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Light of Amorth, pt 5

Advanced Metaphorical Image Casting would have been better titled Advanced Stupid. Mrs Dunbar already had several nicknames: Mrs Dumb-Fart, Mrs. She Done Fart, most of them ended in Fart. In a way, it was her own little rebellion.

Cassandra Little peered back over her shoulder, out the open door. She uttered a spell under her breath, and the world in front of her faded into a dull shimmer, and the hallway outside the door appeared in crystal clear view in the center of her field of vision. She allowed her mind to move slowly down the hall toward the artifacts that were collected in Goodnight Hall.

"Sh, child," she heard in her head.

She turned her vision and faced a short man who was probably older than he looked. His hands were disfigured, and he stood hunched over. His thick neck supported a too wide a face, and his mouth was crooked into a slanting smile.

"Sh," he said again, and he held up a hand. "You're about to witness the coming storm."

Image …

The Light of Amorth, pt 4

My fingers betray my age. I had spent so much of my life admiring the hands of the Elders, and my own do not live up to my expectations. Elder Rathbone had elegant hands. I wonder if he'd felt the same pains, the same stiffness, the same disappointment.

"Father," my son says, "you're being wistful again."

He is absolutely correct. I am.

"Do you wish to go for a walk?"

Do I? I slouch into my chair and stare deeply into the horizon. I know Ms. Falterday is getting closer to me every day. I have not been inconspicuous. I know Mr. Mosely has tracked the elusive robberbrush. I know the Administration has begun its own investigation, and I know the Barbicans and the Order of Locke know exactly what it is I've done.

"I don't," I reply. "Son, it might be for your own good if you decide to begin keeping your distance." I don't look directly at him. Instead, I peer over the top of his head and at the last remaining ampoule.

H…

The Light of Amorth (working title)

This is a work in progress, so there are some gaps. Thanks to Writers Digest for helping to get my creative juices flowing!
THE LIGHT OF AMORTH Goodnight Hall was already fragile. Now, it was a steaming heap of broken banisters, crushed concrete, and the charred remains of the delicate double doors. Georgina Fosterday stood shouting at the children looking down at her for answers. “There’s nothing to see here, children. Go back to your classes.” She waved her wand in front of her and the rubble glistened lightly, lifted and formed a temporary wall. “Who’s the one responsible,” asked Obdigan. “That was pretty powerful.” “Pretty powerful?” she responded. “What’s missing?” Obdigan scanned over the wreckage. “Umm…” “Where are we, Obdigan?” “Goodnight Hall.” “And what do we keep in Goodnight Hall?” He paused and moved closer to the rubble. “Watch your step, Obdigan!” Obdigan froze, his foot poised over a twisted knot of seraphic metal and human flesh. “Dear gods,” he whispered. “Is that a-” “Yes.” “I kn…

Aren't We All, Cont'd

Once I speculated that death was a void, a bleak blackness spread before us eternally. But, the assumption there is that we remain conscious in death in order to perceive of the blackness. Then, I presumed that consciousness itself must also die, but if that was the case, it must also have a beginning, and that beginning must be born from blackness, from nothingness. However, I wound up travelling down this rabbit hole that took me to understanding that, since energy and matter can neither be created nor destroyed, consciousness must be constantly a part of our existence, collectively or otherwise. That is why I am no longer an atheist. However, I do not believe in God. “You seem to be recovering, Dr Amos.” I reclined in my hospital gown, staring at the voice of my caretaker, Demi Housieaux. My bandages had slipped across my eyes, and the most comfortable position I could be in required that I lay semiretired on my back. The pressure behind my eyes felt enough to make them burst. “I …

Aren't We All

AREN’T WE ALL We never stopped talking. Perhaps it was because we were afraid of what would happen if there was ever a moment of silence between us. Perhaps we just didn’t want to listen to the persistent clinking constantly undercutting our conversations. It was always there. Circuitous. Repetitive. Unavoidable. We spent the better part of the summer of ’09 digging through the attic, ’10 through the basement, ’11 through the bedrooms, and ’12 in the kitchen and bathrooms. The only thing we found was an old pocketwatch, that was no longer running and stuck at 11:10, a stack of old newspapers dated September 12th, 1951 with an article about an exploding rocket, and a stuffed wenge llama with the initials JEH stitched into a tag on the collar. I made the joke that we’d found Jimmy Hoffa’s grave, but his middle name was Riddle, which led to another joke about Voldemort, but I was the only one in the family who’d read the Harry Potter series, so I was the only one who laughed. After our s…

I Want to Art

Arting.

It's a human thing. The Mona Lisa. David. The Chrysler Building and the Goodyear Blimp. They're all works of art, and someone designed, drafted, and built them.

I want to art.

My wife and I sat down the other night in a crowded room full of trinkets and garbage. We were knee-deep in an event hosted by Austin Creative Reuse letting our subconscious minds direct our hands as we turned the garbage into found art. In writing, we use a similar approach. Found poetry takes words, sentences, or phrases and turns them into poetry. I draw a lot of similarities.

Furiously, I modge-podged bits of plastic, wound pieces of wire, glued down images, and even suspended something in a plastic box! When all was said and done and my fingers were nearly stuck together, I sat back and admired my work.

My uneven, awkward, barely standing, confusing mass of... something. I don't know. I wouldn't call it art. My wife, an actual artist, had produced a three-dimensional collage, all pre…

Parenting: An Idea

My daughter just turned three today. A bittersweet moment, to say the least.

We all get older, and with age we have more responsibility. We start to realize our many potentials: potential to do good, potential to think, to reason, to live with each other. It is these responsibilities that mould us and shape us into the adults we'll be. I listen to the podcasts of a psychology professor who does an excellent job of explaining the philosophy of Piaget. People must learn to be good to one another. And, guess what, it starts at home.

After the party was all said and done, and the other three-year olds left with their parents, my daughter cuddled up on the couch with her nana, and the two took a nap, and I started to think about my role. I'm writing now while they sleep on the couch. And, while they sleep I wonder if I'm doing the right thing by her.

Then, I started wondering what I meant by "the right thing." Kant, one of my idols, believed there must be a moral impe…