Lines Composed A Few Yards Adjacent To Deepdale Mausoleum

      As I wandered through the cemetery, hoping to ensnare grieving people into my spiral of sales, I began to ponder the weather. It was a lovely day, more akin to the autumnal summer of august than mid-october; the calendar's integrity became suspect in my meanderings. Placing this bout of paranoia into the mental file marked, 'to investigate at a later date', I moved on to comparing the day to that of an English summer. The rolling hills and stately oaks lent themselves quite nicely into this growing fantasy. As I squinted into the sun's reflection over the river, I mentally transformed the ultra modern, mini-mansions across the water into regal country homes. My dandyish attire, and equally dandyish state of mind, quickly placed me into the role of a Romantic-Era poet. The imposing mausoleum became my Tintern Abbey as I Wordsworthed myself along the macabre meadow.

      No sooner had I begun quoting choice lines from my favorite era than a young man came walking up the path. Startled out of my revelry, I still managed to greet him quite cordially. His greeting, though slightly less cordial, was nonetheless, heartfelt. “Yo man, you gotta dolla?” Somewhat taken aback, considering where I had been mentally at the time, I pondered this question for somewhat longer than a sane individual should. After my brief and meta-cognitive deliberation, I arrived at a satisfactory, if not wholly conventional solution; I would discuss poetry and literature with the young man.

I, my friend, am on this day, filled with joy in such a way.

An English summer, so divine, we need not dollars, but finest wines.

View this mausi, fine and grand, as Tintern Abbey, in Arthur's land.

And I am Wordsworth, oh so sad, five years gone by, five winters had.

You and me, and those long dead...'gimme a dolla' was all he said.

      It quickly became apparent that my young friend was not a fan of dear William. Vague regret gave way to a new hope as I mentally traversed the endless possibilities within the genre of English Romantic Poetry. I smiled at my new friend, he frowned. His lingering indicated his willingness to learn more about literature, I simply needed to find the right poet.

Wordsworth can be dull at times, and sentimental in his rhymes.

But this genre is quite broad, poems to women, poems to God.

Romantics are all cavaliers, their words still linger through the years.

Shelley, Keats, and Tennyson, come, my friend, carpe diem.

Wilt thou seize the day with me? 'Gimme a dolla', ce n'est pas ici.

      Obviously, this boy did not appreciate the Romantic poets as I do. Perhaps a northerly jump would help to loosen his defenses. Being a proud Scotsman myself, I know almost every Burns poem by heart.

We wha hae in Deepdale stood, hae the proudest Scottish blood.

The pipers aid eternal rest, dae ye ken the tartan's blessed?

Hallowed grounds we now traverse, sealed tighter than a hieland purse.

Sing yer praises tae a mouse, wee tim'rous beastie of a louse.

Nod if ye ken what ah have said, 'gimme a dolla' aw hope is dead.

      I shall not give up on this stubborn young man. He is in dire need of poetic inspiration. His eyes dart this way and that, seeking an exit. Despite this, he remains; his desire for a muse is apparent. Perhaps a more colonial approach...

Once upon a midday cheery, we two stood discussing theory.

Of the poets 'cross the pond, you are clearly less than fond.

What of Poe and Whitman's lines? Morbid leaves of grass we find.

Who could find a better place? Telltale hearts and rotting lace.

Carrion birds above us soar, quote him 'dollar' forevermore.

      If all else fails, one must turn to The Bard himself. Never yet have I seen a sane man refute the genius of William Shakespeare.

If I have this day offended, think but this and all is mended.

I offer'd but a helping hand, to pull thee to a poet's land.

Thou art clearly Philistine, when poets all thou shall demean.

Taxes are now back in play, the government returned today.

My hard earned dollar thou shalt own, through volition which is not my own.

      Once the young man came to the realization that I would not be supplying him with his bus-fare, he departed my company. As I continued on, heavy hearted, I lamented the degradation of society. I entered the chapel within the mausoleum and continued to recite poetry; hoping those long departed souls might appreciate what so few living are able to.

The Terminal

The impossible and the fantastic are closer to reality during journeys. Epicenters of travel collect residual magic from each traveler. At night, it is sometimes possible to simply walk through the veil and find yourself in another world, on an adventure from your childhood dreams.

Part One

      James Chatwin sat in the café staring at his computer screen. What was the point? He was not going to accomplish anything tonight. Three copywriting assignments and nine books waited for him in his hard drive and he wasn't able to provide a single word for any of them. He gazed out the window, the rain bouncing off of the sidewalk was illuminated by streetlights and passing cars, it had a hypnotic effect. He noticed the dripping branches of the carefully manicured tree, not quite ready to trust the permanence of spring with its buds. He sipped his coffee, dull, black, and boring. Where was his inspiration? On any other night, he would be bursting with ideas; he would jump back and forth from copy to book to short story, desperately recording the flow of his subconscious. But not tonight, tonight he had given in to his disillusion. Maybe a cigarette would turn a clever phrase or a witty slogan.

      The rain seemed to slow in a welcoming embrace as he stepped through the doorway; it didn't stop but hesitated, the torrential downpour yielding to a gentle patter. He allowed the rain to roll down his head as he inhaled deeply from his imported cigarette. How did that phrase go? The Ayn Rand quote about the spark in a man's mind relating to the fire within a cigarette. He let it go, it would come to him in time. The quote was true, at least for him; nothing provoked thought like sweet tobacco smoke filling your lungs. The rain had returned to its original downpour, he moved underneath the awning in front of the shop. Several trendy girls inside shot him dirty looks as he paced back and forth, unable to find a comfortable spot to lean. To hell with them, he thought, the wind is blowing the smoke far from the covered patio. The ever present march of pop-morality was a thorn in his side. But the rain is here, the first thunderstorm of the year, the baptismal rain, washing all of the previous year's sin into the drains. Where the hell had that come from? He wasn't that kind of writer. Christ, he must be spending too much time in coffee shops, involuntarily overhearing the modern beatnik-hippy monstrosities discuss Kerouac and the “pain of manhood”. The cigarette had burned down to the filter and his mind was still a blank slate. He tossed it into the nearby trash can—no need to anger his audience any more—and walked back into the café. He slung his jacket over the chair and allowed the heat from the fireplace to dry him.

      And there he was once more, staring at the computer, glancing at the rain, entranced and enthralled. The bathroom break was necessary and bothersome. He had no desire to see old friends, avoiding eye contact didn't work when the friend was right in his path. A strained hello, an affirmation that he was back in town, and an awkward introduction to his friend's companion seemed sufficient so he continued on to the bathroom. He stopped by the counter to refill his coffee, some flirtation with the mildly attractive barista provided a free refill; was he even capable of interacting with women in a non flirtatious manner? No, he absolutely was not. But there are several types of flirting. The harmless flirtation, which was his closest form of normal human interaction, was reserved for strangers who held little to no interest for him. Seductive flirtation, which rarely—if ever—failed to succeed, was used in desperation; he hated to seduce women who held no interest beyond their physical attributes but it was ofttimes a necessity. There was a very specific form of endearing flirtation reserved for older ladies, it was more heavy charm than flirtation. He loathed his tendency towards unintentional flirting, many gay men and less than attractive women had felt the pain of this irksome quality. And then there was romance, it took a truly special girl to awaken this side of him.

      The rain had drizzled away to an intermittent drop or two, his writing had somehow deteriorated from its nonexistent state. He packed up his computer, smiled at the helpful barista, and walked out into the night. After locking his briefcase in his car, he felt an uncontrollable draw towards campus. He walked past people huddled in their raincoats; hateful of their existence, needful of their presence, and jealous of their ignorance. Gods, when had he become such a miserable person? It had come to the surface when his wife had left him but that was not the beginning. No, his disillusion had begun long ago, as he slowly discovered how ugly the world really was.

      His childhood had been perfect, his parents had perhaps done too good of a job. They had prepared him for a world which no longer existed. Raised on the works of Susan Cooper, J.R.R. Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis; he believed in adventure, he believed in education, in learning and intellect. He was brought up to believe that hard work, whether it be physical, mental, or emotional, paid off. Love, logic, Romance, mystery; these were all ideals which shaped his young life. The most mundane activity could be turned into a puzzle, an adventure, a wondrous game, anything was possible.

      Drunks stumbled out of the bars, an event which usually caused him to smile and strike up a conversation. He frowned at them and gave them a wide berth; weren't they a bit old to be stumbling around and acting silly? His months of isolation on his northern peninsula had left him with the need to be amongst people; amongst the crowd without being a part of it. When he was able to suppress his disillusion, he found joy in watching the people hustle and bustle around him. He loved individuals and hated people in general but he needed to wade through them, to allow them to break around him as currents in a stream. His perfectly tailored suits somehow allowed him to pass through the crowds with complete anonymity, a feat usually only accomplished by the dingiest of homeless men. He was only properly noticed when he so desired; he would stop into a small town pub, remove his shielding, and his usual gentle and removed demeanor would give way to an outgoing and boisterous façade. He would gain the superficial friendship of all the locals, tell a few outrageous stories, and vanish after a month or two. He rarely allowed anyone to get too close to him, only a few individuals truly knew him. It seemed as if the homeless were the only people immune to his shielding, possibly due to their shared technique. He oftentimes would find himself in deep, philosophical conversations with the city's underground residents. It was a quirk which confused most of his friends. The juxtaposition of his arrogant and superior attitude with his gentle kindness towards the insane and the destitute. He loudly and publicly proclaimed his hatred of welfare and any form of social policy yet freely handed change and expensive cigarettes to men and women huddled in alleys. He offended every young liberal by announcing that he refused to ride the bus for fear of catching poor yet he knew every homeless person by name in five cities. He promoted archaic notions of classism yet treated many homeless men with more respect than most of his peers.

      Elementary school was the first blow to his childhood utopia. The nearby trailer park added a unique variety to his upper middle class school system. The gifted and talented program was a joke, instead of progressing in his education, he was forced to babysit willful troublemakers. His mathematic abilities were still suffering from a woeful lack of instruction in arithmetic. Reading, writing, history, logic, science; these subjects came naturally to him but without any proper education, mathematics were a constant Achilles Heel in his intellectual prowess. This was where he learned to rely upon himself for his education. His third grade teacher had been crucial in this revelation, no other person had inspired such love of learning in him. He owed his entire intellectual development to this man. And so, from fourth grade on, he viewed the classroom as an unfortunate hinderance to his journey of self improvement.

      This was his perfect evening, the slight misting of rain emptied the paths. Fog wafted from the river, bringing back childhood fantasies. Campus was perfect during early spring and late fall, the pastoral beauty absorbed the most troublesome worries. Lights from dorms and classrooms allowed him to fantasize about the late night studying in the college experience which he had never experienced. The wooded paths along the river and the collegiate architecture combined his dreams of magical adventure and educational exaltation. The Belgariad briefly collided with The Dead Poet's Society in these walks. He was able to imagine himself away at university with a bright future ahead of him and, at the same time, on a fantastical quest in a land where magic and Romance still reigned supreme.

As he aged, he noticed that the magic of childhood was fading within his friends' hearts. Make no mistake, he had matured at a much faster rate than most of his peers, he could rarely be described as childish. Except when the term was used in combination with exuberance, he still believed in magic and mystery. This might seem strange when combined with his utter devotion to logic, but if you actually apply logic, it makes perfect sense. 

      So he was left as the only child who still heard the ringing of the sleigh-bell. He quickly learned to hide this trait deep inside; he never learned elvish, he took part in no larping events, he wanted nothing to do with the popular image of a fantasy geek. Instead, he read everything he could get his hands on, he studied the philosophy and history of Greece and Rome. He learned Latin in school—another rare teacher who inspired learning—he taught himself Old Norse, Irish, Old English, French, German, Attic Greek, Russian, and bits of any other interesting language. He became pretentiously proficient in the English language and began writing. His early attempts at poetry had been disgusting at best but he slowly improved his style; soon he had five notebooks going at the same time. Fantasy novels, reflective short stories, historical and political commentaries...he couldn't stop.

      The tower loomed in front of him, he had always been intrigued by the structure. It seemed to belong in a more distinguished campus, it bespoke years of wisdom and knowledge. One of his ex-girlfriends—was it his ex wife?—had been entrusted into the gatekeepers guild or something along those lines. Academic excellence earned her the right to carry around a copy of the tower's key, that seemed to be the extent of her duties and privileges but it still seemed a grandiose and mysterious honor to him. He walked up to the brilliantly carved door and craned his entire body backwards to look up at the tower. He smiled at the door, the walk had cheered him up a bit, and began to speak in tongues. His private joke was to recite the translation of the word “friend” in as many languages as possible in front of interesting doors. After uttering “amicus” and struggling to remember his Russian, he heard a click. The door had opened, he was now staring into the dark interior of the tower. He looked around, shrugged and walked through.

      His grades in high school were intriguingly low. Every report card looked the same; busywork and homework: zero, tests and projects: one hundred percent. Even in math, his hyperlogical mind managed to compensate for his absent arithmetic. It wasn't that he didn't believe in hard work, this had been instilled in him from a young age; it was that he failed to see the point in jumping through useless hoops like a trained dolphin. He learned the material and would have been able to teach the class, but the exercises in pure obedience seemed utterly pointless. While the rest of the class was diligently copying nonsense from one page to another, he was joyfully composing stories in Old Norse. He took extensive notes during lectures and hung on every word but he never looked at these notes again, he had already absorbed everything from the lecture. He improved his writing during “homework time” at the end of class. It would all change when he moved on to college, stories related to him by his PhD wielding mother bespoke a wonderful place of learning and intellectualism. He couldn't wait to stay up all night discussing the finer points of feudal economics. Tolkien's Old English club was waiting to be re-founded at whichever university he attended. He was ready to join crew, captain the fencing team, and play cricket with the Pakistani exchange students. His world was about to open up.

      The stairs were dark and slippery, he took out his pocket flashlight and managed to keep from plummeting to his death. His longing for adventure only just overpowered his childhood fears. Images of drowned women with backwards feet danced in that strange place between imagination and reality. He took a deep breath and pushed them out of his mind, this was far too exciting to allow asinine fears to stall him. What was happening? Had he finally been called to Narnia? Had his hedge education been noticed by some secret society of intellectuals? Or had a stray gust of wind blown open a neglected door? There are no such things as coincidences, he mentally repeated to himself, Akston's law, examine your premises, one of them is wrong.

      The view from the top of the tower was breathtaking, campus stretched out on all sides of him, the lights of downtown twinkled in the distance. He saw a figure by the big oak tree in the field below the tower, it seemed to be shining a flashlight at him. Just his luck, campus security had caught him; did he have time to rush down the stairs and vanish into the night? Probably not. Hold on, the figure wasn't moving in his direction and the flashes from the light were intermittent; morse code? His morse code was deploringly rusty but he could make out the pattern after it had been repeated several times; “come”. Interesting, if this was a ruse by campus security, it might be worth a fine to meet the security guard clever enough to come up with it. He began to descend the stairs. As he replayed the details in his mind, he almost tripped and fell down the stairs; the morse code had been in Old Norse, he had naturally translated it.

      Tertiary school, that's what college was; more pointless exercises, they even deducted points for tardiness. Where was the higher education? He found himself surrounded by barely functioning children, memorizing just enough to gain a degree. His grades held up for a while, classes which were too heavily based in busy work were quickly abandoned and dropped, maintaining his 3.5-4.0 GPA. But the inspiration was gone, even the interesting classes were ruined, this was not the place for him. He dropped out and became a hedge school vagabond. Traveling around the state, playing music to support himself, and drinking to hold the mundaneness of reality at bay. His aimless wondering was quickly halted when he met his future wife.

      As he approached the figure, he peered through the darkness and fog, attempting to extract details. It appeared to be an old man, a long white beard and cloak-like overcoat completed the stereotypical image of a wizard. “You have got to be shitting me.” He muttered as the man smiled at him. “Hello Mr. Chatwin, I see you found my note.” James searched for the man's flashlight but it must have been stored in his overcoat; a predictable staff was the only accessory in the man's hands. “What the hell is this? Tonight isn't the right night, my friend, I have a rare absence of tolerance.” The man smiled once more. “Tonight is the perfect night, James. You are in danger of becoming a nithing, a man can only handle so much bitterness.” It seemed completely natural for this man to know his name and his innermost thoughts. “So who are you? Gandalf? Aslan in man form? Merriman Lyon?” James chuckled at his own lack of wit. “You may call me Vegtam, Vegtam the wanderer.” The man known as Vegtam smiled at the shock evident on James' face. James shook his head, helpless, manic laughter bubbling up. “What is this, a Guy Kay novel?”

      She seemed perfect when he first met her. With a degree in history and mythology, she had written her thesis on the comparative representations of the Devil throughout European history. She understood his strange humor, she had similar goals, and she was able to keep up with—if not surpass—his intellectual fortitude. Within a few months of dating, they were engaged; the first year had been wonderful, he had been truly happy with her. But everything changed when they moved to Iowa together, she was moodier, less tolerant of his unique personality, and altogether different. He rarely shared her bed, the couch became his nightly residence. There were occasions when their shared happiness returned; afternoons with the dog, watching movies together, attending social events. But for the most part, it was a poor excuse for a relationship. He refused to leave her, he had grown accustomed to their life and hated change. And more importantly, he had made a commitment; no one in his family had ever been divorced, it was something which simply did not happen. But it did, she sent him back to Michigan to work out their issues separately; a few weeks later, she informed him over the phone that it was over. He was crushed, his entire life had been upended, his plans and goals had been formed around her, he was completely adrift. He went through the motions of everyday life, fell back into heavy drinking, and stumbled about, barely alive. Cheap accommodations in the northern part of the state led him to take a job as a copywriter in Traverse City. He continued to function in a trance like stupor until he met her.

      “I am here to see if you're ready.” Vegtam snapped him out of his introspection. “Ready for what?” He wanted to hope but he even the smallest glimmer of hope threatened to shatter the fragile strain of the evening and leave him wallowing back in the dregs of reality. “I think you know, Mr. Chatwin.” The old man's look was chiding but a twinkle in his eye revealed his amusement and understanding. “You're to come with me, James. Leave this dreary world behind, quests, adventures, magic, learning, everything you have ever dreamed of. So I repeat; are you ready?” James hesitated, “Why me?” He asked dumbly. “Don't ask stupid questions, m'boy.” Vegtam's tone was softer this time James could have asked where, he could have asked how, but these were stupid questions and to be honest, they didn't matter one jot to him.

       Was he ready? How could he even ask himself this question? He had been waiting for this opportunity his entire life. He was miserable, disillusioned, and obnoxiously bitter; to remain in this world would leave him a hollow, washed out old man. It would be hard to leave his family, they were close, close in a way which families no longer were in these modern times. Not a week went by where he did not speak with his mother and father on the phone. And his brother, they were closer than most twins. He would miss his friends but he had gone without friends more often than most. One friend in particular, a certain young lady, would be very hard to lose. She had been there for him time and time again; they had been best friends and for a time, lovers. But she had a brilliant career waiting for her in New York, she was going to be fine without him. And then there was her. He had only met her twice and had no way of contacting her. But he simply could not get her out of his mind. Was he willing to give up his lifelong dream in order to gamble on his future with her, the odds were overwhelmingly against him. This whole trip was about her. The publishing house in Florida had contacted him; but he had only submitted manuscripts to the Fort Meyers area. It was ridiculous, an entire trip based upon a brief conversation where he had gleamed that she would be in Florida for a week. He managed to ignore the segment of the conversation which alluded to a boyfriend. Alas, he had never been one to give in to the constraints of reality.

      He looked Vegtam in his strangely sparkling eyes, took a deep breath, and responded with the obvious answer. “Can I bring my dog?” Vegtam erupted with laughter. “I wouldn't have it any other way, I shall be seeing you soon, Mr. Chatwin.” And he began to walk away. “Wait, hold on.” James started to jog after the old man. “I said yes, I'm ready. My dog is in the car, we can get him right now.” Vegtam stopped walking and turned to him. “We are not leaving tonight, I was merely assuring that you were ready. We don't press gang our residence.” He began walking again. James went to follow him around the corner of a building, more questions at the tip of his tongue. When he rounded the corner, Vegtam was nowhere to be seen.

Part Two

      Any more coffee would have consumed whatever remained of his stomach lining, he popped open something that was marketed as an energy drink but which he was relatively sure was cocaine in liquid form. The airport was miserable, it seemed to be competing with the city for the most disgusting atmosphere. It was an especial affront to him, he had always loved the magic of travel. He remembered exploring the shops with his brother late at night, viewing strange towns from the window of a hotel shuttle at ungodly hours in the morning, and building luggage forts whilst waiting for his father to bring the rental car around. His family was a family who loved to travel; cross-country road trips, transcontinental flights, it was all wonderful to him. And the airport was the center of that magical world. He remembered a quote which he had heard one time; “The impossible and the fantastic are closer to reality during journeys. Epicenters of travel collect residual magic from each traveler.” It still rang true after all these years...just not at the Lansing airport, this place was shit.

      It had been very difficult for him to deal with the disappointment of his strange hallucination. A few weeks of pure panic and meta-cognitive introspection had led him to conclude that late onset schizophrenia was not the culprit. It seemed to be an isolated incident, unfortunately for his questionable sanity, he was unable to explain it away. There were few things which bothered him more than having answers dangling just beyond his reach. Eventually, he had written it off as temporary insanity; it was a constant bother at the edge of his mind but he managed not to dwell on it too terribly often.

      He glanced at his watch, loose and shiny, more decoration than anything functional. It had reset itself again so he glanced at the clock on the wall. At least an hour until boarding, he blamed his father for instilling the ability to be late for everything yet show up at the airport hours in advance. Every family vacation had been planned less than a month in advance, it took no less than five trips back to the house for forgotten items before they were actually on their way, yet they always arrived at the airport so early that the women behind the counter seemed to mock them. Perhaps this was where he had acquired his love of airports, with hours to explore, it was either hate them or love them, he apparently chose the latter. He put down his copy of The Economist, every article had been lovingly read and reread multiple times, at least in Chicago, he would have an interesting airport to explore. His layover in Chicago and then again in D.C. had been planned for maximum enjoyment. Why was he even bothering to go through with this trip to Florida? He was confident in his ability as an author, the book he had was very good, but he was equally confident in the overwhelming numbers of hopeful authors paraded before this publishing house every day. He hadn't even been able to inform her that he was coming. He would most likely let her know at some point before he left. But it would be too hard to spend any amount of time with her and her boyfriend and even more painful to spend time with her alone, knowing that she was with another man.

      It had been a very difficult month; he had discovered that she had a boyfriend, there was the strange Vegtam letdown, and he had attended the going away party for one of his closest friends. He had been friends with her for around five years before they began sleeping together. It had taken several months before they were able to be friends again after it ended. It had been a month or two of just being friends before they had begun sleeping together again. She was one of his best friends, he trusted her implicitly, and their sexual chemistry was truly incredible. But there was no true love; they could have been happy in a relationship, they would have developed a healthy, slightly more than friends version of love—they already had in a way—but it wouldn't have been Westley-Buttercup true love. For those reasons, it was probably best that she was leaving for New York, neither one of them would have been able to break off their untitled relationship and go back to friendship without a somewhat drastic intervention. They would have either been stuck in a comfortable but less than perfect relationship or ended up hating each other. Regardless of all this, saying goodbye had been incredibly difficult. Of course promises to visit and stay in contact were made; they would be kept but not to the extent which they should be. So it was with a heavy heart that he made his way to the airport.

      The flight to Chicago was uneventful, as short flights usually are. With most of the shops closed due to the late hour, he wandered about the near empty airport. The hour layover between flights, which had seemed far too short when he booked it, now appeared eternal. The rare cohabitants of the barren complex hurried by, heads down, no time to enjoy the magic of their journeys. Oddly enough, it was the vacant eyes and mechanical pace of the passing strangers which broke his uncharacteristic melancholy and returned his childlike exuberance. What did it matter that the shops were closed? There are shops everywhere, he was on an adventure. He instinctively reached into his pocket to grasp his lucky pocket handkerchief, another private joke. He had long ago given up making jokes and allusions for the benefit of others; his sense of humor was too unique, his references too obscure; anyone who happened to understand his allusions was instantly counted as a friend. As he clutched the reassuring handkerchief, his hands brushed his pack of cigarettes. “Well it's not pipeweed,” he chuckled to himself, “but it will have to do.” He glanced about and saw a security guard, diligently staring off into the distance. “Excuse me, sir,” he seemed to startle the guard as he approached, “is there a designated area where I might have a cigarette?” The guard looked him up and down disdainfully, “outside.” He replied tersely and returned to his staring contest with the wall. “I presumed as much,” Jame's continued presence seemed to offend the guard, “but I was wondering if there might be an area for smoking which doesn't require me to pass back through security.” The polite tone was apparently an affront to the guard. “This is a non-smoking airport, if you want to kill yourself, you can do it somewhere else.” James laughed good naturedly at the insult, “Thank you so much for the help, I'm off to find an overpass.” He smiled and walked jauntily away, after a mirthful chuckle, he hopped in the air and clicked his heels.

      It was uncharacteristically warm outside, the heat seemed to emanate from the darkness itself, embracing him as he briefly broke its continuity with the flick of his lighter. With nothing better to do, he opened his fiddle case and began to rosin his bow. He tuned the old instrument lovingly and then began absentmindedly plucking a cheery polka as he finished his cigarette. He shook his head, this would not do; the night demanded something slow and haunting. He began to play Fhearr a Bhata, one of his favorite Scottish laments, laying heavy drones wherever possible. He had never been a fan of too much variation, he played the melody straight and simple, allowing himself to imagine the longing felt by the woman pining for her love lost at sea. He was not quite sure when the singing had begun but halfway through the second verse, he noticed a man singing along. He looked around, continuing to play and discovered the source of the singing; a tall, red bearded man was standing at the edge of the lawn. James acknowledged the man with a smile and a nod, the man, in turn, smiled and motioned for James to continue playing. They continued the song together, the man's voice intertwining perfectly with the haunting tone of the old fiddle. As they finished, the man took a bag from his pocket, began packing a pipe, and walked over to James, chuckling. He smiled an infectious smile as he lit his pipe, “Manny,” he said as he extended his hand. James took it with a matching smile, “James. That was fantastic, your Gaelic is incredible, but what accent is that?” The man known as Manny smiled, “I was told that you were a perceptive one,” his English held a similar accent to his Gaelic, “I was technically singing in Manx. As I am quite sure you know, the languages are similar enough to allow this translation to fit the song.” James was flabbergasted, he had always been fascinated by Manx culture and language, possibly because it was so similar to Irish and Scottish, with which he was intimately familiar. Despite the similarities, it had always seemed alien and mysterious to him, his knowledge regarding Manx was limited to its overlap with the other Gallic languages.

      This was his element, talking to strangers, exchanging knowledge, he knew how to deal with this. It was akin to his interactions with the homeless; despite his classist mentality, he judged each person as he spoke with them. He could be drinking with a successful business man in a bar and an hour later, sharing a half pint with a traveling hobo in the alley; they all had a story to tell and James lived for stories. This personable attitude had not always served him well, many awkward situations had sprung from engaging the wrong person in conversation. His friends loathed when he showed up with a dirty homeless man in his car, he would profess that the man was interesting during their conversation but the public urination and vile remarks to passing females spoke to his poor judgment. Most people who truly knew him decided that contrary to his cold-hearted façade, he was too nice. He gave everyone a chance and even after they had proven their worthlessness, he rarely had the heart to shoo them away. It required an active insult for him to show cruelty to most individuals.

      In a rare instance, James was able to reflect while still maintaining a conversation with Manny. They spoke easily, as old friends united for an evening. Eventually, Manny tapped his pipe and rose, “Let's hear that fine fiddle sing once more, my friend.” James was a natural performer when it came to crowds but in a more intimate setting, false modesty threatened to limit his interactions. “I suppose I might be able to squeak something else out, any requests? I take them but I don't usually play them.” He mentally kicked himself, this was an on-stage joke, it was out of place and slightly foolish in this situation. Manny laughed naturally, “In this singular night, I need a singular performance; play me the violin.” James intrinsically knew that Manny was well aware of what exactly he had asked. James loved classical music, he was a sucker for operas and anything from the Romantic Period. But he was a fiddler, he had no training when it came to playing violin and he was content to remain a fiddler. “Sorry, Manny; I'm a pure fiddler, I would be lost in the world of violins.” Manny seemed to look straight through him. “Come now, my friend, I don't care that it has a traditional timbre to it, play it. You know that it is perfect for tonight.” James gaped at him and took up his fiddle. He began to play the only classical piece he had ever deemed to learn. He had revealed this private study to no one, it was a secret project; learning the piece and changing the lyrics to reflect his feelings for her. Slowly, sweetly, and carefully, the fiddle sang Angel of Music from Phantom of the Opera. Manny smiled and seemed to lose himself in the melody. Eventually, he came in, singing both parts. Although it was written for two women, Manny's single voice seemed to naturally fit with the song. Perhaps it was James' traditional fiddling mixing with Manny's traditional singing but it was beautiful, truly beautiful. As they finished, James simply let the fiddle drop to his lap, “that was perfect, I've never played this song for anyone before tonight, and it was perfect!” Manny smiled and removed a watch from his pocket, “I know. Are you ready?” James was taken aback, “What did you just say?” Manny tapped his watch, “you said you had a one o’clock flight, it's quarter to one, are you ready?” “Shit!” James erupted from the bench, carelessly arranging his bags and—more carefully—returning his fiddle to its case. “I still have to pass through security, I'm going to miss my flight.”

      Manny kept pace with James as he frantically fled to the security checkpoint. Ten minutes and a line for the security check, there was no way he was making this flight. Manny wandered off as James paced back and forth, willing the line to move faster. He noticed Manny speaking to the guard at the checkpoint, a point in his direction and a wave of invitation brought him over. “This is the man, here, Daniels. He's fine to pass through, inspected him myself.” The guard seemed completely in awe of Manny, he opened the gate and respectfully allowed James to pass through. His gratitude and confusion caused him to match Manny's casual amble, combatting the need to rush. “How did you pull that off? Hypnotism?” Manny laughed, “nothing so crude, I still have some sway in the world of travel; they are afraid to cross me so my word is gospel.” They arrived at his terminal at three minutes after one, the plane was miraculously still there. Manny approached the attendant, “Thank you, Jamie, we're good to go now, our VIP has arrived.” Before he was able to thank Manny, James was ushered onto the plane. “Anything for you, Mr. MacLear, he heard the woman say as the door closed. Manny MacLear smiled at him with a twinkle in his eye, “Goodbye, my friend; I shall be seeing you soon.”

Part Three

      James stepped off the plane in a very good mood. His upgrade to first class had been most welcome, as had the top shelf vodka martinis. He wasn't drunk but he wasn't quite sober, he was in the majestic gap in between. The D.C. airport was even more inviting than the Chicago airport. As he walked to the exit—tobacco and tipsy are perfect bed partners—he noticed a large room with glass windows. People inside were smoking! He walked in and inhaled the sweet smell of second hand smoke. A chorus of hellos greeted him as he sat down and lit his cigarette. He was surrounded by a group of boisterous marines on their way back from Afghanistan. In his element once more. He listened to stories and tall tales of the mens' adventures overseas as he passed his newly purchased pint of brandy around the room. They demanded that he play his fiddle for them, an enclosed room in the middle of the airport seemed like a poor place for fiddle music so he removed his tin whistle from his carry-on instead. This brought cheers and whoops from the inebriated soldiers, a quick set of reels and polkas brought amusing attempts at dancing. After giving up the slightly mocking mimicry of step dancing, they evolved to swinging each other by the arm, letting their partner go and sending him crashing into the chairs from time to time.

      After several more sets and several more stories, James took his leave of the men, shaking hands and giving them the pint to share amongst themselves. This was what he loved to do; show up, make friends, bring joy, and disappear. Considering his close call at the Chicago airport, he decided to seek out his terminal right away. It was in a part of the airport with which he was quite unfamiliar. Following the signs—none of them listed his terminal but he could infer—he was led down stairs and escalators. The new, sterile architecture gave way to older brickwork; he was in the bowels of the building. Thinking he must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, he turned to retrace his steps. But he stopped, out of the corner of his eye, he saw an old, decrepit sign. On closer inspection, he saw his terminal listed above an arrow pointing down the brick corridor. He had planned on a budget but this was ridiculous, the corridor didn't even seem up to code; what would the plane look like? After what seemed like miles of unchanging corridor, he saw a large wooden door ahead of him. It must have been installed during some sort of Renaissance revival in architecture—yes, he was well aware of the redundancy in that thought—it looked like a door in a medieval castle. To add to the oddity of the situation, there were runes above the door...and they were accurate, there's a first. He started to transliterate and translate. As he slowly pieced the sentence together, he heard footsteps behind him, “speak friend and enter.” He turned to see Vegtam strolling down the corridor, staff and all...and Jame's dog, prancing next to him as an old friend. “You're not the only one who appreciates your private jokes, Mr. Chatwin. Shall we?” Vegtam motioned to the door with his staff.

      The sunshine blinded him as he walked through the door with Vegtam and the pup. He was walking out of a castle, he looked back and let out a manic laugh. “It's bigger on the inside.” Vegtam laughed, as did Manny who was now striding up to them. “I hope you enjoyed your flight, my friend.” James was still in shock, he looked from Manny to Vegtam, across the field that stretched before him, back at the castle, and back to Vegtam. “Odin?” he asked stupidly. “Don't tell me you have yet to figure it out, m'boy. Tell me we have selected properly.” James took a deep breath. “If you are truly the All Father, and he,” he motioned to Manny, “is Mannanan MacLír, we must be in some sort of alternative universe for gods. Obviously it is interdenominational,” both men laughed at his wording, “but is it just Celtic and Norse?” “Don't be a dick, one-eye,” Manny shouted to Vegtam, “he's figured out more than we thought he would, fill him in.” Vegtam motioned to a nearby outcropping of rocks, all three of them sat down.

Without getting too deep into theology, we have always been here. The gods have always existed in one form or another, on some plane of existence or another. We are not creators, we are caretakers, we are responsible for our “flocks” for lack of a better term. Manny and I are cousins in the fact that both of us presided over groups of people on earth. But he was a member of the family which presided over the Celts, my family presided over the Nords. We have held alliances and waged war against one another. Sometimes, these wars were instigated by our people, sometimes we would steer them in the direction of war. We have never held complete sway over the minds of our people, we have simply guided and protected them. This plane of existence was created as a residence for the gods of earth; each family has its own territory and its own access to earth. I reside in Asgard which is predictably in the North, Manny has a wonderful island resort on Tír Na Óg. This plane is something between a break room and employee housing. Normally, it is a gods only zone but occasionally, we are allowed to bring humans who show singular traits; these humans have a free pass to travel throughout the kingdoms. They are allowed limited access back to earth and usually bring some form of residual magic with them. Unfortunately, the ability for both gods and humans to travel back and forth has been severely limited in the past few centuries.

It began when our cousin, Yaweh, decided to take power. It started out as a simple feud between two families in Asia Minor; gods and entire god families are able to be wiped out, we are not fully immortal. Yaweh fought his way to the head of his family and waged war on all of the surrounding families. A vast majority of gods in the Middle East were wiped out during this war. As you may have guessed, his family conquered the area. But this would not satisfy him, he began to turn on his own family members, turning humans against them. The rest, as you say, is history; Yaweh either destroyed the other gods or managed to remove their people's faith. Certain families were able to survive by pledging fealty to Yaweh, giving up their identities for a pantheistic acknowledgment as part of a “higher power”. He closed most of our pathways to earth, disconnecting us from our people. Without our presence, our people transformed us into saints and legends.

But even Yaweh wasn't prepared for what was to come. People grew to a point where they felt that all gods were superfluous, even “The Great I Am”. They started to worship governments, they started to worship science, they started to worship nothingness. A truce was called, Yaweh gracefully allowed us limited access to earth. But it was too late, he had erased us to such a degree that only crackpots still were willing to give us the time of day. We would attempt to contact a person only to watch them turn into an Alistair Crowley, creating nonsensical cults. Even more troubling is the tendency to ally our worship with that of Atheism, as if we were so dead that we presented no threat to the worship of nothingness.

So we began an evacuation of earth. Yaweh has his judgment day, my family has Ragnorok, everyone has something; we all saw the possibility. Each family is scouring the earth for worthy people to rescue from this dying ship. Once we are sure that every human of worth has been removed, we will cut all ties to earth; allowing them to tumble into nothingness without our guidance. This is a line thrown to a drowning man, James, you are being brought onto Noah's ark, we are inviting you to Galt's Gulch. So, I will ask once more, are you ready?

      James paused, “I think I am,” he said after a moment, “could I get a tour?” Manny laughed and led him to a nearby lagoon where a ship was waiting. With Manny and Vegtam as his guides, he visited the world of his dreams. He met gods, minor deities, and heroes. He was taught magic by beings from faerie tales. It was incredible, it was everything he had ever wanted. He witnessed every story he had read as a child, every dream, every wish come true. He impressed mighty warriors with his knowledge of swordsmanship, he sailed through oceans of seamonsters, he discussed philosophy with the greatest minds from earth. But something was still tugging at the edge of his mind. He was an escapist by most modern standards but he had never been a quitter. It seemed somehow wrong to abandon his world, the world he hated. Every dryad or mermaid reminded him of her. There it was, he wasn't ready to give up on her. He pushed these thoughts out of his mind, he was on the adventure he had been waiting a lifetime for, don't let doubts ruin it.

      One morning, after eating an incredible breakfast in Asgard, Vegtam—he still thought of him by this title—asked him to take a walk. They met up with Manny along the wall famously built through Loki's grifting—Loki had been a close friend in these past few months, attempting to trick James into believing his innocence in the stories told of him. They came to a small outbuilding, small talk about the weather and other potential humans drifted away as they entered the building. James looked around, they were in an airport. The baggage claim machine was spitting out luggage in front of them. He looked at the two gods standing beside him as his bags slid onto the conveyer belt. “I don't understand.” Vegtam gave him a sad look, “I think you do, m'boy. You aren't ready, there is too much left for you here. You may not be able to admit it to yourself but it is obvious to us.” James was crushed and relieved at the same time. “Are you Aslaning me out of Narnia?” Manny gave a forced chuckle, the big man seemed to be fighting tears. “No, my friend, you are Dagny Taggarting us; we should have known but after all, we're only gods, we're not omniscient.” James laughed, holding back tears himself. “Thank you.” He said as he took his bags from the belt. The two gods began to walk away, Manny turned back, “I would check that terminal.” James followed the line of Manny's finger just in time to see her step off of a plane. He took a deep breath, looked once more at the empty hallway where Manny and Vegtam had stood moments before, and jogged up to her.

The Box

      William saw the box for the first time as the flood waters receded. It had been a record-breaking flood, water everywhere; and it had left the box. He had found it while hiding from his parents after a fight. There was an area at the side of the house with no windows, he often took advantage of it when he needed time to himself. It was a small box, no more than a foot long, it had a cheap lock on it, altogether an unremarkable piece of workmanship; something you might find in a souvenir shop. Something in the way the box had been sitting when he found it—as if placed there just for him—led his mind to thoughts of magic. He carried the box over to his favorite sitting stone, set it down in front of him, and began to ponder. Anything could be contained within, a map, a key, a stone; all of them magical, obviously. The bottom of the box was worn and tattered, splinters of wood breaking away had left a small hole. He peered through the hole, blackness stared back at him. Breaking the bottom off completely would be easy but he was hesitant; was he ready to take on an adventure? Magic was not something to be taken lightly, he considered himself somewhat of an expert in the field, having read most decent fantasy novels. He set the box down and stood, it would be best to prepare for at least a day before embarking on any magical adventures. He returned to his house and apologized to his parents.

      The box was still there on the next day, right where he had left it. This time, he had come prepared; a small backpack full of potentially magic items and his loyal Scottie, Jaken, prepared him for anything the box might contain. He peered through the hole again, still nothing. He shook it, the rattling of the lock drowned out any potential sound contained within. Finally, he allowed Jaken to sniff the box. The terrier took to his task in a very serious manner, sniffing every surface and even going so far as to attempt to probe the interior with his tongue. He finished his work, looked up at William, and sneezed; interesting. Jaken, being a Scottish Terrier, was obviously not allergic to magic so this didn't really rule anything out. He asked Jaken what he thought, a tilt of the head and a wag of the tail confirmed his suspicion, Jaken was just as stumped as he was. An unnatural caution settled over him, it would wait one more day. Tomorrow would be Sunday, the last day of the weekend; if he was going to enter a magical land, it might as well be tomorrow. He took Jaken inside, did his homework, brushed his teeth, and went to bed.

      The box had moved. William had carefully noted at which angle he had left it and it had definitely rotated. This had to be a sign, the time for the revelation was upon him. He rechecked his bag of supplies, you never knew how quickly magic would act; it might lead him on a quest to a passage or it might zap him away immediately. As he pried the bottom of the box open, he ensured that Jaken was touching him, touch was very important in magical travel. The bottom popped open...he peered in...a skeleton of a bird plopped out on the ground next to him. Jaken went to sniff it. William was profoundly disappointed, it must have been a pet buried here by the previous residents. He carefully replaced the skeleton in the box, pounded the bottom back on with a rock, and reburied it. As he got up to leave, he noticed a nearby tree stump; there were some kind of markings on it, it could be a map! His disappointment forgotten, he carefully copied the map and called Jaken away for their next adventure.

Reflections on a Winter's Eve

      Bright lights flashed by, somewhere in the distance a siren was wailing. He did not register any of it; more properly, he registered it but in the removed way in which one registers events when deep in internal reflection. Meta cognitive psychoanalysis, he chuckled to himself, that's how he referred to it. Why couldn't he ever use socially accepted terms? His pretension knew no bounds; no, not pretension, there was no pretense. He ofttimes referred to himself as pretentious and the gods know he had been accused of it more times than he could count, but this was an improper term to use; arrogance, that was what it was, plain, unadulterated arrogance.

      “Beep ba beep beep.” The sound he knew so well cut through his introspection. It was the sound that always caused a smile to spread across his face; he could be in the depths of any illness or misery and the smile would be drawn out of him by the sound as he muttered, “what is it now, dearest?” It was the sound assigned to texts from her. She was the initial cause for this awareness consuming reflection, as she so often was. He turned to look for his phone but the world started to spin. He told himself to remain calm, spinning out was no surprise in this weather. With both hands calmly on the steering wheel, he managed to stop the spin. He let out his breath with relief, nothing should have shaken him after that close call with the semi only minutes before, but only heavy narcotics can keep a man in a spinning car from slight panic. He squinted through the windshield, nothing but darkness and blowing snow. It looked exactly like those early screen-savers, with the stars coming at you; the vision which had sent many a child into a deep hypnotic state in grade school. It was having a similar effect on him now, he tried turning on the brights but they merely reflected whiteness in front of him. He turned off the brights and considered trying for the phone again, even the most mundane text from her could improve any situation. No, it wasn't worth the risk, he had reasons to live; more so now than in the past year or so.

      Fergus, his best friend, waited at home for him. There had never been a time where he had opened his door without Fergus situated directly in the doorway, face radiating relief and happiness, and tail wagging. He somehow knew that when he was still a mile away, Fergus was already waiting for him, having recognized the sound of his engine. He worried about Fergus, the self destructive course which he had been on lately was not just effecting him, it was effecting the poor little pup. He could not count how many times Fergus had stood by as he stumbled around, drunk and miserable. No matter how bad he got, Fergus was the one being who would always stand by his side, no judgment, only unconditional love. But there was no one else for Fergus to depend on, his ex-wife was back in Iowa; she had loved Fergus but not enough to go out of her way for him. With the hour long commutes through the worst that the winter had to offer, the heavy drinking, and his recent fighting spell, his biggest fear was not coming home to Fergus. He had, one drunken night, entrusted his keycode to a girl at the bar, making her promise to take care of Fergus if anything should happen to him. He didn't know if it was her integrity, her admiration for Fergus, or his analysis of her psyche which made him sure that she would never take advantage of her ability to enter his condo. It was probably the latter, he trusted his grasp on basic human psychology more than all but a very select few individuals.

      And there was, of course, her. Not even his ex-wife had inspired him to such love of his own vitality. To be deprived of his daily correspondence with her would be a torment worse than Dante could have imagined. She was the most intriguing person he had ever known, and he made a habit of encountering interesting people. He also had his quest to complete, to leave a quest of such import unfinished was not an option; he had complete confidence that if the grim reaper were to come for him, a brief summation of his quest would be sufficient to stay the blade of the scythe.

      When had he first noticed her? He knew when he had decided to marry her, but when had she first properly crossed his radar? He had no idea, there was no one event to stick in his overactive memory. She had simply been there. His brother had started dating her sister so many years ago. He had no idea when he had first met her, or when he had realized that her beauty was unsurpassable. There was a time when he had a vague concept that his brother's new girlfriend had a sister and then there was the time when he had known the standard to measure the attractiveness of all other women. There was no connection between the two of them other than the fact that their siblings were dating. He knew her mother better than he knew her. On a school trip, their overlap in friends had brought them together to eat lunch at the same table in Stratford. Obviously, he was aware of who she was. They had exchanged a few words, he only remembered because he could still feel his heart beating in near panic as he did his best to remain calm whilst speaking to his idea of physical perfection.

      He had it mapped out in his head, their next meeting. He had been doing his best to save up for a trip to Boston. He hadn't yet decided if he would tell her beforehand or not. Somehow he would find her—specific details are left to actual planning, not fantasies—he would walk up to her and say, “Hey Slug.” She would flash that irresistible smile, with that look in her eyes which he had failed so many times to describe, and say, “Hey Frisco.” And that was it, he had no perverse fantasies about what they would do behind closed doors, he had no plans for slowly turning a slight attraction into a relationship; it was merely, “Hey Slug”, “Hey Frisco”, and the rest of their lives.

      Why did he feel the need to fill his life with such a barrage of quotations and allusions? There was rarely a situation where he could not think of an appropriate literary reference. Was it his overindulgent love of literature and stories? Was he unable to function beyond the pages of books held so reverentially in his mind? No, this was not it, he was capable; original witticism flowed freely from him alongside obscure quotations. Was it some form of inferiority complex? Did he need to prove his intellect, to display how well read he was, to confound the less intellectual with his encyclopedic knowledge of quotations? No, he did have a love of putting people in their place, but only if they truly deserved it. And besides, he used more quotations and allusions with her than with anyone else and she was possibly the most intelligent person he knew. He would often joke that he was paid all day to think of ideas so he could plagiarize in his free time. Perhaps it was due to his love for the creation of ideas, his love of stories and storytellers, a sort of professional respect. It was possibly his nod to the great thinkers and writers who had come before him. He had always felt that hiding behind and leaning on the past was asinine, but to ignore tradition was worse than asinine, it was criminal.

      After eating lunch with her the one time, he had hardly any interactions with her. He considered her sister to be the sister he never had, but she was still a distant figure, one to be admired and feared. The rare occurrences when they were brought together by their siblings held only awkward moments. He could have imagined it, but their interactions seemed to resemble the fumbling speech of two teenagers besmitten with each other in a group of people. He chuckled to himself once again, where the hell did he come up with his similes? And where did besmitten come from? Was it some colloquialism he picked up or did he Shakespeare it? But the analogy made sense to him, they were palpably aware of each other's presence yet they never properly acknowledged it; when speaking, every word was carefully tailored for the other but never addressed to them directly. He shook his head, this was obviously his over analytic mind projecting his strange thought process onto her.

      Where was the music? All he could hear was the wind howling and that siren wailing off in the distance. God it was cold. He remembered, he had been listening to an audio book and had turned it off to allow his mind to wander. Where was he? He had passed through Benzonia so he must be in that barren wasteland on the way to Bear Lake. He really couldn't see a thing, he knew there was a curvy section to the road coming up. Should he pull over? No, the snow wasn't going to stop anytime soon, Fergus was waiting for him and he was anxious to respond to the text that she had sent.

      The rest of their lives. That's how he thought of it. Of course he found her physically attractive, she had been his ideal for beauty for over five years. Whether he was fully aware of it or not, every girl had been judged by how close to her she was. But it was more than that, he had never encountered a mind like hers. Her mental beauty was equal to her physical perfection. He thought back, there was no self deception in introspection, was he projecting his current feelings into the past? Examine your premises lad, he told himself. No, he had always viewed her as the aesthetic ideal, one does not have to have feelings towards an object of beauty. Yes, that was what she was before their conversations had begun. It was an incredibly hard truth to admit to himself, his current feelings for her were outraged by this demeaning revelation but it was true. In fact, for many years, he had harbored the illusion that he disliked her.

      Where did this idea come from? It was based on nothing but hearsay, no action or word from her had ever stricken him as dislikable. Who had placed this idea into his head? It wasn't her sister and it wasn't his brother. Perhaps it was a collection of stories and snippets; democracy at work. In retrospect, it was easy to see why she could gain anti-fans. She has the audacity to be more intelligent and beautiful than the entirety of the population; one of those gifts is enough to draw hatred from lesser beings, but both at once? Inconceivable. And the idea that she is cold-hearted, that was a popular bit of gossip. She has the rare gift of being able to place reason and logic above knee-jerk, emotional reactions. He could not ask for a more attractive trait in another human being, but at that time, all he thought he knew was that she was mean and cold-hearted. Oh, and we can't forget self-centered. He spat derisively out the window; fuck that shit, anyone who isn't a communist scumbag is self-centered, most cowards are just unable to face it.

      Why was the window open? It was cold as hell in the car. The dial on the heater was turned up all the way and he was still freezing; not the normal cold from being outside, but that cold deep in your bones that you only feel in the depths of feverish chills. He hoped he wasn't getting sick, this was one of the few weeks where he had to be into the office almost every day. Oh well, he might as well light up a cigarette before he rolled up the window. He carefully reached into his breast pocket, his other hand gripped tightly on the steering wheel and his eyes glued to the nothingness in front of him. He found his lighter in the same pocket and lit up. There was a slight wobble but several deep breaths and his other hand back to the wheel seemed to fix the problem. How would deep breaths prevent a spin out? He mentally shrugged and breathed in the smoke, thinking of how she had smoked an entire cigarette in what seemed like less than a minute the last time he had seen her.

      He had been slightly shocked when she asked him for the cigarette, he was attempting to sneak out discreetly, guilty about his filthy habit. God, that was a brilliant night. Him in his morning coat and her in that black dress; they were archaic visions of regality, moving through a dead society in a macabre waltz of what once was and what could still be. His brandy old fashioned, which was usually the most masculine cocktail in a bar, seemed overly effeminate when she ordered gin on the rocks and tossed it back with feminine grace mixed with the swagger of a sailor. They had talked with the ease found only in the closest companions. Together, they had come to the conclusion that they were the same person represented in the two sexes. He dove deeper into his mind, attempting to recapture that night, that feeling. The way she had looked at him, maybe it was the gin, maybe it was the atmosphere, but he would give anything to see that indescribable sparkle in her eyes again.

      She was the most confusing and hard to read girl he had ever encountered. He was used to reading people as an instinct. He could describe someone's entire personality and psychology before he could even tell you the color of their eyes. But she was different, he could read her personality, she had demanded a reading in the very beginning of their conversations; but her thoughts were hidden from him. The lowest allusion he had ever made was equating this to an Edward-Bella phenomenon. Her opinions on most issues were as clear to him as his own—possibly because they were, more often than not, the same as his—but ask him to discover what she's thinking and he is completely lost. They always joke about getting married, about being soul mates. He was never one to tell himself that a girl was too good for him—he was usually the one telling her that she's not good enough for him—but she is different; everything he could possibly want in a woman and surrounded by suitors. They were both heartbreakers with a trail of destroyed would-be-lovers trailing behind them. Her sister worried that he was going to be the next one in her wake but he was careful. He made her aware of the fact that he was hers when and if she ever wanted him but he did not push, the last thing he wanted was to lose her friendship, it was truly a fuel which kept him going.

      Had he fueled up before leaving Traverse? Yes, he was fine for fuel. This was getting ridiculous, how long had he been driving? An hour and a half and he wasn't even to Bear Lake, this was less than an hour's drive in the summer. He still couldn't see the signs for the upcoming curves. And traffic was nonexistent, he could see lights off to his left so he couldn't be too far from the town. It was foolish for him to go into work that day, a winter weather warning in Northern Michigan was equivalent to a city flattening blizzard in the rest of the country. They were a tough lot up here, which is why the complete lack of traffic was somewhat worrisome. He hadn't seen a single car on the road since that semi had been in his lane, he shuddered at the memory.

      After living with the false premise of distaste for years, he was less than excited when his brother told him that she would be at the house when they went to see his girlfriend. When they got to the horse stables, she was there—looking incredibly attractive in her riding attire. But this was strange, there was none of the previous avoidance; she greeted both him and his brother in a very happy manner. With a bit of confusion, he went to sit down and watch his brother's girlfriend ride; his brother sat down with the two them on either side of him. Her mother was darting in and out of the arena, making wonderful statements as usual—she had once accused him of courting her simply to gain an amazing mother in law. His confusion was added to when she addressed him directly, asking interesting questions; he loathes small talk and was quite impressed that she was able to carry on a fascinating conversation without once resorting to useless prattle. Why was it that he disliked her? He mentally rebuked himself for listening to the worthless opinions of the masses, she was as mentally incredible as she was beautiful.

      She moved out east and he moved west, she rarely crossed his mind unless his brother mentioned her. It wasn't until he moved back to Michigan—after his wife left him—that she properly entered his life. He had moved up north but was back for Thanksgiving. He was talking to his brother and her sister, they were discussing how similar he was to her. He was told that they were both arrogant, despised voting, didn't like Lincoln, and so on. Later that night, his brother was discussing her trouble with men, his brother had been trying to talk her into leaving her drug addicted boyfriend. He piped up that she should come to Thanksgiving dinner as his date. It was passed of as a joke but he realized that he kind of wished that she would show up, his interest was piqued. His brother and her sister always took care of him when he was single, their traditional activity was to go to the cinema together. There was a midnight showing of the final Twilight movie so the decision was obvious. He and his brother went to her house a few hours early to play board games. She looked incredible, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. She won every game of bananagrams, despite her sister's hope that he would beat her. What impressed him was her explanation that this was why she didn't play games with people, because they got upset when she always won. False modesty is almost as reprehensible as undeserved arrogance to him, so her unabashed proclamation of her superior intellect was one of the best ways for her to capture his undivided attention...for the next several months.

      He was starting to get nervous, had he taken a wrong turn somewhere? It was impossible to tell, he couldn't even see the hood of his car. He couldn't remember ever being this cold, and he had been a victim of frostbite and hypothermia many times. Had he rolled up the window yet? He must have finished his cigarette because he was no longer holding it. He thought hard as to whether there was any part of his normal route with such a long stretch with no curves and no landmarks, he didn't think so. Shit, he was going to have to pull over and figure out where he was in the next town he came to. Hopefully he wasn't in the National Forest, one could drive for hours without encountering civilization in that forest. He tried to see if there were trees along the road but he could only see blowing snow. Should he call Jamie and ask her to check on Fergus? No, she had her own son to worry about, he wouldn't ask her to drive to Onekama in this weather. Fergus would be all right, there was food and water enough to last for at least another day. He had been driving so long that his legs were completely numb, he really needed to stop for a bit, but there was nowhere to safely pull over.

      She was going to be in Michigan this coming weekend, he wanted nothing more than to have her come up and visit him. He was sorely tempted to take Friday off and drive down to Okemos, it would be worth it for even a minute in her presence. No, if she asks him, he would drive down in an instant; if she wants to visit him, he would drive down to pick her up and bring her back at the end of the weekend. But not until she asks him. She knows that he is hers to do with what she may and he must not press her. He laughed at himself, the great seducer has become the slave to the even greater seductress. He was in control of himself, though. He was aware of the distance between them, he knew how many suitors she had to deal with on a daily basis. If he thought for an instant that he had a shot, he would drop everything and move to Boston but until he was sure, he would not allow himself to give into this infatuation that threatened him day and night. How is it that a girl who he has only twice spent any actual time with in person, seems to know him better than almost anyone else in his life. Stop it mate, you're mugging yourself, trust the fates.

      She hadn't wanted to go back to Boston yet, she had decided to stay in Michigan for a bit longer but her plane was leaving in the morning. He looked up the number for the airline and let her use his phone, he needed to spend more time getting to know this young lady. Alas, she was unable to cancel so she went to pack and he left for the movie with his brother and her sister. As they waited for the movie to begin, she was the topic of conversation. Her sister told him that he should date her, he was not terribly apposed to this idea. He asked her sister to give him her number and joshingly entered it into his phone as “girlfriend”. The next day, he did something out of the ordinary, he texted her out of nowhere. He told her that Fergus and Murphy—his brother's dog—missed Gator—her dog. From there, the conversations continued...every day. She became his closest confidant and his admiration for her grew with each text. When Christmas came around, they planned their journeys home around each other. The “dates” were just as natural as their texting conversations. He had slowly grown bolder as the months progressed, confessing his unparalleled admiration and affection for her. He had sent her flowers on Valentines day, with a note alluding to Atlas Shrugged. He had grinned for a day when she posted a picture of that note on Facebook, a week when she sent him a picture of the note decorating the wall of her office.

      What were his feelings for her? He had decided that one day he was going to marry her but the big l word has been misused too many times for him to use it. Infatuation would have been correct if he wasn't consciously holding it off. It was the ultimate admiration of everything about her, she claimed that he didn't really know her but he di—Jesus, is that a person in the road?!?!? What the hell does he think he's doing? Shit, there are several of them, with flashlights wading through the snow. He tried to figure out what was nagging at him about them. God he was cold. But they weren't zipping by, they were slowly making there way towards him. And then it dawned on him.

      “Oh no,” That was all he said. He said it calmly and clearly. There were no claims of how unfair this was, fairness was a useless concept in this situation. He cursed no deity, he simply said, “Oh no.” He said it a few more times as the men moved closer to his mangled car, he was afraid to look down. He was fully aware of what was occurring, but if he looked down, it would be unavoidable. He needed to keep a clear head and the sight of whatever damage had been done would muddle his thoughts. “Oh no.” He said it again, a futile repetition that helped him stay away from panic. “Hang in there, we'll get you out as soon as we can.” A man shouted to him, and then to his companion, “There's no way we're getting him out without taking that car apart.” He sometimes wished he wasn't so observant. “Oh no.” The repetition no longer helped, “No, Dagny, my dear Ms. Adler.”

      Why did he always insist on calling her by the names of literary characters? She had pointed that out to him just yesterday. Part of it was that he spent his life reading books and these women represented the best that the sex had to offer, it was his ultimate compliment to her. That wasn't the entirety of it, though. It wasn't that she shared the same name as his ex-wife, that didn't give him the least bit of pause, his ex had earned a name as well, Lillian Rearden. He knew what it was, but why couldn't he even say it to himself? He watched the EMTs assessing the wreck and his condition; this was a prime example of when the ability to read people was more of a curse than a gift, the looks said it all: “Poor bastard” “This is useless” “All we can do is make him comfortable and reassure him”. They looked at him, not as a man trapped in a destroyed car, but as a ripening DOA. A finger to the throat while looking at a watch would have been as reassuring as those looks.

      He knew exactly why he rarely, if ever, used her actual name. He wasn't ready to admit to himself all of the feelings that he had for her. He knew that if he called her by her name, it would be so much more than just a title, that one word would carry with it his sleepless nights, his distraught inner struggles, the drunken nights professing his feelings to Fergus. “I'm not gone yet,” he grinned his roguish grin, “wait for me, I'm coming for you, Lauren.”

      As he was lifted onto the stretcher, he looked back at his poor car, it was smashed to bits, the semi must have hit him head on. He carefully analyzed his situation, he was obviously in shock, he had been for what must have been at least an hour between the crash and the arrival of the ambulance. It was curious that his mind was still functioning so cogently, as if on cue, he felt the world narrowing and pulling away. The EMT had pulled his wallet out of his ruined overcoat—damnit, that was his favorite coat, it was cashmere, his aunt had given it to him for Christmas two years ago—that's it, hold on to the outrage, keep the cogs turning in that overindulgent brain. He couldn't count the times where he had battled his mind at night, attempting to turn it off; now all he wanted was to keep it flowing in its usual nonstop barrage. “Mr. Cochran, who is Lauren? Do you want us to contact her?” He realized that after opening the dam, it wouldn't stop, he had been muttering her name over and over again. Snap out of it, giving in to the situation won't help a damn thing! He tried to sit up, they held him down. He looked at the EMT, clarity returned. “Have you found my phone?” He asked in a calm and even voice. This must have surprised the paramedic but he quickly gave an affirmation. “I need you to take it out,” the man complied, he gave him the password to unlock it. “Please find Jamie in the contacts, if you would be so kind as to call her and beg her to go to my condo and take care of Fergus. She has information as to how to contact my family, please remind her that there is ample compensation in cash inside the note on my desk.” The man stepped away and made the call, in a moment he returned. “She is pretty upset but she says that of course she will take care of him.” He smiled, “Thank you. By the way, you didn't tell her I was going to die, did you? She's an emotional girl.” He laughed at the horror on the face of the EMT. Before the man could respond, they lifted him into the back of the ambulance. The helpful EMT crawled in behind him.

      “Are you riding back here with me?” He asked. The man nodded. “Good, you seem like good company, I'm Hugh, by the way.” He reached out his hand, the EMT took it and responded, “Nice to meet you, Hugh, I'm John; now lie back, you need to rest.” John's face was a study in pity and confusion as to how he was still conscious and conversing. “John, before I recede and place my fate into the hands of the divine, could I ask one more favor of you?” John nodded once again. “If you would take out my phone once more, do you remember the PIN? Good. If you could open up the text messages, thank the gods you know how to use an iPhone. There should be a missed text from Irene Adler, would you read it to me?” “It looks like some sort of quote, do you want me to read the whole thing? Alright, 'a life is a purposeful struggle, and your only choice is the choice in a goal. Better, but irrelevant; but I don't want comfort. I want God. I want poetry. I want real danger. I want freedom. I want goodness. I want sin.' Then she asks where that's from and sends a tongue sticking out face.” He laughed, “Well, John, if I'm to die tonight, that's a great quote to go out with. No, it's alright, I'm not giving up but I refuse to hide from evident facts. Could you text back, 'Who is John Galt?'” John sent the text and looked down at him, “What was that from?” He smiled, “That my friend, was John Galt's play on Henry V's St. Crispin Day's Speech. It is in chapter seven of the third part of Atlas Shrugged.” John gave him a strange look, he grinned again, “Quotations are a particular interest of mine.” John shifted a bit, “Who is Irene Adler?” His face broke for the first time since he regained his composure. “The character of Irene Adler is the only person who ever bested Sherlock Holmes. This particular Irene Adler is the finest woman who has ever existed, she is the woman who I am going to marry.” --Beep ba beep beep-- His smile returned, as it always did with that sound, “That'll be her, I imagine we have a bit of a drive ahead of us, mind reading this one to me as well?” John unlocked the phone, “She sent a smiley face.” John seemed disappointed by this, but he only smiled, “Alright, buddy, one more response and I'm taking a nap until you zap me with those paddles,” John looked extremely uncomfortable with this sort of humor, “Please send, 'As you wish'” John's eyes seemed to be filled with tears as he sent the message, he must have been familiar with the Princess Bride. He thanked John, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

      The sudden lack of movement woke him. He quickly realized that the adrenaline from the crash had worn off, he was barely conscious. He saw John as a fuzzy blur above him, two other fuzzy blurs came to help John lower the stretcher out of the ambulance. One figure was not blurry, the figure was standing on the pavement behind the men. It was dressed all in black and was staring at him, no one else seemed to notice the figure. He sifted through his muddled mind, attempting to place this apparition. He would have laughed out loud if he had the physical strength. Even his delirious hallucinations were allusions, he was looking at his own grim reaper, the Dread Pirate Roberts. He knew exactly what was expected of him. He looked at Roberts and simply said, “Please.”