The Doors

There were four doors. Each door bore a number; 1, 2, 3, and 4. They each had their own unique color. The first had a reddish hue, the second a shade of yellow, the third a paint of black, and the fourth a plain white.

Each door was inviting in its own way. The first prodded the desire for violence, the second teased the lust for sensual pleasures, the third convinced the mind of despair, and the fourth beckoned the soul to some unknown.  
Before each door stood a trial. Before the first stood a pool, before the second a tall forest, before the third a rocky mountain, and before the fourth a rose bush covered in poisonous thorns.

They all beckoned for me, with their promise of grand gifts. The first a choice of masculinity, the second of pleasure, the third of rest, and the fourth of faith. The first three assured a gift. The fourth and most dangerous path promised danger and an unknowable goal.

I stuck my toe into the water to see if anything swam about within it. It was as calm as a summer's night. I brushed my hand over the forest leaves to seek some ill willed animal. No creature showed its face. I peered about the mountains to see if any danger awaited me there. I found none.

Still unsure of the fourth door. I stuck my hand out to see how close together the thorns of the roses were. There was enough space for me to walk. As I drew my hand back the thorns closed in around my hands and scraped my knuckles.

I feared death and seeing the pool before the first door, I cast myself in to wash away the poison. As I washed within the pool. A great wind began to blow. Waves crashed and my body was flung from side to side.

I tried to swim for shore, but I could not make it. As I reached out a final time, a great wave picked me up and cast me against the first door. My body went limp as it slammed against the door. Blood gushed forth like a spring from my body. My blood added color to the door.

The Way of a Pilgrim

Our Father

The beam leaves splinters on the bare skin of my back, as it
bumps heavily along the sand. Each breath feels as if I am drawing in knives.
The track has become too long and too arduous. I am in need of rest.

Who art in Heaven

I can see my goal. It seems a mirage on this great plain of
heat. I try and try to persevere, but it seems futile with this great weight on
my back.

Hallowed be Thy name

I see a fellow pilgrim cry out for help. He has fallen down.
He convulses and claws at the ground. He looks like a possessed man. After a
few seconds of weeping the pilgrim goes still.

Thy Kingdom come

The pilgrim’s dead body begins to smoke under the hot sun
and soon melt away. I must simply look forward and not dwell upon the fallen
walker.

Thy will be done

I wish to rest, but I know if I stop my fate will be no
better than that of my fellow traveler. I can see the goal. It seems further
than it did moments ago.

On Earth

My feet are dragging and limping. I do not know how much
longer I can bear this weight across the sand in the heat.

As it is in Heaven

I am trembling now. I stare resolutely at the light before
me. It is all I can do to keep walking. The pain and weakness seem set upon destroying
me.

Give us this day

I watch another fall beside me. It is a woman. She seems
crazed. She has a look of joy upon her face. Those cracked and dry lips smile
up at me as she falls.

Our daily bread

She convulses in pain as did the one who had fallen before
her, but she claws at the air as if reaching for some invisible rope to carry
her to her feet.

Forgive us our trespasses

She begins to curse and lash at the air. Her eyes sink in
and her chest begins to cave. She dries like a prune, with her fingers turned
in and her face contorted.

As we forgive those who trespass against us

I fall beside the woman. The beam falls upon me. I cry out
in agony. I do not wish to die like these other poor souls. I crawl and drag my
beam behind me.

Lead us not into temptation
I see before me a canyon. The canyon is just wide enough
that I can spread my beam across and walk over. But, all I see on the
other side is more sand and more heat. I see before me, on the edge of the
cliff, a simple strawberry; its skin as red and lively as a spring day… its
scent reaching out for me.

But deliver us from evil
I drop my beam and reach out for the strawberry. As I lean
down the side of the cliff, I am pulled over. It seems as though an invisible
hand has grasped me and is dragging me to the floor of the canyon. Darkness
enshrouds me and I feel as though I am suffocating. The darkness makes all
things quiet and my lungs feel to clog. I scream.

Amen.
I awaken. It was all a bad dream. I am safe here… walking
barefoot across the snow.

The Bells of St. Mary's

I speak with a soundless voice.
I love with a broken heart.
I try with will less will.
I see with a sightless sight.

If only the holy men could know my sorrow and feel my pain.
If only my lover knew the origin of my trembling.
I can no longer feel joy nor pain, for I can no longer feel at all.
I do not wish to be loved, only to love, to know that I am not alone.

I wish for rest in your arms.
Arms that do not reach.
Arms that do not feel.
Arms that will never answer.

I will cry with a shriller cry.
I will pray with a holier prayer.
I will beg with a more pitiable plea.
All I will hear in response of my petition
....Are the echoing tolls of my own words.

Reasons to Die

His fingers are bleeding and his lips are white as snow. He is quaking down to his very spirit. He strums away at the guitar. His eyes are sagging and bloodshot. The soles of his shoes are worn through. His toes are now the only thing pounding away on the gravel.

He sings with a voice hoarse and rugged. His voice shows forth age and wear. Still his voice rings as true as the first that he raised his voice to the masses. He spits blood onto the ground. His head is sagging and his arms are growing weary.

A small child, wearing ragged clothes and having no teeth, crawls forth and places a penny in the tin can before the musician. The child crawls away and curls into an odd shape, where he listens with all his soul. As the child listens color begins to spread across his face and his teeth grow. The child stands upright.

The singer, singing still, raises his eyes and watches the boy walk away; renewed. The musician clears his throat and begins singing again. His voice all the more raised. With blood dripping from his fingers and toes. With eyes shut by exhaustion and hands shaking with effort. The Troubadour plays on.

Gabriel's Garden

The South, 1863

I turned eleven today. Gabriel paraded me around the house and whistled Yankee Doodle. He kept calling me the president of the United States. Most girls would love to be called Queen, but it was more fun to mock Lincoln. Gabriel fell over and kept telling me to stop aggressing him. So, I claimed my tyrannical rule as king and bonked him on the head with my stick.

Then, my mother gave us some shortbread and gave me a handmaid doll. Gabriel always sat on the floor, even though we would always invite him to sit with us at the table. He says he is a servant and it is not proper for a servant to sit with the master. We tell him not to call us master, that we are his employer, but he won't stop calling us that.


We freed Gabriel three years before the war started and he stayed on as a helping hand. We haven't paid him in over four years, but he still stays and helps, because my daddy is fighting in the war. Gabriel spends most of his days learning with and teaching me. He still is having a hard time writing, but he can read almost as good as me.

It is Gabriel and I who take care of the farm. My mother is too frail to work. She has a gimpy leg so she can't walk anywhere, and we lost most of the horses to the army. We gladly gave our dirty old mules for the freedom of our country, but we lost the crops when we had to slaughter the last cow for food. Now, my mother spends her time sowing for the army and Gabriel and I grow tomatoes and such for the home.

Today Gabriel and I walked out into the garden. Inside the garden magic happens. Though, there is an evil snake that lives there that torments me. Gabriel says its a garden snake and won't bite, but I see guile in those lidless eyes. I call him little Lincoln, a slithering bastard. The snake who killed my father.

As we weeded and set to picking the tomatoes, Gabriel turned to me and smiled. He asked me, as he sat down to take a break, if I knew why we pulled the weeds. I answered that I did not.

"Well, Miss Lucy," Gabriel said. "the Tomatoes search for the sun, to grow and prosper. So, you see, they crawl upwards. But, the weeds are trying to drag them down so that they won't prosper and grow. So, everyday, no matter how difficult, we must pick out the weeds so that they do not destroy the good plants."

He looked sternly at me and handed me the rake. He nodded over at a pile of leaves. "Same concept with the leaves there, miss." He said and tussled my hair.

I walked over and began to rake the leaves. The wind blew them about and made my job very difficult. Finally, after the sun had started to fall behind the mountains, I got the leaves into a big pile.

Suddenly a great cry filled the air. A shriek so great it made my bones shake under my skin. I dropped the rake and stood stiff. It was my mother screaming. Gabriel grabbed my arm and told me to stay put. He ran towards the house.

I sat upon the ground and heard gunshots and screaming. I pulled my dress over my face. And tried to drown it out. I heard a hiss and my heart stopped. There was the snake slithering up to me.

"Luccccy," it hissed. "bessst run."

I began to crawl away and kick at it. This wasn't the same snake. This one had a rattler, and I knew the danger of such a reptile. It snapped its jaws at me. "Luccccy." It kept hissing. I wanted to scream, but knew I couldn't.

It's jaws latched onto my leg and I felt its venom spread into my blood stream. I cried aloud unable to stifle a cry. It's eyes flashed red and I thought I heard it laugh as it slithered back into the plants. I started to shiver as fear spread through my body.

I heard rustling through the plants and I feared that the snake had come back for more of my blood. Instead Gabriel stumbled through. He was bleeding from his forehead and arm. He kept heaving out one word, but I couldn't hear it. As he shook my body the world become clearer, he was telling me to hide. He dragged me to a tall bit of tomatoes and told me to stay put.

Two men carrying guns, wearing blue coats came into the garden. They both hit him with their guns and spat upon him. They kicked dirt on him and kicked him in the chest.

"How's slavery sound now, Nigger?!" They cried while clubbing him with their guns. "You brought this war on us, now taste its poison."


I could tell by their clothing that they were Union soldiers, but there should be more soldiers. They must have been deserters. They kept hitting him and hitting him. I wanted to help him, but I could barely move.


Out of the darkness a man rode up on a horse, some kind of officer, followed by about fifteen other men. The officer took his gun and shot Gabriel in the head. His blood spread across the garden flowing even to where I lay. I cried silently.


I died lying in Gabriel's blood as the soldiers burned down my home and scavenged for anything they could find all over our farm. Then they left. As if it were a normal part of life, they left without a hint of remorse.

The weeds grew around and buried my body in the garden.  They ate away the plants and drowned out the sun. The snake slithered about the ground, ruling the new nation of weeds.

Tale No. 3 in 1 Act

Some know me as music, others as story, those who feel more refined refer to me simply as the art. Yet, I have no name, save that which may not be uttered by human lips. I am the narrator and the story, I am the musician and the music, I am the actor and acted, I am all and nothing. I speak, am heard, but am never truly listened to, because such finite intellects could not grasp what passes beyond. I give, but am only partially received.

Think upon this- if you could- that all things happen because I give them permission to happen, because they are only part of my grand painting-or what may seem grand to you. I allow silence to enter your world and your song to torment you so that the torture may bring the truth out of your joy. It was I who mused the grand tale of Achilles and the great Trojan horse, it was I who sang the song of Roland as he fought a great battle and fell in his trial. Do you not see the plot line to the great tale?

See the fires and the men who sacked Rome, only to watch greater nations rise and fall. Hear the harsh Latin tell the tale and hear the songs which tell of sorrow and courage. See the great ship of the Titanic fall victim to its own pride and the poor souls upon it drown to tunes of sorrowful nature. The tragedy itself a tune.

 Remember your greatest sorrow and your greatest joy. Which of the two bore more weight? Did the joy not bear your soul triumphantly, because it knew what it was to defeat sorrow. You are the hero and the sorrow your conflict. I may not tell you your resolution, but do you not see my hand in the words and the tunes. Do you not see that sorrow does not own you, it is simply a chapter in a story.

Hear the cry of new birth, the first noise of a child a cry of pain, but at seeing its parents a smile and a twinkle. Do you not hear the violins playing a soft concerto in the key of D as you meet the love you were destined for since your birth and you smile only a person of great joy could bring forth. See then, as all times pass and all songs come to their crescendo, you family and their families and the families that follow fill the earth with joy.

The tale has only just begun and many more chapters must follow. Chapters of sorrow and of joy. Of pain and pleasure. Of weakness and of glory. I may not live it for you. But listen and hear and sounds of my voice. Though you may not grasp it, I am in each word and deed, I am in each moment... always beside you, singing your song and reading your tale.

Because the paths to the Lord are inscrutable.
Because the essence of His forgiveness
Lies in His word and in His mystery.
Because although God sends us the message,
It is our task to decipher it.
Because when we open our arms
The earth takes in only a hollow and senseless shell.

Far away now is the soul in its eternal glory.
Because it is in pain that we find the meaning of life
And the state of grace that we lose when we are born.
Because God, in His infinite wisdom, puts the solution in our hands.
And because it is only in His physical absence
That the place He occupies in our souls is reaffirmed

-Guillermo del Toro