tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50913972024-03-19T00:02:00.544-07:00What's A Gurg?Choking on miasma but still spittin' hubris.Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.comBlogger1474125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-25622815407066502822024-03-19T00:01:00.000-07:002024-03-19T00:01:28.499-07:00Lessons From Cartoons"Neutral jing" is a concept I first encountered in a cartoon about martial arts and elemental magic. When entering a battle, there is offense, defense, and also... doing nothing.<div><br></div><div>But it's not really doing nothing. Neutral jing involves listening, observing, presenting the outward appearance of inaction, all while waiting for the right moment to strike.</div><div><br></div><div>You might even have to take some hits until the optimal moment presents itself. Suffer a few slings and arrows. </div><div><br></div><div>It's a risk, certainly. It's certainly not the default stance to take. </div><div><br></div><div>It's been useful to me to understand that I don't have to know how to fix it. Yet. Hold on to the idea. Stay clever. Stay strong. Stay stubborn. Stay kind. Work hard. Build bridges. Make connections. </div><div><br></div><div>Everything's connected, I think. So find the connections. Find the path. Grow towards home. </div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-56620316510384479522024-03-10T22:58:00.001-07:002024-03-10T22:58:55.205-07:00Temporal anamolyHas it been an entire season? You were my lighthouse, a burning sphere of prisms illuminating the shore after a dozen lifetimes of darkness, and I can begin to swim back. <div><br></div><div>And then time changes too, to conspire against us.</div><div><br></div><div>Nothing new. Those ocean is vast, but every ocean has a shore. </div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-61889567622667816292024-01-19T23:16:00.001-07:002024-01-19T23:16:19.481-07:00oh yeah I used to write in this. When was that? Seems so long ago. <div><br></div><div>I forget this world is frozen when I'm gone. I suppose one day I'll never come back. What will happen, I wonder. Better not blow up or something. I'd rather it didn't make a mess. </div><div><br></div><div>It's Friday night and I'm not out partying. I'm usually not. I'm thinking of all the decluttering I'd like to do but probably won't. </div><div><br></div><div>I probably will a little. It feels like it's time. </div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-19071038114237516422023-12-31T23:50:00.001-07:002023-12-31T23:50:06.973-07:00Seismic. Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-50810912950847576522023-12-17T20:33:00.001-07:002023-12-17T20:33:37.050-07:00Ambient loop 9Listening to dark jazz and artificial ambient rainstorm loops<div>Makes for bad poetry and confuses the hounds</div><div>melancholy reverb hides the hesitation of the next note</div><div>the rush to get to right now</div><div>until it's gone</div><div>Fake rainstorm was a real rainstorm once</div><div>someone remembers it</div><div>recorded it, trapped it in the now</div><div>stuck like all the rest of us</div><div>raindrops strike steel cables</div><div>Makes for bad poetry and confuses the hounds</div><div><br></div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-63200132075702326302023-12-15T23:52:00.000-07:002023-12-15T23:52:21.501-07:00foolish symmetry All the things I want to tell you all the deleted words they must go somewhere<div>chasing a foolish symmetry </div><div>consistency will come later</div><div><br></div><div>every language is at least two</div><div>whirring bus wheels</div><div>the hiss of brakes</div><div>fraying</div><div><br></div><div>sepia streetlights make us a zoetrope</div><div>sleeping in each other's arms</div><div>I sleep less deeply </div><div>yet I awaken refreshed</div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-4563211543430584072023-12-14T22:53:00.002-07:002023-12-14T22:57:15.453-07:00we only ever had the nights<div>warmer in the shadows</div><div>clouds are a bedspread</div><div>curling and uncurling in your hands</div><div>we only ever had the nights</div><div>the day so conquered</div><div>feathers in the breeze</div><div>rebar rusting in crumbling concrete</div><div>muffled laughter and a late lunch<br></div><div>nights are meant to be stolen</div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-34528824048588431032023-12-12T21:26:00.001-07:002023-12-12T21:26:43.318-07:00readings I turn to you every night<div>my Book of Sand</div><div>lean close to feel your breath</div><div>to listen to the story of you</div><div>colder and warmer music lilting</div><div>while green-eyed cats knead the bedclothes </div><div>birch-bark paper leaves </div><div>strands of autumn red hair</div><div>bookmark pages I'll never see again</div><div>save the runes etched in my mind</div><div>in one of the thousand outcomes</div><div>where I'm found without you</div><div><br></div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-6405815732110586602023-12-10T21:22:00.002-07:002023-12-10T21:46:20.486-07:00SculptingThe pain crept up from nowhere. It seized his mind like a toothache, a rotten tendril snaking up the synapses already worn raw by regret. He tried to ignore it. The clinking of his point chisel against the marble as he worked seem to stave off the worst of it. <div><br></div><div>The sculpture was coming along slowly. The figure inside didn't seem to want to come out this time. He'd caught a glimpse of it, in the marble quarry, beckoning to him, and he had selected the stone. </div><div><br></div><div>Even now, in the clouds of dust that swirled in the evening light, it breathed. </div><div><br></div><div>The pain would get worse, he knew, once the figure was free. But then it might get better. He worked on, in the last of the light. </div><div><br></div><div><i>THE END FOR NOW</i> </div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-18129779585032771972023-12-04T23:38:00.001-07:002023-12-04T23:38:34.737-07:00Salvage Free will became a list of chores<div>hurling sentiments against the lath and plaster walls to see what sticks</div><div>Or falls and heaps </div><div>ceramic tile skittering shards</div><div>already cut me abdomen deep</div><div>gritted teeth</div><div>hissing curses</div><div><br></div><div>wading through what could have been a home</div><div>dragging detritus, whirling wake</div><div>eddies of possibilities, maybe</div><div>For someone else, probably</div><div>everything is useful maybe</div><div>just not right now </div><div><br></div><div>Put pressure on the wound</div><div>resist remineralizarion</div><div>brushing soft against my cheek </div><div>Liberated simple nutrients</div><div>someday, soon</div><div>just not right now</div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-77228881342261263752023-12-03T21:38:00.001-07:002023-12-03T21:38:50.395-07:00Journal This is regular times now. No need to get all deep and philosophical. I have the luxury of being able to spend a lot of time in quiet reflection. Although I also spend some of it in listen-to-music-and-dance-around reflection. <div><br></div><div>Not sure what to do right now. </div><div><br></div><div>Feeling a little exposed, maybe? I've put myself out as if I'm sure of my own abilities and I'm not, not exactly. Lot of moving parts. </div><div><br></div><div>Maybe if my current brain meds supply weren't so unreliable. Not the end of the world though. I can function okay. </div><div><br></div><div>So I'll do that for a bit. Function. Keep an eye out, ear to the ground, nose to the grindstone. Keep every part to every thing. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm a reed, on a riverbank, waving in the breeze, in the day and the night. </div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-15595870813401293792023-12-03T10:27:00.003-07:002023-12-03T22:02:05.701-07:00dream floating Bedroom window shatters and purple flowers blossom from the pieces of broken glass<div>Wished we'd been together forever but I learned so much when I was missing you</div><div>Closing windows too early</div><div>Keeps the cold out</div><div><br></div><div>The drapes can be blankets</div><div>Erect a fort against the sunlight</div><div>Stuff the chinks in the armor</div><div>With crumpled pages</div><div>faded watercolor landscapes</div><div>and endless rough drafts</div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-19170075310360648352023-11-30T00:15:00.002-07:002023-11-30T00:16:11.825-07:00Someday You Will Find MeHe didn't know if he could reach her, but he went anyway. Astral projection was actually pretty easy; as far as getting out. Getting to where you wanted to be was difficult, and managing to find your way back was even harder.<div><br></div><div>Very few thaumaturgy students were accepted for training, and it wasn't flattering if you were. It usually meant the student had completed their third cycle of study and had shown no particular aptitude for the more traditional magic systems, or were about to fail out altogether. </div><div><br></div><div>Also, the student was required to be an organ donor, and agree to an advanced directive that if their Anima did not return within 7 days, the body would be euthanized and the components harvested for ingredients. </div><div><br></div><div>If the Anima was out on its own longer than 7 days, on the 8th day it would go supernova. </div><div><br></div><div>Literally. That's what many supernovae are. Not all of them, but a lot. As the Codex Dessicantem states, "It is bad when one thing becomes two." </div><div><br></div><div>There is furious debate among the scholars about how the Earth has so far been spared from these lightyears-wide explosions when as far as anyone knew, humans on Earth were the only ones who could astral project. Granted, Animas were not strictly bound by the limitations of physics, but the nearest supernova recorded was still several galaxies over, never close enough to threaten Earth. Luck, maybe. Still, best not to take any chances, so that euthanasia protocol was developed. </div><div><br></div><div>Too bad he wasn't going to make a sanctioned attempt. He was a promising chronomancer, and the school would not risk his potential. </div><div><br></div><div>He prepared the spell, and went out on his own. His Anima tore away from his corporeal form, and he was away.</div><div><br></div><div>He could not describe the feeling, nor what he saw. It was almost entirely unlike swimming through a vibrant coral reef surrounded by brightly-colored fish and looming, counter-shaded predators. But not entirely unlike that.</div><div><br></div><div>He searched and searched for her, for six days. He couldn't find her, and he couldn't find the way back to his own body. He despaired, and searched on.</div><div><br></div><div>At dawn, on the seventh day, he received a gift. Somehow, like the half-memory of a dream, he knew where she wasn't. Absolute, perfect, knowledge of where she could not be. And he strove to that place with all his might. At dawn, on the eighth day, he arrived, and his last thought was of her.</div><div><br></div><div><i>"A new supernova popped into visibility on May 19 in the Pinwheel Galaxy, (alternately designated as Messier 101, or M101)."</i></div><div><i>-Bartleby, et al., 2023 '<b>Multidisciplinary Observation and Measurements of Transient Events </b>-Journal of Astronomy and Astrology</i></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div>THE END</div><div><br></div><div><i>Author's Note: Okay one more since it's the last day of Short Story Sham Writing Month. Goodnight!</i></div><div><br></div></div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-56125963143573004462023-11-27T23:47:00.002-07:002023-11-27T23:54:00.069-07:00Selenographymoon, every two-week long nightfall<div>that, freezing over the boiling half,</div><div>is our wax and wane</div><div>(gibbous?)</div><div>sometimes as close as it gets (perigee syzygy?)<br></div><div>but mostly not </div><div><br></div><div>Moon (the largest in the solar system in relation to its host planet)</div><div>is named for what it is to us</div><div>And our planet is named after all that stuff on the ground</div><div><br></div><div>All the other planets named after the old gods</div><div>That nobody worships anymore</div><div><br></div><div>Whatever wars were fought in their name</div><div>Never mattered to them</div><div><br></div><div>When the weapons fall and the wounds close</div><div>Or not</div><div><br></div><div>They all float on</div><div><br></div><div>Scar tissue is an active process</div><div>Without our vitamins, we might unzip </div><div><br></div><div>Without our moon, what comes undone?</div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-82803154200464073492023-11-27T13:42:00.001-07:002023-11-27T13:42:10.013-07:00Words for thingsIs there a word for when you wash your hands in winter<div>move on instead of drying them because it's just water<br><div>when that little bit of just water evades the cuffs</div><div>rolls down my sweatshirt sleeves </div></div><div><br></div><div>icily tracing my veins to find my elbows </div><div><br></div><div>and for one long moment I think I am growing a new skin</div><div>crystal armor plating maybe<br></div><div><br></div><div>What's the word for that?</div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-21092862030232333132023-11-26T18:34:00.001-07:002023-11-26T18:34:16.944-07:00Journal EntryThis is not fiction. I'm reflecting on the past month or so of trying to write a short story every day. It went pretty well. There's a lot of stuff I like in there that could be built up into something really good. <div><br></div><div>There's over a dozen story ideas that are sitting in my drafts folders. They need attention. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-6052151603195173092023-11-26T08:31:00.001-07:002023-11-26T08:31:19.678-07:00sticky mouthEarly morning apple pie<div>then back to bed</div><div>to be useless but happy</div><div><br></div><div>Clutch potential from the chill dawn</div><div>smother it beneath body and blankets</div><div><br></div><div>until a dog licks my face for crumbs</div><div>their life going by seven times as fast as mine</div><div><br></div><div>and guilt sets in for wasting time</div><div><br></div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-18917709720904216282023-11-25T22:32:00.003-07:002023-12-03T22:32:09.645-07:00The Ghost In The Corridor There is a little ghost haunting the corridor of my parent's house. It's always been there, as far as I can remember. It's funny now, but it scared me when I first saw it. It wears a sheet, but there is definitely a ghost underneath. It has no feet, but there are partial legs sticking out. <div><br></div><div>My parents are Catholic, and so I was I, in the beginning, and my mom said the house had been blessed by a priest so I figured if the blessing wasn't stopping the ghost, then it probably wasn't evil. Probably. </div><div><br></div><div>I'd wake up at night and need to use the bathroom. I was afraid of the dark. I'd climb down from the bunk bed and pad down the corridor. The ghost didn't block my way. The bathroom was halfway down, and the ghost usually hovered at the end, before it opened up into the living room and kitchen. </div><div><br></div><div>Oh yeah, it changes sheets. It takes whatever's clean. When we were all little, this meant it was often in a sheet with cartoon animals, or superheroes, and stars and galaxies. </div><div><br></div><div>In the morning, the sheet would be folded up neatly and placed back in the linen closet. </div><div><br></div><div>I don't understand it all. </div><div><br></div><div>If it wasn't there to scare us, or hurt us, or to help us in some way, why was it there?</div><div><br></div><div>Catholicism didn't really have any answers because the teachings on ghosts gets surprisingly muddy. </div><div><br></div><div>And none of the teachings mentioned actual bedsheets. </div><div><br></div><div>I'm not religious anymore, and I don't hold any beliefs about gods and devils fighting for the souls of humans, but if I were pressed, I'd have to admit I believe in at least one little ghost, wearing in a bedsheet, floating in a corridor of my mom and dad's house. </div><div><br></div><div>THE END<br><div><br></div></div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-36392905984584854762023-11-24T12:05:00.007-07:002023-12-03T21:55:07.191-07:00Static UnderneathHe saw the static below everything. Black and white pixels flashing underneath the world. Old cathode ray tube televisions, when tuned to a channel with no signal, would show a screen of black and white "snow." A two-toned kaleidoscope. He saw this, when he closed his eyes, and when his eyes were open. <div><br></div><div>His vision was fine; his yearly visits to the optometrist confirmed that yes, he was a little nearsighted but otherwise fine. </div><div><br></div><div>He worried that everything he was seeing wasn't real; that the static was the real world and all the bright and beautiful colors and shapes he saw were being projected onto the static, an overlay. If it was a projection, what was projecting it? And if it wasn't real, what was it?</div><div><br></div><div>His health insurance only covered doctors, not philosophers. </div><div><br></div><div>And yet, otherwise, his life was normal. Boring, even. He felt he should let it go. Stop thinking about it entirely. Pretend it wasn't there.</div><div><br></div><div>One night, he found himself holding a paring knife to his eye and wondering what would he would see without them. </div><div><br></div><div>He had put the knife down. If he did remove his eyes, he might see what was really there, behind the world. Or the static might be the only thing left, and his world would remain only those black and white pixels, a backdrop forever. </div><div><br></div><div>THE END</div><div><br></div><div><i>AUTHOR'S NOTE: Did I never publish this one? I guess not. Says I wrote it on November 24th. I must have left it in the drafts because it doesn't go anywhere. Sure, there's a lot more leeway in short stories because if you don't waste too much of a reader's time they don't get too upset, generally. Maybe it was too depressing? The danger of what I'm doing mixing fiction in with a journal of my day-to-day life is that there's the risk that people might conflate the two. </i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>Which is why I'm hesitant to mention that I do see static. It's not bright static, and it doesn't interfere with my vision. I think everyone sees it, right? What do you see when you close your eyes? </i></div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-5585700532832351022023-11-24T11:50:00.001-07:002023-11-24T11:50:43.263-07:00Pawed Too many mutts on too small a bed<div>We don't seek solutions to this problem</div><div>It's the kind we like</div><div><br></div><div>Resolve one; another takes its place</div><div>A paw on my face</div><div>Cheeky hounds</div><div>Line up North to South</div><div>Furry fat electromagnets</div><div><br></div><div>Living compasses</div><div>Pointing to you</div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-37176705152363912132023-11-24T11:38:00.001-07:002023-11-24T11:38:33.128-07:00Resting Phase Warm toes, cold nose<div>There is no human experience that does not exist without its opposite, Melville said</div><div><br></div><div>Programmed in Emotional Binary</div><div><br></div><div>It's not the only coding language</div><div>Access granted to your inputs</div><div>Firewalls; defragmentation </div><div><br></div><div>The cold reminds me of you because I miss the heat of your body against mine</div><div><br></div><div>Heartbeat like a cursor, ready </div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-86345054247878219912023-11-23T22:42:00.001-07:002023-11-23T22:42:29.977-07:00Couched Couch these words in thoughts on a couch<div>Poetry seeks the middle place</div><div>Where what we think and what we feel </div><div>Mistake one for the other</div><div><br></div><div>I call it the middle place but it was the first</div><div><br></div><div>The wishbone split came somewhere after</div><div>When four legs became sometimes two</div><div>And then only two</div><div><br></div><div>Poetry is not for unfinished thoughts</div><div>But thoughts that can't be finished</div><div>Perhaps. I'm not sure. I like the sounds of it</div><div>The shape of your mouth when you say the words</div><div>The shape of your mind when you think the thoughts</div><div><br></div><div>Beckon, beckon, skittish connection</div><div>Our hands entwining </div><div>Skin scraped by electric thickets <br><div><br></div></div><div>A robot could have wrote this</div><div>I tell ourselves</div><div>But I thought of it first this time</div><div><br></div><div>And I sleep envious of the water coursing down your body</div><div><br></div><div>That would only rust me, maybe</div><div>We chain our dreams to logic</div><div>As if that safely keeps them</div><div><br></div><div>To exist in the same room as you</div><div>Is as small and as big as I can dream tonight</div><div><br></div><div>Rivers push against their banks</div><div>And make new curves and bends and breaks</div><div>Pebbles tumble sand and silt</div><div><br></div><div>As they carve out that middle place</div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-20676916458982720922023-11-23T10:32:00.001-07:002023-11-23T10:32:54.769-07:00The Turkey Of Terror Turkeys used to be very different from how they are today. Long ago, turkeys grew to the size of a house, their feathers were sleek and black, and their massive beaks were cruel, curved, hooked, perfect for skinning their prey. Their horrendous, thundering cry of "Gobble-gobble" would send the early humans scrambling back to their caves, cowering and shivering in terror. The humans would not come out until they were certain the turkey hunt was over. <div><br></div><div>The humans began to leave out offerings for the terror turkeys, grains and berries and seeds and nuts. The titan turkeys would gather and nibble the food reluctantly, clucking amongst themselves, imagining that instead of cracking the shells of nuts, they were cracking open the skulls of humans and scooping out the gooey grey stuff inside. It was their favorite. </div><div><br></div><div>The little things we do every day add up, over time. After a millennia or two, the monstrous avians that had ruled the land with an iron wattle, had diminished to a much more manageable four feet in height, and their steely muscles had given way to plump, tender flesh. </div><div><br></div><div>The humans noticed, eventually, and the tables were quickly turned. </div><div><br></div><div>Now, once a year, many cultures gather to give thanks that they are now the hunters, instead of the hunted. But the turkey has one final cruelty for the feasters: they are so big that to fully cook them, when whole, that the white meat, the lean muscular meat that long ago was used to hunt and rend the flesh of the very humans that eat them now, will become dry and tasteless. </div><div><br></div><div>And they hope you choke on it. </div><div><br></div><div>And if you do, while you're turning blue, thrashing about, mouth gaping for air that won't come, you will hear the sound of massive wings, and a final thundering "gobble gobble." </div><div><br></div><div>THE END</div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-32344881915732352312023-11-21T23:48:00.001-07:002023-11-21T23:48:27.368-07:00The Night Watchman What night, from dusk until dawn, he guarded the empty, rotting grain silo on Baseline road. Years before, when he had been hired, there were fields of grain, and of cotton, of orange groves, and miles and miles of flowers. <div><br></div><div>All that was gone now, replaced by tract housing, apartment complexes, gated communities, and a few cows and pigs. </div><div><br></div><div>Everything had changed all around him. Except the grain silo that still stood in the middle of a couple acres of dirt behind a crooked, wooden fence.</div><div><br></div><div>His work has given him enough to live, to build a life during the day, at least when he wasn't asleep. He had breakfast for dinner with his family, and then once his wife went to work and his kids went to school, he slept. His real morning was the middle of the afternoon, when he would awaken and pick up the children from school. He would make dinner (his breakfast) and help them with their homework. As the sun began to set, he was off again. </div><div><br></div><div>He didn't know why the silo still needed a guard. Every night. He wasn't allowed to read, or talk on the phone, or write. He would pace the perimeter, shine his flashlight now and then, and think about all the things he'd rather be doing. As far as he could tell, no one watched him. He could have slept, or used his phone, or read all those books he meant to read, or write down his life story. </div><div><br></div><div>But he was a man of his word. So every night, he watched. He was free to think, and that was enough. He watched, and waited for the sun to rise and send him home. </div><div><br></div><div>THE END</div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5091397.post-32021498539954515592023-11-21T00:58:00.000-07:002023-11-21T00:58:42.147-07:00The Honor GuardA long time ago, it was tradition to sacrifice a black dog and bury it in the graveyard before interring the first human. The first one buried in a graveyard would have the duty of protecting it for all eternity, and be denied a peaceful afterlife. Burying the dog prevented this fate from befalling any human souls.<div><br></div><div>One day, long ago, there was a great, black dog named Duff, and he was on the hunt. He was what's known as a lurcher, which was a cross between a sight hound and a working breed. They were known for their intelligence, independence, speed, and hardiness. </div><div><br></div><div>Duff's master had a herd of sheep, and a baby lamb had been killed the night before. The master had found only the torn-off leg, and immediately suspected the great white wolf that roamed the woods nearby. The master grabbed his rifle and went out with Duff to track the wolf.</div><div><br></div><div>Duff found the white wolf lying in a clearing, gnawing on the carcass of a large hare. The wolf saw Duff, and ignored him.</div><div><br></div><div>"My master's lamb wasn't enough to fill your belly?" Duff asked indignantly. (Wolves and dogs were not quite so distantly-related yet, as they are today, and could still make themselves understood to the other.) </div><div><br></div><div>The wolf still didn't look up. "You are mistaken, whelp. Go to the one who lives in the cabin a furlong away from your master; in the home with no garden. You will find the lamb cooking in his pot."</div><div><br></div><div>"We found its leg, torn from its body!" Duff bristled. "The work of a wolf!"</div><div><br></div><div>The wolf looked at him, finally, with his great yellow eyes, his muzzle still red with blood. "Do you know many wolves that would waste a good leg of lamb? The thief left it there for you to find, no doubt, and cast suspicion away from himself."</div><div><br></div><div>"You're lying."</div><div><br></div><div>"Oh?" The wolf stuff stood up, and at his full height, looked down at the dog. "And what wolf respects the opinion of a dog enough to bother to lie to it?"</div><div><br></div><div>Duff growled, but knew it was true. He could hear his master approaching the edge of the clearing. He was a keen shot, and would certainly kill the wolf as soon as he sighted it.</div><div><br></div><div>Duff snarled, and ran into the woods again, baying as if he'd sighted their quarry. His master turned away from the clearing and followed.</div><div><br></div><div>The next night, Duff waited by the herd of sheep, and he did indeed see the neighbor creep into the field in search of another lamb. Duff gave him a single savage chomp on the rear, and after that night, the neighbor lost his taste for lamb and finally took up gardening. </div><div><br></div><div>Duff did not see the white wolf again for a long time, until the village decided they needed a new graveyard.</div><div><br></div><div>Duff was the only black dog in the area and everyone knew it, so it was decided that he would be sacrificed and buried first. His master wept, but Duff was stoic. His grave had been dug, and he would go to it, as was his duty, because he was a good dog. </div><div><br></div><div>When Duff's master fell asleep, he stole out of the cabin and went down to the graveyard. He curled up next to open grave and fell asleep. </div><div><br></div><div>In his sleep, Duff smelled blood, and he awoke. The great white wolf was limping towards him. In the moonlight, Duff could see a dark stain spreading out across the wolf's flank. </div><div><br></div><div>"Good evening, dog."</div><div><br></div><div>"Wolf."</div><div><br></div><div>"I understand they're going to kill you in the morning. Put you in that hole, will they?"</div><div><br></div><div>"Yes. They will."</div><div><br></div><div>"Is that really what you want? You will not run away and save yourself?"</div><div><br></div><div>"No," Duff admitted. "I would like to be with my master, to protect him. But this will protect him too, I think. So I will allow it."</div><div><br></div><div>"You have a good quality, for a house pet," said the wolf. "I was shot by a hunter, and I will soon be dead myself. Long ago, you led your master away when you could have let him kill me. Perhaps I can help you this time." And the wolf jumped down into the little open grave. He rolled in the graveyard mud until he was completely black. He panted from the effort and lay down to rest. "There were are," the wolf said. "Now we could be brothers."</div><div><br></div><div>Duff looked down at the wolf in <i>his</i> grave. "Yes. We could be. My name is Duff."</div><div><br></div><div>"My name is Grim," said the wolf.</div><div><br></div><div>"I will stay with you, Grim."</div><div><br></div><div>The wolf grinned. "What wolves do you know that would care to die next to a dog?"</div><div><br></div><div>"Just one, I think," said Duff. And he curled up next to the grave, to be near to his friend.</div><div><br></div><div>In the morning, the gravedigger came to find a large black dog, or what looked like one, in the grave, dead. He shrugged and began to shovel dirt over it. At the edge of the graveyard, a big white dog watched. When the work was done, the white dog ran home to his master.</div><div><br></div><div>His master was astonished. If Duff could have spoken to him, he would not have had any explanation either. When Duff had awoken at dawn, his fur had become as ivory-white as the wolf's. </div><div><br></div><div>Duff lived many years after that, and when he felt the age in his bones and knew it was time, he once again slipped out into the night, to the graveyard. </div><div><br></div><div>His master found him there the next morning, curled up on that very first grave. He was quite dead, and his master buried Duff on that same spot. It was, after all, his grave. </div><div><br></div><div>This was all a very long time ago. But if you ever find that graveyard, and wait until dark, you just might see a large white dog and a great black wolf darting to and fro, weaving through the headstones, playing for eternity. </div><div><br></div><div>THE END</div><div><br></div><div><i>AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ouch. There is a very different version of this in the drafts that I was almost through at 11 pm, and I was thinking I would get to bed on time tonight, but I just didn't like it. So I scrapped it and started over, which I never do (if that hasn't been obvious with some of these) but I'm glad I did. I hope I'm still glad when I'm dredging myself out of bed for work tomorrow.</i></div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>Goodnight! </i></div>Guillermohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03422363398591921593noreply@blogger.com2