we were in a foreign place and we could not sing. [trigger #82]

As a species, the people of Cantatrix are a people of song. Their weak limbs are unfit for labor or war, their soft pink skin is fragile and bruises easily, the strange proportion of their large heads to their small bodies makes balance an issue when moving too quickly.

Yet, they sing with a beauty that transcends the material world. Their vulnerability is the price they pay for this gift of unparalleled art.

When one hears their voices raised in song, it suddenly becomes easier to believe in hope, and love, and magic, and goodness. They sing for the sick and wounded and lost causes come back from the brink of death. It is even said, in whispers and stories, that when the elders sing together they can bring substance from imagination to reality.

But that was before the Proeliatii brought war to Cantatrix for the first time in memory. Killing with wanton disregard for anything but their lust for further conquest, they pulled the Cantatrii away from their home, and worse, away from the Numerwell.

Without the source of their melody, they began to have trouble finding their voices. A great sadness fell over the Cantatrii. In time, they lost the ability to sing altogether. Now, a silence is falling over the entire known world. Sounds that once sustained the world are disappearing. At first, no one noticed. Then, people had an eerie feeling without ever knowing why. Now, it is becoming impossible to ignore.

People never sit in absent-minded song as they work; children no longer laugh; birds have lost their voices; the wind no longer whistles or howls. Some even say the sun is dimming, and that shadows are growing unnaturally long.

Yet, the Proeliatii are ignorant of all these things. They continue to wage war and destroy. They imprisoned the Cantatrii without a thought and moved on to their next conquest.

If things continue like this for too much longer, light and song may be lost forever. So, Marteen and his small band of brave Cantatrii must devise a plan to free the elders and return them safely to the Numerwell in the hope that the Song of Making might save creation.

dirty fork behind the couch. [trigger #81]

“C’mon!!”

He’d looked everywhere, but he just couldn’t find it. It just didn’t make any sense. Was there some sort of dimensional rift in his living room that sucked his cell phone into it?

True, he’d been utterly drunk the night before, but to the best of his knowledge that never included him leaving his house. His friends had come over, one beer had led to another, and the next thing he knew he was awake with a raging hangover and no cell phone.

According to the responses to his frantic emails, none of the friends who’d been over the night before had accidentally taken his phone with them, and they claim to have searched their cars and homes.

So, where was the phone?

“Shit! I don’t need this today.”

He’d found plenty of things he didn’t intend to find. That copy of Catcher in the Rye that Jenn let him borrow last month was under the side table. $1.37 was stuck in various couch and chair cushions. The universal remote he’d owned two universal remotes ago was jammed under the entertainment center. There was also a half eaten bag of Doritos, three old Wendy’s wrappers, what appeared to have once been an apple, and a dirty fork behind the couch.

He was now utterly convinced that his roommates were disgusting, but was no closer to finding his lost cell phone.

usurper. [trigger #80]

The Usurper was huge, over eight feet tall. With the exception of size, his body was much like that of a man, but with many remarkable differences. His skin was smooth and purple, from his forehead protruded two massive horns. He had two heavy chains connecting his horns to his wrists, ever keeping his arms from extending to a comfortable angle. His hands were human hands, but with a constantly burning fire surrounding each without ever consuming them. He had long ago become accustomed to the pain.

His physical appearance had once been that of a normal human being, but his shape was now a part of his punishment for trying to take the throne from the rightful king.

Of his 700 years of imprisonment and solitude, he had known how to free himself for the last 400. Yet, he had continued to bide his time, to grow in power, to wait until the day was right for the inauguration of his plans. That day had finally come.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, the chains connecting his wrists and horns snapped in the center, surely the chains had been set with wards and alarms, so word of his escape was just now beginning to reach others in the kingdom.

The Usurper opened his eyes and stretched his arms for the first time in 700 years. He looked at the door to the room of his imprisonment and waved his hand before him. With a grinding screech the massive metal door tore from its hinges and flew off into the distance.

He walked to the door, looking down some 400 feet from the lone prison tower. Below was nothing but waste and wilderness. They would never have risked placing his prison anywhere near people, they feared his influence would extend beyond the walls and recruit allies in his escape.

He breathed in the air and looked up at the hazy sun. For a moment, he rested his hand against the wooden doorframe, charring it with the fire of his hands. He smiled, a lonely, tired smile. It was finally time to reenter the world, finally time to take his vengeance, and finally time to make things right.

i will survive. [trigger #79]

Tony danced in the livingroom of his small apartment and sang at the top of his lungs. Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” had been on repeat for 40 straight minutes, and there was no end in sight.

Sarah-Beth had shown up yet again. She did this. She would come back, promise everything would be different, stick around for a month or two, and then leave him with nothing but heartbreak and self-loathing. It was a pattern that had been repeating itself for nearly two years.

This time, he wouldn’t let her do it, and as silly as it might sound, “I Will Survive” had become his battle cry. He would play it at full volume, much to the chagrin of any and all neighbors, and he would sing and dance until he remembered his resolve and kept from returning her most recent phone call.  He wouldn’t again be that scared person who was so afraid of being alone that he took Sarah-Beth back against all reasonable judgment. And, if he had to listen to Gloria 1,000 times to get it to sink from his head to his heart, well, then that’s exactly what he was going to do.

she wasn’t a young rhino anymore. [trigger #78]

Margaret was tired, and her huge bones ached. She wasn’t a young rhino anymore, and rhinos are prone to soreness to begin with, being so big and all. Margaret just grazed slowly through the grass and wondered what life would have been like if she had married Mark instead of Steve.

She’d chosen Steve when she was young and far less wise. That’s saying something, because she isn’t particularly wise now. To be honest, she’s downright stupid, but that’s a rhino’s lot in life. Did you know they have remarkably small brains for mammals their size? Well, now you do.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, she had chosen Steve, because Steve had been big and strong, handsome for a rhino. Mark had been shorter, less of a rhino’s rhino, a dreamer instead of a fighter. Steve was all action, many times when someone asked Steve a question he didn’t like, he would knock down a small tree, or a nearby human hut, or perhaps another rhino. As it would turn out, the real reason Steve was doing this was because he was easily confused by questions, and would knock things down to change the subject. However, in her youth, Margaret thought it indicated a take charge attitude, and loved it.

She would have figured out quickly that Steve was just stupid and angry, if she’d ever asked him questions, but Margaret and Steve didn’t do much in the way of talking, if you know what I mean.

Mark, on the other hand, was wildly intelligent for a rhinoceros. Still, in his youth he’d been enamored with Margaret. He didn’t spend much time with other rhinos, preferring the company of monkeys, but when he was with the herd, he was staring at Margaret.

He’d asked for her three toed foot in marriage. She just laughed and went off with Steve to make out in the nearby trees. He ended up marrying Rebecca Fingler instead. She was an outcast like him, because what sort of name is Rebecca Fingler for a rhinoceros?!?

The lives of Mark and Rebecca were very different than the lives of Margaret and Steve. Mark started a successful entertainment business in which he hired other rhinos to stamp out the campfires of humans for the amusement of a paying monkey audience. He became rich nearly overnight.

Steve, on the other hand, lost every job he’d ever had. Always because he started his routine of knocking things over when he got flustered. This also made it tough to do well in the interview process, so he had trouble finding jobs too.

And, whereas Mark encouraged Rebecca to follow her dreams in training rhino ballerinas, which also became a very successful business, Steve convinced Margaret to stay at home to watch him knock things over. Not that Margaret would have done much else, but still.

So, Margaret stood there eating the grass, wondering what might have happened if she had accepted Mark’s marriage proposal instead of laughing him off, and feeling sorry for herself.

pigeon shit on their fedoras. [trigger #77]

Their night of debauchery was clearly in evidence. All four of them were unconscious: passed out drunk, propped in various positions against the side of the fountain, pigeon shit covering their fedoras to a remarkable degree. They’d been slumped there for some time. Lou had two black eyes. Herm was missing pants and had tissues jammed into his nostrils in what had clearly been a bloody nose at some point. Lowell was wearing three different ladies garters over his pants. Thurman, all 275 lbs of him, was dressed as a ballerina, all aside from the shit covered fedora that is.

As the sixteenth months ‘Dad’s Night Out,’ it was thus far at once the greatest success and the most remarkable failure.

you can get out of this. [trigger #76]

Mail was very carefully searched, to cut down on any secret messages and the like passing to and from prisoners. The prospect of POWs passing any information to people on the outside was a disastrous one. In the past, they wouldn’t have allowed messages of any sort, but Lady Marie was a royal hostage, and there had been a universal edict that all such prisoners were to be granted appropriate access to communication with their families.

They read the letter to Marie from her sister, checked it for magical tampering, even checked it against various known codes and secret languages. When they had seen to their satisfaction that it wasn’t dangerous, they passed it on to her chamber.

Her room was a comfortable one, her being a political prisoner and all. She was held in the north tower, at the very top, with a view overlooking the lake to the northeast and the mountains beyond that. She had all her clothes and books, clean and comfortable linens, and access to several servants who saw to her needs.

Upon receiving the letter, she asked to be alone to read. She read the surface meaning of the letter, silly little updates and anecdotes about how the family was faring in her absence. Then, after checking that she was truly alone, Marie took the swan necklace she always work and twisted the upper half, revealing an orange powder. She was running low, and wasn’t sure what she would do to receive messages when she ran out. She took out a pinch of the powder and threw it into the fire. The fire exploded in a purple and green rage, looking as if it were about to overtake the entire room.

By the light of the purple and green flames Marie could see the secret message from her sister. It read,

Marie,

Please don’t panic, but I don’t think Father is going to be able to send anyone after you. It would be too dangerous right now. It would mean certain war, a war we would surely lose.

However, he told me that if you were to escape, and it was clear that Father had no direct involvement, protocol would dictate that they chalk the whole thing up as a loss and move on. You know how absurd this whole thing really is, the reasons people do and do not go to war will never cease to amaze me.

This letter is written on explosive paper, so if you need to you can use it in your daring escape. Let’s be honest, the Baldings aren’t a particularly intelligent family, so I’m assuming I’ll be seeing you by the fall. Have you succeeded in seducing any of your hapless guards yet? What was the name of your victim last time? Cindy? Nancy? Irene?

You can get out of this, dear sister. Be seeing you soon!

Lacie

love as a verb. [trigger #75]

It was hard for Nick to adjust to this new understanding of love that was coming over him. He’d grown up thinking of himself as a ‘hopeless romantic.’ Unlike his other guy friends, he was always interested in romantic comedies and love stories. He thought this meant he was sensitive and well-prepared for the world of love.

Instead, having been in several relationships that ended in remarkable failure, he was starting to understand that what he thought was love was nothing more than infatuation. It was fun, nice, and he really enjoyed it, but it was untrustworthy and went away far faster than he would like. It also didn’t seem to do much to actually care for a woman. He came to understand that much of what he’d  been learning in his romantic comedies, which he thought would help him be a great boyfriend someday, were actually just emotional falsehoods that enabled one to avoid the real work of a relationship.

What the women he’d failed in relationship really needed wasn’t someone to think about them constantly and write poetry about how much he missed them when they weren’t around, although that was nice. They needed someone who was going to listen, for real, even when he felt like shit. They had needed someone who was going to go to bat for them when they were being their greatest enemy. They had needed someone who was going to get up every morning and be on their side, even when the lovey dovey feelings weren’t there that day, even when a woman was letting him down because the ideal he’d invented in place of truly knowing them was falling to pieces.

Love was a doing, not a feeling. He was coming to know that, but it was hard to unlearn all that bullshit from before. There wasn’t anyone out there to complete him; some perfect counterpoint to his personality. There wasn’t a ‘one.’ There was simply people worth loving, with whom you throw your lot in; someone you love with all your strength, no matter the cost.

The task now was letting go of the idea finding a soulmate who made him feel a certain way about himself, and instead wondering if he might find an ally to partner with so that each could become better versions of themselves through growth and fight. It was not by some magical process that happens when he finds that one person who was made for him, with whom we could live happily ever after. There is no happily ever after, there is simply folks worth fighting the pain and injustice of life alongside, and who we can laugh and dream and imagine with.

america’s next top model. [trigger #74]

Jenny tried to return to her food, but she couldn’t keep from looking up at the women surrounding her. It was hard to tell if she was really still in a restaurant, or in the green room for a new version of America’s Next Top Model where they cross it with The Jersey Shore.

More big hair and fake orange skin than she’d ever seen outside of an 80’s hair metal video. Each woman had the make-up piled on so thick you’d think someone was trying to give the appearance of life to a corpse. Maybe they were, something along the lines of the ancient metaphor of white-washed sepulchers, with a slight different nuance.

It wasn’t just the visuals that were making it hard to eat. A filmmaking crew shooting in the room would have needed to redub the vocal track later because of the sound of all the gum-chewing going on. There was also in incessant bursts of nasally laughter and high-pitched cursing. It was almost as if these women were of a different species altogether, one that learned to vocalize by forcing large amounts of air through the nasal passages until speaking was possible.

Jenny put her burger back down, she decided she wasn’t hungry after all.

his hand was strong and his arm was outstretched. [trigger #73]

The floor began tilting dangerously toward the deep chasm. Lena and John got low to the ground, trying to get better leverage as the grade of the floor tipped more and more against their favor.

Lena looked toward the ledge, hoping she might see some purchase to grab should the floor continue to tilt. He noticed a spot where the floor stuck up, about the size of a brick. If the floor tilted to the point they couldn’t stand, then they could perhaps be able to hold to that spot to save their lives.

“John!” She made eye-contact with him and then looked to the brick shaped grip. He followed her eye-line and saw what she was drawing his attention to. He looked back to her and nodded his understanding.

Against all their instincts, they started to move along the floor, closer to the chasm. They reached the edge and looked into the black abyss. Crouching, John gripped the bump in the floor with one hand, and Lena’s hand with the other. The floor kept slowly tilting, it was clear they would soon be hanging from the edge.

Slowly, Lena crawled over the edge, holding tightly to John’s hand and forearm with both of her hands. He laid on his stomach and waited until it was impossible to hold his place, then slowly tipped over the side.

They hung over the chasm, trying to breathe evenly in spite of the fear and desperation. His arms were outstretched painfully, but his hands were strong and it took some time before exhaustion began to set it. However, if their circumstances didn’t change soon, it would be a long way down.