Yves's Story, poetry, and art.

[Yves]

First, the story. I'll be updating this periodically. Please note that this was once an anthropogenic story, but I got tired of that, and rewrote it such that the characters were purely human. I tried to remove all references to "the hare," and so forth, but I didn't catch all of them. So, if you see that, there's your explanation xP

The Wife of the Consul
Prologue

The first incident took place in a small, relatively isolated, high-class suburb in Tristonne, a district in the far north-east of the country, bordering the capitol district on the eastern side. The victim was a Cormerette,and it must be remembered that during the time of the Republic, this species was considered a part of the continent's animalia. No bird, no matter how learned or cultured, was entitled to any of the privileges of the citizen. Society, having no interest in her kind, offered no investigation into the murder. What might have happened, had the State known what kind of catastrophic effects would issue from this killer, had it pursued and captured Heinrich, is a favorite topic among historians.

~An Examination of The UCD: 1652-1654 C, page 42, published 1721 C~

Treble could no longer fly. She was pursued, she was exhausted, and she had been maimed beyond her meager ability to cope. Blood was in her eyes and mouth, and her wing felt as though it were about to snap off, and fly into the wind. Indeed, it might have already, for all her tortured senses could tell her. In a last-ditch effort to escape what seemed the black talons of inexorable fate, she crashed into the brush, and lay there, breathing hard, and quiet.

Before this, she had been a magnificently beautiful bird, as most Cormerettes are. Although they are all but extinct in the modern world, a few rare specimens still remain. They are almost completely white all along their bodies, which are typically between three and five feet long from beak to tail-bone. Where they are white, they seem to glow in even the slightest amount of light, and they are, in all but the rarest specimens, impeccably clean animals. The heads of females are rounded, like those of doves and pigeons, while the males are angular, and sharp, like the owls'.

Aside from the white pearl of its body, the Cormerette has three great prides—its under-wings, its crest, and its two long, pointed tail-feathers. These are always colored, usually magnificently. Although the exact color varies from bird to bird, the feathers, without exception, gleam with majestic iridescence. In the case of Treble, her badge-feathers, as they had come to be called, were bright red.

These, however, were about the only mark of beauty left to Treble. Her left wing had been ripped open. Her body was riddled with the slashes and cuts of some other bird's beak and talons, and the blood flowed as water does from a fountain. Her beak, once beautiful in its gleaming jet-black, was cracked down the left, part hanging from her face by just the slimmest piece of flesh. For a few fleeting moments, she believed that Hell had claimed her at last, that this was the epitomal torture.

Then, she saw him. He was exactly like her in nearly every way, but instead of red, his badge feathers were blue, and his face, although still beautiful, was distorted, and made horrendous by his expression. He was scowling down at her, cruel, and judgmental. Every inch of his rigid, sharp posture spoke of anger, and of a demented justice.

She trembled. She flapped her wings, desperately making for flight, but it was a feeble, useless effort with her wing as torn as it was. She merely flailed. She was always looking up at him, terrified and imploring. He circled, neither attacking nor relenting, but merely scowling down, in a hideous imitation of a vulture. This continued for what may have been a minute, before the agony of terror, far greater than any of her wounds, drove her to shout. “Heinrich! Heinrich, dear God, I didn't do anything!” He was frigid stone to her, an implacable wall before a breeze. He continued to circle, around and around again, unrelenting, passive in a deadly assault.

Meanwhile, the blood continued to gush, and Treble continued to struggle. In her struggling, she caused more damage, tore more skin, lost more feathers, stretched new muscles. Every time that Heinrich, black in the sunrise, circled over her, his dread grew on her. It started as unbearable pain, and only got worse. She broke down, and wept. She quit her futile efforts at escape, took her eyes off the bird above, and gave into exhaustion and despair.

At the first sound of a sob, Heinrich flinched, and, as though struck by a thunderbolt, an expression like that of an infuriated eagle came over him. He was the god of wrath himself. He broke his long silence with a screech, and fell on Treble. He tore at her, wrenching the still flinching and sobbing body from the ground, and shook her until she was ripped from him by the mere force. He took her up a final time by the throat, and flew straight up. The wind rushed past him, the only noise across his ear, as silence settled. She was dead.

He did not drop the corpse, or even land. The body, though at least as large as he, did not weigh him down. Instead, he leveled himself with the ground, and flew south. He was covered in blood, though this was not his only blemish. Murder leaves its scar, whether visible or invisible, and where Treble's blood had met with his badge-feathers, the feathers had turned the deepest shade of black.

The Wife of the Consul
Book I: For Me
Chapter 1

Reader, forgive me if I have misled you. This is not Heinrich's story, and it is certainly not Treble's. Though they feature prominently in the drama of our heroine, they are but pawns in the larger tale. They are heroes in their own narrative, but only pieces, perhaps small or large, but never central, in a thousand others.

This is the story of the human girl who lived in a house not fifty yards from the murder we have just witnessed. Her name was Adelaide, she was fifteen years old, and she was among the least pleasant people you or I could ever wish to meet. Her friends, if she'd had any, would have called her difficult, and perhaps a little selfish, but they would have meant that it was easier to get along with an ill-tempered, under-fed tiger, and that if she ever had stopped being the most jealous, egotistical, and generally disagreeable twit they had ever met, they had missed the moment.

In fact, Adelaide was so incredibly unpleasant that if there is some transcendent justice, some judicative God or Karma which sees that all eventually reap what they sow, she might have deserved the horrors which were about to confront her. What's more, if she had known what was coming, she might have acted differently all those days, and perhaps might have avoided what came; but she did not, of course. All she knew was that her alarm had just gone off, and she wished very much that it had not.

~~~

The alarm-clock began Adelaide's day as it does for most—that is, miserably. As soon as it gave its toll, Adelaide knew that it was 6:45 A.M, on a Monday, during the blackest, coldest part of winter. She knew this even though she was still too half-asleep to remember her own name, to realize why Monday was so terrible, or even to raise a paw to shut up the obnoxious blare. Perhaps her almost instinctual dread had to do with the hungry pit in her stomach, or the chill that feathered its way through the window. Whatever its cause, it was a cruel reminder that life is hard, long, and filled with cold Monday mornings, and that Adelaide would soon have to venture forth into one.

After several minutes of pretending to be asleep, Adelaide groaned, arched her back, and forced her eyes open. The sun was shining opaquely through the morning mist, and the warm smell of coffee had already filled the house.

“Adelaide,” a servant called from below. His voice possessed an outward authority, but it was underlined by a tired resignation, in the manner of all nannies of rich children. “Adelaide… ma'am, you set your alarm too late again. You'll be late if we don't leave in three quarters of an hour.”

“Yeah, I know Hugo,” the girl snapped, perhaps more irritably than she meant. “Give a minute, alright? I have to shower…” Few, had they seen her, would have disputed that; her short black hair was a hopeless ganglius, while her almost-paper white skin gleamed with a layer of grease. The girl reeked of herself. She was short, but unnaturally skinny despite her dwarfishness. Her face was small, her nose pinched, and her eyes enormous and green, so that she might have resembled a cat had she been of the right temperament. All in all, she needed lots of food, a smile, but above all, a bath.

“Your breakfast is cold, ma'am.”

Adelaide fought down a scathing retort; she knew, on some very low level, that she was fortunate to have someone like Hugo, spurring her along. It had to be someone, and her parents certainly didn’t came if she got to school on time.

Adelaide opened the first drawer on her dresser. From it, she drew out and stuffed herself into an outfit she had arranged the night before. It consisted of a pair of blue-jeans, a hot-pink T-shirt of her favorite design, (the sort twelve-year olds like to wear, with the miscellaneous insult captioning some obnoxiously cute cartoon animal), and a pair of white Tennis shoes, all (shoes excepted) at least one size too small for her. This was her winter apparel. Yes, she would freeze in her under-heated school, (Stalingrad, as the students liked to call it), but, as she never tired of telling herself, “beauty is painful.”Alas, the desperate maim themselves for coal dust.

No matter how she wore her clothing, she simply hadn't washed up. Her hair was unkempt and lack-luster, her eyes red, and the evidence of a head-cold still clung around her head. She pulled a comb from the jeans’ back-pocket, and tried to fix what she could. It was a vain effort. She needed to wash, shampoo, condition, dry, and curl her “pelage,” and there was no way around it. She had been doomed since she had decided to go to bed without the curlers in.

“Adelaide,” Hugo sighed, now outside her door, “If you’re late again, you know what the consequences will be. Do hurry…”

Adelaide gave an exasperated groan, stood before a mirror on her door, and gave herself a last once-over. In her own mind, she flattered herself a hundred times, imagining herself the pinnacle of beauty, coquetry perfected. It was, after all, the kind of lift her family's psychologist had recommended for her depression. Still, even in the gray light of morning, the mirror reflected what was there, and even Adelaide could not imagine it away.

“Are you prepared to depart, dear?” the man sighed. He had by now, of course, given up all hope on getting her to school on time.

“Not even close. I don’t care what you say. I’m not going to school until I'm good and ready, and don’t argue, because I’m sure Mother and Father would agree with me. I’m going to take a five-minute shower, and when I come out, you better be ready.”

Hugo couldn't repress a chuckle. “Mmmhm. Well, I wouldn’t want to slow you down, now would I?” Hugo was a very stout, middle-aged man. His “penguin-suit,” as Adelaide had called it when she was young, bulged to at least five feet in diameter at his stomach, and trembled like a lake under a gale when he laughed, coughed, or made any other sudden movements. His beard was very long, curly, and grey, the kind of thing you or I might associate with great presidents, or American Civil War generals.

“Well, I’ve done my best,” he sighed, as he slowly lowered his orbile body into a nearby chair. “No one can claim I don’t try. I should really take a harder line with her, but… oh,” he sighed contentedly, “I suppose there’s no real excuse. I’m simply too fat and lazy, and a sucker for a pretty face. ”

Hugo had been the family's nanny-servant for the past twelve years, and during that time, he had learned precisely why he could not “take a harder line with the girl.” That, after all, would mean imposing his will on dear Adelaide, and she only just tolerated suggestions. She had not tolerated those at first, and had her parents not been distracted by problems with business, Hugo probably would have been swapped with someone who did not make suggestions, or even have thoughts in that general direction.

Finally, after thirty minutes, the shower shut off, and five minutes after that, Adelaide came yawning and stretching out of her room. She was still not half as well-groomed as she would have liked, but she was, in her own mind anyway, presentable.

“I made you an omelet, as you requested last night…” Hugo sighed, as he struggled to his feet.

“Yeah, I know,” Adelaide interrupted, “I can smell too you know; but like you said, I don’t have time. Besides,” she added with a smirk, “I prefer my figure to yours. Feed it to the dog; I’ll have a power bar.”

“The… poodle, ma’am? Heavens! The omelet’s bigger than she is, and besides...”
“Then you eat it! Just get me to school on time. How long do we have, anyway?”

“Five minutes, ma’am,”

Adelaide rolled her eyes, and shoved the servant out of her way. She flew down the spiral staircase, and shot out the mansion's front door. Hugo smiled, despite the knowledge that Adelaide would scold him the entire ten minute drive to school. She was the center of his job, his life. Certainly, he worked for the money, he dragged himself through her sludge for a fat paycheck at the end of the month, but at the end of the day, what was that worth when he had two days of every week to spend it? Whatever she was, however she acted, he couldn’t help but love her as a daughter. What would his life have been if he hadn't?
~~~
Meanwhile, as Hugo's car rolled out the driveway, a bird alighted one of the six chimneys of her house. He was mostly white, except for his crest, tail-feathers, and under-wings, which were blue splotched with black, despite anything he did to clean them. Heinrich had returned. He watched Adelaide leave with rapt attention, a definite purpose to his arched posture. He was sinister, a black silhouette in the rising sun.
Just before the car pulled over the horizon, he took off, and followed.

=============================================

Now, a poem I wrote a while back. I don't do a lot of poetry, so I probably won't post these very often, but they can be fun. Please note that this is a romantic poem, written on a day when I was thinking of what it would be like to be female. Any religious ideas the poem may seem to put forward were accidental xP

"I Ponder Myself No More"

There was a time not long ago,
When I in loneliness did spite,
the "me," the "I," the lord "ego".
And from that pain, there's n'er respite.

But just when hope did fade away,
And rayless Hell mine soul did claim,
There came a man who knew the way,
to end my bleak and baneful game.

For in that drear and lonely dark,
His brightest light mine eyes did blind,
And with his voice, like beaut’ous lark,
Mine heart and mind he did then bind.

And hate, at last, made out mine door,
And in its place sat Love so sweet!
And on dear "self," I dwell no more,
For you, that man, hath "self" complete.

For through thine start'ling love for me,
I've learned at last to care for thee.

==============================================

And finally, the art. Now, I'll tell you now, I'm a terrible artist. I only sprite a little, and I don't draw at all. I do, however, play with letters a little, and I suppose I'll start with that:



Note that this is a phonetic language. That means that you go by how things sound, rather than how they're spelled. For instance, "Phillip," would be spelled with one "f" symbol, one "i" symbol, one "l" symbol, and one "p" symbol (filip).

As for the "Ol," and "Or" sounds, Edgar Allen Poe once wrote an entire essay on the melancholy nature of the sound "Or." He even said that it was the single most melancholy sound in the English language. Now, if you think about it, the sound that O makes right before you get to the r, is unlike any other sound that the letter "o" makes. The same can sometimes be said about "Ol." Some say that these two are the same, and represent a third form of O. I don't know, but I added two syllables just for the heck of it

But yeah, this is hardly a work of art. In fact, I didn't post it as art originally, but as Station Square fun; a mod or admin or someone moved it. Anyway, this is something I wrote out in real life, and I was trying to brush it on Paint. I've never done anything like that before in my life, aside from some sprite editing, so the brushing is very simple and very bad

Note: This is only part of my little language... alphabet... thing. A big part of it involves one-symbol concepts. So far I've created symbols for friendship, hate, Romantic Love, Familiar Love, Marital Love, Godly love, The Christian God, the Islamic God, the Tao, Atheism, myself, and several of my friends.

==============================================

And finally, some edited and credited spritework:

Yvette the Hare:

[Swing]

Wow, that's a nice post. XD

I like the way you write, it's got a certain...flare?...to the style. As someone working towards being published, I really like it. The alphabet is pretty interesting, and the phonetic concepts sends my mind off on all that stuff we learned in History class about the Phoenicians. XD The poem was very...Shakesphere-esq? I dunno, reminded me of SOME author...I'll try to remember who. ^^"

I think you just motivated me to get off my butt and post something on this board...hmmmm...

[Yves]

Yay! I've managed to help out x3 And thanks ^_^

Also, update to the story:

The Wife of the Consul
Book I: For Me
Chapter 2

Renee was a girl, but on the average day, it was hard to tell. Her hair was short, almost bristly at points. Her face, possessing the only real feminine grace to her, was white, and her lips a very deep, natural pink. Her eyes were as black to the point that it was difficult to find her pupils in their vastness, and the skin was soft, and beautifully pure, but always tight, almost formal, like what one sees in old portraits of European nobles. Her clothes, while not exactly masculine, certainly did nothing to flatter her figure. Her blue jeans, old and worn to white thread at points, were very large, and all but covered a much abused pair of once-white tennis shoes. Her shirt looked like something she might have inherited from an older brother, except it was a very dark shade of purple, and had the inkling of some long illegible pink label across the chest. On this particular day, Renee also wore a battered, dusty gray sweater to ward off the cold.

Thus, the girl arrived at school, looking as destitute and miserable as any homeless wretch, but as proud as any monarch, and as content as anything else. She came to school with a high head, and what might have been described as a cheerful face, if it had not carried so much authority. She was a paragon of confidence, exuding a reserved smugness, almost conceit. She observed the world around her like a priest, being in it, but above it at the same time.

Once she was inside, she hung by her locker for a good ten minutes, organizing her books, rearranging the various flowers and paintings of flowers with which she decorated her locker, and generally finding ways to waste time. When there was a mere two minutes to class, and the majority of students had found their way to class, Adelaide burst into the school, and Renee's face lit up.

“Adelaide! You're here, and you might actually make it to class on time today. My congratulations to you.”

Adelaide sniffed, and walked past with an extremely brief, “Hi.” She walked on, stopping at no locker. Because of her tardy tendencies, she had developed what was, in her mind, a sound strategy of organization: She bought the most enormous receptacle she could manage to strap onto her back, and then stuffed it with every school-item she owned. Then, whenever she needed anything, she would simply dive into it, and swim about until she happened to bump into whatever “it” was.

Renee smiled sweetly, with the most genuine affect at friendliness that any girl could ever muster, but once Adelaide was past, it devolved into a cruel smirk. Renee put a hand on the gargantuan backpack, and in a single swift movement, somehow managed to open it in just the right way, so that everything it contained poured out in an enormous avalanche of books, pens and papers.

“Oh! I'm sorry! Here, let me help.” said Renee, as she began to stuff ever piece of Adelaide's lunch into her pockets. The school provided no food for the children, and Renee's parents could barely put dinner on the table. This, perhaps, was what began Adelaide and Renee's relationship: Adelaide brought, by far, the most delicious food. The way Renee got the food varied from day to day, but it was always cruelly calculated to be at once novel, and as humiliating as any of her traditional methods.

Adelaide, dejected but frantic, scrambled to reload her backpack, like so many farmer girls over a bushel of broken eggs. Once every scrap of food was gone, Renee only laughed, occasionally kicking some supply out of reach, or accidentally stepping on and breaking some pencil. Then, the bell rang.

“Ach, late again Adelaide. I personally prefer to skip first period, but I suppose for someone of your stature, tardiness can be quite a bother. You have my deepest consolations.”

Adelaide, by this time, had begun to cry, though it was more out of anger than pain. She bit her lip, as the hot water formed at the back of her eyes. This kind of treatment had always been hard for someone of her position, but the real suffering came from her powerlessness to stop it. The daily humiliation was a well-established practice for the two. Slowly, time had worn away any hope she had of deliverance. Every authority which should have helped her did not care, every friend which should have taken her side did not exist, and every fight she started was ended quickly and painfully. All that remained now were hot tears and resignation.

Eventually, Renee lay off, and Adelaide managed to stuff her backpack again. She then ran off to class in the foulest of tempers, as anyone who spoke to her would quickly discover. Being unable to retaliate against Renee directly, she daily took out all he frustrations on every other defenseless classmate. This was one of the largest reasons she was so unpleasant; being unable to forgive Renee, she was essentially unable to forgive the world, and, giving the world a good poke in the eye, it shortly returned the favor. Thus, the malice of one impoverished girl created bitterness in another rich girl, and that seed, once it flourished, left hardly a child in the school unchilled by its cold breath. The most unlikable people are usually the most miserable.

Renee, meanwhile, continued to chuckle, and lay back against her locker. She rarely skipped any period but first, but she always skipped that. It was French, and she did not share it with Lucas, and so she saw it as both useless and unenjoyable, and would have none of it. Every day, however much her apathetic academic supervisors might grumble, she lounged in the hall, sometimes asleep, sometimes relaxing, but never, ever doing anything that could possibly be interpreted as work.

On this particular day, she managed to drop off to sleep, and she lay peacefully on the floor, lightly snoring, until the aforementioned Lucas finally arrived at school. He, however, was not late. Lucas was never late, under any circumstances; everything he did, he did well, and that included commuting to school. His schedule simply began an hour later than Renee's.

He was of a dark complexion, not quite white, but certainly not Eastern by any standards. He was simply tan, which went well with his dirty-blond hair, beautiful chestnut eyes, and pearly teeth. Despite this face, which should have belonged to some brimming socialite, he was not friendly. Grave far beyond his years, he rarely smiled, and spoke only what was necessary. He was the sort of student who spent his days in the background, thinking and working. He was also a remarkable football player. In short, he was either a jock who wanted to be a philosopher, or a philosopher who should have been a jock.

As soon as he arrived, he made a bee-line for Renee, who was, to his delight, still asleep. Sleep, as many wise men have noted, is but a reflection of death, and nothing has a holy beauty like an unscarred body, prepared for burial. In the same way, sleep finds the innocence and purity of its object, and accentuates them, shrouding the sleeper in the invisible light from which angels are made. Renee's skin had never been softer, more radiant, than that morning, and her lips, supple and fair as they were, begged for a kind touch.

As mentioned, Lucas smiling was Lucas undone, but his eyes still shown with the same kind light of the warmest smile. He was touched, his heart soaring among lofty clouds, as he considered this fairy in repose. After a while, he sighed, content, and tousled the girls hair. “Good morning, Renee.”

Renee opened a sleepy eye, and smiled. “Good morning.”

Most of us, when we think about middle-school, remember something about the terrors of young romance. There is something peculiar about the age that is at once shy and desperate, lusty and pious. Everyone reacts in their own way, but they all feel the same. They are desperate for companionship, and yet completely incapable of handling it. Loneliness and the self-loathing that results are the chief tormentors of the teenage crew, and those fleeting moments of success, seemingly trivial in retrospect, are the highlights of weeks, remembered for months.

Thus, whether to banish the insecurity of singleness or to bask in the pleasure reserved for such relationships, the school's most shy jock and most impoverished princess had tied themselves together in the very nearly holy bonds of pretend matrimony.

When the two had first gotten together, the school greeted the couple warmly, but whispered dubiously among themselves when backs were turned. The pairing seemed far too obvious, a match made more in opportunistic minds than heaven. One finds such couples often in high-school, and they have no more constancy than the social climate or hormonal season. However, whether this idea was borne of jealousy or of stereotyping, it ultimately proved untrue. Luke and Renee had maintained very warm relations for over a year, and if anything, their romantic fervor seemed to flourish with time. Luke seemed to lift, for Renee, that veil which separated him from the rest of the school, and Renee lost her edge, and blushed at the mere thought of directing an unkind thought toward Lucas. Their banter grew keener, more flattering, and more overt, as they shattered every discretionary rule in the proverbial book.

This is not a love story, however, nor is it a school story, and we shall not dwell here long. All we need to know now is that, without hyperbole, Renee loved Luke more than most girls her age would have thought healthy, which, considering that she was fifteen, is saying something. She had been changed remarkably through knowing him; she was kinder, humbler, and happier in his presence. Even her enemies, and those who opposed romance in any form, had to step back and admit that the girl had begun to mature, or at least display pretensions at it, through this romance.

After a time, Lucas stood up, Renee with him, and the two, leaning together, walked to the next class.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile, as the lovers glowed in each others embrace, and while hundreds of other children went about their own lives, each with their own passions and terrors, desires and pains, too rich and complex for anyone but them to fully understand, a dark cloud was forming that would shatter them all. These hundred pools, deep with the warmth of youth and the potential of a long future ahead, would freeze under an unexpected frost. That frost took the form of a bird, alighting on the school. Over the entire house of cards, beautifully and delicately arranged, Heinrich stood, poised to knock the whole thing over. He carried a vial in his mouth, which he shattered on the school's roof-top. The solution, dirty brown like mud, began to steam, and melt away at the wood between it, and a very unfortunate man's head...

[Wildrun]

You are getting published soon, right?

[Yves]

Published? Haha, in my dreams xD I appreciate the compliment though

Double update to the story today.

The Wife of the Consul
Book I: For Me
Chapter 3

In year of our lord eighteen hundred and seventy-six, in our world, the German psychologist Friederick Ponchst began a series of tests concerning the effects of stress on a human being. Five years later, he died a broken and penniless man, whose name, to those few who know it, will always be spoken with a laugh. Still, his results, as strange as they were, might go far to explain Adelaide's behavior shortly after leaving Renee. According to Mr. Ponchst, whose name never was honored by the title doctor, “If the subject is exposed to a brief period of intense emotional or physical stress, his digestive organs will immediately begin to function at three times their normal rate, whether they have any substance to digest or not. In short order, it is statistical fact that intense stress and excretory functions share a direct positive relationship. As my colleagues will no doubt understand, the applications of this are enormous. For instance, it is conceivable that self-harm might be used as a laxitive.”Adelaide affirmed this theory. Despite having nothing more than a glass of water and a power bar for breakfast, and absolutely no time to spare, she stopped at the restroom before going to class.

“Damn her!” she screamed at the mirror, once she was alone. She was scrambling through her tiny pockets, and through the backpack, which, she now discovered, Renee had put a sizable rip in. She continued to throw profanities at the mirror as she further discovered that the only pieces of food that had been left behind were clearly articles which had been lost in the immensity of her backpack weeks before, and were now too rotten to tolerate.

“Nothing, nothing again,” she moaned, “Always nothing. Doesn't matter if it's food, or grades, or boys, I get nothing.” She had started crying in earnest now, “And no one helps. That sleeper takes everything, and the rest just laugh to themselves. My own parents...” and she went on, complaining to the high heavens about all the nuts she was so unfairly forced through, and how terribly lonely she was, and so on, and so forth.

Meanwhile, someone sighed outside the door. Adelaide did not know it, but she had begun her futile search and rant at just the moment when Yvette chose to go to the restroom. Yvette was, like Adelaide, a fifteen year old girl. Other than that, however, she was as unlike the fitful teenager as anyone could be. She was very tall, and had proportionately long, brown hair. Her face, also, seemed stretched, like a horse's, and her two front teeth were so extraordinarily large that they could hardly have grown longer without preventing her from eating. She was always smiling, and this cheerfulness was reflected in the bright colors she dressed in. On this particular day, she wore a pastel green T-shirt, with a bright orange flower in the center, and a very bright pair of blue jeans. On her feet, she wore pink sandals.

At last, she decided that she had heard about enough out of Adelaide, and, fighting her better judgment to wait for the girl to finish, she came, beaming as usual, into the restroom.

“Oh, good morning Adelaide! Nice to see you! I hope I'm not intruding, or anything, but, well, this is the only restroom on the floor. Anyway, anything I can help with?”

“What's good about it...” Adelaide mumbled, her back to Yvette.

Yvette was taken slightly off guard, mostly because her “good morning,” had come at the beginning of her awkward shpeal, and her brain was still racing forward to what might be wrong. When she finally understood what Adelaide meant, she laughed. “Oh, well, that's not really a novel response, is it? Why not try something a bit more original, maybe a 'well, if this is your definition of good, you ought to find a nice high bridge and jump off it now,' or something along that line. Anyway, I guess today's good because I'm in school, none of my friends or relatives, or indeed myself, seem to be particularly ill, first period is almost over and...”

“Why don't you go away. You're annoying me.” Adelaide spat.

“Ah... Well, I'm sorry. I'll try to stop then, hehe. Um... you sure you won't tell me what's wrong though?”

“Renee took my lunch, like she always does, and I'm hungry, and I'm sick of the **Bleep**, and I'm sick of no one giving a rip, alright? Look, we're both going to be late to second period physics, so why don't you just...”

“Oh, Renee hm? Yeah, I've had a few bad encounters with her myself. I tell you what, I'm not all that hungry, so, you want to stop by my table at lunch, and I can lend you some of mine...”

“Yeah, I'll stop by. See you then.” And without so much as a glance at Yvette, Adelaide was out the door, and on her way to physics. Just as she got into the classroom, however, her backpack ripped the rest of the way, and for the second time, Adelaide was reduced to picking up the scraps alone. Once again, the bell rang.

Meanwhile, in science, the teacher was late, the class was in an uproarious state, and Renee was thoroughly enjoying a kiss. The ecstasy that Lucas gave her when his lips met hers was one she had known for a long time, but never grew tired of. It was more than simple pleasure, though there was plenty of that. It was a reminder that she had a place in life, that she somehow mattered. If she compared herself to the enormity of the universe, and, like so many others, felt small and worthless, all it took was Lucas’s arm around her shoulder to put things back into the correct proportion. In his world at least, she was at the center.

Earlier, Adelaide’s pained face had given her a feeling like this kiss. It had made her powerful, and, in a twisted way, important to Adelaide. Yet, when she saw Adelaide come in the door, she cringed. Renee was unusually prone to guilt around Lucas, and Adelaide was the chief tormentor of her conscience. Adelaide was a spoiled misanthrope, who would have been twice the bully Renee was if she'd been given half a chance, and Renee knew it. Renee needed the food at least as much as Adelaide did, and if she threw in a cruel jibe or two, didn't Adelaide deserve it? Still, no matter what spin Renee gave it, the ecstasy of romance and the pleasure of kicking Adelaide’s ego didn’t seem to mesh.

So, to displeasure on both sides, Renee pulled away from Lucas. “I'm sorry,” she muttered after an awkward moment, “Adelaide... you know. She's always been a little jealous, I guess. No need to torment her, right?”

Lucas shrugged. “S'not our fault.”

“Yeah, well, ce la vi.” Renee sighed. Lucas shrugged again, obviously not completely satisfied, but not willing to argue either. “Right. Well, it's odd that the Breslin's taking so long, eh? He's usually among the more punctual.”

Lucas looked up at the clock. The teacher was indeed ten minutes late. “Hmmmm… yeah.”

It’s amazing how heavy a silence can be in even the most cacophonous of places. However much the kids might have screamed, the silence with which Lucas greeted this remark made it a graveyard for Renee.
“Look,” Renee muttered, “you can mope all you like, but you know I'm right. Besides, there's more to me than my lips...”

“Right.”

Honestly, Renee herself didn’t know why she cared. She loved being on top, and nothing proves one’s domination like the ability to hurt someone beneath. Even still, there was something about her love for Lucas that recoiled at Adelaide. It wasn’t as though he and her social desires were opposed. He was just as dirty, and manipulative with his inferiors. The cruelty simply didn’t sit well with her, for reasons she wasn’t consciously aware of.

Renee had just opened her mouth to try again with dear Luke, when she heard her name mentioned in the clamor. She turned toward where it had come from, and quickly identified the speaker none other than Yvette. The lepite, as she was prone to be called because of her rabbit-teeth, was lecturing some red-headed girl about Adelaide.

“Yes, I know she's irritating. Believe me, I do. She can be among the most blind, selfish, stupid, disagreeable people at this school, and I know that most of what she gets is the result of her own doing, but that's all the more reason to help her. She has all the same feelings, desires, fears as you and me, all the potential of any human creature. If we can just convince her that we do care for her, that she's not alone in this school. I'm sure that would make all the difference in the world to her. And see, there's the problem. What will she think if I try to convince her that I've lost my lunch, but that I really do care for her deeply...”

Renee couldn’t help but chuckle. It was typical Yvette. She defended anyone and everyone, from the gnat you squished on the doormat, to Adelaide, all while informing you that you're quite right in calling them scum. She would impart her naïve view to everyone who would listen, and before she was done, her audience would generally “be moved,” just as this red-head seemed to be as she fell silent, and nodded, and started looking for her lunch. But, as Renee had noted, the “little kids,” as she called those who listened to Yvette, were always back to their normal, callous selves in a matter of hours.

“I don’t know when that girl will give up,” Renee whispered to Lucas, “She never actually does anything that lasts, you know…”

“Well… is there anything wrong with that?” muttered Lucas, still irritated “So she’s an idealist…”

“Oh, no, of course not. I like it actually. It can be very uplifting when you’re looking for that sort of thing… but it’s empty jargon in the end. Perhaps even a little deceitful She pumps everyone's head full of lofty ideals with no reality in them, and it does no one any good.”

Lucas nodded, “Yeah, I know… but still, if you’re the one under fire, it’s nice to hear someone defending you…”

“Well… maybe… I personally wouldn’t think much of it. I don’t need anyone else telling me that the little bottom feeders that call themselves my enemies are wrong; but perhaps, those with frail little egos get some pleasure out of her… eh…preaching, and are better off.”

“Yeah… well, we all have our ego boosts. Don’t make yourself out to be some sort of self-dependent…”

Renee rolled her eyes, “I keep forgetting, you’re the world’s youngest Freudian. Who are we studying this week? Dr. Spock? Mr. Rogers? Honestly Lucas, I don’t see why you care so much that I disagree with Yvette. I mean, you even admit that it has no real substance to it… if I didn’t know better, I’d say she only does it to keep her in people's good grace. Popularity, you know, it...”

“You're apathetic, and it's irritating,” Lucas interrupted, “Acting like you don't have any needs of your own, like you could be fine without anyone...”

“Oh, so that’s it!” laughed Renee, “And here I thought you were honestly upset. Come on, Luke, hun. Of course everyone wants to be loved, but not everyone will be loved, and that's simple hard fact. You however, will always be cared for while I exist. There's nothing in the world like being loved by you. Yeah, I'm apathetic with Adelaide, but it's her own fault if she's lonely. Come on, just because I disagree with Yvette's overbearing altruism doesn't mean I don't need you...”

Luke smiled in that sort of guilty, but pleased way that people do when they tell a secret the desperately wanted to tell. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry if I overreacted…”

For a while, the two sat in silence again. But, this was a very different silence than before (it is amazing how very many types of silence there are); this was not an angry, or lonely silence. It was more the kind of silence that comes when there is nothing left to be said, and it is enough to simply be with someone.

“Hiya!” said a voice behind Renee, breaking the silence

“Hello, Yvette,” yawned Renee, without turning around, “that was quite a speech you gave over there. I already heard it once, and I don’t really want to hear it again, if it's all the same to you. But what is it?”

“Oh nothing,” she said cheerfully, with her characteristic, toothy smile, “And I’m glad you heard. You really were kinda nasty... But that’s all behind us now, I’m sure!” she laughed.

Adelaide, meanwhile, had spent all this time struggling with her backpack. As it turned out, stuffing all of her earthly possessions into a single bag was not an incredibly bright idea, especially when that bag was somehow damaged, as bags frequently are. By then, getting her smörgåsbord of books, papers, and overlooked month-old lunches to stay inside a ripped backpack was a feat of Herculean proportions. After a long struggle, punctuated by profanities, she had reduced what had once been a torn bag into a pile of smoldering scraps, which could have been anything from a backpack, to a boy-scout uniform in its past life.

After struggling helplessly with the mess, she gave up, and had gone out in the hall. As soon as she saw what was on the floor, however, she froze, and screamed. For there, lying in pool of blood, was a corpse that had been Mr. Breslin.

~

The Wife of the Consul
Book I: For Me
Chapter 4

Adelaide sat in a corner, as far away from the bloody mass as she could get. The class stood around the body, silent in their stricken horror. Only Yvette was moving, as she hurried to the teacher’s side, and shoved him onto his back. An intense, acrid smell like old, burnt feces rose to greet the crowd. The teacher’s fur had all but disintegrated in places, where his marble-white skin was covered in blisters burnt so deeply, that the bone itself was showing. Even Yvette, who until now had shown unfailing courage, couldn’t stifle a cry. Adelaide gave a great, heaving moan when she saw the corpse, and began to weep silently into the wall.

Yvette backed clumsily away from the teacher, and tripped over her own feet, onto her tail-bone. Without so much as flinch, she shoved, and crawled away. “Get back!” she panted, “Th-that’s no act of violence…” she shuddered, her terror-stricken face almost as pale of the skeletal figure before her, “That’s a disease. Those holes are virucula, the warts created by a virus.” The class stared blankly on. “Damn it… that means it might be contagious! Get away from it!” the hare screamed.

Instantly, the class disintegrated into a mob, some running back into the classroom, and some struggling to get past the body, and into the main hall. All were screaming, and all had forgotten about everything but themselves. In a few minutes, only Yvette, Renee, Lucas, and Adelaide remained in the hall. Streaked, crimson paw-prints led every other direction, and by now the smell of old blood had joined that of the necrotic virus. Only Renee and Lucas seemed unmoved by the horror.

“Idiot…” Renee muttered, “Now you’ve got them rushing off to their parents, or who knows where. If they were infected by whatever this is-and I’m not convinced that this is a disease by the way, and it was very foolish to presume-You should have had the brains to keep them in one spot, at least until they could be quarantined.”

Lucas bit his lip, but said nothing. Yvette shook her head. “It’s not a virus, I don’t think,” she said after a while, “I… I just needed them out of here. I don’t know what caused this, but obviously it’s not something we need to be messing with. If we had any brains at all we’d be following them, but…”

“But you stayed back to help Breslin if you could,” finished Lucas, “I understand. I’ll stay back here, and address the blisters; you get to the office and…” Yvette nodded, and rushed off.

And, with these words, Lucas sat down by the body’s side, and began to address his vital signs. One by one, the facts rose up, and declared the creature dead. Renee stared down at the body, her eyes glazed over, and far away. Only Adelaide still lay quivering the corner, oblivious to what went on around her.

“I..I’ve never even seen death before,” she whispered between incoherent sobs. Her fingers, and face were numb. She couldn’t feel her feet, and all she could see, no matter where she looked, or how tightly she closed her eyes, was her old history teacher, deformed and dead. “I feel sick,” she gasped, as she felt her stomach. “Oh please… please, I don’t want to vomit…”

Renee’s eyes suddenly sharpened, as she looked over at the trembling girl. She bit her lip, and tried to hold down her frustration. Adelaide was pitiful. With a dead man here, there wasn’t time to be wrapped up in their own trauma. They had to do something.

“Shush,” she sighed, as she walked over to the girl, and sat down beside her. Without saying a word, she wrapped an arm around the trembling child, and drew her close. Gently, she stroked her back. “Listen Adelaide,” said Renee, “You need to calm down now. It won’t do to panic. We may have to help Mr. Breslin when Yvette comes back…”

“No we won’t,” began Lucas, but Renee shut him up with a glare.

Adelaide, still quivering, buried her face in Renee’s side. “Why here? she groaned, “And why him? Wh-what did this?”

“We didn’t do anything, and we don’t know what killed him.” Said Renee, softly, but with a certain edge to her voice, “It looks like he might have been burned, or maybe even electrocuted. His fur’s been singed off and...”

Adelaide didn’t seem to hear her. “Why…” she sobbed, over, and over again.

“Adelaide!” said Renee, as she shook the girl, “Stop it! We didn’t do anything! Nothing! You hear me?” Adelaide said nothing, and kept on sobbing. Renee slapped the girl, and started to shout, “Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up! Damn it Adelaide, look at him! Look at his body! We don’t know what did that to him, and it might still be here! We have to be vigilant, do you hear me? We can’t…”

Adelaide’s face flushed with rage, as she started to scream over Renee, “I can’t! I can’t look at him, and I can’t help it!” she screamed through tears, “And I’m sick of you! I’m sick of everything! I d-don’t want it anymore… I don’t want to see anymore.” Her voice cracked, and Adelaide fell back, sobbing again. Renee stood up, and stuck her thumb-nail into her mouth. She wandered aimlessly, as her eyes glazed over again. Lucas was still attending to the body, his back to the other two.

A few minutes later, Yvette appeared back at the far end of the hall, even more frightened looking than when she had left.

“It’s not just him,” she said quietly, as she glanced nervously around the school, “it’s happened all over the school. The office was full of screaming kids. The police are coming, and they’re going to take us home but…”

“Breslin’s dead.” Said Luke.

“No hope?”

“None.”

Yvette nodded gravely. “Alright…” she said quietly, “They’ll be out in front soon.”

[Wildrun]

This is where Heirich cackles evilly.

Very nice, was it that acid stuff Sir Birdy had? Hmmm. Oh, and you had a handful of mentions of hares/fur/pawprints, but I geetcha. Was the German Doctor a real dude, or did you make him up? And will I ever stop asking questions?

Oh, andy ou might not want to upload very many chapters over the internet. No one here will steal it, dear gods no, but people search for htings like this sometimes. Be careful. Make sure you have it saved in a few different places. A flashdrive, ect.

[Yves]

people search for htings like this sometimes.

Meh, if they want to take credit for my work, it's not like I'm doing this for profit. It's no skin off my nose *shrug*

Worry not though, I've been working on this fiction for more than a year now, and have it saved in more places than even I know xD

Also, here's some nonfiction for the month of March

nonfiction for Feb: cometolora.proboards51.com/index.cgi?board=general&action=display&thread=965

The Art of Rhetoric

Part one

Two weeks ago, your family had two functional cars, had being the operative word. Your parents, naive idealists that they are, made the mistake of lending you one of those two cars, and it is now a somewhat less than functional piece of scrap that, from the right angle, might resemble the proud Lexus Sliver it once was.

Now, the love of your life is throwing what will probably be the biggest party since 1964, and you have to show up in the Corvette. There is simply no other option that will leave you with any scrap of self-respect. Problem? The Corvette is infamous car #2, and your parents are rather fond of it.

So, how do you get the car? Chances are, you don't, but this situation reflects one that you probably go through almost every day of your life. You want something from another person, and you have to choose how to go about it. Perhaps it's as simple as saying please when you ask for the orange juice, or as extreme as offering to pay for the Sliver's repairs, but whatever the case is, you are probably using elements of good rhetoric, and, more than likely, some elements of the bad.

Aristotle defined rhetoric as “the art of discovering all the available means of persuasion in any given situation.” Translated, rhetoric is the way you get people to think the way you do. You think that you ought to be allowed to go to the party in the Corvette, and you will use rhetoric to convince your parents of the same.

Rhetoric is an indispensable part of daily life, and if you master it, it can make you a better friend, better lover, better leader, and better follower. It not only allow you to get what you want more often, but it sharpens your ability to think logically, and it forces you to empathize with other people by considering their point of view. It is a skill of introversion and extroversion, a tool which sharpens your abilities and, to a degree, your character.

This guide will cover the basic concepts of rhetoric, as they have classically been understood. It will discuss the psychology of argument, the basic thesis, and the three elements of rhetoric. Part two will cover types of propositions and how and when to use them, syllogisms and enthymemes, and some logical fallacies. Part three will cover persuasive essays, policy debates, value debates, and the major types of speeches. Shortly following this guide, I will write a series on formal debate, which will draw heavily from this guide.

A. The Psychology of Argument

The psychology of argument refers to three elements of an argument which are almost always present in a good piece of rhetoric, and the order they come in.

The first element is a statement of the case. Getting back to th example at the start, you might say, “Now dad, there's this party at Stephanie's house, and I'd really like to go, but I'd have to drive, and the only car available is the Corvette.” You lay out the thesis, in this case that you ought to be allowed to go to the party in the Corvette, plain and simple, with as little argument as possible. That comes later.

Next, you state any arguments that could be made against your case, the cons to your side. If they are irrefutable, you say so or leave them out, although if there is an irrefutable con so strong that you'd choose to leave it out, you may want to consider revising your thesis. For instance, perhaps you really don't deserve to go to the party? Assuming you don't come to that conclusion, you might say, “Now, I know I wrecked the Lexus, and it's true that I was irresponsible. I should have waited for the roads to clear up.” This is sometimes called softening the opposition, by finding common ground or fault on your side which all parties can agree on. Importantly, never save any con for the end of your case. If you're going to mention it, mention it early on. The order should almost always be case, cons, refutations and rebuttals, your case, ending with your strongest argument.

The next and final step is to refute the case made against you, and to put forward your own points. Again, you might say, “But, you know, the roads were very icy, and there were a lot of responsible drivers who did wreck. Even Mrs. Garcia, and you know how strict she is, said that it could have happened to anyone. I agreed to go to the party before the wreck, and I can't let everyone down. I'm willing to help pay for the damages to the first car, and... you know, I really do feel guilty, and I want to earn your trust again, but how can I do that I never have a second chance?” You start by refuting the case made against you, if you can. Then, you bring up your own reasoning, ending on your strongest point. You will probably still not get the car, but you will have a significantly better chance than if you came bawling in with “Damn it dad, all the other kids in school are going! Why can't you just trust me for once?” Organization, humility, and reason are far better weapons than mere emotion.

B. The Basic Thesis

The basic thesis is probably the simplest part of this guide, but it is among the most important. A thesis is the central proposition to any persuasive piece. A proposition, as we will discuss in much greater depth in part two, is a statement, which can be true or untrue. “Some cats are black,” is technically a proposition. “All cats ought to be black,” is also a proposition. In any formal debate, and indeed in most argument, one central “ought” proposition of action is the center of the argument. “I ought to be allowed to go to the party.” “The United States ought to leave Iraq.” “The British government ought to make trick or treating illegal.” These are theses.

A good thesis is a proposition that you can defend that a reasonable number of people will disagree with. Often times, your thesis will be provided for you. “I want orange juice.” Thesis: “You ought to pass me the orange juice.” “Global Warming is destroying our planet. A reduction in carbon emissions will reduce that destruction. The United States can reduce carbon emissions by building nuclear plants.” Thesis: “The United States ought to substantially expand its nuclear energy program.” This latter is the kind of proposition you will find in policy debate.

In some cases, your thesis may not be given to you. You may be asked to write a paper on the usefulness of plaster walls, or the effects of the French Revolution on Russia. In such cases, creating your own thesis can prove a challenge. For now, I will assume that your thesis is given. Formulating your own thesis will be covered in Part 3, under the persuasive essay.

C. The Three Elements of Persuasion.

As a rhetorician, you can usually lump any given argument, or element of an argument, into one of three categories.

The first, and most important element, is called logos, or logic. This is essentially the thinking, reasoned part of the argument, based on fact and empirical evidence. In the case of our running argument, “lots of other responsible drivers wrecked,” might be an element of logos. One thing to understand is that just because something is factual does not make it logical. For instance, “all the other kids are going,” might be a true statement, but it does not necessarily imply that you are going. We'll do a lot more with this at the end of the guide, but for now, just think of logos as the thinking part of your argument.

The second element is called pathos, or emotion. The pathos of your argument is chiefly concerned with the emotions of your audience, not their thoughts. If used correctly, this can be among the most powerful means of persuasion. Humans, for better or worse, are generally emotional creatures, driven by feeling. Think about the last election. Were people usually driven by the cold hard thoughts about redistributive economic programs or the economic workings of America's capitalist system, or were they moved by the inspirational talk of change, or the sentimentality associated with an old Vietnam veteran, or the horror of “socialism,” and fear of economic collapse? The best example from our running argument probably comes from the last argument, “I just want the chance to prove that you can trust me, dad.” Granted, some dads would be sickened (knowing your audience is half the battle), but with the right kind of man, this appeal, shrouded in a logical argument, will bring a tear to his eye.

This is a very important element to pathos: Your appeal to emotion must be made subtly, always under the guise of logic. Saying things like, “isn't it sad that these kittens don't have a home? Doesn't it make you want to cry?” is not nearly as effective as, “These animals, cruelly turned out by their old masters, are going to die on the streets if no one will offer them a home.” The logic is clear—Homeless kittens die. You can offer kittens a home. Therefore you can prevent dead kittens. Still, the real substance of this argument is not in the logic. It is in the emotion that underlies that argument.

The third element is called ethos, most closely translated to reputation. This has to do with your audience's preconception of you, your argument, and your opponent. Let's say that you are listening to an argument about the death penalty, and you happen to know that the affirmative side (the side advocating change, in this case that the DP should be banned), is on Death row. Might he have some ulterior incentive to convince you that the DP is unethical, even if that is not really what he believes? Because of his reputation, you are immediately on guard toward his argument, and he's at a disadvantage before the debate even begins.

Or, let's take a positive case. Let's suppose that you are listening to a debate on Anthropogenic Global Warming, and one of the debaters introduces himself as an expert on weather, who has been studying the climate for the past twenty years, and is noted by the scientific community as being a leader in the field of climate change. Might you trust him more than the Green Party chairman who might have a major in English?

A common trick in rhetoric is to appeal to the ethos of someone other than yourself. For instance, I might, in arguing a point on the forum, bring up an old quote from Bliz or Cy which agrees with my point of view. Then, it is no longer just Yves who is making the argument, with his minuscule newscaster ethos, it is Blizshadow, or Cyfox, the prestigious administrators. Similarly, if you are arguing on a scientific or technical topic on which you have few qualifications, it is usually a good idea to appeal to an expert other than yourself. For instance, in giving criticism to a piece of writing, rather than giving my own opinions, I will often give a quote from some prestigious writing guide, so that the advice does not rely on my reputation, but on the reputation of, say, E.B. White.

This brings me to another point on both ethos and pathos: It is extremely bad rhetoric to make it obvious that you are making any non-logical appeal. Although neither ethos nor pathos are inherently faulted means of persuasion, the audience which recognizes them will often feel manipulated, and they resent this, even though it is the sole purpose of persuasion. For instance, before I made this guide, appealing to the ethos of our administrators might have helped me convince you. Now that you're all aware of exactly what I'm doing, that particular appeal will lose alot of its thunder. “Aha!” you will say, “He's making the ethical appeal!” This is one major reason to study rhetoric, because not only will you be able to use these elements in your own arguments, bat you will be able to recognize them in any argument you read.

So, the trick to establishing good ethos, much like pathos, is to do it subtly, and logically. For establishing your own reputation, perhaps you bring up your qualifications to explain why you are speaking. “Well, I've been working on this project for about twenty years now, with I disagreeociate Dr.
Wlenski, and tonight, I've been asked to come here and share what I've learned with you,” can be an excellent way to start an argumentative speech.

In summary, all three elements of rhetoric are extremely important. Without logic, your argument is empty, thoughtless, and probably wrong. This is the center: Have you thought your case through, and can you think clearly enough to communicate it clearly? After that, create for yourself a good reputation, and kindle their emotions, and you'll be on your way.

[Yves]

Well, here's a real quick update before I head out on vacation. It's a little short, so I might just make the end of chapter 4. I don't know.

In any case, I'll write up some new material while I'm gone, and I'm getting to the end of the stuff I'd written previously, so, you'll get to see some new material here before too long. Enjoy ^_^

Wife of the Consul
Book I: For Me
Chapter 5

When the doorbell sounded, Hugo was taking a well-deserved nap. It was a rare time of the week when the man had no work, no floors to scrub, no girl to prod and subtly guide. He was absolutely free to do whatever he pleased, and what he pleased usually involved recovering from the exhaustion of doing precisely the opposite most other times of the day.

Needless to say, the butler was not expecting visitors, so, when the door bell blared like the roars of Cerberus and hammered his ear drums into his throat, he was understandably surprised. So surprised, in fact, that he fell off the bed, cracked his head on the floor, and when he tried to stand up, he somehow managed to stagger into the wall, crack his forehead on this wall, and fall down again.

Adelaide’s mother was fond of eccentric oddities, especially loud oddities, such as a door-bell once used at an industrial fire-station. Had Hugo been several years older, it is very likely that his frightened heart would have stopped beating then and there, and the visitors would have been left shivering in the winter wind.

The servant lay gasping on the floor for the better part of a minute. He probably would have lain there longer, but the great siren went off again. A chandelier above Hugo’s head trembled in the blast of the sound, and the man struggled to his feet.

“I hear you! I’m on my way! Oh please, for heaven sake, don’t blare that thing again!” But the men outside apparently didn’t hear him. On this third blast, Hugo thought he heard the tinkle of some shattering china, far off in another room. Before he could react, the siren went off yet again. Obviously the perpetrator was either impatient to the point of damnation, or he had a sadistic sense of humor, or both.

By the time Hugo got to the door, he was extremely angry with whoever his inconsiderate visitors were. His fists were clenched, his lips were uncharacteristically thin, and his eyes reflected an annoyance parallel to the annoyance an orca might display when some idiot mariner decided to poke it in the eye with shard of glass. He wrenched the door open with a huff, his billowing cheeks and bruised forehead bright red. They went just as quickly white, however, as the biting snow blew into the room, just failing to obscure who was waiting for him.

Outside, four policemen were standing on the doorstep, their car sitting in the driveway, lights flashing. Hugo saw none of this, however; all he could see was a small, shivering, short, cat-faced girl between them, wide-eyed, and silent.

Hugo swallowed as his fingers trembled almost imperceptibly. “Officers…” he said in as stately a voice as he could manage in his perplexed and frightened state, “I-I most sincerely beg your pardon but… but, but but… has dear mistress... erm, Adelaide... this young lady caused any sort of…”

“No.” said one of the men sharply. “I’m afraid there has been a shooting at your charge’s school. The killer is still, to our knowledge, abroad, and the school is being evacuated. We have other students to deposit sir, and we have no time. If you have any questions, you are encouraged to ask the girl.”

Hugo stepped aside. For a moment, Adelaide did not seem to understand what was going on around her. She stood stupidly, her eyes glazed and far off, before one of the policemen shoved her into the house. Hugo shut the door behind her, and placed a gentle hand on her back. He did not speak. Adelaide was acting completely out of character; he had never seen her like this. She was small, and scared, a scarecrow of her former, strong-willed self. The closest she came to this were the depressed-spells she had between tantrums, those nauseating moments of extroverted self-pity so obnoxious that they would have made Eeyore's face seem square.

But this was nothing like those; this was genuine pain, a sort of internal fire that consumed her attention, which flickered but dimly through dull eyes. She had never stopped trembling, and trembling violently, like a car.

Adelaide fell into the first couch she found, and curled up in its corner, hugging herself, as though she expected her legs to protect her from whatever had so disturbed her. Hugo draped a blanket over her so that only her face, ragged and dripping from the snow, peeped above the bundle. He, saw to her hair, straightening it with a gentle finger, and to her face, which he covered with a warm towel. He saw to every comfort, got her water, and, like any father with a stuttering, crying daughter, began to softly rub her back. As close as the two were, this was a new experience. Adelaide would never have condescended before. They sat thus, sharing their warmth, their comfort.

After a while, though neither really knew how long it took, the butler broke the silence. “Did you see it?” he asked in the gentlest voice.

Adelaide was silent for a while. Then, she blinked, and became aware of her tongue. She licked her lips, swallowed, and then in a very slow, very quiet voice said, “He wasn’t shot. I don’t know why he said he was… I… I don’t know what happened to him.”

“Who?”

Adelaide shook her head, and closed her eyes. After a moment, “My history teacher, Mr. Breslin. We… I mean… Renee and I… we found him out in the hall. He was burnt or… or s-something. Blood was everywhere, and his eyes were gone, and…” Adelaide choked, as tears formed at her eyelids again.

Hugo’s own eyes had watered, as he drew the wolf into his breast in an enormous embrace. “You poor thing,” he whispered. Adelaide began to quiver under him, as she relapsed back into tears.

~~~~

Several hours later, as the sun dipped behind the horizon, Hugo and Adelaide were still sitting on the same couch, talking quietly about what had happened. Adelaide had regained much of her former self, though she still showed some signs of shock.

“Damn it,” whispered Adelaide after a silence, “My head hurts so bad right now…”

“You have a fever.” said Hugo, who had never let go of her, “The stress must be getting to you. We can talk more about this tomorrow. You should get to bed, and get some sleep…”

Adelaide nodded, and rose, shakily to her feet. Scarcely had she left Hugo’s embrace, but she screamed. Her legs collapsed from under her, and she fell in a heap on the floor. In an instant Hugo was beside her. The girl was unconscious, and all over her body, hundreds of tiny red blisters began to pop out of yellow, sick skin...

[Yves]

A while ago, I posted a topic on my "alphabet." However, the figures were extremely messy because I had to draw them in Paint. Here is a better version:

[Yves]

An Act of Love

a short story

Apartment 561, they say, is empty. I say it is not, and I am confidant of my opinion because I live there. But I understand their mistake. I live behind a locked door, and I almost never cross that threshhold into the garish steel and electric jungle. The bed and the cuckoo-clock are my friends. The television and the newspaper provide more conversation than I will ever want. I have oatmeal for breakfast, dry cereal for dinner, peace as a life-style, and I shall never want anything else.

Yet there was one adventure, out of this entrenched and barricaded home, which I will remember forever. It began with a phone-call that told me that my aunt had snapped her leg and now languished in the hospital. That was not unusual—Auntie was the sort of 65 year old woman who liked to hike up untamed mountains and ski down them—but the idea that anyone would ask me to visit was unthinkable. When I protested, angry voices threatened the funds which kept me so comfortably ensconced in 561, so I decided that some battles were not worth fighting.

I left my house at eight, and arrived at the hospital at nine. With my aunt unconcious, I had time to look around the room. Everything was white. The walls, the beds, the dim fluorescent lights, and even the windows were treated, bleached and sterilized. If there was any non-human life in that room, the hospital was out to kill it. And all the antiseptics, all the drugs and germ-killers, the tubes and needles, seemed to revolve around one old man who occupied the bed next to Auntie. He was a monster. A tumor had taken his face and warped it into a macabre mask. It was bloody, swollen, bandaged and bulging. Churches could have used his cadaverous face to manifest the tortures of Hell. I took the corner opposite him. I had no way of knowing it, but he wouldn't let me stay there long.

The first thing he did, once he opened his eyes and blinked the sedative out of them, was to smile at me. "Well hello there, young man," he said, and all my misanthropic ways melted in his unbearable warmth. In five minutes, he learned my full name and somehow persuaded me to share my life-story. After fifteen minutes, he had learned my narrative by heart, and memorized all my relatives by name and birthdate. After an hour, I had learned his story. He was the sort of man I couldn't help but talk to, the kind of person I wanted to learn everything about. He called me Billy. My real name was Earl, but I didn't like Earl, and I liked this man. His name was Freddy.

At two O'clock, Freddy's wife showed up with a fist full of flowers, a face full of smiles, and an eye full of tears. Her hair was thin and white, tired and stretched, like her cheeks. Cancer worked like a knife on Freddy's face; sighs and worry worked like sandpaper on hers. But she was kind—a woman who had been married to Freddy for thirty years could hardly help but be kind—and whenever she was around, Freddy's smiles were wider, his laughs louder, and his eyes brighter. Anything that made him happy was a jewel in my books, so Rose and I made quick friends.

I stayed with Freddy until six O'clock, when the doctor came. When he stepped into the room, everyone, even Freddy, choked on whatever they were saying. We all knew we were being rude, but we couldn't help it. The doctor was like a ghost; he brought a chill into the room. The lights seemed suddenly dim, and I knew why. Freddy's glow had gone out the moment the doctor stepped into the room, and fluorescent bulbs produce no real light of their own. The man in the white coat ignored us, and went about his rituals, refilling this bag with that liquid, injecting yellow medicine and red pain-killer.

"I'm afraid Mr. Fred Alcott will need his peace, now." Said a nurse at the door, "Please visit us again tomorrow." Rose and I made a polite nod to the nurse, and tip-toed out. Looking back, I saw that Freddy was smiling, but it was a very hollow smile, a smile obviously made for our benefit.

The next day, Rose was at Freddy's side before me. The room must have been just as clean as the day before, but somehow it felt more stagnant. Sterilization is something that feels worse every time it hits you. I put on my jacket.

"Oh, hello," said Rose, "Freddy's um... Freddy's still out of it."

I smiled, and did my best to look reassuring. I'm not sure how reassuring looks, though, so it was probably silly. "Well, he was out cold when I got here yesterday, and stayed that way for a long while. I'm sure he's just tired and will be back as soon as he can. I mean, just look at my aunt. She's only gone and broke her leg, and she's 'most always asleep."

Rose nodded. "I'm sure it's normal. But, you know, I can't help but worry." She smiled another of her thin, tight smiles. We waited another couple hours, and then Freddy did wake up. Seeing the two of us in the same bleary glimpse must have been a particular pleasure for him, because his grin was the most boyish I have ever seen.

"Well howdy!" he said, and I swear I could hear his eyes laughing, "Come to see the scabby red beast from the east, have you?" Freddy spent the rest of the day joking with us, telling his stories, reliving his life for everyone's benefit. He never once mentioned being an author or actor, and I can only assume the public is bereft of one of the world's greatest storytellers. I was captivated, and even Rose, in all her worry, couldn't help but smile in his warmth and in her nostalgia.

"I've heard all these a thousand times before," she would whisper, "But that's because I like to listen."

And of course the doctor came at his appointed hour, reverent and silent, to perform his duties and order us out of his space. We left with the same courteous silence, and Freddy wished us farewell with the same painful smile. Thus, our routine was born. Rose and I would arrive early in the day to watch Freddy sleep. Rose would worry, and wring her flowers until they were ruined, and whisper her stress away to me. I would feebly take her concerns, and wonder what to do with them. Then Freddy would open his eyes, smile, and make us both feel like the most important people on Earth. In theory, Rose was there to comfort her husband, and I was there for my aunt. In reality, Auntie slept while Freddy hosted a therapy session for lonely and worried souls.

Through our routine, Rose and I began to observe an unfortunate pattern in Freddy. Rose, of course, was the first to pick up on it. "I think Freddy's sleeping later today." she said suddenly one morning.

I shrugged. "Well, you know, maybe we're tiring him out with our visits. Maybe he's just not sleeping at night. Who knows."

Rose was not to be calmed. "But he's not himself when he's awake! If he just needed more sleep, he'd sleep and wake up refreshed. But he's not! He's tired, and distracted, and... and.."

"Well, he seems like Freddy to me. Maybe I just don't know him like you do, ma'am. But whatever's going on, I'm sure the doctor's seeing to it." That really upset the woman, and if Freddy had not at that moment said, "Now then, who are these angels at my side," I am certain that Rose would have become the hospital's next mental patient.

At first I dismissed Rose as paranoid. She lived through a succession of worries—Would her car breakdown? Was this spot cancerous? Is this fish-salad really sanitary? Why hadn't her granddaughter called?—and what woman would not feel concern over a sick husband? But as I spent day after day with Freddy, I started seeing the signs too. For every night the doctor bid us home, Freddy slept another few minutes, and for every hour Freddy slept, he lost an ounce of energy. One day his eyes would lose their glimmer. The next day, his skin would turn an ashy gray. The next day, his voice would start to cut out.

One Thursday night stands out vividly, like an icy flame among my dusty, cob-webbed memories. That day, he had slept through all the light hours, and when he finally woke up, there was very little fun. He asked for water, and for his blankets to be arranged. Otherwise, he stayed quiet. When the doctor came with his usual dose of medecine, for the first time, Freddy did not even attempt a smile. He groaned, and fell back into his corpse-like stupor even before the doctor had begun to administer the sedative. Rose burst into tears, and had to be rushed out of the room. She was muttering "A year... they gave him another whole year to live..." I decided it was time to say something.

As I crept out the door, I managed to tap the nurse on the shoulder, and from there ease her away from the room, and into a dusty and private corner. "'Scuse me ma'am," I said, "but you never come to visit Fred in the day, and, well, I'm not convinced you know how he's doing. Now, I'm sure you're doing everything you can to treat the cancer and such, but isn't there anything you can do to boost his energy? Maybe feed him a little better, or something? I don't know, I'm not a doctor, but isn't there something you could do to make him sleep a little..."

The nurse cut me off. Her voice was ice. "Mr. Wolfe, you are in no way related to Mr. Alcott. His medical history is strictly his business, and I will not discuss it with you."

"Ma'am, I didn't ask about his medical history, I'm just saying..."

"I will not discuss it!"

The conversation was unproductive and going no where, so I let the nurse go with a bow of my head. As I looked back at Freddy, I couldn't help but look at the bags that even then pumped multitudinous pain-killers through the old man's veins. There were more of them than when I had first arrived at the hospital. Many more. And as I stared at the doctor, adjusting the tubes and checking the needles, a peculiar change came over the man. The white shirt turned black, and flowed to his feet, like a priestly robe. His ritual with the medicine was suddenly sacred, as he became at once God and man, priest and layman. He carried his needle like holy water, as he judged the value and worth of life. He saw who deserved Earth and who would best be served by heaven. But then I blinked, and the robe became a coat, and he was once more a mere man of forty-five, fiddling with his medicine.

My time with Freddy ended not long after. I had all but forgotten about my aunt, so when I came in one morning and she was gone from the bed, I hardly noticed it. Then the nurse brought me the bill. With that obligation paid, and Freddy all but a corpse, there was no reason for me to come back every day. I returned to room 561, to the lonely quiet, the routine and easy existence. I ate my oatmeal, and thanked the stars for peace. I thought I had left Freddy and Rose behind forever.

Then one morning, as I was having my daily conversation with the Oregon Daily Emerald, I noticed an article about a certain Rose Alcott. Recently widowed by a sudden and unexpected analgesic overdose, Rose had been in a terrible accident. She had driven straight off the highway, and was found dead. She had not been drunk. The official verdict was suicide.