NOW by James Benton Moon

The Future is unclear

The Past is gone somehow

You are here

and this is the Now.


My Now consists

of thoughts of You

Holding your hand

Experiences that are new.


My Now consists

of loving and giving

abandoning a ship that long ago,

had already been sinking.


My Now consists

of crawling inside your Heart's Den

hearing your kind, supportive words

and letting them sink in.


My Now consists

again the words---

I Love You

and the three words build strength

the more I get to know you.


My Now consists

of your smile

rubbing whiskers

and just simply sleeping awhile.


My Now consists

of beauty and romance

to hold and be held

to take hold of this chance!

My Now consists

of You!

RIBBONIC MEMORIAL by Allen Conway Smith

Ribbonic Memorial

You know of Mr. Poe? (edgar allen, twisted little fucker)
He once told of Death in a Red Masque
Most see this as a tale, an allegory, an imagined stretch
It is that, somewhat, but the essence is still there
If most realized how tangible this figure is (run away screaming they would)
She is here to stay, folks.
She has an invitation written in ignorance and phobia
It wanted to leave long ago
But tethered to this world He still remains
Held taut by the Red Ribbon, tight and unforgiving
Anchored by my weak –ass wrists, bound
Helpless to break away the strands of red   (color of passion, was it worth it?)
Sewn together by stupidity and foolishness (no baby, I promise I’m clean. . . stupid boy)
I sit with my wrists held up high, the weight heavy
I appear as if in fervent devotion, in deep prayer (what are you praying for?)
Appealing to a Higher Power for another Timeline (no dues ex machine for you)
For the chain-tight ribbons to be but a dream, a wisp
Of the warnings of things that could come true but have not
But instead of Angels’ Wings against the bright of the sky (looking for della reese, are we?)
I see Her? Him? It? . . . . Me?
Like a big, red balloon with
A smiling Red Masque drawn on it  
With a strange resemblance. . . .  .(remind you of someone?)
Hesheitmewhatever remains up high seeking to escape, yet no
He remains my prisoner and I His warden (you sure it’s not the other way around?)
What does She have to complain about? Floating around
A long-reaching balloon that no one really notices anymore
No one runs screaming from THEM any more (until they ARE the balloon holder)
For Fuck’s sake They have parades in Its honor, vigils of candlelight
Held for those that finally had their Ribbons  (still surprised those bony hands could hang on)
Splinter and slowly tear apart (small wicks for what could have been longer lives, how special!)
Will I have a candle lit for my soul
After my Red leash finally turns to shreds?
Will anyone have listened to my plea, my cautionary “tale?” (did YOU listen?)
Will there be any tears to water the grasses I was dragged across
By this FUCKING, WORRISOME, DREADFUL humanoid Grim?
The grass will need it, I have been dragged across pretty well (hey, you tied the knot to this thing)
And where is HE!?!?!
HE should be here, helping me with this fucking thing
Can I not get an arm across my shoulders?
At least a yank on my shirt to let me know HE is there?
Guess not (nope)
Looks like this balloon ride is a one seater (HE has his own balloon ride)
I never liked taking road trips by myself, I like company (but you can get some you fool)
Who wants to take a ride with me? (plenty have their thumbs out, you just need to look)
Who wants to rub ointment on the marks made
By this pretty, shiny, Hercules-worthy, long-reaching ribbon? (do you ever fucking listen?)
I don’t want to be alone. .  .someone please. . . (well if you would stop looking up at that damn thing)
Can’t help myself but to watch Him float
Waiting for him to finally POP! (meanwhile you just passed by three more people)
Hold the fuck on. . . did it. . ?
Just minimize? Is It about to pop?
Is She. . . OHGOD!
SHESGONNAPOPHESGONNADRIFTTHERIBBONSREADYTOTEAR!!! (calm down)
SHITSHITSHITSHIT!!!
Wait. . everything is the same
Just a trick of the light
He is still there, dragging my ass
I am still here. . . who the fuck am I talking to?
No one here (sigh. .  .STOP FOCUSING ON THE SKY, RETARD!!!)


My neck hurts

LIBRARY of DUST by David Maisel (A contribution from Parris Hughes)

For LINK of this exhibit, go to: http://www.davidmaisel.com/works/lod.asp

Library of Dust depicts individual copper canisters, each containing the cremated remains of patient from a state-run psychiatric hospital. The patients died at the hospital between 1883 (the year the facility opened, when it was called the Oregon State Insane Asylum) and the 1970’s; their bodies have remained unclaimed by their families.

The approximately 3,500 copper canisters have a handmade quality; they are at turns burnished or dull; corrosion blooms wildly from the leaden seams and across the surfaces of many of the cans. Numbers are stamped into each lid; the lowest number is 01, and the highest is 5,118. The vestiges of paper labels with the names of the dead, the etching of the copper, and the intensely hued colors of the blooming minerals combine to individuate the canisters. These deformations sometimes evoke the celestial - the northern lights, the moons of some alien planet, or constellations in the night sky. Sublimely beautiful, yet disquieting, the enigmatic photographs in Library of Dust are meditations on issues of matter and spirit.

Glorious, Robot! by Red Adley

     It's like a bad blow to the noggin'....say like bumpin' your head on a cabinet. 

     You see stars!  Well, technically swimming atoms over your eyes.  And suddenly---it makes you think, Owww...I'm a Human.  I'm a Human and I have atoms as parts.

     Except that doesn't happen to me anymore, and I've begun to wonder about that.  Instead, I stare forward without blinking.  All Systems Are Go.  At least, it feels good to say that.


     When I was a young man, a man in college, I used to play all-kinds of intramural sports.   Flag Football was our frat sport, and we played it often clear into dusk.  But we also played baseball, ultimate Frisbee and basketball when the black guys would let us use their courts.

     Back then I was so spry and lankly muscular---I really got around with the ladies.  The sorority girls would gather around the fields and watch us play football in our tight shorts.  I'd do my own type of "non-flirting" where I would raise my shirt to wipe the sweat away from my forehead, all the while pretending not to see them swoon. 

     That's how I met my girl...playing Flag Football!  To think a bunch of guys chasing each-other around reaching-out to grab asses could turn a bunch of women-on!  Wow.

     I hear vibration.  It worries me that I don't blink.  Something is happening.  I hear vibration.

     The college helped me find an internship which turned-into a major job at a big company located a couple hundred miles away in the Big City.

     I can't remember the name of the company.  I can't even remember the name of the Big City.  What is happening to me?  More vibration.  Someone seems to be approaching from upstairs. 

     I remember the name of my gym though---it was called City Gym. 

     City Gym of what city dammit?  Have I blinked?  In hours?

     That gym had everything, though it was small.  Real bodybuilders went to City Gym.  It was motivating to be around people like me, men who lived for nutrition and looking healthy.  I immersed myself into that environment...some would even say to my detriment!

     I put on so much muscle back then!  I worked-out in the early mornings AND after my shifts.  I got so big other members would give me priority on the weights.

     And like some superstar on steroids, I changed that year for sure.  I of course didn't get any taller, but I did get huge.  I went from a size Medium to an Extra Large.  People who hadn't seen me in months were shocked.

     "ROIDS, Man" someone would say, under their breath whenever I went in public.  This got to where it was making me real self-conscienced---so I sort of went underground. 

     I  stopped working-out and shopping during normal hours so that no one would leer at me, or bother me with their opinions.  I was amazed at my size and considered myself a candidate for Mr, Olympia then.

     Late night at the grocery I could also read labels and compare my own theories about nutrition without anyone interfering.  Although this was also prime time for gay cruising and more than once I've had to whisper "...I'm not gay," to a passing male fan out shopping for late night chocolate AND/OR piece of ass.

     By way of California, I made it all the way to the Olympia that year; but was placed real far down.  I think I was in the 18th position when people started to fall-out or quit.  I had a lot of media coverage at least, and was voted a crowd favorite, finally making it to 6th Place! 

     Suddenly the lights come on and there is a woman in a business suit standing right in front of me. She's talking, but I can't hear what she is saying.  I can't even read her lips.  She's a heavy set blonde with pretty eyes.  This is probably the vibration I felt?

     She's looking all-around, on top, beside me---rubbing her fingers near my eyes but I still cannot make-out what she is saying...which soon becomes...

     "Duh---here's the ON Switch."

     Another voice is added to the room, and it has created an added vibration: "It's OLD...probably going to be perfect for our project.  But it has to warm-up."

     And that's exactly what it feels like...a warm...or sick...feeling in me.  My memories of my glorious days as a champion bodybuilder grow bright as I see one last glimpse of myself posing in those dumbass trunks!  Then the picture begans to fade.  I'm beginning to hear better and realize the saddest thing...a devastating revelation that I'm not really Human after all.  I'm some product of a tape left across the head of a machine.  And to hear correctly, I'm a machine which has almost outlived it's usefulness.

     "I don't know if it will work for this project, but we can try." says the male vibration.

     The female answers with surprise in her voice "...well look at this---a tape from the 1988 Mr. Olympia."  She ejects the tape, handing it to the male vibration.

     "They sure don't make 'em like this anymore, do they?"

     The female vibration laughs at me.  Humiliating.  I feel nothing.

Notes on The NETWORK, a play by Red Irvin Adley

The NETWORK will soon be ready for a 1st read.  This will require several people and their allowing our team to record their voices. 

If you are interested, please contact me redirvinadley@gmail.com

We will probably be shooting "in the round" and do several takes of each "scene".  The work is only 60 minutes, the amount of time a networking group would meet.  However, we will probably shoot for 2 hours, both video and audio.

After these test runs, we will re-edit the work and look for a Re-Read. 

This is a project for Credit titles only, and is yet unpublished or financed. 

Producer Inquiry: redirvinadley@gmail.com

By the Short Hairs - J. Davis Meadows

I was sweating and smiling and holding tight to Bill's naked torso.

Bill lay there breathing very deeply and the hot sun shone through the window sadly with expectation. 

We were expected to get out of bed.

Anytime now.

It was noon after all.

But the sun was wrong.

It wasn't time to get out of bed.

It was time to hold each other tight and feel the sweat roll down our sides and soak the bed.

Margaret walked in and told us that breakfast was ready.  I guess I hadn't locked the door after all.

She pinched Bill's butt and then went back downstairs.

That was when we could hear the expectations of the pots and pans being thrown around downstairs.  We hadn't noticed them before, but now with both the sun and the pots and pans trying to get us out of bed there seemed little doubt that we would indeed be rising soon.

Bill rolled off after a prolonged kiss.  He smiled and helped me out of bed.  My legs were stiff from having held them up over his shoulders for so long.  I wasn't young any more, no siree.

"Lets just go down like this," said Bill "I don't want to get dressed anyway."

"I'm sure the girls would just love that, but I will not be picking quiche out of your pubic hair if you make a mess darling." I retorted.

In the end we both were silently picking out skimpy shorts to wear anyway.  Though it would have been fun to see their faces I guess.

"Dave"  began Bill.

"Yes Bill." I said patiently.

"I love you."  Bill smiled and kissed me again.  This was not going to be a normal morning after all I guess.  This was the first time Bill had used the L word.  We had been talking around it for about three weeks now.

"I love you too, Bill." I said smiling and kissing him much deeper and more passionately to the absurd point of throwing him back down on the bed.

"Come and get it!" shouted Margaret's lover Babs from the bottom of the stairs.

"Coming!" shouted Bill.

"So's Brad." I quipped.

We finished dressing and went down to breakfast.  The fish had cooked a humongous meal of eggs, bacon, toast, jam, juice, potatoes, coffee and New York Times.  Where in the world had they gotten a New York Times?  I hadn't seen one since we had boarded the train leaving England.

After breakfast we all discussed our plans for the day.  For once our plans all seemed to coincide.  This was amazing.  Since we had gotten to Germany we had all tended to go our own way most days.  We would meet here and there during our days and evenings, and ending up ever night as late as possible sitting out on the back porch talking with the neighbors in what ever language we could best communicate.

One night the language had actually been French.  Unfortunate for me since I knew no French and was being pretty much left out the conversation entirely.  But boy that couples young son was a looker.  He spoke a little English and when he spoke I completely forgot that Bill was sitting next to me stroking my ass playfully.

But most nights the language was either English or German, or some variant of the two.  I liked the English the best.  My mother toungue, and the only language I did not make a fool out of myself speaking.

The Fish and Bill and I decided to spend the day together.  We all wanted to take drive up to Trier and sit out in front of the Porta Nigra with good German beer and our sketch books.

Who would have ever guessed that four artists could actually get along long enough to spend an entire month together in a small townhouse.  Or worse than that, be sleeping and having sex with only a short hallway in between.  Actually some nights there were actual contests to see who could make more noise than the other couple.

Loading up the car we all threw in our easels just in case.  No one was expecting to do anything more than pencil sketches, but we would all hate ourselves if we missed a perfect opportunity for a great painting.  Of course four easels was probably overkill, but we also had tubes of oil paint, acrylic, water colour, pastels, pencils, and even spray cans in our four big art supply chests.

The trip was uneventful except that Babs had rolled two great big joints and forced us all to smoke with her.  By forced I don't really mean to imply she put a gun to our head, but if she hadn't kept all the windows closed we might not have been quite so inclined to join in.

When we reached Trier two hours later Babs was completely stoned.  She of course was the only one of us who did her best art in that state.  She wasn't a realist by any stretch of the imagination.  Her version of the Porta Nigra would probably be a giant black splotch spray painted onto a torn canvas.

We all unloaded the bare minimums, our sketch pads and our little artist stools.  We never expected to be allowed to sit in an outdoor cafe all day without buying more drinks than we actually needed.  We always assumed they would kick us out.  This way if they didn't we tipped well and thanked them graciously.  Not all business owners are avid patrons of the arts.

We walked four blocks to the Porta Nigra and slowly walked through its monstrous bowels.  We had all four come here at some point in the last two weeks, but none of us had grown tired of admiring the anciant Roman fortress.

The Porta Nigra had once been the entrance to the anciant walled Roman city that had stood here.  A huge four story complex towering over the neighboring buildings with it's darkened stones and stoic simplicity, the Porta Nigra was alone in its awsome beauty.

Only two blocks away were fantastic Gothic Churches and small architectural wonders that could stun any admirer, but the Porta Nigra was alone in it's character.  All the way across town were the remains of the Roman Baths.  A building that had once been so huge as to be disconcerting and unbelievable, but the Porta Nigra was still alone.  Alone in its darkness, and it's immensness.  It had usefullness and purpose in every broad stroke of stone and ever supple curve of arch and column.  This building was a masterpiece.

When Bill had come back harping on the ugliness of the postcard pictures for sale at this monument he had not done the building justice.  He had called it "this great black stone entrance way to the anciant Roman city."  Now that doesn't sound very impressive does it.  Well when I saw it I can tell you I was impressed.  I probably stood dumb founded for minutes.

Anyway, we found our way to the little cafe we all knew we had chosen.  We sat at a lonely table near the front and sat down looking around catiously.  We would all drink a round before we pulled out our pads and pencils.

At four thirty they had still not asked us to leave and Babs had finished fifteen sketches of the monument.  Margaret had gone and gotten her easel and we all had allowed her the honor of being the lone painter for a time.  We didn't want to invade her space with the noise of tourists staring at four different paintings side by side.  We all knew instictively that a crowd would form if we did that.

At Seven thirty Bill and I had moved away from the cafe to begin paintings on our easels over across the street.  Babs had stuck with sketches deciding to do a very large scale piece tomorrow at home.

At nine thirty we all finished what we were doing to put our stuff back in the car and find some dinner.  The cafe owner stopped us and asked us to eat with them.  They fed the four of us in style back near the waiters station and glowed over the sketches that we all had to show.  One young waitress was obviously enamored of The Fish and we all shared that joke later in the evening.  By eleven we were on our way home.

It had been suggested by Bill that we go bar hopping, but none of the rest of us really felt up to it.  Besides, I really had the urge to strip him naked and chew on his pubic hairs.

When we arrived home The Fish disappeared into their little room, and we boys went to ours and the howling began.  God knows, which couple the little French boy down the street was listening to as he masterbated.

The Motion of Water on a Pond - J. Davis Meadows

All summer long the sun sets over the pond that lies between our family home and Mr. Smith's cornfield.  The reflected golden light floods my bedroom window, and during the long summer months the lopsided rectangle drifts lazily across Kermit speckled wall of my childhood bedroom.

When I was twelve years old I charted the path of the sun.  I took a red pencil and marked a line every night at exactly 9 o'clock.  I only missed ten nights the whole summer.

Every summer since then I've spent a certain number of nights checking to make sure the sun hasn't left its appointed course.  In the least I like to make sure that our house isn't sliding down the hill towards the farm.

I guess I should explain that the orange light didn't only move across my wall.  I mean if it were that simple I probably would never have noticed the thing.

The rippling colors that appeared on certain evenings struck up a morbid fascination inside me.  I was a little frightened by the mysterious colors.

Somewhere around my seventh birthday I asked my father why the lights moved the way they did.

My father, in his off-handed know-it-all sort of way, told me to look down at the pond.  He explained that the water was moving and rippling and that was why the light being reflected off it was always moving and changing.

This was just the kind of answer one comes to expect from an engineer right.

I believed my father perfectly well, but I began to wonder what it was that lie under the water.  What was making it move and ripple?  It frightened me more now than it had been before.

I had another disturbing thought.  Why had my father chosen not to explain what was down there?  Could it have simply slipped his mind?  Or was there some sort of adult plot going on?

So a few days later I dragged by father down to the pond, under some sort of false pretense.  I asked my father what was under there that made it jiggle around so much.  I hadn't felt anything in there with me while Billy and I had been skinny dipping, and no one had ever thought to warn me before now.

No, no, my father explained, it's the wind that blows the surface of the water into those little waves.

Again an answer that seemed appropriate yet vague.

I looked at the pond in confusion.  I can't recall now how my father changed the subject, but we were suddenly trudging back up the hill towards home.

A year or so later I was sitting beside the pond with Billy and I decided to ask him about this mystery.  Billy was two years older than I was, so maybe he could help me understand why the wind didn't just blow all the water out of the little pond.

Billy seemed confused.  He then quickly stood me up and marched me down to the water's edge to see something.

Billy pointed out the little bugs that skimmed across the top of the pond.  Then he grabbed at the tiny fish that swam below the surface of the pond.  He even attempted to chase the frogs that jumped in and out of the pond.

I watched in wonder as Billy touched the water and showed me how even his own hand could create a little rippled wave.

See, Billy explained, a wave travels back and forth across the top of the water all the time.  Each wave slows down and dies after a very long time.  A long, long time, longer than a little boy could sit and watch it.  And every time a bug, or a fish, or a frog touches the surface of the water, it causes that specific wave to get larger and travel farther.

Then Billy showed me how two different waves could collide and split into lots of little waves.  It was getting too complex now.  Billy explained that when a bunch of Frogs are having a wild party, we can sometimes hear them partying during the hot summer evenings, they cause the waves to get really big.

And then other times, said Billy, it's just sort of a freak occurrence, like a lot of little waves suddenly getting together into one big wave.  It's all a matter of where the waves meet.

Billy and I argued for a time on the difference between a wave created by a fish and a wave created by a frog.  I tried to prove through prolonged tests that the frog's wave was a cresting wave, and that a fish's wave was a sinking wave.

It didn't matter.  We just jumped back into the water, all my fears finally dissipated.  That was the last time that Billy and I skinny dipped together.

A few years later, I had learned that my father hadn't been completely wrong.

I was sitting in the darkened grasses above the pond with my new best friend Michael.  Michael's father had bought the drug store downtown and was running for mayor too.  I had begun bringing Michael here shortly after Billy joined the football team, and lost interest in swimming.  Now the pond was mine and Michael's hang out.

Michael and I lay together in the rushes on the side of the pond that faces the woods.  Curling into each other awkwardly to avoid the cold it suddenly occurred to me to get us out of the wind somehow.  It was after all the wind that was making us cold.  And when I looked out at the pond, to try to find a better place for us to lie together, I noticed that the wind was blowing the reeds, and the trees, and the birds, and the weeds, and the little rippled waves on the pond in the same direction.

I had learned about gravity in school recently so it was a simple thing now to understand why the wind couldn't blow all the water out of the pond.  Boy isn't it strange how distorted the facts can become when you listen to engineers and football players.

Later that evening Michael and I lay on the bed in my room looking up at the rectangle of golden light from our little pond.  I told Michael about my earlier misconceptions about the waves in the pond.  Michael enjoyed my story and told me a story so much that he immediately began telling me about his father's version of the story.

It seems that in ancient times there had been a powerful and strikingly beautiful young man named Narcissus.

Narcissus was so beautiful that all the women of the world adored him.  And, so attractive to women that all the men of the world were either extremely jealous of him, or adored him just the way the women had (this was Michael's addition I think).

Narcissus had stolen so many women from their men, and so many men from their women, that the gods were angry at him for his interference.  They had intended for things to go a certain way, and Narcissus was really screwing everything up.

Now back then the gods took their jobs very seriously.  They would have to do something to prevent this young mortal from influencing too many people.  One ugly old god suggested that they turn Narcissus into an ugly old man to punish him for his indulgences.  This god had lost the favor of many of his mortal mistresses, and two of his young sons as well.

Then another god suggested that they leave him just as beautiful as he had always been, but give him a really foul body odor.  This god did not have bad body odor himself, but his wife did.

In fact all but one god suggested different ways of taking revenge on Narcissus.  Apollo, the son of Zeus, kept his mouth shut because he knew that he was alone in his admiration of the powerful Narcissus.  He knew that it wouldn't do to make enemies over the lovely young mortal, no matter how beautiful he might have been.

Finally a decision was made based upon the suggestion of a beautiful young goddess.  THis goddess was as beautiful as Narcissus could claim to be, but was unjustly jealous that while she sat up here alone in Olympus he got to have his way with many mortal women.

Her suggestion was simple and elegant.  She proposed that they place a magical pond in Narcissus' path so that he would look into the pond and fall passionately in love with the image of himself that was reflected there.

When asked what kind of punishment this would be, she simply replied, he will sit at that pond and stare at himself until he is old enough, and worn enough, to fall out of love with life, and he will die.  The gods applauded her ingenuity.  No one else had come up with a suggestion so cleverly appropriate.

Several of the gods worked together to build the little magic pond that was needed for the trick.  They worked for days without stopping so that the pond would be complete precisely the moment before Narcissus was due to pass the valley they had chosen for their trap.

Narcissus was traveling along towards his homeland, having spent a fortnight at his uncles home in the mountains when he came upon his favorite little valley.  He had always stopped in this valley as a child, and had rested here upon many journeys since then.  This time however there was something strange and wonderful in the center of his green valley.  A golden pond with water lilies and sunflowers around it sat perched amongst shimmering white rocks.

Narcissus had never seen anything as beautiful as this little pond, and completely absorbed in his admiration of the pond he did not question its sudden appearance, for it had not been here when he stopped here only weeks before.

Narcissus went to the pond's edge and enticed by the cool mist and the reflected clouds he stripped off his armor and robes and settled down into the water to rinse the dust of the journey from himself.

The gods were above him looking down, waiting impatiently, for him to look down into the pond and become frozen there.  They had expected that he would look immediately.

What they didn't know was that Narcissus didn't actually consider himself all that attractive.  He tended to avoid looking at his reflection, and considered it rather boring that some many other people set such importance on his appearance.

Unfortunately once Narcissus felt clean and refreshed he did take the opportunity pull out his shaving kit.  The moment he looked down into his reflection he became trapped in the pond's magical spell.

Before the Gods had even dispersed Apollo was already planning a rescue attempt.

Apollo's father, Zeus was the god of storms, so Apollo knew that he could also control the weather a little.  He could even create it when he needed to.

Until now, there hadn't been much weather of interest created.

There was rain, but it only happened up in the mountains so that the streams would always be full.

There was snow, but that was also in the mountains, and it was used solely to keep the mortals from traveling on up to Olympus.

There was lightening, but that was primarily used as a weapon, to scare people, and to destroy things that were no longer useful.

Apollo decided, quite logically, that he had to use the weather to disturb this little pond only enough to break the spell.

He knew he couldn't use lightening, because his father would immediately notice it missing.  Zeus kept lightening by his side at all times.

Apollo thought about snow, but the clouds that accompanied snow would attract every God in the hemisphere.  Rain had the same drawback.

Apollo was beginning to flounder.  He wasn't sure, but he suddenly felt certain that he was going to have to go about inventing something new if he wanted the right results.  The problem, as he saw it, was that even his father avoided creating weather.  Apollo just couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was that he should be concerned about.

But then a thought hit him.  What if he created just a little tiny movement in the air.  Rain and snow were just movements of water, and lightning was a movement of electricity, so why couldn't air be moved just the same way.

If the air touched the water, then a little air movement might just be enough to cause the little pond lose its magic spell over Narcissus.  It was worth a try.

Apollo began working on his "wind".  That was the name he had chosen for his little air movement.

It took Apollo weeks and weeks of work to find the right little ingredients he needed to create the wind.  He had to go away and search for some of the things, and every time something was especially difficult to find he would consider giving up, but then he would look again at young Narcissus and continue on.

Finally Apollo finished his creation.  Everything was in place.  As far as Apollo could tell, he had thought of every possible problem that could occur.

Apollo sat down across from Narcissus to study his beauty.  Who could say when he might again have the chance to study the mortal from so close.  After all, there were but a few moments when Narcissus was not surrounded by his fellow mortals.

So Apollo studied Narcissus.  He painted pictures, and pined over him, until he had completely exhausted himself.  Then he simply sat back on the rocks and reached out to switch on the wind.

Now Apollo was not a stupid God.  In fact, he was considered to be the most intelligent of all his kin.  He had put considerable thought into all the important variables.

Apollo had put a control on the wind so that he could adjust how fast it would blow.

Apollo had put a nozzle on it so that he could adjust its direction.

Everything seemed to be going perfectly.

Within minutes the pond was beginning to ripple.  Just a little at first, but then as Apollo turned up the speed the pond rippled some more.

There seemed to be enough disturbance, but still not enough.

Apollo turned the wind up a little higher, and then pushed it a little closer to the pond for a better effect.

Finally there was enough ripple upon the water to break the spell that held Narcissus frozen.  Narcissus stood up.  He didn't even notice Apollo standing there.  Gods are actually very hard to see with the naked eye.

Then Narcissus packed up the shaving kit that he had been holding.  He had no recollection of having kneeled there for several weeks.  In fact, he awoke refreshed and excited.  And, feeling refreshed he loaded his possessions back into his pack and walked out of the little valley.

Apollo was upset that Narcissus had not seen him.  He wasn't upset enough to do anything very rash.  He could never have contemplated hurting Narcissus.  But, he was upset enough to clench his big fists and smack his palms.  And, he was also upset enough to beat upon the nearest object he could lay his hands upon.

Unfortunately, the nearest object at hand was the wind.  Apollo struck the wind without really thinking.  People do things in anger that they would never do when sober of mind.  And, unfortunately, the wind  being only a newly created thing, was rather fragile.

When Apollo became aware that he had just struck the wind he became concerned.  He had never seen Zeus strike any creation.  It somehow seemed to Apollo that striking a creation was a thing that you were definitely supposed to avoid doing.

Apollo immediately inspected the Wind.  The first thing he found was the control nozzle for directing the wind.  It was twisted at an odd angle, and swung heavily back and forth like a loose fire hose.  At first his seemed like it would be okay.  The wind wasn't blowing very hard, what kind of damage could a change of direction do.

Then the wind began to speed up and slow down without any sort of input from Apollo.  Apollo found the control knob for the speed of the wind lying on the rocks at the edge of the pond, and somehow he had caused a short deep inside the machine as well.  This did not look good.

Now the two controls that he had over the wind were both broken, and Apollo was not certain exactly what could be done about broken creations.  Apollo sensed that creations, once created, couldn't really be fixed if broken.  That seemed to have been the rule right after, don't strike your creations.

Now, as I've said, Apollo was not stupid, he knew it was time to go admit the situation to his father and ask for his father's help.  See Apollo wasn't stupid, but he hadn't thought of the obvious solution.  This required his father's wisdom and age.

Zeus was angry at his son, but decided that the whole incident had probably put enough fear into Apollo as to not warrant any further punishment.  That is until his son showed him what he had created.

At first Zeus was impressed, Apollo's ingenious creation did meet all the criteria set down for good creations:  It was interesting, it suited the needs of the moment, it wasn't large or unwieldy.  Zeus remembered his other eldest son's creation, the volcano, and laughed at the subtlety of Apollo's little wind.

So just turn it off now, suggested Zeus, having admired the creation for an ample period.

That's when Apollo remembered another of the rules about creations.  Always give them a beginning and an end.

Zeus went through the ceiling upon hearing that Apollo had created a wind that no longer had any direction controls, had a short circuited speed control, and couldn't be turned off.

Don't you know that this wind will begin pushing the rain around eventually, he said angrily.

Apollo could see his father's logic, but that didn't really affect the intensity of his guilt.

He knew right off that his wind would blow the snow right off the mountain tops.

He knew with no lack of clarity that rain would be pushed out of its regular valleys and whole rivers would dry up.  Other valleys would be flooded.

Zeus had plenty of wonderfully creative punishments in mind as he glared at his handsome son.  Instead, he chose to simply add to Apollo's guilt.

Handing Apollo lightning he order Apollo to throw it into a nearby rain cloud to be carried along by his little wind.

Apollo didn't want to do it.  He was quite aware of how much damage lightning could do, but his father was looking quite dangerous with anger etched across his broad face.

So Apollo threw the lightning up into the nearest dark rain cloud.

Now you've given away all my weather to your little wind, said Zeus, are you quite satisfied?

Rhetorical question, Apollo decided.

Zeus never mentioned the weather again.

On occasion the wind, the rain, and the lightning would visit Mount Olympus.  And, on those days Zeus would snarl, and grimace, and a shout very much like the crack of a whip would escape his vengeful lips in unison with every lightning bolt.

Apollo and Narcissus lived unhappily ever after.

When Michael finished his story I held him tight for a long time.

Michael had always been a wonderful story teller.  I wondered how much of that story was actually his fathers, and how much was his own.

I suddenly wondered if Michael's father had ever told him about the rules one should use when creating a story.

I wonder if his father had warned him not to strike at the stories he created.  Or what about the rule regarding changing a story once it was created.

I guess not, because I know that Michael's father probably hadn't given Apollo and Narcissus such an interesting relationship.

In fact, Michael's father probably used Athena, or some goddess as the poor scapegoat for the weather.

Of course I liked Michael's story better than I would have liked his father's.

After all, if each frog that jumps into a pond can add a little momentum to a wave then why can't each story teller add a little momentum to a story?

I mean there's no such thing as a dangerous wave, right?

New Atlanta Gay Writers Club!

I have created this blog to function as a place for sharing creative writing projects for our group of Atlanta Gay Writers!

I intend to start publishing chapters, and short stories, to allow my friends to give me constructive feedback, and vice versus.

Please join me in welcoming fresh new literary talent!