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Happy New Year

Wishing all my friends, family, current readers and future readers …

A Whole New Year filled with Fabulous Opportunities, Awesome Adventures and Exciting Journeys!

All the Best,

Oscar

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Shalura’s Trial – Excerpt from “Varka: An Arcane Huntress’ Tales”

Shalura clung for her life against the sparkling violet surface of the crystal cliffs. Strands of her pearl coloured hair brushed against her face in the wind. From above, the starsoars glided and watched with interest as this new trespasser tried to traverse the glittering gorges below. The crustal cliffs radiated with latent Shayma energy, enlightening the very depths of the valley which produced a glow in hues of indigo and sky blue. If one became disorientated enough, you could be convinced to release your grip and fall, fully convinced that you were plummeting towards the sky.
Shalura felt the warm hum of the Shayma crystals, they almost conversed with her in her head, coaxing her to end her adventure abruptly at the bottom of the valley. The shamans still struggled to ascertain the true nature of the crystals and the Shayma that radiated from it. But regardless of the truth, Shalura had to climb the sheer cliffs in order to earn her right to be an Arcane Hunter or more precisely, the first Arcane Huntress.
Reminding herself of her goal and her foolish reasoning for attempting this journey started a reverberating feeling of hope throughout herself. It was a common method for shamans to recollect on the past to ensure their current frame of mind. Forcing herself to continue her endeavour against not only her physical exhaustion but also the calm crystal calls that almost came from within her. She climbed, forcing her bare feet and sore hands into cracks and crevasses to hold her from the death below. Yet the trail did not come from grappling the vertical cliff face, nor hugging the cliff face but instead from climbing the smooth sheer crystal surfaces above her. Not a single fissure could be spotted on the gem face cliffs above her.
In order to climb to the top of the cliffs, Shalura would have to use the dormant Shayma within the crystals themselves to fashion her own footholds and hand grapples. The shamans knew any fool with enough physical strength could successfully scale even the grand Rock Tooth Mountains, but only a wielder of Shayma could reach the top of the crystal cliffs. No blade, axe or tool could break or penetrate the Shayma crystals. The only material strong enough to crack the gems was a tool made of crystal fashioned from shamans or Majai themselves, but these shimmering tools while invaluable and unbreakable, prefer to melt back into its mother source, rather than chip it away.
To the great dismay of many unfamiliar travelers who either were slowly pushed off the cliff face or those whom were unfortunate enough to be pulled into and engulfed by the crystals. A rumour true, but one that Shalura began to believe as she climbed passed human legs and boots. They stuck out from the cliff face horizontally, a cruel decoration for a cliff face that would otherwise be a beautiful sight to any traveler. Upon passing one pair of legs, Shalura had the idea of using these forgotten legs as a grapple to hold on to and perhaps rest her legs on, making the climb, slightly easier for her, but when the legs nearly kicked her in the face, she almost became skyfood for the starsoars.
In the end, the only way to travel upwards on these cliffs was to coax the crystals to do what you wanted. The only problem was that the glistening gems often tried to do the same to you. A trip up the crystals cliffs was less an audacious journey of muscles and more a month long conversation with the Taytan or Wisp of Death. Many ambitious Arcane Hunters turned back and descended when they began to traverse over the crystals. And even more simply plummeted, with few hitting the cavern floor as most were caught in mid fall by the starsoars that circled above. These predatory winged beasts grew fat on their feasts. With talons the size of a man’s head and the wingspan that surpassed most dwellings, it was a wonder that these flying blue feathered shades did not just pick people off cliff faces or abduct the solitary traveler that passed through the gouges below. But many shamans suspected that the starsoars instead either delighted in watching initiates struggle through the climb or were possessed by the Shayma crystals, and were thus a physical apparition of vindictive magical energy. But Shamans couldn’t prove that any more than they could demonstrate clairvoyance.
With every length that Shalura pulled herself up, she magically fashioned and molded her next grip from the crystals above her, merely a small protrusion to grapple onto. And later a rest for her callused feet. But every mold drained her of her own energy and her steps were a race against time as the surfaces of her magical crystal protrusions slowly crept back into the smooth gem surface of the cliff. If she was not careful or agile enough, she too would soon only become a pair of feet dangling from the cliff face or become skyfood for the starsoars and probably the gemface itself.
None of the shamans truly understood the gemfaced cliffs or the Shayma itself. They only understood how to bend it to their will, even if perhaps not as industriously as the Majaidid, half a continent away. Once every few generations, the elders told of another shaman gifted enough to become a Majai. Both a blessing and a curse, the prospective Majai, would truly be able to mold the world to his will but would also be under strict supervision or as some would see it, essentially a life of imprisonment and servitude to both knowledge and the Majai creed itself. It was a hidden terror and aspiration of almost all shamans, to one day be a Majai, and to understand the Shayma beyond any others. But unlike most shaman, Shalura desired a life beyond meditation and playing around with crustal baubles.
The plateau of the cliff face was slowly coming into view, the crystals, almost sensing their prey fleeing from its grasp, began to enhance their efforts to ensnare such a perfect shamanistic specimen. For a while, few truly understood the nature of the Shayma energy, rumours of its existence and essentially gossip of its origin were a plenty from both common folk and shamans alike. From a fallen star to the magical guts of the dead god of life and fire, Zakura, many had differing visions of how to explain the world they all found themselves on. The shamans tended to merely debate the meaning of all they could not understand while the common folk resulted to intoxicated fisticuffs but Shalura’s people, the Kalushi, were a relatively peaceful and nomadic tribe that prefer not to enforce their view upon others. This was not only true because of their lacking in a consolidated military might, but for knowing that none could truly know what really was nor what truly could be either. As Shalura saw it, what difference did it make when your skull eventually becomes a home to tumblebugs in the end.
Yet, as Shalura climbed the gemface cliffs, her mind continued to reminisce and remember her past and knowledge, mainly to combat the influence of the Shayma crystals. For as her shamanistic masters drilled into her, “If you are ever lost, return to what you know”, as it will combat any darkness, she later added herself. It was all she could do to keep the crystal clear voices from tempting her to release her grip from the cliff or to clench harder and become one with the cool gem surface.
Shalura’s mind returned to her favored origin story of how the Shayma crystals and inherent energy were simply always a part of the Varka and were born from darkness with no purpose. For why did one need a reason or purpose to see the light and beauty of the word around them? These views would be considered heretical and punishable by death in the Northern Sanctum, but in her head, none could know her views and she could trust her own heart.
For with a world born from nothing, nothing was expected and nothing was to come, which is why Shalura attempted to ensure her actions condemned positive ramifications for herself, others and those small critters around her. The comfort helped her continue to climb the gemface and now only a few arms lengths from the top, and her trial would soon be complete.
“Why not rest?” She heard an echo from within.
“just let it go” A another whisper spoke from between her ears.
“I’ve got summerberry crusts inside” A sweet voice invited her into the solid crystal exterior in front of her.
The voices resonated within her, almost as if spoken by a companion to her side, but it was no friend whispering these thoughts, instead just a mass of sentient crystallized energy that consumed the weak and foolish. For if she and other bags of flesh could be conscious of their existence why could not the Varka and the gemface? Some Steamers prophesied that thought and therefore life came from the brain we held in our heads but none knew if there wasn’t a crystallized brain in the gem face or within the Varka itself. It was clearly strong enough to communicate to Shalura, why could it not then be alive, if not by other standards than the known.

 

But all this did not seem to matter anymore to Shalura as the voice began to fade from her thoughts and as her hands gripped loose sand and dirt for the first time in hours. The warm softness of sun baked soil was a welcome feel from the cold and detached embrace of the gem face. Although a part of the Varka, the Shayma gems were always cool or cold to the touch, compared to the soil, sand or clay. And as her feet were planted onto the same warm soil, Shalura, collapsed upon her posterior and laid back to feel the warmth of the soil from below her and the sun from above. Her ebony skin soaking in the heat, she could feel her sanity returning from the perilous climb. She need only wait and summon the shamans who would soon greet and collect her from the gemface plateau but in the mean time she would need to fashion herself her own arcane weapon from the crystal caverns below her. Yet until then, some rest and perhaps a well-deserved nap in the sun was needed.
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A Discontinuous World – Chapter 1

1

A dark robed man loomed over the bed of the now dead individual, almost as if death itself was now overlooking this dead man. The departed man was past his prime and the robed individual knew this; he knew it was his role to let him go, to be the one to finish him off cleanly, to let him know that it was all over, for better or for worse. The dead man lay there, in his bed, his white bed sheets covering him. There was no blood, no violence, no struggle; it was a clean death. A clean death was always a good death for the robed man; it would be easier on his conscience at night. He stood in silence over the deceased, muttering quietly to himself as he closed the now lifeless eyes with the sweaty delicate palm of his right hand. He may be dead now, but some respect was still deserved for this man; he lived a full life. It was a shame it must have to come to an end, not like this, the robed man thought to himself. The dead man was old, over seventy, yet death is still death, and it is not a simple matter to deal with, regardless of who you are. The muttering man knew his job entailed death; he knew it when he got here. But he also knew somebody had to do it, somebody had to make sure these men and women were put into their final resting places.
The robed man was in his late thirties by now and set in his ways. He had been doing this for years. He found that he had started to develop a routine that made the whole process smoother, yet it also made time fly by faster than he thought it would. He only recently discovered that age was beginning to catch up with him. Shades of white started to streak out on the sides of his short golden hair. He was always clean – shaven, as he felt it was expected of him; he thought it was nicer for people to see a smiling and perhaps even friendly face as their last face. He finished muttering his words in Latin and crossed himself. “Amen,” he said aloud as he turned to walk away. His white collar was now visible to the hospital staff that stood behind him as he gave the last rites to the deceased Catholic man on the bed. Father Gregory never enjoyed giving the last rites to people, but he knew that it was his role to let the dying know it was all over, for better or for worse, to let them leave their lives cleanly. As he walked away from the bed, the hospital staff took charge and started to unhook the lifeless body from the various machines that monitored and sustained him through his last moments.

The sounds of the outside world now began to fade back into the mind of Father Gregory; he could hear again the ear-piercing flat line noise created by the electrocardiogram that monitored the dead man’s heart rate, as well as the rest of the chatter and clanging that echoed through the rest of the hospital. As the nurses finally disconnected that irritating flat line, the dark robed Father Gregory tried to remember who it was next that he had to visit for their last rites. Today was a busy day for him, unfortunately, but he cheered himself up by saying to himself that if god could handle the inflow, he could handle the outflow. Gregory had already given the final rites to five other men and three women today and the sun had barely begun to set, the orangey rays of the sun penetrating through the large windows of the building and illuminating everything in a light golden orange. It was perhaps the only time of day when everything wasn’t so God damned white! Gregory pardoned himself for his minor slip up; he could do that after all, being a priest and what-not. He walked through the halls, nodding and greeting patients as he walked by. He was rarely greeted by the doctors here; he knew that they were just envious of the power he had over the hope of the people who lay dying in bed. When the doctors could do nothing more and knew it was futile to hope, it was then left up to Father Gregory to give these people what they needed, a righteous path to god.

Gregory knew deep down though, even if he wouldn’t like to admit it, that he was the one who felt useless most of the time, the one who could only sit back and watch as God’s plan went to work. Not only that, he felt an admiration for the doctors, even if he despised them. He admired their courage and desire to go against the will of god by trying to save the lives of these people, even if for only a few more days. Gregory never focused on this though. To stop himself from admitting, this he often found himself complaining about the hospital in general. Even if it wasn’t really a hospital at all. Located in the countryside of Slovakia, this institute was a medical center, not a hospital. Converted out of a mansion and turned into a relaxed, top-notch, state of the art, medical facility, this institute was established only for those who could afford its luxuries and care, those who wanted direct and caring medical attention with the newest technology for cheaper prices than those in the rest of Europe. Thus, this institute was often populated with elderly rich men and women, who were now trying to extend their lives by an extra few years by coming here to detoxify in the fresh air of this rural landscape. As the institute was several kilometers from the nearest town, all that could be seen from the its windows were trees and hills that surrounded the grounds of the facility, on which there was a main two storey building with a basement, a second auxiliary building for the staff and doctors to sleep in, and to top it all off, an elaborate garden of trimmed hedges and bushes, broken only by the patches of colours represented by over thirty different species of flowers that called this garden home.

To the unknowing eye, this place could still pass for a mansion, with its uniformed staff and its rich elderly men and women strolling through the gardens at their leisure. This was true for most of the people who came here, elderly and rich. There was at times a younger couple who wished to maintain their health, fleeing from the smoke and smog of wherever they came from, but none had stayed as long as the woman Gregory was going to see now. She had been in a coma for the past two years. As far as Gregory knew, she had been in some kind of accident involving a car not far from the institute. As Gregory neared her room, he could hear raised voices coming from inside. He waited outside for a moment; he did not want to barge in on anything important but that didn’t stop him from trying to listen in either. From what he could make out from behind the dark and thick wooden door, it was a doctor and a nurse arguing. The nurse was against the doctor’s decision to take the woman off of life support. The doctor seemed to be defending himself by blaming it on the administration for some reason or another that Gregory could not make out. Before he could listen in anymore, he heard the nurse’s voice grow louder as she approached the door; Gregory huddled back against the wall so she wouldn’t walk into him.

The nurse, dressed in the fashionable white that all the nurses wore, stormed out of the room, leaving the door flinging against the wall. She didn’t even notice Gregory watch her as she strode off in a huff. Gregory watched her stride very well, especially the way her, good god man! Get a hold of yourself Gregory exclaimed in his head, snapping himself out of the trance of that the rump of the nurse, who now turned the corner, induced. He knew he would have to deal with himself later for his transgression, but for now, onto business. He shook himself off a little; his robe could be a little musty after walking around in this unventilated building. Gregory stepped into the room to see the doctor looking at the woman’s charts. Gregory cleared his throat to let the doctor know that he had entered the room. Doctor Rinehart looked up from the charts to see his least favorite individual enter the room. Oh god, he humoured himself. “Good afternoon Gregory,” Rinehart exclaimed as he briefly looked up from the charts. Rinehart could often hear the spite in Gregory’s voice when he didn’t address him as Father Gregory; it was one of the few things Rinehart was able to do to torment the man. Gregory did not reply to the pleasantries. Score! thought Doctor Rinehart.

Gregory walked closer to the bed, to the left of the woman, opposite from Rinehart. “So you have finally seen the light,” Gregory stated, “you are going to cut this poor woman’s life support and let her meet ourgreat father.” Rinehart was now in his fifties, his hair nearly completely coloured in shades of grey and white, but still curling in a healthy manner in a thick mat on top of his head. His face was made intense by the deep wrinkles that lined his forehead, probably a consequence of the iconic eyebrow raising that he had done his whole life, and which he was now also practising. His raised eyebrow was a remark of its own for Gregory, who knew he should not push it any further than that. The two of them had had many heated debates, one of which would have ended in an all-out brawl if not for the security guards that held them back. Rinehart may have been in his fifties but he had the spirit of a testosterone ridden twenty year-old sometimes. “Let’s just get on with this alright?” Rinehart asked. He hated that he would have to do this to the poor woman; he really did believe that she could still recover with time, but administration will always be hopeless and careless, especially with the new policy of not keeping patients who no longer showed brain activity. “Fine then,” Gregory replied solemnly. Gregory pulled out a small bottle of holy water and lightly sprayed it onto the quiet woman. Rinehart could not believe that he was letting the fool do this, but it was customary for those who did not have a religion specified in their file to be given at least some form of religious last rites, just in case. Damn administration, was the only thing Rinehart had float in his mind again as he watched in pain-staking silence as Gregory recited his holy words. “O holy hosts above, I call upon thee as a servant of Jesus Christ, to sanctify our actions this day in preparation for the fulfillment of the will of god.” Gregory began the sanctification of the rite and continued it, despite the snicker he had heard from Rinehart.

Rinehart dozed off and delved into his thoughts as Gregory was giving the woman her last rights; it was only at the end that Rinehart had woke up again. “We give him glory as we give you into his arms in everlasting peace, to be prepared to return into the denser reality of god the father, creator of all. Amen, Amen, Amen.”
“Amen,” Rinehart poked at Gregory who only replied with dull stare back at Rinehart’s gleeful smile, which quickly returned to a blank expression, having been overcome by the sadness of remembering what he now had to do. The woman would still live for up to another week but off of life support it is unlikely that she would have any change in stasis. Rinehart began to turn off the machines and to remove the wires and the IV that were all attached to her. It was a sad moment for Rinehart. He was a doctor, and he was not meant to be the one taking lives, he was supposed to be restoring life where he could. Gregory on the other hand, did not feel this sadness, and instead, he felt victory. Victory not only over Rinehart but victory in that this woman’s soul could now return to god. “Finally she can now rest. That ungodly machine kept her spirit bound here, away from the grace of god,” Gregory scoffed.

“Damn it man, let the woman be! If god really wanted her soul he would have killed her on the spot!” Rinehart retaliated loudly. Nurses in the hallway had all stalled for a second when they heard Rinehart’s voice reverberate out of the room. Gregory was in no mood to battle wits against Rinehart at the moment. Gregory believed that they both knew that he had already won this round but he just couldn’t stop himself from one last innocent challenge. Before Gregory left the bedside to leave Rinehart to his documentation, he looked down at the woman, in her quiet state. Her hands by her side, her brunette hair lying nicely beside her head, she really was a symbol of peace. “Amen my child,” were Gregory’s last words before turning to leave the room. Rinehart was not even going to dignify that with a response. Before Gregory could leave the room, there was a piercing scream from behind him. The scream of a woman. He turned and his face was flushed white when he saw the once peaceful woman now sitting upright screaming at the top of her voice with her eyes still closed. Rinehart dropped his charts and yelled “Nurse! I need a nurse god damn it!” Rinehart tried to restrain the woman and lay her back down on the bed but she would not budge, nor would she stop screaming. Gregory was pushed aside from the doorway as four nurses rushed into the room, including the one who had stormed off earlier. She had a weak smile as she rushed into the room and made eye contact with Rinehart for a second before helping him restrain the screaming woman. Gregory had instinctively clasped onto the cross that hung from his neck just as he was pushed aside. The woman’s screams were loud enough to make Gregory’s words inaudible even to himself, but he still knew what he said out loud: “Jesus Christ!”
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The Plant

There on the window sill stood a small plant. It was a Ficus plant, with its leaves sprouting and sprouted bathing in the sunlight. The green was pure and true, a healthy plant, moist soil and roots, this Ficus has been well taken care of for months now. It and its soil was potted in a colorful clay pot, that was painted in rainbow stripes that rode the length of the pot and varied in color with each centimeter down. To all it was a simple plant. A plant on the window sill. Its owner thought it was a plant. Those who walked by it outside, thought it was a plant. The cat that nibbled at its leaves thought it was a plant. Even other plants that were also lined up on the sill, thought this little Ficus was a plant. Another member of the chlorophyll producing family.
 
The other greenlings on the sunlight illuminated window sill varied in species, size and color. There were the roses that bloomed ostentatiously in reds, whites and yellows. The mints that carried a fair aroma with them and even another Ficus that was larger than the Ficus potted in a rainbow pot. In an alternate reality, a reality where plants could walk and talk much like humans, all the roses and mints and Ficuses would have invited the rainbow potted Ficus to the bar. They would pile up shot glasses in a pyramid as they counted down their drinks. Or so the other vegetated plants thought. Because this rainbow potted Ficus was different from the rest.
 
This Ficus, in the rainbow pot, had a name. This name, was Bob. Bob the Ficus in a rainbow pot was his full title. It was not a title granted to him by royal majesty, not that Bob the Ficus had ever met a royal person or plant for that matter. The title was not an established title passed down through an ancestry or hierarchy that spanned centuries. It provided no income, signified no lands. It was a self-made title. As self-made a title that a plant can make. Bob could not remember, for the life of him, how he knew he was a Ficus or even what a plant really was. He was after all a plant and plants have no eyes, unless they have been tied around them by string, but those don’t work. 
 
Bob thought that happened to him once, but the eyeballs turned out to just be Christmas decorations.
 
Nevertheless Bob resigned to his failure and just accepted that he must be a plant. A plant in a rainbow clay pot. He could feel the pot with his roots, growing around the edges of the pot, and it tasted like clay. He had been grown from a seedling in many pots, and this one was definitely clay. The rainbow coloring however was another guess on Bob’s part. He had no possible way to verify the coloring of his clay tasting pot, but he felt like he should deserve a rainbow colored pot.
 
With the grace of the universe or any higher power that Bob thought he believed in, he was now living in a rainbow clay pot. Bob may have only been a Ficus plant in a clay rainbow pot but Bob had desires and passions. Bob felt like he wanted to be a chemist, or a physicist. I mean, he felt all the chemicals working inside him, more so than any human could, he felt the water flow up his xylem and felt the energy from his chlorophyll. As for physics, well it was just something about the wind, forces, movement and energy that excited Bob the rainbow potted Ficus. The ideas of what the world was made of, how it came to be, how so many little tiny atoms and chemicals can come together to make him as well as so many other creatures and objects. 
 
The idea of studying in university also intrigued Bob the Ficus in a rainbow clay pot. The idea of parties, being a part of a large crowd, mixing with others of similar passions, desires and confusions. Not to mention the drugs, Bob was insanely curious about the effects of LSD on a Ficus plant. The visuals would be somewhat lacking, he deducted, but he, Bob the Ficus, concluded that he would still feel the effects within him. The rush, the fall, the drop, the high, whatever they called it, Bob the Ficus desired to feel it, to feel it all.
 
Yet above all his passions, Bob the Ficus in a rainbow clay pot had one desire that triumphed others. To make little seedlings of his own, to come together with a female of his species but to truly come together. None of this pollination nonsense. Those silly bees and flies enjoyed all the fun. No. Bob the Ficus wanted to feel his partner, to grow old; into large and strong trees together and eventually topple over together, dying in peace over one another after having spawned so many seedlings. A simple ending to a simple life, Bob the Ficus in the rainbow pot wanted nothing more than that and wanted that more than anything.
 
And yet, there he was. On the window sill, bathing in the warm, delicate, energizing sunlight that filled him with energy. Surrounded by roses and mints. Bob, despite his desires and wishes to become a scientist, to experience the highs and lows of drugs and to feel his true soul mate Bob was just a Ficus. A small potted Ficus. Bob had no chance to accomplish his real desires because he remained bound to his rainbow clay pot, because he was and would forever remain to be Bob, the Ficus in the rainbow pot.
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Life as Energy. A Thought Process

We spend life. Worrying, wondering, and waiting for death.
The fears, the ideas, the heavens and hells, the nothingness and bleak blackness.
It all takes its toll on us and it takes all of us.
Life and death are but human constructs however.
Few animals possess the brain power capable of intelligent thought, let alone self-awareness.
Do animals fear death, perhaps, on a survivalist extent, fight or flight, kill or die, red in tooth and claw.
Nature entails life and death and the deadly cycle that perpetuates itself.
And yet, no animal apart from ourselves can truly contemplate death, truly try to grasp and understand it.
But like fire, you cannot truly grasp the flame. You can hold the source, you can douse the fire but you can never catch the orange and red that burns brightly. So too can you never catch death for in the end, death catches you.
Such thinking limits man.
There is no after life, there is no god or make shift alternate ending that comes to us after our body decides to fail us.
To us as humans, we fade, as if in a dream. Whether we drift into or from the dream, we may never know.
Life is the journey and death is the ultimate destination and that end shall always justify the means by which you reached it.
Yet again, death in all its significance is man’s way of trying to extradite himself from the order of the universe.
From the order of everything on earth and beyond it.
We are selfish enough to believe that our lives belong to us and that life in itself may hold a greater meaning than just being.
The questions of why, when, who and how, in regards to our origins as a living being, whilst important for the intellect, are perhaps fruitless for the body. No amount of human understanding will ever bring peace knowing that we all must perish, die and rot.
Only with the soft icy hand of death, can we truly begin to appreciate and accept it into our hearts and more importantly. Mind.
Death is an instrument. A tool of man. A motivator, a ticking time clock that eventually signals the end.
Possessed by this date with death, we seek to busy ourselves with everything between the womb and grave.
Fruitful, loving, sad and harsh, all we experience in life ultimately brings us back to the oblivion from whence we were begot from.
Life, unlike death, deals us the harshest of cards, granting unfair advantages and rules of engagement.
Some are born only to die a week later; others are born into a life of luxury and live for decades of decadence.
Life, not death is the true punishment for some and many. Whilst life grants us hardships to overcome as well as love,
Death is warm and embracing. She accepts all without judgment, without a care of the life lived. Death will take under her wing the poor and needy, the rich and greedy and all living matter in between. Death personified is the true charity and heaven for man.
And yet, why do we fear her.
Life lived by all has been harsh, restrictive, unforgiving, cruel and deceitful. And yet we cling to it like an abused child clings to the mistreating mother, out of fear and ignorance of what else might be. But like the abused, we forget the bad
And instead focus on the good. The love, the happiness and joys. The friends and family that journey with us on our road to death.
We reminisce in the past and plan for the future, ever hoping for more joy and less hardship even though we know that oft might not be the case for us dreamers.
All of our mental constructs, our scaffolding we use to understand the life and death around us, vanish with us into the abyss.
All become redundant, even though it ultimately is redundant. Life may have meaning, but it comes from the person, from within
The desires, the goals the choices. Life is a construct and a desire whilst death may be the true reality at the end of the road.
Beyond our constructs, perceptions, hopes and desires, dreams and trials, beyond all that is humanly common, life and death do not exist.
Life and death are pointless concepts for the universe, only intelligent species worry about death, because death is the ultimate barrier to knowledge
Death ceases learning, desire and intellect. Our minds being pure intellect, cannot comprehend how to deal with such a barrier and so create the constructs and perceptions of life and death, beyond and before them. Distractions from the end. But the universe cares not for the individual, does not care for the species, planet, galaxy or even for itself. The universe, and the orders that fit and defy human ideas of physics, are not intelligible like man and others intelligent matter.
And so, to the universe, there is no life and death, because there is no true end to it. With that understanding and perception in mind. There too is no end to man.
There is no end to man because there is no death, there is no death because there is no life, and there just is a period in which we become a conscious source of energy.
For in the end, we are nothing but energy.
The atoms and sub atomic particles that create us and all around us, all come from the same source: energy.
The energy is rewired, constructed and changed but in essence, it is pure, it is strong and it is constant.
Our conscious selves as energy will cease to exist in time, but we as energy will not. Our energy will transfer
It will change, we, as we know and understand ourselves will become and have been so much more that we cannot begin to grasp.
The cells in our body change daily and biologists argue that you are not who you were 7 years ago. Yet we refuse to acknowledge or accept said changes
We create our bubbles that house our consciousness and intellect for fear of its end, when in reality nothing truly ends. It merely transfers and alters.
Perhaps the only unbreakable law of physics to date is that energy does not die but merely changes. From light and sound, to heat and kinetic, all energy as such
Merely shifts and changes and so too will us as we are nothing but a constant source of energy, fueled by outside sources of energy, meat and sun included.
We become the plants that become the animals that become us. We consume others and others shall consume us for that is the transfer of energy as we are aware
As energy sources we will be eternal and ever constant for we all come from the same star stuff and we will all return to it and scatter across galaxies
When our own star implodes…
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Kardamon Cafe – Take Two :: 8/10 Cups

Kardamon Cafe – Take Two

Rating:  8/10 Cups

Kardamon Cafe’s Official Website: http://cafekardamon.pl/  (not working)

 

The funky Kardamon cafe was as empty as when I first entered it a little less than a week ago. Just the way I had hoped to find it. I return for the ambiance and the coffee. The ambiance being small, hidden and quiet… quiet apart from the music in the background, varying from the funk that almost boogied me out of my seat, to pop that almost forced me to substitute it with earphone and my own music but the music is inconsequential to my enjoyment in this concealed café. The only other patron here at the moment, apart from that handsome devil I saw in the mirror, was an older gentleman. 
He sported the relic Polish mustache that is slowly fading out of style with today’s whippersnapper youth. He sat and enjoyed his fresh mug of Polish beer, reading the newspaper, quiet as a mouse. That is until another older man enters. To my knowledge, neither man has met each other people, my knowledge being somewhat limited obviously to the potential history that could be behind these two men. Yet, not sitting next to each other, lead me to this assumption. Yet they shook hands and carried a short conversation about what time there was a match-Football presumably (soccer for you North Americans). The second man was clean shaven by the way…. Traitor to the Polish mustache traditions that I’ve come to love but been unable to take up myself unfortunately.
 
The coffee
Continuing onto the coffee. Cappuccino to be more precise. I know I stated in my last post, that this was to be the search for the Holy Espresso (I guess I will keep that quest title), but during my pursuit, I shall taste the various other delicacies that are common in cafes, assuming I decide to return to them more than once. Back to this cappuccino, it was topped with a foamy heart, which was just adorable. It may be a common practice for some people and places, but this was honestly my first cappuccino heart. This was one of the better cappuccinos that I have had. It carried the bitter coffee taste well, and was not watered down by excessive milk but I have to admit that the foam heart did raise my spirits after a rather melancholy day. If you don’t know what melancholy means, a picture will be posted near the bottom to show the true meaning.
 
I must mention that I am visiting at a later time than I have before, the sun has already set and it is a weekend, that being said. People are slowly trickling into the café. (I am writing this in real time, not that that makes a difference to you). These people coming in however seem to all have some previous meeting with each other. Each greeting each other with a handshake and a hearty hello to the barista, most on first name basis, of course I am left out of this little group, but I do believe I have stumbled upon a café used more by locals that tourists, which I believe merits my enjoyment of it. Build it and they will come, some say (The Romans supposedly), but I say, if they keep on coming, something has got to be decent in there. Now with a population of four, the diplomatic consensus is to change the channel from the bass and pumping music, to the sport channel. I am curious to see how that plays out. Punny, I know…
 
The Match
                AAAANNNNDDDDD the game begins. Argentina versus Russia. More interesting, is my false assumption in thinking it was football. The exact opposite actually. Handball. One of Poland’s three favorite sports, Football, Volleyball and Handball. Presumably in that order of favoritism as well. The game begins, how most begin, with the national anthems. Russia’s strong bassy anthem almost moves me to join the red army, whilst Argentina prefers a more leisurely melody that could have been composed by any classical artist of old, finally coming to a crescendo that sends the crowds cheering.
 
               As the players set themselves up, the watchers in this café, grab new drinks, beer, coffee and tea and I can only help but wonder, who they are rooting for. Do these men feel strongly towards Mother Russia, do they carry positive sentiments to the nation that ruled over them for almost half a century. Or do they despise it like much of Europe these days. I am probably reading too much into just three men watching a handball match. Why not just enjoy any excuse to watch your favorite sport being played out between two random nations. But perhaps my hypothesizes will be validated in the course of the game.
 
The verdict is Argentina, as the men curse why they have yet to score against Russia early on. And like in every stereotypical story, the two men drinking beer and watching sports, have to turn their conversation to world politics. One argues why there is a town in South Africa called Cape City, whilst the other tries to correct him with Cape Town. To my surprise though, the conversation turns not to Russia, but instead to Arabia, as this handball competition is being hosted in one of the Arabian countries. The men bicker about civilization, religion and why money is not being shared from Arabia with the rest of the world. That is about as much as I am willing to listen in on that conversation though.
 
Jackie Saxon, behind the pages
                I came here to try and write more chapters for my second novel, -title still being decided- but instead I find I am writing more to you, you being the internet and those who surf its waves. I suppose I can do some self-promoting now though. My second novel will follow Jackie Saxon, a woman who woke up screaming from a five year coma. Nobody is there for her and she remembers nothing (yes, I am going with the amnesia story). The novel will thus follow her as she escapes a past that is trying to kill her, only to run headlong into it. I first started writing this when I was in the city of Bansko, in Bulgaria. I had yet to complete Leaders of Hope, but I had the idea that would start and flourish into Jackie Saxon and her adventure. I got the idea from a bike ride I took, similar to what the woman in the introduction of the story had, except for the accident of course. You can check out the introduction to the novel here – http://oscarkrol.com/p/a-discontinuous-world-teaser.html
                I will admit though, that I find the idea of amnesia fun to play with. That sounds a tad bit sadistic, but it’s true. Imagine being born into the world, middle aged, and being almost as dumb and lost as the day you were born. You need to learn how to survive in a world where people have already had decades of practice and guidance. It’s like walking into a million dollar business meeting totally drunk only to remember you are a plumber, not an insurance salesman. That or starting World of Warcraft for the first time and roaming blindly into a level 80 area – as a priest no less. (Only some of you will get that reference, and I accept that).
 
                I don’t find the fun in writing about a baby and his experiences in a new world, and some could say that writing with a character suffering from amnesia is cheating and lacks a enough backstory and allows you to create the character as you like without care or cause for their reactions and thoughts. That may be true, but that is also what is fun. You get to practice, laugh and cry with certain experiences that would seem so simple and mundane to somebody who has lived a full life. But to then approach life, with a childlike ignorance and have to deal with the repercussions of that ignorance. All that and the mystery. Few things are as mysterious as not knowing or understanding the full backstory to a person and event. I like that mystery, and whilst amnesia is convenient compared to a complex plot of a villain, it also lends itself another aspect that I want to experiment with in this book.
 
                That being the torment and psychological despair that goes with amnesia. Action and adventure is one thing. It is one thing to overcome a physical barrier, train hard enough and you can punch down trees (metaphorically) but mental blockades present different challenges that are sometimes not as easy as just training one’s body (easy in the sense that it is a repetitive action, not that it is easy to bench-press 200 pounds.) In addition to that, the idea of discovery has always fascinated me, which is why I am also working on and planning on a fantasy based series based around the feelings of discovery and exploration. But self-discovery and exploration is an interesting area to write about. I don’t mean like those religious/motivation/self-help books but to truly understand and discover yourself as a person when you have no notion of who you are beforehand. It is all these feelings that I hope to fully explore and share that exploration with readers in my second novel.
…. and Argentina won by the way.
 
The Dark underbelly of Kardamon cafe
Curious wandering lead me to the stairs in the back, slowly stepping down into the depths of earth, I find a secluded little alcove, fitted with leather couches and a quieter atmosphere than the upper floor that accommodated bolstering sports fans and I immediately retreated down to the comfy sofa’s when the Poland vs Denmark handball game was turned on, it instantly attracted a larger crowd of men and women or various ages. Down here there are also a few slot machines for the common gambler. This place would be a great little hide away for any couple who just want some quiet time or even a place to cuddle away from the eyes of public, especially after a romantic walk through the nearby Oliwa park, which I covered in the previous post.
That brings an end to this review.
Kardamon cafe remains a cafe I will return to for a nice quiet hide away, just not during Polish sporting seasons. Overall I give it 8/10 cups. (Following the coffee trend on here, I will use cups as a rating score).
PS:  Feeling melancholy? “A gloomy state of mind, especially with habitual or prolonged; depression.”
Not anymore
 
It gets me every time.
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A Brisk Walk in the Frosted park. The First Reviews.

(Note to self, don’t trust smart phones to be smart enough to auto-save posts as you write them… had to learn the hard way… let’s try this again shall we)
It was negative 2 degrees Celsius today, a perfect crisp day for a brisk walk through the park, as the metaphor states. The sun had finally decided to show itself after hiding away for over a week. It has only been a week since I returned from a wonderful trip to England to spend Christmas and New Years with my Girlfriend. The sun however, was as shy in England as it was in Poland. All the more reason to soak in the sunshine. I currently “live” in the Oliwa part of Gdansk, Poland. A part of the city several train stops from downtown, but a quiet little semi-suburban area nonetheless. I say “live” as i have pretty much been couch-surfing for the past few months, on this semi-gap year of university. A hop, skip and a walk under a railway away, lies the Oliwa park. A quaint little place. Perhaps not so little in the literal sense, but it’s distance from the hubbub of downtown Gdansk, makes it feel a world apart.

Oliwa Park

(Summer Time)

The park itself is a sweet place, complete with duck infested ponds. The green headed mallards bobbing in and out of the water. The flock is joined by the high and mighty swans, who prefer instead of bask in their glory as families with children “ooed and awwed” – the white knights of the bird world. Adjacent to the feeding frenzy are signs prohibiting the feeding of the local birds. The sign was promptly pooed on by seagulls, pigeons and ducks, the swans at least kept their etiquette. The park maintained rows of towering trees, that were cut to look like a vertical wall of hedges that continued along one length of the park. A literal wall of green. To the side of it, were smaller, albeit older trees that were cultivated to create a canopy over park goers. The canopy of course, passed every year with autumn. leaving gaps and holes in the would be branchy blanket over you, creating a pattern of sunlight that tattooed the pavement, such an artsy display that I almost felt bad for walking over it… Almost.

Next to these corridors of trees stood an elder house of Poland, more a small mansion than a large house. Named Abbot’s Palace (although i consider it too small to be a palace). The building itself, looked more Victorian than Polish. My knowledge of architecture being as wide as my knowledge for modern fashion, that being said, very limited. Adding to this Victorian-esque feeling, is the English style garden that was kept neatly trimmed in front of the would be Victorian/Polish mansion. The trimmed hedges perforated by twisting and turning pavements that were incorporated around flower beds that would bloom in the spring. For Spring always comes…. that doesn’t sound as ominous as i had hoped. —- A little research, on my part, shows that the Palace was built in the 15th Century, and later expanded upon. The style is specifically “Rococo or Late Baroque.” That however, is as far as my curiosity for architecture goes. Any readers, feel free to correct me or expand on that in the Comments. 
A stone’s throw away and you can visit the Oliwa church, famous for its monumental organs. The musical kind, not mammalian. When the organs play, you feel them in your soul, mostly because the bass would vibrate your body if you stood too close. The church is adorn with all the golden and wooden beauty that comes with most older churches in Poland. Depictions of Jesus, various saints and angels. All of which are brilliantly hand crafted/painted/sculpted. Adding to the authentic/fatalistic value of the church are the names in various plots in the floor, highlighting the last resting place of more recognized citizen’s of Poland past. Recognized by others, not myself. It is always sad when history passes and few are there to remember it. Fewer still who might be willing to teach it. To swing back onto the positive note however, the organs are a must see, if you ever find yourself in the area of Gdansk and more specifically, Oliwa.
A frosted day.

The latest attachment to the park however, (since i last visited months before) is the Japanese style garden. How Japanese you might ask? If you didn’t, i am telling you anyways. Japanese in the manor of placing spacious back-less wooden benches and a standing, i assume to be a birdhouse, with a flared roofing to it, symbolic of feudal Japan’s architecture. Regardless of the name, this section, although new, was off the beaten path and was perhaps the quietest section of the park. On aforementioned benches, was still a layer of frost that was refusing to melt, despite the onslaught of sunny rays that assaulted the ice crystals. 

Beyond this, there lies an indoor botanical greenhouse, open all year round and temperature controlled. Inside lives infamous tropical plants, including the banana plant, complete with purple bud. Cactus of various kinds, bromeliads, ficuses and other species of plant life that I have forgotten to name. It is a cute sight to see, having grown up around most of these plants, living my life in the United Arab Emirates, but variety is always lovely to see. Next to that are streams of running water, the sounds of which drown out the chatter of walking couples and families. Few things calm the mind as much as running water. All that is a quick synopsis of the park, a park worth seeing, a park I will visit again, before i depart from Poland.

Reviews 
Moving on. After the park, I scouted the area for a cafe. The result of which showed 3 cafes right across the road from the park. The first being Flemming cafe (http://www.flemming-cafe.pl/) Hopefully named after Ian Fleming, but I doubt that. Of course, this cafe was closed on this Sunday. So there goes that review for now.

Kardamon Cafe

Further down the road, is a small little place “Kardamon” (http://cafekardamon.pl/). The sweet name alone brought me inside, it brought nostalgic memories of living in the Middle East, and my feet carried me inside. It is a small little place, sweet because of it. The purple theme made it warm but authentic, unique in my opinion. The seating and tables were comfortable and strong. Meaning that anybody could sit down without worry of breaking the chairs. The bar is also nicely presented and one could sit there comfortably, if you want to make chit chat with the barista of course, or if you are like me, you choose to find your own little corner to hide away from everything. The atmosphere was almost quiet, if not for the television playing Taylor Swift and other pop stars i couldn’t care to name. The music took away from the feel, but i believe that is more because the barista, no older than I, was left pretty much alone and bored in an empty cafe. Not a diamond in the rough but a hidden gem, this cafe was a lovely place to have a really good espresso.

I don’t consider myself an expert on coffee or espressos, but having spent time in Italy, working in an Italian restaurant, Vecchio Mulino (http://www.vecchiomulino.eu/), I know a good coffee from a crap one. Kardamon cafe near Oliwa park, has some really good stuff. Highly recommended.

Kafe Delfin

Since however, I was in an experimental mood, for coffee… nothing else you dirty minded fool, I decided to head into the last cafe on the street. Kafe Delfin (http://www.kafedelfin.pl/) Or the Dolphin Cafe in English… (I wasn’t aware of this translation until I looked up the website for the cafe, I, at first attributed the name to Delphine from Greek mythology) Is it a cafe about the sea, full of pictures about dolphins and other sea life? Nope. The cafe instead takes to heart, the subject matter of old-school films. Ancient theater projectors and film reels are scattered through the premises, and the walls are dotted with black and white pictures of actors, remembered, dead, alive and forgotten. A unique idea, but the red walls felt a bit hostile to me and made me feel more like I had to take the coffee and leave, rather than sit and spend the day talking. Regardless, I had two espressos here. Both very decent as well. Whilst having my first however, I came to the conclusion, at the same time as my girlfriend (as we texted), that I should take upon myself, to be a bit more out going, and enjoy more coffees in various cafes, as I travel Gdansk, Poland and the world. Whilst sharing my experience with all of you, out there, who apparently read blogs.

That is what this shall be. The first installment of a semi-autobiographical, semi-review and semi-self promoting blog. As i travel the world, I will share my experiences, worthy of note, as I quest for the best “HOLY ESPRESSO”….. The term was coined by my girlfriend, who politely asked me not to use it. So use that as a loose title until I come up with a better on in due time. Updates will be randomly frequent with periods of nothingness. In between which, I will post updates about my novels… whenever I get to writing them. Find more at http://holyespresso.blogspot.com/

That’s all for now.

See ya.

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Leaders of Hope

Leaders of Hope

Leaders of Hope cover. Designed by Abdullah Alomari

By: Oscar Krol
Leaders of hope tells the story of a world that has collapsed under its own system, where people have revolted against their own governments, only to leave the world to military dictators supported by old world corporations. The book describes the tales of two friends –Gordon and Dalia- who become separated from the start of the revolutions and are forced to fight for what they believe is justice in a world wrought with death. As the two of them go their separate lives, through fate or luck they are rejoined only to have their friendship flourish into love before confronted with reality, treachery and jealousy. Dalia and Gordon not only fight for themselves but for the future of a nation, a nation that may or may not act like a domino for the rest of the world.
This novel is a work of fiction and any resemblances between characters, events, locations described in it and real people and places is purely accidental and not intended.

To my Parents,
Always guiding me, always pushing me for greatness. Always the support I needed and forever in my heart. Regardless of where I end up, my mind will be strong and my heart kind because of you. I could never begin to thank you enough, but perhaps by writing it down, my everlasting love will become immortal in literature.
To Samantha,
The one who sparked my desire to write and fanned the flame of my creativity within me. Without you, this book would not exist, nor would any future novels either. My Life will never be the same and I hope to keep it that way. Always and Forever.
And thank you to everybody who has been a part of my life and has forged my mind and life. In all your small and large ways you have made me who I am today, and for that there cannot be any worthy payment than the hope that I have meant as much to you as you have all meant to me.
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Leaders of Hope, Part 1, Chapter 1

Part One


“The darkest time in life is when you
cannot remember the time when the light existed”

Opening his eyes to an isolated sandy beach in the middle of nowhere with nobody in sight could be considered a blessing to some people. At 16 Gordon’s dark blond hair absorbed the heat of the sun and tanned his white skin. The crystal blue waves calmly brushed on the shore in front of him, there were songs of various tropical birds in the cool air and the wind filled his hair with the distinct sea shore smell. So as most people would do he lied on the smooth sand, swam in the ocean and watched the birds fly past with grace and arrogance. In the midst of this heaven on earth there was no pain, no harm and no worries, a life most people would want.

As the sun set in an array of orange and red, Gordon re-enter the water, its cold surface tensed his sun warmed muscles but they soon adjusted to the new temperature. The waves barley existing, brushing lightly past his chest. The colorful fish swim by him as if he was a rock that posed no threat to them. Colours of yellow, blue, purple and green flashed below the surface of the ocean and above the birds match the symphony of colors as they glided to the near trees to roost for the night. Suddenly the water retreated quickly, the fish gone and the water now at Gordon’s ankles. He watched at the birds fluttered off their branches in a mass frenzy as if to flee from a stalking cat. Gordon turned to the ocean and before he registered the shock from the oncoming image, he was engulfed by the crystal blue ocean. 

Mother Nature swallowed Gordon whole, it rolled and twisted him under the massive wave that crashed upon his head. Under the water Gordon was cut by rocks and coral, his eyes stung by the salt water and his balance was lost. Gordon no longer knew where was up and instead, just kick his legs frantically. To his misfortune he swim down. Farther and farther, Gordon never reach the bottom nor did he realize where the surface was. As he swam he held his breath with painful desperation to survive. Yet when reflex took over from voluntary hold, Gordon swallow a rush of the warm tropical sea that so many crave.

Gordon opened his eyes. He saw his pillow and his watch on the nightstand. Gordon felt the sweat on his body; it felt as if he had been swimming. Gordon’s eyes focused and his head realized the dream he had just awoken from. Not another one he thought to himself. Gordon read the time on his watch, 6:14 am. Right before the alarm as usual. The watch then started to tune as it struck 6:15am. Gordon outstretched his drenched arm and turned off the alarm. Easing his legs from the middle of the bed sideways, just to flop them over the edge to add momentum to the rising of the rest of his body. Now standing he continued in half steps to the opposite  room, taking a towel from the cupboard and continuing to the bathroom in between the rooms. After a quick glance at his new formation of morning hair Gordon turned on the shower and proceed with hygienic cleansing.

Shaking the water off his body like a dog he put a towel around his waist and left the vicinity of the bathroom. Walking out he heard the television is turned on, yup, they are awake. Gordon continued to clothe himself, the usual melancholies of grey pants and a white shirt joined by black socks and shoes. Attaching his slim black leather strap watch and placing his tinted sunglasses into his shirt pocket. Gordon heaved his black skateboarding backpack of books onto his left shoulder and continued out of this room and down the stairs.

Gordon placed the bag on the floor next to the front door and took his closed lid coffee mug from its side pocket and continued to the nearby kitchen. Walking past the many antiques that his family had collected over the years from living here. The Persian camel bone paintings showing villagers hunting and celebrating, the Indian ox cart turned into a shelf holding several pots and bowls, the Chinese cabinets filled with Asian hand blown glass figurines and Yemeni swords still sharp with experience and use. He walked into the kitchen and greeted his Sri Lankan maid (or domestic helper if one cared for political correctness). Gordon opened the beige top cabinet and his eyes glared at the vast flavours of tea that flashed before him in the florescent kitchen light. Green tea with jasmine, Japanese rice tea, caramel tea, earl grey tea and mint tea as well. Twenty flavours in all in this cupboard alone. Gordon shifted through the various teas and picked his usual morning desire; Chocolate Mint tea, a perfect blend of strength to wake the body up yet not strong enough to cause regurgitation. Closing the lid on his newly brewed tea, its glorious chocolate like smell was cut off as he placed it next to his bag.

Fixing a breakfast of cereal Gordon walked passed the stairs to his backyard and  met his hyperactive dog, a black base of fur with white socks of feet and small brown stripes going around over these white socks. On his chest is a neatly formed white patch of fur, so well formed it matched the chest of a knight waiting for his emblem to be made on his breastplate armor. Anubis named after the Egyptian god of death, not a fitting name for such a lovable pooch but still a unique name nonetheless. In between mouthfuls of cereal Gordon took a spoonful and dropped its contents onto the floor, effectively sharing his breakfast with Anubis, who happily ate the sugary goodness. As they ate Gordon watched the trees swing in the light breeze, then in the corner of his eye he saw a small brown mouse climb from branch to branch. 

Once finished with eating Gordon let Anubis drink the remaining milk. Anubis being a canine of half breeds between a saluki and a random assortment of street dogs, he was an effective recycling bin of food for the house, as well as an effective dish washer when applied to food stained plates and bowls. Leaving Anubis and returning inside Gordon collapsed on the couch near the front door and wait for his parents. With the load stomp of his father’s footsteps coming down the stairs, Gordon sat up. Picture a confident, half awoken man with shorts and a muscular frame turned to fat. Place dark sunglasses on him and a dollop of short dark blond hair and you have Gordon’s father in the morning. His 20 years of judo still pay off in figure and intimidation. His frizzy hair identifies that he just woke up and yet although physically half awake, his mind was always deep in thought.

“Hey pumba”, he says.
“Morning” Gordon replied as he walked towards his bag. Opening the front door, Gordon walked outside and was hit by the intense humidity and heat of the Middle East in May. A coastal city along the Indian Ocean. The city was small and surrounded by sun baked dark mountains that enclosed the quaint little city which also restricted its growth. Although quickly developing, it is years behind other Middle Eastern cities like Dubai which is well known globally. This coastal city however was not, it is the coastal retreat from the large cities and provides and home away from home for the weekend tourists who frequently visit for its pristine beaches on the Indian Ocean.

Opening the large black gate plated with opaque plastic on it connected to the parameter of wall Gordon released the bolts at its base and placed them into the holes in the ground, hooking the gate,more or less in place. Gordon’s father now in the white Honda turned it on as Gordon’s mother walked out the front door saying “I wondered where you were, I didn’t see you this morning.” Gordon’s mom usually wore her suits to the college, being a dean she must dress the part. Her straight black hair made curly touching her shoulders flowed in the humid air. Gordon’s mom, a calm, optimistic, lively and loving woman brushed her hand over Gordon’s hair as she walked by him. Once in the car Gordon’s father executes his fatherly duties and drove both Gordon and his mother to work and school. 

By: Oscar Krol