My Garden

All In a Day's Fun

This was an entertaining assignment - again from a creative writing class. We were supposed to write about an event (I selected the occasion of when I bought my first DI bike; first lesson in bikes my friends, buy a decent one. The time spent fixing a crotchety one will not equate the money saved.), write about it from the imagined perspective of someone else involved, and then write it with a happy ending. I think the point of this exercise was to demonstrate how much more entertaining life is when it doesn't proceed correctly or as planned...) 

As a side note, it was this very event that launched my intense interest in how mechanical things (especially mechanical things that provide transportation) work. I'm still not much better - but at least it's become another interesting hobby...

PART 1 – Me and Xander

            The cold black frame turned slick and warm under my untrained and impatient hands as I wrestled with this strange thing before me. I knew what to do with it. When I was seven years old my mother put me on one and pushed it down the hill. The pedals slipped then under my nervous feet clad in sneakers without socks again. I always forgot socks. I wobbled and fell. The grass smeared my pants green, but I tried again. Eventually, the day ended with my first successful journey across the grass. All by myself, without training wheels. I loved it. I felt like I was flying.  No, twelve years later, what to do with it was not the problem. How this strange frame functioned was the problem with which I wrestled. 

            I met my dear bike Xander hanging innocently enough in the inconspicuous back room of the Provo Deseret Industries. There began a strange relationship. No matter how much he frustrated me, I was determined to fix all his problems. The more often he broke, the more attached I became to him. I determined that there was nothing I could not do, with enough time and effort. This evening, however, looked like it was shaping up to be an exception. My unskilled fingers could not find what was wrong with him.

            It began as normal, I hauled Xander outside and flipped him upsidown as I began the normal diagnostic to see what was wrong with him this time. I had work in three hours, but I was sure that I could finish in time. The wheel was obviously a problem, but I had replaced it before. Two weeks ago I had bought a slightly smaller parts bike from the same DI, which I affectionately dubbed Cordie (short for Cordilia), in order to use her back-wheel to replace his worn, rusty, bent and battle-scarred one. Unfortunately, no sooner had this swap occurred than the previously good tire from Cordie ceased to function. Frequently, my neighbors observed me tiredly walking Xander to the gas station for yet another air refill. Now, I wrestled with wrenches and stubborn lug nuts as I tried to get the tire back off in order to find the problem.

            While Xander had apparently rejected this tire for his own use, he seemed equally stubborn in his fervent desires to prevent me from fixing the wheel. I sweated, fumed, came up with a hundred new insults, and still the wheel remained firmly stuck on the bike for one reason or another. The chain was in the way, now the lug nuts slipped back on and needed to be re-loosened, and now the brake pads clamped down firmly on the wheel and refused to release it. My ignorance was plain to be seen, and just as many insults rained down on Xander as reached my own clumsy fingers. Somehow, I finally wrestled the wheel off and took the tire off so that I could examine the tube.

            Now it was time to discover the hole in the tube, for that was surely what it was, every internet athourity I could find said so. I tried in vain to find the hole, but it evaded me. One site suggested filling the tube with air so that I could find the hole better. Thrilled with this suggestion, I raced from apartment to apartment looking for an air pump, until I reached the man who had been polishing his car across from me all evening. I had seen him on several bikes, including a unicycle, and was sure that he would have one. He looked faintly amused when he saw me, and I had the sneaky suspicion that he was enjoying the show. He good naturedly, however, offered me several different brands and types of air-pumps. I wildly selected the one that looked the most familiar and easy to use. I thanked him and rushed back.

Failure to find the hole after blowing it up (being unable to hear or feel the air escaping) I rushed back to my great sources and searched for a solution. I eventually settled on carefully submerging the full tube into the toilet tank in order to see the air escaping. It worked remarkably well (if it did knock a few things askew and require maintenance in the tank itself) and I quickly set about patching the hole with a proudly purchased kit. That part at least, was simple. Scrape the rubber, enlarge the hole, peel the white patch off the sheet (which would avoid my fingernails) and place over the hole.

At this point I had become an expert on taking tires apart, so with wild glances at a clock which showed that I had to finish, dress and leave in exactly 15 minutes, I rushed back outside and began hastily throwing the entire assembly back together. I was in a bit of a rush, so I didn't worry too much about those warnings of taking care that the tube doesn't become pinched in the frame or anything. I managed to do it all, finish everything, and leave only three minutes late. I stopped to return the bike pump with a swiftly uttered thanks and fled, pleased with my accomplishment.

Five hours later, I left work, footsore and glad with the knowledge that when I reached the outside I would have a bike to carry me downhill all the way home in a matter of mere minutes. I proudly strode towards my bike, turned the numbers to line up for the combination, and began to back my bike out of the rack. Then I saw it. I froze, moaning my disbelief. There sat that backwheel, flat. I then remembered those neglected instructions about pinched tubes and groaned aloud. I slowly, slowly backed my bike out and began the long walk home to repeat the process again.

PART 2 – From the Neighbor's Perspective

My hand slowly warms under the running water as I wait for it to reach the right temperature. I nod in satisfaction and stop the rise in temperature with a twist of the cold water knob. I stick the bucket underneath it and begin filling it, dumping in car soap. When it reaches the exact level I turn the water off. I grab the bucket and some rags and head down to my black SUV. I pass four bikes lined neatly inside my apartment. Three belong to me: my unicycle, my sleek red mountain bike and my delicate blue road racing bike. The fourth is my roommates battered, green around town wonder. It works, but I shudder when I think of riding it.

I reach my SUV and begin washing it. Soapy water first, then a gentle scrub, then a rinse, then toweled dry. As I work, I watch people around me. There she comes, that girl with the crazy bike. I think I see her walking it home with a flat more than I ever see her returning on a round wheel. She spends at least one night a week with it up-si-down on her lawn, fixing something else that went wrong. She doesn't really know what she's doing, but she looks so ferociously intent on her work, I doubt she wants help. The SUV isn't really dirty, but I don't have anything else to do with it. That's the problem with keeping beautifully working equipment, there is never anything broken to tinker with. Is she ever going to get that tire off? Good grief, it's not that difficult. Maybe if she'd put a tire of the same size on it she wouldn't be having such a problem.

I start cleaning slower, her frustration is too entertaining to miss. I head inside to get a sandwich and come out. I dry the SUV slowly, deliberately. She finally has the wheel off.  I mutter a dry congratulations as she proceeds to dismantle the wheel and takes the tube out. I can see from across the parking lot that she doesn't have enough air in the tube to find the hole, but she'll probably figure it out eventually. She gives up with exasperation and runs inside. I am beginning to think maybe she gave up.

I go and get the wax from inside and start waxing the SUV. Suddenly she comes running out again. She starts at one row of red brick apartments and begins going door to door. What on earth is she doing now? Probably doesn't have an air-pump. Well I know that none of those places do either. I wait with a slight smile. Eventually she comes to me and runs over.

"Hey, do you happen to have a bike-pump that I could borrow?"

"Yeah, let me grab one," I go inside and grab the three from their neat positions on the wall.

"Here, which one do you want?" She looks bewildered and hesitates before selecting the smallest handpump.

"That one, thanks a lot!" She runs back to her tube, grabs in and runs inside. She doesn't come out for awhile. I'm done with the SUV and bored, so I head inside. 20 minutes later I hear a knock on the door. I open it and see her standing there, hand on an assembled bike, hair tucked up under an MTC dining hat and the pump in her proffered hand.

"Thanks so much, it helped a lot!" She climbs onto her rickety bike and rides away. I watch her leave in amusement, wondering how she'll return. About five and a half hours later, I suddenly remembered that I forgot to get the mail and went outside. As I was turning away from my aluminum mailbox, my hands full of glossy flyers, I saw her coming home, walking. With an amused smile, I waved and went inside.            

PART 3 – The Better Conclusion from my Perspective

My beautiful bike had a flat. It didn't happen very often, in fact had never happened before. But I had seen my Dad fixing my bike, and of course remembered exactly how to do it. I easily inverted my bike on the ground and set about with my socket set to remove the wheel. After taking it off, I took the tire and tube off and examined them. A quick inspection showed that I needed an air-pump to find the leak.

I saw my neighbor, who I knew was good with bikes, polishing his automobile across the parking lot. Heading over, I asked if I could borrow a pump. He offered several, of which I accepted the easiest to use. I quickly filled my tube with air and found the leak by holding the tube in my hand and rotating it next to my ear. I fixed the hole in a matter of minutes and twenty more minutes of careful work found my tire nicely assembled and my bike back together. I returned the air-pump with cookies, and spent a leisurely hour reading before I needed to dress and leave for work. Later that evening, when I emerged from a long shift at work, I was very pleased to see that my work had been well done and the wheel was still round. It only took me 10 minutes to ride home.

The Old Man and the Music

Angela insisted. This is actually not well written at all, but it shows what a 14-year-old will write after reading a little too much Dickens and listening a little too intently in a classical music class to tales of the woes of all good composers...Incidentally, were there any happy famous composers? Are happy and famous never allowed to be synonymous? 


An old man hobbled down the cobblestone street. The weight of the old sack his rag-wrapped gnarled hands clutched bowed him over. It was late; the smoky light cast by the lampposts was too dim to see his frosty breath. As he turned onto one of the more exclusive streets, he heard a choir singing Christmas songs in a church with beautiful stain glass windows. He caught his breath and listened eagerly for a few moments until it ended. Then, with a sigh, he painfully walked around to the back of one of the most expensive houses on the street. Carefully setting the sack down on the step, he paused for a moment to catch his breath and blow on his freezing fingers. A frail waif in a ragged dress answered his knock on the door and ushered him into the kitchen.

“Is that coal man here yet?” The cook roared from the end of the kitchen.

“Yes,” the girl answered in a nervous voice, barely over a whisper. The cook turned from the pot over the stove she was stirring for the Christmas dinner and wiped perspiration from her brow.

“About time! We’re almost out of coal waiting for you!”

“I’m sorry, the cart lost a wheel so I carried the coal today.” There was a curiously distinguished note in the old man’s voice, unfitting to his ragged appearance. The cook harrumphed loudly as the old man dumped the coal into the bin. She pursed her lips in disapproval as she reached into the teakettle over the stove for a few coins. “I kept part of the pay this week for being late. Don’t do it again.”

The old man sighed as he accepted the coins. The cook usually found a reason for pocketing part of his pay; he had learned long ago that there was little use in arguing with her. The meager amount he received barely paid his rent on his tiny room; much less left anything for living expenses.

He turned and left the house, catching his breath at the gusty wind that blew icicles of cold through him. His footsteps trudged slowly down the street to his little home. It was so cold that even the mocking youth who usually roamed the streets had forsaken their games for shelter. Turning down several alleyways, he worked his way through the familiar maze to a poorer part of town. He ducked into a small sheltered alcove next to a dreary, gray apartment building. Turning his back to the streets, he reached into the tiny rag under his coat and untied the few coins from the corner before he turned and entered the building.

A sharp-faced woman greeted him. She was untidy, her hair hung in strings, and her gray dress was covered in dirt and grease. A pipe dangled out of the corner of her mouth. “Rent’s due” she snarled “overdue really, it was due this morning.” The old man calmly handed her his few coins. Snatching them, she counted them twice before she jerked her head. “Alright, it’s all there.” She spun on her heel and left.

The old man sighed as he climbed several flights of stairs to his room on the top floor. Definitely nothing left for food. How she justified raising the rent for the extra cold was unfathomable. At the top stair, he paused as a hacking cough overtook him. Gasping for breath, he stumbled to his room. A cold blast of air struck him as he opened the door. A young lad crouched in front of the tiny fire jumped up as he entered.

“Good evening,” the boy said. The old man nodded shortly and went over to coax a flame in the tiny stove with some scavenged coal. He lit several candles and set his thin soup on to heat.

“I’m sorry that the soup wasn’t ready Master, the coal was gone and…”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” The old man demanded. The lad looked at him steadily.

“Several I believe, and I shall continue to call you that, for it is the title you deserve.”

The old man grunted softly. Finishing his puttering, he walked over to the corner of the room, carefully pried up a floorboard and pulled out his treasures: a violin case and a sheaf of music. Opening the case, he gently removed the instrument, running his rough fingers over the polished wood. Taking it from the case, he handed it to the boy.

“Play.”

The boy looked at him hesitantly, “No lesson today?” The old man scowled and motioned for him to begin.

The boy rosined the bow and gently drew it across the strings. His melody was simple and clear, echoing sweetly across the room. His eyes closed in concentration and his face shone with delight. When he finished, the final notes lingering softly, he opened his eyes. To his astonishment, there were tears on the old man’s face.

“Master?” he queried softly. The old man stirred and sighed. “It was a long time ago lad, a long, long time ago…” The boy searched his face.

“Tell me” The old man shook his head and doubled over in a cough. Then he paused and nodded, “yes, you’re ready.” Reaching into the sheaf of music, he withdrew several pages and passed them to the boy.

“That’s it”

“That’s what?”

“The piece that is the reason I’m here,” the old man said with a touch of bitterness. “That piece was my undoing, if I had never written it I would never be in this place.” The boy touched his arm.

“If you had never come here, I would never have learned to play.” The old man looked at the boy and grunted, but his face softened.

“It was a long time ago Andrew, a long time…” He closed his eyes and remembered…“I was a young lad of 20, about to perform with an orchestra in Landon Hall, a hall where only the most prestigious of musicians performed. It was Christmas eve, opening night…”

40 years earlier…

“John!”

“Charles! What are you doing here?”

“I made it in the orchestra!”

“You did now! Congratulations old chap! Are you playing tonight then?”

“Yes, we are performing a collection of the Masters, all of the best pieces. If I play well tonight he has promised to look at the music I’m writing”

“Well congratulations again! I shall watch for you, what chair are you?”

“Thank you very much. I’m the first chair”

“Why you rascal! Fancy that, first chair in one of the best orchestras in the country and you never said a word! Well I must go, I brought Elaine tonight, see you after the performance!”

Charles’s heart caught at the name. Elaine. Fair, sweet Elaine. Daughter of one of the richest men in the city; and as far above him as the sun. He had first seen her at a dinner party he went to, one of the lowly, invited more by association then by name. Her smile warmed him through, but he dared not speak to her, but had merely contented himself with listening to her gentle voice throughout the evening. Her wisdom and wit surprised him; such a combination was unusual among the wealthy. He was only a poor musician, but hopefully, she would hear his Christmas gift. He had composed a song for her. Perhaps if he played his best she would invite him to come perform at her home. Everyone knew how much Elaine loved music.

Call time. The orchestra assembled and prepared to play the Master’s music. The Master had a name, but no one ever used it, his music was so famous that he was simply referred to as “the Master.” Tonight they would be closing with one of his most famous pieces, one that was hummed and sung all over Europe. Every note was as familiar as a child’s lullaby. Charles seat as first violin meant that he would play the most famous part of all, a violin solo, accompanied only by the soft throb of a cello, like a heartbeat. The Master stepped up and raised his baton; the music began.

An hour later, the room was charged with excitement as the Master began the last piece. Charles was ecstatic – tonight he had played better than ever! Elaine was directly in his line of vision and he had dedicated every note of his performance to her. His solo approached, she smiled at him, and he felt as if the birds were soaring to the sky with him. His moment arrived. He poured his soul into the solo, as if an angel had opened the strings right to Elaine’s heart and his violin was carrying him right in. But wait, the song was different, the audience stirred in amazement. The orchestra froze; the Master furrowed his brow in anger.

The melody Charles played was extraordinary; it stirred the soul of every listener. It sang of sweetness, sorrow, anguish, pain, love, every passion of the soul was entwined the song as Charles played HIS music. He didn’t mean to, he almost tried not to, but the music caught him up and he soared as he had never soared in music before. It was good, too good, too horribly, wonderfully, magnificently good. The Master’s melody seemed paltry and insignificant beside it. Charles heart was born on that music, the passion touching the deepest chord in every heart there. At last, the swells paused and pivoted. Charles drew his song back into The Master’s closing chord. The orchestra mechanically joined in completing the song, too struck in astonishment to do anything else. The Master’s face was like a thundercloud. The curtain dropped at his vicious gesture to the curtain man, whose own mouth hung open in amazement.

The Master whirled on Charles in fury, “YOU!” Charles couldn’t move, couldn’t answer, the music had drained him.

“How DARE you ruin my music!” The Master’s voice was a hiss but to Charles it seemed a roaring lion.

“You will NEVER perform music again! I will write black marks across your paper, no one will ever hire you! Your music is nothing, pathetic! Take it and your violin and GET OUT. Never let me see you again. You are a disgrace to the world!”

“But-“ Charles attempted to reason with the Master and explain himself.

“NO! GET OUT!” The Master’s face was purple with rage. Charles picked up his case and left, stumbling in his weakness. The performance had pulled every ounce of energy from his body.

The Master took all the credit for the music, only the orchestra knew the truth, and they didn’t dare breathe a word of it. Once, when she passed him on the street, Elaine tried to speak to him, but he fled, feeling unclean before her. She died that winter from pneumonia. Charles found work in a small shop, cleaning up and restocking shelves. As the years passed he dropped from one job down to the next. No one having anything to do with music would hire him. The Master’s word was law. Once, a music shop hired him to help sell instruments. The Master got wind of it, and after a mysterious visit, Charles was fired. The years went on, he moved from poor to poorer housing. Eventually, he was reduced to gleaning coal and selling it for the few coins it brought. His hands became gruesomely worn and gnarled; it was too painful to play anymore, physically and mentally…



The old man sighed as he ran his fingers across the strings. He looked at the sheaf of music, written over many years and never performed. A cough doubled him over and for several minutes, he was too hoarse to speak. Andrew touched his arm. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, tears of sadness for the old man’s story trailed down his cheek.

“But the Master is dead now, why did you not return?”

Charles shook his head. “Too many years, my fingers cannot play anymore.” Another cough shook him and several pieces fluttered to the floor. Bending down, he picked them up. It was the piece that he had played that night, after returning to his apartment he had written it down. Andrew handed him the violin.

“Yes you can. Please, play this song for me, the one you played that night.” Charles accepted the violin thrust at him and stared at the strings. He shook his head.

“Please” Andrew said softly. “It’s Christmas Eve, please play.” Charles coughed again; blood spattered his fingertips this time. He stared at the blood, realizing that he had little time left. He looked at Andrew. Andrew would be his legacy, the only thing he left in this world. Andrew at least deserved to hear the song that ultimately was the reason for his teacher. Charles handed Andrew the sheaf of music.

“My will is in there. When I die this violin and music will be yours. Use them wisely; you have been a good student. I thank you.” Charles picked up the violin and tuned it, adjusting the strings hair widths in his precision. He tightened the bow hairs, breaking off the loose ones. He re-rosined the bow and polished the silky wood. Finally, he felt ready. Tucking the violin under his chin, he closed his eyes, and played.

Feeling returned to his fingertips, gnarled knuckles stretched and flew with the grace and fluidity of a twenty year old. The bow fairly danced across the strings, the melody soared with a sweetness that pierced the clouds. Despite the fierce wind, it seemed that everyone in London heard it. Parents, intent on wrapping the last few Christmas gifts, paused in amazement as his melody floated out in the air. Children, breathlessly anticipating the morning, listened in awe, certain that the angels were singing. Merchants, weary workers, drunkards, even the sharp-faced landlady all held still in wonder as they listened to the sound. Andrew’s face shone with amazement.

The old man truly was pouring his soul into the strings. His heart was beating too fast. A glorious sight was appearing before his eyes. He seemed to see straight into heaven where his smiling Elaine awaited him. With a cry, he played his last few notes all for her, reaching, and then flying towards her.


Several days later, a small notice in the paper stated that Charles Tolmis was dead. His few effects were left to a young man named Andrew Rondan.


Several years later, a small boy stood at a street corner selling newspapers. The headlines read of a rising violin virtuoso, Andrew Rondan. His music, which he said he inherited from his Master had become world famous and he was performing them that night in Landon hall. The date in the corner of the newspaper was December 24th.

Taste Testing

 Another assignment from a creative writing class...Write about something ordinary and revolting. I think the teacher picked such odd assignments because he got bored. Most of them weren't exactly in our syllabus to start with.

Taste Testing

            “Oh come on,” my brother coaxed, “you’ll never regret it.” I stared at the messy, bubbling frothy glass in his hand, filled with a mixture so strange that I don’t think it even had a real color. I slowly shook me head and with all the 13-year-old dignity I could muster announced, “No, I really don’t think I ever will.”

            My brother, like many other young scouts, has always had a strong propensity for tormenting his stomach with bizarre food combinations and abnormal beverages. He never drinks soda without mixing it with something, never eats ice cream without some sort of unique topping and loves telling shocking tales about the worst thing he had ever eaten. Never, ever, ever, would I touch something that he had created. I flatly refused. Sardines over ice cream, oranges dipped in ranch dressing to me should no longer even count as food.  

            The delight of odd food substances is a strange subject. It is not socially accepted, yet neither is it revolted. When the topic comes up in conversation, someone always proudly volunteers the weirdest thing that he or she has ever eaten. In secondary and high school I would have simply marked these people as attention getters. However, I have seen this strange phenomenon exhibited in all stages of life alike. Perhaps attention getting is not the only reason people go so far out of their way to disturb their otherwise peaceful stomachs.

            Now I sit and stare at this grotesque concoction that I made with my own hands. It goes against everything I have ever taught myself on the subject. What kind of a lawmaker am I if I break them myself? “Oh come on,” my brother coaxes again over the phone, “it’ll be delicious! You’ll never regret it.” I like weird things; I often even go out of my way to find new ways to make my life interesting. I meditated in the JFSB elevator, climbed in the fountains at the JFSB courtyard, stayed up until 4 am outside eating strawberries and hiding easter eggs with friends, spent an hour trying to drop a quarter straight down the SWKT steps, and several other activities which cross the limits of legality. Yet never once did I truly leave my zone.

            There is a comfort in a vague knowledge of what will happen when I do something. But tasting something really weird? I do not understand what vague unease it is that gnaws at my stomach, other than perhaps preparatory revulsion. Somehow, it conjures up an irrational fear, that I don’t know what it will do to me. Obviously, I should know that it won’t really affect my taste buds or destroy my stomach, but somehow, the I find the idea so foreign as to be terrifying.

            Parachutes, hot air balloons, hurricane chasers, food tasters, maybe they all share something in common. They all seek something outside of the ordinary, something that will make them feel or experience something in a way that will make them unique. They do it not so much for the thrill, but perhaps for the chance to have a story that sets them apart. The more people try what they do, the more the thrill seekers have to try to find something better, something more. It defines part of who they are, it makes them cool. That’s one theory anyway. Another theory is that they are trying to repress their childhood demons. Things scared them as children now make them feel powerful to overcome.   

            My brother immediately suggested trying a strange new concoction when he heard about my writing assignment. Since I was too busy to try my original idea of going hobo for a day, I reluctantly agreed. With his coaching, a strange reddish, brownish, grayish, popcornishly crunchy mixture appeared in my cottage cheese container bowl. “What do you have in your fridge? Just start reading me names…Ah yes, plain yogurt, miracle whip, oh, do you have popcorn? Yes, make some of that up. And I think it needs…yeah, add some peanut butter. Hmmm….It still doesn’t sound like enough…I know! I bet it needs color. Okay, what do you have that’s red in your fridge? Spaghetti sauce? Perfect! Just add a little…Excellent..Bon appetit!” I stared at the revolting mixture. Was I really going to eat it? Years of avoiding it when someone else coaxed me to try something gross, and now I was doing it of my own free will? How would it feel? Would it be any different?

            There is that one demon. Many a child with duty-bound parents can remember something distasteful that he or she had to eat at one point or another. I remember once Mom went crazy with a new juice machine. For supper, in my hand was placed a huge green plastic cup of thick, gloppy cabbage goo. When Mom first bought the cups, the green had seemed pretty. Now it just made it look worse. Like eating grass, except I thought grass might taste better. I asked to skip dinner. I would have rather gone hungry. That stuff never could have been intended to go inside a human stomach. I didn’t have to taste it to know I would hate it. However, I wasn’t allowed victory. Being a middle child meant that another generation before me had already worn out the impatience button on my parents. They were never yielding. Eventually, hours of sitting at the table forced my hand. Nevertheless, not even the gimlet glare of my parents could keep it inside my rebellious stomach. 

            My fingers reluctantly grabbed hold of my spoon. I started at the spoon. I bought it at DI for 10 cents. Now I was using it to betray me. “Come one, stop wasting time, just eat it!” I ignored my younger brother’s all too eager coaxings and slowly shoveled some of the strange composite onto my eating utensil. It looked so disgusting. I gave one final wince, and ate it. As the strange flavor played at different corners of my mouth and confused my taste buds, I tilted my head to one side thoughtfully. It wasn’t actually that bad. It wasn’t good either, but I felt sort of let down. I had avoided it so strongly for so long, what was I to think of it now that it was finished? It seemed that I should at least have received a stomachache for my efforts. Something that bad should by all rights have caused some mild form of catastrophe. Is that all my fears boiled down to? Are they always wrong?

“Ha, told you it would kill you, didn’t I?”

The Storms Have Their Place

This one does have music to it - but my inability to actually write music down means that it's always different...It has probably been set to 3 different melodies by now...so I guess you can pick whatever you want to hear in your head. 

When the Savior whispers the swell to still, all inside bends to his will.
The torrent stops, the floods subside; the Savior always by my side.
The river runs so clear and deep, ages of wisdom, mine to keep.
No longer to run or from foolish fears be locked, but free to fly, forever unblocked.
How I long to be this way, the river inside at peace to stay.
To bid the storms to stay no more, as I sail on towards that distant shore.
Yet I know the storms have their place, pushing me faster as I race.

Waiting in and for Lines

A pink card. A blue card. A line of ink. My name.
Shuffling feet. Moving forward. His turn. Her turn. Their turn.
When is it my turn?
Waiting in line, watching line after line of people, words, and names slip by.
When will my feet in this line meet the line on my card?
Lines, lines, lines and more lines.
Will my card ever come? I waited in lines all my life.
When will my lined face in this long line line of people reach my line of ink?

Connections, Connections

The rather extensive variety of pronouns are not errors; each use is deliberate. 

Connections. Connections. We’re always seeking connections.

Sneakers crunch, sending rocks in patterns behind me. My feet pattern the ground. My heart thuds through my chest. Climbing, running, searching, seeking. Where can I find? Sometimes if I run fast enough, hard enough, strong enough, sure enough, I see it. I catch a glimpse of the place inside. To find that place, the place inside, if I could connect body, spirit and mind – then could I be free. Free from that shell, the rotting shell outside. The prison, the rotting shell, can be a temple only if we connect, like the hermit crab, carrying a house, seeking a home.

Connections. Connections. We’re always seeking connections.

Lips move, fingers tap keys, pens scratch paper, phones ring on and on. People seek people, looking and looking. Connections; connections; we’re always seeking connections. It’s a journey. Finding the connection. Seeking answers from the people around us, how to find the place deep inside.

Connections, connections. We’re terrified of finding connections. Because seeking, seeking, searching is familiar. What do we do if we find? If we really reach that place inside, the place where our spirit resides, will we like what we find? Will we be strong enough? Brave enough? True enough? Will we be enough?

Connections. Connections. Always seeking connections.

When we connect, when we harness the power within, when we touch the place inside, the place where our spirit resides, then we rise. Then we see ourselves. We see what our Father sees. We find the peace. The strength. The answers. The connections. The quiet. The stillness.

Connections. Connections. If you could travel pass the stars, past the veil, if you could pierce through and see, if you could connect with where you came from; could you find that place inside? If you could press aside the veil and touch heaven; would you see yourself? If you could journey through the mind, through the heart, through the spirit; if you could touch memories and finger emotions, if that matter were tangible, what would it feel like? If you could connect inside; if you could touch that matter; what would you build?

If we could reach deep enough, far enough, old enough, past the shallow pieces, past the walls we build around ourselves, past the veil we have to live with, could we meet and connect with heaven? Could we touch the core that is ourselves? Could we find what we are? Could we reach what we are meant to be?

Connections. Connections. We’re all down here seeking connections.

Are we here to wander or to find? If we could reach inside, could we truly find the inner mind? Where are we inside? How do we connect? Do we want to connect? Do we fear to connect? If I connect, what will I be? When I swam to the ocean inside, what did I find? Where was my spirit? Was she enough inside?

No one knows but me. Inside; deep inside; no one on this earth knows but me.

Where is peace?

Peace is a tendril of music, snaking through my ears.

Peace is the soft breathing of a child curled up, trusting in my arms.

Peace is the top of a mountain, glorying in the majesty of living.

Peace is a soft ray of dawn, brushing the sky with color.

Peace is the silk of a piano key, slipping emotion into sound.

Peace is a piece of river, lapping against the Island rock.

Peace is a white card in a plastic cover, letting me where I want to be.

Peace is a smile, curving lips sending love.

Peace is a bike, carrying me to freedom.

Peace is a dandelion, coloring my fingers with yellow warm.

Peace is words, dancing through my mind.

Peace is God’s voice, sending his love and thoughts.

Peace is an apple, crisping juice over my tongue.

Peace is the morning quiet, wrapping me up.

Peace is an aching muscle, sending accomplishment through my body.

Peace is a pillow, sending tired muscles to rest.

Peace is my Savior, smiling down at me.

Peace is the color white, blending all colors perfectly.

Peace is the soft scratch of a pen, recording thoughts.   

Peace is priceless, evading all who would hoard it.

Peace is oxygen, nourishing our souls. 

Peace is everywhere, waiting for us to take it.

BYU Haiku

Okay, these aren't necessarily brilliant examples of haiku (I have never been an expert at rhyme), but they make me smile. Assignment was to sit at a spot on the BYU campus and write as many as we could think of. As you can tell, it was a little cold out. Kudos to you if you can figure out what time of year it was and where I was sitting based on the subject material.

Soft icicles form

Chill seizes fresh warm blood

Congealing the cells

A rusted chain creaks

Cold hail rains on the ground

Slowing everything

The mountain stands proud

Coarse gold patches struggling

To hide its baldness

Dew clings to moonlight

Damp creeps down the grass blades

Vanquished by the sun

Shoulders hunch over

Shielding vital organs

From arctic assault

Moth in a brick crack

Soft, powdered wings huddle

seeking survival

Long Sleeves or Short?

I don't really have much background on this story, other than observing a woman during a visit to a dentist office, and possibly a memory of a very good friend. I will say this though, I hope that all women will be able to choose to wear short sleeves if they want.

Long Sleeves or Short?

Sarah absently rubbed her smooth fingertips together, rubbing the worn circle on her left ring finger. The office felt too clean, too neat, and falsely warm; as if someone had tried to make it homey and overdone it. Abstract pictures of strange shapes covered the smooth, yellow and tan walls, which gleamed without a fingerprint. The yellow seemed pale and eerie, not soothing. The collage of shapes in the frames seemed angry, contorted, figures frozen in their anguish and redressed to appear happy. Redressed in long sleeves.

“Mrs. Gomez, go ahead and fill out the following questions on this form. Take as long as you would like. When you have finished, bring it up to the secretary by the door and she will call you as soon as a legal representative is free to speak with you. Do you have any questions?” Startled, Sarah refocused and realized that she had reached the receptionist’s desk. Somehow she must have given them her name and appointment. A polite sigh and cough near her left ear reminded her that there was a line.

“Oh, no, I don’t have any questions, thank you.” Taking the stapled pages from the polished fingernails of the receptionist, she turned back to the yellow waiting room, the click of her heels buried in the thick, dark red carpet. She reluctantly sat down on the end of a pale brocade sofa, eying the open space to her right distrustfully; all the chairs and privacy of two sides to herself were filled.

She bit her lip, feeling her lipstick slide on her teeth as she stared at the papers in her hand, willing herself to find the nerve to start. The first questions were easy, name, address, personal information. Sarah Gomez, age 28. She filled the white spaces in with black ink, taking time not to smudge her answers. At least, that was what she told herself. Slowly, she formed the letters, feeling them come out of her pen. Now his information. Sarah stared at the lines on the page and filled them out quickly, smudging lines in her haste to skip to the next page. The top line, Custody and Support of Minor Children, stared back at her.

Sarah sat back and stared at the odd shape on the wall. What was it? A man with his head near his feet? A woman drowning a baby? Or was she hugging it? A bunch of clouds playing charades of the people below? Sarah shook her head in distaste and forced her head to return to the paper in her lap.

“I don’t like them either,” Sarah looked up startled, staring at the stately older woman sitting next to her.

“Pardon?”

“The paintings. They distort reality; try to make it all seem different. But I think reality is distorted enough the way it is, don’t you think?” Sarah mumbled a noncommittal answer, which the woman took for assent and calmly continued speaking. “I have enough problems making sense of my own life, without having to make sense of these too.”

“But you don’t have to look at the paintings,” Sarah pointed out, “You could just ignore them.”

The woman smiled gently, “But they are not to be ignored, they’re in front of you. And if you avoid them, you will never understand them.” She calmly returned to her glossy magazine.

Sarah tried to return to her paper. The stench of some generic air freshener permeated the air and seeped into her head, causing her head to ache. She carefully wrote, Gerald Gomez, age 10 in the first slot. What would Gerald do when he found out? Would his lower lip curl in disdain? Would he stare sternly at her, demanding to know the source of her weakness? If she gave this form and her life savings to that white-suited secretary with a $100 pedicure, would it make things better?

She absently stroked her angora wool sweater. The swelling had gone down at least. If she signed these papers, she would never have to wear long sleeves again. Unless she wanted to. Carlos had always liked her to wear long sleeves though, after their wedding night he’d filled her wardrobe with sweaters, blouses and dresses. “So that no one will ever see your arms bare but me.” He had smiled at her.

“Don’t think about it,” she muttered to herself as she kept filling out the sweat dampened pages. The room was too warm. Those pictures kept staring at her. Why would they not go away? Debt Division, Home Division, Automobile Division, Spousal Support. What did all that matter anyway? Carlos would have everything. Carlos always had everything. She only had a silly typing certificate. He had given her a box “to put your personal things in”. She put her birth certificate, old love letters, high school degree and marriage license in it. But she used a different one, an old doughnut bag, crumpled under her mattress for her other things. Her things that slept under Carlos: the typing license, carefully earned when Carlos was gone; pages of her novel (not a journal, no, just fiction), where she was the heroine; a picture from Gerald when he was three.

Her stomach churned loudly, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten that day. Or yesterday maybe, hard to remember. Carlos said food doesn’t look pretty under skin. “Do you want a chocolate dear? I don’t have any real food, but I always keep some candy in my purse for my grandchildren.”

“No thank you,” Sarah answered the calm woman automatically and tried to smile. She never ate sugar. Carlos didn’t eat it. The woman put the sweet smelling bar back into her red leather bag.

“Well if you change your mind, don’t feel afraid to ask,” the woman carefully patted her brown curls and rearranged her silk blouse as she leaned back into her magazine. Sarah stared at her. There was food under the woman’s skin. Lumpy, out of place. But her sleeves were short, her arms were bare.

Somehow, the papers were finished. Sarah slipped her innocent-looking ink pen back into her own soft, brown leather bag. The question marks on the pages seemed to jump off the page and stare at her; they seemed to have eyes, dark eyes. She looked away and saw the pictures again. Why did the painter give the woman long sleeves? Did he know? Why was the child drowning in her arms? Why didn’t she pull him out? Or was that even a woman? The soft, rich tones of dark red, green and gold blurred together. She looked at the doors behind the secretary. They weren’t red, yellow or green. They were a warm brown. Real wood, maple maybe. They were different from the rest of the room. Her feet were carrying her, moving for her. She wasn’t moving them.

“Thank you, I believe that Mr. Hendricks will be available in a couple of moments. Would you mind waiting another moment or two until he is ready?”

Sarah took a deep breath, touching her angora sweater. “Of course, I’ll be over there, waiting. Right in the chair. Yes, of course I’ll be waiting.” The secretary looked at her strangely and turned to the short, scowling man behind Sarah. Sarah moved her feet now, purposefully. She marched her heels right back to the couch under the painting. She was glad that she only had one side to herself, the rest of the couch was shared, friendly. She turned to the woman with the brown perm. “Excuse me, but I am a little hungry. Do you still have that chocolate?”

To Listen or to Speak

You know that scripture in D&C 128: 23? About rocks and valleys and the moon speaking?  I've always wanted to talk to old houses and hear their stories. The house in New York is over a hundred years old, and growing up I would sometimes sit on quiet afternoons listening to its creaks. I would swear it was speaking and was always disappointed that I couldn't understand what it was saying. Anyways, once I visited an old, listening house which contrastingly housed a Jewish grandmother who spoke but never listened. That visit gave the basic material for this poem. 

Oh yes - and since people always ask. A Trappist is a Catholic order of monks who keep a vow of silence. A Jew is obviously the opposite religiously of a Catholic, not to mention that Jews are known for speaking :) (It's true; I'm related to a few...) So a Trappist changed to Jew would be a change not only of religion, but of personality: from listening to speaking.    

To Listen or to Speak

If papered walls were fleshed in blood and skin,
Or lips of wood opened with a creak,
If words were drawn from years within,
What years of wisdom would they speak?

After seeing all leave with unease,
Eighty years of thinning brick worn through
With ringing words of expertise,
Would Trappist choose to change to Jew?

The day of thanks brings all to Gramma’s home.
Her slicing speech answers not a one,
Painted lips of flesh, yet diamond ears of stone.
We all leave before dinner’s done.

Fading hair crimped tight; rotting wall reeks.
Sharing eighty years; one listens, one speaks.

Pretty Paragraph

I never finished this story, but I so loved this paragraph...

The sun seemed to pour sweat from its long beams of light as it followed the snarling sea of cars that crept through the city. Speedometer needles sporadically leapt to 80 and crawled back down to 10. Doors were locked and windows rolled up, despite the heat. Businessmen glanced nervously at the buildings looming along the edge of the curb. They buildings themselves didn’t seem particularly intimidating. Three to four story brick buildings with neatly lettered signs declaring various businesses: mortgages, money exchange, construction contracting, and bottled water. Yet unlike the rest of the neat brick buildings, no one went in or out of these. People who had to pass on the sidewalk went by without looking.

"I Don't Owe Them Nuthin"

Okay - I lied. A "few days" is apparently too ambitious a timeline. But over the next few weeks, I hope to have found everything. Anyways - here is an interesting one. Even after it's sat for a year and a half, I'm still not sure how I feel about it. Per the instructor it's technically a brilliant piece. Written for my creative writing class, this fiction piece is a modern adaptation of the Town Musicians of Bremen.

The four main characters are "very" loosely based of the characteristics of the 4 animals themselves. (For example, I made the “hound” Avery hairy with scars, I gave the “rooster” Richard red hair, I tried to make Misty’s movements cat-like (jerking or twitching something when she’s annoyed, like a cat lashes a tail), and I made the "donkey" Maurice big, steady, strong and dark.) The point of non-fiction is not to have a conclusive story, but to craft dialogue and descriptions to paint as 3-D a picture of characters as possible without technically getting inside their heads or giving any actual details about their life and story. Leaving the picture as fragmented as when you arrived. (Basically, you restrict yourself with as many rules as possible and see what you can still write.)

Anyways, not my favorite actual story (since like all good modern pieces, the ending doesn't make any sense and I feel vaguely depressed after reading it), but probably the most technically brilliant I have ever written according to modern fiction genre guidelines. And, considering that it cost considerable brain power and several hundred hours of solid slaving, it's worth sticking up here. 

 “I Don’t Owe Them Nuthin”

Maurice shuffled his feet and bent behind a newspaper, the headlines “Georgia State Senate Judge Dodder Removed from Practice” helping his white beard to obscure his dark, wrinkled face. Grime seeped out of the corners of the eerily silent bus station, determinedly avoiding the broom of a reluctant, pimple faced teenage janitor. The broom itself moved so slowly that the dirt slid right underneath the bent bristles, clotting together in the soaking humidity of July.

            The station was mostly empty at this time of morning. Besides the janitor, only five occupants idled about the station. A thin old woman with heavily bleached hair and painted on eyebrows scowled at everyone as she sat primly on her seat and ate an overripe, worn apple. Leaning against the far wall by the ticket booth was a short, muscular old man with long scars etched across his face, disappearing in the mass of grey hair that peeped out of his open cotton shirt. A plump figure enveloped in an expensive black overcoat huddled in the opposite corner to everyone in the room. The only thing that could be seen peeping out of his coat was a sweaty ticket to Harlem, shoved out of the huddle in his hand so that it could plainly be seen by the watchman who circled the station, seeming to hope that the occupants would lose their tickets so that he could have a chance to send them back to the humidity.

            Maurice peered carefully around the paper again, measuring the people in the station, his eyes straying often to the scarred man in the corner. The teenager shoved his dustpan into the corner and slowly removed the lid from the garbage can to empty it. Old cheeseburgers, sour orange juice bottles, cigarette butts and day old abandoned coffees released their scents into the air, seemingly determined for one last bout of recognition. 

            “Attention all passengers expecting bus #568, there’s been a hold-up and she’s expected to be about an hour late,” the bored ticket agent yawned, “We apologize and hope to resume normal schedule short-,” she didn’t bother with the last syllable but switched the mike off, returning to her novel.  

            The scarred man had frozen as she spoke, absently flipping a switchblade open and closed. A soft growl slipped from his thin lips and he flipped his cigarette from his lips to the floor, grinding the warm end deliberately into the cool cement. “I sure wish they’d hurry up, we don’t have all day.”

            The thin woman sniffed and at glared at him, “I’m sure the bus driver is a man. A woman sure wouldn’t be late.”

            “Mistletoe-“

            “Misty,” she corrected angrily, crossing her fishnet clad legs.

            “Whatever, I’ve ain’t never seen a woman do nuthin’ on time.”

            “There ain’t never a good time for nuthin’,” she smirked.

            “Please, please, can we be inconspicuous?” The black lump in the corner stood quickly and moved over to them. “Please? At least until we get out of the city?” the fat man nervously swiped his face with a once-crisp, white handkerchief and smoothed the bits of fading red hair that clung to his scalp. Glancing at the headlines obscuring Maurice’s face, he swore and snatched the newspaper, ripping off the front page and handing the rest back. 

Maurice took the rest of the newspaper back slowly, taking care not to not move his back from it’s rest on the seat, “Could you sit down? You’re giving us all attention now.” Outside a steady wave of voices and the scent of fresh coffee and glazed doughnuts approached; spilling into corners of the different bus stations. The four future passengers in the station moved together into a far corner, avoiding the flow of people trickling into the station.

The fat man looked nervous, “Are you sure this is a good idea Maurice? I mean, won’t everyone follow us to Harlem? What if someone sees us there?”

Misty snorted, “Unlike you, the rest of us ain’t wanted enough to be followed. We’re all too old and stupid.”

The scarred man slid his knife back out his pocket again and began restlessly flipping it open and closed, “Speak for yourself. I think most people would rather see me with a knife in my back. Eh Maurice?”

Maurice shrugged, re-focusing on the two leaning across him to whisper underneath the ears of the station. “If I was mute it wouldn’t matter. I usually know too much. What does it matter anyway? We’re all running from our own devils, aren’t we?”

The scarred man shifted on the metal bench, massaging his bent leg absently. “Question is, is we running from the devils or is we the devils running away from them?”

“Devils are useful,” observed Misty, “and our problem is we ain’t. I’m not saying we ain’t devils, but the devils that we is ain’t even worth running.”

“I sure as hell am,” scowled the scarred man. “I didn’t spend my life making it better for it to be worth nuthin’.”

“Well if it’s worth so much, what’ve you got to show for it? One busted leg and its a ‘goodbye Captain, you’re ain’t enough of a devil anymore, go find your own hell or we’ll send you to one’. The devils that are worth something are all hung full of money and power, it’s us that are the skin and bone devils, not even good enough for a real meal.”

“Oh no, I must beg to disagree. Money and power do not indeed make you infallible. Oh no indeed, whatever it is cannot be chalked up to money and power. Money falls into holes and power is quickly bored when it’s stuck with one person. It only stays as long as that person is strong enough to feed it,” the fat man squashed the news paper fiercely in his hands and began absently shredding the corner.

“Amen to that,” muttered the scarred man, “Man’s got to fight every inch of the way just to keep a bed under his head.” He spoke absently, his narrowed eyes occupied with scrutinizing every person entering the station. Occasionally he tensed, leaning back into the corner as he studied a face an extra moment, before training his eyes on the next passenger, his fingers absently opening and closing a worn switchblade.  

Misty narrowed her beady eyes, “So Avery, you like all egotistical males feel that woman cannot be found in power, it’s only the men that’re worth mentioning.”

Avery snapped his knife closed, looked annoyed. “Now you’re just putting words in my mouth, I don’t hold with that at all. Not at all. I’ve known plenty of women who were a sight more powerful than men.”

Much to Maurice’s relief, the words hissing across his chest finally lapsed into a moody silence, leaving him free to brood quickly, trying to review everything he wanted to have a good think about before it was too late. Before soft drops of lead made a meal of his flesh.

“What’re you so darn shut tight about?” Avery’s abrupt question yanked Maurice’s senses back to the present. He shifted in his seat, trying to re-direct his stagnant blood flow back through his body. Glancing around, he noticed to his surprise that another bus was there, filling with lumps of flesh; lumps of flesh that didn’t think, just breathed.

“Brooding”

“Why?”

Maurice shrugged, “I have a theory about brooding. If everything in a person’s life goes through at least one good brooding, he knows what’s happened in his life. Lots of people say that they wished they’d lived their life differently, but they don’t know how. I think that if there is one person in this world that any man has the right to know properly, it’s himself. I figure if I keep my life regularly brooded over, I’ll know it well enough to know if I’ve lived or not.”

“Well said,” remarked the fat man. “But what if you don’t like what you see?”

“I don’t know what you see matters so much as being able to see, if I were blind-”

“I think all that’s a pile of manish thinkcrap,” Misty interrupted, twitching her skirt angrily, “a woman’s got as much right to know her life as a man does. Why is it only the men that’s ever talked about? What’s all this “he” business? Where’s the “she”?”

Avery rolled his eyes, “You were poorly named in that dove shop. Your tongue’s about the least misty I ever did hear.”

            Misty twisted her lips in a snarl, then snapped them firmly into a tight line as a long, silver bus pulled into the station. Heads, bent over newspapers discussing war overseas and glossy magazines discussing wars of appetites, snapped upward in unison to check the number englossed on the bus front against the numbers on their tickets. Some heads dropped back to their reading, while others hastily gathered bags together, wiped crumbs from their sleeves and discarded breakfast remnants under dusty benches.

Maurice carefully picked up his plain black suitcase and battered saxophone case, pausing to gasp in pain as his back spasmed. Misty gathered her flowered bundles tighter and the fat man busied himself with carefully dusting off his small briefcase, both pretending not to watch Maurice’s weakness. Straightening, Maurice took a deep breath, wrinkling his nose in regret at the sour, old smells that leaked filled his mouth, before leading them slowly to the bus. Avery hastily stuffed the knife into his pocket while eyeing the watchman across the room, grabbed a battered duffel bag and limped after the others towards the bus.

He paused by the entry to watch the passengers, scaring most of them his intense stares and fist clutching a bulging object in his pocket. When the last passenger had boarded, he stepped on to the bottom bus step, pausing behind a skinny, flowered back that swayed slightly as a claw-like hand searched a purse for a ticket. Avery tapped his good foot impatiently, trying his toe trying to squash the ants that ran in a line in front of him carrying away an old peanut butter sandwich. Finally reaching the shriveled driver, he shoved his ticket close to the bespectacled nose.

“You’re going all the way to Harlem too?” The bus driver seemed surprised, “There’s a whole bunch of people on here going there. Not sure why. Is there a convention or something?” His question was innocent and polite, as he slowly marked Avery’s ticket. But Avery flinched, as though someone had threatened to throw something at his face.

“I don’t know,” his voice trailed off and he stared at the ticket for a moment, “but I hear it’s a nice place. There’re different people up there.” The bus driver didn’t seem to hear what Avery said, but nodded placidly as he returned the ticket and closed the bus doors.

 The sun seemed to pour sweat from its long beams of light as it followed the snarling sea of cars that crept through Atlanta. Speedometer needles sporadically leapt to 80 and crawled back down to 10 as the flow of commuters craned to see what smashed humanity crowded their roads this morning, then shoved gas pedals to make up for lost time.

Maurice glanced at his companions. A visible relaxation had swept through the group once the doors had closed, but cords of tension still wound through them and stood out in blood veins and nervously curling fingers.

The fat man nervously glanced around the bus, then moaned and leaned back. “More people have that foolish paper; everyone will know who I am!”

Avery looked at him in disgust, “Rich, you ain’t stopped whining about that since we all met. Would you just shut up and relax? You ain’t in court no more and no one cares. The only ones lookin’ for you are in your head.”

Richard looked affronted, but somewhat relieved by Avery’s opinion. Then he winced and wrinkled his nose, “When was the most recent time you have bathed?”

“What’s the point in bathing?” Avery demanded.

“Well-“

“The purpose of bathing is to make everyone it bothers happy. It don’t bother me, and I surely couldn’t care less about making this stupid world happy. And seeing as they sure as hell don’t want me here, maybe I should remind ‘em I’m still around.”

Richard appealed to Misty, “Does it not bother your feminine sense of smell?”

Misty snorted, “First of all, don’t throw me that feminine crap. It’s men who care about smell, not us. I sure didn’t soak in vats of melted, rotten flowers for my pleasure. And why should it matter anyway? It don’t bother me. My mother never set much store by those scents unless it got her more money, and I don’t neither.”

Maurice suddenly spoke, slowly, “When I was a boy, the smell of blood used to bother me.” Everyone was silent as they stared at their hands. Richard’s were smooth and well cared for, but ink stained his cuticles. Misty’s veins and brown spots contrasted with her bright red fingernails. Avery’s fingers were twisted with long, curving scars. Maurice’s hands were rough, callused.

Finally Avery spoke, “Maybe it used to bother me some to, but it ain’t for a long time now.” His three companions nodded silently.

The bus wove steadily up the east coast, steadily re-circulating the pocketbooks of hundreds of passengers. Avery did not stop snapping his blade open and closed until they had passed through North Carolina and Maurice reminded him that switchblades were illegal in Virginia. They had no trouble keeping their seats; no one would sit anywhere near them. People boarded the bus, threading paths through the aisles of sweaty, mildewed coke and coffee seats. Sneakers clung to the gummed and sticky floor, kicking hamburger wrappers into corners. They did not look at the four old passengers eating stale peanuts near the middle of the bus; they just walked by. 

Avery laughed, “You’d think with all those nasty seats someone might find it more pleasant to sit by us.”

            Rich had stopped staring nervously at the passengers near the Georgia border. Now he stared longingly, self-consciously trying to smooth wrinkles from his suit with his wrinkled hand when passengers shoved by, looking defeated as each passed without acknowledgement. Near the border of North Carolina, Misty snapped, “Would you stop that almighty fidgeting? No one’s going to look at you. There ain’t anything worth looking at anymore.” Richard jerked his once-manicured hand away from his greasy scalp and shoved it into his lap, looking irritated.

            Maurice, who had been watching Misty and Richard from across the aisle leaned over, “Richard, you signed execution warrants and incarcerated people for life. Why aren’t you still hiding?”

            Richard stared at the briefcase always clutched in his lap, and then let it slide softly to the dirty, humming floor by his seat. “They always saw me though, they knew who I was.” He barely whispered, but they all heard.

            “When we left I thought you didn’t want anyone to know you,” Misty’s voice was almost kind. Richard stared out the bug-smeared window. They had watched the clear glass smear as they passed town, city and state boundaries. Bugs smashed one by one against the glass, their exoskeletons exploding their life juices of browns, grays, yellows, and greens. “I thought I didn’t either,” Richard finally answered.    

Halfway through Virginia, after a few hundred browned fields, the passengers noted black clouds of smoke spilling from the bus. Alarmed, they alerted the sleepy driver, who nodded absently and ten miles later lurched the bus abruptly to the right onto the broken road that exited into a small town.

After a thorough examination of the smoldering engine, he peered through thick glasses into the bus and announced in a quavering voice that it would probably not be repaired until at least the next day, and he suggested that they find places to spend the night. Most of the passengers wiped sweating brows, contemplated worn billfolds or empty food supplies, then sullenly reached for cell phones to call awaiting friends or family and complain about the delay.

Rubbing her hip slightly, Misty carefully descended the dirty steps of the bus to the warm, cracked pavement. Flaring her nostrils slightly, she sucked in the air, her chest expanding to hold the Virginia she sucked in, and expelling the stale, foul air from the bus. Her tongue darted around her lips. “It tastes wonderful!” she exclaimed, her lips creasing upwards. Avery, who had stumbled out behind her in time to fill his own lungs with the rich, black smoke rolling from under the engine choked, trying to cleanse the smutty particles from his taste buds. “Yeah,” he coughed, “wonderful.”

Maurice led them all quietly to a tall oak tree on the side of town. After checking the base carefully for fire ant mounds, he declared it safe and they all lay down, since creaking sit bones demanding a horizontal rest. But no matter where they turned, they couldn’t get comfortable. Gnarling roots seemed to grasp spines from all directions, gently twisting rocks into nerves and shoving grass straw down shirts. Maurice’s back spasmed twice and Avery clenched his teeth as a turn onto his side ground a particularly large root into his leg. Sweat dripped slowly, even without physical movement. Misty’s eyebrows ran down her face. Hunger crept up and began singing in their bellies. 

Avery stood up restlessly, massaging his twisted leg, “There ain’t a place in this world that’ll let me be easy for minute now is there?”

Richard groaned as he stood and walked in a circle, eyeballing the small town surrounded by hay fields, trying to force his muscles to recall their long-neglected function. “I don’t have any money for a hotel. Ya’ll?”

Misty shrugged, “I’ve never used money to get a room in a hotel.”

Avery glanced at her, “You’re here because you got too old for clients, not because you got bored with the ones you had.”

Misty glared at him, furiously. “And you’re so much better? How just because of a bad fall you couldn’t even keep five poor souls in line?” she snapped.

Avery glared at her angrily, “Keep your shirt on, I only meant that your methods wouldn’t work here. And as for the boys, they weren’t idiots. I just waren’t useful to them anymore.” He pulled his knife from his pocked and began restlessly flipping it open and closed.

 “But you was the one that started it,” snapped Misty, her voice losing its steadiness, “They wouldn’t ever have even made a deal if you hadn’t started it. At least someone else started me, I was never in control. But you, you should’ve controlled them, you should’ve. You were the boss! Who do they think they are? Who are any of us? We ain’t useless. We ain’t! They had no right, nobody’s got a right to just kick you out, no right-” She stopped speaking suddenly, her chest heaving.

Into the humid silence Maurice spoke softly, examining a smooth leaf in his hands for holes, “I thought once if I helped the world, it would help me. Like a bank, you know? You deposit your life and then you’re supposed to be able to withdraw.” His fingers found a hold in the corner of the leaf and began pulling, separating the veins on the leaf, letting the shreds sift through his open fingers to the ground, green bits rolling past newborn pink palms to black, calloused fingers. “I guess you can’t trust bankers though, can you?”

Misty watched his leaf, mesmerized. Abruptly, she grabbed her flowered bag, pulling a small bottle and a feathery white shirt from inside. She poured the contents of the bottle on her shirt and began frantically scrubbing her chipped red nails. Maurice’s nostrils tingled as the acetone brushed against his receptor cells. They all stared, mesmerized, as the red paint came off, staining her white shirt, filling it with red. Finally she stopped, staring at her hands, reddened now only by her fierce scrubbing.  

Grasshoppers, frogs and crickets were the only sounds filling the dead silence. Finally Richard leaped to his feet. “Hell, what are we doing here? We don’t need people.” Misty emptied her bag unto the ground. She poured out bottles of perfume and smeared her makeup on the grass, viciously; broken bits tumbling past the blades of grass and nestling at their bases with the dirt. When she finished, Avery pulled her to her feet, slowly closing his knife.

“I think there’s one in this town,” he said quietly.

Richard looked surprised, “Are you sure?” Avery nodded.

Richard shook himself, rumpling the strands of hair that clung to his scalp and carelessly creasing his shirt, “Well, I don’t see why it needs to be Harlem.”

Misty smiled, “I like fresh grown tomatoes, straight from the garden. No supermarket in-between.”

 They all looked at Maurice. His callused hands shook as he contemplated them slowly, like an old man trying to read a book. Finally he looked up, “I don’t owe them nuthin’.”

They followed Avery to the town. The town wasn’t dirty or clean, just empty with a little clutter. He walked straight through, counting road names, peering through the settling darkness. He wound through the quiet streets, past the tiny town inn and old gas station. The pumps at the station were square with white on black numbers that scrolled up, nothing digital. Two old second-hand stores, loaded to the brim with scarred wooden furniture, patched curtains, musty books and old instruments. The warm air had sunk into the pavement, leaving the air cold. They passed a junkyard, everything neatly organized in piles. Maurice commented, “This town doesn’t kick anything out does it?”

In front of a dimly lit older house on the end of town, Avery stopped abruptly, as if reading a sign. Young weeds grew tall around the sturdy brown, framed building, clutching at the sides, choking the old weeping willow tree. Nodding in satisfaction, Avery silently climbed the clipped green steps to the door and opened his knife. Maurice paused by the base of the willow tree to open his battered saxophone case. Six gleaming pistols nestled in the crushed red velvet. Selecting one, he handed two more to Richard and Misty. They didn’t speak, but nodded.

Avery yanked the whining screen door and kicked the second door inward. Two trim men dressed in identical business slacks and ties looked up, startled, their hands frozen over the piles of white powder on the table.

“Let the blood run,” Avery shouted. The men relaxed at his words, hands quickly returning to their work. The blonde man answered “The blood runs red, what is it?”

“Your blood is gonna run red. Tip-off. State wide.”

The men looked bewildered, then incredulous, “Hey, what’re you smoking old man?” The redhead looked irritated, shoving his dark hand through his slicked back hair, flaking dried gel onto the floor. “We would of heard of it, now why don’t you get-“ The table suddenly jerked as three round holes appeared in the center of the unvarnished wood table, sending powder into the eyes of one man and splinters into the arm of the other.

Maurice stepped into the room, waving a badge, “FBI!” He roared, “Hands down! On the ground!” With a startled squeal, the two men leapt up, throwing a wooden chair at Maurice as they ran out the backdoor. A car door slammed and wheels screeched against the cooling pavement, the sound strange in the peaceful night.

The four stood silently for a moment, looking at the house like someone returned from a long trip. Then Richard quietly walked to the fridge and pulled out salami and cheese. Misty moved to the cupboard and found some cans of pears. Avery swept the white powder into a battered garbage can, coating discarded orange peels and pizza crusts with a fine, new film. Maurice put his old ID badge in his pocket and searched the white, painted cupboards for dishes. Avery reached for a broom to sweep the floor but Richard caught his arm, “Leave it. We don’t have to clean it if we don’t want to.” Avery smiled, put his knife inside a kitchen drawer and closed it with a firm click.    

 

The Ten Lepers

This is one of my oldest surviving stories. I wrote this over five years ago, back in my senior year of high school. It isn't the most brilliant thing I've ever written, and some of the dialogue is really bad, but it remains one of my favorites because of the experience I had writing it. I love, love the scriptures and I love wondering what people's lives were really like or what their stories might have been. This was a sketch I did trying to see what it might have been like to be to be that 10th leper. People always sketch lepers as adults, but I don't see why the lepers couldn't have been younger...or female.

“Rat! Dirty Jewish pig! Get out of here! Go back to the swine where you belong!” The Samaritan boys’ taunting shouts filled the air as they threw rotten garbage at the Jewish girl trying to slip through the circle surrounding her. The adults hurrying busily through the street ignored her predicament.

The city of Roama was located in the lower part of Samaria, about a three weeks journey from the nearest seaports. Because Roama was so close to Judah and other Jewish settlements, the age-old enmity between Jews and Samaritans was particularly sharp. Both the Jews and the Samaritans would travel miles out of their way to avoid each other. Any Jew living in a Samaritan city would receive no help from any natives; abuse was encouraged. For these boys, it was a weekly sport to catch this particular Jewess as she passed by on her way to the lower end of the city. (While there was some antagonism, the people from the lower level were too focusing on surviving to particularly care about the Jewess’ ancestry.) Spotting a hole in the circle as a boy turned to grab some rotten fruit, the Jewess broke through, the boys’ taunts and garbage following her…

            David ben Solomon watched her go with a satisfied smirk. “That will teach those filthy Jews to wander in our city,” he muttered. David didn’t understand why she lived in Roama. She did not appear to have any family and everyone hated her. She worked odd jobs all day around the city to get a few scraps of moldy bread, though many refused to pay her afterwards. Once he had seen her try selling woven baskets, but no one would buy them. Her ventures had been completely quashed when the boys in the area had followed her home one night and destroyed the rest of her baskets. If she was lucky, she might find a corner to sleep in where beating sticks, chamber pots, and curses were not raining down upon her. David was surprised she had not left for a Jewish settlement…

            “DAVID!” Abria was standing behind him. Hands on hips, braids shaking, she glowered at him. “Me and Raya have been calling you for at least fifteen minutes! Mama sent us to get you. It’s dinnertime and Papa is coming home, so you’d better change. And you’d better hurry or I’m going to tell on you for throwing garbage again!” David laughed at her pretended indignation. His younger sisters loved delivering messages; they considered it a marvelous opportunity to tell him what to do. He playfully held up his dirty hands and pretended to pat her braids, “EWWWWW DAVID!” Abria protested shrilly as he laughed again and ran home. 

               

            Quickly, he ducked up the back stairs and into his room to clean up and change his robes. Their home was one of the few on the street that could boast of two staircases rather than ladders. Roama’s location between major seaports and cities made it a very profitable location for trade. His father, Solomon, was one of the richest merchants in the city, and the house bustled with preparations for the feast to welcome him home.

            Hastily, David finished changing and tossed his dirty clothes in the corner for Lev, his servant, to have cleaned. Ducking down the backstairs, he went into the back kitchen to grab some food for his growling stomach. Although it had only been a few hours, it felt like forever since he had last eaten.  

            The kitchen bustled with servants busily preparing the platters for the table. Lamb, olives, fresh bread, figs, herbs, honey, and roasted fish were a few of the platters he saw being carried out to the low table where dinner was served. His fingers dipped swiftly onto a nearby tray and grabbed some grapes. “Yeva, is father home yet?” The harassed kitchen servant turned and glowered at him as she replaced the missing grapes on the elaborate fruit arrangement. “He is indeed, and it’s in better standing you’d be if you’d get up there and greet him instead of stealing food from the kitchen,” she shooed him out with a towel.

            As David ducked into the dining room, he ran directly into his father. “David!” Solomon’s deep voice boomed out. David hastily jumped back and bowed his head, “Shalom, Father.” David felt himself too old to use the more familiar “papa” title. Solomon was a tall, muscular man with shrewd eyes and a commanding presence. He held David at arm’s length and studied him with a pleased look, “You certainly have grown tall.”

            “And he eats like it to,” David’s mother remarked as she entered the room. Marian was a graceful women with, long, dark brown hair just streaked with gray. She smiled affectionately at him. David glowed, since his father had last been home, nine months ago, his 16-year-old frame had grown four inches and filled out to match. Standing between his parents, his light brown hair, and sturdy build were duplicates of his father; his warm brown eyes flecked with green, a heritage from his mother.

            “Excellent. I have received good reports from your tutors and I have decided that you are ready to join me on my next trip to Tarsha in a few months. You will oversee most of the transaction.”

            “Yes sir!”

            David was excited. As the eldest, he was expected to take over the family business. However, up to now, his experience had been limited to working at his father’s warehouse, driving camel teams, loading ships, and watching his father negotiate with other merchants. It was a bit unusual for an eldest son of David’s age not to have yet done a business transaction, but his father had felt that he was too impulsive and needed more physical labor first. At his mother’s gentle nudge, David stirred from his daze of excitement and followed his father into the dining room. They all gathered around a low table, his father and mother, little sisters Abria and Raya, and younger brother Ephraim. They bowed their heads, and Solomon began the long prayer on the meal….

                         

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

            “Where is she?” one of the boys grumbled, scanning the street again for the Jewess. “She’s always here, and we’ve been waiting an hour!”

            “You don’t know that Jonathon. We haven’t been here in weeks.” A dark-haired boy scoffed as he joined the circle. The festivities brought by the return of Solomon’s caravan had lasted for several weeks, distracting the boys from their normal pursuits. After the excitement had ended, neglected chores and studies had reluctantly occupied their attention and the boys’ itching for distraction had driven them to street prowling again.

            “Oh, she’s hasn’t been here for the past four weeks,” Adamin reported as he arrived. He lived several houses down and saw everyone who went by.

            “Maybe she finally got smart and went home,” Kumin muttered.

            “Well she’s obviously not coming,” David interjected. “And I have to go home, my father is leaving for Tarsha in the morning and I will accompany him. I’m going to oversee most of the dock loading and the final transactions.” He swelled a bit at the envious looks on the other boy’s faces. They wished him luck and loitered away in separate directions.

            David ran home. As he raced around the corner to the front door, he almost knocked over a man entering the house. “Shalom, sir” he said, hastily bowing his head in respect when he saw that it was the head priest Ezria.

           

            David had never been on the best of terms with Ezria. Ever since an occasion four years ago when David had contracted a strangely incurable case of the hiccups during one of the head priest’s long speeches, Ezria had disliked him. Certain mischievous impulses and slightly disrespectful remarks over the past few years had strengthened the antagonism between them. Solomon, however, strongly admired Ezria and consulted him often. David had to hide his dislike as Ezria often came on business.

           

            Ezria raised his bushy eyebrows and scowled at David. David bowed his head and tried to look repentant, impatient to hurry inside. Finally, Ezria turned from David in distaste and abruptly entered the house. David followed softly.

            Later that evening, David was undressing when he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. “Lev!” he called, “Would you see if there’s something stuck in my shoulder? It’s been there for awhile I think, but it didn’t hurt before.” Lev came in silently and lifted the tunic from his left shoulder. Upon looking, he gave a sharp exclamation and ran from the room. David was confused.

            “Wait! What is it?” Silence answered.

            Moments later, he heard running feet. Solomon, Lev, and Ezria the high priest burst in. Lev grabbed David’s arm, roughly turned him so his back was to Ezria, and quickly rent the tunic from David’s shoulder. His father held up a lamp for Ezria as the high priest examined the back of David’s shoulder. After studying it for a minute, Ezria murmured an affirmative to David’s father. Solomon made a strange moaning sound, and gave low-toned instructions to Lev, who ran from the room. Quickly, Ezria and Solomon grabbed David’s arms and began forcibly escorting him out the front door. Two waiting guards grabbed him and proceeded to drag him through the city, remaining silent to his questions. A crowd collected and began following. Among them were the boys David had been with a few hours before.

            When they reached the edge of the city, Ezria seized the front of David’s clothing, tore it, and placed a bell on his neck. While David stared at him with increasing dread, Ezria proclaimed, “Leprosy! Thou art cursed of God!” The crowd recoiled in horror. Leprosy was the worst disease of the time and the most feared by everyone. It was deadly.

            “You are banished from association with any except those of your kind, unless the Lord God Almighty sees fit to remove this curse from you!”                                                                                       

            David was reeling, trying to comprehend it all. Leprosy? Him? “Father?” his voice was a plea, “But I’m to go to Tarsha with you tomorrow!”

            At Solomon’s expression, his voice faltered and he said weakly, “May I not even see Mama? Abria and Raya? Ephraim?” His voice completely died away at the cold look on his father’s face.

            “No, you have already contaminated us enough. Heaven bless us that it will stay with you,” his father said frigidly. As David searched the crowd’s eyes, he saw no kindness or pity, only cold terror of the disease. His beseeching eyes rested a moment on Adamin, one of his best friends. Adamin only stared back in horror and backed away into the crowd. Lev arrived carrying several bundles and a goatskin. His father flung them to him, clothing, sandals, a blanket, a bundle of food, and a goatskin of water. Ezria turned and walked away, the crowd followed. Solomon was the last to finally turn around and leave.

            David stared at the crowd’s retreating backs until his father was out of sight. Finally, he picked up the bundles, turned, and walked away, the tinkling of the bell his sole companion in the drawing blackness of night.

            He wandered for days, as though in a dream, unable to comprehend his sudden change in station. Was it only hours and days before when he had been the first-born son of Solomon ben Daniels? About to leave for Tarsha to follow in his father’s footsteps? Heir to the possessions of the richest man in Roama? Now he was a leper, shunned by all he met, wandering with his shattered dreams and the dreary moan of the wind. The tinkling of his bell warned all to stay away from him. It was his curse, yet he could not part from the only sound to enter his empty world. One plaintive question in his mind continued, why had God cursed him so? And if it was a curse, was it better to struggle for survival? Or give up and let himself return to God’s presence for judgment? He had obviously done something terrible to deserve such judgment.

            Months passed. Despite his careful rationing and begging, his food ran out. He licked every stale crumb from the cloth his bread had been wrapped in. As the hotter days drew on, water sources dried up. No one would allow him near their wells, and he began to starve. Trained as a rich man’s son in all the arts and the wiles of negotiations, he had never learned survival skills. His clothing tore, his sandal straps broke, and his attempts to repair them were so crude as to be almost useless.

     His stomach squeezed with hunger, his strength was gone, his tongue swelled with thirst, his leprosy had spread, and his shoulder was often in agony. His leathery, coarse skin burned with fever. He was so dehydrated that the ridges of his fingers stood up, limp without water to sustain them. Soon, he collapsed, too weak, hurt, sore, sick, and miserable to even care about life anymore. He wished for death.

                                                 

                                                       ***********

            “Easy now,” a voice broke through the hazy mist surrounding him. David felt water touch his parched tongue and a cool touch or wet cloth on his head. He struggled a moment for consciousness, then gave up and sank back into an uneasy sleep…

                                                       ***********

            David woke to the murmur of voices and opened his eyes; his vision swam for a moment before settling on the gray stone over his head. Startled, he looked around and saw that he was in a cave. His fingers brushed cold stone as he tried to sit up. The murmur outside stopped and footsteps approached. Someone from behind helped him up and offered water. He drank eagerly until it was taken away. “That’s it for now,” a musical voice lilted by his head. He turned slowly, and looked full into a familiar face.

“You!” he gasped. It was the Jewish girl, the one who had disappeared from Samaria what seemed like a lifetime ago. From the look of her face, he surmised that it was the same reason he had been forced out.

“Me,” she smiled. “I see that you’re back among the living a bit,” as she moved away he heard the soft tinkle of her bell.   

            Looking around he noticed that the cave walls were lined with piles of blankets and clothing. He realized that he was in one of these piles, and summarized that they were beds. A rusty pot of some kind of soup simmered over a fire pit just outside the cave entrance. The Jewish girl was standing next to it blowing on a ram’s horn. David examined her as she began dishing up wooden bowls of soup. She wasn’t particularly pretty, maybe if she were healthy with proper nourishment. Her long, brown hair hung in a dirty, limp braid. Her warm, dark brown eyes stood out sharply in her to-thin face, which was distorted on the left side by leprosy. She had a pronounced limp, he noted; possibly had leprosy on her leg or foot. That or someone had thrown a rock a little too hard in the city before.

            He turned his attention to those gathering around the soup, all lepers; he must be in a leper colony. But how had he gotten there? Had the person who rescued him seen his bell and brought him here? Why on earth was the Jewish girl helping him? What did she want? As the thoughts raced rapidly through his head, he felt dizzy and lay down. Soon, the Jewish girl approached him with a bowl of broth. “Eat,” she ordered, as he attempted to avoid the spoon of broth.

            “I can feed myself.”  

            She cocked her head, “Oh really?” Handing him the spoon and bowl, she indicated for him to begin. Annoyed, he tried to take a spoonful, but quickly found that she was correct, he couldn’t even lift the spoon.

            She continued to watch in amusement. David glowered at her, “I can do it myself! But you’re watching me. I can’t eat when you’re watching me.”

            “Why? Afraid I’ll contaminate you? It’s a little late for that,” she shrugged and joined the other lepers by the fire. A comment from her made them burst out laughing. David felt his ears burning as he tried to turn his back to them, the effort caused him to fall over, spilling the broth across the floor. The Jewish girl came back with an annoyed look on her face.

            “If you don’t want it just say so. Don’t throw it all over the floor; food is hard to come by!” David was too frustrated and embarrassed to say anything as he futilely attempted to push himself back unto his bed.

            “You know, you’re going to have to learn to use another arm for awhile, that arm is bound up to get the grime out of the sores on your shoulder.” She finished cleaning up the broth and returned with a partial bowl full, dipped the spoon, and held it up to his mouth.

            “Now eat, and no more nonsense” she said sternly. Too hungry to argue anymore, he finally complied. Between spoonfuls of the smelly but surprisingly good soup, he began asking questions.

            “Where am I?”

            “You are in the leper colony outside of Samaria.”

            “Who brought me here?”

            “I did,” she answered, taking advantage of his dropped-open mouth to stuff in another spoonful. David hastily swallowed to avoid dribbling hot broth across his clothes.

            “Why?” Her face indicated that it was a dumb question.

            “Because otherwise you would have shriveled up and died, would you have preferred to shrivel up and die?” David muttered something unintelligible.

            “What?”

            “I said maybe.”

            A new voice suddenly joined their conversation, “Ah come now lad, leprosy isn’t so bad, extremely painful and very lonely of course, and it certainly makes strange bedfellows, but all in all, you know that you’re dying and don’t have to worry about asking that question.” A formerly big man leaning heavily on a staff hobbled over, followed by the rest of the lepers. “My name’s Avriam,” David saw now why he hobbled, his toes were mostly gone and his feet were misshapen.

            “What’s your name lad?”

            “David”

            “Alright David, this here is Yehoyakim, Gad, Hodiya, Kaniel, Lavi, Liron, Maher, Yeshar, Amel, and Tamir.” Each man nodded in turn as his name was called. Most weren’t as chipper as Avriam; rather, they appeared surly and sour.

            “Ah don’t listen to him, cursed men we are, hated everywhere, miserable existence it is, and just look at the company,” Maher said in disgust as he glowered around him. “Hopefully boy you’re not one of those Jewish swine?”

            David was confused, glancing at the Jewish girl he saw that her knuckles were turning white as they gripped her spoon. “If you will excuse me” she said as she stood up abruptly and strode off.

            Yeshar angrily leaped to his feet “I warned you Maher!”

            “I was addressing the boy, not you.”

            “I come from Samaria,” David said quickly.

            Maher smiled, “There see? At least there is some pure stock!”

            “It’s not the Jews that are the mixed breed,” Yasher hissed. Instant argument arose between them. Avriam grabbed the two and flung them apart, “Go fight outside!” he snapped. Grumbling, they moved swiftly outdoors, where yelling, cursing and fists began to fly in a rather awkward dance, seeing as both were missing various limbs. Avriam turned apologetically to face David.

            “Sorry about that, they’re rather opinionated. You’ll get used to it after awhile.”

            “Don’t you care?” David asked

            “Oh no, you see first of all I could crush any one of them and they know it. Second, as I said, leprosy makes for strange bedfellows. I say we’re all outcasts of our peoples, so we’re all our own people.”

  

            “How come you only have one female?” David asked

            Aviriam shrugged, “Females for some reason don’t usually contract leprosy, or at least they don’t usually come out here. We have a rather small colony.”

            “Who is she?”

            “Her name is Kadia.” Avriam cocked his head. “But I thought you already knew her, she said you’ve met before.” With that, he stood up to leave. “Well you had better be getting to sleep, you’ve been very sick, should be dead too.” David sighed, shook his whirling thoughts away, and tumbled into sleep…                                                        

                                                 ***********

            It was several weeks before David worked up the courage to speak to her again. After he had claimed Samaritan heritage, she avoided him. He spent those days recuperating and attempting to work his muscles. While Kadia was checking on him one morning, he made another attempt. Glancing at her, he noted the hostile look in her eyes nervously.

            “Um, ah, Kadia?” She barely glanced at him as she checked his shoulder.

            “Yes?”

            “Why… why are, why are you helping me?”

            She sat back on her heels and studied him. “Well that’s a good question, you really don’t deserve it. It’s not like you have been that gracious about it, and you are one of those terrible despised Samaritans,” she shrugged, “I can’t really tell you now, except that everyone who is alone needs a hand.”

            Her gaze went right through him as he colored and looked away. He certainly hadn’t helped her when she had most needed it. Had he been in her situation when she found him, he wouldn’t have bothered to stop at all, except maybe to gloat at the reversed positions. He still couldn’t get over how she just ignored his Samaritan blood. 

            “Well, um, ah…” he stuttered for a moment, fumbling nervously with his sleeve. Kadia waited, “Yes?”

            He swallowed, but finally managed to force the words out. “Thank you.” After a slightly surprised look, a tiny smile crossed her face. “You’re welcome.”

            A shadow fell over them “Buddying up to our Samaritan now aren’t we little pig?” Maher hissed. His insult was particularly cutting as he had called her an unclean animal. Kadia’s face tightened, David was angry.

            “Leave her alone Maher.”

            “What? Changing religions already? You shame your family.”

            “Go away now,” David hissed angrily as he struggled to get up. His muscles were still weak from lack of exercise however and he sweated as he tried to move.

            Maher leaned over him and kicked Kadia, “Make me.”

            A firm hand clapped down on Maher’s shoulder. “I think it’s time you leave. One more such incident and you may leave our colony as well.” Maher shrugged the hand off angrily and strode out. Avriam glanced at them, turned, and hobbled away. Kadia quickly finished with David’s shoulder and turned to go. “Why didn’t you hit him or something? Why don’t you answer him?” David demanded, “He has no right to treat you like that.”

            She sighed, “What good would that do? He is a good deal stronger than me, especially with my leg. Besides, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth doesn’t do anyone any good.”

            David snorted, “If Moses had followed that principle we’d still be in Egypt.” Kadia shook her head, “Moses didn’t return blow for blow. He knew when to answer and when to be patient.”

            “It certainly seemed like it to me,” David disagreed. “For each punishment Pharaoh inflicted on us, Moses returned greater evil on him.”

            “God was in charge there. God returned the greater evil, and with an entire nation’s future at stake, I think there was a slight difference in importance between them and me.”

            “If God did it, we should to."

            “David, you are not a God and that is blasphemous! God judges our hearts and he knows when it is best to chastise and when to bless.”

            “Right, like God even cares about us.”

            “David!”

            “Think about it, if he cared so much about me, then why am I sitting here wasting my life in a leper colony?” David demanded.

            “And why was I born and abandoned in a city where I was hated my entire life? Why was I given leprosy? I can tell you that the leprosy that forced me out of Romoa was a blessing to me. Life here has been much kinder then it ever was there.”

            David was stung into silence. “As for you, I have no idea why you were sent here, life has no simple answers. I do not know that leprosy is a curse; perhaps it’s a test to learn to appreciate the good in life. Things taken for granted, like your home, family, friends, even your physical body. Maybe,” she glanced at him challengingly, “It’s given to learn what its like to be despised by all you meet.” David opened his mouth to give an angry retort and found that there really wasn’t anything he could say. Grabbing his blanket, he rolled over and ignored her.

                              

                                                     ***********

            Over the next few years, David fell into a strange rhythm. He learned to work, eat things he never would have in his life, and to live with pain, extreme pain. Learning to work was an interesting adjustment that took awhile. Although David was used to menial labor from working at his father’s warehouse, his jobs had always been relatively clean. At the colony, he initially balked at the idea of picking through old bread to extract bugs or using feces to fertilize the small garden Kadia had planted. However, after several altercations with Avriam, he reluctantly did his duty. At one point, Kadia disgustedly compared his arrogance to Maher. Following this jibe, David stopped complaining and began working harder.

  As the leprosy continued its steady destroying hand, everyone was affected. Simple tasks became extremely painful due to mangled limbs. As leprosy spread to his hands, David learned to rely on those with a steady arm and clear hands to help with simple tasks such as dressing, washing, and eating. In turn, he would help those who could not walk due to their feet and leg leprosies. Lavi, one of the quiet men in the colony, shrank to under a hundred pounds and had to be carried due to his shriveled legs. The leprosy apparently had a sense of justice; two years after David arrived, Maher was the first to be buried.

            Over time, David finally won the respect of and became good friends with Kadia. They spent hours talking. He learned much about her, although she knew very little of her childhood. She couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t in Samaria working for something somewhere, she was pretty sure that she had gotten lost there when she was very little, or abandoned. She had contracted leprosy over a year before leaving Romoa, but she had thought it was just a rash. It was not until she saw a case of real leprosy that she realized what her own was and left. She knew that if she had stayed, she risked infecting the rest of the population. Also, if she was discovered, she would be cruelly expelled from the city.  

            As they talked one day, the subject came up of the Jesus, the carpenter’s son who was reputed to be a prophet, healing many, and preaching a strange doctrine. Kadia said she had heard much of his teachings from listening to passerby’s from her lookout. Over the roadway, a cliff jutted out just enough to provide nice shade to stop and rest on an otherwise inhospitable road. Perched in a niche atop the cliff, Kadia was able to overhear anything discussed. Although several of the men laughed at her for even caring what happened to the rest of the world, everyone listened eagerly when she would return with fresh news or ideas to discuss. When she mentioned Jesus however, David scoffed at most of his ideas.

            “Why on earth should we love our enemies? Are you telling me that you prayed for Maher? Or the people who threw garbage and dung at you in the Roama? That is the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

            “David if I thought that way you would be dead.”

            David was silent for a moment as he pondered this. “How could you help me? Especially after I was so cruel back in Samaria?”

            “Once, when I was about eleven, living in Roama, I stole some bread from an older woman in the market square. She caught me and brought me back to her stall. She didn’t yell at me for stealing, she didn’t even take it back. Instead of spitting at me because I was Jewish, she gave me three more loaves of bread and some dates from her lunch. She then told me that if I was ever hungry enough to steal again to come back. I never did. She was so gracious I felt ashamed of stealing. I determined that day to try to copy her graciousness and never stole again. I used to dream of having enough to help someone like that one day, but I never did. So, when I saw you, I almost passed by, then the picture of her face came to my mind and I knew she wouldn’t.”

                                                

                                                         *********

            As the days passed, Kadia’s leprosy became worse, much worse. Her legs became so bad that she could not even get out of bed. She became very sick, her gums deteriorated and she couldn’t eat anything more than very thin broth. It hurt David badly to see her in so much pain. He spent most of his time with her in the cave, bringing her any news of Jesus he could get. One day she grabbed his hand and said, “Promise me, if Jesus comes near here, you will go to him and be healed, and then promise that you will go home to your family.” David had been gone for four years, and he sorely missed his home.

            “Why would he heal me? I’m a leper. Lepers are unclean, being near us is like eating swine. Besides that, I’m a Samaritan. Jews hate Samaritans.”

            “David, you just must believe, he will heal you if you believe. Besides, healing you has nothing to do with eating you,” she smiled in amusement “and unless you’ve forgotten, I am Jewish. I do not think I have quite thrown you out the door.”

            David shook his head, “What about you? Won’t you go be healed then?”

            Kadia was silent. “David, I am not going to make it much longer”

            “That’s ridiculous, don’t talk that way”

            “David, it hurts to even talk and I can barely move; my leprosy is progressing extremely fast. Please, promise me, I want you to meet him for me.” David promised and abruptly left with a mumbled excuse about getting a drink.

            As he angrily stumbled out of the cave, the cruel sunlight seared his vision, which was accustomed to the dim light of the cave. Clapping his hands over his eyes, he fell on the ground and lay there for a moment before he attempted to force his eyes open. Trying to blink away the lights dancing in his head, he stumbled away from the cave and ran as fast as he could. What seemed like miles later, he collapsed and stared at the desolate desert before him. “Oh God, how can you do this?” He demanded, angrily kicking at a rock, “How can you allow so much pain in this world?” Tears streamed softly down his face as he cried for a long, long time.

                                                                         

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

Two months later…

            “He’s coming! He’s coming!!!” Amel burst into camp as fast as he could hobble, crying the news. Everyone was gathered for lunch, but bowls clattered to the group as everyone turned in surprise.

            “Who’s coming?” Avriam asked

            “Jesus! Jesus is coming! If we leave now we should meet him on the road!” Avriam shook his head, “He’s Jewish Amel, he would never heal us.”

            Amel fiercely shook his head, “That may be, but think of what might happen if he does? It may be our only chance!” The others agreed and everyone began hurriedly preparing to leave. David dropped his food and ran into the cave.

            “Kadia! Kadia!” David exclaimed as he gently shook her awake. “Jesus is coming!”

            Rolling her eyes toward him, she fought to form the word, “Go.” David shook his head, “You’re coming to,” he insisted. Kadia shook her head and pointed to her legs.

            “I’ll carry you,” he said stubbornly. She smiled sadly and indicated that he could hardly carry himself. David had to admit she was right, and no one else could carry her either, most were worse off than he was. Straining, she forced her vocal chords to rasp out a few words.

            “Go and see him, you promised! Then go home to your family.” With that, she fell back to sleep, too exhausted to speak further.

            “David! Are you coming lad? We must leave now!” Avriam called. Reluctantly David got to his feet, grabbed his staff, and joined them. I’ll ask the Master to heal her instead of me. If anyone has faith to be healed, she does…

                                                        **********

            They arrived early at the spot Jesus was to pass by, and sat down to wait. David heard the approach before he saw him, a large group of people surrounded Jesus. The sight of the man banished all thoughts from David’s mind but the desire of being healed and going home. As soon as Jesus was within earshot the lepers fell down together on their knees and cried out, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” Jesus stopped and looked at them. David thought that he had never before seen such compassion on a man’s face.

            “Go,” Jesus said in a firm, gentle voice, “Show yourselves to the priests.” With those words, he turned and continued on his way.

            “Why should we do that?” Amel wondered aloud. David was confused as well. Although the lepers were allowed to go near the outskirts of civilization, they were not allowed to enter where a priest would be. However, they arose obediently and went to the nearby village where they often begged near for food and headed for the synagogue.

            David was helping Liron, who was crippled in his feet, to walk. As they entered the village, Liron suddenly gave a cry of wonder, let go of David, and stood upon his feet. Avriam gasped and held his hand up to the light “I’m whole!” he cried out in amazement. David grabbed his tunic and rolled it up to stare at his arm. It was clean. The familiar pain and sores were gone. A feeling of pure joy welled up in him and spilled out as he shouted, “Hosanna to God! He is real! And he does care!” Tears of joy came from all as they stared at themselves and realized they were healed. Hodiya gave a shout and broke into a run for the synagogue to show the priest that he was healed, the others followed.                                                              

            David stopped, “Wait! We must thank him!” The others ignored him and continued to run as fast as they could. David turned and ran back to where he had last seen Jesus. David found Jesus as he entered the village. With a soft cry, David ran to him and fell down at his feet, tears of joy streaming down his face. “Master, Master, I thank thee, I thank thee.”

            Jesus answered him in a gentle voice, “Were there not ten cleansed? Where are the other nine?” David looked up into the deep blue eyes, piercing, yet filled with compassion and mercy; he felt a stab of shame for those who did not return. Jesus turned to those with him and said, “There are not found that returned to give glory to God, save this stranger” David humbly bowed his head.

            Jesus addressed him again, “Arise, go thy way: thy faith hath made thee whole.” At those words, David felt as though a great cleansing had purged his soul. He felt fire burn within, and he felt all his hatred rooted out of him. As he closed his eyes and drank in the feeling, his life seemed to rush by his eyes. As he thought of Ezria, Maher, his father, and all of those he had been angry with for so long, he suddenly felt forgiveness in his heart. He felt cleansed from his cruelty back in Roama, which had haunted him for so long. As he felt these sensations, he suddenly felt that the second gift had been greater than the first. Standing on his feet, he turned to leave; suddenly, he remembered Kadia.

            “Master, wait!”

            David ran after Jesus again. Jesus turned to him and waited. “Master,” he said with his head bowed, “I know I have no right to ask anything more, you have already done more for me than I can ever re-pay. But I have a friend, her name is Kadia, she believed on you long before me, she taught me to believe in thee. If anyone has faith, it is her. She has more than I ever will, please, can you heal her? If needed, give me back my leprosy, heal her instead,” tears streamed softly down his face.

            Jesus gently placed his hand on David’s shoulder. As David looked up, he saw tears in Jesus’ own eyes, and suddenly felt as though Jesus knew everything about him. Everything in his life, all about Kadia, everything, and he understood. As David felt that intensive scrutiny, he understood why Kadia and others felt so strongly about this man. He was not just a prophet. David was not sure what he was, but he knew that this Jesus was not an ordinary man. In fact, he seemed so familiar. After looking into David’s eyes for a moment longer the Master said gently, “Go thy way, her faith, which is great, hath made her whole.” David fell down at his feet again in gratitude, he then arose and stepped back as the Master went on his way. Turning, David ran back to the cave as fast as he could. He ran for several hours, stopping only a few times briefly to rest; spurred on by an intense desire to see Kadia and know that she was alive.

            Arriving at the cave, gasping for breath, he burst inside to where he had left her. He stopped short; she was not there. For a sickening moment, he wondered if she had already died and someone had come along and buried her. But that was ridiculous, who would know that she was here? And who would come in a leper colony?

            “You look like Goliath has been a’chasing you” a wonderfully familiar voice lilted behind him. Spinning around he saw her standing behind him, whole.  

            “Kadia!” he cried out and ran to her. He picked her up and spun her around. Laughing and crying they held each for a long time. Finally, David looked into her face and said, “He’s real! He is sent from God! I saw his face, and he looked at me and knew me, he’s real. He knew who you were too.”

            Kadia smiled, “I know. I was lying in that corner a few hours ago; I knew I was going to die, and then I felt a touch on my head, as though someone was standing next to me. I felt Him, and I knew it was Him, and suddenly, I was whole. No pain, it was perfect. For a minute I thought I died, but I sat up and pinched myself until I knew it was real.” Suddenly she glanced around, “What are the chances do you think of getting leprosy again by staying here?”

            David quickly grabbed her hand and ran down the hill. Once they reached the base, they slowed down. “I don’t know” he answered, “I don’t really want to find out though, let’s go to the village and see the priest. Then we can go home to my family”

            Kadia shook her head, “David, I’m Jewish. I would not ever be accepted by your family. They will disown you if you try to bring me home. You cannot risk that just to have me meet your family.”

            “What difference does it make?” David demanded, “Besides, what else are you going to do? There really aren’t very many options for an orphaned Jewish girl to find employment.”

            Kadia smiled, “Perhaps I could build my own little place with a tiny garden. I could have a career selling strange soup; I’ve become quite skilled in that area you know. But really David, you do realize how odd it would appear for you to bring home a strange girl in the first place?”

            David shrugged, “Most people don’t go to a leper colony and come back. I think that we have rather unique circumstances.”

            Kadia inclined her head, “True. This is not exactly an ideal situation in general. I never really planned to heal. Too bad, maybe things would have been simpler if I had died”

            David sighed, “Sorry, I asked him to heal you, it’s really my fault. Therefore, you should allow me to make it up to you by bringing you home to my family. My father is rich, I’m sure that there will be some arrangement which we can make.”

            “You are purposefully neglecting to recall that I am a Jewess and you are a Samaritan. We don’t have the leprosy as a common bond anymore”

            “We’re still friends aren’t we? Even more than that, we’re both believers in Jesus.”

           

            Kadia smiled, “True, very true.”

           

            “If Samaria will not accept you, we can go try and find some place in Judah that will accept me”

           

            “Prejudices are so frustrating. Why should the opinions of a few determine our destiny? You may not find any place to accept you in Judah either. But I agree, we can experiment with both places and see what we will find. If not, we have some good memories of this place. I imagine that we’ll certainly never see the other lepers again though.”

            They began walking as David shook his head, “They wouldn’t even return to thank him. I could not understand.”

            Kadia smiled, “Old prejudices die hard. I only hope that their lives are wonderful. I’m really glad that you remembered to go back though.” Their discussion continued as they moved toward the village and their new lives. What the morrow would bring they did not know, but they knew that God did, and that was enough for them.