Tzhilitchauchlici

“Chlol, chlol. Tchau muon tchitli tlul.” The man sitting across the fire spoke. My assistant, Adrian, looked at me uneasily. He was new and had not yet fully grasped the language of the Akzametl, the Edge-Folk, so called for living at the edge of the great forests.

I leaned towards Adrian and translated, “Quite indeed. There are things in the forest.”

“Tzhilitchauchlici tu kan-”

“-The… Animal-Folk live.” Adrian and I shared a look. The Empire believed the great forests were uninhabitable. “Ti tu kan muontakli?” I asked.

“Tcha! Tcha! Tzhilitchlici tcha takli!”

“No! Not at all! The Animal-Folk are not animals! Ti tu kan muonmet?”

The man paused. He cocked his head and stared hard at me. This was how his people expressed thought. Adrian shuffled on his log. It took me a while to get used to this, for years their hard staring was uncomfortable. “Tcha… Tzhilitchlici tcha met… Tzhilitchlici te Tzhilitchlici.”

My assistant looked at me for translation. I hesitated, the Akzametl were rarely unsure of themselves, something that made them hard to work with and one reason why the Empire was not so favourable of them. “He says that no, the Animal-Folk are not people. The Animal-Folk are the Animal-Folk.”

“What does that mean?” Adrian asked. I looked at him sardonically. “Sorry, I know, stupid question. Should we report this to Rogerts then? You know that the Empire will love hearing about new naked natives running around this place.”

“I don’t know. They could be just the run of the mill ape for all we know. But do you notice how Jaktl fiddles with that marking on his right hand? It’s the symbol for Akzatliquatkitlihaucan. Here he his both death-bringer and life-giver, as opposed to the Mountain-Folk beliefs. That is why his symbol is black, but the hourglass-figure representing woman. The Edge-Folk must fear the Animal-Folk. Perhaps we may have to do a search for these Tzhilitchlici, then. See why they are neither called animal nor human, but rather both.”

“Tchu litlitkahamoun?”

“Chlol… Tuli-Kitlaunli hacamoun.” Adrian raised his eyebrows at me as I stood up. I nodded my head towards our tent and said “Sleep time.”

· · ·

My youngest son, Kyran, appeared behind the door-frame. He looked up at me, staring but not speaking. He was a good boy, if a little shy. I looked to my wife and she nodded to me. I smiled and took my son’s hand as I took him to his room. He crawled into his bed and there I sat down and as per ritual, I began my tale:

“In the far away lands, across the Edge where the Dragons lie, there is a woman. Her name is Chaliqi. Every day and every night, this woman collects a bundle of Golden Wheat. In the morning, she mills it by the Lautqau River and as it turns to flour and to dough and to bread, it grows even more radiant with each touch of Chaliqi’s hands. She takes the Golden Radiant Loaf to her grandfather who lies sickly and old in his house in the mountains. It is a long and arduous journey, but she carries the loaf in her arms, so none may take it from her. She reaches her grandfather in the mountains and he eats the Golden Loaf. With each bite, the radiance fades. Seeing that her grandfather is now healthy, Chaliqi takes her journey back to the Lautqau River, but as she does so, Akzatliquatkitlihaucan, the Dark Snake of Birth, sneaks into the house of Chaliqi’s grandfather and bites him. She does not know this and the Golden Loaf that her grandfather has eaten draws him into a deep sleep from which neither noise nor touch may awaken him. And the Dark Snake of Birth takes a piece of his life for the Dark Snake needs life sacrifice to tend to his crop of Golden Wheat.”

Kyran shifted in his covers. A sign for me to stop.

“Is the Dark Snake the Demon-Foe, father?” he asked. To the Akzametl, the Dark Snake brought Life to this world. To the Empire, any belief other than theirs was heresy and witchery. Lies were considered a sin and yet to tell the truth was worth your life when the truth was unwanted.

“The Dark Snake took life, son. The taking is life is forbidden, is it not?” I responded.

My son nodded his head, and then asked, “But what about the woman? She stole from the Dark Snake!”

I smiled. My son, the ever thoughtful one, who never lets any thing go by him. I answered, “Some things… Some things are not as they seem. Think on it, Kyran. Tomorrow, give me your answer.”

· · ·

Adrian came running to me, nearly tripping over a piled loop of rope. He called out, “Sir! Sir! I heard the news! Kyran just ran into my office and told me. You plan to do it!” He reached me, past the grumbling sailors and various suitcases and cargo being loaded onto the ships. His leather bag slammed against his thighs. “You’re going to search for them, aren’t you? The Animal-Folk, the Tzhilitchauchlici!” He grinned conspiratorially. If I came back with any sort of finding, the Empire would award me richly and I would receive an even better pay than I did now. I smiled sadly at him, at how young he was. He and my son were two years apart and both so similar in youthful innocence and hope.

“I will search for the Tzhilitchauchlici, Adrian. Dammit! Wipe that grin off your face! You know why I am going. Just… take care of Kyran, and little Aria, will you? You may wish that I find them, but I don’t. I hope that damn forest kills me.” I said. I resented the bitterness in my voice, even though I did not show it. Adrian was a great man, if faulted to be a little young.

Adrian bowed his head and said in a low voice, “So it’s true… Your reason for going, it’s because your wife was murdered, isn’t it? That’s why you’re leaving. If you succeed in finding the tribe, they’re most likely to be hostile. If you don’t, well… that forest is hostile. You won’t survive the trip. I was hoping you’d see Aria and I married, that you’d walk her down the aisle and watch with pride from the sidelines as I said my vows. Your absence will darken her life, you know this. You don’t care. You can’t. Well, sir, it has… It has been a pleasure to w-work with you. I’ll take my leave now. May the ailments take you.” His eyes were red and glossy as he straightened up from his bow and stood, staring at me. Then he turned, stumbled across the port and disappeared behind a carriage.

A sailor called out, exclaiming that it was time to depart. Silently, I picked up my personal luggage and carried it aboard to my cabin. My only thought was of despair in how the ship was full of men of no moral obligations. Men just like the one that raped and murdered my wife.

· · ·

Metihauca, a female guide stopped and clicked. The llama carrying my luggage groaned while stopping. “Tcha nlili kqlimacklit.” She would take me no further. The Akzametl had been reluctant to allow a Miktli, a Guide, to show me a safe passage into the forest. The Miktli were a wandering tribe, a rarity to have in abundance in any area. Their maps and guiding were the best in these lands. To have one in service was a great honour.

I may have worked with the Akzametl for a time, but not to place any sense of honour. I was merely a diplomat. But these men knew death. They have seen my hair pepper and then grey as we have worked together. They have heard my tales of my son growing of age and my daughter receiving her first bloody flower. We share stories, the tribes-people and I. They tell of their hard winters and barren summers, I tell of mine. I watched as Jaktli’s son procured the demon’s spots and I told how to cure them. And they knew. They knew that this time, when I stepped off the ship and travelled to their village, that there was something different. A wife of Jaktli gave me the bitter tea that they drink at a death’s service. When I requested that I would ask in which direction to find the Animal-Folk, Jaktli held his hand on my shoulder and said that the dead will meet no bitter end. A meaning which, as long as the grieving drink of the bitter tea, those who have died will find happiness in death. I believe he meant to drink of the tea when I left to my journey into the forest. And then they assigned the Miktli woman to guide me. At times for those old and weak, a guide will show them to a place they desire, sometimes to the coast or mountains. A place that they had a relation to. Most headed towards a place of ardour or personal meaning; I headed towards my death.

Adrian was correct in his assumptions, I wished for death and I will find it. Jaktli will drink his bitter tea, Adrian will scowl as the memorial service is performed, and my son will bitterly wallow in work and find some greater purpose. My daughter, my little Aria, she will cry and despair. She will wear a symbol of grief and hide deeper within herself than after her mum died. Adrian will attempt to get her out of the house and she will refuse. She will cry and suffer the plagues of a survivor. But I am the parent and I have nothing left.

It is my time to die.

The Miktli woman leaves.

· · ·

The air is thick and dank, the air of a tropic-forest. The ground is dark and rich; each step brings the scent of rot and leaves. There is a lack of light; day and night are the same. The stars, the sun, the moon, they are all eclipsed by the towering, damp trees.

The world is slick with humidity, pressing with life and death presents itself everywhere.

A root catches my foot and I stumble. It is hard to stand; my legs and arms are weak with hunger. My mind reels with the world and I turn to my left and vomit. I remain there, prostrated and ready to expel more fluids. My eyes slowly force themselves to focus upon the bush in front of me. Nauseating unfocussed thoughts slam against the small inch of focus in my mind and I vomit again. Tears leak down my cheeks in pain. A slam of agony forces my body to eject as much liquid as possible. My very mind is being tortured—stabbing, wrenching pain. My voice is hoarse as it lets out a howl of suffering.

· · ·

Pain is my first thought.

I open my eyes to find myself on the forest ground. A leg is in front of me. I jerked, and then stopped. While the pain in my head is a never-ending force, movement causes my stomach to rebel. I slowly turn towards the rest of the body sitting beside me.

A woman. She is naked, her breasts have never seen a support and her body remains natural without the deformation of clothing. She holds a few scars, the main one on her left leg—not deep, but she will keep it for life. Her hair is lengthy, the hair on her legs like down. She is obviously unwashed, the hair matted together. Her eyes are hard and shock me with their ferocity. They dart to me and to the forest. I see that her skin is taut, not fattened by everyday consumption of meat, but the hardiness found by living in a world of harshness. I realise that as I stand, a waft of a musky sweetness comes from her. This woman is something I would call nature. I realise her beauty and the magnificence of her being. I realise that I have found life.

Then I realise that I am naked.

I move to cover myself and she turns swiftly towards me. Her muscles taut and she lurches forward slightly, ready to spring on me in case I flee. She glares at me, giving me a harsh noise. Taken aback, I pitch backwards. In catching myself, my chest exposes. Her eyebrow raises and she grins, not showing off her teeth. Her canines are sharper and more pronounced and when she grins, they show a sense of dangerous play.

I remain still. She coos a little and looks away. I pull myself in; the lack of clothing brings an odd light feeling on my skin, as though I am missing something.

After a while, a man comes, just as natural as the woman. He is older than her and has greying hair like me. He holds more scars than her, one across his cheek and his back and arms are riddled with them. He is muscular. He too has long hair and a beard. He makes a soft yet loud call to the woman and she answers back. He throws a satchel to her, who in turn hands it to me. It is soft and contains water. I drink.

· · ·

I am in a throng of these natural beings. Every so often, one sniffs towards me and looks me over. Usually they give a sort of chuckle to themselves and go about their business. Sometimes a younger male will make a threatening gesture.

Looking around, they appear to have a social order. There’s the requisite alpha male and female which lounge near the centre, giving barks to various workers. A group of children play watched by unisex care-takers. Gatherers come with berries, nuts and other plants of use. Sometimes they wander over to what appears to be a doctor of sorts to get an order for some plant. Hunters come by, holding spoils of strange birds, small hogs and what looks to me as a tree-rabbit. I can see guards up in the trees and I am sure that there are more that I cannot see. From what I noticed, there is no distinction between male or female. Men take care of children and they hunt; women gather and guard. One young male hunter came in with a slashed leg and ever since he has prepared food and medicines. I believed that he would have lost the leg and be left out to die, as is the cruelty of nature. However, the doctor bandaged and placed salves and a poultice on the leg. For the past few days, two of the women have kept by him, sleeping and cuddling next to him. His leg is fine and he appears to only wait for the gash to heal.

I have remained in their camp for several days and the woman who found me has come and gone, her place is as a scout. At least that is what I believe. I can find no real language, just a series of noises and motions. I have tried the Akzametl language and some of them merely gave their chuckled coos and others gave me a look of confusion. I have found that the woman and I can communicate, but I do not understand how—or at least not entirely.

On the first night, I awoke starving. I had long since ran out of food and water during my trek through this forest and was long-needed of a meal. The woman had been sleeping beside me, something I found disconcerting given my lack of clothing and that I am a man of moralities. I do not go sleeping with other women, not since I found all I wanted in my late wife. She started and when she saw that I was awake, she nuzzled closer to me, trying to get me to lie back down. I nudged her away. She made a noise, one I suspected of annoyance, and left. She came back moments later with a bowl of nuts. I ate them, but ever since then, I’ve noticed a series of unspoken conversations between her and me.

I have found myself sleeping with the woman every night. It seems as though how these people keep warm. There is nothing sexual or intimate, but there is this odd sense of togetherness. I realise that this is what it is to be in a pack. We are joined as a unit, everyone participating in a duty to which they are fit and none are to be left behind. I do not know my place in this, I am unfit to be a hunter and completely unused to their customs to be allowed to teach their children.

· · ·

It is a warm night. I lie awake, listening to the sounds of the forest and those that live here. Next to me is the woman, who I call Che. She awakens and nuzzles closer to me, latching on. I move myself to be more comfortable. My wife and I never slept like this, but I never knew why. This sleeping is warm, comfortable, and secure. Che and I are one, together underneath the canopy-tops.

She slips into a light sleep, dosing and slipping awake enough to give a noise of comfort. I brush my hand across her back. Her skin is soft and warm. The air around us is a casing of our scent mingling. There is a male musk mixed with her sweeter, more feminine smell. I nuzzle my head against her’s. She moves upwards to lick at my ear. It startles me; this is the first of this type of action. She makes a light growling and holds one of my arms as the other brushes against me in a movement to kiss my lips. I move more forcibly away.

Then her smell hits me.

It’s entrancing and sweet, a strange attraction.

There’s a faint strength of spice in it, something familiar. It’s intoxicating.

I lean inwards, towards her. The smell of her, the feel of her skin, the taste of her all pulling me in. I cannot pull away.

I do not pull away.

All the time, this deep inner part of me takes over. My actions, my wants, my Che. My mind no longer functions as logic and rigid thinking. I no longer remember the lessons taught as a child about morality or the works of the all-father. I no longer remember my wife or children; they are all a world apart to what is a dream. My mind and this deep thrumming part of me exchange.

I am the animal.

I am the wild.

I am the nature.

..................

The original point of it was to say that there is more than one way to live, there is more than one way to think. He was supposed to leave, wander and die into the forest. But now I'm not so sure... he might live on, he might not. The thing is, he is no longer the stuffy archaeologist from the Empire anymore. He's now this wild thing in the middle of a gigantic forest. He doesn't even HAVE a name. The one character in the story to not have a name, and it's the main character. I don't think he really needed one. He was just a random man from the Empire (Britain, essentially; and the place where the tribes are are obviously the Aztecs and Amazon rain forest).

It's not a happy ending. The thing is, he left all these people behind to mourn and cry over him. He LOVES his daughter, but he left her in his own misery. His son and assistant hate him (Kyran is less likely to admit that). His wife was raped and murdered. The own man's way of thinking and views were destroyed; he had sex with some RANDOM feral woman for no REAL good reason. Whether or not he dies physically, his life is destroyed and dead.

Blue Rose - Valentine's Day Gift to All

There was once a young man and this young man loved a young woman very deeply. This young woman was not entirely fond of this young man and like most of her gender at that age wanted, she asked him to show her his love for her.

Now, he did not know what to say. So he asked instead what she would want. Like most women at the time, she sent him along on a quest. She had done this quite a lot to her suitors, which was fine for them as it tended to allow them to see the world, conquer various strange beasts and end up with a bar wench who was quite prettier (and less apt to ask them for more than the typical house and children) than the lady they were trying to woo. After her last suitor failed to bring her a unicorn and the one before that a cloak of starlight, she decided to ask for something she believed a little more attainable.

So, when the young man asked her for what she wanted, she asked for a bouquet of blue roses. When he asked her, “Why not just one?” she replied, “Because one is not enough. Every year for ten years, you must bring me one blue rose. Only after that I will see that you are persistent, loyal and hard-working.” Believing this to be a time for adventure and fun, the young man consented to the deal. Pleased with herself, the young woman went back to her daily activities, which mostly included thinking up impossible things to ask of young men.

The young man planned and packed that night for his journey. His father hinted that he had heard during his own travels that a young woman in the Orient had asked for a blue rose and had even received it. Believing that a good place to start as any, he headed for the Orient.

However when the young man arrived at his destination, he found something relatively different than what he expected. Upon asking a young princess how her husband had gained a blue rose, she told him that he obtained it by being honest, true, valued her love, had been patient and kind. The young man told her that he had to give his young woman a blue rose every year for ten years and to that, the young princess smiled and told him to remain as honest, loving, patient and kind as he was now and his young woman would find what her heart desired. Confused by this strange idiom of wisdom, he felt that he would continue his way west.

As he headed to his destination by train, then by ship, he spoke to an old man with a thick accent. The man spoke of new times and a blue rose. When the young man asked the old man if he knew where the blue rose was, the old man said, “I plucked death from a lake and saved my love.” Unsure of what the old man’s tale meant, he followed the train west.

He found himself lost within the islands of the Mediterranean and there he found a woman. As he had asked many who had helped him along his way, he asked her if she knew of blue roses and their location. To this, the woman said that she had not fashioned any rose of that colour and to end his search for it was in vain. Wistfully as she sewed rose petals together in the form of a small woman, she mentioned that she had heard of poems contrived due west. Perturbed by the woman’s rose petal person, who had sprung to life and danced, he headed as she said, west.

He again took use of ship and yet another train and here he found a man somber and, when people asked him, told them a short fanciful combination of words. The young man question the somber man about blue roses. The somber man answered that those you will search the world all over and people will mock you for your try; the only place to find blue roses is in Death’s embrace.

Not very fond of that answer, the young man felt that he would, instead, dream. He took residence in a meadow in the west, where it was warm and many would often time slumber in such places. He fell asleep the warmth and golden sunlight and peaceful breeze. And there was a young lady. She was his age and she wore a dress. He smiled at her, for that was the polite thing to do. She bent and tended to a bush of flowers. Curious, he bent over her, realizing that that was not an entirely polite thing to do. She asked, “Do you wish for something, sir?” To this he replied, “I wish for a blue rose.”

She looked at him funny then. She asked why. He answered that he needed it to please a lady. She said, “You do not need these things to make a woman happy.” He told her that she wanted it. She replied, “Wants flitter and scamper about; they do not stay the same. To appease desire is to do the impossible.” To this he remained silent for a while.

She asked this time, “What do you dream for?” To this he replied, “I dream for a young lady who dreams for me.”

She said, “You dream for the impossible.”

He asked, “Why?”

She replied, “Young ladies, these days, only dream for things desired, those cloaks of starlight and unicorn fouls and bouquets of blue roses. They do not dream for love but for a show of it.”

This made the young man think again. He seemed puzzled, trying to work things out. He nodded his head and said, “Then what I dream for and what I want, you cannot give me?”

The young lady smiled at this and answered, “I can give you what you dream for, young man. Awake and find yourself a pub.”

To that, he awoke. Not quite remembering what he dreamed about, he headed toward the town for something to eat. There he spied a pub called the Blue Rose. Smiling at the irony, he entered this pub. There it was quite quiet and still, not many travelers wandered into this parts and the pub was not really the rambunctious drunk pub but more of the calm with delicious stew variety.

He ordered what was delicious and as he sat by himself, a young lady entered. The man who ran the place greeted her and she gave him a bouquet of blue roses. The young man exclaimed loudly to this and startled the young lady. She laughed at his surprise and said, “Not many travelers come to these parts, we’re not on the map you see. Who are you?” He told her that he was a young man and that he was searching for a blue rose. She said, “Oh, well, you’ve come to the right place, I s’pose. Here, you can take one. They grow lovely around here, probably the soil.” And she handed him a blue rose.

To this he paused, looking at her. He said, “I have also dreamed of a young lady to take with me.”

To this, she paused, smiling at him in embarrassment. She said, “I have often dreamed of a young man to take me away with him.”

He took her hand, placing the rose on the table and kissed her lightly. She stroked his hair and he closed his eyes. She kissed his forehead. The next day they both traveled from the town which they never found again and with it they brought their love and blue rose.

...

This is my Valentine's Day gift to you all. It was written to work with my gift to Michael, my boyfriend. Those pictures of his gift shall appear when I actually give it to him.

Satu

An old woman wrapped in a shawl, red in colour, was rocking on her porch. She was enjoying the nice warm sun and slept. The woman was most commonly known as Kozani Shapash and while most knew who she was, nobody knew much about her otherwise. The townsfolk had learned that she was never either generous or stingy, but inbetween. She was not friendly and nor was she rude. Shapash, or Shapa as the little ones called her, remained neutral in everything.

That seemed very much impossible, and some of the town philosophers would contemplate this while sipping their coffee in the local shop in the morning. As far as anyone knew, she had never married nor had children. A very rare few people and a pinch more of other folk did actually know the answer to this question; however they would not be apt to discuss it, even if you could get a hold of them.

Now, one day a stranger came into town and the wind blew, as more than often times it does in these situations, and he entered the local coffee shop. He was a medium-sized man wearing a tan mud-splattered, with a few darker stains that gave a hint of long-splattered blood and even some other non-descript stains, trench coat and a dark moss coloured fedora. He was a traveller most certainly and not one of these touristy loudmouths that the town seemed to get too often these days. He was a brand of traveller that was well-welcomed because he would have stories to tell of worth and kept a certain amount of mystery on his person. What the townsfolk did not know that this was a special brand of traveller, one that was even more rare than usual.

The man, his name Thomas Shriver, ordered a small latté and sat down next to the early afternoon philosophers (who normally discussed how much film has fallen his Federico Fellini and how the producers should have left Orson Welles be or how publishers shouldn’t let 15 yr old boys publish their books and that nothing new is left to write). One of the men with a lime green tea mug leaned forward, “But what about this… You, Winston, can write about the mushrooms and Mark, you do the cats. I’ll write about the socks and-”

“-But I want to do the cats. And why are there cats in this anyways? WHAT are we doing?”

“What do you mean? We decided last time that in order for this to feel right, there needed to be cats.”

“But I don’t like cats, you like-”

“Alright, alright! No cats. How about envelopes?”

“Why envelopes? That doesn’t make anymore sense than cats OR socks OR mushrooms. I thought you said we were gonna do something normal.”

“Oh come on! When does writing EVER make sense?”

“So now what? We’re just going to do things that have no thought process then? We’re just going to end up just like those experimental film-makers - explaining the world by not making sense.”

“FINE. If you don’t want to do this book, then we’ll just call the entire group off. I’ll message Kat and Maddy; tell them that we can’t do it.”

“Look, I had to pick up my daughter 15 minutes ago, I’m sorry. I have to leave.”

There was a silence as one of the men stood up. As he left the shop, the one named Mark smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He gave a meek noise, Thomas didn’t catch it and he was fairly certain neither did the remaining man, and left. Thomas looked at the man with the lime green mug. The man with the lime green mug sighed and noticed Thomas staring at him.

“An anthology of stories about kitchen-related objects, I presume? Mushrooms ready to be cut and placed into a stew, an envelope ready to be sent to a sister’s birthday, a cat drifting in for her afternoon meal and socks - things that do not belong in a kitchen but yet they somehow found themselves there anyway?” said Thomas Shriver. The man with the lime green mug gave a puzzled look. He was about to say something, realized another and with an apology, left the shop in a hurry.

Thomas Shriver smiled and drained his cup. He stood and threw his cup away. While exiting, he paused and asked a woman, “Do you know of the old woman named Kozani Shapash?”

“Oh, well… I do not believe I would call her old, however she lives on Oak Road, I think. Dear, where does that woman live?” she said turning to her husband.

“That is fine. I just needed to know the road to travel by, thank you. Ah, and no, stealing the stray hundreds from your dying mother is not justified.” Thomas said and before the woman could recount against what the man said, he left the shop with a jingle of the bells on the door.

He paused at the roadway and breathed in. A car or two passed by. “Oak Road, eh?” he murmured. He stepped into the road, strong deliberate steps. A wind passed around him, unlike that which is normal. It did not, say, pass around a little girl with her balloon and mother or a town-cat that eats on the scraps freely given by various shop owners. As he took his steps, the place he was heading in across the street changed from an old trinkets shop and shoe store and a blackened out building that went out of business to a young tree and a yard and a porch and a house. It was not blip of instantaneous or melting into a thing to another, but more so as though Thomas walked several miles by crossing the street. It was a direct walk, as some say as the crow flies however here it may be more prudent to say ‘as the stork walks’. Thomas was always most fond of this ability, it certainly was less work than wandering the through the mazes that people had built. He had once heard a preacher say that the god’s path was not easily walked and yet all Thomas had to do was step onto a road with a destination in mind and there he was. Then again, he was quite certain that the man was not actually talking about the REAL god-path but some sort of thing some one once made up.

Thomas glanced over to the end of the street and the sign said ‘Oak Road’. Sure enough, he had indeed arrived at the right location. Even the house he stood in front of had an old woman covered in a red blanket. It was all too easy and as some say, too easy means something is wrong. Thomas shrugged at the thought and walked up the porch steps.

“Now I assume that you are under the guise of ‘Kozani Shapash?’” he asked the old woman.

She did not stir, but answer nonetheless, “Ah, I was wondering when my little Norn would come around for me.” Thomas cleared his throat and she opened a lazy eye at him.

“Yes, well I prefer Thomas now. I suppose you may call me at the present, Lee Thomas. I have been known on occasion to be Thomas Shriver. It’s these Americans and the New Ages. They just don’t know the old gods like they used to. A New World, A New Name, eh? My dearest Mati Syra Zemlya?”

“Toh! I always hated that one, Thoth. I prefer the Earthmother or Sun-Mother.”

“Hm. Yes well, now you’re the Sun-Mother. It’s mid-day, isn’t it?”

“You did not come to chat about the Americans and their names or the New World and the End of the Old Ways, did you? Odin, he calls himself Wednesday now, came around and mentioned it to me too. Get on with the business and leave this town be.”

“Yes,” Thoth said. “Well, let’s see here.” He rummaged through his pockets, bringing out a piece of parchment and a stork feather quill. “Crocus All-Mother, the Serpent-Mother to Knossos, the Death Goddess, the Warrior Goddess, the Aphrodisiac in Living Flesh, Earthmother, Kar the Wise, Mother of Athena, The Hound of Hades, One of the Three-Fold Face, Plague-Bringer, Sun-Mother, The Meadow and Lady of the Organs.” He paused for breath. “And you know I never understood that last one?”

“Oh, please do get on with it, Thoth. I do not have all day.”

“Ah, yes. I do suppose that you do not. Have all day that is. Usually my clients are less… ah… knowing of what to come. They tend to keep silent and are not in hurry. I haven’t judged a god for a while, you know. We just don’t die that easily. I suppose I’ll have to get used to it. People judge themselves these days.”

He hurriedly read through the last few lines to catch his place. “I, Thoth, the Judge, shall ah… judge your soul and heart against the Feather of Truth. If your soul and heart weigh more greatly than the Feather of Truth, then you shall be eaten. If the Feather weighs the same, you shall go to the Underworld, which Anubis, the Guide, shall show you.”

“Where is Anubis?” the Crocus All-Mother asked.

“Oh? Well, he is holding up our morgue we’ve put together. Have to make a living, of course. Now, where did I put that scale?” He again rummaged through his pockets, bringing out a normal-sized scale that looked, in the least, a little tired. He place a raggedly feather, again from his pocket, on one side of the scale. “Your heart please, Crocus All-Mother?”

“I haven’t had to take it out for ages, you know. I might have to dig around a bit. Probably in the back somewhere out of the way.” She took off her dress and stabbed her hand into her chest. She grimaced and after a moment of feeling around, she pulled it out. It was still, silent and looked as though it had not been used for a while. “Here you go.”

“Ah, thank you.” He placed it one the other side of the scale. They watched as the heart and Feather bounced from heavy to light and light to heavy. Finally the heart settled on being lighter. Thoth made a grunt and scribbled something down on his parchment ledger.

“Well, you shall be reborn, then. Of course, you ARE a god-being. That’s no surprise. The people will always need something to worship.” Thoth flipped the page. “Now it says here that you shall become Saffron. It’s not too readily worshipped around, so you might not get too high a rank. However you shall be, let’s see, patroness of spice, food, chefs, red dye… Still of crocuses and autumn crocuses, poison too.”

“Thoth, it’s been a good run, hasn’t it? I guess this Old Way is not needed anymore. Good luck in your own travels, Thomas.” Said the dying Crocus All-Mother.

There was a flash. It was not light, it was not dark. It was Change. It was Death and Birth. It was that of a goddess needed no more being reborn into one that was. It was an Old Way disappearing from the Human Lands and a New Way coming into. It smelled of red and was the colour of spice, of cooking and was as light as night and dark as day. It was a flower dying into existence. What was once an old woman with a red-coloured shawl was a young girl in a red-coloured spring dress.

“Hello,” said Thoth to the girl named Saffron.

She smiled back and asked, “Would you like some tea? Maybe some lunch?”

“Ah, no. I must decline. Work to do I am afraid.” Thoth responded and he left.

As he began to cross the street into a place over in California where his old partner Anubis was and his morgue resided, he thought that he might have curry for lunch. He knew a great, and expensive, Indian restaurant that served a special curry with saffron.

...

This is my newest piece. I was originally going to make it my first manuscript to send out to some fantasy magazine. HOWEVER, a few days later, I've decided the idea is a little too flimsy. It's sort of... based from TWO ideas that formed during the writing of it. One is about an old lady with a red shawl and she IS the Crocus All-Mother, the Lady of Spring and Autumn, of Sun and Moon, Life and Death, who dies and turns into Saffron. The other is about a medium-aged man named Thomas. He is the embodiment of Thoth in the new ages. Shriver comes from schreiben, German from 'to write'. Thoth IS a god of writing. He tells the writer in the coffee shop not the IDEA, for the writer came up with it himself, but more of the connection from dream-stuff to real-world ideas. Lee Thomas is the Judgement side of Thoth. Lee being a name in Korean that means 'judge' or 'plum'.

So instead, I think I'll send in a rewritten story about the Daily Life of Thoth and write one about Saffron for a series of illustrated books on spice.

Satu is a Scandinavian name meaning fable or fairytale.

Unhiatus

I am OFF hiatus now and GASP, I bring things.

Well, I will once I'm done writing it that is. It's a rewrite of The Sacrificing Brother, Cain's story for Suite 21 (or otherwise known as 22/7 Blackwell Society of Fiction). I decided that I just did not like my submissions the first time around. Why? Cain and Abele did not quite turn out the way I wanted. This time I've had a lot, lot, more time to reflect on their characters (as I love them greatly) and will be able to write a better version of them. Along with that, I am hoping to have something along the lines of some Norse stories. I may EVEN rewrite They Met on Wednesday, which the title irks me a little. I reread it, loved the characters but decided that the story was missing a little. I keep thinking back to some of the stuff I've tried to write and failed to put to type. There are these two characters, Spade and... well, I never CAN remember his name, haha. Two supernatural detectives taking on supernatural cases, to put it bluntly. I did, at some point, promise them their own book. Along with Al and Frankie, the two lovable mobster vampires. However that IS another story (well, I think it is at least). Then there is heading back the last piece I had written when I went on hiatus (in short, the reason WHY I went on hiatus). I don't even remember what the story was about. I barely remember having the character in a prison of sorts. Hmmm. There is also an idea about a bastard son overthrowing and taking over a kingdom that I've been meddling about. Finally there is a piece of artwork I have more recently decided would set a very nice ghost story. It was a scrap, the artist had framed it but felt that, if she needed a canvas, would promptly use. I spotted it, commented that I really liked it, and she gave it to me. If I DO write a story on it, I'll post a photo of it. (And to be truthful, as much as I love it, it's not one of her better pieces, hahaha. Nonetheless I'm glad to have stolen away with it.)

I hate to say this, I really do.

Sorry, but I am going to have to say that this Blog is now officially on haitus.

I figured that everything would blow over, be quick, nice and easy. But it won't. I will not be able to post for a while. It makes me terribly sad that this shiny and new and happy Blog will not be updated. I had an entry in motion, but I cannot finish it. I am incapable.

Not that anyone reads this.

The Woman and a Rather Annoyed Death

This takes a little backstory, and that is: In Latin class, we had to translate a little story about a woman who laments and groans and weeps over her poor dying husband. She begs for Death to kill her instead of him. Of course, he answers that call. Why not? A death is a death and hey, he's not really losing here. So he comes knocking and she freaks out and doesn't want to go. I thought this sounded very much like Terry Pratchett's Death, who I love. So, bored and nothing to do, I decided to write something. And, voila, here it is.

...

The woman sniffled and walked through the door. She set down the tray and walked over to the bed, where a relatively ill-looking man was laying. A tear went down her cheek as she kneeled by the bed and grasped his hand. She held for a while looking fairly forlorn and lost. She was always so fond of him and it would just break her heart to lose him. She sniffled loudly.
The man had noticed his wife but didn't quite feel like answering her. She sniffled a little more loudly and he rolled his eyes. She was fairly nice and not too bad at cooking as long as you stayed away from her soups and sauces[1]. He looked over at her and said, “It's ok dear, I'm just a little sick.” She looked up with pouty lips.

“Dear, you must get better. I just couldn't stand it, my love. With you gone, oh what shall I do? Oh, you must get better.” She said pleadingly. Her husband couldn't really stand her. He thought to himself on how much better off he would be once he as dead. He wouldn't really be alive anymore, but then he wouldn't have to deal with her.

She opened her mouth and he secretly wished to smack her. She raised her arms up and moaned, “Oh great gods, oh cruel Death, how could you do this to us? We are husband and wife. We are the land and ocean. We are the rose and aphids![2] Please, please, please, Death, do not take my innocent husband away! If you must, oh nasty Death, take me instead. Take me and leave him whole and healthy.” She inwardly smiled to herself as she flopped onto the bed and cried dramatically. She thought this would be such a nice little act for her dying husband and gossiping slaves. What she didn’t count on was that Death, who was relatively bored at the moment, listened in to her dreadful moaning. There was a cold draft coming from the corner of the room, the one with the scroll-shelf and a light flapping of heavy cloth. A tall ominous figure stood there. The husband stared at it, hoping for sure that this tall ominous figure was not who he thought it was and had not come for what he thought he came for. The wife remained oblivious.

I HAVE THOUGHT ON IT AND HAVE DECIDED THAT A DEATH IS A DEATH. IT DOES NOT REALLY MATTER WHO DIES, JUST SO LONG AS SOMEONE DIES WHEN A PERSON OUGHT TO.

The wife looked up and screamed at the tall ominous figure. “I-it... erm... Well, I take it back! I don't want to die anymore!”

The tall ominous figure stared at her for a moment. The husband thought it looked as though it was thinking. The figure then shrugged and said:

WELL, I HADN'T REALLY EXPECTED THAT.

“Then, can I not die?”

The figure looked over at the husband.

The husband looked back.

And shivered.

[1] She had problems with the stirring. She always kept it on the burner for a little too long or a little too short. Well, that and she did not have the knack for choosing out the best of veggies. They were almost always a little old and rotten and she was not the gentlest of veggie-holders, causing them to bruise rapidly. Or, for the matter, the best of meats. On the whole, it was wise to stay away from her cooking. For his own sake, he tried to make her happy and secretly munched on their head of house slave's dishes instead. Understanding his predicament, the head of house slave always made two helpings worth of food and got paid rather well for it, too.

[2] When she had first thought this up in her mind, she thought it sounded poetic, romantic even. After all, it had the word rose in it. As she said it, she realised just how stupid it sounded. Her husband would have agreed with her.

NO. YOU DID CALL ME CRUEL... AND NASTY. I DON'T THINK THAT WAS VERY NICE. I’M A PRETTY GOOD GUY ONCE YOU GET TO KNOW ME.

“So... I'm going to die? For... INSULTING YOU?”

YES. THAT IS PRETTY MUCH IT.

The husband figured that this wouldn't be a good time to mention that he felt a little light-headed and his feet were getting cold. He was pretty sure that this was something to do with him dying.

“Well, then how do I die?”

WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

“If I'm to die, I need a reason. People just don’t go around dying for no good reason. I don’t have a reason to die. I’m healthy.”

THERE ARE OTHER WAYS OF DYING.

“Such as?”

WELL, YOU COULD BE STABBED.

“By who?”

SOME ONE WITH A KNIFE.

The husband thought that this would be pretty obvious.

“I don't want to be stabbed.”

YOU DO NOT GET TO CHOOSE HOW YOU DIE, I DO.

“Pick another one.”

FINE. HOW ABOUT BEING RUN OVER?

“Too messy.”

ANIMAL ATTACK?

“Nope.”

The husband felt his abdomen was feeling a little chilly.

HOW ABOUT FALLING OFF A CLIFF?

“What cliff?”

By now, Death was getting annoyed. This woman asked to be killed, then refused to and now wants to choose the way in which she died. Most just died with fear and got over it.

THEN FEAR. YOU CAN ALWAYS DIE OF FEAR.

“But I'm not afraid.”

THEN YOU COULD FALL AND BREAK SOMETHING... AND, WELL, PUNCTURE YOUR HEART.

“Not graceful enough.”

Death was, by this point, getting very annoyed. He just remembered that he was to meet Pestilence at a quaint little café in the 21st century. This woman was taking too long. Death looked at his watch. He was going to run late if this kept up any longer.

By now the husband felt rather dead, which was odd because he wasn't.

THEN YOU COULD DROWN.

“And become all bloated and ugly? Ew, no.”

HOW ABOUT A HEART ATTACK?

“My heart is fine and it just sounds so violent.”

There was a pause as he tried to think of something.

A WILD ANIMAL... WITH A DISEASE.

“What kind of wild animal?”

A WOLF?

“We're in town.”

IT IS DISEASED, IT WOULD NOT MATTER.

He was now five minutes late. Pestilence liked people who were on time. Death liked being on time, he was a very punctual person.

I AM LATE. THE WAY IN WHICH YOU DIE DOES NOT REALLY MATTER IN THE END. YOU ALL END UP IN THE SAME PLACE ANYWAYS.

Deciding that he was late enough, he ended it.

Breath is Life

This is the third essay. It is on Gudard's Breathless (French, 1959, I think). Good movie.
...

In Gudard’s film, Breathless, the characters mimic famous Hollywood stars, losing their identity and who they are. Michel, despite all he tries, is not Humphrey Bogart. Humphrey Bogart is only cool in movies. Once Michel tries to become the living characters that Humphrey Bogart plays, he cheapens his existence. He gets bored, hates it and wants to run away. Patricia, even though she does not imitate anyone, is also alike Michel in that way. She, too, is acting. From the beginning, she was not quite so Hollywood, but then as she and Michel are near each other, it grows on her. By the end of the film, she and Michel are akin.

Because Michel tries so hard to do what he wants, when he wants and not care about what happens because of what he does, he condemns himself. Whether to a miserable existence, jail or death, his fate is to end up unhappy. From the start of the film, the audience watches him hijack a car, kill a policeman and steal money. In life, killing a policeman would hardly be exciting or interesting. In Hollywood, it would be dramatic and exhilarating. In Breathless, it is quick, confusing and boring. Michel takes out the gun, shoots and runs. Despite how much Michel tries to live as though in the movies, he lives in the real world. If he shoots a man, the man gets shot. No dramatic gunfights or witty quips or intense pauses.

In life, people take a lot of time to move from one place to another. This is the same for Michel. He may act like Bogart, but life is life and he’s forced to take the time to walk, drive and live. Whenever the intense, dramatic music, usually reserved for the intense dramatic scenes, plays, Michel is walking or driving.

Patricia is not reckless, but she is not innocent. She plays the part of the femme fatale. Not a particularly sly and deviously cunning one, but for Michel’s case, she is one. She plays the part of the American student who wants to be a writer. She cannot run off, or she looses her money and is forced back home. Michel is given a hard decision: Patricia or Italy. Michel dearly wants to leave Paris, but if he does, he loses Patricia.

Patricia becomes affected by Michel’s reckless behaviour. She allows herself to be absorbed into Michel’s life. It is a subtle occurrence, but she does begin to pick up Michel’s habits, such as his three exaggerated emotions motion. She does not want to pick Michel. She does not want to love Michel. That is why she informs on him, even though she does not like informers. Because this is life and in life, people do things that are unexplainable, she does inform. She, like Michel, has two choices: Michel or not. She did not pick him, and that meant she needed to inform on him.
Michel’s death scene is not Hollywood. Even in death, Michel cannot achieve that blissful status he wanted so badly. His life was filled with Bogart’s lip move and thoughtless behaviour. He is not what he used to be. He is not quite so human anymore. He is sub-human because he poses Bogart. When he dies, he has no harsh and tender moments with Patricia. He gets shot, he runs and he dies. Patricia stands over him with her indescribable expression. The policeman even repeats his dying words incorrectly. His last words and they are wrong.

Patricia then repeats his Bogart move.

Imitation is cheap. Michel and Patricia are two people cheapened by Hollywood hype. Michel began to hate his life, thoughtless behaviour was getting him nowhere and tried to run. When he tried to run, his past problems caught up to him and killed him. Hollywood and Bogart cheapened his existence to the point where he died.

Dig a Deeper Grave

This is a (pretty good) essay on Harry Lyme from The Third Man, played by Orson Welles. I loved Harry (I like Welles) a lot. So, for film class, I wrote this two page essay on him (instead of a really long essay on the whole movie).

The Third Man was directed by Carroll Reed, is British and from 1949.
...

A British ‘noir’, The Third Man contains inventive film shots and intriguing set to explain the antagonist: Harry Lyme (Orson Welles). It takes place in Vienna, after the WWII. Due to the bombings, the city filled with rubble. Using the city’s rubble and maze-like sewage system, Carroll Reed enhances Harry’s mental disposition. Not only that, but the way in which he twists the camera so the shots themselves become askew, also enhances the movie. Besides rubble and rubbish, the music further perplexes the audience. A zither for a noir background is uncommonly pleasing. It is peppy and out of place among murders and threats.

Whenever something seems to be going wrong or Harry Lyme is mentioned, the screen tilts. We first see it tilt when Holly finds out that his best buddy, Harry Lyme, is dead. Not only is the shot tilted, but we are looking up at the man telling this horrid news. The next time we see this tilted-shot is when Holly and Anna talk to each other. The topic of choice is, of course, Harry. Whenever Holly is close to learning a clue about Holly, such as when they are talking to the porter, the screen goes back to that familiar tilt. This tilting would most likely be, because, the truth about Harry is what everyone thinks. It shows an inner turmoil in Holly. He does not believe that Harry is dead, so whenever a clue or the subject of him comes up, the truth bends.

The rubble, too, is akin to what Harry has become. According to Holly, we get the understanding that Harry would not sell bad medicine plainly for money. The rubble and Harry made each other. Because of the bad life in Vienna, Harry began a less honest way of work. Then again, Harry also ruined lives, turned them into rubble. Harry and the rubble are the same, brothers. By the time Holly arrives in Vienna, Harry’s life is in complete disarray, just like the city.

The sewage system, too, is also like Harry. Harry’s life is neither straightforward nor clean. The Vienna sewage is a maze. There are so many entrances and turns and rooms. Harry has many faces. The one he shows Holly or Anna and many others. He was both a friend to Holly and his antagonist. He was Anna’s lover and her condemner. He is dead and alive. Holly knew him as a friend, but when they took the Ferris wheel ride together, it dawned on Holly that the old Harry he knew and befriended was not particularly alive anymore. Instead, there was a cold criminal. To Anna, Holly loved her. He was her benefactor. He gave her a passport, even if it was fake. But he also turned her in to the police. Harry took away his gift. Harry was supposed dead. He would have remained so if Holly did not come around. Once Holly arrived in Vienna, Harry was alive. Holly refused to believe either that Holly was dead or that Holly was not murdered. Holly resurrected Harry.

Despite the seriousness of the happenings in the movie, the zither music is light-hearted and happy. Instead of feeling intense, the audience feels as though nothing is important. Anna’s passport is found fraud, cheerful zither. Holly is being chased by an angry mob, peppy zither. It is as though we are hearing the world through Harry’s ears. Harry is sarcastic, dry and witty. While he may talk about something death-defying serious, he jokes. During the Ferris ride, he mocks Anna and love. He mocks peace and human compassion. Harry Lyme is bitter, cynical man and he sells flawed medicine with zither music in his head. He even dies to it.

The Third Man, for all its seriousness, it is oddly twisted. Even though Harry is the antagonist and only appears at about the last quarter, the movie reflects his feelings, thoughts and being.

The Mark of M

This is a (bad) essay on the movie, M. I am taking a film class, currently, so I thought I might as well (procrastinate and) post this. This one is not very good, seeing how I wrote it over the period of a month or two. It is six pages.

M is a wonderful movie by Fritz Lang. It is German and from 1931.
...

The German murder movie, M, directed by Fritz Lang, was a breach between German expressionism and film noir. It was made in 1931, after WWI and during the depression. The movie showed dark aspects from the times (i.e. – run-down building, a surplus of beggars and a lack of fathers) and the earlier expressionism. Unlike German expressionism, the set is not warped and twisted to fit the story, but closer to that of noir. Both noir and German expressionism uses shadows as a way to express certain feelings or amplify an idea. Unlike noir, the main character is not trying to find something, as is the norm of noir themes. Instead, it the movie is displayed like a documentary, points out how occurrences like murders is entertainment and brings attention to sound in moving pictures.

The opening of the movie sets the tone well, there are children, in a circle, playing in a yard. They’re playing a murder game, where a child spins around and around and around in the middle and point to another to leave it, becoming one of the murdered, all while singing a song that goes with the game. At the time of creation, sound was a new and wonderful thing. Unlike our movies today, M, rarely gives background music and hands out lots of silent bouts. Even before we see the children playing, we hear the children songs of murder. These children standing in a circle are a hint as to what the movie is about. At this point in plot, only children are being eliminated (by our Hans Beckert). In only the first minute of the movie, we get two themes: sound and elimination.

A mother tells the children to stop singing that horrific song (which the children ignores) and we skip over to see a girl playing in front of a warning pasted onto a pillar. She blithely ignores it; the warning tells of a child-murderer and to be careful. As the shot rests on the warning, we see a man’s shadow splay across the words. This shadow-play is reminiscent in noir cinematography. The shadow draws our eyes to the words mörder (German for murderer). Even though we cannot tell who the man is, the words tell us what he is. Such shadow-play creates a suspense (of who this murderer is) and gives us our first introduction to what will be the main character. It sets up the plot wonderfully for the audience, our first scene is of children playing a murder game, our second scene is of a child being murdered.

The movie now moves over to a mother wondering about her child, calling out to her down the stairs (as an audience, we can grimly guess and can only wait until our dark presumptions are confirmed). A man comes by her apartment and tries to sell her a shilling shocker of a new chapter in a murder novel, which she promptly buys. This is all done purposefully. Lang points out how murder is displayed as entertainment and propaganda (to buy papers). We, the audience, is plainly watching a movie about a murderer which is a reference to a murderer from a year or two before. When the mother calls for her child (Elsie, whom we know, by now, that she is truly deceased), we are given a handful of clips of stairs and clothes hanging to dry. This gives in to the ‘documentary look’ of the movie, making it reference, yet again, to murder as entertainment.

After the mother’s distressing calls disappear, the jarring call of young newspaper boys ring out. Someone in the crowd asks who is the murderer. Directly after that, we see a man writing by the window. Right away, we learn he is the murderer. Not only because of the note he was writing, but because of the more subtle clue from the last sentence spoken. Also, we can recognise it as the murderer because of the whistling. The audience now starts to associate the murderer to the whistling. The first time we legitimately saw him, he was taking Elsie with him. Now, as he writes the letter to the press, he whistles. This also brings up the recurring theme of sound.

Now the audience watches a crowd reading a notice on the news boards. It is a reward for informers. This goes back to Lang’s point that murders are sold off as entertainment by newspapers. The crowd is not so much as concerned citizens as horrified readers.

In mid-sentence, the scene cuts to the head policemen reading the newspaper notice out loud. They are sitting in a circle, which is yet another recurring theme. Just like the children, the full circle is broken.

Cutting a few scenes, we get back to the newspapers. A newspaper has printed the murderer’s, Beckert’s, letter. The newspaper was sure to print it. What more could boost their sales than a letter written by a murderer currently ‘popular’? Not only is their murder-is-entertainment as a point here, Lang also shows the detective process for seeing who wrote the letter. The documentary feel pops up again as the audience is sees the fingerprints, detective science and graphology. As the graphologist speaks of what the handwriting tells of the person who wrote it, we watch as Beckert makes faces in the mirror, bringing image to what the graphologist is saying. Then, while the police chief is talking of how taxing the manhunt is on his men, we are shown a series of examples on just how tired the policemen really are and what they are doing to find Becket. Leading again to a documentary feel. As he continues the talk about widening the search for the killer, a map of the area is shown and the town is circumscribed several times, giving us more circles.

The police raid one of the underground clubs, and they do so in complete silence. There is no background music or talking or sounds of cars and people. It brings a greatly noticeable attention to the heavy silence and when a whistle and car horns pierce through the silence, they are more harsh and prominent than otherwise.

The policemen search the people in the underground bar (arresting many), display all the weapons, flasks, cutlery and other objects they confiscated. How they display the items mirrors documentaries and how they display items.

After the police raid, the movie cuts to the head criminals. They’re waiting for the Safekeeper. The four of them sit down at the table, creating an almost circle. This, yet again, brings back the circles. The Safekeeper finally comes, completing the circle. While Safekeeper talks, the scene continuously cuts to the policemen talking about the same thing. Every time a man talks, he stands up, breaking the circle. When he is done, he sits back down and someone else breaks the circle. Both parties want to stop Beckert and want to find him first, bring their own justice on the man. Even though the police and the criminals are on the opposite sides, they both agree that Beckert must be caught, no matter what.

The criminals decide to use beggars as a way to find Beckert. The audience is given a show of cigarettes and cigars, metals, food and cards. Yet again, reminiscent of a documentary.

The policemen have a list of people they suspect. Lang shows us the papers, slowly, making sure the audience can take a good, long look at it. This is another documentary-type shot.

Beckert walks up to a window and we see him through the shop. The glass reflects what is being displayed (murder weapons, knives, mostly). Some fo the knives form a box and it frames him. In a mirror in the display, he spies a girl. She also is framed by these knives. Not only is the murderer and victim is framed by weapons, but the display also has the hint of a documentary feel. As Beckert moves to stalk the girl, the whistling resumes.

After a beggar recognises his trademark whistling, Beckert finds a girl, buys her candy and ends up being followed. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a knife. That causes a moment of suspense. We put the three (Beckert, little girl and knife) together and momentarily believe he is going to hurt her. However, he begins to peel a fruit. The tracker pretends to trip, marking Beckert with the M. Lang ends the shot by zooming in to Beckert’s newfound trademark.

The audience already knows that Beckert is the murderer, but the police are far behind both the criminals and the viewers. We are given another documentary shot when the police find Beckert’s red pencil and where he wrote his letters to the newspapers.

The girl finally spots Beckert’s M and promptly tells him he has something on his shoulder. We are then given a spectacular shot of Beckert looking at his shoulder in the mirror. The people stalking Beckert realise their ruse is up and begin whistling to each other. The sounds are piercing and are audibly blatant. This, yet again, brings attention to sound.

The men continue to stalk Beckert and the shot widens up. We are given an aerial view of the streets as the men try and corner Beckert. This is a common shot used in noir. The characters look small and insignificant in the large city. A fire truck passes by, creating a clamour, bringing more attention to sound. We are given a look around the rooftops and one particular shot reminisces to The Casket of Dr Caligari. Bells toll and loud horns and many people are heard. The second attention brought to sound in the scene.

The next scene is of the criminals breaking and searching for Beckert. It is the most extensive documentary example. We are given a run-through of how the criminals break through the building (and into every office). A man trying to figure out how to bypass the alarm system hears a taping. This is Beckert, trying to get through the locked door. This is yet another sound example. By now, Beckert’s shots have gone from open streets to a storage room, to an even smaller storage space. In an attempt of trying to not to be found, he shrinks deeper into the stuff. As he gets closer to being caught, the space he occupies shrinks until there is nothing left to shrink into. That is when he is caught. After they finally apprehend Beckert and hurriedly run off, the building is empty and we see the damage done. Guards tied up, broken doors, a smashed storage space and a nice circle through a ceiling, which brings us to the police arriving at the scene a few hours late as usual (although it does tie the two scenes together cleanly).

Beckert is brought forth to the criminal underground for a hearing. We find a gigantic crowd staring at us, the audience. There is complete silence. The Safekeeper holds up pictures of the killed children, and as he brings the pictures down, we see the crowd staring at us.

From smoking to open streets, M has aspects to it that are noir. The way it is filmed is closer to noir, but it is not. It has still yet to abandon expressionism. The story and the way it is presented holds roots in expressionism. M is the branch between the two genres. It also holds importance to sound and how murder is entertainment. To hold up that murder is entertainment, scenes are played out as though it was a documentary.

The Sacrificing Brother (A. Cain Arlini)

There was a chink, the sound of ice moving in a glass. The room was lit respectively, it was not too bright nor too dark. There were no windows in the dining room and if there were, the sight was not worth the look. The room was, like the rest of the house, decorated with reds, off-whites, creams and browns. It was finely dressed and not pompously rich. The room showed the owner to be rich, the kind that was not to be flaunted, but also not to be hidden. Every object in the dining room had a purpose and there was not much art.

A. Cain Arlini was not a man for the arts. He did not care for paintings or play, and certainly not musicals. He did dabble in a book or two, but they never struck a fancy or even a chord. Cain was just a man. Cain also had a very peculiar interest in pulps. While his brother, Abele, read books avidly, watched plays with awe and listened to concerts in rapture, Cain found solace in horror comics. He kept that fact hidden.

The inhabitants of the dining table was an older man, who sat at the head and had a pepper-and-salt mixed with chestnut clean-cut and short hair, an older woman, who was black-haired and devoid of wrinkles and also sat across from the older man, and two men, who were in-between their 20s and 30s. The man was the Father of Cain and Abele. He was highly respected, and also highly feared. His name was Adem and he ran mostly illegal businesses (and a very nice theatre for opera, which they had named The Globe). The woman was the Mother of Cain and Abele and her name was Ava. She ran the opera most of the time and was the reason why they owned the theatre. She had a relentless love for opera. The two last men were, to lightly put it, very special. The one on the right hand of Adem was Abele. He had darker brown hair and the same colour eyes. The one on the left side of Adem was Cain. He had the same colour hair as his father and his eyes were the same brown. Abele’s hair looked soft, the cut made him look kinder than his brother, who’s hair formed horn-like flips. This made Cain look imposing and devilish, which made Abele look like a victim when near him. They both were the same height and almost the same weight. Abele was skinnier by default and it gave him a look of incompleteness. Cain was more filled out, but he was not portly. None of them were, in any way, overweight or chubby. Despite what most people thought, they were not twins. Cain was a year older than Abele. Abele’s leg was bandaged and, if one looked closer, he had several small cuts. Cain tended to look at his brother menacingly from time to time. The reason was because Abele would not be silent.

“If you insist, youngest son, then we might indeed see the opera. Zukerman, that would be the Arianna the papers have been gibbering about these days, will be our lead soprano. The Globe is showing Tosca.” Ava said. Abele was about to mention something happily when the cook came out, followed by four waiters, to announce that dinner has begun. They were treated to Cain’s favourite dish: softly roasted lamb, cooked spinach, whipped potatoes and a mushroom sauce. It was always divine. Disobedient or rotten cooks lost hands, if they were lucky, and cooking a dinner for the Mother and the Father of Cain and Abele was the worst time of the year for the cooks. Cain made sure to personally visit the kitchens to announce that his parents were coming and that the food was to be perfectly celestial. The cooks did not dare to try and quit then. They had heard the stories of bits and pieces of arms or legs found in waste bins. Cain did not like pressure and finding a magnificent cook on short notice entered his list of ‘pressure’. After the cook announced, fairly bluntly, on what the dish was, the waiters strode forward and placed their dished in front of each person.

“I shall now allow the masters and mistress to dine,” the cook said and left. If one looked closely, they could have noticed the small shaking in his legs.

Adem looked at his dish, teasingly amused, “I suspect that this is all you eat, oldest son? This is all you ever serve us.” Abele smiled and nodded in agreement. He received a small kick underneath the table; he made no movement, he did not dare to show to their parents any thing such as fighting.

Cain, pretending to be amused, answered, “It is a fine dish, father. It is both respectable, but not pretentious. I have found that a superb lamb is hard to find and this is a perfect dish to show off my cooks’ skills. Do not worry, though, we will certainly not be dining on the same dish every night.”

Abele, muttering under his breath, said, “Every day would be better… There is breakfast and lunch, of course.” Cain arched an eyebrow at his brother.

“Did you say something, brother? Is something not to your liking?” he said, there was an undertone warning.

“O-of course not, brother. The lamb is d-divine. I love it. I was c-complimenting on the dish.”

“I do hope so, brother.” Cain took a sip of his red wine. There was a small silence, except for the chinking of silverware on good china.

“I was saying, Abele, the Globe will be showing Tosca. Perhaps we ought to go this week?” she offered. Abele and Adem nodded. Cain was neutral.

“I have yet to see this Zukerman. I have heard that she is outstanding,” Adem said. “When is the best time to see it, dear wife?” Abele looked from his father to his mother as they discussed the times that were best to view the opera. He avoided his brother’s gaze; he knew that they were not benevolent and kind looks.

“I would like to do it this week, if that does not displease you, my oldest son. It would be a nice family outing,” said Adem. Cain politely bowed his head slightly.

“No, it would not displease me at all, father. When would be the best showing, mother?” he said. Ava gave a pause, thinking. Abele ate his potatoes and ate around the lamb. He always felt bad eating lamb. He did not really care about the animal itself, but he just had an inner, distinct feeling that when his brother served lamb, something was not right.

“The weekend is never the best, of course. That is when all the commoners come. Today is Wednesday, so they do not play tonight. There is no time, anyways. They do play tomorrow. Do you have anything for use planned, dear older son?” Ava replied and asked. Cain remained control of his face, but his hand was white-knuckled. He had planned on them to see a play. His family did not take well to plays, but adored operas and musicals. He never minded operas, only when they were obstructing something far more interesting. In this case, the play was on outside and natural rendition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It was to be done without costume and only natural sets. There were the necessary masks, of course, and the natural lighting. He was quite looking forward to it. It was like his brother to ruin his brilliant plans.

“No, mother. I did not have anything special planned for tomorrow. If you wish, we shall go.” He responded. Silently and mentally he was hitting his brother over and over again.

“Good. Tomorrow, then.” Ava concluded. She gave a nod, and asked for a pardon. She was tired and full. Cain gave her pardon. Adem, Abele and Cain silently ate for a while. Adem then asked for a pardon and left to join his wife. Cain glared across the table at his brother. Abele looked down.

“S-sorry… b-b-brother.” He said.

Cain continued to glare at him. Awkwardly and ashamed, he began to eat his lamb. Cain picked up his knife and Abele automatically gave a small flinch. Cain slammed his fist down onto the table. Abele stared at his brother. Cain sat like that for a while, trying to control himself. He was forced to not harm his brother for the whole of the week. Abele looked down at his lap and stared at it intently. One of the lesser cooks came out to take the plates. He gingerly took Adem’s and Ava’s. He did not come back. The moment broke and Cain dropped the knife onto the table. He sighed with exhaustion. “Go, dear brother.” He leaned back in his chair while Abele scurried off. Cain stood up with effort and lumbered towards his quarters.

He changed into his favourite pyjamas (black and warm) and lay in bed for a long time. He finally closed his eyes and slept.

It was day. He was sitting, nay, kneeling on grassy land. His hands were wet with blood and his eyes were closed. He felt a presence. It was not the person beside him and it was no ordinary presence. It was, he supposed, The Presence. Then the person beside him spoke and he groaned internally. He opened his eyes slowly as the person beside him waved and said, “Wot’s… er… your name?”. It was Abele. Cain elbowed him, hard. The angel stared at Abele.

“Are you daft, brother? Who the hell do you think he is? He’s the Metatron,” Cain said. Abele looked at his brother, confused.

“Who’s that?” Abele asked. Cain glared at him. Even though they never read the Bible, on principle (for it gave them the shivers), they did learn Christian mythology.

“Shut up,” he retorted. The angel looked from one to the other. He looked fairly bored and extremely annoyed. Cain felt he understood.

The angel rolled his eyes and began to speak: I AM THE VOICE OF GOD. (“Oh, said Abele quietly and received a glare from his brother). GOD THANKS YOU, ABEL, FOR YOUR GIFT. HE ACCEPTS IT GLADLY.

The angel bowed and looked as though he was going to take off. “Hey now! Wait a minute. What about mine?” Cain asked. He was not just going to allow his present, whatever it was, to be ignored.

The Metatron looked at him momentarily, as though thinking of what to say. This made Cain a little uncomfortable. That, then made him a little scared. He hardly felt uncomfortable or scared. Finally, He (despite that the he in question was, in fact, genderless) spoke again: GOD DOES NOT ACCEPT YOUR GIFT, CAYN. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.

Cain stared as the angel flew off. His gift was not accepted? What was better about Abele’s gift? He looked over at the stone slab which held their gifts. Cain was a slab of cut meat, from what it looked like. Abele’s was plainly a lamb that was slaughtered. Did God prefer whole lamb? Cain felt his anger rise like never before. The more he thought upon it, the more it rose. He could not temper and cool it. In the background, off miles away, he heard a stammering apology. Cain spied the knife he used in front of him. Without thought, he grabbed it. He rose and faced his brother, who was beginning to back away. Cain took a step closer. His brother fell. Cain screamed and lunged forward with the knife. He was blind and deaf in anger.

Cain was confused. In front of him stood his brother. His brother stared at him, surprised. Cain noticed that he was sitting up. He also noticed that his fist was a centimetre away from Abele’s head. Cain regained his composure. “What is it that you want, dear brother?” His brother wrung his hands.

“W-well, the servants were busy with our mother and father. I th-thought you might want to get up.” Abele looked down.

“Yes... well, thank you then. Leave, I need to change” Cain said slowly. Abele left quickly and thankful that his brother did not strike him. He was trying to remember a dream he had. He was fairly certain that he had heard it before. He shook his head. He found that the dream was slipping away into his subconscious and sneaking out the door into forgetfulness. By the time he was standing in front of his bureau and putting on his trousers, he could only faintly recall that he had a disturbing dream and nothing more.

Cain looked over at the clock on his bedside table and rolled his eyes. It was 6 a.m. Cain always awoke at 8 a.m. Sometimes he woke up later, but he would lay there, thinking, or read or listen to the servants talking. Cain loved laying there in the morning, basking in the pause of time before he would be forced to work and play politic games. Abele had taken that away from him today. Abele had taken away a lot of things today. First the outside and ‘natural’ theatre and now his lounging time. Cain knew this was not going to be a good day. He stood, staring, at his rack of ties, picking up one, placing it back and nodding his head. He wanted to, if anything, wear one of his favourite ties today. He finally found what he wanted and walked over to the mirror, tied it and left, smiling.

The tie was black with a red tear-shaped drop bordered with white.

A/N: This took a long time to do. I ran into homework (well, I was on vacation before; I miss it) and school and I kept watching movies instead of working (this week was Pirates of the Caribbean, both movies, and Nosferatu). So it got put on hold. I was in the middle of the dinner conversation and it probably seemed a little boring compared to the movies I was watching, so I kept saying 'after this movie'. Anyways, I finally sat down yesterday and today and finished it off.

I did the big 'author no-no' and copy-pasted, haha. I wanted to keep the dreams the same, just from different perspectives. I hope it wasn't too boring. I think it's because I love that dream way too much. I love the Metatron; he is based off of Alan Rickman's performance in Dogma. My dad (who is, basically, my editor) looked at me while he was reading and asked 'Have I seen this before?'. I told him it was from The Sacrificial Brother and he responded with 'Oh'. The fact that is seemed very familiar, but not so familiar as to directly correlate with my previous story is very amusing. I wanted that to happen. I wanted to make them seem as though they could have come from anywhere (or anytime).

The Sacrificial Brother (Abele Arlini)

A bird fluttered down by the window on Abele Arlini’s New York-styled apartment. The apartment was on one of the upper floors, the eighth, to be precise. There were nine levels. There were only two other rooms that were in use on the eighth floor and no one questioned about the ninth. There was not a lot in Abele’s apartment. The living room was currently a mess, the reason was obvious. A table was overturned and the couch was sliced. Old bullet marks splattered the walls. A chair was broken and forgotten about, the leg was somewhere unknown. The sole lamp was in a corner, smashed, and looked as though it was thrown. There were no lights except for the sun from the window. There were two windows looking into the room, but one had been long-smashed (most likely by a bullet or five) and the occupant of the apartment had boarded it up. The room had a general look of unlived in, not because the occupant was busy and away, but because the occupant had long since learned that anything nice and decorative would be a waste of money.
The bird on the windowsill cawed, denoting it as to be a carrion bird of some sort. “Not dead yet,” said a sniffled voice behind the mangled couch. There was another sob when a hand reached up to the couch and the man stood up, with difficulty. The wall behind the man was covered in blood, with good reason. Abele stumbled from the couch to the wall and entered his room, where he kept the bandages. A wide streak of blood was painted at thigh-length on the wall. When Abele sat down on his bed, a pool formed. His left leg received the most attention from the knife. An arm, a bit of his chest and his face had also received some small gashes or two. His face had begun puffing up from being hit by the handle of a knife.
The gash had finally ruined the faded-to-nondescript-coloured pants. Abele dug underneath the bed and produced a first aid kit. He proceeded to take of the pants, with painful difficulty. His eyes watered a lot in the effort. Abele was not fond of pain, to his never-ending despair. He took out a pad and wiped as much excess blood as he could. He took out a leathered stick, a needle and a cat-gut thread. He put the leathered stick in his mouth and threaded the needle. He began to sew up his wound. The bird outside the window was given a chorus of whimpers and sobs, a period of silence (from Abele regaining his composure) and then another chorus. It finally ended and the bird cawed out and left for something tasty.
With his leg finally sewn and bandaged, Abele tended to some of the lesser wounds. He decided against putting on a different pair of pants, but put on boxers. He walked back into the living room and then to the kitchen. Abele dug into the refrigerator and at the back in some corner, he found a piece of meat. He held it to the right side of his face. He also found a glass in some cupboard and poured sink water into it. He sipped it with care as he sat at the mangled couch in the living room. For a while he sat there silently, but a knock finally sounded from the door. Abele looked fearfully at the door but the knocker called out that it was just Ana. Abele limped to the door and let her in.
Ana was, to put it bluntly, an old crone. She had assumed the role of babushka on the floor, but she wasn’t really Russian. Abele never questioned where she came from and the only time he had entered her apartment made him guilty when he asked where Mr Ana was. When he had peaked into her room, out of small curiosity, he found a shrine to a middle-aged man and a strapping young man. Abele did not question on her family, ever. He did not even know her last name. Everyone called her Ana or some form of Mother from different languages or homelands. She was shrunken and bent, like all old crones, and held a firm and caring face. She was not the grandmother who spoiled or the elderly who scorned the young. She would scold the foolish but bandage their wounds. She did have a head-scarf and shawl, which amplified the elderly lady feel. Abele was ever-grateful to her for all she has done for him.
Ana tsk-ed at his bandaging job. “I bet you didn’t even wash off your leg properly.” She went into his kitchen and grabbed the rag and a bowl of water. She placed the bowl on the floor and unwrapped his shoddy bandage. She washed off the wound which had slowed down to a small ooze here and there. She sighed sadly, “You always get the brunt of his anger, poor Abele. The Irish-folk will be having a dinner tonight. They asked me to extend the offer to you. Cabbage, potatoes and a nice hearty and heavy drink. Father Abbán’s son, Aidan, you never met him, but he had a bonus at his workplace. They’re celebrating while they can.”
Abele nodded, “I don’t have any more food. I would like to come, if they have enough.”
Ana stood up, “There, done. I see that your sewing has improved. It is much better than the last one. You better change and I will find my old crutch. I must get back to my cleaning.” She spied the smear on the wall. “You better clean that up. Ah, and do you have any more wash for me? You must have. You always do.”
“They ruined my pants, but the sheets need to be cleaned. I've got blood on them again.” He added a sorry after he saw the look on Ana’s face.
“Don’t give me this apology, Abele. You have no apology to give. You do not have another pair of sheets, I expect? The Irish-folk may be able to spare one.”
“Oh, no. I can sleep without sheets. I don’t want to bother the Irish-folk.” Abele looked down at his feet. He didn’t like getting help like sheets and clothes and food from others. The sheets and clothing tend to get ruined before he could give them back.
“I will get you the crutch. The Irish-folk can give you the sheets after dinner. Bring your dirty ones to me and you might as well bring the pants. No waste in cloth. We will make more rags or bandages from.” She left his flat.
Abele sighed and went into his bedroom, where he stripped the bed. He dug into the chipped dresser and found another pair of muddled pants. He gathered up the pants and limped out of the apartment. He entered the apartment two doors down to the right of his. He placed the sheets in the hamper by the door and placed the pants on a chair. He looked around, waiting for the crutch so he could leave the flat. Ana appeared carrying his crutch and accepted it nervously. He had an inkling that this belonged to the young man in the shrine. He bowed slightly and said ‘thanks’. He left quickly, hoping to not rub off more of his bad luck onto her.
Abele returned to his apartment. He dumped out the dirty, red water that was left in the bowl and filled it up with new water. He began to clean off the wall. He was forced to abandon the crutch for a while, in order to clean up the blood sprinkles on the floor that trailed off to the bedroom. He picked up the needle that he had used and plopped it into the bowl and carried it all to the sink. He washed the needle and bowl. After he was finished, he limped over to the couch and slept awkwardly.
Abele awoke to a knock. He began to sit up when the door burst open. A relatively tall and very thick man walked in. The door had flown off its hinges for not the first time. The man stood aside as a taller, thinner and much smarter looking man entered the room. There were a lot of similarities between this man and Abele. For one, they were about the same age. They both had the same eyes, were the same height (except that Abele hunched and this man stood straight) and had the same facial features. Abele had a softer look about him while this man looked harsh. The main reason was the clothing style. This man had a suit. Abele had what was once a suit, but was now merely indescribably clothing. This man had finely combed hair, which was brushed back and naturally formed a sort of horned look to him. Abele just had hair.
“Hullo, brother,” said Abele. He sat silently after that. The man stared at him harshly.
“I suppose it is too much to tell you not to call me that. No matter, you will dine with me, tonight.” The man said. Abele gulped.
“I-is it too much to a-ask why?” Abele said. The man smiled, almost darkly.
“Why should I not dine with my one and only brother on occasion? Do I need a reason to embrace my fellow kin and offer him a seat at my table?” The man looked as though he excepted an answer. He got none, except for a look down. Abele was sure that whatever he answered with would only irk his brother. “Perhaps my dear and only brother does not wish to dine with me?” the man said.
“O-oh, I would l-love to dine with you, brother,” Abele said. The man’s smile grew even darker.
“Lovely. You will come with me. My servants will dress and wash you properly.” Abele stood up, leaning on the crutch, and walked forward. “You will leave that here.” Abele obeyed and place it on the couch and hobbled forward. A different man from the one who forced through the door stepped forward and Abele leaned on him. They walked out into the hall and towards the stairs to the exclusive ninth floor. A young man across from Ana’s flat had looked out and watched Abele go up the stairs. He went back inside his apartment and told his father that Abele will not be able to join them tonight and to forget about the sheets for a while.
Abele was dumped into a bath and properly washed off. His cuts and bruises were given salves. His leg was given a finer dressing. His puffed cheek had gone down considerably. His hair was combed and he was given a new and shiny suit. He was also given a fine wooden crutch with comfortable padding. He almost looked presentable if it wasn’t for the rabbit-in-the-fox-den look. The servants shoved Abele out of the washroom and closed the door. He looked around to see if his brother wanted to give him anymore orders and found none. He limped off to his room. He stood in the doorway and looked behind him. He relaxed a little and entered the room.
Abele had not been back to his room for almost a month. He inspected his bookshelf, desk, dresser and bed, making sure nothing was touched. Nobody but the dust-maid had entered the room. No one wanted to. Abele sat on his bed and laid there. After a few minutes, his brother knocked on the door. Abele responded quickly with a ‘come in’. His brother entered the room and closed the door. Abele stiffened and stared at the closed door.
“Why such the look, brother? I will not harm you here,” Abele’s brother said. Abele sniffed, almost wanting to sob.
“B-but you always hurt me, brother.” Abele did not look at his brother as he said this.
“Oh, but I will never hurt you here, dear brother. This is your room.” Abele looked as though he was going to say something, but his brother stopped him. “I did not come here to bicker with you. Mother and father are coming here tonight. It would do you best if, as always, you did not mention our little… ah, squabbles.” Abele nodded sadly. “Good... You will stay here for a week and then you may return to your filthy flat.” Abele’s brother nodded and turned to leave the room but Abele stopped him.
“What will be tonight’s dinner?” he asked. His brother looked back at him but did not turn to face him.
“Lamb,” he said and left.
Abele continued to lay there, staring up at the ceiling. Normally he would read or write in his diary, but he did not have the energy. He dozed off and fell into the dream-world. The dream disturbed Abele. He and his brother were wearing tunics and they were shepherds. They were both happily friendly. One day, on the first of spring, they went to a hill each with offerings to a god (or, as Abele though, maybe the God). They stood at the stone and both killed their offerings of a lamb a piece. To Abele’s surprise, his brother took some of the better pieces of meat and placed them into a cloth. He then wrapped the grisly meat in the fat. Abele merely killed his lamb. They said their prayer to their god. There was a flurry of feathers and wings and Abele, no longer able to bear it, looked in front of him. There stood a man with white wings.
“Er... hullo?” Abele said. The angel looked down at him. Abele waved. The angel arched an eyebrow. “Wot’s... er... your name?” Abele asked. The angel stared at him dubiously. His brother elbowed Abele in the ribs.
“Are you daft, brother? Who the hell do you think he is? He’s the Metatron,” said Abele’s brother.
“Who’s that?” Abele asked his brother.
“Shut up,” said his brother.
The angel rolled his eyes and began to speak: I AM THE VOICE OF GOD. (“Oh, said Abele quietly and received a glare from his brother). GOD THANKS YOU, ABEL, FOR YOUR GIFT. HE ACCEPTS IT GLADLY.
The angel bowed and looked as though he was going to take off. “Hey now! Wait a minute. What about mine?” Abele’s brother asked.
The Metatron looked at him momentarily, as though thinking of what to say. He spoke again: GOD DOES NOT ACCEPT YOUR GIFT, CAYN. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.
The angel bowed and left quickly, so as not to answer another question. He had a lot of things to do, mainly sort out that nasty list of who had Fallen and who had stayed in Heaven. Abele and his brother watched the angel fly off. When he was out of sight, Abele’s brother stood up. Abele realised what had just happened.
“Er... I am s-sorry, brother. I-I just do not like gutting lambs. It m-makes me sick. I can give you s-something if you w-want...” Abele saw the look on his brother’s face and began to back up. His brother had the darkest and scariest look he could ever remember seeing. His brother reached down and picked up the knife he used to skin and gut the lamb. Abele was about to turn and run when he tripped over a rock. He fell and hit the ground.
Someone pounded on Abele’s door. He sat up and realised he was on the floor. He returned to his senses and said ‘come in’. He was still dazed and very disturbed. He could have sworn he had heard that story somewhere. He felt he would have recognised it, but the more he though on it, the more it faded to a wisp and then to nothing at all. His brother entered.
“Why, brother, are you on the floor? Have your days in the apartment turned you to an animal? Should we just put a dish on the floor for you to eat at dinner?” His brother said. Abele looked down.
“W-well, I was having a n-nightmare. I f-fell,” he explained. His brother looked unconcerned.
“Straighten yourself up and get out here. Mother and father have arrived.” His brother turned to leave.
“Cain?” Abele said and his brother turned around.
“What?” Cain, the brother of Abele, said.
“Oh... er... I suppose it’s nothing.” Abele said silently. Cain stared at his brother, then left to tend to his guests.

...

A/N: I have always been fond of the Cain and Abel story. Something about two brothers fighting and fatricide that interests me. Abele is just the Italian version of Abel. I made the older version of Cain to be Cayn (somewhere I saw it spelled like that in a medieval painting/picture). There isn't another version of Cain, apparently (unless I want to do somehing like Kain, but I think that looks a little tacky and not very Italian). The two of them were based around Gaiman's Cain and Abel from The Sandman, which in turn is based off of the Cain and Abel from House of Secrets and House of Mystery (more comics). My Abel is skinnier than Gaiman's. He is about as good looking as Cain, he just gets beaten. They are younger, too. They are in their 20s-30s. You can tell I also got Abele's suttering from Gaiman.

This is a story for the 22/7 Blackwell Society of Fiction (a writing club). The first challenge was to write about your pen names (mine would be Abele Arlini and A. Cain Arlini). I don't like how I have to post on the forum, so I just make a link to here. ((I am hoping for the challenge at the end of next year will be something revolving around our pen names again and I can have this as a four-parter; I still need to write Cain's story)).

Oddly, I found that everyone's name started with A. It sets Cain's name out from the others, so I like it. Actually, Cain's first name is Andreau (Italian version for Andrew), so it's really A. Cain Arlini. Just plain 'Cain Arlini' did not settle well with me. It sounded awkward.