Ok, before you read these and come to the conclusion that I am the most pretentious, egotistical person alive, well....I'm probably not the MOST...
"I'm convinced candy corn is continued to be sold as simply a novelty item."
"What the heck is wheat germ for? It can't be anything important."
"Did anyone in the world like the show Fraiser? I don't understand how a show so "smart" and "brainy" and "not-funny" could stay around so long? I watched it once for like 5 minutes and fell asleep."
"How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop? 49,332. Problem solved."
"Why aren't pickles called pickled cucumbers?"
"I tried to make my own grapes today. I think there is more to it than grapes and sunshine."
"If you plant a coconut, what happens?"
"I will never like the Ramones. Ever."
"I wonder if there was ever a war between English muffins and French fries."
"Everything these days is pro-Vampire. I'm getting sick of it. Time for a new bandwagon, America."
"Some days I long for exotic roadkill. Like a zebra. Or a parrot."
"There are horror Harlequin romance novels. I don't want to live on this planet anymore."
"Free food is always good. Rhymed. Unintentional."
"I have a love/hate relationship with pet stores."
"A special bond is formed when you hydroplane in a car with 5 guys and almost die."
"Anybody remember the show Step by Step. Me either."
"Getting rear-ended in an accident is more annoying than anything else."
"I am going to carpe diem today right in its stupid face."
"Since 'Prego' means 'you're welcome' in Italian, is the sauce company being pretentious?"
"Here's a suggestion to spice up your shower. Wash your hair without wetting it first. Mind blown."
"Yes, sir. Buying a glass of wine, even at Disneyland, and then walking around talking about it makes you a douche."
"Tiger's Milk Bars...ever a mysterious concept."
"Is it ironic to look for a compass or map?"
"I think I'm going to be a Bridezilla."
"Old people love to open things. They must not get enough gifts."
"There are a limited number of Sudoku puzzles that can be created. Think about that one."
"Diet Dr. Pepper tastes just like regular Dr. Pepper...with aspartame."
"I need to know what goes through a person's mind when they decide to call someone while using a public toilet."
"It takes a real man to sip a pink drink."
"I never understood why kids get Labor Day off. Aren't they a big part of why a lot of us have to work so much in the first place?"
"Whenever you make a mistake, don't let it get you down too much. Remember, somewhere in the world, somebody is green-lighting another crappy Alvin and the Chipmunks sequel."
Monday, January 23, 2012
Saturday, January 14, 2012
The Potion, Ed. 2.
by Stephen Byrne
2012
My time here is short, so I will make my history known. Let no man suffer what I have suffered. I have seen too many years pass and too many sins committed. No one should make the sacrifices I have so hastily and carelessly forfeited.
Oh Jael, forgive me. If only I never knew the man.
I met the man many years ago, in an era almost too distant for any alive now to even fathom. He was an elderly man, weathered lines in his face etched there by time and the elements, but he still had a youthful aura about him, an air that seemed to protrude from him as if it could not be contained inside his frail-looking form. He possessed that arrogant look that a man has when he thinks he knows everything, although this man appeared as if he actually could have known everything. And through his conceited stare, strangely I could see immeasurable wisdom and knowledge radiating from a man who appeared to have lived ages. A small, long-bearded Magi of the ancient world stood before me.
I was a creative craftsman, an alchemist and druggist in those days, and my trade preference was one not looked well upon in my city, in fact it was almost viewed as a heresy against our gods. I studied the plants and elements extensively in order to create herbal remedies and special tonics I was sure others would certainly need and want. However, rarely did I produce such wanted products. I lived meager and destitute, often resorting to the charity of others (if one would call the occasional theft of food and money accepting charity). You may ask why I did not attempt another type of profession such as farming or blacksmithing if my current choice was that unyielding. My shameful response is that I am a frail man, incapable of hard labor and that I am incompetent in sculpting and molding; no artistic spark runs through my veins. The gods did not smile on my birth. I was borne weak, and so shall I remain, and I could do nothing to remedy the matter. It was not mine to decide. Thus I can only mix.
My name, you ask? It shall suffice for the duration of our conversation to call me Janus. I have been called by many names over many centuries, but Janus is my given and most favorite. I would not consider myself a handsome man, certainly not well-built, but I possess a great intelligence that is afforded to few where I come from. I was born in a small southern village, near a great sea to our eastern borders. I never knew my parents; they died of illness whilst I was still in infancy and no one took me in, thus my whole life I had been an orphan, an outcast, to my society. I did not even know my own birthday. Because of the cruel hand Fate dealt me, I lived an extremely hard life, rarely receiving aid from any other, easily explaining my resort to theft.
There was one; however, who showed me more kindness than I would ever have thought possible for another human being to express, given my current circumstances. Her name was Marah. She was poor herself, a widow who performed servant duties for a cruel, wealthy townsman named Tycho out of an obligation her husband had owed, but gave to me as generously as she could afford. Marah used to sneak me hunks of bread out of the window to my eager, outstretched hands or pass me sips of cool water from an earthen cup she had taken from within her master’s chambers. As long as she breathed, Marah would not let me starve. Though it was forbidden for a servant to read, she somehow knew and made it her business to teach me how. She was the closest thing to a mother I could have had and the most selfless person I ever knew.
Marah had a beautiful daughter my age named Jael. Jael inherited her mother’s raven-colored hair and gorgeous smile, but her most unique feature was her eyes, and I think I was drawn to those first. Jael had stunning gray eyes like rain clouds, and I thought that whenever I stared at her long enough I could feel her eyes striking me with lightning, paralyzing every nerve in my body, and it was the greatest sensation I ever experienced. Each time I arrived at Marah’s living quarters for my reading lesson, I would always anticipate seeing and being with Jael. I loved her, as much as any juvenile boy could love a young girl. I never told her, but I secretly planned to marry her once we were old enough, an exceptionally intricate plan for a teenager.
I recollect the day I knew I loved Jael. After my daily session with Marah, Jael and I were playfully chasing each other outside. We soon paused, out of breath, and she looked at me with those dazzling eyes. I smiled at her, and grabbed her hand. What surprised me the most is that she did not pull away. Instead she returned my smile, her attractive face beaming back at me, and immediately I was smitten. I knew in that moment I would do anything for that girl. She and her mother made my miserable existence as an urchin and outsider so incredibly endurable beyond my wildest dreams.
Alas, that black day came everlastingly earlier than I would have forever wanted. Several years after I met Marah and Jael, Marah contracted a deadly fever. I remember being able to do nothing except weep outside her room and hold Jael’s hand, watching her mother’s life ebb away as if it were nothing but the sun drying up a pool of water. Agonizing days passed and eventually, Marah died. After this, Marah and Jael’s master made the judgment to abandon the town and travel to another settlement west of ours, citing our village as nothing but “a disease-carrying hellhole full of inept swine.”
The villainous day Jael left was also the day I first kissed her. That whole period now seems like a blur save for that one moment, forever carved in my memory, embedded in the very fabric of my being. With only seconds before her departure, I grabbed her hand in desperation and pulled her close, pressing my lips to hers. Electrical fire surged up and down my spine, and my lips tingled from the kiss. She pulled away reluctantly and gazed into my eyes with a grief and longing I would never ever be able to erase from my mind.
Before her master took her, I made her one promise, “You will be with me one day.”
“I believe you…” she whispered as the demon snatched her away from me.
More years passed, and I still had not honored my oath, and I lost faith that I would ever be able to reclaim her, but still I strove hard to earn enough to buy her back. Day after day I prayed to the gods to grant me mercy and restore to me the one person in the world I loved, but no deity ever answered my pleads. No matter how hard my endeavor, I still felt as inept as ever.
Every year my town would host a festival of sorts celebrating our gods’ favor on the land; although, seldom did I have anything to celebrate. Many citizens used this gathering as an opportunity to vend their trade. Each event I too would attempt to peddle my goods in a small section of the street, marketing my various cures and medicines and trying to distract would-be customers from the merchants advertising practical goods like food and clothing. Rarely was I successful. So the same was year after year after year, until I met the man.
I saw him a ways off, casually strolling down the crowded market corner and studying each vendor’s stand, leaving each with no business. Finally he came to my place in the row of merchants and stopped. I read in his face that this was his deliberate stop from the beginning and that I was the only person he intended to do business with this day. For a few minutes I felt so stunned by his gaze I could not do anything but stare back at him. Finally he spoke, in the sort of raspy voice one would expect to emit from one who had walked the earth for so many years,
“What is it you want most out of your life, my friend? What would grant you immeasurable happiness and pleasure?” His eyes wandered from mine. “Or who?”
His face exhibited such a knowing expression, such an intimate stare, a look that told me he already knew the answer my mind held without me even breathing a word. This stranger knew me too well.
“First, who are you?” I questioned, waving my hand toward him then running it through my matted brown hair, “and how do you know me?”
“I know of you, Janus,” wheezed the reply from the old man’s lips. Words seemed hard for him. “I asked the others,” he gestured to the rival merchants scattered along the road. “They say you are an herbalist and chemist amongst them. They don’t seem too fond of you or your choice of profession. You are their pariah”
At this I shook my head in agreement, “They fail to see my occupation as of any use to them, and they exclude me for it. They are mindless fools. My remedies can do much.”
The older of us two leaned in close, “And you have seen these…remedies of yours accomplish what you claim they can?”
He smiled at this query. He was trying to get me to admit something he already knew. Of course I had never been afflicted with what my mixtures supposedly cured: syphilis, boils, broken bones, tuberculosis, or menstruation pain. But how could he tell? How could he know this much about me already after spending naught but five minutes with me? I did not respond to this inquiry. I did not have to.
“I see that you have not witnessed these so-called cures used to any success.”
I am not sure why, but the old man’s words stung. Although he was only innocently questioning, he seemed to have brought down my entire business with mere words, although it is not as if it were actually a thriving business. Stranger or not, I could not lie to the man.
My words barely escaped my mouth a whimper, “These mixtures are only what the books I read tell me they are. If no one will use them, how will I know their success or failure?”
As it was a rhetorical question, I did not expect any reply. There was silence for a minute or so. The man spoke again,
“Show me these books you speak of.”
I was slightly taken aback at his forwardness. Here was someone I had met ten minutes ago; I did not even know his name, and now he wanted to enter my house to view my most prized possessions, essentially the only real items of worth I could claim as my own, except for the clothes I now wore. Still, he did seem genuinely interested in me and my work, albeit a little presumptuous.
I countered back, “First, you will tell me who you are. I still have not decided if I trust you.”
“Very well,” he replied coolly, giving a small bow. “I am Gaspar. I am a wise man from the Far East. I am well-learned in many arts and trades. I know of your plight, and I wish to aid you in your poverty and ultimate goal. I promise to help.”
A beggar couldn’t have pleaded for a superior motive. Still, I was a bit uneasy. This man literally knew me, though I had never seen him before today. My eyes flittered about the area, looking for an excuse to not have to escort him to my property.
“Sir, I welcome your support, but let us wait until the festival ends. Its completion draws near, and so I do not wish to abandon my booth.”
His words came piercing back, icy and merciless, “Does business suddenly thrive come nightfall? Do you fear thievery of your useless products? Or do you simply linger in order to watch fellow merchant after another laugh his fill at you as they leave, their pockets lined with the gold you wished you yourself had earned? What do you stand to gain by remaining here a second longer?”
Without a doubt Gaspar was right. There was nothing for me here; I was deceiving myself, making excuses. I started down the road and beckoned to him to follow me to my abode outside the settlement.
My home was nothing more than a hollowed-out opening dug into the side of a large mound standing about ten feet tall in an uneven parcel of land near my city’s northern border, an area reserved for the exiles of our town. Lack of rainfall had hardened the outside of the hill and inner layers preventing collapse and allowing me to enter and exit with no fear of injury. For an outsider, though, I lived reasonably more comfortable than the majority of my kind. I owned my own undersized cot to sleep upon and bowls and pestles with which to mix my medicines. A modest, crudely-carved wooden table stood nearby with a hunk of dry bread and a jar of pilfered water resting upon it, my ration for the week. The scent of ground herbs hung in the air like a secondary atmosphere.
I could tell this must have been uncomfortable for Gaspar, for he let out a nervous chuckle and coughed. “Impressive,” he managed, glancing my way with an anxious grin.
In no mood for small talk I snapped back angrily, “You have no right to patronize me, stranger! I know I live meager, but at the very least I am attempting to better my situation!” I backed towards another side of the room. “Let me get those books you wanted so you can help me do that,” I growled.
My alchemy and herbalist books appeared to have been printed in a period where those subjects were studied with great interest. With frayed edges and missing pages, my ancient tomes seemed to have been read more times than days I had been alive. My books were both a tremendous joy and immense pain to me. Learning was my passion, so naturally understanding them brought me happiness; however, they were a gift from Marah when my learning was complete, so with each word perceived, memories of Jael flooded back into my thoughts, and concentration was far removed. I handed them reluctantly to Gaspar.
As he thumbed through the yellowing paper, I attempted to maintain conversation. “I know the answer,” I said plainly.
“To what question?” he replied, not looking up.
“The one you asked me at our meeting.” I folded my arms. “About what could possibly make me happiest in this world.”
“I seem to recall,” muttered the old man, still engrossed in his reading, “Your response?”
Jael of course was the answer, but this man did not need to know that. Besides, I needed money to free her, and Gaspar had promised to assist me with my current financial situation. If I could accomplish nothing save obtain enough money to liberate my love away from her owner and into my arms, my life would come to fruition. I needed whatever handout I could attain from this so-called wise man.
“Success,” the reply came at last. “I do not desire to live in this poverty anymore. Wealth is my ultimate aspiration.” I felt no wrong in lying to this man.
Suddenly Gaspar slammed shut the volume he was looking over fiercely. Startled, I stepped back a few feet to distance myself from this unpredictable old hermit. He had the look of a madman. Slowly he raised one wrinkled, knobby finger and pointed it straight at my heart, boring through my deceit, to unearth the reality.
“Liar!” he yelled hoarsely. “That answer had no ounce of truth in it, brigand! Your want is for the love of a woman. One you care for deeply.”
Tears that had been held in their ducts for years finally came free. Cool droplets streamed down my face, much as they did when she was stolen from me. I buried my face in my hands.
“Yes,” I admitted, my voice quivering with grief. “Her name is Jael, the daughter of a slave woman.”
“You were robbed of her, no?” uttered Gaspar. “Forced away by her possessor while you stood watching her vanish into the horizon?”
With a solemn nod and sigh I hung my head low against my chest. This was also to conceal an expression of bewilderment on my face. I had said nothing of Jael’s relocation. Again he surprised me with his expertise in my history. The only means by which he could know these details would be if he observed me my whole life. I was becoming more and more entranced and suspicious of this wise man with each minute that passed. I needed questions answered.
Before I could speak, however, Gaspar carelessly tossed the frail books onto the dirt, spewing out torn sheets and dust clouds into the air. With a cry of alarm, I scrambled to retrieve all the loose pages that fluttered about my hovel and avoid inhalation of the airborne powdery earth.
Coughing aloud, I demanded angrily, “Why would you do such a thing?”
“They are outdated,” Gaspar claimed, not blinking. “It is no wonder you could not produce an effective cure for anything.”
“Outdated? You mean to tell me that there are more…contemporary materials available?” I grumbled sarcastically.
“I suppose you could say that.”
He reached into the folds of his tattered robe and produced another Volume. This one appeared to be much newer, with no page torn and no edge frayed. The embossed title glared at me with shining silver letters: Proin Curandis , The Curing Magic. Instinctively I reached for the strange Work, but then retracted my hand back to its place at my side. Not now.
It was time to challenge the wise man, “Who are you, really?” I pointed accusingly at him, “How do you know my being so intimately, when I have never before even seen your face in my entire life?”
To say the absolute least, at this Gaspar changed. First, growing several feet, he soon towered over me as his slightly arched back straightened and his body strengthened. His elderly visage seemed to vanish as years melted off his appearance, and his beard receded away. His hair blazed from a dull gray to an overwhelming blond. His eyes changed into a virulent white that completely eradicated his pupils and irises. Gone was the feeble, old man I had met hours ago, replaced by the most frightening being I had ever seen. Standing before me was some terrible, supernatural giant, a paradox of reality that would certainly destroy me.
“Foolish mortal!” boomed the voice of the creature. “You think you know much, but in reality your knowledge is a grain of sand as compared to the immortals! You want to know me, Janus? Look upon one who has walked the earth for millennia!”
Although frozen with terror, my mouth seemed to act of its own accord. I heard “What are you?” escape from my lips, and I quickly put my hand over my mouth to stifle my words. He heard.
“What am I?” At this he laughed, a gentle chuckle, but nevertheless one that vibrated the ground beneath my feet.
“Seeing who I am truly would melt the very flesh from your bones! I am a Mhailari (my lar ee). You might call me an angel, a son of the Gods of Heaven!”
Amazing! I had been told of the Mhailari as a child by Marah. They were divine beings born of the very substance of the gods, created at their whim at the beginning of time. Perfect and mighty like their creators, they stood in alliance with those who followed the Gods’ commands, defending them from wickedness, although I never believed they were actually real. Still, this certainly explained his knowledge of me. However benevolent this creature may be though, still I feared for my life as I knelt before my lord. Hopefully this display of respect would postpone whatever judgment awaited me at the hand of this Son of God.
His visage seemed to soften, and his vigorous eyes seemed gentler than when I first beheld them.
“Rise, son of the earth,” commanded Gaspar with more authority than I had ever seen any authority from my village execute. “Your cries to Heaven have never been ignored. This Book is for your benefit. You have our permission to market the treatments found within this text. Use it to your best ability, but I warn you. Nearly all the cures in this text are beneficial, but there is one that outshines them all and promises success to its user. However, this spell is clearly marked as malicious. If such evil magic is carried out, it will come at great cost.”
“If such enchantment is so malevolent, why is it labeled as medicines and placed in the Book alongside the beneficial ones?” More and more confusion coursed through my mind. This information was so much for my limited brain to comprehend.
“Think of it as the definitive test for a mortal,” the angel explained. “The Masters wish to see how obedient their servant is, and how attuned he is to the will of good, or if he wishes above all else his own personal gain.”
My thoughts prioritized Jael, and my fright dissipated for a moment. “I do not understand,” I braved, “Why would the Gods answer my prayer for help with a test?”
“Their purpose is above yours,” countered the Mhailari. “They have consented to aid you. That should be sufficient for you.”
Silently I nodded my approval. Of course he was right. I was in no position to start making any demands, especially any to this spiritual being or whoever commanded him.
“May the wisdom of our divine rulers guide your decisions in this matter,” Gaspar’s words were gentle as he bade me farewell. “I wish nothing but happiness in whatever you undertake. That is my greatest desire.” He smiled Jael’s wonderful smile: perfect, selfless, and loving. Suddenly he disappeared gradually from my vision and before long, only one stood in my earthen home. The strange Book, however, remained, lying on the ground where the majestic being once stood.
I cautiously approached the strange text and picked it up. It seemed to radiate from inside with an unearthly glow. Chills came over my body just from holding it. I opened it to the first page, anxious to see what the alien volume contained.
Cures and treatments of all kinds lay before me; nearly every ailment my people had a word for was listed. Anxiously I began reading from the beginning of the volume, soaking in every word. Overtime I would become familiar with the Book, both its language and its contents except for the Forbidden. Herein these mystic arts was the tool, the key to rescuing my beloved. I only needed an opportunity, a starting point.
My chance arose several weeks later. The first customer was a reluctant one, a well-respected and wealthy member of my community. He had been suffering from extreme pain in his extremities. His pain was so severe that during the day he would often fall to the ground wailing from the acute stinging or awaken himself and everyone near him in the middle of the night with his cries. This unfortunate man’s family had exhausted much of their wealth on doctors, who were able to diagnose his aching as a lethal blood disease, but could not do much else save make him comfortable for his passing. Out of alternatives, his morose family turned to the last option they had left, me.
I remember how I stared at the messenger they sent in astonishment when he told me I was being summoned for business. He shrugged his shoulders as if he could not believe it either. None of them believed in herbal remedies so naturally this decision was made by skeptical and reluctant people, but they truthfully had no other choice. Oh, how I cringed as I thought about how their stabbing, judgmental eyes would pour scrutiny upon me with every movement of my hands, with every breath I took. This would be the Curing Magic’s first test, and, although the heavenly visit was still fresh in my mind, I was still doubtful that these spells could accomplish anything.
Bringing nothing but the ancient Book and what I would need to produce the desired medicine, I hesitantly followed the messenger to the sick man’s home. The richness of the architecture and various costly ornaments showed me someone who cared about his possessions, and my thoughts drifted to the selfish, rich brute who robbed me of my precious love, and for a second, I despised this man I had come to cure. I loathed that he lived in this exquisite place, and I lived in a hole. I detested all he stood for and all he cared about. Suddenly Jael’s gray eyes shattered my hate, and images of her flooded my mind. My purpose renewed, I quietly greeted the family and then set myself to work.
As I hunted through the old Book for the spell I would use, I could not help but notice the Forbidden. It seemed to stand out in the volume, much like it was a tome all its own. I could feel my eyes staring at the unopened section of evil text like a famished child yearning for a piece of bread. My mind screamed at me to open it, to read it, just to catch a glimpse of the words. The illicit section was separated from the majority of the Book by a binding that resembled animal hide in color and consistency. One would merely need to break this seal in order to study its contents. The allure it possessed was all too enticing, but not now. I shook my head clear of its unclean desire and shot a glance toward my benefactors. They had not taken their eyes off of me since I had entered the house. Nervously I exhaled bottled-up anxiety and tore my gaze from theirs and back to the important, nay, crucial task at hand.
Making a healing potion is not too difficult once you have made a few; it becomes like second nature, although great care must be taken to producing the desired result. Essentially, there are three main parts to creating it. First, your ingredients must be absolutely correct. An incorrect berry or a root harvested at the wrong time can mean the difference between correcting a problem or making it worse. Secondly, the mixture must be stirred precisely and carefully. Spilling could not be tolerated in the very least, and also could affect the outcome of the ill person. Finally, there can be no hesitation. Once the potion is complete, it must be drunk. Otherwise, the potion may spoil, drastically and negatively altering its effects. A single mistake, even one considered trivial, could in all possibility prove fatal.
Once I finished the potion, I brought it in a flask before the ailing man. Reluctantly he took it from me and ingested its contents. A few minutes passed unceremoniously. Suddenly he gasped loudly, and looked at me with horror in his eyes, as if I had dealt him the killing blow, but then quickly it passed, and color returned to his pallid face. He sighed and leaned back against his pillow, a smile slowly forming on his face as he drifted into carefree rest. Behind me, I heard the relief and joy escape from his relatives, and I knew I had succeeded. One of them, an older man, took me by the arm and began to discuss matters of my payment. Immediately I knew I loved success.
Another year passed; each day possessed its own challenges, curses, and rewards, and I finally emerged victorious. The Gods had indeed blessed me, and the unknown Book, now familiar to me, had certainly proved its worth. I finally could pay to rescue my precious love, and newfound success had afforded other luxuries, among these a comfortable home, a horse, and sufficient food. I had much to be thankful for this festival. Above all else, the time had come at long last.
Eager anticipation coursed through me when I discovered where Tycho had made his home. If all went according to plan, Jael would soon be where she belonged, where she would be loved and appreciated, not treated like anything less than human. For a moment I wondered what the old man Gaspar would say if he saw me now. I offered a short prayer to the Gods in thankfulness for their most selfless granting of Proin Curandis to me. A fiery determination seized me; this would be the perfect use made of their gift. The intended purpose would be accomplished.
My imagination conjured thoughts of Tycho completely taken aback at my arrival at his estate, possessing a wealth equal to his own, this being the first time he would lay eyes on me since his injustice when I was young.
“Was this the simple street urchin I scorned so many years ago?” he would say in disbelief. “The dirty outcast at whom I laughed when I tore the girl from his grasp?”
I would demand my love and return to my home victorious and live out my days in bliss, a family man with a profession now well-respected. My one true love would be my bride, and I would awaken to her beauty each morning. Children would be borne to me, possessing my name, my intelligence, my triumph. My future seemed as bright as the sun burning up the blue in the skies. I drank well to my future success that night.
It was a three day journey from my town to that of the demon’s, so I would need to plan accordingly. I packed food and water, enough for my horse, Angros, Jael, and myself, along with a spare cloak, a woolen blanket, the Book, which had scarcely left my side since my first success, and, of course, all the gold I possessed, my lavish token to Jael’s freedom. Saddling Angros, I whispered quiet farewells to the new home I had come to love, then with a swift kick to my horse’s side, began my tedious ride.
The terrain of the area was mostly flat, blank dirt stretching for miles with white rocks dotting the hard earth, although patches of grass sparsely painted the landscape with splashes of virulent green against the brown. Occasionally the sun reflected off of small pools of stagnant water, shooting beams into my eyes and forcing me to shield them. I did not altogether complain. After all, at least there was rainfall this year. Too often rain was a missed rarity in these lands.
The first night was marked by the fire, which I miraculously was able to start using a few sticks and some brush. Its heat was a welcome guest, but fortunately the air did not grow too cold in the location. I made my camp against a small, soft knoll draped in grass incredibly devoid of stones. When I finally lay down, sleep came over me quickly. I did not dream explicitly, but a strange assortment of colors and shapes danced through my thoughts. At one point I thought I could almost see words, although I did not understand their meaning. Suddenly, as if by death, all images dissolved to a thick black.
Awakening at dawn was not a practice I normally followed, but obviously I could not stand to stay asleep, nor could I afford to. Glancing toward the eastern horizon, I could see the sun barely peaking over the distant mountains. I did not allow my mind to linger on the dream of the night before. I ate a quick sustaining meal and, after ensuring my steed was nourished, together we continued our trek.
My horse was a wonderful blessing; he had great endurance and seemed to love to be ridden. I had on multiple occasions thanked the man I obtained Angros from for the apparently superior raising and training he had given. Each time the man appeared none the wiser, giving me the ever-increasing feeling he gave no such guidance to this creature, and that this animal was yet another gift from the gods.
Today’s journey was commonplace save for the evening sighting of some wolves devouring the carcass of some unrecognizable prey. Obviously involved in the meal at hand, the beasts paid us no mind. Angros and I, both terribly weary, retired early that night. He had borne me nearly all day, and I did not wish him to be overworked, especially since he would have the unwelcome burden of two riders on the return journey. Fire came easier that night, and I was soon off again to the haven of slumber.
That night’s sleep was again full and deep. In my dreams, the letters reappeared and began to clarify amidst the swirling reds, yellows, and greens splashed upon my mind. I immediately noticed the words, “Sempiternus,” “Not Dying,” as clear as a summer’s day. I knew the words, but I hadn’t the faintest idea as to why I was seeing them in my subconscious. Nigh immediately as if to answer myself, a picture of the open Curing Magic Book materialized in the background, “Sempiternus” painted on its white pages. At this I became puzzled as I had never seen these words in conjunction with the book. Suddenly, without warning, a vision of a skull pervaded the entire scene, its hollow death mask infiltrating my thoughts, and empty eyes violating my very soul. Then flames erupted and scorched everything to nothing.
I awoke in a cold sweat; a nightmare. I hadn’t had a nightmare in a decade, not since Jael was taken. My heart fluttered as I attempted in vain to shake the vision of death from my head. What did it mean? What was the significance of “Sepiternus?” Why was my book involved? And the skull? Questions without answers multiplied within my brain, and the cool, silence of the black night did nothing to pacify my aroused fears. Using the fire’s soft glow as light, I flipped open Proin Curandis to take my mind off of the horrible dream. Eerily and mechanically passing familiar treatments and ones I hadn’t yet tried, I finally came to the Forbidden. As though I were merely a controlled marionette, I drew the knife I had kept at my side for defense and held the blade to the leather binding locking the vile contents. Gaspar’s warning blared in my mind, but it seemed I was determined. One second of hesitation seemed to extend for days, and then suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my chest that chilled my blood. My breath stopped and my eyes snapped shut, terrified at what I might have done. My body tensed as I anticipated some divine punishment, a just retribution for my blatant offense. But minutes passed, and I was still here. Perhaps I had not actually done it! Maybe it was all odd conjecture due to my fatigue and wild emotions. Glancing down, I held my breath once more.
Sure enough, the strap was severed by my blade, allowing for access to the Forbidden. Unfettered, I could freely peruse the so-called “forbidden” text. Sheathing my knife, I slowly, but deliberately turned the first page. The title of the prohibited spell glared up at me, and my eyes widened in disbelief: “Semptiernus.” “Undying.” Before me was the recipe for the elixir of eternal life! This potion was intended to prolong the body, not free of illness or ailment, but indefinitely! How could this be in any way considered wrong or undesirable? Granting humanity eternal life should be a commendable goal, not a damnable sin. Why would the Gods withhold something this beneficial from mankind?
I read on. Preparation for the tonic was amateurish; its ingredients rather basic save one – the final ingredient on the list - which was strangely obscure:
“Finally, to create the elixir of life, the concoctor must surrender that which to him proves most important. To reverse this potion’s effect-“
Here I scoffed. What man would settle for a mortal life when eternity was within grasp? I continued my read.
“To reverse this potion’s effect, the sacrifice must be remade.”
These instructions were confusing. How could one destroy his most prized possession, then do it again? And why would he?
Closing the Book, which now seemed ridiculous to me, a felt a spirit of condescension come over me towards it. Although I had accomplished much with its aid, to be warned against this spell, only for it to be so absurd, made me feel foolish. Perhaps I would look into that spell someday, though I felt more disinclined to forget it completely. Besides, more was at stake than some fanciful child’s potion. Reclining once more, I closed my eyes and again surrendered to rest.
Growing up, I would often hear the old men in my village faux-philosophizing in the marketplace. As I would meander about searching for scraps of food, I would also try to listen in on their conversation. Often it was concerning ideas about the Gods or concepts of the afterlife, but once their discussion was about dreams. One of the graybeards said that man always dreams when he sleeps; the mind never ceases, although the memory does not always recall it. He claimed that those dreams which we do store are remembered with purpose. “The Gods must have something to tell you. Pay attention,” he declared. His words had struck some invisible chord within me.
If that assertion were true, then the Gods were undeniably trying to tell me something, for I dreamed yet again. Familiar images of my previous nightmare emerged and vanished. Then Jael appeared, her raven eyes staring at me. However, she was neither excited at my arrival, nor joyous at her release from slavery. Those once beautiful eyes were now vacant and weak. She was dying! Her eyes bored into me with pain, and I felt claws tighten around my throat. Without warning she screamed, and as I awoke, I realized that the scream had become my own.
2012
My time here is short, so I will make my history known. Let no man suffer what I have suffered. I have seen too many years pass and too many sins committed. No one should make the sacrifices I have so hastily and carelessly forfeited.
Oh Jael, forgive me. If only I never knew the man.
I met the man many years ago, in an era almost too distant for any alive now to even fathom. He was an elderly man, weathered lines in his face etched there by time and the elements, but he still had a youthful aura about him, an air that seemed to protrude from him as if it could not be contained inside his frail-looking form. He possessed that arrogant look that a man has when he thinks he knows everything, although this man appeared as if he actually could have known everything. And through his conceited stare, strangely I could see immeasurable wisdom and knowledge radiating from a man who appeared to have lived ages. A small, long-bearded Magi of the ancient world stood before me.
I was a creative craftsman, an alchemist and druggist in those days, and my trade preference was one not looked well upon in my city, in fact it was almost viewed as a heresy against our gods. I studied the plants and elements extensively in order to create herbal remedies and special tonics I was sure others would certainly need and want. However, rarely did I produce such wanted products. I lived meager and destitute, often resorting to the charity of others (if one would call the occasional theft of food and money accepting charity). You may ask why I did not attempt another type of profession such as farming or blacksmithing if my current choice was that unyielding. My shameful response is that I am a frail man, incapable of hard labor and that I am incompetent in sculpting and molding; no artistic spark runs through my veins. The gods did not smile on my birth. I was borne weak, and so shall I remain, and I could do nothing to remedy the matter. It was not mine to decide. Thus I can only mix.
My name, you ask? It shall suffice for the duration of our conversation to call me Janus. I have been called by many names over many centuries, but Janus is my given and most favorite. I would not consider myself a handsome man, certainly not well-built, but I possess a great intelligence that is afforded to few where I come from. I was born in a small southern village, near a great sea to our eastern borders. I never knew my parents; they died of illness whilst I was still in infancy and no one took me in, thus my whole life I had been an orphan, an outcast, to my society. I did not even know my own birthday. Because of the cruel hand Fate dealt me, I lived an extremely hard life, rarely receiving aid from any other, easily explaining my resort to theft.
There was one; however, who showed me more kindness than I would ever have thought possible for another human being to express, given my current circumstances. Her name was Marah. She was poor herself, a widow who performed servant duties for a cruel, wealthy townsman named Tycho out of an obligation her husband had owed, but gave to me as generously as she could afford. Marah used to sneak me hunks of bread out of the window to my eager, outstretched hands or pass me sips of cool water from an earthen cup she had taken from within her master’s chambers. As long as she breathed, Marah would not let me starve. Though it was forbidden for a servant to read, she somehow knew and made it her business to teach me how. She was the closest thing to a mother I could have had and the most selfless person I ever knew.
Marah had a beautiful daughter my age named Jael. Jael inherited her mother’s raven-colored hair and gorgeous smile, but her most unique feature was her eyes, and I think I was drawn to those first. Jael had stunning gray eyes like rain clouds, and I thought that whenever I stared at her long enough I could feel her eyes striking me with lightning, paralyzing every nerve in my body, and it was the greatest sensation I ever experienced. Each time I arrived at Marah’s living quarters for my reading lesson, I would always anticipate seeing and being with Jael. I loved her, as much as any juvenile boy could love a young girl. I never told her, but I secretly planned to marry her once we were old enough, an exceptionally intricate plan for a teenager.
I recollect the day I knew I loved Jael. After my daily session with Marah, Jael and I were playfully chasing each other outside. We soon paused, out of breath, and she looked at me with those dazzling eyes. I smiled at her, and grabbed her hand. What surprised me the most is that she did not pull away. Instead she returned my smile, her attractive face beaming back at me, and immediately I was smitten. I knew in that moment I would do anything for that girl. She and her mother made my miserable existence as an urchin and outsider so incredibly endurable beyond my wildest dreams.
Alas, that black day came everlastingly earlier than I would have forever wanted. Several years after I met Marah and Jael, Marah contracted a deadly fever. I remember being able to do nothing except weep outside her room and hold Jael’s hand, watching her mother’s life ebb away as if it were nothing but the sun drying up a pool of water. Agonizing days passed and eventually, Marah died. After this, Marah and Jael’s master made the judgment to abandon the town and travel to another settlement west of ours, citing our village as nothing but “a disease-carrying hellhole full of inept swine.”
The villainous day Jael left was also the day I first kissed her. That whole period now seems like a blur save for that one moment, forever carved in my memory, embedded in the very fabric of my being. With only seconds before her departure, I grabbed her hand in desperation and pulled her close, pressing my lips to hers. Electrical fire surged up and down my spine, and my lips tingled from the kiss. She pulled away reluctantly and gazed into my eyes with a grief and longing I would never ever be able to erase from my mind.
Before her master took her, I made her one promise, “You will be with me one day.”
“I believe you…” she whispered as the demon snatched her away from me.
More years passed, and I still had not honored my oath, and I lost faith that I would ever be able to reclaim her, but still I strove hard to earn enough to buy her back. Day after day I prayed to the gods to grant me mercy and restore to me the one person in the world I loved, but no deity ever answered my pleads. No matter how hard my endeavor, I still felt as inept as ever.
Every year my town would host a festival of sorts celebrating our gods’ favor on the land; although, seldom did I have anything to celebrate. Many citizens used this gathering as an opportunity to vend their trade. Each event I too would attempt to peddle my goods in a small section of the street, marketing my various cures and medicines and trying to distract would-be customers from the merchants advertising practical goods like food and clothing. Rarely was I successful. So the same was year after year after year, until I met the man.
I saw him a ways off, casually strolling down the crowded market corner and studying each vendor’s stand, leaving each with no business. Finally he came to my place in the row of merchants and stopped. I read in his face that this was his deliberate stop from the beginning and that I was the only person he intended to do business with this day. For a few minutes I felt so stunned by his gaze I could not do anything but stare back at him. Finally he spoke, in the sort of raspy voice one would expect to emit from one who had walked the earth for so many years,
“What is it you want most out of your life, my friend? What would grant you immeasurable happiness and pleasure?” His eyes wandered from mine. “Or who?”
His face exhibited such a knowing expression, such an intimate stare, a look that told me he already knew the answer my mind held without me even breathing a word. This stranger knew me too well.
“First, who are you?” I questioned, waving my hand toward him then running it through my matted brown hair, “and how do you know me?”
“I know of you, Janus,” wheezed the reply from the old man’s lips. Words seemed hard for him. “I asked the others,” he gestured to the rival merchants scattered along the road. “They say you are an herbalist and chemist amongst them. They don’t seem too fond of you or your choice of profession. You are their pariah”
At this I shook my head in agreement, “They fail to see my occupation as of any use to them, and they exclude me for it. They are mindless fools. My remedies can do much.”
The older of us two leaned in close, “And you have seen these…remedies of yours accomplish what you claim they can?”
He smiled at this query. He was trying to get me to admit something he already knew. Of course I had never been afflicted with what my mixtures supposedly cured: syphilis, boils, broken bones, tuberculosis, or menstruation pain. But how could he tell? How could he know this much about me already after spending naught but five minutes with me? I did not respond to this inquiry. I did not have to.
“I see that you have not witnessed these so-called cures used to any success.”
I am not sure why, but the old man’s words stung. Although he was only innocently questioning, he seemed to have brought down my entire business with mere words, although it is not as if it were actually a thriving business. Stranger or not, I could not lie to the man.
My words barely escaped my mouth a whimper, “These mixtures are only what the books I read tell me they are. If no one will use them, how will I know their success or failure?”
As it was a rhetorical question, I did not expect any reply. There was silence for a minute or so. The man spoke again,
“Show me these books you speak of.”
I was slightly taken aback at his forwardness. Here was someone I had met ten minutes ago; I did not even know his name, and now he wanted to enter my house to view my most prized possessions, essentially the only real items of worth I could claim as my own, except for the clothes I now wore. Still, he did seem genuinely interested in me and my work, albeit a little presumptuous.
I countered back, “First, you will tell me who you are. I still have not decided if I trust you.”
“Very well,” he replied coolly, giving a small bow. “I am Gaspar. I am a wise man from the Far East. I am well-learned in many arts and trades. I know of your plight, and I wish to aid you in your poverty and ultimate goal. I promise to help.”
A beggar couldn’t have pleaded for a superior motive. Still, I was a bit uneasy. This man literally knew me, though I had never seen him before today. My eyes flittered about the area, looking for an excuse to not have to escort him to my property.
“Sir, I welcome your support, but let us wait until the festival ends. Its completion draws near, and so I do not wish to abandon my booth.”
His words came piercing back, icy and merciless, “Does business suddenly thrive come nightfall? Do you fear thievery of your useless products? Or do you simply linger in order to watch fellow merchant after another laugh his fill at you as they leave, their pockets lined with the gold you wished you yourself had earned? What do you stand to gain by remaining here a second longer?”
Without a doubt Gaspar was right. There was nothing for me here; I was deceiving myself, making excuses. I started down the road and beckoned to him to follow me to my abode outside the settlement.
My home was nothing more than a hollowed-out opening dug into the side of a large mound standing about ten feet tall in an uneven parcel of land near my city’s northern border, an area reserved for the exiles of our town. Lack of rainfall had hardened the outside of the hill and inner layers preventing collapse and allowing me to enter and exit with no fear of injury. For an outsider, though, I lived reasonably more comfortable than the majority of my kind. I owned my own undersized cot to sleep upon and bowls and pestles with which to mix my medicines. A modest, crudely-carved wooden table stood nearby with a hunk of dry bread and a jar of pilfered water resting upon it, my ration for the week. The scent of ground herbs hung in the air like a secondary atmosphere.
I could tell this must have been uncomfortable for Gaspar, for he let out a nervous chuckle and coughed. “Impressive,” he managed, glancing my way with an anxious grin.
In no mood for small talk I snapped back angrily, “You have no right to patronize me, stranger! I know I live meager, but at the very least I am attempting to better my situation!” I backed towards another side of the room. “Let me get those books you wanted so you can help me do that,” I growled.
My alchemy and herbalist books appeared to have been printed in a period where those subjects were studied with great interest. With frayed edges and missing pages, my ancient tomes seemed to have been read more times than days I had been alive. My books were both a tremendous joy and immense pain to me. Learning was my passion, so naturally understanding them brought me happiness; however, they were a gift from Marah when my learning was complete, so with each word perceived, memories of Jael flooded back into my thoughts, and concentration was far removed. I handed them reluctantly to Gaspar.
As he thumbed through the yellowing paper, I attempted to maintain conversation. “I know the answer,” I said plainly.
“To what question?” he replied, not looking up.
“The one you asked me at our meeting.” I folded my arms. “About what could possibly make me happiest in this world.”
“I seem to recall,” muttered the old man, still engrossed in his reading, “Your response?”
Jael of course was the answer, but this man did not need to know that. Besides, I needed money to free her, and Gaspar had promised to assist me with my current financial situation. If I could accomplish nothing save obtain enough money to liberate my love away from her owner and into my arms, my life would come to fruition. I needed whatever handout I could attain from this so-called wise man.
“Success,” the reply came at last. “I do not desire to live in this poverty anymore. Wealth is my ultimate aspiration.” I felt no wrong in lying to this man.
Suddenly Gaspar slammed shut the volume he was looking over fiercely. Startled, I stepped back a few feet to distance myself from this unpredictable old hermit. He had the look of a madman. Slowly he raised one wrinkled, knobby finger and pointed it straight at my heart, boring through my deceit, to unearth the reality.
“Liar!” he yelled hoarsely. “That answer had no ounce of truth in it, brigand! Your want is for the love of a woman. One you care for deeply.”
Tears that had been held in their ducts for years finally came free. Cool droplets streamed down my face, much as they did when she was stolen from me. I buried my face in my hands.
“Yes,” I admitted, my voice quivering with grief. “Her name is Jael, the daughter of a slave woman.”
“You were robbed of her, no?” uttered Gaspar. “Forced away by her possessor while you stood watching her vanish into the horizon?”
With a solemn nod and sigh I hung my head low against my chest. This was also to conceal an expression of bewilderment on my face. I had said nothing of Jael’s relocation. Again he surprised me with his expertise in my history. The only means by which he could know these details would be if he observed me my whole life. I was becoming more and more entranced and suspicious of this wise man with each minute that passed. I needed questions answered.
Before I could speak, however, Gaspar carelessly tossed the frail books onto the dirt, spewing out torn sheets and dust clouds into the air. With a cry of alarm, I scrambled to retrieve all the loose pages that fluttered about my hovel and avoid inhalation of the airborne powdery earth.
Coughing aloud, I demanded angrily, “Why would you do such a thing?”
“They are outdated,” Gaspar claimed, not blinking. “It is no wonder you could not produce an effective cure for anything.”
“Outdated? You mean to tell me that there are more…contemporary materials available?” I grumbled sarcastically.
“I suppose you could say that.”
He reached into the folds of his tattered robe and produced another Volume. This one appeared to be much newer, with no page torn and no edge frayed. The embossed title glared at me with shining silver letters: Proin Curandis , The Curing Magic. Instinctively I reached for the strange Work, but then retracted my hand back to its place at my side. Not now.
It was time to challenge the wise man, “Who are you, really?” I pointed accusingly at him, “How do you know my being so intimately, when I have never before even seen your face in my entire life?”
To say the absolute least, at this Gaspar changed. First, growing several feet, he soon towered over me as his slightly arched back straightened and his body strengthened. His elderly visage seemed to vanish as years melted off his appearance, and his beard receded away. His hair blazed from a dull gray to an overwhelming blond. His eyes changed into a virulent white that completely eradicated his pupils and irises. Gone was the feeble, old man I had met hours ago, replaced by the most frightening being I had ever seen. Standing before me was some terrible, supernatural giant, a paradox of reality that would certainly destroy me.
“Foolish mortal!” boomed the voice of the creature. “You think you know much, but in reality your knowledge is a grain of sand as compared to the immortals! You want to know me, Janus? Look upon one who has walked the earth for millennia!”
Although frozen with terror, my mouth seemed to act of its own accord. I heard “What are you?” escape from my lips, and I quickly put my hand over my mouth to stifle my words. He heard.
“What am I?” At this he laughed, a gentle chuckle, but nevertheless one that vibrated the ground beneath my feet.
“Seeing who I am truly would melt the very flesh from your bones! I am a Mhailari (my lar ee). You might call me an angel, a son of the Gods of Heaven!”
Amazing! I had been told of the Mhailari as a child by Marah. They were divine beings born of the very substance of the gods, created at their whim at the beginning of time. Perfect and mighty like their creators, they stood in alliance with those who followed the Gods’ commands, defending them from wickedness, although I never believed they were actually real. Still, this certainly explained his knowledge of me. However benevolent this creature may be though, still I feared for my life as I knelt before my lord. Hopefully this display of respect would postpone whatever judgment awaited me at the hand of this Son of God.
His visage seemed to soften, and his vigorous eyes seemed gentler than when I first beheld them.
“Rise, son of the earth,” commanded Gaspar with more authority than I had ever seen any authority from my village execute. “Your cries to Heaven have never been ignored. This Book is for your benefit. You have our permission to market the treatments found within this text. Use it to your best ability, but I warn you. Nearly all the cures in this text are beneficial, but there is one that outshines them all and promises success to its user. However, this spell is clearly marked as malicious. If such evil magic is carried out, it will come at great cost.”
“If such enchantment is so malevolent, why is it labeled as medicines and placed in the Book alongside the beneficial ones?” More and more confusion coursed through my mind. This information was so much for my limited brain to comprehend.
“Think of it as the definitive test for a mortal,” the angel explained. “The Masters wish to see how obedient their servant is, and how attuned he is to the will of good, or if he wishes above all else his own personal gain.”
My thoughts prioritized Jael, and my fright dissipated for a moment. “I do not understand,” I braved, “Why would the Gods answer my prayer for help with a test?”
“Their purpose is above yours,” countered the Mhailari. “They have consented to aid you. That should be sufficient for you.”
Silently I nodded my approval. Of course he was right. I was in no position to start making any demands, especially any to this spiritual being or whoever commanded him.
“May the wisdom of our divine rulers guide your decisions in this matter,” Gaspar’s words were gentle as he bade me farewell. “I wish nothing but happiness in whatever you undertake. That is my greatest desire.” He smiled Jael’s wonderful smile: perfect, selfless, and loving. Suddenly he disappeared gradually from my vision and before long, only one stood in my earthen home. The strange Book, however, remained, lying on the ground where the majestic being once stood.
I cautiously approached the strange text and picked it up. It seemed to radiate from inside with an unearthly glow. Chills came over my body just from holding it. I opened it to the first page, anxious to see what the alien volume contained.
Cures and treatments of all kinds lay before me; nearly every ailment my people had a word for was listed. Anxiously I began reading from the beginning of the volume, soaking in every word. Overtime I would become familiar with the Book, both its language and its contents except for the Forbidden. Herein these mystic arts was the tool, the key to rescuing my beloved. I only needed an opportunity, a starting point.
My chance arose several weeks later. The first customer was a reluctant one, a well-respected and wealthy member of my community. He had been suffering from extreme pain in his extremities. His pain was so severe that during the day he would often fall to the ground wailing from the acute stinging or awaken himself and everyone near him in the middle of the night with his cries. This unfortunate man’s family had exhausted much of their wealth on doctors, who were able to diagnose his aching as a lethal blood disease, but could not do much else save make him comfortable for his passing. Out of alternatives, his morose family turned to the last option they had left, me.
I remember how I stared at the messenger they sent in astonishment when he told me I was being summoned for business. He shrugged his shoulders as if he could not believe it either. None of them believed in herbal remedies so naturally this decision was made by skeptical and reluctant people, but they truthfully had no other choice. Oh, how I cringed as I thought about how their stabbing, judgmental eyes would pour scrutiny upon me with every movement of my hands, with every breath I took. This would be the Curing Magic’s first test, and, although the heavenly visit was still fresh in my mind, I was still doubtful that these spells could accomplish anything.
Bringing nothing but the ancient Book and what I would need to produce the desired medicine, I hesitantly followed the messenger to the sick man’s home. The richness of the architecture and various costly ornaments showed me someone who cared about his possessions, and my thoughts drifted to the selfish, rich brute who robbed me of my precious love, and for a second, I despised this man I had come to cure. I loathed that he lived in this exquisite place, and I lived in a hole. I detested all he stood for and all he cared about. Suddenly Jael’s gray eyes shattered my hate, and images of her flooded my mind. My purpose renewed, I quietly greeted the family and then set myself to work.
As I hunted through the old Book for the spell I would use, I could not help but notice the Forbidden. It seemed to stand out in the volume, much like it was a tome all its own. I could feel my eyes staring at the unopened section of evil text like a famished child yearning for a piece of bread. My mind screamed at me to open it, to read it, just to catch a glimpse of the words. The illicit section was separated from the majority of the Book by a binding that resembled animal hide in color and consistency. One would merely need to break this seal in order to study its contents. The allure it possessed was all too enticing, but not now. I shook my head clear of its unclean desire and shot a glance toward my benefactors. They had not taken their eyes off of me since I had entered the house. Nervously I exhaled bottled-up anxiety and tore my gaze from theirs and back to the important, nay, crucial task at hand.
Making a healing potion is not too difficult once you have made a few; it becomes like second nature, although great care must be taken to producing the desired result. Essentially, there are three main parts to creating it. First, your ingredients must be absolutely correct. An incorrect berry or a root harvested at the wrong time can mean the difference between correcting a problem or making it worse. Secondly, the mixture must be stirred precisely and carefully. Spilling could not be tolerated in the very least, and also could affect the outcome of the ill person. Finally, there can be no hesitation. Once the potion is complete, it must be drunk. Otherwise, the potion may spoil, drastically and negatively altering its effects. A single mistake, even one considered trivial, could in all possibility prove fatal.
Once I finished the potion, I brought it in a flask before the ailing man. Reluctantly he took it from me and ingested its contents. A few minutes passed unceremoniously. Suddenly he gasped loudly, and looked at me with horror in his eyes, as if I had dealt him the killing blow, but then quickly it passed, and color returned to his pallid face. He sighed and leaned back against his pillow, a smile slowly forming on his face as he drifted into carefree rest. Behind me, I heard the relief and joy escape from his relatives, and I knew I had succeeded. One of them, an older man, took me by the arm and began to discuss matters of my payment. Immediately I knew I loved success.
Another year passed; each day possessed its own challenges, curses, and rewards, and I finally emerged victorious. The Gods had indeed blessed me, and the unknown Book, now familiar to me, had certainly proved its worth. I finally could pay to rescue my precious love, and newfound success had afforded other luxuries, among these a comfortable home, a horse, and sufficient food. I had much to be thankful for this festival. Above all else, the time had come at long last.
Eager anticipation coursed through me when I discovered where Tycho had made his home. If all went according to plan, Jael would soon be where she belonged, where she would be loved and appreciated, not treated like anything less than human. For a moment I wondered what the old man Gaspar would say if he saw me now. I offered a short prayer to the Gods in thankfulness for their most selfless granting of Proin Curandis to me. A fiery determination seized me; this would be the perfect use made of their gift. The intended purpose would be accomplished.
My imagination conjured thoughts of Tycho completely taken aback at my arrival at his estate, possessing a wealth equal to his own, this being the first time he would lay eyes on me since his injustice when I was young.
“Was this the simple street urchin I scorned so many years ago?” he would say in disbelief. “The dirty outcast at whom I laughed when I tore the girl from his grasp?”
I would demand my love and return to my home victorious and live out my days in bliss, a family man with a profession now well-respected. My one true love would be my bride, and I would awaken to her beauty each morning. Children would be borne to me, possessing my name, my intelligence, my triumph. My future seemed as bright as the sun burning up the blue in the skies. I drank well to my future success that night.
It was a three day journey from my town to that of the demon’s, so I would need to plan accordingly. I packed food and water, enough for my horse, Angros, Jael, and myself, along with a spare cloak, a woolen blanket, the Book, which had scarcely left my side since my first success, and, of course, all the gold I possessed, my lavish token to Jael’s freedom. Saddling Angros, I whispered quiet farewells to the new home I had come to love, then with a swift kick to my horse’s side, began my tedious ride.
The terrain of the area was mostly flat, blank dirt stretching for miles with white rocks dotting the hard earth, although patches of grass sparsely painted the landscape with splashes of virulent green against the brown. Occasionally the sun reflected off of small pools of stagnant water, shooting beams into my eyes and forcing me to shield them. I did not altogether complain. After all, at least there was rainfall this year. Too often rain was a missed rarity in these lands.
The first night was marked by the fire, which I miraculously was able to start using a few sticks and some brush. Its heat was a welcome guest, but fortunately the air did not grow too cold in the location. I made my camp against a small, soft knoll draped in grass incredibly devoid of stones. When I finally lay down, sleep came over me quickly. I did not dream explicitly, but a strange assortment of colors and shapes danced through my thoughts. At one point I thought I could almost see words, although I did not understand their meaning. Suddenly, as if by death, all images dissolved to a thick black.
Awakening at dawn was not a practice I normally followed, but obviously I could not stand to stay asleep, nor could I afford to. Glancing toward the eastern horizon, I could see the sun barely peaking over the distant mountains. I did not allow my mind to linger on the dream of the night before. I ate a quick sustaining meal and, after ensuring my steed was nourished, together we continued our trek.
My horse was a wonderful blessing; he had great endurance and seemed to love to be ridden. I had on multiple occasions thanked the man I obtained Angros from for the apparently superior raising and training he had given. Each time the man appeared none the wiser, giving me the ever-increasing feeling he gave no such guidance to this creature, and that this animal was yet another gift from the gods.
Today’s journey was commonplace save for the evening sighting of some wolves devouring the carcass of some unrecognizable prey. Obviously involved in the meal at hand, the beasts paid us no mind. Angros and I, both terribly weary, retired early that night. He had borne me nearly all day, and I did not wish him to be overworked, especially since he would have the unwelcome burden of two riders on the return journey. Fire came easier that night, and I was soon off again to the haven of slumber.
That night’s sleep was again full and deep. In my dreams, the letters reappeared and began to clarify amidst the swirling reds, yellows, and greens splashed upon my mind. I immediately noticed the words, “Sempiternus,” “Not Dying,” as clear as a summer’s day. I knew the words, but I hadn’t the faintest idea as to why I was seeing them in my subconscious. Nigh immediately as if to answer myself, a picture of the open Curing Magic Book materialized in the background, “Sempiternus” painted on its white pages. At this I became puzzled as I had never seen these words in conjunction with the book. Suddenly, without warning, a vision of a skull pervaded the entire scene, its hollow death mask infiltrating my thoughts, and empty eyes violating my very soul. Then flames erupted and scorched everything to nothing.
I awoke in a cold sweat; a nightmare. I hadn’t had a nightmare in a decade, not since Jael was taken. My heart fluttered as I attempted in vain to shake the vision of death from my head. What did it mean? What was the significance of “Sepiternus?” Why was my book involved? And the skull? Questions without answers multiplied within my brain, and the cool, silence of the black night did nothing to pacify my aroused fears. Using the fire’s soft glow as light, I flipped open Proin Curandis to take my mind off of the horrible dream. Eerily and mechanically passing familiar treatments and ones I hadn’t yet tried, I finally came to the Forbidden. As though I were merely a controlled marionette, I drew the knife I had kept at my side for defense and held the blade to the leather binding locking the vile contents. Gaspar’s warning blared in my mind, but it seemed I was determined. One second of hesitation seemed to extend for days, and then suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my chest that chilled my blood. My breath stopped and my eyes snapped shut, terrified at what I might have done. My body tensed as I anticipated some divine punishment, a just retribution for my blatant offense. But minutes passed, and I was still here. Perhaps I had not actually done it! Maybe it was all odd conjecture due to my fatigue and wild emotions. Glancing down, I held my breath once more.
Sure enough, the strap was severed by my blade, allowing for access to the Forbidden. Unfettered, I could freely peruse the so-called “forbidden” text. Sheathing my knife, I slowly, but deliberately turned the first page. The title of the prohibited spell glared up at me, and my eyes widened in disbelief: “Semptiernus.” “Undying.” Before me was the recipe for the elixir of eternal life! This potion was intended to prolong the body, not free of illness or ailment, but indefinitely! How could this be in any way considered wrong or undesirable? Granting humanity eternal life should be a commendable goal, not a damnable sin. Why would the Gods withhold something this beneficial from mankind?
I read on. Preparation for the tonic was amateurish; its ingredients rather basic save one – the final ingredient on the list - which was strangely obscure:
“Finally, to create the elixir of life, the concoctor must surrender that which to him proves most important. To reverse this potion’s effect-“
Here I scoffed. What man would settle for a mortal life when eternity was within grasp? I continued my read.
“To reverse this potion’s effect, the sacrifice must be remade.”
These instructions were confusing. How could one destroy his most prized possession, then do it again? And why would he?
Closing the Book, which now seemed ridiculous to me, a felt a spirit of condescension come over me towards it. Although I had accomplished much with its aid, to be warned against this spell, only for it to be so absurd, made me feel foolish. Perhaps I would look into that spell someday, though I felt more disinclined to forget it completely. Besides, more was at stake than some fanciful child’s potion. Reclining once more, I closed my eyes and again surrendered to rest.
Growing up, I would often hear the old men in my village faux-philosophizing in the marketplace. As I would meander about searching for scraps of food, I would also try to listen in on their conversation. Often it was concerning ideas about the Gods or concepts of the afterlife, but once their discussion was about dreams. One of the graybeards said that man always dreams when he sleeps; the mind never ceases, although the memory does not always recall it. He claimed that those dreams which we do store are remembered with purpose. “The Gods must have something to tell you. Pay attention,” he declared. His words had struck some invisible chord within me.
If that assertion were true, then the Gods were undeniably trying to tell me something, for I dreamed yet again. Familiar images of my previous nightmare emerged and vanished. Then Jael appeared, her raven eyes staring at me. However, she was neither excited at my arrival, nor joyous at her release from slavery. Those once beautiful eyes were now vacant and weak. She was dying! Her eyes bored into me with pain, and I felt claws tighten around my throat. Without warning she screamed, and as I awoke, I realized that the scream had become my own.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Passing Fads of My Youth #4: Beanie Babies
Ah, the legendary Beanie Babies. If you lived through the 90's, you knew them well. Honestly, I could not wait to talk about these guys because they literally make the least amount of sense. Essentially they were a small, plastic pellet-filled work of art, purely aesthetic with absolutely no purpose whatsoever. They fostered addiction and wanton spending turning normally good-natured elderly women and soccer moms into Medusas hell-bent on destroying any and all obstacles (including people) preventing them from obtaining every last one of them.
In 1993, the people over at Ty Incorporated decided to manufacture a new type of crack cocaine; one that they could market to consumers of all ages with no fear of retaliation. Thus, the Beanie Baby was born:
A typical 90's drug shipment.
Their appeal widely unknown, Beanie Babies quickly became hot sellers worldwide, hypnotizing the masses into believing that Legs was a good name for a stuffed frog (it is, they were geniuses). They invaded popular culture faster than D-Day.
"You think they'll have the one that's a moose?"
Collectible stores and Hallmarks sold out overnight. Fast food restaurants began carrying them as promotions. Special bears were created to commemorate events or particular individuals. They became as deeply embedded in culture as anything else.
What better way to remember the late Princess of Wales?
They were so popular that people even began to counterfeit them! The FBI cracked down on counterfeit beanies in the late 1990s, and some people were prosecuted for direct known involvement in their commerce. There was a ring in York, England, that was uncovered with over 6,000 fake bears.
This used to seem so lucrative...
I must confess that I too fell prey to the charm of these collectibles, and my vast collection of them still reside in storage. To this day, I could not tell you why I bought so many. But perhaps no one could put it better than Joe Fucigna, the current world record holder for owner of most Beanie babies: 14,346, "They bring peace and happiness to the world and they keep me company. They are the best friends anyone can ask for. Everyone should have 7 rooms filled with beanie babies."
Oh, God....
In 1993, the people over at Ty Incorporated decided to manufacture a new type of crack cocaine; one that they could market to consumers of all ages with no fear of retaliation. Thus, the Beanie Baby was born:
A typical 90's drug shipment.
Their appeal widely unknown, Beanie Babies quickly became hot sellers worldwide, hypnotizing the masses into believing that Legs was a good name for a stuffed frog (it is, they were geniuses). They invaded popular culture faster than D-Day.
"You think they'll have the one that's a moose?"
Collectible stores and Hallmarks sold out overnight. Fast food restaurants began carrying them as promotions. Special bears were created to commemorate events or particular individuals. They became as deeply embedded in culture as anything else.
What better way to remember the late Princess of Wales?
They were so popular that people even began to counterfeit them! The FBI cracked down on counterfeit beanies in the late 1990s, and some people were prosecuted for direct known involvement in their commerce. There was a ring in York, England, that was uncovered with over 6,000 fake bears.
This used to seem so lucrative...
I must confess that I too fell prey to the charm of these collectibles, and my vast collection of them still reside in storage. To this day, I could not tell you why I bought so many. But perhaps no one could put it better than Joe Fucigna, the current world record holder for owner of most Beanie babies: 14,346, "They bring peace and happiness to the world and they keep me company. They are the best friends anyone can ask for. Everyone should have 7 rooms filled with beanie babies."
Oh, God....
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Bible Time: John 10 (emphasis v. 30)
http://www.gnpcb.org/esv/search/?q=John+10
Jesus Christ lived his life to an extent that no one ever has. He routinely challenged the so-called intellectuals of his day, and he angered the spiritual leaders of his people greatly. Yet, he was more intellectual than any other, and more spiritual than any other, and he gained many followers. What he did he do on one hand to gain such a following, and yet despite that, segregate himself from those who could catapult him into a highly profitable and influential lifestyle? The truth is that Jesus himself was radical from the mindset of his opponents. He taught differently, with an authority that no one else had. Jesus taught increasingly challenging and almost crazy sounding sermons, like love your enemies, pray in secret, and forgiving others without limit. He spent his time with the pariahs and untouchables of his society: the lepers, the sinners, the tax collectors, the prostitutes. He healed disease, exorcised demons, and even claimed to be able to forgive sins! This man was truly unique among all other men who have ever walked the earth. And he was either who he said he was, or he was a lunatic. On closer reading of the Gospels, one truly deciphers the source of all Jesus taught, said, and did; the true source of his power. I believe it is found in John 10. Jesus says, "The Father and I are one." Jesus' relationship with God his Father took precedence over all other things so much so that it spilled out into all areas of life. Jesus knew his Father. Jesus knew that the Father is love, so Jesus sought to live out that love, culminating in his death on the cross. Jesus knew that the Father is grace, so he was gracious to all men, even those who had never known grace. He knew his Father was just, so he lovingly, yet firmly judged sin. All his life, I believe Jesus was conscious of who he was, and what he was meant to do. Therefore, his relationship with the Father was essential. This is why Jesus goes to pray by himself, why he seeks to spend time with his Father, because Jesus understood where his strength came from. He knew how much, in his human state, how dependent he was on the Holy Spirit. What is my excuse for not seeking the Spirit's power!?! I want to emulate Christ. This is what I want in my walk with God. I want to see my time with God as so essential, that my life should revolve around him, instead of me trying to squeeze God into a little five minute time window and call it prayer or quiet time. Oh how I have sinned in this, time after time. I don't want to be like a driver in a car, just putting a dollar or two's worth of gas into the tank, and then hoping I can make it to the next gas station. I want to be filled!!!! But just like Jesus said to the woman caught in adultery, "Go and sin no more," I know God has mercy for me. Let's pray for God to instill that hunger for his Word and his Spirit in us. Let's pray for that desire to overwhelm us, just like it did our Lord while he was on earth.
Jesus Christ lived his life to an extent that no one ever has. He routinely challenged the so-called intellectuals of his day, and he angered the spiritual leaders of his people greatly. Yet, he was more intellectual than any other, and more spiritual than any other, and he gained many followers. What he did he do on one hand to gain such a following, and yet despite that, segregate himself from those who could catapult him into a highly profitable and influential lifestyle? The truth is that Jesus himself was radical from the mindset of his opponents. He taught differently, with an authority that no one else had. Jesus taught increasingly challenging and almost crazy sounding sermons, like love your enemies, pray in secret, and forgiving others without limit. He spent his time with the pariahs and untouchables of his society: the lepers, the sinners, the tax collectors, the prostitutes. He healed disease, exorcised demons, and even claimed to be able to forgive sins! This man was truly unique among all other men who have ever walked the earth. And he was either who he said he was, or he was a lunatic. On closer reading of the Gospels, one truly deciphers the source of all Jesus taught, said, and did; the true source of his power. I believe it is found in John 10. Jesus says, "The Father and I are one." Jesus' relationship with God his Father took precedence over all other things so much so that it spilled out into all areas of life. Jesus knew his Father. Jesus knew that the Father is love, so Jesus sought to live out that love, culminating in his death on the cross. Jesus knew that the Father is grace, so he was gracious to all men, even those who had never known grace. He knew his Father was just, so he lovingly, yet firmly judged sin. All his life, I believe Jesus was conscious of who he was, and what he was meant to do. Therefore, his relationship with the Father was essential. This is why Jesus goes to pray by himself, why he seeks to spend time with his Father, because Jesus understood where his strength came from. He knew how much, in his human state, how dependent he was on the Holy Spirit. What is my excuse for not seeking the Spirit's power!?! I want to emulate Christ. This is what I want in my walk with God. I want to see my time with God as so essential, that my life should revolve around him, instead of me trying to squeeze God into a little five minute time window and call it prayer or quiet time. Oh how I have sinned in this, time after time. I don't want to be like a driver in a car, just putting a dollar or two's worth of gas into the tank, and then hoping I can make it to the next gas station. I want to be filled!!!! But just like Jesus said to the woman caught in adultery, "Go and sin no more," I know God has mercy for me. Let's pray for God to instill that hunger for his Word and his Spirit in us. Let's pray for that desire to overwhelm us, just like it did our Lord while he was on earth.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
long time
HELLO AGAIN!
It's been a while! I just want everyone to know, I am not dead. More stuff coming.
Love,
Stephen
It's been a while! I just want everyone to know, I am not dead. More stuff coming.
Love,
Stephen
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Bible Time: Judges 17
I don't know how many of you have done this yet, but I just got finished listening to "Ten Shekels and a Shirt," the famous sermon by Paris Reidhead, I think for the fourth time, and it was just as convicting as ever.
For those of you who aren't familiar, this sermon is available at:
http://www.sermonindex.net/modules/mydownloads/singlefile.php?lid=282
His text comes from Judges 17 and 18, and he begins with the story of a man named Micah. Micah made himself some idols and an ephod; he made his own little temple. One day he met a Levite man sojourning from Judah and asked him to be his priest, hoping for God's favor for employing a Levite. He offered to pay the man the annual sum of ten shekels of silver and a shirt, a good sum of money. The man accepted, being content to commit idolatry for the wages he would receive.
He challenges by saying that this attitude is adopted by so many "Christians" of the day under the guise of humanism. Humanism says that the happiness of man is the chief goal. So many of us use God as a means to bring about our own happiness, either in this life or the next. We either serve God because we use him to cope or succeed in this life, or because we are scared to suffer in the afterlife.
The reason for salvation, according to Reidhead (and I agree), is that it is the only way God can get glory out a human being. We serve God, not because he can do something for us, but because he is worthy!!!
I have struggled with selfishness in my own Christianity, served God to see what I can get out it, and hearing my sin preached against is always convicting. I shouldn't serve God because of what I can get out of him, it should be what he gets out of me; I should serve God because he is worthy to be served, and though I don't deserve anything from him, he has redeemed me with his precious blood and called me his child. Even if I was sent to hell at the end of my life, because God knows I deserve to be, it does not change the fact that God is holy and sovereign and mighty and deserves the highest praise and adoration. He is worthy!
I encourage you all to listen to this life-changing sermon if you haven't already and even if you have.
For those of you who aren't familiar, this sermon is available at:
http://www.sermonindex.net/modules/mydownloads/singlefile.php?lid=282
His text comes from Judges 17 and 18, and he begins with the story of a man named Micah. Micah made himself some idols and an ephod; he made his own little temple. One day he met a Levite man sojourning from Judah and asked him to be his priest, hoping for God's favor for employing a Levite. He offered to pay the man the annual sum of ten shekels of silver and a shirt, a good sum of money. The man accepted, being content to commit idolatry for the wages he would receive.
He challenges by saying that this attitude is adopted by so many "Christians" of the day under the guise of humanism. Humanism says that the happiness of man is the chief goal. So many of us use God as a means to bring about our own happiness, either in this life or the next. We either serve God because we use him to cope or succeed in this life, or because we are scared to suffer in the afterlife.
The reason for salvation, according to Reidhead (and I agree), is that it is the only way God can get glory out a human being. We serve God, not because he can do something for us, but because he is worthy!!!
I have struggled with selfishness in my own Christianity, served God to see what I can get out it, and hearing my sin preached against is always convicting. I shouldn't serve God because of what I can get out of him, it should be what he gets out of me; I should serve God because he is worthy to be served, and though I don't deserve anything from him, he has redeemed me with his precious blood and called me his child. Even if I was sent to hell at the end of my life, because God knows I deserve to be, it does not change the fact that God is holy and sovereign and mighty and deserves the highest praise and adoration. He is worthy!
I encourage you all to listen to this life-changing sermon if you haven't already and even if you have.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monthly Poems: March
all poems by Stephen Byrne
"Koninklijke Luchtvaart Maatschappij"
Spiteful shadows lie in wait,
And quiet hides a killer.
Death constructs an empty space,
And murder serves as filler.
For all the moments spent alone
And all the miles apart
Stab my soul with silent blades
And pierce my distant heart.
The next best thing to being there
Is knowing where you are,
Yet chasms spanning oceans prove
Regrettably too far.
Despite endearing sentiment
A failure yet again.
By time zones and kilometers
Potential love is slain.
//
"empty"
You're so much better than this,
Too good to be this demeaned,
So consumed by hungry eyes
Raped by so much lust.
Yet you let it happen - you want it to happen.
Are you that starved for love,
That in wanting for affection?
Or has the root of all evil choked you
For the promise of comfortable lifestyle?
Either way, darkness has gripped your soul
But there is He who loved the whole world
That He cried for it, prayed for it, lived for it, bled for it
You are so empty, and He wants to fill
All you have to do is let Him
//
"Venus"
Poison drips from honey tongue
Hands so soft that grate your skin
Angelic voice, a siren's song
And raven eyes conceal her sin
For though her features have no rival
And all about her seems divine,
Beneath her surface lies deceit,
And all her motives breathe malign.
//
"Seeking Virgil's Seat"
Vigorous lines explode onto white
SOMETHING appears from nothing
An outpouring of my own bidding.
As I sit here uncomfortably
contemplating
Perusing over my own thoughts
Unsure
Of what to make of them
Certainty seems all too elusive
And order strikes me as altogether Ch AOtI c.
As time drags on, minutes melting together
Into one inconceivablyeternalmoment.
I cannot help but think of you, your face,
Your name illuminated in the darkness of my mind.
//
"Rector Mihi, O Sol Invictus!"
Horizons broadening -
A stream of light in the distance
Beckons like a woman thinly clad
Reaching into the deep recesses of the mind
Delving down into the desires of the heart
Shine on, O Beacon -
Tantalize, charm, enrapture,
Snare the soul that longs
Journey begins, arduous roads
Ripe with pitfalls, laden with dangers
Hidden and obvious, but no matter
I am taken to it, like a moth to flame
Though it sets me ablaze, still I follow.
//
All poems by Stephen Byrne
Copyright 2010
"Koninklijke Luchtvaart Maatschappij"
Spiteful shadows lie in wait,
And quiet hides a killer.
Death constructs an empty space,
And murder serves as filler.
For all the moments spent alone
And all the miles apart
Stab my soul with silent blades
And pierce my distant heart.
The next best thing to being there
Is knowing where you are,
Yet chasms spanning oceans prove
Regrettably too far.
Despite endearing sentiment
A failure yet again.
By time zones and kilometers
Potential love is slain.
//
"empty"
You're so much better than this,
Too good to be this demeaned,
So consumed by hungry eyes
Raped by so much lust.
Yet you let it happen - you want it to happen.
Are you that starved for love,
That in wanting for affection?
Or has the root of all evil choked you
For the promise of comfortable lifestyle?
Either way, darkness has gripped your soul
But there is He who loved the whole world
That He cried for it, prayed for it, lived for it, bled for it
You are so empty, and He wants to fill
All you have to do is let Him
//
"Venus"
Poison drips from honey tongue
Hands so soft that grate your skin
Angelic voice, a siren's song
And raven eyes conceal her sin
For though her features have no rival
And all about her seems divine,
Beneath her surface lies deceit,
And all her motives breathe malign.
//
"Seeking Virgil's Seat"
Vigorous lines explode onto white
SOMETHING appears from nothing
An outpouring of my own bidding.
As I sit here uncomfortably
contemplating
Perusing over my own thoughts
Unsure
Of what to make of them
Certainty seems all too elusive
And order strikes me as altogether Ch AOtI c.
As time drags on, minutes melting together
Into one inconceivablyeternalmoment.
I cannot help but think of you, your face,
Your name illuminated in the darkness of my mind.
//
"Rector Mihi, O Sol Invictus!"
Horizons broadening -
A stream of light in the distance
Beckons like a woman thinly clad
Reaching into the deep recesses of the mind
Delving down into the desires of the heart
Shine on, O Beacon -
Tantalize, charm, enrapture,
Snare the soul that longs
Journey begins, arduous roads
Ripe with pitfalls, laden with dangers
Hidden and obvious, but no matter
I am taken to it, like a moth to flame
Though it sets me ablaze, still I follow.
//
All poems by Stephen Byrne
Copyright 2010
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