The Beachcomber

Although I write frequently and often, I have used my blog as a medium to distribute my writings far less often than I would like. This is one piece that I found enjoyable to write. I would like to share it with my readers, however few you may be...

The Beachcomber

 D.D. Maurer, March 2013

Shelling is an interesting pastime. Walking on the sandy shore, the undulating waves to the one side of your body facing the Gulf of Mexico offer a steady cadence to pace yourself. The wet, packed sand creeps up, between your toes, persevering to find a crevasse of skin; it will be there, bugging you tonight, when you try to fall asleep.

But you stay at it. The flow is here – you’re in the groove. Head down, your eyes scan the ground.

The beachcomber – what a strange title for a pastime (or, an occupation, even).

It is a skill even a child can master – the computational power of your brain, aided with the evolutionary advantage of sharp acuity and the uncanny differentiation of colors, your eyes have the ability to “comb” over the scalp of the beach.

Seeking to pick out these remnants of death, discarded bodies – deep sea coffins, really – transformed into beauty. Shells. How truly inappropriate a name, you think. For they hold so much in them.

Scanning, you look purposeful and without rest…

No.

No.

No.

Hmm, look at that one... No.

Yes.

You reach down just as the salty wave crashes against the shore, trying in a futile attempt to seize the treasure back to the bosom of the sea. You’re too fast. You pull the little tawny speckled trinket to you.

Strange. How is it that a piece of calcium carbonate can have such symmetry, such mathematical perfection? Gastropods, scaphopods, polyplacophorans (or chitons), cephalopods – all simple, invertebrate, lowly. Beauty has no prejudice, however. The shed casing in your hand is perfect, incorruptible.

And then…

The setting in which you find yourself becomes centered in nature’s jewelry, still wet in the palm of your hand. It is a microcosm of all that surrounds you – the foaming water crashing on the shore, the sea oats swaying in the breeze, distant clouds in the big sky. Even the others seem to be a part of the whole: the old woman with the white sun hat bends to pick a treasure of her own; kids jump and laugh, beating their little bodies against the waves; lovers hold hands, their faces to the sky, reclining on plastic chairs; a man shifts his weight throwing line and hook and sinker to catch a wiggly treasure of his own.

It’s all here in the “shell”:

Untold millions of children take their own shells home, to some midwestern hamlet vastly distant from the ocean. In excitement they put them to their ears. “I can hear still hear it, Mom!”

Perhaps equally as distant in the span of time, some seashells historically have been used as Monetaria moneta, the “money cowry”, currency to trade innumerable goods throughout the broad Pacific.

They are tools…

African kings used them as bowls; Melo melo shells bailed water out of canoes in Australia; ancient scribes wrote on papyrus late into the night, their letters only illuminated and made legible at all by oil-lamp shells.

They even hold prominence in religion…

In Christianity, the scallop shell is the symbol of Saint James the Great, the only apostle whose martyrdom is recorded in the New Testament. In Hinduism, the left-spiraled shells of the sacred shankha are considered to be property of the god Vishnu. They play an equally important role in Buddhism. In the more esoteric religion of Santeria, shells are themselves considered rich vessels of divination.

They are – and have been – tools, musical horns, war trophies, architectural adornment, jewelry and personal keepsakes, sacred items, and painted on flags of state. Farmers even grind them up to raise the pH of soil and increase crop yields.

And now…

You stand on the seashore. Your cast your gaze to the infinite horizon where ocean meets sky. Warm, humid, salty air hits your face as the wind picks up. The shell you hold as yours has a name, albeit an artificial human construction: Nautilus pompilius. The “lower” life form, to inhabit its curly, striped home only lived there for two, perhaps three, years.

Yet, unknown currents brought this piece of art to you. It is precious, no doubt.

The statistical probability of bringing the shell ashore in one piece is staggeringly unlikely. But here it is, in your hand.

It is times like these which remind us, that however impermanent the world may seem, it is still worth living, however long or short it may seem. In the words of the great American writer and aviator Anne Morrow Lindbergh, author of the seminal work Gift from the Sea: “One cannot collect all beautiful shells on the beach. One can collect only a few, and they are more beautiful if they are few.”

No doubt, friends: life is a beach.

Flash Fiction #16: The Abyss

I'm back! After a month long hiatus of not writing on the blog and taking care of our busy boys, I'm bringing my creative juices to the fold again.

I have a feeling that most people will hate this. It was a work I've spent thinking about publishing online for some time. Theologically, I don't like its conclusions. The story certainly is depressing enough. But something haunts me about Reanna. We don't know her well, she's fictional after all. All the same her character is our character in the stage of life. Strangely, I find that comforting. I promise that next week's fiction will be much less macabre. Tell me your thoughts. I love to hear from you.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

She hadn't realized that she had died.

That's the thing: it went so quickly.

Reanna was only 22 years old. She remembered the car ride. Was she driving? No. It was Carly. Carly was driving. And her sister, Max, was with them. They just had gotten done skiing at Wild Mountain. They were headed back home. She remember that she was high. Max scored some pot off some guys at the hill. She hadn't had that much.

But Carly did. She had at least a couple of bowls. And Carly was drunk. Yeah. Carly brought a flask and was sipping on it the whole time. It probably wasn't a very good idea that Carly decided to drive. Nobody wanted to say anything, though. Least of all Max or Reanna. They were the best of friends. And if they said something to Carly, well, she might not be friends with them anymore. It will be alright. Right?

It wasn't alright. Reanna was dead.

Was Max dead, too? No. No. No! Her little sister, Max! She can't be dead. Where is she? I want to know.

But there's only darkness.

Hello?

Is anyone there?

Reanna can't see anything. Actually, she can't hear anything either. Nor can she feel, taste, or smell. In fact, she can't even think. She's gone. Dead. Forever passed.

The only "thoughts" she perceives are actually echos of what once was. Hopes vanquished. The entirety of her existence evaporated like early morning dew in the August heat.

Echoes.

Echoes continue.

Reanna knows she's gone. Because to know is to make a conclusion. And to make a conclusion is to have rational thoughts (or any thoughts at all - even irrational). But she has no thoughts. She has no brain. She is in the black hole. She has gone to the place where she feared as a little girl. You know, the place all of us fear. Not hell. No, hell is far too real, pain is an unbearable existence, but it is still existence. The place we truly fear is the Abyss. The blackness of non-existence beyond.

The strange thing about it for Reanna is that it is not frightening for her. Neither is it comforting. It is nothing. It is that from whence she came; from No-Thing. Reanna, at one time, did not exist. Now, after the Dodge Avenger which Carly borrowed from her father slammed head-on to the semi in the icy lane, she does not exist again. And she will never exist, neither in Heaven Light Years Away, nor in some toasty hell below.

She is nothing. She is totally at peace.

She is God.

Flash Fiction Fifteen (for Friday): U Garden

This next post is inspired by real events this past week. It's written in the first person, which most of my fiction is not. 

Emptiness always had a strange grip on me. One of the things I used to love about North Dakota, when I lived there in the pre-oil boom days, was going into an empty town, driving to the closed gas station late on a summer evening, and feeling the sense that alone-ness does not inherently mean abandonment. Sometimes, the big-wide-open with empty space means peace.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I drive along University Avenue in Minneapolis heading east into Saint Paul. I just got done writing at my studio at the Loft. Got four pages whipped out in the evening session. It was pretty quiet at the studio and I felt like I was productive.

I actually started driving on the interstate, the way I normally do when I go home, but I wanted to see the Witch's Hat off Huron Boulevard. Besides, I never had taken that exit before. I like to get to know new areas of the Twin Cities. (I've actually started to brag to my Mom that I know St. Paul better than she does, and she grew up here. We'll see, she said.) The Witch's Hat is a tower that looks like a witch's hat. (Clever, eh?) It's on the Register of National Historical Place, which is getting to be less and less of a big deal living in the city, since the house across the street from us in on the Register, too.

Anyway, I wanted to see the Hat. It's a tower. There's a park there. Cool. Now what?

I headed north on Huron to University. Then, I turned east, back to S-T-P, as my friend Andrew calls it. Andrew was the guy who first showed me Saint Paul when I first moved here. He grew up here. I'll never forget how our conversation went when we were driving around:

Me: "Saint Paul is a nice town."

Andrew: "S-T-P is a great town. Minneapolis sucks."

Me: "Why?"

Andrew: "Dude, if you're gonna be a Saint Paul guy, just don't go there. Spend your $ in S-T-P."

I'm hungry. I'm still in Minneapolis. The hell with Andrew. I can eat there. Chinese sounds good.

Uh huh. Yeah. Where's my fork?

I turn into the parking lot of the U Garden, a Chinese restaurant just 1/2 mile south of Dinkytown. The parking lot is totally abandoned, except for one car. It has red dingle balls around the inside of every window. An early 80s Cutlass, I believe. Black. Chrome tires. Uh, what kind of place is this?

I take my nylon, black laptop bag from the comfort of the passenger seat and I toss it into the trunk. Might be paranoia, but I don't want it getting ripped off. I think like that now. Now, that I live here - in the city. My thoughts go back ten years to North Dakota, where I never locked the front door of my house. I didn't even know where the key to the front door was...

The U Garden is a box building with a cheap sign on the front. When I mean cheap, I mean the lettering is painted on a white background on a plywood sign. The glass door to the entryway gives me chills. I don't think it's been cleaned for a couple days. Do I really want to eat here? I push onward. Dan the Brave, Clan Sutherland, willing to enter into the foreign land - no fear and a belly fond of exotic fare - to forge new bonds in this alien land.

I get inside. I. Am. The. Only. One.

Just me. And two waitresses (oh, sorry, servers). The owner's behind a red, laminate counter with a cheap cash register from China. (At least they're authentic here, I giggle to myself.)

The female server comes over. The restaurant has to be as big as half a football field. Well, maybe a third of one. But it's big. And it's filled with fifty or sixty identical tables. They all seat exactly four people. None of them are pushed together to make a table of eight; or twelve; or even two. I can hear the owner's voice in a sickeningly stereotypical (and racist) dialogue in my head: Four people per table. Sixty table total. That equal two-hundred forty customer. I rike very much!

Forgive me, God. I deserve hellfire and wrath for my sick humor.

I sit alone, at a table of four chairs in the chair nearest the wall by a window. The server kindly asks if I would like a menu or would I prefer to eat at the Chinese buffet. I select the menu. Too many damn people get the stupid buffet. The menu is huge. Six or seven pages long. And it has a thick, heavy, textured burgundy cover which reminds me of the outside cover of some foreign passport.

I feel like shrimp. I get some shrimp dish. Number Seventeen, I think.

The owner comes over. He wants to chat. I'm still in my stupid mid-brain with dumb accents.

"Hi, I'm Tim," he says in a perfectly Minnesotan Midwest American accent.

Chagrined, I reciprocate: "I'm Dan."

We talk about why the restaurant is empty. He tells me it's Monday. And the Light Rail construction. He hopes it gets done to schedule. "Thanks, by the way, for stopping by. I hope you enjoy your meal."

God I love urban Minnesota.

I get my shrimp. It only took four minutes. Maybe five. There's a ton of food: shrimp, cashews, peanuts, celery, onion, sauce, mushrooms, those little corn-thingies-they-only-have-in-Chinese-food. All over rice. Yum. I notice the musak so kindly piped-in, to enhance my dining experience. I wonder if the musak has been produced in China, too, on some endless Chinese musak loop. But before I figure out this philosophical Möbius strip, I realize I have finished all my food. Holy shit. That was a lot. I must have been hungry. Here, eating my meal in the U Garden, I have experienced Kairos time - a taste of Nirvana.

I just notice something else. There's a cop seated on the other side of the restaurant. What's he doing here?

Well, dumbshit, cops eat, too.

I finish my meal and I walk past the cop. He's got a cop mustache and a cop - belly? Oh, he's a transit cop. I see his patch. He's reading on his Nook or his Kindle, chowing down on Sum Gud Food. As I pass by, to pay my bill, I look at him and say, "Kinda surreal, ain't it?"

"What's that?"

"I said, it's kinda surreal here, ain't it? With just us in this big restaurant."

He never looks up from his reading. Is he multitasking? That's impressive, if he is. "Um, yeah. It's Monday. It's never busy on Monday. Plus, it's summer. No school. And the Light Rail."

"Yeah. Well, seeya."

He lifts his head, still reading.

I pay my bill to Tim and he gives me a fortune cookie.

I unwrap it and crack the buff-colored, fake-chinese confection open...

DO NOT RUSH THROUGH LIFE. PAUSE AND ENJOY IT.

I exit the restaurant. I think that car - the 80s Cutlass with the dingle balls - is Tim the owner's. Cool. The sun is setting. The evening is warm and muggy. It's just me in the parking lot. Even University Avenue, usually full of traffic, is empty.

I'm enjoying it. Yeah.

Flash Fiction Friday Fourteen: Lame Similes

The Huffington Post recently published an article titled The Fifteen Funniest Metaphors and Similes Created by Teen Writers. I got such a kick out of them (like Morton Anderson kicking the extra point at a pro bowl game) that I decided to create a story around them. Since most of them deal with a boy and a girl, the story came easily. Enjoy! It's a short one.

He got to know her in art class. He was no good at art. To her, it came naturally. Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from I Can't Believe It's Not Butter.

It wasn't just that. She was sexy. Her pants fit her like a glove, well, maybe more like a mitten, actually.

He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up. Since he was so shy, though, he had a hard time bringing himself to share his feelings with her. After class, he waited for the opportunity to say something to brighten her day or make a connection. But every time she stepped into view, he was speechless. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

The days and months and years passed. The boy did nothing but yearn and wait. He graduated from High School and went to college, growing into a man. And when I say grow, he shot up like a 6'3'' Christmas tree you see in grocery store parking lots.

The young man never married. He eventually went to a therapist to seek advice how he could overcome his fear and finally try to speak with the woman of his dreams.

The therapist gave him great advice. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

He told him that he needed visualization to calm himself. That whenever he thought of the woman, he should think of a rowboat gently crossing a peaceful pond. The man closed his eyes and he saw the boat. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't. And the man felt at peace.

Meanwhile, the woman didn't like being single. She was unhappy. She was as unhappy as when someone puts your cake out in the rain, and all the sweet green icing flows down and then you lose the recipe, and on top of that you can't sing worth a damn. Wondering what she should do, she looked at her high school yearbook. She saw the class picture of her junior year art class and the young man who would often smile at her, but who would never speak. She wondered where he was.

Eventually, the star-crossed lovers sought each other out. They agreed to meet in a city park with a large field. They finally spied each other at high noon in the park. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

After a brief courtship, the two were married and grew close. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.

- THE END -

You can find the original article at The Huffinton Post right here.

Flash Fiction #13: Le Chien qui Aboyait

The man always went to the same restaurant on the thirteenth of July. Every year, he would make the journey. It was no easy feat for a man of eighty-nine years.

It was called Le Chien qui Aboyait and it was located along the Rue de la Harpe, just four blocks from the Notre Dame cathedral. The little restaurant was nothing spectacular. It was the typical block apartment, street-level room carved into a building. Unlike American restaurants, it was not spacious. The kitchen was too near the dining tables and the ceiling a little too low. Outside, had not the building wall been emblazoned with large, black letters and a wooden placard with a little white dog barking, you might miss that it was a business.

Their food was "folk Parisian", if there existed such a thing. The first time he came there, he had a noodle dish similar to spaghetti with meatballs. Somehow, it wasn't Italian, though. The chef at Le Chien qui Aboyait had taken a multigrain spaghetti and mixed in Provençal flavors of thyme and bay, adding a thyme and caramelized onions ground into a type of sausage meatball. The whole thing was then topped with Niçoise olives. Neither Parisian nor folk, the man thought the dish strange but tasty.

 But the quality of the venue wasn't what was important to the man. Nor was the strange dish he ate there.

It was the restaurant where he first proposed to his wife, sixty-years prior.

Colette was his love. They met in the spring of 1952. The man was in the US Army and was stationed in southwest Germany. He was nineteen. From the Midwest, it was his first foray into Europe, and, quite honestly, it was his first time out of his little town of two-hundred people in Wisconsin for any length of time.

That spring in '52, he got a leave and chose to go see Paris. A young, eighteen-year old woman sold flowers on the Ile de la Cité square in front of the Cathedral. The young woman could speak a little English. The man chatted with her and asked her name, she told him Colette. Her hair was dark brunette, but not black. And her eyes had a depth to them; they were kind and playful and deep. He told Colette that she had oceans in her eyes - his attempt at the poetic romantic. She giggled and told him, "But zey are not bleu, how can zey be oceans?" The young man went red.

Oceans in her eyes

After a period of wooing and daily letters, the man decided that Colette was the one.

At Le Chien qui Aboyait he proposed to her. She said yes.

They had a wonderful life together. Every year, the man, still the hopeless romantic, would purchase two tickets for Paris on the ninth of July (enough time to adjust, see some sights, visit family); then they would make their way down the linden-lined Rue de la Harpe, to dine once again at their restaurant.

In 2001, Colette died. But the man still came.

The owner, of course, knew the man. He was sad to see him come by himself in '02.

"J'ai sauvegardé votre table pour vous, une fois de plus, Monsieur."

"Merci, Rémy."

This year, the man ate what he always did - the strange spaghetti with the sausage meatballs. Once again, he ordered a meal for Colette. He told the owner that he could eat it after he left.

And he looked out the window into the French evening, not feeling quite so alone, because, after all, he was here at Le Chien qui Aboyait. Somehow, he knew Colette was, too.

Theology Thursday #13: Bang!

Every once in a while when I get doubtful about the point of spirituality or religion I happen to see something like this in an article or Facebook post:

"As far as I see it there are only two basic laws of physics: 1) Nothing comes from nothing, and 2) Something had to. Before there was any mass, energy, time or space, there was no NO-THING. The moment before the moment there was no moment. (Figure that one out). In our limited human intelligence, that means there was a singularity that stands OUTSIDE mass, energy, time and space that put it all in motion. The beginning of science (the big bang) is also the end of science, because science can go no further than the moment before the moment. Without anything to measure, there is no science. 

When David Letterman interviewed a string theorist a few years back and he told him there was no mass, energy, time or space, David responded, "Then what, for the love of God, banged?" 

Precisely.

I believe the love of God banged."

The previous quote is from my Facebook friend Rich Melheim, creator of Faith Inkubators, a creative confirmation curricula I once purchased when I was a pastor. I like the quote above, because when I get in an intellectual mood and I'm bored, I get mean and cynical about the church. Going back to the very moment of creation, I find that yes, there is the unknown and there was - at one time - nothing. Creatio ex Nihilo, or creation "from nothing" is an ancient tenet of the Christian church and one worth keeping since it jibes quite well with our current understanding of physics.

Out a nuttin'...

I have a friend (a very, very good friend who has a great blog, by the way, here) who has encouraged me to sever all my ties with the church. I think he delights that I'm not a pastor anymore (even more than I do). His upbringing was fraught with what I would label as spiritual abuse. He sees the Church (capital 'C' intentional) as an agent for mostly negative influences on our society. Whatever non-negative influence the Church currently has, I think he would designate as simply irrelevant or wishful thinking. More often than not, I think I agree with him. History makes a fairly convincing argument, which isn't exactly a raving review of religion. Science clearly places much of believers views as childish and unscientific. And looking at the current state of liberal, ecumenical, so-called "Mainstream" Christianity, one wonders how an organization can be, frankly, so impotent in their actions when its words seem to be so strong.

But I still go to worship.

Why?

I think it has something to do with the need I have for mystery and community. When I stand in line in the sanctuary and hear the words "This is my body" and "This is my blood", I feel that there is something worthwhile, still, in gathering together and being sent out.

Every rational brain cell in my head screams out that there really is nothing, that meaning is something that we, as human beings, attribute to the void, because the void by itself is so terrifying. Rationally, I can understand why people invented God, because without God, life is scary. Rationally, I can understand why people commit violence in the name of God; it is because they feel threatened. I think that some of my best friends are agnostic, atheist, or "just" spiritual. Sometimes, I want to throw the whole thing away and I feel hopeless and cynical. But then, I am reminded of the nothing that once was; time that once wasn't - but is now - and I find hope.

And, honestly, the story of Jesus of Nazareth is the most appealing to me, because I believe that a human in our midst who struggled within our human condition - and who still managed to live infinite compassion - appeals to me. I want to follow him.

The Church sucks. But it's kind of like the United States of America: it's not perfect, but it's the best we have. I know this comment will tick off a lot of people from both sides of the aisle. I hope that instead, it might elicit more honest dialogue. What do you think? I love reading your comments.

Oh. And I'll see you in church.

BANG!

Flash Fiction #12: The God of Small Things

Hello readers, I was gone last week at my brother's wedding in Wisconsin and I was busy yesterday. But I want to get back writing since it is enjoyable and good for me. Hope you like this one. I haven't done much in the parable or fable genre, so I thought I'd give it a shot.

There once was a man of great stature and wealth who was well-liked and successful in his village from his youth to middle age. Being a trader of purple cloth, his business was lucrative and easy for him. He had a beautiful wife and a dozen happy children running and playing in his vast courtyard. The man had many business and political connections, and, since he was such a likable fellow, grew to have significant influence with the powers that be. The King himself gave him an extensive audience when His Majesty was visiting his province, asking him at length what policies would best fit the Kingdom, which, by all regards, was currently experiencing a booming economy and good trade from its neighbors.

By all accounts, the man should have been happy. But he was not. So he set out to find the source of his most perplexing and persistent malaise.

At first, the man went to the village priest who listened intently to the man: "I have success, a beautiful family, a wonderful life, and all the money I could want. But, something seems to be missing. I do not know what it is. Every day I wake and do what is right. I follow all the laws and feel the blessing of my success. However, when I lay down, I feel sad and purposeless. Please help me." The priest came to the conclusion that the gods were telling him to give more to the temple. He said that he should purchase one-hundred, flawless lambs and have them sacrificed at the temple. In addition to that, he told the man that he must give half his wealth to the village, that others may share from his success.

The man did as he was told. He had his servants scour the countryside for the finest, whitest, most blemish-free lambs he could find. After gathering one hundred of them he gave them to the priest who sacrificed them at the temple for the man's behalf. Then, the man made it known that he would divide half his wealth and give an equal share to every family in the village. The day came and all the people lined at the man's door as his scribes divided his wealth equally. The villagers thanked him profusely and spoke of the greatness of the man at all he had done.

Yet, the man still felt sorrow and emptiness.

So, the man sought counsel with the King. The King, who naturally knew well of the man, and, after having heard of his great generosity in his village, was more than happy to grant him another audience. After receiving word that the King welcomed the opportunity to speak with him, the man gathered his servants, and, at much expense, traveled to the royal city to meet the King.

The King was delighted to receive the man and his family and put them up in the best of the castle's quarters for a month. Every night the King and Queen celebrated with the man and his family and dined over the finest tables set with rich wines and sumptuous food. Yet, every evening the man wept.

At long last, the King broached the subject with the man: "My friend, you have done much for your village. Indeed, you have done much for my Kingdom as your purple cloths are known throughout the land. You are loved by your family and village; indeed, by everyone. Why is it you seem so sad, so lonely?"

"My Sovereign, this is my problem. I have success and pleasure, yet I am not happy. I have done as the village priest suggested to purge myself and appease the gods. Thus far, it seems my efforts have been fruitless. So I seek your counsel, my Lord: what shall I do to find happiness?"

The King listened to the man and thought for a long time. Then, he told the man that he knew the solution. The man had not expanded his business to the furthest reaches of the world. The King had the political and trade connections to make this happen. So the King gathered his caravans and commanded them to deliver ten-thousand yards of purple cloth to every corner of the known-world. The caravans gathered yard upon yard of the man's produce and after months of travel, returned to the royal city. There, the King gathered the man and his family to himself to make the high announcement. Hoards of people thronged the courtyards to hear the King's pronouncement.

"It is on this glorious day, on the first of July, that I, the Sovereign Ruler of our great nation, decree that this man's fine purple cloth is known to all the world and that new trade routes have been established to provide wealth not only to my fine subject standing here, but to all who reside in our great country."

The crowds erupted with cheers. Women cried and children laughed with joy at the King's announcement. The King placed a golden, diamond-studded ring on the man's finger and invited him and his family to reside at the Royal village where a new factory was erected in his honor to distribute his cloth to all the corners of the world.

Yet, the man still felt sorrow and emptiness.

One evening, while the man sat alone, weeping in his great palace in the royal city, the man's wife heard him. "What troubles you so, my dear? I do not understand after the gods have so blessed you why you weep?"

"I do not understand it either. I have gone to priests and kings, yet none can give me the answer."

The woman thought for a moment and suggested the man go into far-off desert across several seas and seek the hermit who lives on a tiny island in the center of a salt lake. She had heard that this hermit had great wisdom and could give him the answer he sought.

The man hugged his wife, thanking her, and set to find the hermit the next day.

After months of travel and braving the sea, the man finally came to the salt lake in the desert. In the center of the lake, he saw a tiny island. So the man found a boat and crossed the salt lake and stepped on the sandy shore of the island. In the middle of the island, the man saw a disheveled, tanned creature that was the hermit.

"Hark! Hermit! I have traveled a great distance to seek your wisdom. I have success, a beautiful family, a wonderful life, and all the money I could want. Indeed, my fame has spread to every corner of the world because of my fine, purple cloth. All love me and I have no problems. But, something seems to be missing. I do not know what it is. Every night when I lay down, I feel sad and purposeless. I have sought council from wise priests and even my King, yet none have solved my problem. What will make me happy?"

The hermit, who the man could now see was blind, sat in a lotus position, staring at the sun. He sat this way for several hours. The man, patiently waited. When the sun finally set and the day's heat vanished, the man finally gave up and turned to his boat. But before the man could leave, the Hermit spoke. The man could not hear him, so he ran to him, desperately.

"What? What was that you said? What is the answer to my problem? What will make me happy!?"

The hermit spoke again: "I do not have the answer to your problem."

The man's shoulders slumped.

"But...I do have the answer to your condition. You see, you have been cursed. A demon beset you at birth giving you the worst curse a human can receive. You have everything you desire: wealth, family, fame, and success. But you have these things without struggle, without pain. That, my friend, is what makes you un-human, because to be human you must fail; you must hurt; you must be rejected."

The man stood, in shock. He asked, "What can I do to become human?"

The hermit replied, "How do you feel now?"

The man said, "Like a failure, a reject."

"Then you have begun your journey to void your curse."

Flash Fiction Friday #11: Thinning the Herd

One of my favorite novels is Ken Follett's The Pillars of the Earth, a story set in 12th-Century England during the time of the Wars of Anarchy. Often raw and emotional, I became so enthralled with the characters' lives during this time-period, I find myself time and again returning to their world of violence and passion where Good often does not triumph over Evil. However, when Right does prevail over Might, the set and setting of the Middle-Ages makes it seem that much more chivalrous and delightful. For this Flash Fiction Friday, I have opted to enter into a third-person view of a very evil man set in the 1100s of England. Warning: this is pretty dark. Read on to see how it ends.

* * * * * * *

Bartram was not a very nice guy.

No wonder, really. All his life he had either been beaten, bullied, or polluted with the idea that to live in this world, a man had to take what he wanted, and take it by force. It worked well for his father Eldrich as it suited him, also, as he replaced his father. Bartram was a big boy and it was easy for him to push around others.

"The evil men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones."  -  Julius Caesar

It wasn't always that way. When he was young and small and his father would beat him, he did not cry or wallow in a corner, but set out to eat and to grow. Despite the daily beatings his father issued him after his evening mead, his bruises armored him with both a callous body and soul. These callouses, hardened by years of drunken cruelty, and tougher than chain mail, served him well when he finally fought back. 

When he was fifteen, Bartram was much bigger than the pip he had been as a child. He came home from gathering turnips for the fall crop with his younger brother. It was already dark in early October, when the air had that nice, fresh chill to it that made Bartram feel alive. As he approached his cottage, he could see the ruckus stirring inside by his father's body see-sawing up and down through the window. His father's shadow cast a dread over him and every time he raised his hand to strike his mother, his figure obscured the warm firelight within.

Terror was not an option for Bartram. Even at fifteen, he knew what he must do. The villagers say they never had seen a man beaten so badly. Bartram, for his part, said that his father died falling down the east hayloft. Everyone knew it wasn't true. They knew Bartram had killed his father and the man had suffered terribly. But, aside from the mother and the brother, there were no witnesses. Bartram lived on. And he, as the eldest son, became head of the household. He took the role of his father.

Now, in the springtime of 1143, Bartram was older, wiser, and much, much crueler.

The Norman army he had joined had twice given him the opportunity to advance in the ranks. Why? It was not because Bartram was at all a natural leader. He had advanced, because, quite simply, he was the meanest bloke of the bunch.

When it came time to kill, Bartram did it with overt enthusiasm. His sword and halberd he liked to keep sullied from the blood of peasants he would kill. Often he would sharpen the blades without first washing the offending offal from the metal. Bartram called this "thinning the herd" as he believed that he was doing good by wiping the countryside clean of peasants.  This, in its own right, was an irony in that Bertram was raised a peasant. However, in his evil, twisted mind, he saw in every man, woman, and child he killed, he cleansed the land of another person who would become his father. The other mercenaries took this as a good omen, that they had such a treacherous demon in their midst. They believed, of all things, that it gave their unit more power.

When it came time to rape, he, too, was first in line, and often would take seconds where he would kill his victim as he raped her. This he saw as a bonus payment for his good work he was doing. Good, in that it satisfied his lust for power and destructive will.

Bartram was a bad man. As a mercenary, the wages garnered in pillaging were to him the perfect spoils for his most enjoyable employment.

The other men in his rank, for the most part, feared and honored him. And the enemy, when soldiers would actually fight other soldiers (instead of slaughtering common peasants) in this battle now called "the Anarchy", they saw him as a vicious monster they wanted to destroy.

They wouldn't get that opportunity, however. For Bartram's fate would be legendary for both the Norman and the English side.

It all happened one afternoon when Bartram entered the house of an unknown village's miller.

Bartram lead his men to the mill; he knew that villagers would be inside, protecting the precious economic resource. The rest of the village had already been set ablaze and he had satiated his bloodlust with the lives of a dozen villagers.

He laughed as his men broke down the flimsy, wooden door and entered inside the mill. He heard the screams of several women from the mill's attic. Good, he thought, playtime for after the battle. He unsheathed his sword, already stained with blood, ready for more. When he entered, the anteroom where villagers traded their grain was empty. "Search the premises! Take no one except the women alive!" he ordered.

The room was a small trading center for farmer's grain. It was worn and the wooden floor had seen dozens, perhaps hundreds, of years' wear. The entourage returned with a report: "No one is here."

"What?" he said. "Of course they are! I heard the screams as well as you. The bluebloods are somewhere. Let us finish this battle and have us some wenches!"

Still, not a soul could be found. He stomped up the stairs to the mill proper, where the grinding of the two, gigantic stones powered by the creek running below them slowly turned. "Where is everyone?" a soldier asked.

"They must be here. Who has searched the attic, where the grain is stored?"

Bartram's underlings answered him, that the mill was abandoned.

He roared with rage, and said, "They must have escaped! The cowards! Chase after them and skewer them like pigs!"

The guards left. Leaving Bertram alone with one sergeant.

He let out a huff and said to his sole companion, "Perhaps they are hidden. Let us look in the mill proper."

Bartram and the sergeant entered the dusty mill and saw the two stones grinding against each other. They also saw a boy. Bartram took a double take and pointed his sword to the boy. "There!"

The boy spoke: "Bartram, son of Eldrich, your time has now ended. The unnamed One has seen your treachery and bloodlust. He has opted to take you now."

Bartram stopped in his tracks, looked to his sergeant with surprise and rage, making sure he had heard the impudent boy correctly. He turned toward the boy, sheathed his sword and took out his dagger. "You shall die slowly and without mercy. Prepare for your gutting, boy!"

The boy stood fast. Bartram advanced toward him. The boy stepped back, behind the two grinding stones. Did this rascal think he might escape me? This is going to be enjoyable! he thought.

But just as Bartram came within a yard of the boy, his foot caught on an exposed nail from the wooden floor. Bartram tumbled into the grinding stones and the giant boulders seized the corner of his mail shirt, pulling him into the mill.

He let out a scream, not from horror, but from rage that a boy and an exposed nail had cheated him out of his prize. The sergeant watched as the boy stood firmly, silently watching as the stones slowly dragged him into the mill. His scream became a gurgle and the sergeant could hear Bartram's bones crushing, even above the din of the mill's gears and clamoring machines.

* * * * * * *

To this day, the good people of Norwich know their flour is ground mixed, ever so lightly, with the bone-meal of Bartram, the Norman butcher and enemy of the people.

The herd grows, well-fed in the knowledge they are safe, at least for the time being, from the vicious predator they once knew.