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Read Me A Mask
0. Prologue
I. Dragons and Maidens Part I
II. She Collects
III. The Mask of Randale (unfinished)
.
.
.
XXX. Dragons and Maidens Part II
Total wordcount as of yet: 16,915/50,000
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readmeamask
01 November 2020 @ 02:33 am
Read Me A Mask
0. Prologue
I. Dragons and Maidens Part I
II. She Collects
III. The Mask of Randale (unfinished)
.
.
.
XXX. Dragons and Maidens Part II
Total wordcount as of yet: 16,915/50,000
25 November 2006 @ 12:39 am
why is it that I seem to be able to write beginnings, and endings, but not the stuff inbetween?
this ALWAYS drives me insane. I come up with a really good idea, and i start it, i set everything up, and then I sort of get stuck, i have a vague idea of what i want to happen, but nothing more. so i go ahead a write the ending, because i know exactly how that should work, i can write endings... but its the stuff inbetween that i can't thnk of, can't put words to, can't actually come up with anything that should happen...
which is why i'm not going to finish my 50,000 words this year, i've known that for a couple of weeks, but i'm still going to try, and when i can, i'm still going to write
i'm up to 16,000 now, and thats more than i've ever written before, so thats enough for me really
this ALWAYS drives me insane. I come up with a really good idea, and i start it, i set everything up, and then I sort of get stuck, i have a vague idea of what i want to happen, but nothing more. so i go ahead a write the ending, because i know exactly how that should work, i can write endings... but its the stuff inbetween that i can't thnk of, can't put words to, can't actually come up with anything that should happen...
which is why i'm not going to finish my 50,000 words this year, i've known that for a couple of weeks, but i'm still going to try, and when i can, i'm still going to write
i'm up to 16,000 now, and thats more than i've ever written before, so thats enough for me really
25 November 2006 @ 12:34 am
still unfinished...
III. The Mask of Randale
Randy arranged her merchandise on the walls and portable tables of her stall. She hoped it would be a good festival, she needed the cash, and the reputation. Randy dealt in masks, porcelain, woven beads, paper mache, painted cloth, carved wood, to hang on the wall, to wear to a masquerade, any purpose any medium. She traveled from fair to festival across the country and back again, making just enough money to get her to the next fair and to buy the supplies she needed, and sometimes when she was lucky, enough to set away for harder times.
Randale SummerFest was usually a worthwhile stop for her. It was right on the outskirts of the capital, so all sorts of people attended, simple farmers up to the high class merchants and almost nobles. The true nobles never attended anything so common as a festival of course, but sometimes when she was lucky she would get custom orders from servants in livery in the colors of those very high in ranks. It was also the season for masked balls, and people wanted masks of any sort, from ones shaped like exotic animals, to ones that sparkled with sequins and beads and even sometimes imitation jewels, to simple solid colors and basic shapes.
That, and there was just something that seemed lucky about attending the fair that shared her name every year. Granted, the city was named after the first king, and now the name of the kindom, Randale, and she was named after the ancient myth of the Sorceress Randella, but it was close enough to make her feel like it was meant to be.
(unwritten portion goes here)
Into the mask she poured his soul and his story. The weight of responsibility and the years of loneliness, the talent and craftsmanship, the beauty of stories, the godliness of power, the humanity of love. She couldn't say how she did it, it was simple clay like many of her other pieces. But this one seemed to hold power in its countenance. This mask seemed alive, seemed to tell its own story. She didn't set any jewels in its surface, she didn't paint it a riot of colors, she added no feathers and no flowers, no dangling beads to catch the light. It was as simple as many she had made for the farmer's balls and simple village dances. It had only one distinguishing mark, from the corner of each eye she painted spirals that traveled down the cheeks in elegant curves. Above the eyes a crescent line cupped a simple circle. She stared at it, sitting on her worktable, the paint already drying, and realized that she could never make another like it. But... but... something was missing. She pulled out the locked box where she kept the true jewels and more expensive materials that she saved for the custom pieces requested by those that demanded the best, and searched in it until she found the two small sapphires, perfectly matched, that she had bought long ago.
With thin wire she craftily mounted the jewels into the center of the eye holes, the wire holding them there almost invisible, so they seemed suspended in air. The light caught in the sapphires shone and made the eyes come alive. And finally, he was there, inside her creation.
If no one actually knew who he was, or what he did for them, or how he suffered, when they saw this mask, they would feel him inside them, if only for a moment.
***
The next year, at the Randale SummerFest, Randy was sitting in her pavilion when a man bearing all the marks of a rich life came in. He may have been dressed as a common soldier, but he walked like a prince, and wore a heavy gold ring, though it was the only material sign of money on him. He was followed by two that had the look of trained soldiers, though they too attempted to cover it by wearing common clothing, and they made a point of never turning their backs to her, and never letting the first man out of their sight. Everything about them said 'watchdogs.'
“I am looking for a mask.”
“Well you seem to have come to the right place.”
“These are all quite nice. You do wonderful work.”
“Thank you.”
“However, I'm looking for something more than nice, I'm looking for something unique it its magnificence.”
“If you have a detailed idea of what you want, I do make custom pieces and can fulfill any specifications you set down. The cost, however, does rise with each request, and it may take some few days if you require any unusual materials.”
“Cost is no issue, however I will need the mask by tomorrow night. What of this one, here. This is more of what I want. How much for it?”
“That one is not for sale.”
“But it is here, on the table, with all the others. Come now, these are real sapphires, and you could fetch a hefty price for it. You don't look like you can afford not to sell it.”
“It was mistakenly put out, I apologize. It is not for sale.”
“I told you, cost is no issue.” He held out his hand to show her his ring. Randy was unsurprised to see it held the crest of the crown prince. “Now, I will pay you 200 gold crowns. That is more than twice what the materials cost you, and more than any other of your pieces, even with the value of the jewels.”
“I'm sorry, your Highness. The mask is not for sale.” She picked it up, and walked it behind the counter where she kept her money and person possessions. “However, I believe that for you I can have any other mask you desire created by noon tomorrow. The princes' chosen colors are black and royal blue, yes. So would an elegant creation of onyx and sapphire suffice? Modeled after a predator, perhaps? I have sold no panthers yet this season, it would be a truly uniquely magnificent mask.”
The prince smiled, and accepted her compromise in peace. “As you will, mask maker. I will be here tomorrow, and it better be up to my standards. And I will pay no more than 150 gold crowns for it.”
“As you will, my prince. Your wish is my command.”
When he had left the tent, flanked by his two bodyguards. She removed the mask from its hiding place and hung it under the sign of her shop and her artists mark, the only mask to be hung on the back wall. A testimony to her trade, never to be sold, only to be admired by anyone to enter.
After the next few fairs, it became her trademark, a way to be remembered. After a few years she was no longer knows as an artisan, as a mask maker, but as The Mask. It brought her prosperity, and spread her reputation, and soon she was wealthy enough not to have to hop from fair to fair. She could have set up shop in the capital and done all of her dealings with the nobility that now sought her out, no matter where she was, and commissioned pieces individually. But she kept moving, kept traveling and attending the fairs, always watching to see that face again, always hoping to see the tattoos that still visited her dreams.
III. The Mask of Randale
Randy arranged her merchandise on the walls and portable tables of her stall. She hoped it would be a good festival, she needed the cash, and the reputation. Randy dealt in masks, porcelain, woven beads, paper mache, painted cloth, carved wood, to hang on the wall, to wear to a masquerade, any purpose any medium. She traveled from fair to festival across the country and back again, making just enough money to get her to the next fair and to buy the supplies she needed, and sometimes when she was lucky, enough to set away for harder times.
Randale SummerFest was usually a worthwhile stop for her. It was right on the outskirts of the capital, so all sorts of people attended, simple farmers up to the high class merchants and almost nobles. The true nobles never attended anything so common as a festival of course, but sometimes when she was lucky she would get custom orders from servants in livery in the colors of those very high in ranks. It was also the season for masked balls, and people wanted masks of any sort, from ones shaped like exotic animals, to ones that sparkled with sequins and beads and even sometimes imitation jewels, to simple solid colors and basic shapes.
That, and there was just something that seemed lucky about attending the fair that shared her name every year. Granted, the city was named after the first king, and now the name of the kindom, Randale, and she was named after the ancient myth of the Sorceress Randella, but it was close enough to make her feel like it was meant to be.
(unwritten portion goes here)
Into the mask she poured his soul and his story. The weight of responsibility and the years of loneliness, the talent and craftsmanship, the beauty of stories, the godliness of power, the humanity of love. She couldn't say how she did it, it was simple clay like many of her other pieces. But this one seemed to hold power in its countenance. This mask seemed alive, seemed to tell its own story. She didn't set any jewels in its surface, she didn't paint it a riot of colors, she added no feathers and no flowers, no dangling beads to catch the light. It was as simple as many she had made for the farmer's balls and simple village dances. It had only one distinguishing mark, from the corner of each eye she painted spirals that traveled down the cheeks in elegant curves. Above the eyes a crescent line cupped a simple circle. She stared at it, sitting on her worktable, the paint already drying, and realized that she could never make another like it. But... but... something was missing. She pulled out the locked box where she kept the true jewels and more expensive materials that she saved for the custom pieces requested by those that demanded the best, and searched in it until she found the two small sapphires, perfectly matched, that she had bought long ago.
With thin wire she craftily mounted the jewels into the center of the eye holes, the wire holding them there almost invisible, so they seemed suspended in air. The light caught in the sapphires shone and made the eyes come alive. And finally, he was there, inside her creation.
If no one actually knew who he was, or what he did for them, or how he suffered, when they saw this mask, they would feel him inside them, if only for a moment.
***
The next year, at the Randale SummerFest, Randy was sitting in her pavilion when a man bearing all the marks of a rich life came in. He may have been dressed as a common soldier, but he walked like a prince, and wore a heavy gold ring, though it was the only material sign of money on him. He was followed by two that had the look of trained soldiers, though they too attempted to cover it by wearing common clothing, and they made a point of never turning their backs to her, and never letting the first man out of their sight. Everything about them said 'watchdogs.'
“I am looking for a mask.”
“Well you seem to have come to the right place.”
“These are all quite nice. You do wonderful work.”
“Thank you.”
“However, I'm looking for something more than nice, I'm looking for something unique it its magnificence.”
“If you have a detailed idea of what you want, I do make custom pieces and can fulfill any specifications you set down. The cost, however, does rise with each request, and it may take some few days if you require any unusual materials.”
“Cost is no issue, however I will need the mask by tomorrow night. What of this one, here. This is more of what I want. How much for it?”
“That one is not for sale.”
“But it is here, on the table, with all the others. Come now, these are real sapphires, and you could fetch a hefty price for it. You don't look like you can afford not to sell it.”
“It was mistakenly put out, I apologize. It is not for sale.”
“I told you, cost is no issue.” He held out his hand to show her his ring. Randy was unsurprised to see it held the crest of the crown prince. “Now, I will pay you 200 gold crowns. That is more than twice what the materials cost you, and more than any other of your pieces, even with the value of the jewels.”
“I'm sorry, your Highness. The mask is not for sale.” She picked it up, and walked it behind the counter where she kept her money and person possessions. “However, I believe that for you I can have any other mask you desire created by noon tomorrow. The princes' chosen colors are black and royal blue, yes. So would an elegant creation of onyx and sapphire suffice? Modeled after a predator, perhaps? I have sold no panthers yet this season, it would be a truly uniquely magnificent mask.”
The prince smiled, and accepted her compromise in peace. “As you will, mask maker. I will be here tomorrow, and it better be up to my standards. And I will pay no more than 150 gold crowns for it.”
“As you will, my prince. Your wish is my command.”
When he had left the tent, flanked by his two bodyguards. She removed the mask from its hiding place and hung it under the sign of her shop and her artists mark, the only mask to be hung on the back wall. A testimony to her trade, never to be sold, only to be admired by anyone to enter.
After the next few fairs, it became her trademark, a way to be remembered. After a few years she was no longer knows as an artisan, as a mask maker, but as The Mask. It brought her prosperity, and spread her reputation, and soon she was wealthy enough not to have to hop from fair to fair. She could have set up shop in the capital and done all of her dealings with the nobility that now sought her out, no matter where she was, and commissioned pieces individually. But she kept moving, kept traveling and attending the fairs, always watching to see that face again, always hoping to see the tattoos that still visited her dreams.
13 November 2006 @ 06:11 am
this story is actually rather personal, and if you couldn't tell I actually wrote it originally for an english essay, and then edited it to fit the theme. I don't know really why i added it, and i'm not sure yet that I wont take it out again, but I sort of wanted one of these stories to be very ME. And i dont want to you to make connections between real people and the charactes here, because they're not written to be the people they are in "real life" even if they appear to be the same person, they're written to be part of a story, but that story is not necessarily their own. certainly some characters were created, and some distorted, and most arent really the person they are meant to be, you may think you know them, but it'd be better if you didn't.
II. She Collects
The teacher writes two things on the board: “rite of passage” and below that “epiphany,” and then turns to the class.
“Does anyone know what I mean when I say 'rite of passage?'”
A boy in the back of the class raises his hand and gives a decent answer. I'm only half listening, I understand what a rite of passage is. I feel almost guilty for not paying more attention, but I think I know where this is going, and I doubt I'll like it.
“Your assignment is to write a narrative about a rite of passage you went though, or an epiphany you had. Tell us about a lesson you learned, or an experience or a thought you had that changed your life.”
I knew it. Why do teachers always insist on giving us writing prompts that demand a direct personal experience? I hate writing about myself. I especially hate writing in first person. I don't have epiphanies, I don't remember the time I found out there was no Santa Claus, and I don't have any touching stories about grandparents that died or pets that meant everything to me. I don't have obstacles that need overcoming, I don't have desires that lead me to self-revelation. I don't like writing true stories, I never know what to write, and I never know how to start.
“Another way to pull the reader into the story is to use dialog, start the story with a conversation.” Oops, not paying attention again. It doesn't really matter, I know all the mechanics of writing, it's the story itself that I can't figure out. I can't think of anything worth writing about. Its like an internal block, I just can't write about myself.
Okay, okay, I won't write about myself. I'll write about Katherine, yes, I'll write a story about a girl named Kat. And her English teacher, Mr. ... Mr. Driffers, who wants her to write a story, but she doesn't know what to write...
* * *
Kat and James walked into the mall through the Belk entrance.
“How is it that we always end up wandering malls when we hang out?”
“Haha. I don't know. We still always end up having fun though. And this mall is pretty weird, it should provide some entertainment. You'll never guess what the first store on the right is once we get out of Belk. Whats the last thing you would expect to find in Biltmore mall?”
“Er, I don't know.”
“Well look, right there.”
“A Good Will branch? In a mall?”
“Yep.”
“You're right. That's crazy. Lets go in!”
“Whatever floats your boat...”
“Well I need to find some cheap boots to spray paint for my Halloween costume, and this seems like the perfect place.”
“It looks like the shoes are over in that corner.”
“Ooo. Look, these are perfect! Two dollars, my size, and they have kick ass four inch heels. I hope the spray paint will bond to the faux leather. Oh well, I'll find out.”
“What are you going to be?”
“For Halloween? I'm making a costume for Jean Gray, back in the sixties when she was just Marvel Girl, and not the hotshot Phoenix.”
“Well, see anything else you need for the costume? Looks like this is the place to get it if you can.”
“Hmm, no I don't see anything. But, oh! Look at these!”
“Porcelain masks?”
“Yeah, they're gorgeous. And only three dollars.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot you collect these things. How many do you have now?”
“Oh, I don't know, about ten I think.” Kat held out her hands and started counting on her fingers. “The four small ones from Italy, the venetian one from the renaissance fair, the oriental one that Richard gave me last summer, and the Christmas tree ornament, and the one Alyssa made for my birthday, and the porcelain one from the garage sale that was the first one. So that makes... Nine. And now ten, because I'm getting this one. Its the prettiest of the lot”
“Ok, whatever. Hey, it looks like there's a Halloween store over there. Want to go check it out?”
“Sure, maybe I can find some gold gloves.”
Later, when Kat was saying goodbye to James, she realized she had spent all day messing around, and hadn't gotten any of the work done she wanted to. Really she should start the essay she was supposed to write for English class today and get it over with.
Kat stared at the screen. The blank screen. Well, not completely blank, really she was staring at a blank word document on her laptop screen.
No matter how long and hard she stared, she couldn't think of what to write, and now she was getting a headache.
Maybe I'm trying too hard. She thought. I wont treat it like an English essay, I'll just pretend I'm just writing another story. I like writing stories, this shouldn't be hard. I wont use a computer, maybe more inspiration will come with a simple pen and a piece of paper.
She pulled out a sheet of white, unlined, copy paper, and her favorite calligraphy pen. The weight of it felt natural in her hand. Familiar. It brought to mind all the other stories she had written with such a pen, all the letters, all the journal entries. It was a piece of inspiration in her hand. And still, she stared blankly at the piece of paper.
Minutes later she screwed the lid back onto the inkwell. She put down the pen, still clean, and left the piece of paper on her desk, still white. She didn't have time for this frustration right now, she still had a lot to do before she left for the weekend. The writing assignment could wait, she'd have plenty of time to write during the short vacation from school.
The upcoming weekend drew her like an oasis in the lonely desert. Kat had found a carpool of girls that were all going to Chapel Hill for labor day weekend, and this meant that she could go home, and see her friends. Maybe she could even feel like she fit in again, feel like she belonged, if only for a couple of days.
The next day passed quickly for Kat. She finished packing, and on an impulse threw in Oryx and Crake, a book her English class would be reading soon. It intrigued her, and she would need something to read in the car.
Eventually she found herself in Chapel Hill, and the reunion with her friends was everything it was supposed to be. They laughed and talked and ate, and when someone suggested that they go explore the nearby construction site, it only seemed natural that they should end up on the roof, with the world at their feet.
There was a moment of silence as they all listened to the clock tower strike midnight across the street. No one seemed willing to speak for several minutes after. The laughter and joy that had consumed them before turned to silent contemplation.
Soon Gabrielle pulled one of the black clove cigarettes she loved from her purse and lit it.
“You probably should put that out, we don't want anyone to catch us.”
“Sure, Jeremy, a cigarette is noticeable and could get us caught, but not the flash from your camera, earlier.”
“You know that I don't like you smoking anyway.”
“I don't actually smoke them anymore, I just like watching them burn, I like holding them, and the way they smell.” And true to her word, she had yet to put the filter to her lips.
Kat wander over to the edge and was watching the street below when Gabrielle joined her.
“Any closer to the edge, Kat, and I'd worry about you.”
“Don't be silly Gabbi, you were always the suicidal one.”
“Yeah, well, have you talked to Matt lately? He always seems to make you depressed. The boy dumped you over a year ago, and you still moon over him.”
“No, and I don't moon. He went home this weekend. And what's wrong with being friends with someone after you've dated? I think its a good sign that we're mature enough to still be close.”
“That doesn't change the fact that you'd date him again in a heartbeat, if only he'd ask.”
“No,” Kat answered defensively, and then gave in to what she knew was the truth. “I'd make him worry for a couple heartbeats.” She sighed. “Besides, we both know it will never happen. Anyway, enough of focusing on my disastrous attempts at relationships, how's your love life?”
“About the same as it has been for the last couple months. We've finally reached a stable point.”
“Still engaged, then?”
“Yeah, Mom knows now, but she can't do anything. I'll be 18 in less than two months.”
“Wow. This must be the longest time you two have gone without breaking up. You know, no one believes you two will actually make it, will actually be happy together. Who can believe it when you're both so young?”
“Yeah, I know, its always been slightly ridiculous. We're still kids in so many ways, but last year changed us, together, and I don't think I'd like the person I'd end up being without him.”
“Who would you be without him?”
“Thats the beauty of it, it doesn't matter, does it? Life didn't turn out that way.”
“So you don't worry about the might-have-beens, the could have-should have-would have's of life?”
“Why bother when I could be doing better things, like having sex?”
“Right. You just enjoy being crude, you can't scandalize me anymore darling, I've been your friend too long for that. Its why you're insisting on getting married isn't it? Instead of doing it the normal way. You could marry him a couple years from now, and nothing would change, but this way you get to enjoy the scandal, like 'smoking' your cloves.”
“You're probably right, but then I wouldn't be who I am. That wouldn't be the way I wanted to write my story.”
Kat rolled her eyes as Gabrielle wandered away, and she stared out into the night. As she stood there, the stories came to her.
Then she imagined Gabrielle and John getting married, and against all reason, succeeding, breaking every rule in the book as they did so. She saw Jeremy coming out to his parents, and she saw Allie fulfilling her dreams, and singing on a Broadway stage. She saw them all graduating, from different schools, going different places. She saw kisses and arguments, disasters and miracles. She saw everything unfolding in the way it was meant to. She saw herself on other rooftops, looking down at other worlds. But she never caught a glimpse of life, the way it happened. She saw big truths, and big ideas but, she didn't see the little things in between. She didn't see the little moments that made life different from fiction. And she didn't see a story that she was willing to write, and willing to call “life.”
The next morning, Kat had to leave again for school. So she, Gabrielle and Allie drove to the mall that was the meeting place for Kat's carpool. They got there with time to spare, so they wandered for a bit, had dinner at the food court, and then treated themselves to a stop in the gourmet chocolate shop. They ended up outside on a bench, talking and sharing the chocolate, not discussing anything serious, but living the moment. Eventually the other girls in the carpool arrived, and Kat said one last goodbye and then packed her bags in the car. After walking barely twenty feet, her friends turned back one last time and screamed “Goodbye Kat!” at the top of their lungs, Kat laughed and waved, but they had faded from her mind even before they were out of sight in the parking lot. It didn't matter how close the three had once been, life moves on, wanted or not.
The car ride back from Chapel Hill was long, and quiet. The other girls seemed as lost in thought as Kat was. It was raining outside, the last dredges of the tropical storm. With the sunset almost directly in front of her, Kat finished the book she'd brought along, and wished she hadn't. The end of the story disappointed her. For 300 pages it had dangled the mystery in front of her, dropped hints and allusions, like letting the donkey sniff the carrot before yanking it another foot forwards. She had wanted to know what would happen, she had wanted to know the “why” of it all, but in the end it hadn't given her astonishing insight, hadn't awakened her to a new idea, hadn't answered any of the mysteries of life or death. In the end, the book was just about a girl, like it always is. There was no hidden genius, no unexpected gem, there wasn't the surprise ending that she had anticipated. It was still well-written, it was still interesting, but nonetheless, the story was really just about a boy and a girl. And maybe all stories were just about a boy and a girl, maybe that was the surprise ending. No matter what happens, no matter what mysteries life could unveil, it all comes down to something as simple as a girl and a boy.
Or maybe that was just the way she read it, because in the end Kat wanted it to be about the boy and the girl. She stared out into the descending night and let other thoughts overtake her mind, leaving Oryx and Crake on the side of the road behind her.
Maybe Gabrielle and Allie had drooped so easily from her mind because her story wasn't about the three best friends. Maybe he was still there, wrapped so intimately in her thoughts, because in her little girl heart she still believed it should be about the boy and the girl.
When she finally returned to campus Kat sat down at her desk, her head in her hands. It was nearing midnight and she was tired, so tired, but her assignment was due the next morning, so she had to write.
She unwrapped the last piece of chocolate from the mall in Chapel Hill and let it overwhelm her senses for a moment, dark and bittersweet. With the chocolate in her mouth, she wasn't sitting at her desk; the sun was on her face, and a wooden bench was underneath her, there was music and noise and laughter around her. Memory washed over her, slowly, and sweetly, and then faded just as gradually. That was life, not the build up and crashing down of powerful waves, but the tide coming in, and inexorably going out again, almost too imperceptible to notice. An epiphany was the crest of a wave, but time and change came with the tide.
An epiphany. She focused on the word, she tried to remember every thought she'd ever had, every realization, every monumental experience, and none of them felt like epiphanies. None of them were story worthy. She just didn't have life changing thoughts.
Life isn't made up of epiphanies. she thought to herself. It isn't filled with illuminating discoveries, sudden perceptions of reality that are just waiting to be turned into stories. Life doesn't happen so that people can write about it, it doesn't make sense, things don't fit together properly. Life doesn't have a defined climax, you can't start life en media res, and it doesn't start with a dialog to get people interested. It just is.
Kat uncapped the inkwell and glared at the piece of paper in front of her, as if it could give her all the answers she was looking for, as if the secrets of the universe were written on that sheet of blank white paper, and all she had to do was figure out how to read them.
Life is made up of little moments, moments that don't mean anything, and thoughts that don't lead to comprehension. Life is too messy and chaotic to be explained by big epiphanies. Life is shallow, and disconnected and inconsequential. Sometimes things come into light that you didn't see before, and sometimes you get an explanation, but not always, and in the end it doesn't make a difference to life itself. It just is.
With sudden determination dipped her pen in the ink and began to write. She wrote a story about life, a true story, a messy story. She wrote a story about a girl who learned things in small steps, and whose thoughts didn't always make sense. She wrote a story about a girl who didn't know how to write about herself. Myself.
* * *
A couple months later, Kat was looking over old pieces of writing and came across the essay she'd written for English. She reread it, and wondered at how different it all felt to her now.
That night had at least gotten her in touch with herself, and with the part of her that still loved her friends more than anything, the part of her that encouraged her to transfer schools to be with the people she loved.
Things had changed now, but only in some ways. Gabrielle had not married the same boy, she was now dating someone else, and quite happy, for the time being. Allie was stage managing a production for the college and was perfectly content, and Jeremy had still told his parents nothing. Matt and Kat still spent many late nights talking about futures and pasts and the things hidden deep in their hearts, especially about how he was thinking about breaking up with his long-distance girlfriend. And through it all, Kat kept collecting masks when she saw them in thrift stores or gift shops, and people kept giving them to her for presents, and they hung on her wall and reminded her that everyone has many faces, and everyone has many stories, even if they don't know how to write them down.
II. She Collects
The teacher writes two things on the board: “rite of passage” and below that “epiphany,” and then turns to the class.
“Does anyone know what I mean when I say 'rite of passage?'”
A boy in the back of the class raises his hand and gives a decent answer. I'm only half listening, I understand what a rite of passage is. I feel almost guilty for not paying more attention, but I think I know where this is going, and I doubt I'll like it.
“Your assignment is to write a narrative about a rite of passage you went though, or an epiphany you had. Tell us about a lesson you learned, or an experience or a thought you had that changed your life.”
I knew it. Why do teachers always insist on giving us writing prompts that demand a direct personal experience? I hate writing about myself. I especially hate writing in first person. I don't have epiphanies, I don't remember the time I found out there was no Santa Claus, and I don't have any touching stories about grandparents that died or pets that meant everything to me. I don't have obstacles that need overcoming, I don't have desires that lead me to self-revelation. I don't like writing true stories, I never know what to write, and I never know how to start.
“Another way to pull the reader into the story is to use dialog, start the story with a conversation.” Oops, not paying attention again. It doesn't really matter, I know all the mechanics of writing, it's the story itself that I can't figure out. I can't think of anything worth writing about. Its like an internal block, I just can't write about myself.
Okay, okay, I won't write about myself. I'll write about Katherine, yes, I'll write a story about a girl named Kat. And her English teacher, Mr. ... Mr. Driffers, who wants her to write a story, but she doesn't know what to write...
* * *
Kat and James walked into the mall through the Belk entrance.
“How is it that we always end up wandering malls when we hang out?”
“Haha. I don't know. We still always end up having fun though. And this mall is pretty weird, it should provide some entertainment. You'll never guess what the first store on the right is once we get out of Belk. Whats the last thing you would expect to find in Biltmore mall?”
“Er, I don't know.”
“Well look, right there.”
“A Good Will branch? In a mall?”
“Yep.”
“You're right. That's crazy. Lets go in!”
“Whatever floats your boat...”
“Well I need to find some cheap boots to spray paint for my Halloween costume, and this seems like the perfect place.”
“It looks like the shoes are over in that corner.”
“Ooo. Look, these are perfect! Two dollars, my size, and they have kick ass four inch heels. I hope the spray paint will bond to the faux leather. Oh well, I'll find out.”
“What are you going to be?”
“For Halloween? I'm making a costume for Jean Gray, back in the sixties when she was just Marvel Girl, and not the hotshot Phoenix.”
“Well, see anything else you need for the costume? Looks like this is the place to get it if you can.”
“Hmm, no I don't see anything. But, oh! Look at these!”
“Porcelain masks?”
“Yeah, they're gorgeous. And only three dollars.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot you collect these things. How many do you have now?”
“Oh, I don't know, about ten I think.” Kat held out her hands and started counting on her fingers. “The four small ones from Italy, the venetian one from the renaissance fair, the oriental one that Richard gave me last summer, and the Christmas tree ornament, and the one Alyssa made for my birthday, and the porcelain one from the garage sale that was the first one. So that makes... Nine. And now ten, because I'm getting this one. Its the prettiest of the lot”
“Ok, whatever. Hey, it looks like there's a Halloween store over there. Want to go check it out?”
“Sure, maybe I can find some gold gloves.”
Later, when Kat was saying goodbye to James, she realized she had spent all day messing around, and hadn't gotten any of the work done she wanted to. Really she should start the essay she was supposed to write for English class today and get it over with.
Kat stared at the screen. The blank screen. Well, not completely blank, really she was staring at a blank word document on her laptop screen.
No matter how long and hard she stared, she couldn't think of what to write, and now she was getting a headache.
Maybe I'm trying too hard. She thought. I wont treat it like an English essay, I'll just pretend I'm just writing another story. I like writing stories, this shouldn't be hard. I wont use a computer, maybe more inspiration will come with a simple pen and a piece of paper.
She pulled out a sheet of white, unlined, copy paper, and her favorite calligraphy pen. The weight of it felt natural in her hand. Familiar. It brought to mind all the other stories she had written with such a pen, all the letters, all the journal entries. It was a piece of inspiration in her hand. And still, she stared blankly at the piece of paper.
Minutes later she screwed the lid back onto the inkwell. She put down the pen, still clean, and left the piece of paper on her desk, still white. She didn't have time for this frustration right now, she still had a lot to do before she left for the weekend. The writing assignment could wait, she'd have plenty of time to write during the short vacation from school.
The upcoming weekend drew her like an oasis in the lonely desert. Kat had found a carpool of girls that were all going to Chapel Hill for labor day weekend, and this meant that she could go home, and see her friends. Maybe she could even feel like she fit in again, feel like she belonged, if only for a couple of days.
The next day passed quickly for Kat. She finished packing, and on an impulse threw in Oryx and Crake, a book her English class would be reading soon. It intrigued her, and she would need something to read in the car.
Eventually she found herself in Chapel Hill, and the reunion with her friends was everything it was supposed to be. They laughed and talked and ate, and when someone suggested that they go explore the nearby construction site, it only seemed natural that they should end up on the roof, with the world at their feet.
There was a moment of silence as they all listened to the clock tower strike midnight across the street. No one seemed willing to speak for several minutes after. The laughter and joy that had consumed them before turned to silent contemplation.
Soon Gabrielle pulled one of the black clove cigarettes she loved from her purse and lit it.
“You probably should put that out, we don't want anyone to catch us.”
“Sure, Jeremy, a cigarette is noticeable and could get us caught, but not the flash from your camera, earlier.”
“You know that I don't like you smoking anyway.”
“I don't actually smoke them anymore, I just like watching them burn, I like holding them, and the way they smell.” And true to her word, she had yet to put the filter to her lips.
Kat wander over to the edge and was watching the street below when Gabrielle joined her.
“Any closer to the edge, Kat, and I'd worry about you.”
“Don't be silly Gabbi, you were always the suicidal one.”
“Yeah, well, have you talked to Matt lately? He always seems to make you depressed. The boy dumped you over a year ago, and you still moon over him.”
“No, and I don't moon. He went home this weekend. And what's wrong with being friends with someone after you've dated? I think its a good sign that we're mature enough to still be close.”
“That doesn't change the fact that you'd date him again in a heartbeat, if only he'd ask.”
“No,” Kat answered defensively, and then gave in to what she knew was the truth. “I'd make him worry for a couple heartbeats.” She sighed. “Besides, we both know it will never happen. Anyway, enough of focusing on my disastrous attempts at relationships, how's your love life?”
“About the same as it has been for the last couple months. We've finally reached a stable point.”
“Still engaged, then?”
“Yeah, Mom knows now, but she can't do anything. I'll be 18 in less than two months.”
“Wow. This must be the longest time you two have gone without breaking up. You know, no one believes you two will actually make it, will actually be happy together. Who can believe it when you're both so young?”
“Yeah, I know, its always been slightly ridiculous. We're still kids in so many ways, but last year changed us, together, and I don't think I'd like the person I'd end up being without him.”
“Who would you be without him?”
“Thats the beauty of it, it doesn't matter, does it? Life didn't turn out that way.”
“So you don't worry about the might-have-beens, the could have-should have-would have's of life?”
“Why bother when I could be doing better things, like having sex?”
“Right. You just enjoy being crude, you can't scandalize me anymore darling, I've been your friend too long for that. Its why you're insisting on getting married isn't it? Instead of doing it the normal way. You could marry him a couple years from now, and nothing would change, but this way you get to enjoy the scandal, like 'smoking' your cloves.”
“You're probably right, but then I wouldn't be who I am. That wouldn't be the way I wanted to write my story.”
Kat rolled her eyes as Gabrielle wandered away, and she stared out into the night. As she stood there, the stories came to her.
Then she imagined Gabrielle and John getting married, and against all reason, succeeding, breaking every rule in the book as they did so. She saw Jeremy coming out to his parents, and she saw Allie fulfilling her dreams, and singing on a Broadway stage. She saw them all graduating, from different schools, going different places. She saw kisses and arguments, disasters and miracles. She saw everything unfolding in the way it was meant to. She saw herself on other rooftops, looking down at other worlds. But she never caught a glimpse of life, the way it happened. She saw big truths, and big ideas but, she didn't see the little things in between. She didn't see the little moments that made life different from fiction. And she didn't see a story that she was willing to write, and willing to call “life.”
The next morning, Kat had to leave again for school. So she, Gabrielle and Allie drove to the mall that was the meeting place for Kat's carpool. They got there with time to spare, so they wandered for a bit, had dinner at the food court, and then treated themselves to a stop in the gourmet chocolate shop. They ended up outside on a bench, talking and sharing the chocolate, not discussing anything serious, but living the moment. Eventually the other girls in the carpool arrived, and Kat said one last goodbye and then packed her bags in the car. After walking barely twenty feet, her friends turned back one last time and screamed “Goodbye Kat!” at the top of their lungs, Kat laughed and waved, but they had faded from her mind even before they were out of sight in the parking lot. It didn't matter how close the three had once been, life moves on, wanted or not.
The car ride back from Chapel Hill was long, and quiet. The other girls seemed as lost in thought as Kat was. It was raining outside, the last dredges of the tropical storm. With the sunset almost directly in front of her, Kat finished the book she'd brought along, and wished she hadn't. The end of the story disappointed her. For 300 pages it had dangled the mystery in front of her, dropped hints and allusions, like letting the donkey sniff the carrot before yanking it another foot forwards. She had wanted to know what would happen, she had wanted to know the “why” of it all, but in the end it hadn't given her astonishing insight, hadn't awakened her to a new idea, hadn't answered any of the mysteries of life or death. In the end, the book was just about a girl, like it always is. There was no hidden genius, no unexpected gem, there wasn't the surprise ending that she had anticipated. It was still well-written, it was still interesting, but nonetheless, the story was really just about a boy and a girl. And maybe all stories were just about a boy and a girl, maybe that was the surprise ending. No matter what happens, no matter what mysteries life could unveil, it all comes down to something as simple as a girl and a boy.
Or maybe that was just the way she read it, because in the end Kat wanted it to be about the boy and the girl. She stared out into the descending night and let other thoughts overtake her mind, leaving Oryx and Crake on the side of the road behind her.
Maybe Gabrielle and Allie had drooped so easily from her mind because her story wasn't about the three best friends. Maybe he was still there, wrapped so intimately in her thoughts, because in her little girl heart she still believed it should be about the boy and the girl.
When she finally returned to campus Kat sat down at her desk, her head in her hands. It was nearing midnight and she was tired, so tired, but her assignment was due the next morning, so she had to write.
She unwrapped the last piece of chocolate from the mall in Chapel Hill and let it overwhelm her senses for a moment, dark and bittersweet. With the chocolate in her mouth, she wasn't sitting at her desk; the sun was on her face, and a wooden bench was underneath her, there was music and noise and laughter around her. Memory washed over her, slowly, and sweetly, and then faded just as gradually. That was life, not the build up and crashing down of powerful waves, but the tide coming in, and inexorably going out again, almost too imperceptible to notice. An epiphany was the crest of a wave, but time and change came with the tide.
An epiphany. She focused on the word, she tried to remember every thought she'd ever had, every realization, every monumental experience, and none of them felt like epiphanies. None of them were story worthy. She just didn't have life changing thoughts.
Life isn't made up of epiphanies. she thought to herself. It isn't filled with illuminating discoveries, sudden perceptions of reality that are just waiting to be turned into stories. Life doesn't happen so that people can write about it, it doesn't make sense, things don't fit together properly. Life doesn't have a defined climax, you can't start life en media res, and it doesn't start with a dialog to get people interested. It just is.
Kat uncapped the inkwell and glared at the piece of paper in front of her, as if it could give her all the answers she was looking for, as if the secrets of the universe were written on that sheet of blank white paper, and all she had to do was figure out how to read them.
Life is made up of little moments, moments that don't mean anything, and thoughts that don't lead to comprehension. Life is too messy and chaotic to be explained by big epiphanies. Life is shallow, and disconnected and inconsequential. Sometimes things come into light that you didn't see before, and sometimes you get an explanation, but not always, and in the end it doesn't make a difference to life itself. It just is.
With sudden determination dipped her pen in the ink and began to write. She wrote a story about life, a true story, a messy story. She wrote a story about a girl who learned things in small steps, and whose thoughts didn't always make sense. She wrote a story about a girl who didn't know how to write about herself. Myself.
* * *
A couple months later, Kat was looking over old pieces of writing and came across the essay she'd written for English. She reread it, and wondered at how different it all felt to her now.
That night had at least gotten her in touch with herself, and with the part of her that still loved her friends more than anything, the part of her that encouraged her to transfer schools to be with the people she loved.
Things had changed now, but only in some ways. Gabrielle had not married the same boy, she was now dating someone else, and quite happy, for the time being. Allie was stage managing a production for the college and was perfectly content, and Jeremy had still told his parents nothing. Matt and Kat still spent many late nights talking about futures and pasts and the things hidden deep in their hearts, especially about how he was thinking about breaking up with his long-distance girlfriend. And through it all, Kat kept collecting masks when she saw them in thrift stores or gift shops, and people kept giving them to her for presents, and they hung on her wall and reminded her that everyone has many faces, and everyone has many stories, even if they don't know how to write them down.
06 November 2006 @ 07:21 am
XXX. Dragons and Maidens Part II (this will be the last story in the collection)
Dragons are immortal, they can't die of old age, but they can still get old, they can still get tired. She was old, very old, one of the oldest now, and there was no arguing that she was tired. And ever so slowly was loosing her anger, loosing her bitterness, just as she'd lost the memories of what made her bitter and angry. Thats what really kills dragons, apathy. The knights with their swords do their part too, but that doesn't happen nearly as often. Usually its apathy, they lose the part of themselves that made them dragons, that kept them dragons, in the end they get too tired.
Not her though. She refused to give in. She'd forgotten what it felt like, not to be angry. She'd been her a thousand years, and she'd be here a thousand more before her tired old bones really forgot why she was angry. She's lost the memories of despair, of loneliness, even of loss, but she would never lose her anger.
All dragons are angry, thats what feeds their fire. Dragons are made of anger, thats something that not many people know. Their hearts don't beat, they are cold, and hard, made of dragon stone: jade. Dark and clouded, green for jealousy. A phrase came back to her, echoed from within her mind, “Dragons are creatures born from wanting and envy...” A memory of stars, a stone railing, human hands, a tear-- NO.
With a roar the great dragon launched herself into the sky, and circled her lair, once, twice, and again. That she dared make her lair here, thats what fueled her anger, thats what kept her fire alive. She hadn't been able to do it at first. In the beginning she had fled, flown away to hide herself in the mountains for a couple hundred years. But eventually, when the children of those who had lived here were long gone, and even the children of the children were an old memory of grander times, then she had come back, and taken what was rightfully hers.
She had destroyed the palace, knocked down wall after wall, and burned anything not stone. Time had done the rest, and now it was little more than a maze of blackened walls and piles of bones. Still, the images of how it used to be still burned in her mind.
She fled the memories and flew east, to where she knew there were still a few sheep herds unguarded. She wasn't looking for a fight tonight, tomorrow perhaps, or the day after. There was plenty of time for fire and death, and anger, but for now, she let hunger over take her mind.
The sheep was no more than a stain on the floor of her lair, and she'd been dozing contentedly for hours, sluggish with the full stomach, when he appeared. She hadn't heard him coming, but nonetheless, there he was. A human, tall, not dressed as a wizard, or a knight, but with a cape and hood that hid his face.
“You ought to be glad I've already eaten, or I wouldn't bother giving you time to plead your case. What is it you want, to knowingly trespass in a dragon's den?”
“I've come to try to fix a mistake, to right a wrong.”
“Ah, one with a grudge. It is the nature of dragons kill and eat and burn, it is our place. While I'm not sorry, I apologize for whoever I took from you. However, I assure you, if you don't leave now, you will be next.” She gave a convincing lick of her lips and a slightly steaming hiss.
“You misunderstand. I've come to right the wrong that has been done to you. I've come to fix my mistake.” And he lowered his hood. His hair was dark, and long, but it did not hide the penetrating eyes set deep in his face. Eyes that seemed to know, and seemed to hide, and seemed very very sad. Eyes that were framed by two dark blue-violet spirals, curling from the corners, and topped by a crescent moon, turned sideways to cup a sphere. Tattoos that reminded her of...
“I know you.”
“And I know you, as no one else can anymore.”
“It was so long ago, but I still recognize your face. You called yourself Lord Raqim. Who are you? What are you? Can you be real?”
“That is only one of my names, as this is only one of my forms. I am, something else, I'm something beyond real. I guess you could call me a Maker.”
“A maker of what?”
“A maker of Masks, a maker of stories. I've come to apologize. This was not meant to be your mask to wear. ”
“What were you doing there, that night?”
“Its hard to explain, but a mistake was made. I was trying to do what I could, but even I can't change the direction of a story once it's started. I spoke through him that night, I was trying to speak to you. Well, I failed then, and its been a very long time, but now we are coming to the end of the story, and now I can do something. I've come to offer you a choice.”
“A choice? I have no choices left. I haven't for a long time.”
“You had a choice that night, and you have one today. As we speak a royal nanny is losing control of the baby carriage that holds the future prince of a neighboring kingdom. He will be lost and adopted anonymously by a peasant family, and in sixteen years when he sets out to find his fortune and his future he will come here. You know the story as well as I do. What will you do when that time comes?”
“I will play my part in the story, as I always have.”
“It was not meant to be your part. If you choose to, you can renounce your part in the story, and you can come with me. You can have peace at last. Your part in this story is ending, but there are other stories to create, and you can become one of a few who help me. Will you come with me, just for a moment, and see what I mean?”
She nodded, silently, knowing she was learning of something much bigger than herself, getting a glimpse of what was beyond the stories. Before her next breath, she was somewhere else, without being aware of anything changing.
She was standing in a clearing, in front of a little cottage with one door. And somehow, without knowing why, she knew that neither the clearing nor the cottage were real in any conventional use of the word.
“Come.”
She looked at the Maker as he spoke and realized that suddenly he was no longer human size. No, she looked down at herself, she was no longer dragon sized. She was the self she had not seen for nearly a millennia, she was human again. He noticed she was not following, and turned, seeing her shocked expression.
“Apologies, I should have warned you. In this place there are no stories, so only your true form shows. Come.” And he walked briskly towards the cottage, and so she followed.
---- break, unwritten material here, when we next pick up the story the dragon/princess has asked the Mask Maker if she can see the prince who is adopted by peasants and will grow up to kill her. They are watching him, unseen by all. he's playing in the dirt, or doing something equally innocuous ----
“Thats him, isn't it. Thats my old prince.”
“Yes, in some ways. Part of your old prince resides in this young one, this is just another story, with its own characters.”
“If I didn't go with you and I went back, could I not seek him out now, and kill him before he has a chance to grow up?”
“I could not stop you.”
She was silent as she watched the young boy play in the mud and dirt. “No, even if I couldn't see my old love in this young boy, wouldn't. In another couple of hundred years there'd be another like him, and I wouldn't have the forewarning I do now. He deserves his story as much as I did, and I can not take that from him. You knew that when you brought me here, didn't you?”
“I hoped. We shall return to my home now. Would you like something to eat? Drink?”
“Perhaps some wine. It has been so long.” He filled a delicate goblet fashioned out of the most delicate glass, and handed it to her.
“So I could live outside the world of stories, I could work for you. No longer in pain, no longer alone?”
“Yes, that is what I am offering. You could be one like Jewel, or Marken. You'd have your own role, your own duties, but you would be one like them. You could stay with me until you felt it was your time to go on.”
“Go on to what?”
“Ah, there are mysteries even I don't know. But you would have an eternity here to do as you wish.”
“But?”
He smiled, sadly, knowing what she meant without asking. “Yes, there is always a catch. It means that you not only renounce your part in this story, but in all stories. There wont be another story with you in it.”
She was silent, only for a moment, but it was all she needed. “Maker, the offer is appreciated, and the apology is accepted, but I must decline. I am tied to the stories, and they are a part of me as much as I am a part of them. And besides,” she added, softly. “I could not leave this story while he is still in it. I could not exist outside of stories while he is still there.”
With a nod, and a sad smile of understanding he returned them to the old castle, and weight of the future showed in the expression of sorrow and acceptance on her still human face.
“If that is the way you feel, then I can offer you another choice.” She paused, and he continued. “I can give you a new story, the story you should have had. I can give you a second chance.”
“A second chance? A life not filled with bitterness and anger and death? A life with love? A life as the lowest poorest pot-girl would be a better life than this. But what would I have to give up for this life? What must I pay for this choice?”
“Your memory. You would be a new character, and you would no longer be the one you have been, and you would know nothing of what has happened.”
She turned to him, with tears in her eyes, and he caught a single drop as it ran down her cheek and dropped to the dirt floor.
“Dragons cannot cry, my dear.”
“I accept your offer, I am no longer a dragon.”
“Then keep your tears.” And he took her hand, and he let the tear he had caught in his own hand drop into hers. When it left his hand it crystallized into a drop-shaped stone that glimmered with its own inner light, and was warm to the touch when it reached her palm.
“And in exchange I will take back the mask you have born.” He cupped her face with both hands, and kissed her forehead. When he took a step back, he held a green and gold satin mask in his hands, and his whisper seemed to reach her from very far away as everything began to fade.“You are part of something bigger, you are part of a new story.”
“Princess. Princess! Sh! Wake, quickly but quietly. I am here to rescue you from the dragon, but it is sleeping, you must run and hide before it wakes so that I may kill it without worrying for your safety.”
At his touch on her shoulder the princess woke with words echoing in her head that seemed important but made no sense. She had the feeling that her dreams had been vivid, and had showed her something incredible, but it faded before she could grasp it. Without saying how she knew, she stood, and looked at the young man in front of her.
“The dragon is dead, good sir, but I thank you for coming.”
“Dead?”
“Yes. I can't say how I know, but I do.”
They both turned to look at the great beast curled in the corner. Although the dragon appeared to be sleeping, no wisp of smoke rose from its nostrils, and no purring snore echoed, there was no restless shifting of limbs.
Bravely, the prince strode until it was mere inches away from its nose, and called “Dragon! Awake!” But the dragon did not even twitch.
“How did this come to be?”
“Truly, I do not know. But she was an ancient and beautiful creature of knowledge. She was old, and tired, and no longer angry... Pardon me, I do not know what I am saying. I am very relieved to see you, my Prince.”
“I am no prince, just a common boy out to find my fortunes. I heard tell of a princess capture by a dragon, and I could not pass by without making some attempt at your rescue. I am relieved that you are well and there was no danger in rescuing you, your highness.”
“If you are no prince, then why do you wear the crest of the king around your neck?”
“No, this is just a relic from my childhood, I was adopted you see, and this is the only connection I have to my true parents.”
“Well that is the crest of the king of this kingdom. I should know, you see, I am the daughter of the kingdom to the east of here. My father is good friends with the king here, and oh! I remember now. You must be the prince who was lost as a child 16 years ago! We must go at once, they will be so happy to know you are alive!”
“And to know you are alive.”
“Yes, I'm sure my father will want to grant you a reward. I cannot help but feel, as I look at your face, that this was meant to be somehow.”
“From the first moment I saw you, asleep so near the dragon. I felt the same. Would you accept my hand in marriage?”
“Yes, my prince. But you must ask me again, formally, in front of our fathers, and most importantly after I have had a chance to bathe!”
“As you wish, my princess!”
And then, as always happens at the end of good stories, they shared a kiss that marked the beginning of their own story, and the tear-drop-shaped jewel that hung around the princess's neck flared with an inner light, as if it signaled to some unknown watcher that everything was as it should be.
Dragons are immortal, they can't die of old age, but they can still get old, they can still get tired. She was old, very old, one of the oldest now, and there was no arguing that she was tired. And ever so slowly was loosing her anger, loosing her bitterness, just as she'd lost the memories of what made her bitter and angry. Thats what really kills dragons, apathy. The knights with their swords do their part too, but that doesn't happen nearly as often. Usually its apathy, they lose the part of themselves that made them dragons, that kept them dragons, in the end they get too tired.
Not her though. She refused to give in. She'd forgotten what it felt like, not to be angry. She'd been her a thousand years, and she'd be here a thousand more before her tired old bones really forgot why she was angry. She's lost the memories of despair, of loneliness, even of loss, but she would never lose her anger.
All dragons are angry, thats what feeds their fire. Dragons are made of anger, thats something that not many people know. Their hearts don't beat, they are cold, and hard, made of dragon stone: jade. Dark and clouded, green for jealousy. A phrase came back to her, echoed from within her mind, “Dragons are creatures born from wanting and envy...” A memory of stars, a stone railing, human hands, a tear-- NO.
With a roar the great dragon launched herself into the sky, and circled her lair, once, twice, and again. That she dared make her lair here, thats what fueled her anger, thats what kept her fire alive. She hadn't been able to do it at first. In the beginning she had fled, flown away to hide herself in the mountains for a couple hundred years. But eventually, when the children of those who had lived here were long gone, and even the children of the children were an old memory of grander times, then she had come back, and taken what was rightfully hers.
She had destroyed the palace, knocked down wall after wall, and burned anything not stone. Time had done the rest, and now it was little more than a maze of blackened walls and piles of bones. Still, the images of how it used to be still burned in her mind.
She fled the memories and flew east, to where she knew there were still a few sheep herds unguarded. She wasn't looking for a fight tonight, tomorrow perhaps, or the day after. There was plenty of time for fire and death, and anger, but for now, she let hunger over take her mind.
The sheep was no more than a stain on the floor of her lair, and she'd been dozing contentedly for hours, sluggish with the full stomach, when he appeared. She hadn't heard him coming, but nonetheless, there he was. A human, tall, not dressed as a wizard, or a knight, but with a cape and hood that hid his face.
“You ought to be glad I've already eaten, or I wouldn't bother giving you time to plead your case. What is it you want, to knowingly trespass in a dragon's den?”
“I've come to try to fix a mistake, to right a wrong.”
“Ah, one with a grudge. It is the nature of dragons kill and eat and burn, it is our place. While I'm not sorry, I apologize for whoever I took from you. However, I assure you, if you don't leave now, you will be next.” She gave a convincing lick of her lips and a slightly steaming hiss.
“You misunderstand. I've come to right the wrong that has been done to you. I've come to fix my mistake.” And he lowered his hood. His hair was dark, and long, but it did not hide the penetrating eyes set deep in his face. Eyes that seemed to know, and seemed to hide, and seemed very very sad. Eyes that were framed by two dark blue-violet spirals, curling from the corners, and topped by a crescent moon, turned sideways to cup a sphere. Tattoos that reminded her of...
“I know you.”
“And I know you, as no one else can anymore.”
“It was so long ago, but I still recognize your face. You called yourself Lord Raqim. Who are you? What are you? Can you be real?”
“That is only one of my names, as this is only one of my forms. I am, something else, I'm something beyond real. I guess you could call me a Maker.”
“A maker of what?”
“A maker of Masks, a maker of stories. I've come to apologize. This was not meant to be your mask to wear. ”
“What were you doing there, that night?”
“Its hard to explain, but a mistake was made. I was trying to do what I could, but even I can't change the direction of a story once it's started. I spoke through him that night, I was trying to speak to you. Well, I failed then, and its been a very long time, but now we are coming to the end of the story, and now I can do something. I've come to offer you a choice.”
“A choice? I have no choices left. I haven't for a long time.”
“You had a choice that night, and you have one today. As we speak a royal nanny is losing control of the baby carriage that holds the future prince of a neighboring kingdom. He will be lost and adopted anonymously by a peasant family, and in sixteen years when he sets out to find his fortune and his future he will come here. You know the story as well as I do. What will you do when that time comes?”
“I will play my part in the story, as I always have.”
“It was not meant to be your part. If you choose to, you can renounce your part in the story, and you can come with me. You can have peace at last. Your part in this story is ending, but there are other stories to create, and you can become one of a few who help me. Will you come with me, just for a moment, and see what I mean?”
She nodded, silently, knowing she was learning of something much bigger than herself, getting a glimpse of what was beyond the stories. Before her next breath, she was somewhere else, without being aware of anything changing.
She was standing in a clearing, in front of a little cottage with one door. And somehow, without knowing why, she knew that neither the clearing nor the cottage were real in any conventional use of the word.
“Come.”
She looked at the Maker as he spoke and realized that suddenly he was no longer human size. No, she looked down at herself, she was no longer dragon sized. She was the self she had not seen for nearly a millennia, she was human again. He noticed she was not following, and turned, seeing her shocked expression.
“Apologies, I should have warned you. In this place there are no stories, so only your true form shows. Come.” And he walked briskly towards the cottage, and so she followed.
---- break, unwritten material here, when we next pick up the story the dragon/princess has asked the Mask Maker if she can see the prince who is adopted by peasants and will grow up to kill her. They are watching him, unseen by all. he's playing in the dirt, or doing something equally innocuous ----
“Thats him, isn't it. Thats my old prince.”
“Yes, in some ways. Part of your old prince resides in this young one, this is just another story, with its own characters.”
“If I didn't go with you and I went back, could I not seek him out now, and kill him before he has a chance to grow up?”
“I could not stop you.”
She was silent as she watched the young boy play in the mud and dirt. “No, even if I couldn't see my old love in this young boy, wouldn't. In another couple of hundred years there'd be another like him, and I wouldn't have the forewarning I do now. He deserves his story as much as I did, and I can not take that from him. You knew that when you brought me here, didn't you?”
“I hoped. We shall return to my home now. Would you like something to eat? Drink?”
“Perhaps some wine. It has been so long.” He filled a delicate goblet fashioned out of the most delicate glass, and handed it to her.
“So I could live outside the world of stories, I could work for you. No longer in pain, no longer alone?”
“Yes, that is what I am offering. You could be one like Jewel, or Marken. You'd have your own role, your own duties, but you would be one like them. You could stay with me until you felt it was your time to go on.”
“Go on to what?”
“Ah, there are mysteries even I don't know. But you would have an eternity here to do as you wish.”
“But?”
He smiled, sadly, knowing what she meant without asking. “Yes, there is always a catch. It means that you not only renounce your part in this story, but in all stories. There wont be another story with you in it.”
She was silent, only for a moment, but it was all she needed. “Maker, the offer is appreciated, and the apology is accepted, but I must decline. I am tied to the stories, and they are a part of me as much as I am a part of them. And besides,” she added, softly. “I could not leave this story while he is still in it. I could not exist outside of stories while he is still there.”
With a nod, and a sad smile of understanding he returned them to the old castle, and weight of the future showed in the expression of sorrow and acceptance on her still human face.
“If that is the way you feel, then I can offer you another choice.” She paused, and he continued. “I can give you a new story, the story you should have had. I can give you a second chance.”
“A second chance? A life not filled with bitterness and anger and death? A life with love? A life as the lowest poorest pot-girl would be a better life than this. But what would I have to give up for this life? What must I pay for this choice?”
“Your memory. You would be a new character, and you would no longer be the one you have been, and you would know nothing of what has happened.”
She turned to him, with tears in her eyes, and he caught a single drop as it ran down her cheek and dropped to the dirt floor.
“Dragons cannot cry, my dear.”
“I accept your offer, I am no longer a dragon.”
“Then keep your tears.” And he took her hand, and he let the tear he had caught in his own hand drop into hers. When it left his hand it crystallized into a drop-shaped stone that glimmered with its own inner light, and was warm to the touch when it reached her palm.
“And in exchange I will take back the mask you have born.” He cupped her face with both hands, and kissed her forehead. When he took a step back, he held a green and gold satin mask in his hands, and his whisper seemed to reach her from very far away as everything began to fade.“You are part of something bigger, you are part of a new story.”
“Princess. Princess! Sh! Wake, quickly but quietly. I am here to rescue you from the dragon, but it is sleeping, you must run and hide before it wakes so that I may kill it without worrying for your safety.”
At his touch on her shoulder the princess woke with words echoing in her head that seemed important but made no sense. She had the feeling that her dreams had been vivid, and had showed her something incredible, but it faded before she could grasp it. Without saying how she knew, she stood, and looked at the young man in front of her.
“The dragon is dead, good sir, but I thank you for coming.”
“Dead?”
“Yes. I can't say how I know, but I do.”
They both turned to look at the great beast curled in the corner. Although the dragon appeared to be sleeping, no wisp of smoke rose from its nostrils, and no purring snore echoed, there was no restless shifting of limbs.
Bravely, the prince strode until it was mere inches away from its nose, and called “Dragon! Awake!” But the dragon did not even twitch.
“How did this come to be?”
“Truly, I do not know. But she was an ancient and beautiful creature of knowledge. She was old, and tired, and no longer angry... Pardon me, I do not know what I am saying. I am very relieved to see you, my Prince.”
“I am no prince, just a common boy out to find my fortunes. I heard tell of a princess capture by a dragon, and I could not pass by without making some attempt at your rescue. I am relieved that you are well and there was no danger in rescuing you, your highness.”
“If you are no prince, then why do you wear the crest of the king around your neck?”
“No, this is just a relic from my childhood, I was adopted you see, and this is the only connection I have to my true parents.”
“Well that is the crest of the king of this kingdom. I should know, you see, I am the daughter of the kingdom to the east of here. My father is good friends with the king here, and oh! I remember now. You must be the prince who was lost as a child 16 years ago! We must go at once, they will be so happy to know you are alive!”
“And to know you are alive.”
“Yes, I'm sure my father will want to grant you a reward. I cannot help but feel, as I look at your face, that this was meant to be somehow.”
“From the first moment I saw you, asleep so near the dragon. I felt the same. Would you accept my hand in marriage?”
“Yes, my prince. But you must ask me again, formally, in front of our fathers, and most importantly after I have had a chance to bathe!”
“As you wish, my princess!”
And then, as always happens at the end of good stories, they shared a kiss that marked the beginning of their own story, and the tear-drop-shaped jewel that hung around the princess's neck flared with an inner light, as if it signaled to some unknown watcher that everything was as it should be.
06 November 2006 @ 07:13 am
I. Dragons and Maidens
The former Queen hid her sigh as her dance partner mentioned again the beauty of the newly crowned Queen, and the prowess and bravery of her newly crowned King and husband. She was having trouble thinking, the dance, and the conversation, and the people were all driving her inside herself. Better that than to expose herself, her pain, to their derision.
She looked past the shoulder of her partner, and her eyes were caught again by the strange man she didn't recognize. She thought she knew all the local nobles, and even the few from neighboring kingdoms, but she didn't recognize this man, nor did she even remember hearing of tattoos like his, and those would create a reputation that moved ahead of him. Dark blue-violet ink outlined a spiral from the corner of each eye, and centered on his forehead was a crescent moon, turned up to cup a perfect circle. He bothered her, he seemed to be constantly watching her, and the eyes of the other guests seemed to glide right by him, no matter the oddity of his appearance here and now.
The dance ended, and still her eyes were locked with his. She curtsied half-heartedly for her partner and moved towards the door to a small side balcony. She needed air, and peace. Before she was halfway there, she realized that the strange man was standing right in front of her, she hadn't even seen him move.
“Your majesty,” the bow let his long dark hair shadow his penetrating eyes and covered the odd tattoos.
“I am 'majesty' no longer, good sir, you may address me as 'your highness' if you insist on formalities. However, I don't believe I've had your acquaintance.”
“My apologize, your Highness, my name is Raqim. I come from a far kingdom that you would not have heard of.”
“It must be very far indeed, as I have never heard your name mentioned. How did you come to be in our kingdom?”
“I met the prince, excuse me, the King, while on my travels, and I wanted to see how the tale ended, with joy or with sorrow.”
“I believe you'll find, Lord Raqim, that most stories have an equal measure of both.”
“As you say, your Highness, as you say.”
“Well, enjoy the festivities, my Lord.”
“And you your highness. That is a very interesting mask you wear. I'm sure it hides the face of a queen.” Something seemed to shine behind his dark eyes, and his face was quite serious, although his words seemed trivial. Something inside her shivered, and she excused herself as quickly as she could. The enormity of what this evening signified was suddenly very heavy, and every breath was difficult.
She was so caught up in her thoughts as she stared out at the darkness, she didn’t hear him approach, nor even notice his hands when they joined hers on the stone railing that ringed the balcony. She would not have been pleased if she had seen him coming, she had been avoiding him all evening, and not even the strange Lord Raqim would have been less welcome. The lights from inside caught on the glass beads and made them sparkle like tears against the pale satin of her mask. He broke the silence first.
“Not enjoying the masquerade?”
“My sister is returned to me, after all these years. The crown I have born in her stead is returned to her, and our kingdom has a true King and Queen. I have every reason to celebrate.” She paused, took a deep breath. “Even so, I cannot easily let go the memories of what was given up so long ago.”
“Oh, I am sorry …I did not know the rumors were true.” His voice betrayed what his words did not; the rumors were not complimentary.
“The rumors are not true, but they do not lie about everything.”
“So you loved him?”
“And he loved me, but what does anyone know at that age? It was fifteen years ago, love is a beautiful thing when one is young and believes in its power.”
“And he was the first to go?”
“He had to be. I was only the younger sister, and our fathers were friends. It was to be expected. After all, the three of us were very close, he could hardly leave her there.”
“But he left to rescue her and didn’t come back to you.”
“You speak with impunity and delve deep into a lady’s past, your Majesty. My loss is no less than that of others. They too were left behind by those who tried to succeed where he failed, and like he never returned.” The words were not hers. They were the parroted words of someone who had never lost a treasure that could not be replaced, but they were spoken with a tongue that was familiar with pain and despair.
“Yet here you stand on a balcony in the dark and the cold, while they dance and smile inside, all thoughts of their past loves forgotten.”
He had gone too far, it was not what she wanted to hear. “And you who’ve won everything, who has a new bride inside and new courtiers to grace with your presence, you who says past matters naught because you have a future, you stand out here with me! But in the end you are still one of them, you have a happy ending.” Her sarcasm and unfair words angered him.
“I was not trying to taunt you, I am not one of your shallow fops. I saw your pain and I hoped to alleviate it, but your bitterness has pushed you beyond help and hope.”
“You know nothing about pain.”
“Let me ask you one question, Highness. Would you prefer I was he? Do you wish that it was he who slaughtered that beautiful and ancient creature who knew more than the wisest man could ever learn? Would you rather it was he who killed the dragon and returned with your sister on the back of his horse, bound by law and fate to become her husband? When he died he didn’t leave you, he died because he was faithful to you!”
Instead of rising to his bate her voice quieted. “I no longer play the games of ‘what would I prefer.’ I no longer ask myself what I would have done if things had happened differently. Fifteen years is a long time to think, and I have grown old with waiting and heartache.
“Now I have become the old maid with no future. I am second place to a sister whose beauty and youth was preserved by magic but whose technical age allows her to take the crown and country that I have worked to preserve. Yet you are King now. You are smart, you are just, and you are kind, you will make a good king. But just like him, you are the hero. And I am the other sister, and as such my part of the story ends tonight.” A tear trembled at the corner of her eye, but did not fall. “But I do not want to be thrown away, a useless character in someone else’s happy ending!”
A change seemed to come over her, and her voice became as hard as diamonds, or dragon scales. For the first time she turned her eyes away from the sky to look at him. “You called it a wise and beautiful creature of knowledge. Tell me, Your Majesty, do you know where dragons come from?”
He was silent, waiting. She began to speak again. “Dragons are creatures born from wanting and envy. They lust after gold and knowledge because everything they ever sought after or worked for was made impossible. Some kidnap princesses out of spite and jealousy, others hide themselves in the mountains with a disdain for all things human. They are immortal; they refuse to die because they still believe this world owes them something.”
As she spoke, she changed. The mask that before covered her face elongated, became her face. The green satin and gold embroidery became scales, and as he stared in shock the rest of her grew to an impossible size. The creature now had to bend its long neck to look him in the face. “However, all dragons have one thing in common, they do not regret.” And the single tear that had formed in the eye of the woman hardened and fell to the marble floor, shattering into tiny hundreds of pieces as the dragon flew away into the night.
The former Queen hid her sigh as her dance partner mentioned again the beauty of the newly crowned Queen, and the prowess and bravery of her newly crowned King and husband. She was having trouble thinking, the dance, and the conversation, and the people were all driving her inside herself. Better that than to expose herself, her pain, to their derision.
She looked past the shoulder of her partner, and her eyes were caught again by the strange man she didn't recognize. She thought she knew all the local nobles, and even the few from neighboring kingdoms, but she didn't recognize this man, nor did she even remember hearing of tattoos like his, and those would create a reputation that moved ahead of him. Dark blue-violet ink outlined a spiral from the corner of each eye, and centered on his forehead was a crescent moon, turned up to cup a perfect circle. He bothered her, he seemed to be constantly watching her, and the eyes of the other guests seemed to glide right by him, no matter the oddity of his appearance here and now.
The dance ended, and still her eyes were locked with his. She curtsied half-heartedly for her partner and moved towards the door to a small side balcony. She needed air, and peace. Before she was halfway there, she realized that the strange man was standing right in front of her, she hadn't even seen him move.
“Your majesty,” the bow let his long dark hair shadow his penetrating eyes and covered the odd tattoos.
“I am 'majesty' no longer, good sir, you may address me as 'your highness' if you insist on formalities. However, I don't believe I've had your acquaintance.”
“My apologize, your Highness, my name is Raqim. I come from a far kingdom that you would not have heard of.”
“It must be very far indeed, as I have never heard your name mentioned. How did you come to be in our kingdom?”
“I met the prince, excuse me, the King, while on my travels, and I wanted to see how the tale ended, with joy or with sorrow.”
“I believe you'll find, Lord Raqim, that most stories have an equal measure of both.”
“As you say, your Highness, as you say.”
“Well, enjoy the festivities, my Lord.”
“And you your highness. That is a very interesting mask you wear. I'm sure it hides the face of a queen.” Something seemed to shine behind his dark eyes, and his face was quite serious, although his words seemed trivial. Something inside her shivered, and she excused herself as quickly as she could. The enormity of what this evening signified was suddenly very heavy, and every breath was difficult.
She was so caught up in her thoughts as she stared out at the darkness, she didn’t hear him approach, nor even notice his hands when they joined hers on the stone railing that ringed the balcony. She would not have been pleased if she had seen him coming, she had been avoiding him all evening, and not even the strange Lord Raqim would have been less welcome. The lights from inside caught on the glass beads and made them sparkle like tears against the pale satin of her mask. He broke the silence first.
“Not enjoying the masquerade?”
“My sister is returned to me, after all these years. The crown I have born in her stead is returned to her, and our kingdom has a true King and Queen. I have every reason to celebrate.” She paused, took a deep breath. “Even so, I cannot easily let go the memories of what was given up so long ago.”
“Oh, I am sorry …I did not know the rumors were true.” His voice betrayed what his words did not; the rumors were not complimentary.
“The rumors are not true, but they do not lie about everything.”
“So you loved him?”
“And he loved me, but what does anyone know at that age? It was fifteen years ago, love is a beautiful thing when one is young and believes in its power.”
“And he was the first to go?”
“He had to be. I was only the younger sister, and our fathers were friends. It was to be expected. After all, the three of us were very close, he could hardly leave her there.”
“But he left to rescue her and didn’t come back to you.”
“You speak with impunity and delve deep into a lady’s past, your Majesty. My loss is no less than that of others. They too were left behind by those who tried to succeed where he failed, and like he never returned.” The words were not hers. They were the parroted words of someone who had never lost a treasure that could not be replaced, but they were spoken with a tongue that was familiar with pain and despair.
“Yet here you stand on a balcony in the dark and the cold, while they dance and smile inside, all thoughts of their past loves forgotten.”
He had gone too far, it was not what she wanted to hear. “And you who’ve won everything, who has a new bride inside and new courtiers to grace with your presence, you who says past matters naught because you have a future, you stand out here with me! But in the end you are still one of them, you have a happy ending.” Her sarcasm and unfair words angered him.
“I was not trying to taunt you, I am not one of your shallow fops. I saw your pain and I hoped to alleviate it, but your bitterness has pushed you beyond help and hope.”
“You know nothing about pain.”
“Let me ask you one question, Highness. Would you prefer I was he? Do you wish that it was he who slaughtered that beautiful and ancient creature who knew more than the wisest man could ever learn? Would you rather it was he who killed the dragon and returned with your sister on the back of his horse, bound by law and fate to become her husband? When he died he didn’t leave you, he died because he was faithful to you!”
Instead of rising to his bate her voice quieted. “I no longer play the games of ‘what would I prefer.’ I no longer ask myself what I would have done if things had happened differently. Fifteen years is a long time to think, and I have grown old with waiting and heartache.
“Now I have become the old maid with no future. I am second place to a sister whose beauty and youth was preserved by magic but whose technical age allows her to take the crown and country that I have worked to preserve. Yet you are King now. You are smart, you are just, and you are kind, you will make a good king. But just like him, you are the hero. And I am the other sister, and as such my part of the story ends tonight.” A tear trembled at the corner of her eye, but did not fall. “But I do not want to be thrown away, a useless character in someone else’s happy ending!”
A change seemed to come over her, and her voice became as hard as diamonds, or dragon scales. For the first time she turned her eyes away from the sky to look at him. “You called it a wise and beautiful creature of knowledge. Tell me, Your Majesty, do you know where dragons come from?”
He was silent, waiting. She began to speak again. “Dragons are creatures born from wanting and envy. They lust after gold and knowledge because everything they ever sought after or worked for was made impossible. Some kidnap princesses out of spite and jealousy, others hide themselves in the mountains with a disdain for all things human. They are immortal; they refuse to die because they still believe this world owes them something.”
As she spoke, she changed. The mask that before covered her face elongated, became her face. The green satin and gold embroidery became scales, and as he stared in shock the rest of her grew to an impossible size. The creature now had to bend its long neck to look him in the face. “However, all dragons have one thing in common, they do not regret.” And the single tear that had formed in the eye of the woman hardened and fell to the marble floor, shattering into tiny hundreds of pieces as the dragon flew away into the night.
06 November 2006 @ 07:10 am
0. Prologue: The Mask Maker
The small house was situated in the center of a brightly lit clearing. Although the light was warm and golden like sunlight, there was no sun in the blue sky above. In fact there was nothing at all in the sky. No clouds, no birds, nothing. And if you stared at it long enough you weren’t sure that the sky was blue, or that there was even a sky at all.
The clearing was perfectly circular, as if drawn my some cosmic hand. And the trees that lined the clearing were evenly spaced and close enough that their branches intertwined to create almost a woven boundary of wood. Nothing interrupted the circle of trees, no paths nor openings, and it was apparent that nothing ever left or entered the clearing by physical means. There was certainly nowhere to go outside the small anomaly of nature. There was nothing beyond the forest that surrounded the clearing, no world, no planet, and no people. There were only the trees that went on for infinity.
And yet, contradicting everything else about the odd place, a cozy log cabin dominated the clearing. It had a small porch with a comfortable rocking chair. Two windows were placed symmetrically on either side of the wooden door.
The inside of the cabin was as empty as the forest outside. There was no furniture, or decoration, nor any sign of life, except for the walls. The walls were covered with hundreds of different masks. Barely an inch of free space remained.
All different shapes, all different colors and patters. A glimpse of bright feathers here, or sequins there. The glimmer of gold and silver sparkled in the sunshine streaming through the windows. Dust flickered in the rays of light, betraying the age and disuse of the room. Yet the masks that lined the ancient walls held not a speck of dust, and their colors were not faded by time.
Each mask was as bright as the day it had been made, and in as good condition as if preserved by some magical means. The feathers that decorated some were plump and bright, and the flowers on others looked as fresh as if they still carried a scent.
Here was the mask of an African dancer, as vivid and realistic as if it had just been worn yesterday. Across from it hung a mask from a Victorian masquerade sparkling with sequins.
Each mask told a story, and there were an infinite number of masks lining the walls of an infinite number of rooms.
Except for one. In one room there were no masks. This was the workroom of the Mask Maker. The room was empty except for a small table, chair, a ballpoint pen and a very large book. He needed no other tools except for that of his own mind, for he was the Mask Maker. On the cover of his leather bound book with its infinite number of pages was the Mask Maker's sign, the one thing that was his alone. A pair of dark eyes drawn in blue-violet ink. From the corner of each eye emerged a spiral that curved down his cheek. Centered between and above the two eyes was a crescent moon, turned up to cup a perfect sphere. And even though they were drawn in ink that could not be made on the cover of a book that didn't exist in any known manner, the drawn eyes glittered and gleamed like there was someone behind them, watching all.
He was the hand of a hundred different people writing the stories of a hundred different characters in a hundred different circumstances all at once. Each choice a character made defined and refined the shape of its mask. Each simile and metaphor added a feather or sequin, and each description the author wrote added more clarity.
These were the masks of a thousand different stories, in a thousand different worlds, and in his cabin in the middle of nowhere and the center of everywhere, the Mask Maker wrote them all.
The small house was situated in the center of a brightly lit clearing. Although the light was warm and golden like sunlight, there was no sun in the blue sky above. In fact there was nothing at all in the sky. No clouds, no birds, nothing. And if you stared at it long enough you weren’t sure that the sky was blue, or that there was even a sky at all.
The clearing was perfectly circular, as if drawn my some cosmic hand. And the trees that lined the clearing were evenly spaced and close enough that their branches intertwined to create almost a woven boundary of wood. Nothing interrupted the circle of trees, no paths nor openings, and it was apparent that nothing ever left or entered the clearing by physical means. There was certainly nowhere to go outside the small anomaly of nature. There was nothing beyond the forest that surrounded the clearing, no world, no planet, and no people. There were only the trees that went on for infinity.
And yet, contradicting everything else about the odd place, a cozy log cabin dominated the clearing. It had a small porch with a comfortable rocking chair. Two windows were placed symmetrically on either side of the wooden door.
The inside of the cabin was as empty as the forest outside. There was no furniture, or decoration, nor any sign of life, except for the walls. The walls were covered with hundreds of different masks. Barely an inch of free space remained.
All different shapes, all different colors and patters. A glimpse of bright feathers here, or sequins there. The glimmer of gold and silver sparkled in the sunshine streaming through the windows. Dust flickered in the rays of light, betraying the age and disuse of the room. Yet the masks that lined the ancient walls held not a speck of dust, and their colors were not faded by time.
Each mask was as bright as the day it had been made, and in as good condition as if preserved by some magical means. The feathers that decorated some were plump and bright, and the flowers on others looked as fresh as if they still carried a scent.
Here was the mask of an African dancer, as vivid and realistic as if it had just been worn yesterday. Across from it hung a mask from a Victorian masquerade sparkling with sequins.
Each mask told a story, and there were an infinite number of masks lining the walls of an infinite number of rooms.
Except for one. In one room there were no masks. This was the workroom of the Mask Maker. The room was empty except for a small table, chair, a ballpoint pen and a very large book. He needed no other tools except for that of his own mind, for he was the Mask Maker. On the cover of his leather bound book with its infinite number of pages was the Mask Maker's sign, the one thing that was his alone. A pair of dark eyes drawn in blue-violet ink. From the corner of each eye emerged a spiral that curved down his cheek. Centered between and above the two eyes was a crescent moon, turned up to cup a perfect sphere. And even though they were drawn in ink that could not be made on the cover of a book that didn't exist in any known manner, the drawn eyes glittered and gleamed like there was someone behind them, watching all.
He was the hand of a hundred different people writing the stories of a hundred different characters in a hundred different circumstances all at once. Each choice a character made defined and refined the shape of its mask. Each simile and metaphor added a feather or sequin, and each description the author wrote added more clarity.
These were the masks of a thousand different stories, in a thousand different worlds, and in his cabin in the middle of nowhere and the center of everywhere, the Mask Maker wrote them all.
06 November 2006 @ 07:04 am
yay for the start of my WriMoBlog!
i'm definately behind in my word count, but weekends should help me catch up.
i'm not exactly sure how i'll accomplish all this yet, but i guess i plan on updating new chapters as i write them, probably not in order, cause thats never how things work when you're writing, but i just want people to be able to read my progress, and comment, and tell me what they think.
(edit: ok, i figured out how i'm going to work this so that it will sort of make sense. I'll make an entry will be back-dated and so will stay on top. it will contain the table of contents with links to each story, so even though I dont write them in order, you can sort of see the order they'll go in eventually...)
anyway, if you've never heard of NaNoWriMo check out www.nanowrimo.org it should explain all
in a nutshell, its National Novel Writing Month
write 50000 words in 30 days, and the prize is yours!
I'm trying to write a collection of short stories that aren't really connected, but with one intertwined character, and sort of one theme. and i've got to get to 50,000 words. SHHHH, if you look closely you may sort of remember the first two stories, they were written earlier in the year but go SO WELL with my theme, that i can't help but use them. hopefully, if all goes well, i'll have a lot more than 50,000 words and it wont matter...
anyways, here i go....
i'm definately behind in my word count, but weekends should help me catch up.
i'm not exactly sure how i'll accomplish all this yet, but i guess i plan on updating new chapters as i write them, probably not in order, cause thats never how things work when you're writing, but i just want people to be able to read my progress, and comment, and tell me what they think.
(edit: ok, i figured out how i'm going to work this so that it will sort of make sense. I'll make an entry will be back-dated and so will stay on top. it will contain the table of contents with links to each story, so even though I dont write them in order, you can sort of see the order they'll go in eventually...)
anyway, if you've never heard of NaNoWriMo check out www.nanowrimo.org it should explain all
in a nutshell, its National Novel Writing Month
write 50000 words in 30 days, and the prize is yours!
I'm trying to write a collection of short stories that aren't really connected, but with one intertwined character, and sort of one theme. and i've got to get to 50,000 words. SHHHH, if you look closely you may sort of remember the first two stories, they were written earlier in the year but go SO WELL with my theme, that i can't help but use them. hopefully, if all goes well, i'll have a lot more than 50,000 words and it wont matter...
anyways, here i go....