Oh, that man must be wracked with indecision! Be forced to choose between two loves - such is sorrow. Shall I go to one? Or the other? Or stand here agonizing in indecision? I should not bang my head on the walls. They might make me pay for structural damage. How, should one reward oneself for surviving another day? Coffee, thick, dark and sweet- exactly as the doctors warned against? Tea, was both simpler and more difficult - unsweetened green or oolong? Something bounced off my head. I reached down to pick it up. A 250ml tetra-pack of milk. "Why not TRY going to sleep at night, just to shake things up?" said someone. "Aren't we lactose-intolerant?" "Nah. It does no harm. But WHEN you try to drink a liter a time, that's when your stomach protests. Y'damfool." I blinked. The cashier at the corner Seven-Eleven wasn't often that brusque. I turned from the dispenser... and realized that someone all dressed in blue was standing beside me. A sigh. It was going to be one of those nights.... SUBCONSCIOUS MEDLY "Oy, Bhepin." I said weakly. "Oy, potato-head." he replied. I never expected him to show me any respect, despite me being his creator and all. There could me some Jungian self-hate going on here... or maybe the hell I put all my characters (main and otherwise) through might have something to do with it. "Come with me." "... this wouldn't be a poorly-disguised attempt to lead me off into an alley somewhere to be stabbed, would it?" "Oh please. If I wanted you dead, there would be a twenty-click glowing crater right where your tea would be." The streets were deserted, the moon was high in the sky, and I was hearing violins. Late at night, the city ceases to become oppressive, and shows beauty in its fragility. A PAUSE device was shoved at me, in the form of a large and unnecessarily complex wristwatch, and I put it on. We triggered its inertia-bubble function and were encased in a faint bubble hovering off the ground. Bhepin zoomed off ahead. Controlling a bubble drive was easy, you just had to lean in the direction you wanted to fly, raise your arms to go higher, lower them to drop. The optimum posture was sort of like Superman; one arm outstretched, the other held in for a signal to go double speed. I wondered how many people found me irritating. Bhepin was pulling off manuevers that would make fighter pilots cry, movements I can't follow, I certainly found it to be so. But he was doing it with such ease, as if he just couldn't simply go from point A to point B, for sheer simply joy of flight, that I found it hard to remain angry. He wasn't showing off, just that he'd forgotten I was lagging behind. Why doesn't he get bored with it? Charles Bhepin was my first serious attempt at a recurring character, and obviously much wish-fulfillment went into his creation. Technology and magic to such degree that it made even Gods uneasy, were but commonplace to him. At first he was the expression of my grandest desires, but as I explored his character and expanded his horizons, I found that he was being less and less like me. And understandably he was starting to LIKE me less and less, for in him started the trend of having my major characters be shaped by intense emotional anguish. He never did the anything in the same way, everything has to have a little variation from what happened before. Perhaps that was shaped by my own artistic inclinations, to always improve on what was already done, but he took it to extremes. And I realized it was because up in the air, he was free. As I piled skills and abilities on Charles Bhepin, I also increased his NEED to use his powers and knowledge in some meaningful way. He is a creature ruled by constant, invisible demands; and although we started the same, he is now my complete opposite. He accellerated to several thousand kilometers per hour. Gah. Frantically I adjusted my bubble. At such rate, we would soon depart planetary bounds - yet if we had to go offplanet there were better ways than to try accellerating infinitely. The inertia bubble could go up to lightspeed, provided it had an infinite power source (not too difficult an item to acquire, for the Illuminati), but it doesn't insulate you from the effects of relativity. I checked the PAUSE device settings again. Personal Adjutant Unit for Special Encounters was end-all be-all Illuminati device. Personal computer, drive system, sensors, power containment, access to pocket dimensions, MP3 player, et all. But no quantum tunneler. I checked again. No interstellar capability. I had no choice but to follow. By then, I had no idea where the heck I already was, anyway. Something loomed above the horizon. It was an island, floating in midair, as most travelling islands are wont to do. I checked the charts. Yep, fourth star to the left and straight on 'til morning. "Recognize it?" Bhepin asked. "La Isla Brilyante." I answered weakly. The Brilliant Isle. Every child had a magical place to go to, but I had watched James Bond films. This was my bastion of the mind, where I could be remote from the world. It was shaped somehat like a bean, with a dark volcano rising from its uper left. A darkstone castle-fortress jutted out from its side. The terrain sloped gently down from forested hills, to a wide plain, and a small seaside town. Water cascaded from the island's rim, never abating, completely senseless. The sun was also unreasonably hot. It had been years... almost a decade.. since I last thought of Isla Brilliante. "You do not think of us, but we think of you, and often." "Who?" He abruply dropped, I followed him down to the deep forest. Noisy. As real forests should be. My lineage had always been concerned with food, for the mind or the body. Teachers, or farmers (with the occasional soldiering thrown in here and there). Either way, it was hard not to run smack into nature. Or at least when I was boy. Visits to remote relatives, Boy Scout outings, field trips... these and more might have seemed like a hassle back then, but I am thankful now for having experienced them. The computer, the Internet, the collection of books - these very same things I luxuriate now... for these I know my little brother has cut himself apart from the world, entranced by things and thoughts that change quickly. Should I have taught him how to fly a kite instead of quick-formatting? To climb a tree, to look for things to do instead of waiting for the TV schedule? To instill a spirit of exploration, which could be applicable even to things INDOORS. Creativity starts with making do with the unknown. We, already know FAR too much. As I walked, I thought of how beauty cannot be contained within one room. It must be sought out, experienced. The little town I grew up in had become a city, but for this Nature was still few kilometer walks away. But... I supposed as I kicked at a rock, we have all found better things to amuse ourselves with. And then I realized I was alone. Crap. This was the Forest of the Lost. I made it up back when I was still impressionable, and had no concept of death. I thought little kids lost in the woods turned into trees, if they weren't eaten by some savage animal. I ran, feeling my muscles for any suspicious numbness. Damm Bhepin. I should have expected a trap. Being turned into a nontalking, nonmoving object would be just too ironic for someone prone to ranting and forces characters to tramp all over the cosmos. I ran to a great tree. This was not unusual. There were a lot of intentionally big trees in the forest, and I really should have kept my eyes open. What was unusual was that the tree's bark was of a slight greenish hue and texture approaching that of ceramic composites used to make the P42b Powered Armor. And that the distinct outline of a human figure could be seen on the trunk. And the 'winged sword above three gears' symbol of the Brotherhood of Steel was clearly apparent. And I realized I was looking at the P74..C! Brotherhood Powered Armor mark II, post-Chosen One, pre-Brotherhood East recontact. Female Powered Armor. And that this tree seemed to be leaning over another tree. Which looked like a person and a desk. I could even see a branch sticking out like a pen. Oh crack. "Want a cold compress?" a voice asked from behind. I jumped. Bhepin was grinning, relishing his ability to pop up in the most inopportune moment. "You-" The insult died at my lips. We could go about how we loathe each other all day if it came to that. We both knew Gabullin, a language richer in profanity than even Dvaregeh. "What is this?" "It's a graveyard, of course. In fact this entire flipping island is a tomb of ideas." I blinked. Twice. He grinned. I sat down with a sigh. "All right, let's just get the deep hurting all over with." "First, you will tell me who these people are." He gestured aside, and I noticed there were a lot more weird trees around. "Since I am a facet of you, I do have some familiarity with your thought processes... but I'm not the first character you tortu- ahem. Created, am I?" I flicked my thumb behind me. "Charles Bhepin, meet Fenris Bluhart. In some ways, he is your template. Age at story; 28. Position: Archivist and researcher for the Brotherhood of Steel, with Knight status. Was taken because of his mechanical aptitude and apparent survival skills, in making a radio function and using proper morse code even while his town was being sacked by bandits. Only surviving relative, a Pallia Bluhart, cousin by blood and sister by law (his father having married his wife's sister, who herself had a child by another man). Main love interest: Pallia and a tribal girl I haven't named yet. Mission: To be pushed smack in the middle of the biggest war in Wasteland history - the meeting of Brotherhoods West and East." "You sick bastard..." the planeswalker mumbled. "Setting up multiple marriages for Tabbana Brusolla was bad enough, I beat you by a self- imposed vow of celibacy, but this guy had to deal with the emotional torment of... incest? Not to mention the simple fear of widespread devastation being inflicted upon people who looked to him for protection." "Cousins." "Blood cousins." "I was going with it mostly for the personal and moral conflicts, you know." I groaned. "Had I actually completed it, it would have been a an examination of three personalities as metaphor for what was most important in reviving civilization. The Mind, the Fist, the Heart." "Right. I really believe that." he replied with a snort. "It's not like a happy ending can easily be reached. I made this before I'd even read of Ender's Game; and now I realize that what I'd intended was something kinda like Valentine and Ender; absolute, unconditional, untainted love. However, the scenario is set in the Wasteland, and it's a lot more primal than mental. Their Peter is their knowledge of right and wrong. Between Fenris and the tribal girl, the attraction is definite but they have nearly NOTHING in common. It's more of a hero- worship on her side. He's fighting his own ingrained prejudice and self-doubt. Lemme see if I remember... It was a frightening prospect. Together they were already parts of each other. Why should she risk destroying everything in their own history? She wiped sweat from his brow. Again, he'd fallen asleep on his desk, his dinner uneaten. A rocket launcher was partially dis- assembled - he'd been trying to add a laser guidance system to it. What was more important were the precious history books piled high upon each other. Although as a Knight of the Brotherhood of Steel, most of his knowledge had military purpose, the story of humanity and its mistakes was fading faster than the the implements they used. Fenris, despite his name, had always loathed violence. She had to protect him from everything; barbarous kids, a drunken father, an apathetic stepmother. Was it such a wonder he turned to books, to a better era? And yet in the end it was him that called for the Brotherhood. Hiding had saved them from raiders, but a pair of ten year-olds wouldn't last long in a desert town stripped of all that was useful. Her problem was simple. The Brothethood had saved them, trained, them, gave them purpose. Fifteen years later and she was a Paladin, with six Knights under her command. He had progressed with training enough to become a Knight, but focused more on his studies. She was feared for her battle prowess, but weaponsmiths were more highly respected in the Brotherhood. While anyone can pull a trigger, building a plasma pistol from assorted parts took true dedication. She has had her share of relations, but nowhere had she really found anyone that could really compared with the boy she swore to protect so long ago. A boy who was now a man; who hadn't even smiled in almost fifteen years. "I could make you happy, you know." she whispered. "The more you learn, the more you despair at how much we lost. People are STUPID, why can't you just accept that? Let's stop trying to change the world and just go somewhere... where people don't know us, and be happy." Pallia laughed weakly. The woman who faced down Enclave remnants wasn't brave enough to say those things during the day. A strong gust of wind blew. The trees swayed, there was the sound of breaking wood. The I realized that Pallia's tree was now drawing closer to Fenris'. I could now make out the thin outline of a rocket launcher on his trunk. I backed away quickly. "WHAT THE HELL?!" "Welcome to the Forest of Lost Characters." Bhepin announced with a flamboyant sweep. "You writers think we're all just pieces to be thrown around. You can love us, hate us, but the worst you can do is ignore us... we stay, here, frozen in the state when you stopped thinking of us. " "Did you..." "While you were consumed with creating Tabbana Brusolla, yes. It wasn't exactly unpleasant... your subconscious made us dream of the things that could have been. But it wasn't... real..." I looked around and winced. There were a lot of large trees. "Sorry. I really am. But I can't bring everyone back to life." "I know. These are your earliest creations. They had faith you would do something great with them. The least you can do is to have them be remembered. For instance - " he pointed to a squat tree that looked very much like a watermelon with three legs. "Ah. The HABTI. By the way, does it bother you that nearly every other character was your prototype?" "Not really. As if, by my existence I caused them to die? I blame you. There's more than enough that I should feel guilty for. Had you any guts to really develop them, I would have more drinking buddies. We'd form a posse to hunt you down." ".. you say that like it's a good thing." "Isn't it?" I coughed. I owed him that much. So what if this was a dream? Compare me to Charles Bhepin. If he wanted me spread out over a kilometer, then I couldn't stop him. Even the PAUSE he gave me won't hold up to a Class 3 String Disruptor cannon. "That, is the spillship HABTI. And before you ask, it doesn't mean anything." "It's a starship?" He walked around the tree, a 20:1 scale model. The real HABTI was just under kilometer in diameter. "What does spill- mean?" "Superluminal travel typically involves placing the ship in such a state that relativistic barriers do not apply; either subspace, hyperspace or some other technobabble. The HABTI takes advantage of what I call Domain Spillage. Ie, everything is in everywhere. Our flesh, our thoughts, all of these these are transient - at a quantum level all the things we are made of die and are reborn uncountable number of times in every nanosecond. Yet somehow, the cohesive pattern produces the very things that make up our reality." "Temporal Dynamics - don't be afraid, there's nothing there, fool." "Exactly. However, unlike the Galleryships, the HABTI doesn't go into nullspace - the Void - to bypass dimensional constraints. It has the true instantaneous drive. To enter the realspace at the same moment you exit it. The Holy Grail of starship engineers." "Illuminati technology?" "Of course. All the ship really does is to make a function call to Yggdrasil and ask that its file location be moved to a different folder." Charles Bhepin patted the trunk. He could see how the very existence of the HABTI could cause problems. It could go ANYWHERE. No shields, no spell, no manner of interdiction could stop it. "Weapon capabilities?" "None. The HABTI is made of a self-aware metal that can heal and reshape itself. In fact, the ship is an artificial organism in itself. It posesses a soul, which is why it can talk to the Omnicomputer." "Why didn't I know about this project?" Bhepin asked. "I'll bet even Yamu would welcome a chance to scan this thing." I looked away. I knew I shouldn't feel guilty. I made the story in the midst of plotting IU, and it was just conveniently forgotten. "A question." "Shoot." "You have always known your purpose. Your life was linked with the Illuminati; for all extents and purposes you ARE the Illuminati, obsessive maniac that you are. When things look grim, you remain. When people rejoice, you feel unnecessary and leave." I held out an open palm to his face. "What would we all be without this purpose? Do we need a God to give us justification for existence? All our works are as perishable as ourselves." "You ask this - of me? OF ME?!" His face was of clear disbelief. "Me, the guy who mocks, disrupts, and otherwise annoy Gods on a regular basis?" "You are less of a tortured soul than Tabbana Brusolla, his mates notwithstanding. You cling to your Purpose, and like water you either erode all that stands in your way or flow past them. But imagine someone who wakes up alone in the night, separate from all other living beings, incapable of really belonging anywhere - someone utterly bereft of purpose..." "The ship? Or you?" I took you a Hammer of Behaviour Correction +5 and thwapped him with it. "The pilot of the ship. Who, might I add; is your exact clone." "Impossible." he replied with a snort. "I'm a planeswalker. A Unique. My only copy is in Template Earth; that utterly mundane reality that in desperation creates so many fictional escapes. You." "In 23312.373.9 CDCC (Calendari Draconias Galactica), Yamu, God of Knowledge, placed upon you his own blessing, as Mimir, Elder Goddess of Order, had left the omniversal pattern in search of the One True God. This was a simple resident program in Yggdrasil that said: If Charles Bhepin is Ever Killed, His Soul Shall Not Be Taken Up Into Heaven Nor Down To Hell, But Be Shifted Into An Exact Clone Prepared Beforehand. Which was surpringly easy to get approval for; as more people were disgusted of you than were actually hostile. That, and they didn't want to offend Yamu, the kid who maintains their collective power levels." "Yes, and so when Zharkin shoved a Soulquencher into my intestines, my soul was trapped in limbo until my nanobots could build a suitable body. That hurt, you bastard. The feeling of being disemboweled stuck with me for over six hundred years." He tapped his own chest. "So now I'm undead. No ki generation, immunity to magic (beneficial or harmful), and vampire hunters keep trying to stake me. And..." he was loath to add the next part. "impotence." I couldn't help laughing. "Self-imposed celibacy my foot." There was the distinctive whine of a 5-megawatt Sniping Laser powering up. I grinned weakly. "I just can't have kids, you great idiot!" he said, thwacking me on the head with the barrel. His next words were low and more than threatening. "I'm not completely insane. Yet. That's the reason you're still alive. If you had done that..." I waved my hands frantically in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. "I'm not getting any ideas. Really!" Hm... Theros also had a similar instant clone-wakeup-function. Maybe I could put that little disadvantage in. After all, all power has its price. "We were talking of Purpose, were we not?" "Ah. Yes. Purpose. Yeah. Imagine; you wake up, cold and wet in a cloning cylinder. You stand and see a row of other people sleeping in clear coffins, all of which look exactly like you. You don't know your name, but you know where you are - to the micrometer by relation to galactic center. You don't know why you are there, but you know that you can go anyplace else with a standard cruise speed of 200,000 ly/h and a Jump Delay of pretty much zero. You don't know what to do, but you know what you are - a captain of the most terrible ship ever made." He frowned. "I thought you said the HABTI was weaponless." "No weapons capacity. But the entire ship is a weapon, only that there isn't anything around that it was made to defeat. Yeeluth was gone, Zharkin was again inside Yamu's subconscious... and what the hell are you going to do with a ship made of Godslayer metal in a universe without Gods?" ".... you sliced reality?!" Bhepin exclaimed, dismayed. "Seriously. If you were a resident of my universe, I would have to really kill you for that." "Meh. Back to the question - what should be done? The problem here is that Azul Lazula sees the ultimate futility in accomplishing anything with the spillship. If he dies, he gets reborn. He can't have any progeny. Ruling others has no appeal for him. What is his meaning? Why is he there? Why should he do anything? Or rather, why should he NOT do anything?" "Aa. The God Paradox. Does anyone, anywhere, really have a right to interfere with anyone else? That's the theme. What's the plot?" I shrugged. "Basic. Galaxy under the grip of evil Terran empire, and outer systems are rebelling. By then he's already several thousand years old, and only five clones are left. He helped bring about Imperial Terra and now he's trying to destroy it, a little at a time. He's sort of a rebel ambassador of sorts, travelling from planet to planet and fighting against impossible odds. Standard hero fare." "Doesn't sound sufficiently tragic. I thought you liked antiheroes?" "Haven't had time to milk the premise. But he has a partner in this 'crime' - a Laurens Soban. Who, for the most part, is this universe's analouge for a Devil. Normally, he looks like a reedy, bespectacled guy but when really angry morphs into the huge, recognizable, red-skinned horned monster. Which is why he keeps such control over his emotions. Sort of like Kirk and Spock, but more like Lupin and Jigen." "You're doing that thing again where you say things as if people could actually understand what you're talking about." "The point is, that these two have extended lifetimes and sometimes must take the long view. Add into this mix an assassinbot in the shape of a comely human female that has vastly unprogrammed questions about morality, a faithful Terran Special Forces Officer that hunts them all down, various corrupt officials and rebel leaders, an alien entity that seeks the HABTI, and much much angst." I sighed and tapped my own skull. "What happened to those days, to that young man that would rather write than sleep? What happened to those stories so clear in my mind and just waiting to be written?" "Such is life. We must all move on eventually." "I'm afraid the time will come that I'll either run out of ideas or I'll see someone running with what I'd thought up first but was too lazy to write." "Either way, it'll be your own fault." Bhepin leaned on the tree and looked distracted. "That's how mistakes are. If they are yours, then regretting them will not change a thing. Do it once, then do something else. Recurring guilt accomplishes nothing. If isn't your fault, then hating others or your circumstances only delays positive action." "Guilt is a useless emotion." I answered. "But... isn't that really what separates us from animals? Not intelligence - conscience. For animals cannot - cannot - ever regret. They never take responsibility for their actions." He grinned. "As well as you should know, you foul beast." I grimaced. "Tell me the truth. Why am I here?" Bhepin vanished in a shimmering teleporter effect. "Because you needed to be." I cursed loud and long for several minutes. He was right. The forest was a cemetery. Every marker I'd dug myself. The wind whistled through the trees, in a manner I felt was vaugely hostile. I steeled myself. "WHY SHOULD I FEEL GUILTY, DAMMIT?!" I yelled to no one in particular. "Stories, ideas are a dime a dozen! They are dreamt, they are lost, in instances countless, each time every person sleeps. You should be grateful you got started in the first place, you goddamn INGRATES!" A strong gust of wind shot through the forest. With its passing, I seemed to hear the whisper... "..wasted youth..." I ran. The most basic quandary of fanfiction. If you're that good at it, why don't you do something productive and TRY to make MONEY out of writing? The question is why. The most convenient answer: why not? Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhySHUT UP! LEAVE ME BE! On the surface it seems like such a small matter, doesn't it? But perception is an important part of awareness. A church, silent, dimly- lit seems frozen in time, and in that timelessness you can almost touch God. Now imagine a similar sense, but a compacted infinity of condemnation. Everything around you is resounding with blame. Wouldn't you feel even some fear? Time goes by, and cannot be reclaimed. Had the time I spent on these waking dreams merely shaving hours off my finite life? This was MY graveyard. It didn't matter that I was still breathing. The mockery was in every flourishing tree, that stands tall only upon the time I spent upon each of them. Such a waste!, the trees said so with their crackling of branches. Ningas cogon. The fiery cogon, a type of long grass, which quickly burns... and burns out. Why should you even start, when you cannot finish anything? Stop trying, said the trees. You only cause inconvenience to yourself and others. "SHUT UP!" I snarled, and stuck my fingers in my ears as I ran. "You can't tell me what to do...! No one commands me! Nothing can stop me!" Belatedly I realized what I'd said. It was.. true. Sometimes, I can forget about anything and everything else to get what I want. The people I care about, and who cared about me. Conscience. Definitions of law. This wasn't jsut about writing... it encompassed the entirety of my younger days. I wasted so much time and money, took advantage of everyone's patience. I existed only to make each new day more fun than the last... "I changed, goddamit." Slowly and for the better. Have you? And then there was light. I had reached the center of the forest. A circular clearing, upon which stood a life-sized marble statue. It looked to be a child, of at most twelve years of age, hefting a wicked-looking halberd thrice he was tall, whose blade was larger than his head. Argh. The Wandering Child, the only old character I could concievable call mostly original. What he was was less important than what he represented though. The pedestal had this writ upon it: Why do you continue? Why you do? This duty No one imposed on you Why do you fight on? Why do you walk along These lands familiar Why do you wander on? Why can't you just stay? Rest, my wandering child The future will wait. I took a deep breath. I've always liked tragic stories, but with a (mostly) happy ending. The Wandering Child just CAN'T stop, for the same reason I can't. It was the only thing he was good at, and perhaps even good for. "In the beginning, there was the Void. The Silent Lady crafted this world and all in it, and gave mastery ot her children. But before she set herself to sleep, she made two more things. First, the Blade of Sorrows, to teach the world the cost of power. Second, the Wandering Child, who shall walk amongst them for all time. And when the Wandering Child returns to her heart and his home; so shall the Silent Lady wake. And the world will end." The wandering child, a white-haired boy who was named Cecil by the first people who adopted him, was a walking weapon of mass destruction. Effectively unkillable, weilding the Blade of Sorrows, he has pulled down entire civilizations when they seemed to be on the verge of gaining too much power. Many times, he's tried to live a normal life. He didn't like demi-godhood. But if you can't age, if you ressurect in a random portion of the planet if you die volently; there are understandable problems in trying to relate to fleeting lives. I sighed. If Azul's problem was a lack of Purpose, the Wandering Child contends with a Purpose that overrides his desires. He was in a position to help. Therefore, he must. Otherwise, his existence was a waste. There is a Wandering Child in each of us, a portion that never grows, a selfishness that says: We are here. We MUST do something. Anything! We must live! I based him upon the feelings of a writer, who agonizes over his own work... but paradoxically only happy when he's suffering. No one whines as effectively as writers do. Why can't you stop, Child? Why can't you let your people grow? Because they will destroy themselves. Let their race remain young, let their discoveries forever remain ahead of them. Let the future always remain bright and within grasp... let them live, let them laugh, in their burning slivers of life. I love them. I don't want them to die. Why can't you leave it alone, B-pen? Why can't you just... relax. Because they shine. Because I have a choice of either altering the world or making a different one for others to romp in. For a brief moment, we can put aside our problems, our tarnished dreams, and live a life we'll never reach. Human beings have the power to create, or destroy. I have already destroyed so many hopes and expectations. Perhaps I'm selfish. Perhaps I'm doing this merely to forget. Perhaps the lack of pressure and the ready acceptance is balm for the soul. Penance? the wind whispered. How droll. All right. Perhaps not that dramatic. Fanfiction writers suffer from a lack of confidence, else they wouldn't be fanfiction writers. At the same time, they have a pressing NEED to share, and sometimes the idea of being paid was detestable. For then it would no longer be a gift, given freely, but a piece of oneself taken at cost. Again, the trees swayed in the breeze. I had long given up trying to understand how I could understand the language of the wind. It was mostly emotion, being conveyed. Black, unrelenting emotion. I felt something wet splash upon the nape of my neck. Rain. Soon it began to drizzle. I'd forgotten - this was my Isle of the Mind. It reflect my own moods. I looked up at the darkened sky - was I really such a horrible person? Lightning flashed, the winds howled even more. "What? What do you want?! Revenge? Life?!" If anything, the storm grew fiercer. "YOU MISBEGOTTEN INGRATES! SO WHAT IF I'VE MOVED ON?! THAT IS HOW I AM! I MADE YOU ALL IN THE CONSTANT SEARCH FOR IDEAS! I CANNOT REMOVE THE URGE TO CREATE AND THE URGE TO FIND NEW THINGS; THEY ARE LINKED, THEY CANNOT BE SEPARATED WITHOUT KILLING THE OTHER! I -CANNOT- STOP! I -CANNOT- TURN BACK! JUST KILL ME AND GET THE WHOLE FRIGGIN' PROBLEM OVER WITH!" Silence. The skies cleared, the trees exuded an emotion, akin to forgiveness and acceptance... but different. I recognized the added tinge. Irony. I groaned. "A psychological trick all along." If trees could laugh, they were doing so. Understanding flowed into the clearing. Go and do whatever it is that you do best. They just wanted to say, that they were simply disgusted by the constant self-pity filtering through the subconscious. I reddened in embarassment, or at least as much as my skin could change. They live, their blood was in the stream of ideas. Who the hell did I think I was, expecting and demanding only perfection from myself?! It was the flaws that made us human, it was the thrill of discovery that makes every day worth living. We live when you live, they said. We thrive when you laugh. We soar when your own spirit hungers for fulfillment. Live, they commanded. This is not life. This is artificial. When did you last laugh? We know, when you told the story of Cecil, the Wandering Child, a much more humorous version than what you planned to write, to your little brother. When were you last content? Making a special sushi dinner for your family on New Year's Eve. When were you last at peace? Teaching kittens how to play with rubber bands. We also know your darker side. When did you last threaten to shove someone's head through a wall? Last week, to a clerk that refused to process your groceries. How many thousands of pesos have you wasted on college units that you never showed up EVEN FOR A SINGLE CLASS? More than fifty thousand, and three years of your life. How many prospects for love have you let pass by, because you resolved never to realy get another girlfriend unless you can make her happy? Which meant, money and some prestige. Casual sex doesn't count. We don't really know... people think you're aloof. A snob. Or somewhat scary. We know your snarls, your grimaces, your frustrations. We also know how you push all these things deep into your heart, burying them deep, making them seem nonexistent, even if it digs and bleeds. You're violently pacifistic. You despair at your powerlessness, you loathe the world, you had long lost hope that God will intervene. You are afraid, at what you can do, or that you might not be good enough. And it's all right. Live. You don't need to be ashamed of yourself, go show the world what you really are. Do. Jump from project to project, if you so wish. Isn't that what you enjoy? And aren't we proof, that when you love your work you attain the Mass Production perk? Give. For that is what you were made for. Your sense of priorities is just mucked up. You take from one to give to another, sometimes even from the same one that you've just given to. And freely take, for in refusing the help of others you only hinder both sides. Grow. For we are the part of you that never sleeps. We are the lessons you made for yourself. Our mistakes are your own warnings against yourself. Isn't that why you love tragic stories? Because.... they... stop. They can't let go. They can't look past the things in front of them. You've almost convinced yourself that you wanted security and routine. But there is your living death, there you will never find your redemption. Go on. Leave us. We are happy that you still rememeber us. Go and change; for that is who you are. You are Change. You are Chaos. You are Water. Aquarius fits you like a glove, you madman you. I was hearing guitars. "Carry on my wayward son - there'll be peace when you are done..." I love that song. Modern rock. Bah. I am still a child of the eighties, when expression still tried to retain meaning. Sometimes I despair at how my own sibling lives in the shadow of his own potential. We speak English almost entirely to each other, and yet he still gets a low grade at it! What was the most important difference between our growing years? He has TV, I didn't. Our home looks more like a library than a house, father's and my own collection combined. Argh. If only more people would just FRICKING READ! There is no ennui when a whole new world was always at hand. No ignorance where there is seen that learning is fun, and of itself. No povery, of mind and existence, when people know that they are the captains of their own soul. For in story writing, we try to convey something that is important to ourselves and onto the reader. It is COMMUNICATION. We want them to feel as we have felt, to see the world as we see it, to extend their roads of thought. Wheter when we do it for fun or money, the effective piece of writing is really something that evokes a response. Some writings are shocking, some are humorous, some are sad, some are contemplative... but all to create a response. A writer conveys his own feelings. This cannot really be faked. I thanked those fleeting dreams, those ghosts forever on the edge of my vision, that part of myself that still hasn't given up.. and dare I say it? For it is written, your body is your temple. And my mind is my offering to God. That part that still believes there is worth in me, there is worth in the world... Now, if only I could convince at least three people, that the potential of every single being of the human race, was limitless. Then if they can try to place a reason to live outside of mediocrity to other people... We are Gods in our own right..... companions the creator seeks, not corpses, not herds and believers. Fellow creators the creator seeks-- those who write new values on new tablets. Companions the creator seeks, and fellow harvesters; for everything about him is ripe for the harvest. The paradox of Friedrich Nietzsche, whose precept that 'god is dead' can make us appreciate His designs even more. And mulling over this thought in mind, I found myself out of the forest, and into the wide grassy Expanse of Experimentation. The perfect place to fly a kite, or induldge in harmless fancies. Several large shapeless concrete blocks pushed up from the ground, these abstract things I'd never seen before. Even though I hadn't thought about La Isla for years, obviously it kept changing. I wondered what the things symbolized. The air seemed to shimmer above each one. I approached the nearest, touched the hard blocks, and realized that the shimmering wasn't displaced air. It was from displaced photons. Oh carps. Predator cloak. Before I knew it, I was ensnared in a net. The cloaks disengaged, showing a creature; not the large muscled split-jawed alien freaks I'd expected but something far more sinister. I screamed in terror. Mimir, Elder Goddess of Order, leaned down and tweaked my nose. "Ah, Mr. Alfonso." said she. "Finally we've caught you. We have many questions to ask of you." And of we, she meant the figures upon the horizon, who seemed to be in the midst of laying out a picnic blanket upon the grass. I could tell they were all female. And they were all in battledress. "For instance" she added. "Why is it that no one in your fics is ever allowed to have fulfilling relationships? They must all suffer through years of emotional torment before they can even admit their feelings to each other? And when they do get together, it's only a set up for more emotional anguish. The only one here who's ever lived happily is Liyo Amra Mimir; and she had TWO YEARS with Tabbana Brusolla and then she was KILLED, and driving B-sol borderline psychotic. You claim to respect women, but it seems we always get the worse end of the deal.. why is that?" I... had no ready answer for that one. She hauled my bound form easily, certainly far easier than splitting battleships in half. This was Mimir, after all - the personification of a. Order b. the most powerful damn battlefortress ever built. Why, oh why.... I repeated what B-sol liked to say... why am I always surrounded by violent women?! Escape was impossible. I was trapped by my own storylining. Yes, it was harder for female characters in the stories I make; but in reverse they also tended to be more powerful. Power has its price, et al. To reach the ungodly level of luck or power that say... Charles Bhepin or Wilanj can control, requires eons of suffering. Tabbana Brusolla was already clinically insane. Female characters in my stories tended to be stronger than many of their male counterparts. The submissive damsel in distress is none to be found. Too cliche. She giggled maniacally. I whimpered. My mental trials has still only just begun.