17549--Sound of Thunder

You didn't just hear that...you felt it.

It rumbled, resonating through your flesh, your bones and everything around you.

Whether through lore or science, many people have attributed the effect of lightning's passage to many different supernatural actors.  Accordingly, the kinetic disturbance has also picked up a host of names.  Among the more enduring is "Donar" or "Thor".  Thanks to the modern mythology of comic books and the films they have inspired, the force of nature embodied as a ferocious warrior has enjoyed a popularity as a modern superhero that he hasn't seen since before the changing of the religious guard started cutting down oak trees and nailing up wood crucifixes.


Thor was created from a union of Odin's power with that of Mother Earth, resulting in one of the most powerful beings ever known to Asgard.  One curious development at the core of Thor's comic book characterization, though, has the guardian of Earth and Asgard bound by his father to the immortal's legendary weapon.  To teach his son humility (and humanity, ironically), Odin created an enchantment that tied the power of the storm-who-walks-like-a-man-god to the hammer Mjolnir.  Whomever holds the hammer and is deemed by its enchantment to be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor.  Usually, possession is acquainted with more malefic intentions, but I suppose we'll let that one slide for now.  As a father-figure, Allfather Odin is usually regarded as one geared more toward doing good than harm.  Still, y'know, gods can be capricious and their ways can seem quite harsh to mortal sensibilities.  Either way, the hammer was put in charge, a sophisticated leash for the power of Thor.

Now, one of the other great challenges some of you may remember being sent against Thor was the magical automaton called The Destroyer.  I've never liked that.  In my head, I've always tried to re-label it as The Annihilator.  I've never understood why they chose the name they did at Marvel.  The name of the hammer, star of Thor's show, is Mjolnir.  Mjolnir means "The Destroyer".  Bad enough that the robot's super-tough because it's made from the same metal (Uru) as the hammer, but they gave it the same name as the hammer.  That's got to get a little confusing in the heat of combat.

Oh, well, maybe they can work on it during their next retcon.  It can't be too far off.  What time is it?

16996--Fear of Thunder

FEAR OF THUNDER

The corgi ran as fast as I had ever seen one go before. The vibrant dog’s little legs carried it not only away from the frustrated girl pursuing him, but leaping into the arms of my familiar stranger. His smile showed through his dark beard as easily as he caught the runaway canine.

“Oh, good morning, furry one,” he said, scratching the panting dog behind its ears as he cradled it.

“Goldie!” a lithe brunette called to the dog, running several seconds behind in her chase. “You bad girl. I’m sorry. She never does this. I don’t know what could’ve gotten into her today. That storm must‘ve spooked her.”

“She says she is very sorry,” the overcoated gentleman said as he handed the girl her dog. “She couldn’t help herself.”

“Well…” the girl said, her attention drawn to the stranger’s rugged good looks and inviting smile even as she took the dog. “With such a charming advocate, I don’t see how I could stay mad at her.”

“I’m sure the two of you will be fine together,” he said. “You make a lovely couple.”

The girl blinked at him oddly as though attempting to clear her eyes. I could see the flush of emotions clearing from her, releasing their grip on her, even if he could not. Cocking her head to one side, she looked him up and down before taking Goldie’s leash firmly in hand and setting her back to the sidewalk.

“You have a fascinating accent,” the girl said. “You can’t be from around here.”

“You’re right,” he admitted. “I’ve just arrived in your beautiful city.”

“You must’ve managed to miss the storm,” she said. “Your coat isn’t even wet. If Goldie got it muddy, I can have it cleaned for you.”

“Nonsense,” he dismissed the notion with a wave of his walking stick. “That’s what a coat is for. Besides, it’s some sort of resistant fabric that more than weathers the elements.”

“Alright, then,” she said, trying to hide how uncomfortable she had suddenly become as she backed away from him, “you…enjoy your visit. Come on, Goldie.”

And that makes three. Look at him, pretending it isn’t bothering him. Look at him, pretending not to notice others looking at him oddly as they walk by. Very sad. Let’s see if we can’t put an end to this.

“Not doing so well with the ladies today?” I asked from behind my solitary stranger.

“What?” the bearded man said, turning to face me. “I’m not sure--”

“I really thought you had a shot with that one,” I told him. “The bit with the dog was clever.”

“Far from my most creative ploy,” the bearded man admitted, still not giving up on the power of his smile laden with charm.

“Come have a seat at that coffee shop with me,” I offered. “I can tell you what’s getting in your way.”

“You’re too kind,” he said. “How could I turn down such hospitality?”

In the upscale coffee shop, the two of us played at being the most appealing customers in the building. Still, the waitress would only speak to me.

“That’s it? Just black?” she asked. “Anything for your…friend?”

There are those readings again, I observed as information flashed across my ocular display. He wasn’t accustomed to being so off-putting.

“Tea with milk,” my guest said. “Goat’s milk if you have it.”

“Fascinated one second,” I said to my elder companion as the waitress left, “and repulsed the next.”

“Yes,” he said. “What is it you think is going on?”

“Makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it?” I asked. I used to do that to my students, responding to a question with a question. They found my efforts to stimulate their thinking to be more than a little irksome some days, but it was for their own good.

My bearded guest was silent, more confident in his knowledge as he studied his host in an attempt to penetrate my perplexing smile.

“You don’t have to answer,” I said. “I know it does. You’re not even sure which bothers you more: vulnerable girls not falling at your feet, not knowing why or that I might actually know while you don’t.”

“You think to toy with me, boy,” my mature-looking guest said, tightening his grip on his oak walking stick.

“Me? Heavens no,” I assured him. “I merely thought we could attempt an open exchange, a friendly chat.”

“Hidden in a game of riddles,” came the accusation. “You seem to think you know me somehow.”

“It has been a while, but I have seen you around here before,” I confessed. “You don’t appear to have aged a day.”

“I try not to,” he said, clearly proud of his image of middle-aged vibrancy. “Should I know you?”

“Oh, no,” I said, giving the waitress a smile and a nod as she set the cups on the table. “I’m no one you would have noticed. I dedicated myself to study and the collection of knowledge long ago. I’ve never cared much for attention.”

“You choose to lose yourself among the bustling billions,” the bearded man said, pausing to take a sip of his tea. “Who would’ve ever thought there’d come to be so many? Honestly, everyone starts to look alike to me.”

“Ironically, though,” I offered to him, “you stand out.”

He took another sip of his tea in silence.

“Once people notice you’re not from around here,” I explained to him, “inherent paranoia and the xenophobia we’ve been cultivating for years are easily able to blunt the effectiveness of your magnetic charms.”

“Indeed? I would not have thought my accent to be such liability.”

“Oh, no,” I said, laughing out loud. “It’s delightful, wherever it’s from. No, your problem is augmented reality.”

Again, the bearded man was silent, loathe to admit his ignorance. His eyes narrowed as his mouth formed a somber frown.

“It’s nothing to be angry about,” I told him. “Let me explain.”

“The meaning of reality?”

“No, that I’m sure you know,” I said with a chuckle. “For us, augmented reality lets us use our integrated technologies--some of it on us, some of it within us--to improve our communication with each other and enhance the ways we experience our environment. It gives us the ability to know more faster.”

“I don’t use anything like that.”

“No, of course you don’t,” I told him. “You’re what used to be called ‘off the grid’. People used to choose that as an option to disappear. Ironically, now it just makes you--”

“Noticed,” the bearded man said. “Who are you?”

“Me?” I asked, taking a sip of my black coffee. “I’m your worst nightmare.”

“Nonsense, boy, I’d know if you were my wife.”

We shared a boisterous laugh, my bearded companion even slapping the table.

“Oh, you’re funnier than I thought,” I said, wiping a tear from my eye, “but seriously…I am.”

“What?” the elder figure asked, beginning to lose his reserved demeanor. “Explain yourself.”

“I’m the future,” came the response. “I’m the inevitability you’ve feared for so very, very long.”

“Foolish boy,” the bearded man said, rage flashing in his eyes, “if you truly knew of what you spoke, your insolence would be beyond measure.”

“Once upon a time, perhaps, but times have changed,” I told him, calmly sipping at my coffee again. “You’ve been away and the future has filled the void. All the Guardian of Fate avoided by leaving on his own was being pushed aside.”

“So you do think you know something of merit,” the bearded fellow said, his angry tone echoed in the rumbling so near overhead that the building shook.

“And that prospect has always frightened you,” I accused him. “It’s what inspired you to strike the first blow in this, attempting to cripple humanity not from just pettiness, but in fear of being surpassed. Just as your fear drives you to dominate women, your fear of being forgotten has resulted in a litany of bastard children. Ironically, that fear also scared you and your brother away from siring a legendary child because of its prophesied success. Cowering from the potential of even an unborn child? Really? That doesn‘t sound just a little pathetic to you?”

“It sounds like an unsubstantiated rumor,” he rebutted. “You have the audacity to lecture me?”

“We dare much. I’m told we’re on the verge of achieving immortality,” I said, probably tipping more of my hand than I should have. “How can mastering lightning not be enough for you? How can you be the master of lightning yet be afraid of what follows?”

“Because you’re not to be trusted!” he snapped, his cane beginning to glow in his hand. “You’re the miserable products of the scheming Titan. You and your rampant billions spreading all over like a disease was obviously part of his plan.”

“Do you hear yourself when you say things like that? Did your tribe actually follow such zealous madness when you led them away? Is that how you convinced them all to step back from us?”

The bearded man calmed, chuckling at the memory. He reached for his tea and drank some more until his cane stopped glowing.

“No one had ever before negotiated anything like it,” he said, starting to stroke his thick beard. “The non-intervention treaty got most of us to leave and imposed strict limitations on any who chose to stay. Of course, that’s only a problem if you don’t know where to find the gaps that were hidden in the language.”

“But you did, of course, because you put them there,” I pointed out. “That’s how I saw you all those years ago. You come back like this sometimes. Or you send one of the others to undermine us. You’re hard to miss when you’re close, y’know. You reek of ozone, storm-bringer, just as your warring son stinks of blood and your brother of the salty seas when he shakes the ocean from its bed.”

“So you have indeed found yourself close to us.”

“Close enough to know you hate us because you fear us and that which we have the potential to become. You claim we’re nondescript nothings you can’t even tell apart yet you can’t stay away from us and just leave us in peace, especially our females.”

“Ah, the women…How like staring into the sun. With each return, though, we found your numbers growing. Like vermin, destroying your own environment, losing your minds.”

“We’ve strained our resources, true,” he admitted, “but with growth came increases in our knowledge and power.”

“There were too many of you to fully eradicate in any single stroke. We led you into wars that thinned your ranks, but brought you stronger technologies. We sent plagues to weaken you, but left strengthened survivors who found themselves with more food and land than before.”

“Abundance gave us freedom to explore and learn.”

“Bah! We claimed stars and their worlds,” he boasted.

“Oh? Which ones? We’ll drop in. Did I mention we’re on the verge of immortality?”

“I think we’re done here. Thank you for the tea and…the information.”

“Wait. You don’t want to be in a hurry to leave again. Haste makes you sloppy.”

“Sloppy?” the bearded man asked, suddenly stopping his move to depart. “What do you mean by that?”

“You left traces of yourselves behind that fostered the genesis of extremophiles among the animal kingdom. The common fragments of DNA helped me to recognize the remnants I might have missed otherwise. You remember what you left beneath Mount Etna, don’t you?”

“Etna?” the bearded man echoed, his eyes growing wide even as a bitter metallic taste danced across his tongue. “The siphoning cage for…You lie. You couldn’t have.”

“It took a lot of searching, but it was ultimately very educational,” I said, setting my cup on the table. “Amazing how even what little remained answered so many questions about physics and…well, you.”

I held out an open hand and, with a moment’s concentration, summoned my guest’s oak cane to fly to me. The elder man’s face betrayed him, showing first astonishment and then a grim rage.

“That affront shall be your last,” the bearded man said, his voice deepening as more thunder rumbled above and his eyes flashed with light. “This ends.”

He began to stand, his form expanding with a scintillating radiance that consumed his physical self. Within me, I heard his resounding voice announcing, Behold the revealed glory. The old stories say that really impressed once upon a time…

I had almost gotten to the point of thinking I was going to have to hit him to provoke him into it, but apparently seizing the Primal Bolt was enough.  I wouldn’t be so crass as to say “the revealed glory” was a little limp. I would be more gracious than to speak ill of the dead. In our modern era, it was a sublime cascade of exotic particles and fundamental forces that showed what was behind the curtain and completed the education my integrated nanite symbiotes and I had begun with dearly departed Typhon. I found the remnants under Mount Etna, so I assumed it was Typhon, anyway. The old guy was still too arrogant to listen to all that, though. His loss. Ah, Zeus, you old…oops. There I go again. Mustn’t speak ill of the dead.

What little remained of the weak tea was poured onto the table in a symbolic gesture, for the departed. A moment’s concentration, just more than a whim, coupled with a controlled surge of energy to change the size and shape of my cup while simultaneously filling it with hot cocoa.

“Hmmmm…needs just a hint of cinnamon,” I said, blowing gently across the top before sipping from it again. “Mmmm…that’s the stuff.”

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” one of the waitresses asked dutifully.

“No, thanks,” I said with a smile.

“Is your friend coming back?”

“No, he had to leave unexpectedly,” I told her.

"Oh, but he left his cane," she noticed.  "Won't he need it?"

"No," I said.  “He left it with me and it’s time for me to take a little walk…and see what sort of a day the world needs.”

16829--But Is It Art?

Derrien walked with his hand squeezing Kyrian’s, their fingers entwined. Derrien had been struggling for weeks to impress her. His latest attempt had them taking an after-dinner stroll through North Park, the largest in the city. The northernmost city in Zadiasam, Bakar enjoyed the cooling effect of the North Sea’s temperate southern breezes. Given the time of evening, they only passed three other people as they made their way past the deliberately placed trees and bushes. At the park’s center, the winding paths led them through lush greenery to open on a large plaza.

“Here it is,” he told her as they came upon the ten-foot-tall marble sculpture, presenting it as though it were a gift. “I still can’t believe you’ve never been here before.”

“No, I really haven’t,” Kyrian assured him. “Stop laughing at me.”

“And you’re sure you’ve lived in Bakar your whole life?” he asked.

“You know how it is,” she said. “It’s one of those sightseeing things. You only go see it if you’re a tourist.”

“Well, yeah, for some things,” he agreed, “but this is art and one of the landmarks the city’s famous for. I mean, if nothing else, Bakar‘s famous for its art. We have more renowned museums than even down in Azirta, the glorious capital city.”

“I get it,” she said. “Some people come from the far ends of Tarakk for things like this and I‘ve only ever seen it in pictures before. It looks like a couple of blobs…hugging.”

“They’re the lovers, silly,” he said, laughing again. “The whole thing’s sculpted from a single block of marble.”

“It‘s more red in person than I would’ve thought. I‘ve never seen red marble before. It really makes the curves stand out. Lovers‘ Rock in Lovers‘ Plaza…”

“Yeah, but you know that’s just what it’s called,” he said. “That’s not its real name.”

“This isn’t Lovers’ Plaza?” she asked as they walked around the towering red and black marble.

“No, it’s Lover’s Plaza,” he said. “It’s not the Lovers’ Rock.”

“So the whole country, everyone in Zadiasam, and all around Tarakk, calls it by the wrong name. Alright, so what’s its name?” she asked.

He smiled knowingly, certain he had her full interest, before responding, “For that, there’s a story. This was back in ancient times and the artist, Rasbel, wasn’t famous yet. Anyway, he lived around here and found this block of marble in the hills. He spent days admiring it and trying to imagine what true shape was trapped inside it. He spent another week with hired workers moving it to his home. It was over three tons and a chore even for six men and a team of horses to move through the hills and forest. When he got it home, he was as frustrated by it as he was enthralled by its beauty and potential. Still, he had no idea what was waiting for him inside the stone.

“One day as he sat contemplating the patterns of the marble,” Derrien continued, “a stranger came walking through the woods. He was eight feet tall and his chest was as wide as two grown men’s. He didn’t speak at first, just walked to the stone without a sound. Rasbel watched the stranger, draped in green silk robes with mystic circles and symbols all over them. He had talismans hanging from his neck and bracelet charms around each wrist. His fingers were long and slender. Everywhere he’d touch the stone a magical symbol would appear then fade away after he moved his hand. The stranger looked down at the artist with glowing amber eyes and smiled at him, saying ‘You have no inspiration to guide this transformation.’ The artist confessed his frustration and asked who the strange giant was. He identified himself as…Valtanir.”

“The old Corican god?” Kyrian asked, smiling with polite disbelief. “Come on, really?”

“This is the story,” Derrien told her. “It’s all I’ve got. So, Valtanir said, ‘You must elevate yourself to hear vibrations higher than your own to know the essence of the stone.’ Rasbel felt a truth in Valtanir’s words and asked what he needed to do. How could he achieve such a state? ‘Walk away from the stone,’ Valtanir told him. ‘Embrace whatever you find with openness.’

“So Rasbel picked a direction and walked off into the woods. After a short time, he came upon a beautiful girl sitting beneath a tree. Her name was Tyla. She had gotten lost running from a wild animal and had twisted her ankle. He carried her back to his home and Rasbel saw the stone in the light of the setting sun. In that moment, realized that Valtanir had meant for the girl to be his inspiration and asked her to stay. He set up a comfortable bed for her near his work and attacked the stone with his artistic passion. Suddenly, he had no doubt that he could see the essence of the stone eagerly awaiting release. His heart soared to the heavens on the rapture of a song. She watched him as he worked into the night and he watched her to guide his hand even as she slept.

“As he worked on at a frenzied pace, Rasbel saw the rise of the sun and the return of Valtanir. He was excited to show Valtanir the progress he had made, but found his patron unimpressed. Again, the towering man-god caressed the stone, listening to it, maybe even looking into it, with his touch. ‘This is superficial,’ Valtanir told him. ‘You must reach deeper, beyond this juvenile effort.’ Rasbel, however, argued that the girl Valtanir had guided him to find had inspired him and that in touching his heart she had opened him to hear the stone. Valtanir laughed at Rasbel’s obvious infatuation, telling him that until he had learned to embrace all aspects of emotional experience available to him, the bitter as well as the sweet, the dark as well the bright, then he would never understand the full scope of passion and art. Fearful of Valtanir’s intensity, Rasbel recoiled from him. He staggered backward, stumbling into the half-finished sculpture. Somehow, despite the stone’s great mass, it moved. Almost certainly, it was Valtanir’s will.

“Anyway, the stone fell over, crushing Tyla as she slept and his heart as he watched, powerless stop the horror he beheld. Rasbel could still feel the thunderous tremor as he flew into a panic. He was unable to move the huge piece of marble and equally unable to move Valtanir with his pleading. ‘Now, search deeper,’ Valtanir challenged. ‘Use your anguish. Probe your pain. Let that guide you to cut the stone.’ With that Valtanir left Rasbel to his desperate work. By the time Rasbel’s brother arrived to visit him, he found his artist brother furiously cutting at the marble. He had been working it smaller, changing its shape and balance. He was nearly exhausted, his hands spreading his own blood on the marble as he worked to free a girl who was almost certainly dead. Once he had explained to his brother what was happening, the brother ran to get more help. When his brother returned, though, Rasbel had completely collapsed, later reviving only long enough to finish telling his story. Once the people were able to move the stone, they buried Rasbel and Tyla together where they had died. This sculpture was Rasbel’s last work.”

“The marble made red from both their blood,” Kyrian said, looking up at the time-worn artwork. “It’s so sad. And it’s very impressive you know all that.”

“Well, I paid attention in school a few times,” Derrien said modestly. “A couple of bits stuck with me.”

Just then, they almost walked into an impossibly tall man. They were stunned, looking up at him in his bright green jacket, almost unable to see his head past his huge chest, and wondering how they had managed not to notice him before nearly bumping right into him.

“Oh, um…excuse us,” Darrien mumbled.

“It really captures the moment of passion, don’t you think?” the tall man said in an odd, rumbling baritone.

“Oh…yeah,” the young man agreed.

“Still so evocative after so many years,” the tall man said. “I forget, what did they end up naming it?”

“Ummm…I…” Derrien fumbled, his mind reeling as he began to take note of the many talismans and charms that dangled from the giant’s wrists and neck.

He glanced down to see if magical words and symbols were scribbled on the ground at the tall man’s feet, but there was not enough light to be sure. Kyrian shook her companion’s arm, attempting to remind him that he was supposed to know the answer to this question.

“Oh, right,” Derrien said. “Rasbel’s Despair. Rasbel’s Despair.”

“Rasbel’s Despair,” the stranger echoed thoughtfully. “Perfect. I think she was some sort of an addict, if memory serves…Ahhh, no matter. Story’s better without it. Keep that one to yourself.”

With deliberate care, his long fingers plucked a golden chain from among the charms on one of his wrists. It snapped with a shower of sparkles, wriggling like a tiny snake whose mouth had just released its grip on its own tail. With a graceful toss, the shimmering strand flew to Derrien’s left wrist where it became a snug circle once again. A rush of dreamlike images flashed before the young man’s mind’s eye.

“A reward to complement your lovely gift of storytelling,” the tall one said, his amber eyes flaring. “Have a lovely evening.”

“Th-Thank you,” Derrien stuttered as Kyrian pulled him by the arm, leading him back toward the path that had brought them to the park’s center.

Derrien looked back as they walked away, but the stranger had gone, vanished into the night. Only Rasbel’s Despair remained.

16796-Conundrums of Prophecy

Stop me if you've heard this one:
     Oedipus was born to King Laius and Queen Jocasta. Laius was given a prophecy that he wished to thwart.  It said that his child would grow up to murder his father and marry his mother. Sure, it sounds crazy, but "Why take the chance?" he figures.  Thus, Laius fastened the infant's feet together with a large pin and left him to die on a mountainside. Killing the baby would open a whole other can of worms and I guess he didn't have any towers or dungeons available.  Naturally, the baby was found by shepherds and raised by King Polybus and Queen Merope in the city of Corinth.  Growing up with privilege in spite of being abandoned to the wilds, Oedipus eventually consulted the oracle at Delphi and learned the same thing that Laius had, but believed it meant he was fated to slay Polybus and marry Merope.  Like any good Greek of the time, he also respected the warning and left Corinth.  Heading to Thebes, Oedipus met an older man in a chariot coming the other way on a narrow road.  The two quarreled over who should give way, which resulted in Oedipus killing the stranger and continuing on to Thebes.  He found that the king of the city (Laius) had been recently killed and that the city was at the mercy of the deadly Sphinx, frontrunner in what would become a long tradition of Earth's supervillains.  Even in self-imposed exile, he was still a prince so Oedipus rose to the challenge and answered the monster's riddle correctly.  Apparently more mentally unstable than anyone knew, having its riddle solved drove the Sphinx to leap from a cliff to its death.  Supervillains, huh?  Anyway, ridding Corinth of the threat won Oedipus the throne of the dead king and the hand in marriage of the king's widow, Jocasta.
Sure, there was more tragic bloodshed yet to come, but the point was made: individuals were powerless in the face of destiny.  You can't run from it, hide from it or stand your ground and shoot it.  Still, the oracle was a popular concept in times past and receiving knowledge of the future remains something for which people hunger.  The traditional prophecy is no mere tea-leaf reading or the voice of a departed spirit in a candle-lit room, though.  Prophecy is a non-negotiable message from the gods.  Maybe they're being generous enough to share with you the shape of things to come.  Maybe they're just messing with you to see what you'll do.  Maybe they feel it's amusing, tormenting their characters the same way writers do.  What do we know? 

Well, we know they're gods and a divine prophecy is going to happen whether we sit on our hands or strand ourselves on Gilligan's Island.  Something will happen to set the confluence of events in motion to make sure the punchline plays out accordingly.  The funniest ones are when the fearful individual's own attempts to thwart the future bring it all into being like a self-fulfilling time-travel paradox.

I say all this, of course, to remind us storytellers to remain aware of the differences, assuming we're going to respect the traditions of the foreshadowing hammer.  A probable future is not the same as an inevitable one.  If you want to chum the water of your story with red herrings, make sure they're just clues that don't set anything in stone.  If you do, rest assured that some sharp-eyed reader is going to call you on it.

16793--Not For Kids

Adults love tricks, too.  It stands to reason that we would also love tricksters.  To be clear up front, I'm not talking about illusionists putting on shows at the Bellagio.  No, this time I'm talking about that special class of roguish heroes and flawed deities that we adore for their colorful ways.

They take on different forms, but their methods of operation share similar patterns: interceding between gods and man, playing games for their own amusement.  Sure, sometimes they benefit the heroes of the stories, but that payoff is often incidental to their intent.

One of the virtues we usually hold in highest esteem is their cleverness.  Whether its Odysseus outsmarting Polyphemus, Prometheus pulling a fast one on Zeus or some clever scheme woven by Anansi on behalf of his father Nyame the Sky-God, the highlights of their tales focus on outthinking others.  Noted exceptions regarding this particular characteristic include stand-outs Loki and Coyote.

Loki's mischiefs often bore the twist of malice, but for all he did to draw the enmity of Asgard there were also times he would redeem himself through the use of his cunning against the giants who opposed the gods.  With that and being Odin's adopted son, the punishments he received over the years were mild enough to enable his survival to the time of Ragnarok, Asgard's prophesied final war.  When the foretold Twilight of the Gods fell, Loki aligned himself with Asgard's enemies.  Given his track record, it should've come as a surprise to no one.  When I was a kid, one of my schoolmates who lived next door to me could've been Loki's avatar.  He lied, bullied and drove his father nuts.  If you had teams in a snowball fight (something we liked to do), about five minutes into the battle you could count on him to throw snowballs at his teammates and run to the other side.  A little while later or maybe the next day, he'd be playing on our goodwill and get chummy again.  He always seemed like someone destined for ever more trouble.  I may have to track down whatever became of him.

  For my money, Coyote has always topped the trickster ranks.  Can he be bullying, willful, forgetful, greedy, gluttonous, arrogant and profane?  Of course.  No matter what form he takes to romp through life sowing the seeds of Chaos, though, he's also a creator and a teacher.  He's seldom accused of cleverness.  In fact, he never learns any of his own lessons, but he can be a great teacher to men and spirits alike.  Sometimes he gives and sometimes he takes.  Whether he's Father Craft or Coyote (or even Wile E. Coyote), he's always quick to bounce back with some new ploy designed to bring him a meal or a laugh that may just blow up in his face again.  That's OK, though, because he's nothing if not dauntless.

That appears to be another trait the tricksters seem to share, especially the deific ones.  They're not just resourceful, they're resilient.  Whatever karmic payback they might incur, they come back for more and more.  Are they gluttons for punishment?  Are they insane?  Maybe they're just not done teaching yet.  Perhaps they're puppet masters letting other gods think they're running things.  Who are we to say?  We only know the angle of their stories that we're allowed to perceive.  Never be quick to write a trickster off as a simpleton.  Illusion is their conversation.  What we call reality is their toy.  You may never know an immortal trickster's long-game.

Prometheus is not only a Titan, but one who can see probable futures and is willing to suffer torture rather than give up information.  Loki is a manipulative strategist.  Coyote...sees humor and complexity at which we can only guess in a very limited number of dimensions.  Even Wile E. Coyote is a super-genius.  Just ask him.

16759--Secrets Worth Keeping

  The lore of many cultures tell the tales of superhuman beings walking about in the guise of mortal men.  The storytellers did their best, using the framework of mortal understanding available to them, to explain why they would do such a thing as to slum with the little people.  All told, it's just part of the pattern in a long tradition of people trying to make sense of things outside their normal experience.

In ancient times, men understood that these early undercover excursions from above were used as opportunities to test mankind.  It gave the worshipped time to interact with humans eye-to-eye rather than on their knees and staring at the floor.  It also indicated that ancient mankind didn't see their gods as all-knowing and could learn from interacting closely with mortals.

Long after the age of gods, man's stories told of the age of heroes.  While the earliest champions were dynamic figures of eternal vigilance, eventually, there came those heroes who had to create an additional layer of defense against overwhelming foes.  Such consideration brought first The Scarlet Pimpernel and later Zorro into being.  For these characters, disguise allowed them to operate in open opposition to oppressive governmental action and to move through society as a law-abiding individual.  This afforded them both time as icon and to walk about calmly as one of the people, like the gods of old, gathering knowledge and perspective.  Unlike the gods, the Pimpernel and Zorro identities protected the ordinary men from personal reprisals against their property and loved ones.  For the storytellers, ooooh, an added level of tension: what dire consequences will come should our hero's secret be revealed?

Were these valid concerns?  The signers of the Declaration of Independence might have said so.  Their public defiance of the British government cost many their homes, businesses and wealth, due not only to collateral damage from the Revolutionary War but to specific targeting of the rebels.  Examples had to be made.  Not only were the defiant men hunted and imprisoned when possible, but also their families.  Some took Robin Hood's example and sought refuge in the wilderness.  Those who would succeed them would have to be aware of the potential price of publicity.

The majority of our modern superheroes are almost automatically expected to maintain the secrecy of their private identities.  Over the years, some have gone to complicated lengths to do this.  A rare few have had the added complication of additional identities, some costumed and some civilian.  A few others have managed to keep distance between their public and private interactions (Spiderman dates from different circles than Peter Parker), but others haven't done as well.  Superman and Clark Kent have a lot of the same close friends, for example.  Over the last couple of decades, a lot of people have made decisions to have superheroes either stop keeping their secret from those closest to them or revealing themselves to the world-at-large.  Seems that people want to keep pulling their masks off.

I've never found myself to be in agreement with such choices.  It may be a result of growing up in an era where superheroes guarded their secrets with almost fanatic dedication.  Gradually, society has come to shoot down the idea of people having any secrets from loved ones.  This has resulted in some costumed adventurers spilling their guts after a couple of dates instead of waiting till the relationship got really serious (Barry Allen didn't tell Iris about how close she had become to The Flash till their wedding night).  It has also shown us close friends and lovers taking offense at having been lied to for years when they're finally brought in on things.

Really?  As though it was any of their business.  Now, if I were a close friend of someone like Peter Parker or Clark Kent and they were considering telling the world about their whole dual identity lifestyle, I would certainly appreciate some warning if not consultation before I found myself a target of reporters and vengeful villains.  Otherwise, if they're keeping things secret, that's their business.  If they miss a few lunches or have to run late sometimes with only a lame cover story, that's OK.  Friends understand.

Did I find Tony Stark's revelation in the "Iron Man" film amusing?  Yes.  I even found it in character.  I laughed when a reporter brought up the disbelief of the "bodyguard" story that had been offered for so long in the comics.  Still, as they showed in the next film, public revelation had consequences.  Superheroes aren't ancient gods.  Well, most of them aren't.  The rest, by revelation, put themselves at risk when their guard is down.  Not a good idea.  They make those close to them specific targets.  Also, bad idea.

[On a side note: I think it's always been telling of bad guys who grab Lois or Jimmy to threaten Superman.  It shows how the bad guys think.  For someone like Superman (which should include all other heroes, though it doesn't), anyone makes a viable hostage.  Using known friends is just for inflicting extra pain.]

I can't imagine that writers are trying to remove points of potential conflict.  Maybe they just don't like the idea of privacy anymore.  Maybe they don't believe in the ability of their characters to sell the dual identity concept anymore.  My feelings on that were echoed quite well in "The Dark Knight".  If you think that one of the wealthiest men in the world is dressing up as a bat at night, leaping off skyscrapers, flattening police cars and beating criminals senseless by hand, threatening to expose him is probably not in your best interest.  Likewise, people have long poked fun at Superman over working sans mask and expecting a pair of glasses to keep people from recognizing him up close.  I've always said, if it works, good.  If he thinks it works and it doesn't, humor him.  Not only do we owe him at least that much, but who wants to piss him off about it?  Don't poke the bear.

Unless you're secretly able to fly out to deflect asteroids yourself...?  Is there something you want to share?

16736--Once Upon a Time...

HAVE SWORD, WILL DRINK

(the story continues...)

   Marenswaith was a township with a population of fewer than three thousand people, most of whom were commoners. That meant they worked hard for anything of benefit that came into their lives. The town was one of several in the kingdom of Sweetriver. Marenswaith itself was prosperous, straddling a navigable river, home to industrious folk and surrounded by rich farmland. Like the rest of Sweetriver, the town existed under the rule of Brave King Brian.
Most believed the land was named Sweetriver because of the abundance of fresh water that flowed freely through it. A few others knew that King Brian had named the land after a noble maiden he was trying to impress. Her name was River. She had rejected his favor years earlier, but the name stuck and he had never dared tell the stern woman he had ended up marrying. It was just as well. The land was full of rivers, after all. Some of the people who knew all those things also knew that King Brian was actually only a duke, Duke Brian the Black, but he remained secretly hopeful. Ambition also had the added bonus of keeping him away from home and the “charms” of the duchess.
One of Marenswaith’s more popular revenue-generating enterprises was the Rutting Stag Tavern. It was late in the afternoon when the tavern’s doorstep was darkened by a black-cloaked stranger who stood out even among the usual odd assortment of those passing through from day-to-day. Inside the poorly lit tavern, the middle-aged man pushed through the sweaty masses as though searching for someone in particular. Finally, he approached a table in a corner of the room. A broad-shouldered man sat behind a tankard of mead with his back to the wall.
“Is this you?” the new arrival asked, dropping a small piece of hand-lettered parchment on the table.
Gulping down another mouthful of his drink, the armored man shifted his eyes up to the stranger and then back to the table. He set his tankard down and picked up the parchment.
“No,” he said. “I am me. This is advertising.”
“Perhaps not the best money spent,” the stranger said, “given the state of local literacy.”
“And yet here we are.”
“Indeed. ‘Have sword. Will travel.’ The horse head stands for chivalry?”
“Did you come here to ask me stupid questions or interrupt my drinking?”
“You serve this realm as a knight?” the stranger asked.
“I am a free-lance. It keeps me out of politics,” the warrior said. “You are an idiot in search of a village?”
“They say you are called Slade,” the stranger said.
“They talk too much,” the warrior said, waving his tankard in the air, “and you are boring me. Barmaid! Mead!”
“Your reputation has spread far, Slade,” the older man went on. “I am in need of a man like you.”
“If you want one like me, go elsewhere,” Slade said. “If you want me--”
“I do,” the stranger said, dropping several gold coins and a square-cut ruby on the table.
“I like a man who backs up his words,” Slade said, scooping up the coins and the gem. “You just bought yourself…a chair.”
“Fair enough,” the stranger said, sitting down across from the warrior.
“What is the job and what is your name?”
“I have been called by many names in my long life.”
“No doubt, but you should share one you like,” Slade told him, “before I choose one you do not.”
“Locke will do,” the older man said.
“And what do you want from me?”
“Your help.”
“Obviously,” Slade said, “but your rental on my patience is running out, so talk faster. You having problems with tyrants? Barbarians? Giants? Demons? A dragon? Some damsel in a dress giving you a hard time? Speak, man.”
“I need you to claim Justice,” Locke said.
“I am willing to fight for that,” Slade said. “It is noble and--”
“Not the concept, mutton-head,” Locke said. “Justice is the name of a sword.”
“Oh, of course,” Slade said, picking up his fresh tankard of mead as the server flashed a smile and sped away with his empty tankard. “I’ve already got a sword.”
“Ah, but this one is a very special sword,” the elder man said. “This is a unique treasure, said to have been crafted by the ancient goddess Ishtar for the warrior king Gilgamesh.”
“Gilgamesh?” Slade echoed. “Doesn’t sound like a king from around here.”
“Mesopotamia. Babylon,” Locke replied. “Centuries ago, before the Holy Land was the Holy Land, he ruled the people of Uruk with a firm hand. The goddess pursued him. He spurned her advances, though, so she cast his gift beyond the horizon and dispatched the Bull of Heaven to punish him.”
“Women, huh?” Slade laughed, lifting his mead for another gulp.
“She was a goddess of love, sex and war.”
“Yeah, women,” Slade said. “I have met them.”
“As you say,” Locke said, laughing with him. “Now, you may or may not be aware that Duke Brian has certain…aspirations.”
“I hear things,” Slade said. “Some say he wants to sit in a bigger chair, be the man people answer to rather than one of the people.”
“Unless you’re the man in charge, you’re just another one of the masses,” Locke said. “Exactly so, but with the sword of a legendary king in hand, even a pagan one, drawing followers and laying claim to the throne should come with ease.”
“And he can’t get the support of his own knights to go after it himself?” Slade asked.
“A wise question, sir,” Locke said. “A man of power and ambition must choose carefully those he would trust. This must be done discreetly and quickly. While the weapon has remained hidden for many years, others do seek it. It is whispered that among the contenders may even be a dark wizard.”
“A wizard?” Slade asked, slamming his tankard to the table.
“So it is said,” Locke told him, “and of great power.”
“Damn.”
“You have a problem with wizards, warrior?”
“They raise the hairs on my neck and boil my blood.”
“You fear them.”
“No,” he said before gulping down the remainder of his mead. “They just complicate simple things for the rest of us, especially the stupid ones. If I never see a fool with a glowing rock again in my life--”
“Regardless,” Locke said, “this needs to be done.”
“Maybe some other time,” Slade said. “I’m not done drinking.”
“It would not do for another to find the sword,” Locke said. “You are noble and pure of spirit.”
“And not finished drinking,” Slade said. “That means I’m not leaving.”
“Understand that with a sword forged by gods,” Locke explained, “that the wizard, to name but one, might unleash unspeakable evils upon the world.”
“Truly?”
“Indeed.”
“What sorts of evils?” Slade asked.
“I cannot tell you.”
“Why not?”
“It is unspeakable,” Locke reminded him. “Pay attention.”
Slade muttered something obscene under his breath as he contemplated the bottom of his empty tankard.
“This job will be worth enough to buy your own tavern,” Locke told him. “If you like, afterward we can even find you some damsel whose maidenly virtue needs rescuing.”
“Magic,” Slade grumbled. “I have yet to see the sun rise on a day that ran smooth when magic was involved.”
“Well--”
“Magic…bah! From here on, drinks are on you. Barmaid!” Slade called out.
Two more tankards of mead and four hours later, Locke had led Slade deep into the moonlit night. Far from Marenswaith and the Rutting Stag, weary steeds carried the two men through a little traveled region of unspoiled forest. The journey had not been made in the best of spirits
“Are we there yet?” Slade asked, wriggling in his saddle.
“Nearly,” Locke said, looking at the stars. “One would think I rode with a child.”
“At best,” Slade said, “one only rents mead. If we’re going to be going much further--”
“Very well,” Locke said, pointing through the trees to an inviting glade ahead. “We can dismount there.”
“Most tranquil,” Slade said, dismounting as his horse walked into the tall, moonlit grass.
Slade patted the shoulder of his mount as it lowered its head to the lush emerald grass. Locke rode to Slade’s side, also stopping in the moonlight. The forest clearing almost seemed to glow, basked in the moon’s silvery luminescence guided down from the starry Heavens.
“What now?” Slade asked, raising his arms and stretching his back.
“You go there,” Locke told him, pointing across the clearing.
With his gaze following Locke’s direction, Slade looked at the towering trees where the forest began again. Keen warrior eyes squinted into the shadows to see a barely visible rocky hillside behind the line of trees.
“Why?” Slade asked.
“Walk straight on and you will see the mouth of a cave,” Locke explained. “If the stars have been read correctly, you will find Justice within.”
“Right,” Slade said with a sigh as he turned to walk off.
“Wait,” Locke called out.
“What now?” the fighter asked impatiently.
“There may be tests,” the elder man warned, walking to him with a flickering oil lamp. “And you will need to see where you are going.”
“Thanks,” Slade said, “but I am no scholar. What manner of tests? What are you talking about?”
“Possible challenges to confirm the nobility of your spirit,” Locke said.
“Neither am I a noble,” Slade said. “I am not even in service to one.”
“Yes, I know,” Locke said. “If all that was needed was some brute to bash things, I could have found a hundred other men.”
“I wish you had.”
“Better than that,” Locke told him, “devoid of wealth or status, you are a good man, a noble paladin. This…goodness in you is what will carry you through to the prize. Did I not tell you all this before?”
“You talk a great deal,” Slade said. “Who listens?”
Locke sighed as Slade rolled his eyes and resumed his walk into the dark.
With the lamp held high beside him, Slade stalked cautiously into the silence of the deep cave. Layered beneath mail, cloth and padding, he could still feel his arm hairs bristling. He moved forward through the unknown darkness that seemed determined to swallow the light of his lamp. As the warrior concentrated on the careful placement of his feet, he realized he could hear a soft sound. What he could discern was barely above a whisper, but musical. As he strained to confirm what he was hearing and from where, he saw a light dispelling the stygian blackness ahead of him. A feeling of confident certainty rose within him and the brave fighter pressed forward at a quickened pace.
Slade stepped into the strange light and it flared suddenly. He rubbed his eyes and as they adjusted he realized he was in a large chamber. The walls were alabaster and gold. Piles of gold coins and sparkling jewels littered the floor. Scantily clad maidens danced around him, beckoning him forward. Other maids carried platters of rich foods, the likes of which he had only ever heard tales. His head swam in the scent of a heady perfume as blondes, brunettes and redheads brushed past him dressed as though they were entertaining a sultan. The serving girls began to arrange the food on a large table and pour wine into a large goblet. Again, slender arms and fingers gestured for him to come to the table.
“Come, Slade,” a woman’s voice spoke. “Claim your reward. You are a great warrior, more deserving than any other.”
“I am?” he asked, trying to make sense of things through his clouded senses.
“Live as a king,” the voice enticed. “Feast to your fill. Bed the women of your dreams. Recline in luxury.”
“What? No…I …I have to…I am helping…” Slade spoke, struggling to focus.
“No such foolishness,” Locke said, walking past Slade and around the dancing girls. “If they say you should be king, then be king. Others have had their time. With all the wealth here, we can raise armies in your name and crush your enemies. Who do you want to go after first?”
“Who?”
“Yes, who shall we crush first?” Locke asked him. “Who has earned your righteous wrath, my lord?”
“Lord?”
“Yes.”
“No,” Slade said. “This is…all wrong.”
“What is wrong?” the woman’s voice asked.
“All of it,” Slade said. “All of this. I am…no king. I help…people.”
“You help people?” the voice asked.
“Yes,” Slade said, “even when it puts a pain in my bloody ass.”
“Very well, then,” the woman said.
Locke vanished. The scantily clad women shimmered and faded away. The feast and the treasures, every last bit of opulence, was gone as though it had never been.
“What magic is this?” Slade asked, watching the beautiful chamber return to its actual appearance. “I am…still in the cave.”
“Yes,” the woman’s voice confirmed, “you never left it. You have been tested by the enemies of man and found to be of suitable strength.”
The glow illuminating the rocky cavern changed, expanding to reveal an ornate sword floating freely above the ground. Aside from its general form as a sword, the weapon was unlike any Slade had ever seen in his lifetime. Its warm glow was like a beacon, drawing him toward it. Even without touching it, he could not help but marvel at its sublime workmanship. The sword had a two-handed handle that had no pommel and appeared to be wrapped in velvet and a golden thread. The hilt had the form of a crescent moon and an intricate silver inlay. The blade itself was the most curious part: a three-foot fusion of metal and some kind of clear crystal. He had handled many weapons in his time, but he could not even begin to guess at the manner of this one’s creation. The dazzling double-edged blade was an embodiment of opposing forces cast in flawless balance. Its light made his mail shirt sparkle.
“It is beautiful,” Slade said.
“Before you take hold of the Sword of Divine Might,” the disembodied voice said, “know this--”
“It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?” Slade asked.
“Do not take this lightly, paladin.”
“Then speak, spirit,” Slade said. “Who are you? What would you have of me?”
“The name I once had is unimportant,” came the response. “Merely know that when you claim this instrument of the gods--”
“Justice.”
“No, the Sword of Divine might,” the spirit said. “Pay attention.”
“I was told--”
“You would believe a stranger over my word?”
“Well, in all fairness,” Slade said, “I’ve just met you, too.”
“You may dispense justice with it if you wish,” the spirit said. “The Sword of Divine Might will support you in any cause in which you truly believe, but only in a cause in which you believe.”
“Alright.”
“When you claim it, your life will be forever changed.”
“Is it going to hurt or not?”
“Not…much.”
“Swell,” Slade grumbled. “That’s what my barber said.”
“Be true, paladin.”
“Wait,” Slade said. “What’s it like…in the next world?”
“I cannot tell you that,” the voice said.
“Why not?”
“Rules,” the spirit replied. “Don’t make that face. You have no frame of reference to understand, anyway.”
“I barely understood that sentence,” Slade said.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” the spirit said.
“What of…Gwendolyn?”
“She is at peace.”
“Thank you, spirit.”
“Is that all?”
“My brother?” Slade asked.
“He says you can forget the money you owed him.”
“That does not sound like him.”
“Death can change a heart,” the spirit explained.
“I guess so.”
“I must depart,” the spirit said. “Fare thee well, paladin.”
Silently, Slade looked upon the glistening sword. His skin tingled as he reached out for the handle. Steeling himself against what he anticipated would be excruciating pain, the seasoned warrior grabbed the enchanted weapon. There was a shock and a blinding flash of light, heat and cold ran through him together. He was certain he felt the ground shake beneath him.
The light faded and, as his vision cleared, Slade realized that he stood once more beside his horse. Moonlight shone down on him and soft grass was beneath his feet. Slade took a deep breath and exhaled.
“Locke,” he said.
“Slade! You have the sword,” Locke said, watching Slade mount his steed again.
“Yes,” Slade said, admiring the unearthly weapon as he settled back into the saddle, “and it did not hurt nearly as half as much as I thought it would.”
“Quickly, give it to me,” Locke said. “We must depart this place.”
“Wait, I…”
Slade paused, more out of reflex than choice. His steel-gray eyes studied the figure before him. In the face of the man he knew as Locke, he saw something else. More importantly, he saw someone else, someone dark and malevolent with blood-red eyes seated in deep sockets. Slade sensed the near-tangible presence of evil and it began to dawn upon him that he had only begun to see clearly.
“Deceiver!” Slade challenged, leveling the point of the magic sword at Locke.
“Quiet, fool,” came the response, Locke holding forth a glowing gem. “Give me the sword or I will be your death.”
“Damn,” Slade said, feeling his neck hairs bristling. “Magic.”
“Do not try my patience, paladin,” Locke warned. “Surrender the sword.”
“I never surrender, lying wizard,” Slade said. “You’ll have to come and take it and I do not believe you can.”
The wizard roared angrily as luminous tendrils of magic energy lashed out from the gem in his hand. Slade could barely hold his horse steady as he fought the eldritch forces trying to wrest the sword from his grip. As hard as the wizard could pull, though, Slade held fast with all his considerable might. Suddenly, there was a hissing and crackling between the two men, followed by a flash of light.
After several seconds, Locke managed to clear his vision. He quickly realized that he and his horse were alone in the glade. Producing a clear crystal from a pouch on his belt, the wizard held it toward the smoldering grass where Slade’s horse had last stood and concentrated. The crystal glowed softly and, after several seconds, Locke held it up to peer into its light. The glow grew stronger until the crystal crumbled to dust in his hands. Locke sighed.
“Damn,” he growled. “The paladin was right. Sometimes, magic sucks.”
Foiled and frustrated, Locke adjusted the dark cloak on his shoulders and rode off into the night.

16653--And On the Third Day...

What is that magical delight, with it's incredibly dense, complex and ancient genetic code?  It is a unique creation under the sun, still unduplicated by man's puny sciences.  It is wondrous ambrosia.  Am I gushing?  Maybe a little.  It deserves it, though.  Of course, I'm talking about Theobroma Cacao.  Chocolate.  The blessed gift that is the food of the gods (it says so right in the name).   While the Mayans were dreaming up their plot to sell everyone else on the 2012 gag, the Aztecs were enjoying the seeds from paradise, eating the fruit (which they believed brought their prophet universal wisdom and knowledge), using the beans for money and also grinding them to make a nutritious, bitter beverage.  Oh, what wondrous bounty from the gods.  Cortez liked the hot drink so much that he packed boatloads of the beans to send back to Spain. 
   Now the Aztecs made their drink from cocoa beans that were grilled, crushed, mixed with maize (your people may call it corn) flour, chili pepper vanilla and hot water.  It was described as bitter yet satisfying.  Yum.  Speaking of satisfying, Montezuma would have copious amounts before servicing his women for the night.  Did I mention, food of the gods?  Anyway, bitter and satisfying wasn't the ticket for Spain.  Cortez introduced it hot, sweet and mixed with cinnamon and vanilla.  They loved it so much it became a state secret.  This meant that the French had to steal it.  It was worth the effort, of course.  After all, it was chocolate.

In 1657, chocolate shops began opening and by 1660 there were chocolate houses (like coffee houses) in several European capitals specializing in the drink.  The high import costs made it an exotic treat for the wealthy.  Even with the addition of milk in 1700, it wasn't until the 1850s that the tariffs were lowered to a penny a pound on the beans and the delicious drink's popularity became ridiculously widespread.  Still, I can't help but smile at the thought of sitting in a stylish chocolate house having a nosh and a server coming by the table with a chocolate pot offering to top off my cup.  Should this reality ever come back in vogue, all servers be on notice that you needn't ask.  Go ahead and warm that up for me.  

Sure, it's had it's detractors, but also legions of advocates from many walks of life.  Cardinals, doctors, peasants, socialites and writers have all sung its praises.  It continues to be eaten alone, included in other foods and used to coat other foods.  Why?  Because chocolate makes life better, of course.  It should come as no surprise that all the very best holidays feature...                                 

Well, you know.

Chocolate invigorates the weary.  Chocolate brings smiles to the sad and euphoria to the heartbroken.  It's loaded with flavor, nutrients and ancient wisdom (like how to appreciate both the bitter and the sweet as well as how smoothly the two combine).

What has brown done for you?

16592--Gods at Play...Old School

Before there were video games or James Cameron movies or last airbenders, there were avatars.  "Avatar" is another one of those ancient Sanskrit words that managed to make its way into our world without having anything to do with its original meaning.

Now, "orange" has always meant "orange" and coming from Sanskrit would pretty much explain why it doesn't rhyme with anything else.  "Rook", on the other hand, has nothing to do with chess or castles and "nirvana" has as much to do with spiritual paradise as "avatar" does with virtual reality. 

"Avatar" means "to cross-over down" or "to come down", specifically in reference to a god.  What we usually seem to have is some deity who has decided that some situation in the mortal realm requires more direct intervention than sending a   convenient storm, talented hero or even a specially crafted demigod to deal with things.  No, some complex issue that's important to this particular god has prompted a descent from existence as energy and will to dwell in the material world and take care of business personally.  Now, don't ask me what motivated this because I'm not one of those people who walks around claiming to know what any god wants.  If a deity is all "we" think a deity is, then it's probably more than we could honestly conceive.  Hell, I've woken up from dreams I could barely explain to people, so I doubt I could wrap my mind around the whole of a multi-dimensional cosmic being anymore than a goldfish in a glass bowl could explain the ocean. 


Shhh...we're talking about black holes next.



If you want things done a certain way, sometimes you have to handle them yourself.  Zeus was a big fan of slumming from Olympus, frequently taking a hands-on approach to matters that interested him.  Those matters usually involved having some mortal bear him a child, but where better to skip delegation and opt for a personal touch?  Despite his arrogance and wrathfulness, this probably made him seem very relatable to his followers, especially the guys.

Other gods were also said to manifest their incarnations in many different forms, under different names.  Maybe running around down here is their version of virtual reality and they just come down from the heavens to play around.  Are they scoring points?  Are we non-player characters in their World of Warcraft?  City of Heroes?  Mass Effect?  Maybe that's what happened to all the god sightings and mythologic interactions: they got bored and moved on to another game server...I mean, planet.  They could be out there screwing around with the lives of...fifteen-foot-tall blue people halfway across the galaxy.

Hey, don't look at me like that.  It's a big, weird universe.  It could happen.

As we get better at fine-tuning technology and robotics, cybernetics and genetic engineering become more adaptable tools, ideas like those proposed in "Gamer" and "Surrogates"--running about with your consciousness projected into another body, natural or not--may find their way into our own spectrum of entertainment and daily living.    Rising from the dead could be as simple as respawning in a new avatar.  That might have a profound impact on the lives of anyone watching who's not in on the game, but I suppose pulling out the grown-up tools and attempting to emulate what we thought we saw in those we once worshipped is going to come with some risks.

If we make a mess, it's just a game, right?

16580--Playing God for Fun and Profit

  Writing is a strange endeavor.  It's sort of an exercise in how to make friends (literally, for those of us who would craft fiction) and influence people.  The work of creating characters, full worlds in which they live and act, and of course the tales that bind them maddens the mind of many a writer.  Some have trouble shouldering the pressure of all that hangs on their every word choice and turn of phrase.  Sadly, that is part of the paradox of the human mind.

People carry the desire within them to be in command of their own destiny, of the elements of their world.  People relish the power to make choices.  At the same time, many shy away from such positions of power and authority, unable to bear the weighty mantle of such responsibility.  No matter the circumstances, even the earliest record of man indicates simultaneous drives to control and to abdicate responsibility for things beyond control to unseen higher powers.  With no evidence, stories were created.  Faith was created, explaining mysteries of lightning, thunder, fire, earthquakes...it's as though we have an inherent fear, some of us, of being the master.  We don't want to be alone in the dark, no one watching over us.  We want desperately to grow up, but still to entrust our well-being to unseen parents.  It makes us feel better.

Writers write, but how many will attempt to remove themselves from the pilot's seat, claiming that their characters write themselves or act of their own accord?  How many claim their stories write themselves?  Even cast in a role of absolute authority, as a writer or an artist bringing absolutely anything into existence from nothing, many refuse to accept it.  Was it divine inspiration?  Did the devil make them do it?

Who's to say who's right?  Maybe our ancestors were guided by ancient aliens or divine beings and were taught at the dawn of creation that we aren't alone in the dark and beings far greater than our meager ability to understand do indeed watch us from above.  Maybe we're just striving to be like them.

Whatever the answer, worldbuilding is heavy work.  I know it keeps my brain busy, learning all the details and making sure they fit together.  On some level, it's almost addictive.  And it never seems to get simpler no matter how many planes/dimensions/worlds I let myself get sucked into populating...and then depopulating.  I'm also pretty confident that, even though I don't know how all the connections are made in that brain to create what's created, what I write won't write itself.  I also know I'm not going to wait for a note from a divine messenger, especially one I've created.  For good or ill, it's all on me.

I'd better get back to work.

16506--Tough Guys Do More

Today is a Tuesday, so it seemed fitting that I ruminate on tough guys. I deliberated waiting till Thursday and hammering this one out with Thor, but he’s a very popular fellow. Instead I settled on a less well-known tough guy to work with, but still worthy of getting his own day. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, Tuesday was named for Tiw. The Greeks had Ares and the Norse had Tiw. Tiw was a Norse god of war, but he wasn't an ass about it like some. In fact, the unyielding nobility that has served as Tiw’s claim to fame only serves to bear him out as a tough guy.

You see, way back when in Asgard, the gods tried to live together in a state of mutual cooperativeness. To foster peace and harmony among them, these warrior gods had made a deal not to kill off each others’ children. Unfortunately, this later came to include the children of Odin’s adopted son Loki. Loki had proven himself to be troublesome enough over the years, but wow did he ever have some weird kids. I always thought Hera should’ve given up on popping out little ones, but Loki definitely should’ve taken a vow of abstinence. His offspring weren’t just bizarre, they were prophesied to be key players in Ragnarok, the twilight of the gods. No pressure.

Loki’s daughter, Hela, was cold and grim and stood nine feet tall. They put her in as top dog of Nifelheim. Cold and gloomy, meet cold and gloomy. This place had everything it needed to give Hades a run. Another kid was the Midgard serpent, encircling all of Earth and lying in wait for the end of things. Last was Fenris, a gargantuan wolf who would bite the moon in half during the final clash between good and evil.

Fenris was of such staggering strength that his power worried the other Asgardians, but that pesky pact they’d made forced them to get creative. So they attempted to chain mighty Fenris…many times. Boisterous competitions being what they were in Asgard, Fenris showing off his power to shatter every chain and binding brought to test him became a great game, albeit a frustrating one for those who would have the massive wolf under control.

It was time to get serious. That meant putting the dwarves to work on the problem. Brokk and Eitri had become known as masters of creating wondrous things (these were the guys who’d made Thor’s hammer Mjolnir and Odin’s favorite magical items, after all), so it’s amazing that they hadn’t consulted them sooner. Thinking out of the box, the clever dwarves created a fine golden cord worthy of Wonder Woman herself. This creation was made of immaterial things that could not be broken, whispers and ideas whose essences dwarf magic was able to combine into what they hoped would be a single unbreakable object even Fenris couldn’t break.

The next gathering of the “Let’s Bone the Wolf” club had a different feel to it. Even though they tried to play it cool, let’s face it, a lot of gods are better at arrogance than they are at keeping a good poker face. No surprise then that Fenris got to feeling a little suspicious about the latest game of “Bet you a mead you can’t break this.” To put Fenris at ease, like a sucker, the closest thing he had to a friend agreed to let the wolf hold his hand in his mouth as collateral. Noble Tiw (thought I’d forgotten about him, huh?) calmly allowed Fenris’ teeth to take their hold. When the golden cord was fastened around Fenris’ neck and the free end anchored to a mountain, the test began. Together they all learned that those little dwarves were some kind of mad geniuses. Fenris could not break the cord and the gods wouldn’t release him, so Tiw lost his hand.

Now, did the one-handed war god complain and moan about his loss? Did he curse Fenris or the other Asgardians who allowed him to lose his hand without even an attempt at negotiation? No, he did not. Why not? Tough guy.

Tough guys do what needs doing.

Tough guys don’t make excuses even when failure occurs.

Tough guys persevere, taking the extra steps, going further than those who don’t know what it means to be a tough guy.

Tough guys don’t cry over physical pain. Women may have said, for a little while, that they liked men who cry, but I think they’ve largely gotten over that. What they came to realize was that they sort of liked “sensitive” men who could share their feelings. They seem to have largely tired of “sensitive” men, though. They cry too much. Plus, the communication that’s involved in sharing feelings is cumbersome. Men and women communicate differently. We say the same things differently from each other and we have different body languages. Also, men talk less. And, like it or not, there are different expectations for men than for women. Women can cry over physical pain without having it held against them. Men can “open up” about their feelings, but tough guys don’t do things by half-measures so don’t expect much. To a tough guy, “opening up” for a “good cry” doesn’t accomplish anything worthwhile. He doesn’t understand it so he isn’t likely to do it unless someone’s died or “Old Yeller” is playing.

There's more to the job than just having a Y chromosome.  If you want to be a tough guy, you've got a lot of work to do and none of it involves whining.  Guys who cry over physical pain better not have hit puberty yet because such an activity will interfere with being perceived as a man. It will certainly remove any perception of being a tough guy. John McLain didn’t cry as he limped along with glass in his foot and neither should any other tough guy. Whether it’s a bullet in the leg or cutting off his own arm, the tough guy remains composed. He is a role model and anything less is unacceptable.

Men, be warned: cry in front of your partner over physical pain and your status will be downgraded. You may even be replaced. No joke. Suck it up and walk it off.

If you want to be a tough guy, step up to your responsibilities. That may mean extra hours at work, extra jobs, doing more around the house…Whatever it takes, it’s going to mean doing more even when no one else understands it.

If you’re going to be a tough guy, you’ll see where you’re needed. You’ll look for opportunities and you’ll get things done.