Peredhil

Son He skipped the afterschool snack, because he'd almost thrown up yesterday. Heading upstairs, he took a deep breath before he unlocked his door and entered his room. Dad Given the hours he worked, it was merest formality to ask to leave early. The only questions anyone had were if they could help, which he smilingly denied. "Not this time, thank you. After all..." he paused and they all chimed in with him, "God's favor and grace are upon me." While most of the office didn't believe as he did, they all knew his catch phrase. Seeing the disasters in his life time and again, he knew that they'd thought him sarcastic, but over time, seeing how everything always managed to work out somehow, they'd come around. He knew that most of them held different beliefs than he, and while some attributed his good fortunes to the power of positive thinking, or creative visualization, or karma, or such, they'd finally all agreed to discuss and disagree. The office was a much more mellow place than when he'd arrived. With his reputation as a "holy roller", some of them had been hostile and wary at first. Well, he couldn't change that, no more than he could stop challenges from occuring in his life. No one could. All he could do, he reminded himself, is control how he acted on those challenges. Free Will. So many people, including himself sometimes, wanted that to mean, 'I get to do whatever I want without consequences', rather than, 'I have the freedom to choose, whatever the consequences'. Very different statements those were; how well he knew. son The rug was carefully rolled against the wall. All the sigals and designs drawn and sealed. He'd used a protracter to ensure angles, and was proud of himself for having thought of using powdered chalk in heaping lines. He was able to use the dust buster to clean it completely, and even recycle the chalk from the collection bag. He distantly noted his heart pounding in fear as his intellect continued to gain the icy control he'd forged. Sitting on the bed in his underwear, he used his right leg today. Stabbing the needle into the large muscle on top, welcoming the pain as it bound him firmly back into his body, making him real again; using the pain as a constant to internally push against, whipping anger up with well-worn thoughts. The ritual of mashing his emotional buttons painfully while balancing with physical pain, another self-control exercise of which he was proud. Soon he was at the fever pitch, shaking slightly and panting. Concentrating until he was steel-hard inside, the tremors in his hands stopped. He felt everything, an inferno of rage, self pity, guilt, contempt for all the others who didn't understand, couldn't understand, the fear, the fear of this time failing and people knowing he wasn't as smart as all the tests, that he was terrified and faking it all, that his constant jokes covered the times he was serious and people laughed, laughed at HIM - it didn't matter, it was all pushed into emotional plasma, a firey core of fuel over which his mind ruled with iron self control and precision. At times like this, he felt godlike. Moving to the center of the room, careful not to disturb the chalk lines, he reached over the center pattern and used the genuine steel commando knife he'd electroplated with silver as a physics experiment ('A+' of course) to prod the sparrow he'd caught on the way home. Its body spasmed around the tip as he effortlessly chanted the throat-wrenching syllables he'd memorized. Keeping a constant rhythmn, he delicatedly tormented it. He was so clever, keeping it entirely in a tupper-ware container, so easy to clean and leaving no evidence. When the quivering heap began to flame green, in a fire which began licking all but the blood, yet didn't heat the plastic (he'd attached a thermometer after the first occurance to check), he smoothly withdrew himself. He watched dispassionately, distantly noting his stomach clenching in fear and the sudden gut twisting wrench as his body expressed its desire to void contents, to prepare for flight or fight. He was in Control. The sparrow's body was gone too quickly, he might have to find something bigger next time. The sickly green flame explored the chalk boundaries but found them secure. He gloated. Suddenly, Jazmin was there, naked and lascivious, wanting him, begging him in the heat of her passion. This was an old trick, even his body didn't react this time. On the rare occasions his Dad could make time to drive him to see her, they'd only held hands and kissed gently. Seeing her now, writhing and begging for his touch to release her painful pent up passion was a strange constrast. The last few times they'd met, these images taunted him, his perfect memory making them almost more real than her gentle sweet reality. He'd fought the temptation to make the memories real, to manipulate her as easily as he could anyone, they were all so easy - No. This was a new trick, trying to trick himself into distraction. The flame was watching him, having discarded the form of his girlfriend. He laughed at it silently as it raged in frustration and disappointment. It was as stupid as the rest of the world. He was Control. His secret inner name. Control. Power. Jazmin with her wonderful pure intuition seemed to notice whenever he went cold, fighting the memories. She could always see through the Face he showed the world, and loved him anyway. It was a sign of his control, he gloated, that the flame couldn't spoil their relationship. He focused on the Flame, watching it twist into different shapes. Mouthing words ancient and foreign to the human tongue, in languages he'd decyphered from hidden codeces in library(!) texts, he lashed and tormented it. Soon it was raging around, ice forming over the chalk as it bounced off the scribed walls. Finally it huddled helplessly in the center, impotent under his will. Each time he controlled himself more quickly. Each time he controlled it more quickly as well. Soon he'd have forged himself to the point where he could enter the chalk and it would have nothing within him to seize. Then he could absorb its powers and carry it to use, an unseen servant, out in the world. Then they'd all dance to his tune. He'd have to be wary, he'd already begun to sense others out there. He was becoming aware of an invisible heirarchy, a web of those with real power. The ones that really ran things. And they weren't the pathetic goths or satanists or the obvious ones. Like him, the ones with real power didn't show it. He idly lashed the flame out of its stupor, just to prove he could, gloating in his control over it and its suffering. Its pain didn't matter. It was a demonic creature, and he could do anything to it, knowing it had deserved it all. Some day, he'd force those others to acknowledge him an equal. He wouldn't feel alone any more. He wouldn't be able to trust them, they'd be fools to trust him. But they'd respect each other. It was hard to stay focused here and now. Was the flame causing him to daydream? He began knicking the knife in shallow razor-cuts through his skin to focus himself. Then his Dad walked in, pocketing his Leatherman, and he lost all control for a moment. Fear, guilt, Oh no oh no I've been caught, and the automatic clench of the will and the comforting numb ice and he was back in control, feeling nothing but rage. He turned, ignoring the blood tracking down his legs. Boy was he in the here and now! His Dad looked around the room, humming slightly, and looked behind him at what he'd summoned. He sneered in anticipation. No need to wear that vapid happy face now. His Dad could see his power. Teenager or not chronologically, he'd moved into an adult world his father couldn't understand. "Surprised Daddy? You used to be smart, but you just miss so much now days. Maybe if you were a better man, Mom wouldn't have felt the need to find other men. At least she had the sense to try until she found one she could respect." His Dad looked at him at last. "Yeah, I guess I could never abuse her the way she needed. I hadn't counted on her emotional response being keyed to the abuse her father gave her when she was young. At the end, she chose the easy path of feelings the past held, instead of the hard way." "You're so smart, so analytical. so calm. Or is that all the doctors left when they overdosed you time and again, before deciding they'd misdiagnosed you. So smart you're stupid now." "Well," and he LAUGHED. God what a lame fool. "I'm much nicer now. I was pretty arrogant back then, when I thought intelligence was what defined who I was." "You twist everything into lame excuses of how it turned out, don't you. What a frickin' Pollyanna." His father shrugged and went back to looking at the floor, with a muttered, "works for me". He mockingly bowed, theater experience (and rave reviews at the simulated depth of emotions he'd been able to portray) showing gracefully, then stepped aside so Daddy-dear could see it all. His Dad stepped forward and looked it over. He waited for the horror, the reaction. The pious "oh my son, how could you turn your back on God, didn't I raise you better" so he could spit at his feet. (Even now he didn't quite dare to spit on him. Something inside mewed in fear at the thought. He remembered the one time he'd seen his broken semi-crippled father angry. He'd thrown a couch through the front room window, then calmly turned and apologized to everyone. Went out and brought it back in by himself too. Mom had FREAKED, although she'd been pushing for weeks for some way to break the polite shell. Dad had paid for that one, when he calmed down, with numb legs for nearly a month. Although, of course, he was too stupid to miss work.) As he jerked back to the present, he realized the reaction hadn't come. "You malformed the 2nd and 4th Sigals you know. But the chalk instead of scratched lines was clever. And the tupperware to contain messes was pretty smart too. When it'd worked you to squirrels and larger things, that'd've contained the mess nicely." He stood in shock as he was CRITICIZED on his blasphemy. He didn't even notice when the flame scurried over all the chalk and twined around his leg. With a sigh, his father turned to look at him, then looked down. Looking down, he saw the flame nuzzling his leg like a leech, and his mind momentarily froze. How could it have gotten out? He seized the ice congealing his thoughts and hid under it. All his thoughts became clear once his passions cooled and he rapidly sifted options. With a few throat wrenching syllables, he formed an icy dome over the flame to drive it back, surround it, and prepared in quiet desparation to absorb it. It might be a battle, but he just couldn't face his Dad without something. "You know, that iceshield thing is just a trick. You haven't really thought this through I'd guess. It's making the ice for you based on your words. Great actors, devils. They can't read minds, but they have more years than even you can imagine studying people." He froze for a moment. His Dad may drop details, his memory was occasional, but when he spoke about something, he was usually right. "What the hell are you talking about. You're so sold out to a powerless God that even if he did exist, he doesn't do anything. Look at all the crap that goes on in his name. More horrors happen in your God's name than outside it. You don't know anything. I've got real, here and now, power." His Dad sat down on the bed with a grunt, and crossed his legs. The flame in the icy web flickered between them. He had the sudden urge to grab it before his Dad could spoil this too. "Well, think about it. If there are devils, then there is God. Personally, I see him work in a thousand small ways every day. But to the first point, 'cause you know I get distracted, if the eternal punishment to come is a lake of fire, either physical or spiritual, I really don't know, but not to drift," He took a breath and continued, "then logically fire is not a devil's friend. Great advertising though, to publish your weakness as a strength. The corillary is that devils are cold. Emotionally cold, phyically cold when they manifest. Their only heat is that of hatred, rage, selfish lust, that sorta thing." His Dad paused for a moment for questions, having drifted into the familiar lecture mode. He remained silent as realities rearranged themselves within him, quiet simple shattering words. He'd seen this effect so many times when Dad counseled others. How the hell did Dad do this to people? Reach inside them to the core and just twist?

Dad As he was folding the towels, he found some of his son's socks clinging to one of the grey ones. "Ha! A futile attempt to escape," he chided the socks as he picked them off and folded them neatly together. Later, when he was done with the rest of his laundry, he noticed the socks. Picking them up with a sigh, he headed off toward his son's room, limping slightly. "There must be a storm approaching," he mused to himself as old familiar aches chased through his body. He'd never failed yet at something he'd committed to do - but he'd spent himself and his health ruthlessly doing it. The old thought chased down well-worn paths in his mind, "if I'd known when I was young that I'd live to be old..." "I'd probably have done it anyway," he concluded aloud. Shaking his head at his fallability, he reached the door. It was locked again. Looking at the socks, he thought about it, and shrugged. It only took a moment with the Leatherman to unlock the door. He looked at the room with a frown, and even checked to ensure he'd opened up this son's room. Stepping in hesitantly, looking around, he made his way to the dresser and put the socks into the top door, next to the neatly arranged other socks and underwear. Turning, he looked at the bed, the floor, the walls, the desk. It was all neat as a pin. The clothes were in their hamper. The bed was made. The dresser drawers weren't half open and there was no pile of clean clothes heaped on the closet floor. There weren't any piles of piles of things anywhere. With a shake of his head, he thought, "It's bizarre, but how could a father complain?" As he began heading out, he thought he smelled something. Standing with his eyes closed, he sniffed a bit. It wasn't that kind of smell. With a frown, he said a quiet prayer, centering himself, and truly looked at the room. Cold. Angular. No pictures of Jazmin. He didn't bother invading privacy with a search. He accepted what he suddenly knew, knew without any sensory confirmation. "And the sins of the fathers are visited on the sons, to the third generation. On the other hand, mercy extends to seven generations." His words seemed overloud in the empty empty room. Carefully removing the socks from the drawer, he considered his charismatic, genius son. He used the socks to wipe off the dresser drawer knobs, and then walked back to the door. Looking around, he carefully realigned the throw rug so its edge was exactly parallel to the bed's edge, then used the sock as a glove to relock the door. Stepping out, he pulled the door just, ensured the latch clicked, and used the sock to carefully wipe the exterior doorknob. He hadn't noticed on the way in that it had been polished, but comparing it to the rest of the doorknobs in the wallway, it was now obvious to his eye. With his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, he folded the socks and left them at the base of the door. His limp was much more noticeable as he manuevered down the stairs to take the dog for her walk. That evening, after the dinner and homework rituals, he was up later than usual reading his bible and praying.

Son He drifted through the door, the sun catching the gleaming highlights on his long flowing hair. It was, of course, clean, as per the Rule. Slender yet muscular, he posed for a moment in the doorway's light, looking at the mirror, thinking he looked like an anime hero. A bubbling laugh - it was a familiar thought and fantasy. Slinging his backpack onto the couch, he heading into the kitchen and foraged until replete, then played with the dog until her barking echoed off the walls. With a frission of terror, he began steeling himself against the afternoon. He had two and a half hours before his Dad got home, his trusted free time, and he didn't want to waste it. Bounding up the stairs, he unlocked his door and headed into his room, locking the door behind himself. Hours later he emerged, and by the time he was walking into the kitchen, sniffing appreciately at the simmering dinner, he wasn't limping at all. "Gonna go blade for a while." "Dinner will be ready in an hour," his Dad reminded. As if he were a child and hadn't heard something similiar every frickin' day of his life. Why these stupid rituals, posturing emptily "Sure thing Dad. I know, I know!" he replied with a sigh. He looked down and smiled at the giant of his youth, and once again was struck at how much different fourteen inches of growth in the last year made. He was a young lion, powerful and able to overcome anything. "Don't grind on the playground stuff. It's against the law." A spasm of anger flashed across his face, before he schooled it into a playful grin. "I know!" he laughed as he made pushing motions toward his Dad, warding off his endless advice. "I won't run with sharp objects or talk to strangers either." He waited the comedic beat, "unless they're babes!" They both laughed in acknowledgement that his gift for easy speech and looks made his 'awkward teenage years' the envy of the other boys - and that he was firmly committed to his internet girlfriend. Much to the chagrin of all the girls in housing, although they wallowed in romantic bliss wishing they had such a faithful boyfriend. Strapping on the blades, he took off through the front door. As he headed off down the driveway, he leapt high, twistingly, into the air and came down backward, bounced, and twisted to skate forward off down the sidewalk. Yeah, he was ninjor studzor cool.

Peredhil smiles, gives Bhurin back his Quill, and hugs him welcome.

This is just too good not to link. Orlan singing about Tzimfemme (of the Quincunx fame here at the Pen), from the times before the Pen existed. I love it. Legion of the White Rose Stage Link

Ohhhhh, that's GOOD! The only suggestion I hesitantly make, italicize one of the speakers for the ADD crowd here? If you didn't want to do it, I could do it for you. I don't think you realize just how happy I am you've finally made your way into Wyvern and Melba's area. Thank you!

Heh. Are making sound-tracks for my life of late, or is everyone having growth-opportunities? Really well done.

Heh, You know, we have some incredibly talented people here at the Pen. And mature as well. Where so many sites bog down in flame fests over differences, here we use them as springboards for creativity. I'm pretty proud, right now, to be a member of the Pen is Mightier than the Sword. Oh, Cheyenne - A well-written poem, nice meter. One of my favorite subjects as well. You already know that I love/love ya. -Peredhil

Hmmm, Well done. Ayshela, as so often happens, already gave the substancial feedback I caught - and the cure. Rah! I'm mindful that the layman's definitional difference between a psychopath and a sociopath is that a psychopath cannot perceive the difference between right and wrong, and a sociopath perceives that difference - but doesn't care. Another difference is that once a sociopath develops an internal code of ethics which protects society (such as pacifism or in my case, Christianity), they often become funtionally "better" people and citizens than most of the "normal" ones. But then, I've thought for a long time that, while harder, a life of choice was far better than a life of reaction. People who react to others (You made me feel ...) and make let their intellect become an excuse for emotionally directed actions tend to be controlled by others all their life. Consider the person who allows someone to "make" them angry. When the trigger-person is long gone, they are still controlling the target's thoughts and emotions, staining everything with the anger. Sorry to ramble on so long. If poetry weren't about honest exploration of humanity, I'd prolly delete all this to avoid spamming your thread. Let me rather redirect, and say, "I thought this was very well done." -A rambling senile Ancient Peredhil

LOL! I guess this separates those who read the entire thread from those who read the last few posts. snickers to himself My birthday is in OCTOBER! This thread cherished someone other me - Our own angel Annael. If you haven't taken the time to read any of her works, you're really missing something...

As always when I begin writing to you, I find the Moody Blues song running through my head... "Dear Diary, What a day it's been." Despite the recent challenges of late, it's nice to find that if I stay open, honest, take responsibility for the past, and present what I've done to avoid a repetition in the future - I keep finding God has already been there first. All the turmoil of last Friday. Coming home and suddenly becoming aware that in my focus on work and my middle son constant consuming need for boundaries and attention, my youngest had managed to miss school 45 of the 161 days! And to find it out because Military Police came to investigate why! Heh, that's when a First Aid response mentality, so often teased, of praying first, and then focusing on problem solving really came into its own. By starting my efforts with reading the bible to center myself and clear my mind, I was reminded that Job spoke knowingly "God's grace and favor is upon me" in chapter ten. In the physical world, as I read on of all that he endured (although he always claimed God's favor, even when he asked Politely to die!) it wasn't until chapter FORTY-TWO that it showed in the "real world" and he was here. The lesson was obvious. Do all that I could, and stay positive that God keeps his promises. A reassuring thing when hearing such worst case scenarios as potential career change for me, and civil charges for my wife (because she was the exhausted one who'd overslept after I was 2 hours gone each morning). And events have proven it out. Sitting and mapping out any possible thing which could prevent a son from missing school and implementing them all. Thus when questioned by any one in authority, I could show I'd already thought of their issues - and what steps I'd taken to ensure this wouldn't happen again, really made each interviewer reassured. Consistently by the end of each interview, the person had moved from antagonist to a teammate, helping me to ensure that my family would be taken care of. Given the initial mind set from which they all started, they must see some really sicko people walk through their doors. Which brings up the support of friends. What marvelous friends I have! Stepping forward without being asked, volunteering to accept in loco parentis powers of attorney just in case I should be ill, to ensure all kids are on the bus - I'm really blessed and slightly surprised. Loyalty and love, it's nice to know it goes both ways. Giving up the ticket and weekend to visit friends in Florida was an obvious choice. Deciding to drop the college classes until further notice when I'm six credits away from the Bachelor's Degree, after all this time, wasn't as easy, but just as obvious after some prayerful reflection. It was just my stubborn tendency to nibble at problems endlessly until resolved, and pride. Those can be put on hold - after all, if you're twenty-five years into your 'Four year Degree', a bit longer won't make much difference. Well, this window of writing has ended, time to wake the next boy up to begin his day. To continue the Moody Blues... "It's been just like a dream. Woke up today, wasn't where I should've been. For Goodness Sake, what's happening to me? Quite writely, yours truly, dear Diary..."

Feels all gushy at Psimon's romantic poem, but refocuses. When events conspire to thwap your mind And Reality checks in to your brain's attic, It's times like these that you will find You're flapping gills, looking quite like a haddock. While communications stay clear and kind Keep sentences short, and really quite emphatic. In such worldy techniques anyone could mentor, Heh, what works for me? Keeping God at my center!

Wow. Welcome. You definitely "deserve" to be here. reassuring hug I hope not only to see more of your works, but see a post in the recruitment hall... wink

Interesting and well-written poem. As a person who chose after researching many religions to be a hard-core Christian, I recognize many of the historical references. I think, for the benefit of everyone, that it should be noted that any belief system that involves human beings has a dark historical side to it. In my mind, that doesn't take away the truth or perfection of Christianity, just as my Buddhist friends don't think the warrior monk slaughters accurately reflect the message of Buddha. Or Hindu atrociticies, or Moslem, or Wiccan, or Communist or whatever. I think it's pretty easy to focus on what excuse people use to do what ever "evil" they want - whether they claim it is a God's name, or a Nation's. For me as a Seeker, I choose to examine the teachings for myself, and find out if maybe traditions are missing something. I hope I can always consider something before knee-jerk rejecting it. This IS a literary work - and as you said, slanted to one side. It could've been for any religion or system (any companion pieces being researched?) or slanted the other way (any of these in the works?) Thought provoking and a warning to anyone that it's always individual choice - no excuses... -Peredhil

Cabaret: general topics about members and subjects. Differing from many sites, we try to avoid spam and debates. MOST of us eyes the others Politely refrain from incorrect grammar and spelling in our answers, as even in casual fun threads, we can grow. At the top are some 'good reading' threads, and a thread with link to a semi-real-time "Shoutbox" chat area. Between the Shoutbox and Private Messages (PMs), it helps to avoid personal conversations between a few members which exclude the rest. Assembly Room: Single writer threads/multi-authored by invitation only. Although comments happen in thread, substantial feedback is in the Critic's Corner - which only Initiates and above can see. Banquet Hall: Poetry and Haiku and such. One of our most popular areas. Conservatory: Roleplaying/roleplayed threads. Again, the "behind the scenes coordinations" largely happens in the Greenroom, a member only area. Library: previously published works from other sites, and all those quizes, and other internet things. Please attribute the original source as much as you can. Plagarism isn't just illegal, it's Rude! Recruitment: read the threads at the top, and apply! The greedy Elder Wyvern will get to you... eventually. (his real life is VERY college student busy- patience is appreciated. You can always help Melba tweeze the hair off her back...) Welcome! Peredhil hugs and rushes back to Real Life

Narrows his eyes thoughtfully So it was one of those days I couldn't log into the internet... So, I'm still swamped... Who's gonna sing happy birthday to Ashton?

I cheat - I look at the Birthday list at the bottom of the page. Now, if you'd filled out the birthday information in your user account area - I'd have made a thread! Actually, I usually also check the old web site, and a few others too, for birthdays, and I have yours written down somewhere. Life has decided to test me lately, and I've slipped. I apologize most profusely! hugs -P

Peredhil wanders in and starts in recognition. Say! You're the one that wrote that clever shopping cart poem! I can neither confirm nor deny that I've accidently hit the heels of an old lady in the store. A quiet hello but a big welcome from me! Gives a quick hug and saunters off.

Laughs in wry appreciation. Heh, comic for a first post is just fine. Welcome to Pen.

Religion is the finger that points to the sun, or at least, where the sun once was...

Heh, for an off-the-cuff poem, that's pretty good! There's some clever word play in there.

Much to your surprise? Not to mine! congratulations many times over, that is a MAJOR milestone you've reached! Peredhil gets out the party balloons

Oh Falcon! I wanna hear an album of your music. You have so much talent! When I think back to your original postings, and compare them with something tight and right like this one, I just SEE such incredible growth - And it's all you. Good song, I love your upbeat ones. So many people only post when they're down - they're busy living when they're up. Thank you! -Peredhil

Peredhil sings a Happy Birthday and gives RIvaL a cake - whose candles are all coote piggies. Happy Birthday! I hope you find time to post more here - I really enjoy what you've done. -Peredhl

Hugs all the fellow inactive ones... Yeah, I'm there.