Justin - Letter from the Strom

My Dearest Love,

          I know that I too long have been absent from your arms as I struggle to recall the image of your countenance in the daylight, your hair aglow, radiant as the last pink rays of a desert sunset. My oasis waiting to comfort and restore me after too long a sojourn through the wasteland that is the entirety of my world without you. I do not despair that I shall not return to your waiting arms but that by absence and warfare I might no longer be able to recognize the loving embrace from which this current battle has pulled me or that I may no longer find comfort in the peace.

          When I had first set out on this mission, I had the full belief that, with the aid of faithful men and Providence, I would soon return to you. As winter melts to spring so also does thaw the resolve of those faithful men whose diligence I had relied on to see these efforts to fruition and I find myself battling alone towards victory in this noble cause. It is a difficulty as the slow work of siege pulls a force towards the walls of the enemy like Luna pulling at the sea, to maintain perspective that we are sieging force and not the besieged. Even from without, one feels the enveloping ramparts of stone and the entrapping feel entrapped. This is what I try to tell myself about the efforts of those around me as the abhorrent alternative is that they are actively working against the cause to which they have pledged themselves; the cause that only in completion will unbind me and allow that I return to you.

          I imagine that not seeing the nearing end, the passion of these men has faltered and so their efforts lack the full measure of devotion they once had to bring this endeavor to its terminus. Regardless of why they may now so slovenly attend their duty, their efforts or lack thereof requires that, whether lackadaisical in despair or truly of malicious intent, I must regard them as the enemy. How else may I view those whose dark labor contrives to longer keep us apart? I do in my heart try to extend to them that it is despair and weariness, not malice, that pits them against me, but this thought is kept only so that I may find peace when these trials are abate and that I may retain some hope to again work in fraternal bonds with these men once the present battle has ceased. I admit though to you, my only truly faithful one, that my confidence in this mindset is not borne in fortitude. I fear I may henceforth always regard these around me with suspicion and unease. Time may assuage this animosity if Cronos ever releases me from the constant sifting of his horrible hourglass but presently, I cannot allow my efforts to be stagnated in trying to win these back to the side of angels. But these my former partners, my brothers-in-arms, for this present work, they must be counted as loss.

          I hope these thoughts do not make me cold in your eyes but I willingly risk the bite of frost in order to find myself again in the warmth of your presence and any who may place an obstacle to that end act as an enemy of love and must be thusly treated. Justice requires not that I give them comfort nor prudence that I should give them mercy. All efforts must focus on completing the job so that I may, unencumbered return to you again.

There can be no other cause. There can be no greater motivation. None but you my love.

I return now to my labor, that I may earn the right to find rest with you again.

 
With all love and affection,
Justin

Jason - Castle

M. Esposito to L. Esposito, Bowserton County, July 30th, 1985.

Since I left Mushroom Kingdom, I have travelled between seven and eight worlds, and have been engaged in one of the most unusual conflicts on record. We met the enemy initially two miles above Buried Castle, on the 1st day of this month, and drove them, after a sharp contest, lasting all day, beneath Pyramid Hill, beyond the pipes, distant about half a mile. During the next morning, nothing more than skirmishing occurred, until about two and a half P.M. When I dropped upon the Goomba's left, and commenced engaging him in his fortified position on the 'Catacombs.' In about half an hour, the fight became general. I would advance and then fall back, again and again, in succession, seeming to drop back to my point of entrance until about six o'clock, when a desperate charge dislodged the Enemy from his position.

Just at this time, the sun being lost from our vantage, our Goal was obscured as I dropped, with some haste, into a hidden chamber. It was under there I witnessed the thickest swarm of coins I ever experienced, which I gathered to support our cause. Darkness soon put an end to the operations, and the night passed off very quietly. This night and the night previous, the great shelled Enemy spent in fortifying his positions, already very strong from the nature of his home in the ground.

I slept inside a brick structure, and no sound was audible, except continuous din of the enemy's tools, and the awful groans of the wounded and dying who had come before. The building was a portal back to the surface on the edge of the Mushroom Fields. The next sun brought the daunting 3rd. day of my sojourn. Everything remained quiet 'till about 12 1/2 P.M. (through the window I saw) when a Red Koopa we began stalking my position. On both sides I think there must have been between 350 and 400 Goombas and Koopas in action. And after the most intense jumping of the conquest, and lasting about one hour and ten minutes, we silenced all the Koopa-kind. They report that we killed and disabled nearly all their red shelled defenders, and they were compelled to get detachments from their other ranks to man their place. The crossing was terrific, and I never expect to see anything to compare with it. I dispatched them and they were in an elevated and fortified position, and I had no works at all. The distance was about 1 1/4 miles, over an open fungal canopy. Because of my delay the Enemy had time to prepare for the charge before our final descent.

A very oppressive heat, like the vapors of Hell breathed upon me, reminding me of my fatigue caused by the work of the two days previous. If not before now, I was now exposed all the time to the Enemy's fire. The most of my reserve expended, I could not do much towards moving into the lair of Bowser himself. However, I advanced slowly and steadily, but I fear with too feeble determination. On my second attempt I made it to the vortexes of fire and of course it blistered my skin and I wished all the more for your support. This being the case, my hope was nearly routed, and chasms of lava almost forced my retreat, spoiling the whole affair. It was then I saw the whole of the potential, the view was open from my position, to the Enemy's works, in the Final Chamber. The lines moved right through my vision, and I feared at the approach of the great balls of fire from the beast. Then the deed was done. Bowser had fled and Princess Toadstool approached and I heard her say, '’Thank you, Mario,' but her words didn’t stop, 'but our princess is in another castle.' Exhausted and burned and mislead. It was an awful affair altogether.

Inspiration - Justin

Whilst struggling to find the perfect rhyme,

(and fit the idea in constraining form)
I’m counting rhythm, fingers dancing time.
Whilst struggling to find the perfect rhyme,
observers might look and think that I’m
having fits or swatting unseen swarm.
Whilst struggling to find the perfect rhyme
and fit the idea in constraining form…

Inspiration - Jason

With sorrowed eyes

With sorrowed eyes he waits feeling alone
Then grants permission and lowers his head
“If you’d let this cup pass,” he prays while prone
With sorrowed eyes he waits feeling alone
The price upon the cross his blood atone
“Tis finished” says he and breaks as bread
With sorrowed eyes he waits feeling alone
Then grants permission and lowers his head

Iris - Justin

When goddess of the spring has found her way
And winter’s grip released from frozen earth
Soil opens to allow your birth
Stretching up on slender stem you sway
Until with effort comes your gloried day
When spring rewards your straining with a crown
White or yellow, purple tinged with brown
If only spring would let you longer stay
 
When driven by your beauty as his muse
Did Vincent violent violet canvas splay
Not giving us the field of children’s play
But desperate passion pushed through vibrant hues
Highlighted where sun reflects chartreuse
Contrasting marigolds to show your worth
Sprouting forth from brush stroked brown orange earth
Blue green stems hold heads of violet blues
 
Three points aiming up three aiming down
Are you here to rule or to amuse
Is it to be left to he who views
Whether it be a jester’s cap or crown
Are you bearing joy or wearing frown
Hiding sadness behind a façade gay
Smiling countenance to mask dismay
Am I viewing queen or is it clown

I choose to think that you are born of mirth
But still I view your blossom as a crown
A beauty that elates when one is down
Seeing you’re designed for noble birth
And though born of naught but common earth
Still you have the power to play the muse
Painting spring with yellow, violet, blues
The poet can add nothing to your worth
 
Once again you join us, born of mirth
Three points aiming up three aiming down
Inspiring the artist as his muse
If only spring would let you longer stay

Jason - Flower

Lavender

Each stone was chosen to form a barricade
That fertile soil could form a promenade
Where sun could partner and laugh with drops of rain
Together whisper of future life ordained
The Master’s canvas a perfect ordered bed
Then silence broken the moment “Grow!” was said
And seed was stretching to touch the newborn light
Excitement blooming in knotted hope ignite
The buds were clustered like husks of purple bees
Which round stem buzzing and hope they Him appease

Then motion ceases and waiting eyes draw near
A threshold passes with life the buds revere
The bursts of purple in tiny pedaled plumes
An inflorescence of bold and fragrant blooms
With deep inhaling He sees his work is grand
So to the tool shed to finish what was planned
He sees the clippers which hang upon the wall
And grasps them gently He knows He must not stall
He loves the flowers doing all He does entreat
But sprigs so rooted can not purpose complete

With right hand drawing the lavender to Him
The jaws held open find home around the stem
With breath held inward He shears the stalk in two
The pain He feels it in doing what He must do
Suspended bundles then dry upon the hooks
With careful measures he checks within His books
Then shakes those ready Into the mortar bowl
And grinds the pestle to crush what once was whole
Surrounding beauty makes sense of what was lost
That flawless glory must have a frightful cost

Jason - Prank

Ghost Hands

The office was one Henry had not been in before. In an environment that was already a little too serious, this one was even more so. If the office had been a person, it would have been the kind of person that took himself way too seriously, the kind of person who thought they were very important, much too important for the likes of Henry. It made him nervous.

He sat in the teal chair which looked puffy and comfortable, but in fact all the give was gone from the cushion. Perhaps it was just old, or perhaps it the very intimidation of the place had caused it to be repeatedly soaked in sweat. No matter the reason, it made trying to figure out what he was going to say even more difficult. He knew Ursula, the HR lady, was not going to be happy to see him again. He thought there was a good possibility he would be fired. This was the first time he had been “called down”. He needed to choose his words carefully.

Ursula was Henry’s opposite. She was dark skinned, with her hair pulled back tight. She was short, but almost a force of nature. She wore what Henry secretly thought of a granny glasses, complete with chunky bead chain, which rattled as she opened the door. “Come in, Mr. Gilliard,” she said in an almost ominous way.

Henry hoisted his tall frame to an upright position and biting back the flood of explanation, he walked into the interrogation room.

“Do you know why you are here?”

“Well, yes… Um, sort of…”

“Is says here, Mr. Gilliard, that as a result of actions you are solely responsible for company property has been damaged, one of our employees has suffered an injury, which might have them off work for a while and emergency responders unnecessarily came as a result of the commotion. They plan to charge our company. What I don’t actually understand is how you can claim innocence.”

It had started with a podcast Henry had been listening to as he put the last touches of a PowerPoint presentation. It had talked about how good the human body was at adapting, to hot or cold, to tough terrain or to sleeping at different parts of the day. The podcast suggested that over time it causes us to actually feel different about things. In one of the experiments, the students being tested wore weights on their arms for an extended period of time and when they were suddenly removed, there hands would seem to float in the air. Ghost hands.

This lead to a conversation with Charlotte, in which they considered how many pennies could they get in the handset of Odd Jeremy’s phone before he noticed. Jeremy was often the butt of their jokes, but this should have been innocent. As Henry told Ursula his version of events, he said as much.

Anyway, Odd Jeremy was on call after call day after day, so they each figured he would notice the change in weight pretty quickly. So, not wanting the gag to be over quickly, Henry had unscrewed the speaker and deposited a single penny a day, for the first week. He never noticed. Never even flinched at the weight. Charlotte and Henry talked about it everyday at lunch for a month, until they decided it was getting to be too much. They needed to adjust it quicker so he would give them something. They wanted him to notice, really, to get that laugh. So, they started adding two pennies and then three pennies a day. Even though it was only a pound or two, they could not believe Jeremy had not noticed. In the early mornings as they were adding more, it felt like it was made out of lead.

“The phone would ring. Nothing. We waited for him to ask. Nothing,” Henry explained to Ursula.

So, two months and 253 pennies in they had run out of space. Not one more penny would fit in the phone. So, Henry suggested the only reasonable thing at this point, which was to see if they could give Jeremy “ghost hands”. Remove all the pennies and see if the sudden loss of weight would cause his hands to mysteriously float in front of him. He and Charlotte laughed as they imagined it.

Ursula looked at Henry who had paused for a moment, as if to let her realize his brilliance. “So,” she started looking up from the notepad where she had been writing down the details of his story, “how did that cause..um..”

“Oh, yeah. That is not what happened.”

This morning, after Jeremy had already taken a couple calls, so he was already in the mindset of the weight, Henry had Charlotte get Jeremy's help with the printer. Then, while he was coming to her rescue, Henry swapped out the handset for an unweighted, but identical version. It was amazing he thought, how different they felt.

Ursula had stopped writing and was looking at Henry. She wanted to know what was going to happen even though, based on the accident report, she already knew what had happened.

“It turns out,” Henry said trying to think about he was going to tell this next part, “you don’t get ghost hands when the weight is not persistent. Also, the weight of the handset loaded with pennies compared to one without is enough to cause someone to completely misjudge the force needed when swinging one's handset towards one’s face,” Henry paused letting the meaning of his words sink it, “Neither of us predicted that he’d punch himself so violently in the face, nor that it would result in him breaking his chair. It was unfortunate that the phone cord was draped behind the monitor in that way, not only did we not see it, but we had no idea that it would form a kind of electrical cord sling shot.”

Ursula looked over her glasses at Henry. “It says here, in the statement given by Jeremy, that you made some kind of declaration while he was trying to stop his nose bleed.”

"Oh yeah," Henry thought as he tried to figure out if there was a way to say this without him looking bad.  He thought of how Charlotte had laughed, but immediately realized Ursula was not Charlotte.  He figured he had better come out with it, even though he knew it would likely seal his fate.  It was clever, even if she didn't realize it.  It would, he thought, at least make a good bar story.

“Quit hitting yourself!”

Justin - A Tale of Two Gloves

          I must admit that twenty years later some of the details of the following events are a bit cloudy in my remembrance. Cloudy enough in fact, that I am not completely confident in saying it was twenty years ago; it was at least twenty years ago, but maybe more. Perhaps this would prevent some from telling the story, or cause them to shorten the telling in order to avoid any point that may be fuzzy in their memory. It may prevent some, but not me. For it is a great family tradition to embellish details, indeed, to make them up in order to make the story better. I am nothing if not a traditionalist.

          It was sometime in the mid-nineties. My brother had come home from college for the weekend and was staying in his basement bedroom. Now I say bedroom, but this was really my dad’s library with the addition of some bedroom furniture. I say library, but in fact this room is the last room of an unfinished, Michigan basement with one wall lined with homemade bookshelves covered with a vast collection of paperbacks. The exterior basement walls were roughly poured cement. It was cold and there were exposed pipes and heating ducts running across the ceiling. I say were, but I should say are. The pipes and heating ducts are still exposed; the walls are still roughly poured cement.

          I awoke after an entirely too short sleep and went to the bathroom to shower and take care of other necessities. I closed the shower curtain and turned the water on to hot. This particular shower in my parent’s house, being some distance from the water heater, takes time to warm up. As such, common practice was to turn on the shower then pee, brush teeth, etc. before venturing in. I was going about my business when it occurred to me that something was off. Something sounded wrong. I could hear the sound of the pipes running, but not that of splashing. Something was wrong.

          With trepidation, I pulled back the curtain slowly, glancing up toward the shower head not sure how this phenomena was happening. There, bound tightly to the stem, fully encompassing the shower head, was a rapidly swelling latex glove. Quickly I shut off the flow and stared at the amorphous body of the glove quivering with the last reverberations of the stopped flow. The fingers swollen like Bessy’s udders, overdue for milking. I knew how it had gotten there; the question was how it was going to be removed.

          I imagined that, if done right, I could cut the tips off of one of the fingers and keep the water aimed safely into the shower minimizing cleanup. Consciously or subconsciously, I cut the middle finger knowing this could not end here. After draining the water, I cut away most of the glove, leaving only the stubbornly bound cuff around the stem. The cuff that taunted me while I stood in the now unobstructed flow of water, pondering.

          It was a good prank: taking advantage of one in a semi-conscious state; minimal risk of damage to property or person; shocking; inconvenient. Yes, it was a good prank, but my brother could not be told that. In fact, I could not bring it up at all, it is part of the rules of the game. If he brought it up, any inconvenience, any shock must be minimized: “Oh, that. I cut it off and took a shower.” The most important rule though is revenge; the glove could not go unanswered. That was what I mulled over while standing in the shower. That is what consumed me looking at the cuff of the glove hanging from the stem of the shower. Revenge.

          I had until his next visit home to plot, prepare, and execute. Every day the cuff looked down from where it hung reminding me of my duty for response; my need for retribution. Every day I thought about the sight of the swollen glove hanging from the showerhead. I could not escape it. It had to be exorcised by ritual. Revenge.

          He had caught me at a time of weakness; just up, not yet awake. So I would have to catch him at a time of weakness. He had ambushed me in that weakness by requiring me to forcefully summon up my problem solving to avoid a mess. I would do likewise. It needed to be made clear, two weeks down the line, when he came home again, that this is a response, not the first strike of a fresh war. I needed a glove.

          I knew a bit about the properties of latex gloves from my time working at Arby’s. One cannot expect a group of adolescents allowed access to such a temptation will not experiment. They might discover that the contents of an un-stretched glove can fit entirely into one of the digits and if said glove was filled with Arby’s Sauce and tossed at the kitchen sink, it is possible that those adolescents may spend some time mopping sauce off the ceiling tiles in said kitchen. It is possible. But while hurling a sauce bomb at my brother might be shocking, it is not a proper prank. The escalation alone would lead to a full blown war. They might also discover that a good latex glove can stretch to hold a couple gallons of water. Now that could be something.

          When I knew he was coming home, I took a glove, and placed a five gallon bucket in the laundry sink in the basement. I filled it until it came up to the half way mark in the bucket. Two and a half gallons or more. Then I took the bucket back to his room and gently rolled the glove out onto his bed and covered it with his blanket. I imagined him coming home late after visiting friends, turning off the light and crawling into bed next to that thing. “WHAT IS THAT?” I imagined, but I don’t know. He never mentioned it; I never asked. But a day or two after he went back to school, my mom asked me why there was a water filled latex glove in the laundry room sink and I laughed.