Heartwork

It's been more that 25 years since we last saw each other. I've been told that you died 20 years ago, when we were 16.

I hope that this is not true. I cannot find proof. Neither can I find proof that you even existed.

I hold hope deep within my heart that some day I will find you again. From the moment we met I always felt you in my heart. I hope it would be the same way again, because I don't remember your face.

It is possible that what I recall is an absolutely correct recollection of shared emotion, desire, and connectivity. But what if it isn't? What if you appear in my life to tell me differently. To tell me that I didn't mean as much to you. To tell me that you have had to hide your identity to hide from me. To tell me that I must remove any reference of you from my creation.

This is a morbid fantasy that I hold onto.

What a sick creature I am. I use the imagined romance of my childhood to fuel an equally fantastic idea of perfection. It ruins the possibility of creating new relationships. It destroys any romantic relationship I enter into.

You continue to be my Succubus. But are you of my own design?

I am sure, that if you are real and if you are dead, then you would not wish this upon me. You would want me to find happiness.

And if you are false. . .

Promise me, Kara, that when I die, I will get to see you again. If only for a moment.

I want to say that I miss you. Or that I love you.

But all I can say is that I want you.

I am sorry. No matter how many people I surround myself with, I am still lonely.

Screaming Allowed

The titles to my blog posts are never misspelled.

It is always intentional.

Similar to the title of this blog as well as the story - a double meaning and interpretation.

*                           *                            *

   Beyond the broken glass of the office window and into the darkened cavity that contained the office itself stood Don Mario Rossi. In his hand and just inches away from his face he held firmly to the crowbar that, just moments before, had ruptured the window towards him.

   Forcefully, Mario throws the crowbar into the floor with a loud clang. He peers down onto the warehouse floor room and into the eyes of his aggressor. Without breaking his stare, Don Rossi motions for those in the office to exit.

   Grabbing the edges of the window frame, he calls down to the masked specter, "You dare to come to my party and demand a dance with death? Never one to turn down a beautiful lady, I will oblige you. But I must warn you, reaper: if you fall out of step then it will be your soul that is claimed this night.

*                           *                            *

Ugh.

To tired to go on right now.

Meh, I tried.

Maybe I'll use this title another time.

Emotion Sickness

This.

This here touched that certain part of me that makes me revert to Mr. Sensitivity.

First, I need to say that I have no idea who to credit for the picture. It is not a creation of mine.

Next, I teared up initially at the sight of this.

The more I look at it, the more it grabs my heart and squeezes.
I have even reverted to hiding the image so that I may compose myself.

I imagine this (fictional) scenario:

Soft, gentle, unassuming comfort device who is bravely and confidently squaring off against something that looks to be more than his match.

As an equal.

And without the history associated with these objects, we would assume that it is hopeless. That the bear would assuredly lose.

Yet, if we think for a moment that this could be a possibility - that this may be happening each night, then we  must consider that the bear was victorious.

That with odds such as these stacked against him, we woke up each day. And he was unscathed.

Perfectly fine. His expression unchanged and definitely no worse.

He has either held his own and he will have to do it again tonight or he defeated it.

Wow

I can only hope to instill such a reaction with my own creations.

Commitmentality

Do not take this as some journal logging how I am actively working at page creation and story progression. This is merely my attempt to stay engaged with a life's goal.

I continue to think of this 'project' in the terms of eventuality not definity.

I keep thinking that this will all be finished eventually.

I should be doing.

Definitively.

Continuously.

Kara used to nag me, and not in the ways that frustrate a person.

She was just always there creeping up from my psyche.

She was my muse,

and my succubus.

She would drain me and leave me exhausted but never without also leaving me with a sense of accomplishment.

I speak of her in the past tense not because she is dead, even though that is a fact, but because I have not felt that connection to her recently.

This saddens me.

It fills me with doubt and self loathing.

She has every right. I have not been strong enough.

Not physically.

Not mentally.

Not even my spirit has been enough to keep her tethered to me.

I am just a man with a pretty good idea.

 The story sucks, though.

I need help.

But I am not, nor will I, ask for it.

I do not know what pride is to know if I have too much of it to swallow, but I have been told that my horse is rather tall and I should get down from it.

Unrelated.

At least not directly.

Rediscover Letter

I did not write over the weekend. I did not draw in the same time span either. I will say that it was due to reasserting how old I am.

I had my most immediate children over and spent time wrestling and running with as well as carrying them  and a football around. We also threw the football around... a lot.

I am either beginning to feel how old I actually am, or just how much out of shape I am. Either way I felt it all today. Sore lower back and shoulder are my lingering reminders. Come to think of it, it could really be the post-accident soreness I am feeling. You see, I was dashing to snag a beautiful pass from my son when my foot caught the stem sprinkler and ruined my stride. I half ran into and half collided with the cedar fence. My head received a nice goose egg bruise and my arm (having been in an awkward angle to catch the ball and myself in fall) was very difficult to move for a bit. And me, knowing how impressionable kids can be, muscled through the pain and stiffness.

A father is a child's assessment of what 'men' are supposed to be.

I did draw, if you can call it that, with the picture from my previous post.

Ah, who am I kidding? I erased a majority of the darker lines because the perspective still did not look right. I have sketched it in a bit more to try and find a visually pleasing and personally satisfying concept. These sketches are my primary outlet for drawing, instead of the actually story, because the time I find to do them coincide with time that I am spending with customers to resolve their issues. I will not distract from those I am trying to help by working on something that means so incredibly much to me and that requires my dedicated attention.

I may, when I feel comfortable with the visual character concept, work towards page layouts and storyline pacing while at work.

For now, I am rediscovering my love of the story and character.

Remedial Remedies

I find myself being told to stop worrying about the details and just do it. That the only person who needs to approve my work is myself. I need to just get down to business and create the monster.

Since my plan is to publish after the entire story is completed, I will have time to look back at the beginning pages and modify where necessitated by later ones. I can even work backwards and rearrange. It is all up to me. 

I attempt to excuse myself from excuses by justifying reasons instead.

The truth: I am lazy and creatively distracted.

When I was wrestling over the idea of scripting the complete story, someone I look up to sent me a link to a comic book writer who stated (quite plainly) "You are writing to have your ideas interpreted by your artist."

Since I am one and the same, what excuse do I have now?

I am lazy and creatively distracted.

Excuses. Excuses.

I will attempt to write and draw something everyday.

I make no promises, because I am lazy and creatively distracted.

Hollow Eve

There is a point in your life where you will think to yourself, "Self, Things have gotten out of control. Let's take some time to get it all under control."

One year later, you look back and wonder if you actually accomplished anything.

Is anything different? Is anything really under control?

What have you done with yourself?

This time last year, I expected to be hard at work fighting through the publishing obstacles.This year, I find myself no closer than I was the previous.

Since my last post, I have broken up with my girlfriend due to an aspect of her life that I new about in advance but attempted to deal with and accept/tolerate.I found that I could not. And, frankly, should not have needed to. The creative stimulation was very favorable. The moral torture was not. I put myself 'out there' to be judged and put up for evaluation. I found that I passed the test but the cost to my own moral fiber left me spiritually devastated.

I moved away from the place I had become very comfortable with. I benefited by having more personal freedom and having to take more personal responsibility for my own well  being. I gained the ability to be able to connect more with my children who are closest to me. And,as any parent will tell you, found less time for myself. The plights of a single father removed from his offspring is a whole other rant and I will save you from it (for now).

My 'real job' has been stagnant. The day-to-day grind of helping other people fix their phones gets to me. I find it difficult to empathize with elitists who have entitlement issues. Case in point: A woman is not able to call one number on her contact list and it is returning an error message that all circuits are busy. She feels that our company should reimburse her for the 'good money' she pays the company for service. She is calling in on her cell phone and does not have another number to be reached at. She refuses to perform the most rudimentary troubleshooting and demands that we fix it. 30 minutes into the call is when we realize that the number she is trying to reach is clear across the country in New York. Hurricane stricken - disaster relief efforts in effect - emergency services working around the clock- New York. Eat your humble pie and reevaluate your life.

The company has taken to ranking our success purely based upon the customer's opinion. This has increased the stress levels all around especially for someone who places a lot of value in other people's perceptions. Who cares if I spent an hour reprogramming your service and blatantly going against company policies - do you FEEL that I did good? Do you want to friend me on Facebook now?

This has caused an onset of severe rectal glaucoma. Periods where I wake up and can't see my ass coming into work. There are some days, we can all admit to it, where you don't want to deal with other people's issues. Friends? Sure you will. But faceless American greed? Nah, not today.

And this missing of scheduled work time has lowered me in the rankings despite the fact that upper management wants to promote me. I am tired of the job itself but cannot promote until I buckle down and just do it.

Immediate stress clouds future successes.

This, all combined, has lead to a heavier reliance on immediate gratification. Overspending on hobbies and hours lost with online gaming. I am sorry, Kara... Venge... Friends...

Maybe this will make it up a bit:

I have been playing around with the idea of having the Reaper Blades manifest from the palms of his hands. It has been problematic, but I am happy with the concept.

And I need losts of work with perspective angles. Here is a sketchy bit with some of the concepts integrated.

Maybe I will find myself engaged in this more strictly in the future.

Maybe the zombies will get us first...

Inspiracy

Another month gone by the wayside.

Nothing additional to show for it but the love and affection of another.

It is not that I do not appreciate that sort of attention (quite the contrary), it is just that I do not feel completed yet.

No, not incomplete, just not completed.

My dreams are still only captured images from REM sleep.

My story, the story of Venge, is a haunting, creative tease.

Free time begets play time. Playtime is not productive. Free time is fleeting.

It is fulfilling to claim that I am some sort of aspiring graphic novelist.

I will go on at length about the story to be told.

But this, is delusional.

The church used to sponsor artists to create great works of art.

Today, quantity is more rewarding than quality.

I lack either.

I currently work a job to work towards my goal.

When, in actuality, I work towards maintaining my health (mental and physical).

While my spiritual health is failing.

What I want and what I get are rarely the same.

And what I need is only minimal.

I maintain that I may not be the right guy to create this...

but I'm the only guy who can.

Inspiring Against Me

It's been over a month since I last posted.

Things to note that have prevented me from posting:

Computer caught a nasty virus and locked me out of administrator permissions.

Spending most of my free time with my new girlfriend.

Gaining more responsibilities at work.

Stretching myself across to many hobbies.

But these are the excuses. I know that I control my involvement in each of these.

Things to note that have  moved me closer to my goals:

Created myself a visual/graphic outline of my story. I have charted it out with major plot points per issue as well as the characters involved and for how long. This has given me the greatest amount of satisfaction since the story and it's progression have been the hardest for me to organize.

Watching a massive amount of Anime's on Netflix have given me a collection of inspired costumes.

One of the above mentioned hobbies have also given me inspired costumes as well as the opportunity to exercise my artistic side while painting model figurines.

The later two items have brought about a revamping of SanGwen's look. I have included them both below for your enjoyment. They are sketchy and neither one is something that I am willing to throw my signature (artist tag) onto, yet. The second one is closer to her new look.

Violent Lessons

This Independence Day I had a realisation most distraught.

From an early age we are taught to appreciate things of a violent nature. A child will fascinate at the spectacle of lights displayed high above as a firework is ignited. But at the sudden boom of an explosion, a child will become afraid. A child instinctual knows that this sudden burst of energy is something to be feared. Yet we, as parents, instruct them to marvel at it, in celebration. We down play the destructive nature of the event with patronising Ooh's and Ah's.

Then we wonder why a child will do something against common sense. We wonder why our children do reckless or destructive things. I know I did.

I once put a screwdriver into a light socket to create fireworks. The sparking was fascinating. I even remember plugging the lamp into a different outlet because the first one had ran out (tripped it's breaker). It wasn't until after the second breaker was tripped, and the T.V. shut off, before I was made to realize.

An inability to sit comfortably and constant adult supervision led me to understand that light bulbs are the only things that belong in light sockets and the T.V. is to remain on except in the case of serious injury or death.

*         *         *

One of the men reaches for the shadow and is greeted with a swift kick to the side of his face. His head impacts with the metal table creating a resounding gong and knocking the man unconscious.

The shadowy form grapples with the second man as he brings his assault rifle up to fire. The shade strips the rifle from the mans hands, flips it around, and points it back at him.

Just then, the third man leaps over the table brandishing a crowbar. The butt of the rifle meets the third man squarely in the face. His eyes roll into the back of his head as blood streams from his nose. The shadow assailant sidesteps the third man's awkward dive as he hits the concrete flooring like a sack of potatoes. The crowbar falls, lazily from his hands and clangs onto the floor.

Pleased, the assaulter grabs the rifle by it's barrel and lines up a golf swing. The second man attempts to raise his hand in a sign of mercy as the shade swings his arms backward. The full, brutal force of the rifle butt catches the second man under the chin and whips his head up and back. His feet pitch forward as his body is carried into the air. The back of his skull meets the concrete with a "Tok!" and his body settles into motionlessness.

The orange warning lights high in the ceiling finish their rotation to illuminate the face of the shadowy assailant. The face is not human and resembles that of a skull. Wide eyes within the skull's eye sockets gleam with satisfaction. The apparition corrects his grip on the rifle, lines up the sights with each of the unconscious body, and pantomimes shooting while yelling, "Bang! Bang! Bang! You are all dead."

He discards the gun and retrieves the crowbar. He smashes it against the metal table with a sideswing. With each swing, a loud "Pang!" drowns out the sound of desperate footsteps and hurried commands.

"Ask not for whom the bell tolls..." The spectre yells out across the warehouse before throwing the crowbar into the second tier office window overlooking the warehouse floor, "... for it tolls for thee!"

Premises Broken

An Epic Story does not work well with Comic Books/Graphic Novels. The Epics were auditory in nature. They were, quite literally, told. Comics are primarily visual. The story is seen. Because of this, or perhaps in spite of this, my story can not follow the same structure. At least not without some modification.

Through the process of putting my story into a written format I have been able to observe a pacing error. I had a thought of just having Gregor the Observate narrate over an action scene. I would have him detail some semblance of back story while the action within the panels would be of a gruesome conflict. Neither narration nor action having a direct relation to the other. And while this was exciting to visualise it conflicted with the overall story idea.

Psychological, supernatural, love Epic.

Love - I think this has, and will further be defined in the overall telling.

Supernatural - The creatures and situations in and of themselves will detail this aspect.

Psychological - This I have only alluded at and towards. And, as such, is something that needs to become more central than it has been thus far.

Is Venge just crazy? Is this world that he exists in just imagined? Up to this point it has just been stated that it is all true. In doing so I have missed opportunities to cast doubt on behalf of the reader. Possibly, near the end of the chronicle, I will cast light on the truth.

So then, how to tell a visual story that may be falsely observed? How to tell an Epic visually? I find myself coming back to Gregor but not as a stater of facts as he was previously depicted. He shall instead rejoin with his actual purpose. The storyteller.

*         *         *

Foreword

My name is, Gregor. I have for you a tale of a remarkable man and his quest to be reunited with his true love. The details of this adventure have come to me through observation and from interviews I was able to get from those involved. Wherever the details have become conflicted I have chosen to use the point of view of this man. You may have already heard of him; The man called, Venge.

*         *         *

Book 1: Avenge

Chapter 1: A Load Off My Mind

In a forgotten harbor town on the west coast of North American, gunshots and laughter can be heard emanating from the warehouse district. While gunshots and laughter are not unheard of in this part of town around payday, today is not payday. Upon closer inspection, it would appear that warehouse 43 is very active tonight. Word has gotten around that the owner would be there in person to oversee something of importance. And while mob ties have never been proven in court, the presence of the additional goons running about lend some truth to Mario Rossi's being there. Or as most know him...

"Don Rossi," sings a hauntingly sinister voice from within the stacks of crates and containers, "where are your manners? My mistress has bid you to dance and your turn her down?!"

Bullets impact the walls of crates as a shadow streaks past.

"Instead you send these unworthy suitors?"

A running clothesline topples three men who had taken up position behind an overturned, metal table.

"Trust me, Mario, they will each have a turn, but tonight is your dance with Death!"

Now Exiting Snoresville

While reading this first chapter, I have determined that it is pretty good. Kind of. I have noticed some distinct grammatical errors. I even noticed a serious change of perspective tense. I can't believe I made such a rookie move as changing from past-tense to present-tense in the middle of a chapter. These things an editor would surely notice and have me change, so it isn't all that bad.

No, the worst part is pacing. This is a much slower start than should be expected in a graphic novel. Most manga, comic books, and graphic novels fix this by starting out with a big action scene. Usually they just elude to the story, resolve the action sequence, then explain things afterward.

I have found that this gives the reader instant gratification but also lends to a false sense that these sort of sequences will be expected. This is not the way I would like to run things.

This story is planned to be sort of supernatural, psychological love story. About half the story will played out in words and the rest in actions. If someone picked up this graphical novel and read the first chapter, there is a good chance that they would be putting it down again.

The easiest cure would be to just throw an action sequence at the beginning, such as the vampire mafia Don fight that I wrote last year. But, I feel doing so would just be irresponsible and even more of a rookie maneuver.

Ah, if only a writer had dreamed this up. I could be watching the movie of it by now...

*         *         *

_Deitrich, flat on his back and arms flailed to either side, ran the name around in his mind. Venge. Venge. I know I should know this. Vengeance? Revenge? Avenge? Unbeknown to him, his hands were drawing a connection for the mask of Venge.

_Karen's thoughts broke through his own, "While this trip down memory lane is... " she feints a yawn, "engrossing, you are no closer to discovering the cause of your current condition."

_Distracted, his hands stop their dance of creation. The dark sand resettles and erases woman's face drawn there. Deitrich rolls his head to the side and looks up at Karen. He raises himself up to a sitting position and settles his elbows on his knees with his hand hanging loosely between them.

_"What would you have me do then, ferryman?" Deitrich pleaded, "I am recalling the best I can."

_Shaking her head sadly, she pulls her steering pole up from the water and cradles it in her arms. Her left arm swings to the side and grabs the lower shaft of it. Her right arm, still cradling the pole, grasps it. She raises it to shoulder level, the lantern swinging behind her, and leans her head over to peer down the length of it with her right eye.

_"Perhaps this will help you remember," she says as she points the bottom of the pole at Deitrich forehead. She jerks the bottom of the pole skyward and a gunshot is heard resounding from each of the cavern walls.

Luck It All

I once heard about a philosophy that determined much of our life evolves around our name. The concept seems absurd to think that, beyond the act of raising, our parents could dictate our life by simply branding us with a name. But, as I review my life, I can find some semblance of truth in this.

The base definition of my name is Hebrew for beloved. I was named the shortened version and thus no exact definition exists for it. So, in essence, I am derived from beloved. But this is not the form of the philosophy that I am basing my analysis upon.

My mother wished for me to have the name Elvis Cheyenne. My father stepped in and denied the name. I got lucky and therein is where I base my claims.

A review of my life shows many instances of imposing dread and catastrophe, but I always manage to get lucky and avoid or avert the worst of circumstances.

They say that it is better to be lucky than good.

*         *         *

_Deitrich sensed Karen studying him and that was enough to break him from his memories of the creation of his blade dance technique. Yet his thoughts remained on the orphanage. Something there pulled at his psyche. Faces began to appear before his minds eye and he could put a name to each of them. Yet none were able to appease his search.

_In an effort to glean some sort of kinesthetic recollection, Deitrich began to trace the faces in the black sand. Not long after tracing one persons face would the sand settle upon itself to create a smooth surface. Only the most basic of outlines and feature could be achieved before the sand cleaned the slate and provided him yet another attempt.

_Deitrich shifted himself into a kneeling position and he started using both his hands to draw. Right hand would trace observed details and the left soul-hand would filling in the gaps with more exacting details and impressions. He began to chant their names as each image was completed and started to form connections to each other. His pace quickened, allowing him to complete an image, label it, and progress to that persons connection all before the sand settled at it's normal pace.

_Each person he could link back to himself only as an acquaintance or just someone he had seen at the orphanage. Not one had a direct connection back to himself and all of them seemed to be leaving a gap in their social web. This realisation caused Deitrich to pause and caused Karen to lean closer in observation.

_Deitrich stood up and walked towards the edge of the dark sea. He ignored Karen as would a lab rat navigating the maze for it's cheesy goal would a scientist. He looked again on his reflection and traced his features with his hand. He knelt down close to the surface and studied the details of his reflected ethnicity. He took note of the primarily Caucasian features with the touch of American cultural mixing in subtle details of bone structure.

_He spun around on his haunches to return to the sandy canvas. He frantically drew the outline of the right side of his face and filled in the details as with the others images. Then, as if possessed, his hands began to draw the left side of his face, yet the details bared no resemblance to his right. He memorised the details before the sand settled itself again and became haunted by it. He drew the image from memory and omitted the right half.

_The image he created resembled something very skeletal and bony. But subtle details were missing. There was no mouth and no nose. Just a bony forehead, cheekbones, and solid mandible plate. A dark circle was placed in the middle of the forehead and a line was traced down to were the tip of were his nose would be. A line was drawn upward from the left side of the mandible to the left eye socket. The line continued from the top of the eye socket to the top of the forehead. The left eye was created in something that would elude to the fact that it was colored lightly while the right looked normal. With the image created, Deitrich collapsed onto his back and a name escaped his mind, "Venge."

Poignant Taken

Dredging up memories is dangerous business.

It is recommended to do so with a guide. Someone who can return you to the present and provide some... well, guidance. Those with the means will take to doing so with a psychologist or psychiatrist if they prefer to medicate. The rest of us may find solace in friendships or companions.

The artist attempts to do so alone and with the childlike abandon of discovering their first insect. While the experience may provoke many confusing and conflicting emotions, the act itself is a whole of the experiment. It must be done for the sake of being done. Discovery.

In the case of memories, it becomes a second chance to experience it for the first time. Rediscovery.

Same can be said of the emotions involved in the event. And this is where the artist gains their 'material' for creating.

And, just as an art student can be found hauling their art supplies from one class to the next, so too do the rest of us. To the artist, they are supplies; to the rest of us, baggage.

*         *         *

_Deitrich dropped his gaze down to the black sand between his feet. He attempted to close his eyes to internalise his thoughts but found that he still peered out from his left 'soul eye'. The appearance of the landscape before him changed. No longer was it a cavern of deaths crossing. It became more 'real', more vivid. Deitrich could sense that he was more in tune with his other half.

_Everything he inspected within the cavern surfaced memories. But the details were overwhelming, chaotic, and threatened to overload his psyche. Unable to close his eye to stop the transmission of information, he attempted to shield it with his hand. And there, on the back of his left soul hand, his memories focused.

_He recalled some sort of martial training from his youth. He remembered how the kids in the orphanage were taught self defense and discipline. He recalled how his instructor taught him to think of his hands as both weapons, shields, and tools. Deitrich remembered how he would fascinate at the complexity that was achieved in the human body. He remembered many hours daydreaming into the back of this hand and imagining the possibilities. He thought back to how, after learning basic kendo skills, he would imagine his own form martial training. One that would embody that basic principle of weapon/shield/tool. He recalled creating specialise wooden weapons that he would strap to his arms; one for each. He had to hide them from the other orphans and orphanage staff for fear of them being confiscated. Deitrich pondered as to their present location. Unable to centralise the sensation, he just knew that he wished to be reconnected to them.

_Karen attempted to look uninterested and bored but Deitrich's gaze into his hand had her curious. She has seen many things pass through this cavern. Witness a strong few walk back across the distant shores. And while she has witnessed several souls appear in Deitrich's same condition, never have they lingered long enough to inspect themselves. She reestablished her connection to Deitrich's mind to gather some incite to what he was experiencing. Karma, my dear, you have chosen a very special person after all, haven't you?

Savior Self

I keep looking for someone to dig me out of this grave.

Someone who would lift me up, dust me off, and show me the wondrous park I was lying in.

I got tired of waiting and started to pull the dirt in on myself; accepting the only fate I thought I had in store.

"Water on a duck's back" they used to say about me. "Not much seems to get you down. It all just kind of rolls off"

How fitting the duck analogy is. Except I would agree more with the other one. "Duck floating on water. So calm on the surface, while underneath you find feet frantically paddling to keep afloat"

I've dug my grave.

I've laid in it.

I was buried up to my neck.

There are no more knights come to save you.

You have to save yourself.

*         *         *

_"Expecting someone else, were you, Deit?"

_"Yes... No... I... I'm not sure," Deitrick thought to her.
_Charon arches and eyebrow and looks at him, quizzically, "Who better to carry you across this sea than the Ferryman?"

_Who indeed? Just who was I expecting? As much as her words pull at my soul I have an... understanding that it is wrong. Interesting. I know what emotions are and also know that I do not have any. Deitrick's thoughts begin to trail off in various tangents; Jumping from one concept to the next.

So caught up in his own thoughts was he that he did not notice Charon snap her fingers nor her hand waving in front of his face. He paid no mind to any of Charon's attempts to get his attention.

_"Deitrick!" her words speared his soul and spun him around. He met her determined glare with one of his own.

_"Camellia" he calmly thinks to Charon who seems shocked by it, "That is who I expect here. But I don't know why. Why does every thought, every reasoning, every conclusion yield that name?"

_He turns and peers into the dark sea, blankly scanning the city below.

_"Every time my mind settles on that name, I find myself being drawn to something that isn't there," his focus shifts to the reflection cast onto the surface of the 'water', "I find it pulling at my heart."

His focus clarifies at the same instant that his fist goes to settle on his chest. Simultaneously he notices that he is only casting half of his reflection and that there is no chest over where his heart should be. Reflected in the darkness of sea is the right half of a naked man and on the left is a silhouette eclipsing some sort of brightness.

_He quickly brings his hands up before his face and notices the same. Naked right hand. Silhouette eclipsing brightness left hand.

_He turns and looks past his hands, "What is the meaning of this, Charon?"

_Charon sighs in resignation, "I can tell we are not going to get very far," She grabs her lantern-hung steering pole from the sand and begins to board her ferry, "I told you already, Mr. Devos, you are just half the man."

_Deitrick reaches for the ferryboat with his left hand, becomes disturbed by the sight of it, and collapses into the sand. He looks up towards Charon, "How did this happen?"

_Charon seats herself on one of the boat's benches, "How about you tell me? What do you remember? Think back further than this place."

Liability

Here I write.

Not because I have found some insight.

Nor have I found any addition of time.

I write because I must be liable for my failings. I write because thoughts consume my mind with not an outlet. I write because some questions still linger. Questions that which I have avoided. I am preparing for the worst outcome later this morning.

Consider this all that resembles a deathbed confession.

Am I dying or something to that effect? Not at all. I am merely to stand before my accusers and accept my punishment. What has happened and who really gives a damn?

I can answer the first.

Some time in August (I think) I was pulled over by a policeman. He had felt the need to let me know that a bolt had come loose from my license plate and it was now hanging. He stated that it could be a danger and suggested that I take care of it. As is customary, he requested my drivers license, vehicle registration and proof of insurance. I handed him my license, dug for my registration and handed it to him. I then stated, quite plainly "I do not have insurance". He thanked me for my honesty and inquired as to why not. I replied that it was not within my finances. Of which he replied that, besides it being required by law, I could not afford NOT to have it. As evident by the ticket/fine.

I paid my ticket and fines whereas I was informed that I must get even more expensive insurance or else my drivers license would be revoked. I shook my head in disbelief and took my chances. If I was not able to afford it before, I definitely was not able to afford it now. But I couldn't afford not to have it.

October: a vehicle sped up behind me at night while driving up to Kuna to look at a house for rent. I am a careful driver. I only drive the speed limit. I was in the right-hand lane and became nervous of the car behind me. The road I was to turn off at had a red light. There was a truck in front of me and the car behind had broadened the gap between us and put me a little more at ease. As I gradually slowed to stop at the red light the car behind me came rushing in and was hard on the brakes. The truck in front of me veered to the right for the turn it was going to make, as did I. I was very nervous about the guy behind me and was anxious to get out of his way. Upon completing the turn, the car behind me turned on his police lights. I pulled over as soon as the narrow road allowed and cursed at myself. As I began mentally abusing myself and my stupidity I became confused. What had I done wrong? My driving was textbook.

The policeman let me know that I had crossed over a white line on the right side of the road to make my turn... I was speechless and chose to remain so. The cop stated that he noticed the truck in front of me do the same... but I was the guy in back. I was defeated. I didn't put up a fight. It would not have served me well. As is customary: license, registration, insurance. I had gotten them ready as I waited for him to approach my car and presented them. Again I stated that I did not have insurance. Again the policeman appreciated my honesty. After reviewing my information back in his cruiser he returned. He stated that it was typical to take me to jail for driving without permissions. He restated his value of honesty and let me go. He presented me with arrangements to set a court date, confiscated my license and informed me that I could not drive home.

I failed to make those arrangements. I feared spending time in jail and missing work. Missing another day of work would have led to me being fired.

March I was returning from work and stopped at a convenient store. The store was just a few blocks from home of which involved me driving a block and changing lanes and turning. I turned into the nearest lane as is required, set the blinker to change lanes, changed lanes-turned off blinker. I then turned on the blinker yet again to signal entering into the turn lane, then entered it. I paused and turned down the street towards where I am staying. Nearly a block down the street a police car appears behind me and turns on it's lights. Again I cursed myself, for I knew I was going to jail. And again I was confused by what I had done wrong. The officer (seemed kind of new at the job) stated that I failed to make a complete stop exiting the convenient store. I tried to recall if I had in fact not done so and could not. It was such a trivial matter as it was 12:30 a.m. and there were no cars on the road. But the law is the law. The customary inquiry into license and all that and I was ready. I said to him that he would most likely have to take me to jail and I did not have a license nor insurance. I presented my registration as if that single piece of documentation would save me. I recited my drivers license number from memory and provided all information inquired. I assisted the cop in locating items not easily reached within my trench coat and on my person. I was placed in the cop car and sat with myself and my doomed fate. The cops asked if I wanted my car left where it was or if I wanted it towed. I professed my faith in the neighborhood and they asked if I wanted my bag with my drawing materials put into my trunk since I was so cooperative. I agreed.

After locking my vehicle some items were left on the trunk and the policemen were having a tough time unlocking my touchy locks. I offered to unlock it myself and they stated that they could not let me out of the cuffs. I offered to remain in cuffs and attempt it from the side and they agreed.

I know I broke the law. All because I refused to pay a company for a service that I have not required, except by law. In fact the only time I had insurance coverage were the only time I got into accidents. At most I would have had about $100 in fines for all these incidents if I had insurance. At which point I would have a higher insurance rate.

It is a broken system that will, in turn, break me.

Wight Knight

I used to think I had a hero complex, but discovered that it was more of a white knight syndrome. This is the primary reason that I do not seek the affections of another. Despite the seemingly overbearing desire of human companionship is the recognition that I need to save myself first.

It is my hope that Venge will be able to conquer this long before I do. Or possibly as I do. I have left some room to provide him with that opportunity (can't say the same for myself).

One thing I have not been able to conquer and that has been incorporated throughout the story is this sense of goddess worship or 'putting the p*ssy on a pedestal'. I do not shy away from having strong women characters and never have.

I apologize for the couple days delay on writing. To myself and my readers. Too much time wasted on clever or insightful 'forewards' leave me little time to continue the story. Personal goal: write more; think less... or maybe just to get down to business sooner and without so much ado.

Weak End

You would think that my weekend off of work would afford me greater freedom to complete personal tasks. Well it does. Unfortunately, writing and drawing end up being lower on the list than I would like. Instant gratification ends up becoming the priority. I am still so irresponsible.

I revised some notes. I even dropped the 'mature content' warning when opening this site (as it has yet to veer into any rated R content).

I find myself wanting miracles without wanting to pray for them. I find myself charming people accidentally then actively turning them away. I desire companionship, but refuse to seek it. I will charm you but refuse to acknowledge your feelings on the subject.

I could make a list of good and bad qualities in myself. Even though the bad side would be sorter, the weight I place on them are much greater. I am my own worst critic.

I am not worthy. Period.

Hm, rereading the above statements has me concerned. Might be best, in the future, if I don't write shortly after dealing with my exes. Oh well. It shall remain as proof that I actually did write today... kind of.

Nigh Expectations

Was only able to write briefly, yesterday. I found that, while closing my eyes to visualise the next part of the story, I had nodded off. Then today, I was to busy completing social obligations to make it back to writing. I am hoping for some better opportunities tomorrow.

Wrest Assured

By the way. This is the rough draft. I have found a handful of errors in both previous posts I do not foresee this being any different.

That being said, critique. Be brutal. But over all, be honest and constructive.

I have no muse. I have no mentor. I have no hero.

* * *

"Expecting someone else, where you then, Deit?" Karen enticed.