the illness means more than a loss of dignity: it means reckless, sweeping pain; the kind of pain that has no higher reason and survives as long as Georgie does. It’s the pain that worries Georgie most.

I tell him, “Dad,

(Unfinished)