marriage

The Attack

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I only buy bras at Victoria’s Secret if I have a coupon. That’s the stipulation, otherwise it’s just too extravagant for my income level. Luckily, VS sends me coupons…entirely too often.

Last night upon a shopping excursion, I was disappointed to find that not only did Victoria’s Secret stop selling my favorite bra, but that they were reverting all bras back to the styles of the 1940’s. “You don’t understand,” I began to explain to the sales girl. “I wear a lot of v-necks – 80% of my wardrobe is black, low cut tops!” She smiled understandingly and then directed me to a medieval boulder holder that lacked even the slightest padding. Jazz videos played on TV’s hanging from the ceiling and intended, I suppose, to enthuse us toward the styles of the past. I was less than thrilled.

I found  Chip, and steered him from the store. The waves were restless, crashing hungrily on the dark rocky outcroppings along the coast that evening. As we walked I lamented to him about my experience in the shop. He listened, nodding, keeping any opinions he may have had inside; much more likely they simply weren’t there at all. I trailed off in my Bra Tale of Woe, noticing a man in long dark robes – a wizard, actually – teetering perilously on the black rocks.

“There’s something out there, something coming! Get some lights on the water!” he shouted, right before falling in. Chip rushed to take off his coat and dive in after the poor man. As I climbed down the rocks to pull them both onto land, my attention was caught by the ominous black shapes moving toward the shore.

There could be no doubt: ORCS!

I dragged my wizard-tugging friend out of the water, scrambling over rocks and lurching toward home. “We must get off the road, out of the town!” I gasped, and off we ran. What happened to the water logged man, I’m not sure.

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Photo Credit Blogspot

Once settled into the living room of my Aunt’s house, where we were staying, I nervously watched our cats play on the carpet. Too shaken due to the approach of Orcs to watch television, I told Chip we should turn off all the lights, not draw attention to the house on the edge of the sea, and let the Orcs pass along with their thirst for blood. The living room was cozy, but featured a large wall of windows without dressings. It was quiet, warm, and horrifying, sitting there in the dark and feeling so exposed. I don’t know how many hours we sat waiting, fearing. I heard a thud, and suddenly the worst smell filled the room. We attempted to turn on the lights, but the electricity was faltering and the lamps could only muster the dimmest of glow. Against my better judgement, I chose to activate the flashlight app on my phone, just for a moment to check the cats. As I did so, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and dove to the floor, hiding the light beneath me. While the cats were alright, we were not. Just outside the window was a gang of orcs – and on the floor in front of me the dead body of a neighbor.

“RUN!” I whispered to Chip, and sprinted toward the kitchen. “To the stairs, we’ll head up!”

My aunt’s house was built into a hill, so while the front door was on the main floor and exited out, if we could exit out back on the attic level, four stories up, we could reach the back field and escape. I grabbed the banister and wheeled around it, hurling myself up the stairs, my left hand searching behind me to keep a feel for Chip’s presence. I slowed as I reached the top realizing that other neighbors had sought refuge in the same place…and had booby trapped the second floor hall. There wasn’t time to stand in the open. Without giving our position away, I delicately made my way down the corridor, attempting to not make any Orc sounds while not making any sound at all. I reached the back bedroom and immediately looked around for a human leader of some sort, combing the room for the man courageous enough to protect his family and remain rather than fleeing, as I was attempting to do. There were children clinging to their crying mother. She must have been imploring her husband to leave with them.

crying

Photo credit Blogspot

I turned to Chip, “Take the children through the hidden door. I will be there in a minute to direct you out.” I wanted to know what was going on outside. As Chip got the others out, I approached the man who had constructed the traps, I noticed he was shaking. He was a little shorter than I was, or was slightly cowering, in his late 40’s, fair-haired. He seemed the man who had always worked the vague office position, settling in his cubicle nicely, but not decorating it either, like a piece of furniture that could use a computer. Even still, he was the man who stayed, the one who tried.

“What’s happened?” I asked calmly, quietly, attempting not to spook him.

“Th-they came in the night. I took my family and the neighbors who answered and got them in here – they’re in the attic – WE’VE GOT TO GET THEM TO THE FIELD!” The words tumbled from his mouth like each was trying to escape before the other. His voice also got louder, something we couldn’t afford. I could hear the Orcs now in the house on the main floor. I looked past the man’s shoulder and saw who I assumed to be his son, maybe fifteen years old, slowly, nervously, rise from the back corner. I placed my hand on the man’s arm.

“You’ve set up some nice traps out there. I don’t know if it would do for you to stay-“

“I can slow them down!” he charged loudly, cutting me off.

“Okay,” I pressed softly. “Do what you feel is best. I’m going to gather the people in the attic-“

“YES! Please get them out -“

“Yes, I’m going to get the women and children out.” I said calmly, forcefully, as though trying to move my levelness to him. “Do you want me to take your son?”

The man turned slowly, his breaking heart evident on his face as he did so.

“Y-yes,” he choked.

“Okay.” I motioned for the boy to follow me, pausing at the hidden attic door to allow emotions to be conveyed between the two. After a moment’s wait I stepped through the entry stating “Come” over my shoulder. I moved into the area, searching for faces as I did so. Numerous children, all younger than the man’s son. Five or Six women. Chip, darkness. Quiet sobbing. I heard the door slide shut and knew the boy had left his father. Noises began from outside. The panic that spread on the faces of the hidden was immediate.

“We are not at the top floor yet,” I stated firmly, controlled. “We have to go up two flights. It is after dawn, and they are coming.” Attempting to move everyone out to the hidden stair before the children had time to whimper their fear, I directed everyone toward the stairs in the corner of the room. Daylight was beginning to creep through cracks in the wood. In the odd design of the home there was no third floor from this tiny area, merely two flights to a forth floor attic. Built as if aware of the impending Orc threat, the third floor was what appeared to be the only attic, and only accessible from the obvious attic entry from a drop down ladder in the ceiling of the second floor hall. I assumed the orcs would search there and, while I also assumed they would eventually find the hidden door, I hoped their shear stupidity combined with the unnamed man’s heroism would buy us sometime.

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Photo credit Tumblr

Once we scaled the steps to the small fourth floor attic room, I moved the children away from the door, huddling with the women toward the back to help keep them quiet. The teenaged son stayed defiantly at the door, as if ready to pounce on whatever came through. I allowed him his courage, knowing it would be both pointless and hurtful to him to attempt otherwise. Chip stood against the eave. And I watched.

There we stayed for who knows how long. I did my best to convey calm while I listened closely to the sounds of the house, attempting to decipher anything close, measuring the distance of each noise. The sun was up by the time the sounds shrank enough that I dared move. Much to the dismay of Chip, I wouldn’t allow an exit onto the field until I knew we either had to escape or that the orcs were truly on the losing side within the house; I didn’t know what awaited us on the exterior of the house and I wasn’t willing to take any chances until I was sure. I sat there, arms crossed, slightly leaned toward the door, silent, intent.

Eventually, the shouts and bangs quieted down. I turned hearing a train in the distance. Now. Now was the time to move. We needed to get as many people as possible away from the area and that train was our chance. I moved toward the pitched roof interior and slid my hand over the wood, looking for the break I knew was there. Finding the hidden handle, I tugged, popping out a three foot by two foot piece of what would other wise look like attic roof. I stuck my head out the opening and could see a few other humans gathered on the field, anxious, but waiting. Without hesitation I motioned everyone out of the attic. I remained there alone for a moment, listening to the lessened, but still aggressive clamor coming from the other parts of the house.

I wish I could say that I found my courage. That I went back through the door leading to the stairs, charging down the hidden flights, to find the man who remained and hauled him to safety.

I didn’t. I stared at the door, swallowed, and left.

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Photo credit Mind Touch

There were no screams outside. My eyes, wincing in the sun, found the women gathering the children, comforting them, while searching for their other relations. Dozens of people were beginning to converge on the field from all directions, but slowly, as if exhausted, not scared. My eyes scanned and finally rested on Chip. He was observing a group of musicians who had not only escaped, but had done so with their instruments. They were setting up to play, as if desperate for normalcy after the horrors of the previous night. Chip’s face was blank.

I took out my phone and looked up a train schedule for the area. It was all well and good that we seemed relatively okay for the moment. Reinforcements for the Orcs would be coming, however, and if a military force didn’t show up soon any safety we felt now would be shattered.

8pm. I sighed, knowing that train would be too late, though I hadn’t stopped to check the current time in my haste. 11:34am. Definitely too late. It seemed impossible that the morning was almost over, that the sun was not only out, but high in the sky.

“Kate!”

I turned to the right to see my friends Nell and Fiona jogging toward me. “Thank God!” We embraced. They began to recant to me their own tale of surviving the night, my look expressionless as I tried to take everything in. They were so animated in comparison to my own fatigued, stoney face.

“What’s next?” I murmured staring down the outlying road.

“That’s what we were going to ask YOU!” stated Nell. “Have you heard anything?”

“No….but last I checked the Orcs didn’t drive a caravan of white shuttle buses.”

The girls turned to follow my line of site. Coming down the road and circling the field was a dozen or so small white shuttle buses.

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Photo credit Bus Sales

“LET’S GO!” the girls screamed and ran toward the closest one. I didn’t budge, instead taking a moment to watch the scattering people that had grown to a crowd in the hundreds, searching for Chip, rather than dissolving into the mayhem. I was positive I would see him boarding a shuttle on the opposite side of the field near the musicians. Only I didn’t.

“Kate! KAAAATE! COME ON!” shouted Nell through the shuttle window.

Military men were now walking the grass, barking at people to get on the shuttles and move out “ASAP”. Where was Chip? Hesitating I began to move toward the bus, still ever hunting for some sign of Chip, listening for a shout, anything. But there was nothing.

Fiona half pulled half dragged me onto the bus, my face never leaving the field. I was fumbling with my phone waiting for his call to say he was fine. I could hear Fiona and Nell assuring me that they were certain he was alright, but it was kindness and not assurance that made them say such things, as if they were trying to smother the doubt in their throat. I stared out the window as the bus began to move. Mostly everyone was on a vehicle at that point and field was almost deserted save for the remaining military personal. I began to text Chip, glancing incessantly out the window. Where was he? Why wasn’t he contacting me?

Chip. Shuttle bus. Chip. Chip. Please. Shuttle bus. Chip. My texts repeating, begging more than asking.

We circled the field on the exit. As we did so I noticed a young orc, maybe a teen at most, who was obviously suffering from hypertrichosis. The hair on his face had been dyed neon green, I assumed as fear tactic imposed by the other orcs. He looked right back at me, both sad and humiliated, as military scientists descended on him for study. I had enough strength within to allow my heart to ache for the orc boy, even in the attack of the night before, even with my missing friend, because that’s what makes us human. Empathy.

I looked at the phone in my hands. Silent. Still no message from him. I looked up as the buses began to cross a bridge to the mainland – and noticed they were separated into two lines, each going in opposite directions.

“Wait!” I shouted. “WAIT! Where are the buses going? Will we meet at night?!” I was blindly trying to dial Chip while searching anyone for answers on the bus.

“Ma’am, please calm down. We need to get everyone as far away as possible. All will be revealed at a later time.”

The phone was ringing. Ringing. Ringing…Voicemail.

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Photo credit BBC

———-

That’s when I woke up. I saw the outline of Chip, his back toward me asleep. It was all I could do to keep from hitting him awake and berating him for ignoring my calls. You can bet he got an earful when he woke up.

Also, I’ve been texting him all morning: “Chip! Cell phone! SHUTTLE BUS!”

And each time he’s sent me a reply. Thank goodness.

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I Am Not Baby Crazy

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I’m not.

I’m not baby crazy.

My boss is positive I’m going to wake one morning demanding the spawn of my spouse. I’m not sure if he’s right or wrong, but I do know that today is not that day.

My friends, however, are procreating at a fantastic speed, and I think it’s adorable! I totally do. My wee little chick friends are developing beautiful rotund bellies filled with their own personal mini-me’s. And it’s friggin’ cute.

It’s also a whole new outlet for me to release my inner super geek! (Super Geek – Super Geek – she’s Super Geeky, yooooooow.)

So, naturally, I’ve been spending entirely too much time on Etsy. It’s totes my kryptonite.

And that’s as girly as I get. That and squeeing for puppies dressed as yoda and/or dinos.

Holy crap, that’s cute. Etsy SatMorningPancakes.

Ugh.

Right now, I’m too selfish. I want to do more. I want to be something worthwhile before being placed in a position to be an example for a child. I’m coming to terms with never being great, I just need to be good enough. This is not an odd feeling in regards to procreating. There is a certain amount of selfishness in creating a child, but in an acceptable way. As if saying “I’m personally good enough to pursue immortality vicariously.”Ohhhh….there it is: I have no self esteem.

The other issue is that I’ve never written as little as I have in the past month and this loss or lack  makes me look at where I am in life, which is far from the point of spawning.

I have yet to figure out why I have this correlation between writing and birthing, but, for me, it’s important. There has to be enough information spewed out before a baby can be spewed out born.

Information. Education. Writing.

Perhaps having a baby is not important to me yet because it’s not important to the perspective grandparents. There’s no pressure there, so I certainly don’t feel like it’s a necessity, and until I feel a need then it’s not the right time. I also don’t think boys ever need a kid. And I’m not up for raising one alone, so…

So, people are having babies later, people in long term relationships are having them out of wedlock, people are choosing to not have children at all and it’s all okay. God, marriage. There’s something that’s just pointless now. I should just walk into a court house, be able to declare my intention of forming a family unit, and be given the paperwork to change my name if I so desire. “I intend to support this person, and them, me.” “Well, alrighty, here’s the paperwork to have a joint name if so wanted, as well as to insure that person.” Period. The rest of it can go to hell.

Family unit. I’m starting my own clan. Like a tree house, only instead of “no boys allowed”, it’s simply “No one else; if I want more, I’ll make ’em”.

What I’m saying is I need a tree house, not a kid.

Wait…no. I think I may have gotten off topic.

Besting the Devil

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I beat the Devil last night.

That’s the wrong phrase, I know; no one can beat the Devil. After all, everyone dies.

I was with a friend. I didn’t recognize him, but then I didn’t recognize myself either. I was in my friend’s car, a large SUV beast, entirely more room then anyone who isn’t a logger or parents to sextuplets needs. We had been out for a drive and stopped at a scenic overlook to talk and think and reflect. He was going through a divorce and I was experiencing a rough patch in my marriage.  He would vent, I would question issues and actions, we would be silent.

And then I said something. I almost wish now that I could remember what it was – almost. But when I try to recall it’s as though someone dubbed over my voice. It was hastily erased and then crudely dubbed over in an obvious manner. What ever I did say had depth and weight and seemed to echo or reverberate in the car and change the air itself.

When I went to continue my companion held up his hand to stop me.

“What?”

“Shhh!” He seemed to be listening for something, but didn’t want to look around for its source.

“What?” I demanded, nervously chuckling.

“He’s here.” My friend, visibly shaken, started the car and began barreling down the road.

“…Wha?…” I asked slowly, stiffening as I realized what I had done. I simply felt it, as my friend had.

You see that sentence I spoke, the one I can’t remember, conjured the Devil. Back in the ‘80’s there was a TV series called The Storyteller and one of the episodes featured the tale of a man who could look through a glass of water and see Death sitting at the foot of a person’s bed. I remember thinking about that, thinking if I looked in the back seat I might see the Devil, but if I looked into the rear-view mirror I knew I would see him staring at me. I couldn’t bring myself to do either.

Satan as depicted by Botticelli

Photo credit Fishing

As we flew down the road, destination unspoken, I gripped the side of my seat.

“What do I do?” I asked wide eyed, scared.

“I don’t know, but he’s here for you.”

“What?! What did I say? Will he go away?” I practically shouted.

“I don’t know!” my friend barked. He was scared, too. “Maybe,” he continued forcing himself back to calm, “Maybe you have to be content. You’re looking for new and shiny things to make you happy. He feeds on anger and unrest. Maybe you have to prove that you’re happy with what you’ve got.”

I thought about this as we drove, digesting each word, feeling the Devil’s stare boring holes into the back of my head. What my friend had said was all true and looked to be my only option, for the time being. After all, most times you see the Devil it’s because somebody wants something so bad they’re making a deal with him. I was going to have to figure out something. It wasn’t my pride that made me want to rid myself of the Devil. It was a feeling of being spoiled and desperate for humility.

My friend dropped me off at my house. I stood a moment outside looking nervously at my home. I thought of my boyfriend inside. Though I hadn’t heard him exit the car, I knew the Devil had gotten out of the SUV when I had stepped out. I knew he was standing just behind my right shoulder. And though I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, I knew he was smiling.

I walked to the front door and let myself in. There was my boyfriend: kind, warm, and welcoming. Though he doesn’t normally cook, he had dinner made and was preparing to dish everything out.  And my boyfriend, so naturally truly happy, couldn’t see the Devil as we walked in together.

This is where things get disappointingly hazy. I could feel a malcontent emotion welling in my stomach. I had the sudden desperate urge to shout at my boyfriend while he was setting the table, like I needed to get something out.

I needed more.

The house projects needed to be completed.

We needed to spend money.

He lacked motivation.

My boyfriend didn’t argue, he just listened. Each word I spat made me angrier, I didn’t know where it was all coming from and yet it had all been there the whole time…and at the same time each comment made me heavy with guilt. I had to stop. I stepped back, though a shadow of myself remained shouting.

The guilt; everything I said was needless and wrong. It was then, while watching myself attempt to argue needless wants and justify unnecessary needs with a boyfriend who was willing to give me the world, that the Devil became satisfied. I could feel him content, so sure was he that he had won – that he would be taking me away – that he called his mistress to my home to join in my downward spiral.

I looked at him this time. I needed to see the smile I could feel spread across his etched and leathery face. I could see his mistress merely watching and standing at the door, disappointed in her own existence, but not above watching the destruction of others.

I looked at my boyfriend, who had all the while been trying to please me for no other reason then he loved me. My throat closed so fast I struggled to swallow. I looked down in shame and the shouting shadow was gone.

“No,” I said quietly.

“What?” asked my boyfriend politely. The Devil cautiously dropped his smile and knitted his brow.

“No, Chip, I was wrong.”

“What?” repeated my boyfriend, confused.

“I’m sorry I want so much. We have so much already – everything else is superfluous. I see that now. I want simply because I have nothing else to do. I feel stuck and just want things for happiness, but that’s wrong and I see that. I see what’s created from it. The projects we started will get done eventually. We don’t need anything new. I’m – I’m sorry. I’ve been so wrong.”

The Devil was angry now. I watched him move toward the door. I sat down in my chair at the dining table and took a breath. I closed my eyes believing prematurely that it was over, that the Devil would leave me be.

When I opened my eyes there was the Devil inches from my face. Only now my boyfriend could see him as well and was frozen in fear. Moving so quickly it took all of a moment the Devil shaved my head. I stood up, leveling his glare, not angry for the loss of my hair, but angry for knowing that I had done the right thing and the Devil just wanted to have the final move after the game had ended.

“Went for my head? Miss his?” I tilted my head toward my boyfriend’s shoulder length locks, much longer then mine even before the shave.

The Devil picked up on my sarcasm and seemed nervous. I took a quick stomp toward him taking advantage of the upper hand while I had it. Speaking as wholly as I could, I shook as I told the Devil “Stay away from my home and stay away from my family.” I half shouted, half growled.

Angry now the Devil pounded to the door. With one look back he and his mistress were gone.

And that’s how I beat the Devil, though I know that’s the wrong term.

Archangel Michael slays Satan (Raphael)

Photo Credit Logoi

__________

This is a dream I had this past Autumn and my reasoning for it’s clarity, yet bizarre aspect was this:

I blame that funky dream and others I’ve been having (like the cupcake-jello race car from two nights ago) on the heat. My boyfriend and I are from the Northeast, but have lived the last few years in Texas. At halfway through October I am really bitterly against the 90 degree days and I’ve found us both “willing” the season to actually become autumn. I’ve been burning candles called Fallen Leaves, Chip has been drinking Pumpkin beer and we’ve been trying to sleep with the windows cracked instead of using the AC. I hate the AC, but sleeping without it means I wake up at 1am, both Chip and I drenched in sweat, the blankets kicked to the floor and the thermostat reading in the mid 80’s.

So it must be the heat.

Though I could have had this particular dream because it’s true.