15 More Stories from the Oak

The following pages contain 15 short stories hand picked by Handy Pockets. They range from fictional to factual and some are borderline discussional, but all of the them are based on real or almost real events and people. Do you see yourself here?

As Far As Possible

Day 310 - As far As Possible

"As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons."

It is an undoubted truth that without others in our lives, we feel meaningless and alone. Silence and finding ourselves is important, but reaching out and connecting with others is equally important. There is a balance of the two, and going to extremes in either is not a good thing.

How to be on good terms with all people? Surely there will be some people who you will not be able to get along with, and be unable to be around peacefully. There are a few such people in this realm who I feel this way about. I will not name them, because that is cruel. However, all these people I do not feel the slightest bit of aggression against. When they talk to me, I listen to what they have to say, and then usually come up with an excuse to avoid being in their presence longer than my continence can take it. It is a strategy; find ways to get around your differences. Never fully ignore anyone for an indefinite period of time. If you cannot stand them for one second, then avoid them until you can. Always be ready to forgive, as well. People make mistakes, but your enemies have lessons to teach and words of wisdom the same as your friends.

The first line is important to note. "As far as possible" does not mean you should force yourself into an uncomfortable or torturous place. Respect your boundaries, but push yourself to the edge time and time again, and your horizons will expand, and the box of comfort we all live in will grow larger. Perhaps one day our box of comfort will encompass everything and everyone, and there will be no where for us to go where we may feel unhappy. However, to get there, you cannot push to hard, for when pushed hard things break. Stretch, do not destroy.

People need us, just as we need them. Being on bad terms leads to a lonely life.

Avoid Loud and Aggressive Persons

Day 313- Avoid Loud and Aggressive Persons

"Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit."

This goes hand in hand with the idea of speaking quietly and clearly, and the idea that it is bad to push your morals on anybody.

I often tell Kets that I am afraid people take my words in a way I do not intend them. My words are not the truth, nor are they likely even close to it. Instead, they represent one man's attempt to make sense of this confusing and large world. Things come flying at me from all angles, and it is all I can do to dodge them, all the time spouting my words of "wisdom." The spirit needs to think for itself to grow, and having others force thoughts on you inhibits growth. Present your morals, but do not present them as the truth, do not dress them up in King's clothing.

Sometimes I think that it would do me well to never list an opinion, for then I would not be an aggressive person. I admit, this is one of my insecurities. I worry about being an aggressive and loud person, for it is difficult not to voice opinions when the my answer stands in front of me so obviously. Sitting down and remembering,"My answer is not the answer for others," and then I remember to proceed my advice with, "This is just my opinion."

One day I think I will walk around, asking questions, rather than giving answers. Questions give chance for a response, while answers imply that there is no need for input from the other person. Questions are beautiful and submissive, answers often unneeded and top-heavy. But such is life. Perfection is never achieved.

Beyond a Wholesome Discipline

Day 337-Beyond a Wholesome Discipline

"Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself."

Take yourself gently by the hand, because life is tough, and it will not treat you with a gentle caress. The wind will not worry about your complexion before it blows long and hard. The earth will not think twice before putting a stone in your way, and often it seems that it does it just to see us stumble and get down on its level so it is no longer lonely. The Sun will not think twice before it shines directly on the crown of your head, burning a hole through the mind straight to that gooey part just beneath the ribcage.

People also will not care for you; some of them will take you by the hand to the edge of a cliff and throw you over, if you let them. They will murder you, they will taunt you, they will enact such gruesome cruelties on you it is difficult to think of a world in which it is possible for one to live.

There once was a man, who was very hard on himself. He thought that he deserved the most uncomfortable of all things to absolve him of his wrong-doings. He would sit in chairs in the most awkward angles imaginable, the blood rushing down to his eyes and clouding his vision, but even then he did not move. He would at a whim stop in a position and stay there for many hours, long after his muscles had cramped and he could not walk or batter an eye. He smelled the cruelest smells, his favorite of course being the smell of death.

He did all these things, and he wore himself to the bone. He wore himself hard, he wore himself thin, and for nothing. He did not shatter his bones for others, nor did he wear the skin off his hands so that his family could eat at night. He inflicted pain because it was the right thing to do, and so it goes. His body grew tired, ever so tired. He had sores all over his body from his various transgressions. Life does not go kindly on such people. The Sun did not go easy, as it does for anybody. Worn down was he, until one day someone came across a skeleton posed in an awkward position, his robes hanging tattered and thin. Here lies the man, they whispered to themselves, that wanted to die. So now he will rest in peace.

There is no worth in pain for no reason. Go easy on yourself, for you only get one self. Be careful, or else you may end up as a skeleton with nothing left, everything ground to dust from the mortar and pestle that is life.

Grind grind grind... and dust to dust we shall be.

Therefore be at Peace

"Therefore, be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be."

Here I will allow my stories to devolve a little away from fact and weave themselves. That is, this is based on true people- how can it not be?- but you will search long and hard to find a perfect fit for the situation I describe.

The priest, the man who believed that there was a God, he was shaped like a man but perfect, lived alone. He had lived alone for years, not because he did not get along with people, but because he had entered into a relationship with God. In those moments were the drips of water set the beat of the night, the man found God in his youth. In these moments when no one was watching him, he realized that somebody was. Outside, to the left of his head first, then down by his right hand, little touches gentle as a cat kneads its master. Insistent, yes, but threatening they were not. He gave into them, gave into their gentle imploring nature, their slow beat, like the water that drives people crazy late at night.

He was crazy, his friends said, mad. God comes to nobody. In those moments where no one is watching, the only one watching is yourself, the cruelest of all observers. No God. No touch. But feel the touch, he was convinced he did. Off he went, to a place where walls of wood did not describe to him his solitude, did not color his life with doubt. And he lived, lived with God. Touching his shoulders as he slowly slouched forward, felt their push as he fixed his simple meal, and at night where he had first felt the knuckles, he was not alone.

I could allow this story to devolve into a morality story, one in which a young boy knocks on his door, tells the priest that he felt the touches too, but it was not God, it was the devil. I could allow things to spin in the opposite direction, paint the picture of the woman in town who felt alone when alone, but when together felt the gentle presses, but it was a non-physical caress. I could, but I will not. Life dictates that things do not always fit into neat packages, able to be devoured at the reader's pleasure, able to be tasted like a truffle in a box.

This man, he lived alone, and one day the touches stopped coming. One day he felt nothing when he got up, nothing when he moved, laughed, talked, or smiled. God, he said, had left him. What to do, he thought? Death was not an option, there was only hell there, for where else could a man who had lost the touch go? Life was not an option either, for in life where there had been the joy of a pair, now there was the pain of one.

It is interesting, no, that the two words be so related. Pain and pair. One addition of a stroke, one line, and a pair becomes a pain. So too had his life broken, so too had his precarious position fallen. One brush stroke of life, and his life had broken like a spider web in the wind.

No life, no death, no options but the middle, the one that did not exist. He did not live, but neither did he die. A godless man, lost. The world no longer appeared to him, blind either because his eyes themselves no longer saw or because his mind did not ask them to. Lost, so how could he know that when his day came, whether he was alive or dead?

What world was he in, when he found his God? Like a corpse pushing up through the gentle dirt of a fresh grave, the priest pushed gently at his own skin, and there was his God once again. All alone in a cabin, this man recreated his God.

Where is God in this sometime symbolic and other times strange story? Is it in the touch of the man, in the sense of the exterior, the fear of the interior?

Where is God, when a man is lost? Well, look left, look right, look up. For me, I look down. Find God where you need to find it. I myself, have found God not in the gentle touches of my fingers on skin, but in fingers on soil.

Whatever Your Labors

Day 346- Whatever your Labors

"And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul."

Far away, in the outer reaches of the sky, there is no quiet. Birds flapping to and fro, clouds constantly in motion, they make the eerie sounds of nomads of the sky, never a place to sit and rest. More than the inhabitants of this desert in the sky, the King of the land is the noisiest of all. He hangs over the terrestrial terrain blowing and huffing, all hours of the day. Pushing one direction to dislodge his minions from their positions one moment, and in the next reversing directions just to spite them. Little cyclones of movements are created, descending like the extension of a finger from the desert of the sky to gently push the ground. Wind, everywhere.

Dropping down out of the sky we land on the soil, with two feet firmly planted like roots. Here the King still has domain, and the trees echo his calls, the reeds mimic his cries, and the gravel moves with his tune. Great cliffs are shaped by his call, his beconing, "Be beautiful. I demand it."

Noise of the earth, the gurgling of creeks never stop, the crash of waves, the crack of things giving in to the urge to fall down. All around words, as well, come out like these effusive rivers and whispy clouds. A constant stream runs between the two lips, tramping about in the dry and arid fields of the sky. The ears constantly being pounded with this, all this.

A small boy stands in a crowd, hearing all these things at once. The Kings of the sky, the Kings of the earth, and all the echoes in between, reverberates between the two sides of his skull. Go down one more level, through the throat were rasping noises come with the wind, to a more basic level. There it is. Silence. Thump. Thump. Thuds that threaten to take the pain away, thuds that give rythem in a chaotic symphony of wind. Heart, beat, heart, beat. Pro, tection. Pro, tection. I set words to my thud, and everything melts. It will forever tell me "Go, go, Go, go, Go, go" until one day it says, "stop" and then I will be no more.

Until then, listen carefully to the inside, the outside is a lot of wind.

With All Its Sham

Day 347- With All Its Sham

"With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy."

The kitteh jumped from rock to rock, and the sun seemed to jump with it, in the tips of its fur. Butterflies batted with a paw, there is only completion and satisfaction in the eyes of a cat. The world bends and creaks into perfection, stones order themselves into neat little lines, and the Kitteh smiles and purrs to each.

Meow, meow, the call echoes through the land and brings joy to all those around. The man whose son has rejected him and his love smile. The lovers who are discovered and ridiculed for their behavior laugh and feel at ease when before the very stones seemed to cast judgement. The flirtatious tender, lets out a deep laugh with gusto, filled with a genuine vibe that never before was there. The twilight and darkness of the night are not here, and cannot be here. Monsters that lie in the heart curse the kitteh and abade for now. Like a flashlight in the dark, heating the lines of motion set forth by the people dancing in the city square. Monsters grate their teach in silence, cast out by the sound of the kitteh through the fangs and sharp teeth. These teeth are cute, and the bites playful.

So there is not what was needed today. So what was supposed to happen did not. So love is sometimes nothing more than abuse. So life is little more than a grind. In all these So's of desperation and hopelessness, there is the "So life is still beautiful"

Like rain falling on a sunny day, casting rainbows and colors to every corner of the fields, life is short and fragile. Breakable and changeable, unable to be recaptured and replicated. Working in death one cannot find life. Yesterday a man died, but today he will live again. Yesterday a wife cheated, but today she is reborn. The innate qualities of good are everywhere. The trees scream virtue, the grounds plead for sanity, and in all these there is the Meow.

The Meow, saying if nothing else can, "It's alright. Be happy."

White Clay

Day 351- White Clay

A stream cuts through the mounds of rocks, not as if the rocks are moving the stream, but as if the stream has chosen this meandering path. In simple natural harmony, the balance between stone and water flows, edges blurring, no jagged elbows and skinny knees. Nothing to hide, the water transparent, showing its dirty bottom, and proudly. "I am based with dirt, I am brown, and there is nothing wrong with that," the stream bubbles.

Standing by the side of the stream, a young woman does not notice the lesson the stream teaches. Her skin is dark, taking in the glance of the eye and daring it to look deeper. Get lost in me, find yourself in me, be alone with me. Darkness that allows one to not worry about appearance or self. Darkness that takes "where am I" and swallows the where, silent h and all.

Splash, a blast of whiteness covers the rich color. There is no room for midnight here, not on this sunny day. She hates the deepest tone of her soul, shown on the wrapping of her body. She takes white clay from the banks and paints herself, as an artist covers up a work of art in a fit of frustration. I have not created beauty, the artist would cry, I must start over. This woman does not see the beauty, but instead a grotesque piece of coal to be covered. When she has finished putting herself in a suit of nothing, no meaning, she walks away from the stream, only to bump into a man, white as she wishes herself to be. White, and red, because the sun finds his paleness an insult and tries to die him red to show his embarrassment. He looks at her, sees the wet hands that tried to hide, to recreate blank and takes in a deep breath, through one nostril than the other. Once, twice, three times he breathes, each time gently closing the eyelids, looking at the scent as they close, hearing the scent, and feeling the scent.

"I can smell what you hide. No amount of clay will hide your embarrassment."

Her clay body cracks and creaks, bursting into a thousands shards of pottery, a broken pot on the ground.

And the creek gurgles on, unchanged by the exchange. Nature feels no remorse, the creek continues moving stones. Crack, crumble, crunch, go the stones in the water, like the soul of the woman.

The Dance of Webs

Day 352- The Dance of Webs

The girl sits, pretending not to notice, eyes staring towards the ceiling, while the mind stares at the empty dance floor. She picks out a spot, right near the middle, and claims it. It is hers, and no others. Calm exterior, chill as a waterfall frozen, but full of whirlwind emotions on the inside.

He walks over, the one she has chosen for her own, claimed, but told no one. Her flag rests firmly in him, and he is not aware. She quickly locks eyes, and he is lost. Her waterfall cracks, and bursts forth, flowing over him. He freezes in her waters, unblinking his eyes thirst no more. She has him, she has him, and he did not even know it. He attributes it to her beauty, the reason his feet approach her, but he does not see the silver spiderweb net she knit around his legs. Does not see the puppets strings attached to his wrist as he offers his hand for the dance. She accepts, smiling as if not expecting the great pleasure.

They twirl around the floor, like a woman dancing in front of a mirror, he mimics her every move. Flawless as glass, they whisk and spin, dip and dive, twist and shine. The eyes, they do not move, for she has him, and he has been lost. He has been lost, he holds the small of her back, but she holds his soul, right between her dainty forefinger and blunt thumb.

The music, it stops, abruptly in the middle of a note. They both fall off the cliff of the dance, and find themselves awkwardly holding too tightly, too closely, and with too much passion. His eyelashes flutter, blinking once more, like a newborn, and she has lost him. Lost him, as hard as she once had him, lost him, and away he falls, she standing in the middle of the dance floor alone, rooted.

He moves away, elegantly as he came, and she stands. Reaching out one limb, she goes limp inside though her exterior holds up like the carcass of a spider. She never had him.

Not once, not at all, she only had herself, and even then, only by the nape of the neck.

The Sun Returns

Day 354- Bees Know You

Staring off into the distance, like it has secrets untold. Perhaps the horizon is whispering a story of ages gone by. Is the Sun, right next to that cloud, trying to tell me something? Do those clouds form a letter...? Blinking slowly, trying to read the Morse code of the universe, he sets on a rock, unable to think of what really needs to be thought. In the horizons there are no challenges, in the leaves of the tree there is no sadness, no bad news. They may tell him of the past, present, or future... but never will they utter the words dreaded. "We don't know where she is... we were with her one moment... then... gone..."

The last word, gone, like the ending of a sweet symphony. Gone. How is that possible? Nothing goes... nothing... Except my sister. She managed, when all else cannot, to slip the shackles of her physical body and simply dissipate. Right before their eyes, gone. He thinks these thoughts, thinks of pasts and presents, but not futures, because how can there be a future when one moment something might disappear. Just like that, a mole down a hole. Eying his hands suspiciously, he wonders if they too will pull a vanishing act.

And before his eyes, they do. The edges start to blur, the color turns white, and becomes transparent. "No, I cannot allow more to disappear," he whispers and looks off into the distance, where the Sun disappears but comes back. You will be like the Sun. You will just take a short break on the other side of the world. He holds on to the one hope. She will come back. I know she will. He waits on this rock, for one day, then two, then three. She will come back, just like the Sun in the morning and the moon at night. She will.

But she doesn't. Instead what comes is a painful need for water and a thirst for food. His body reminds him that even though she is not here, he is. His stomach is not vanishing. Sighing deeply, and not forgetting, not giving up the hope that as the sun rises, he leaves the rock to look for satisfaction for his here-body. As he walks down the road, the sun hits the top of his foot before the rest of his body. It glows a rosey-yellow color. The color of the living, he whispers to himself. The color to respect.

I am here. She is not.

The Cows Feel Pretty When They See You

Day 361- - The Cows Feel Pretty When They See You

She started out weak and meek, one of the rest. She started out low, as a dog, and submissive. Bowing down at the feet of her master, washing his feet with her saliva. Never once did a word of bravery slip out of her lips to stab others in the heart. Her stomach did similar acrobatics, quivering and shaking like her hands when faced with an obstacle. Her master took pity on her. He took her into his household, clothed her with garments fit for a queen, fed her, and treated her as an equal, not as what she was. A few months passed. As her master fed her with words and lessons sweet and full, so too did her body grow more supple. More than this though, her soul and spirit grew and ballooned. It filled her chest, and started to rattle and knock against her ribs, making her cough from time to time.

The master saw the cough, and saw what road she was on, but did not refrain. It was destiny, he was not one to interfere. He allowed her the place she claimed as her own, digging her nails deep into the fabric of his Kingdom. Without knowing of it, she attempted to rule and control. The subjects looked at this plump woman, with food left over around the lips, and grease-stains a plenty, with disdain. Could not fight back, for respect and bondage to the master. Like a goose being fattened for slaughter, he fed her full each day, and then continued to feed. The gluttony increased, until her waistline appeared that it would hold no more weight. She waddled around the world like a plump balloon, but she sank rather than floated. Her ego now broke free from her ribs and assaulted all those around her. Her tongue and arms lashed to and fro, injuring and wallopping all in its path. Her gluttony was about to meet its end, however.

One day as she waddled down the road, she decided to take a trip to Marind Bell. As she walked through the Gates, however, she realized that she was stuck. She would not fit.

She took deep breaths and wiggled, but her ego was just too large. It clogged all her veins and her throat, choking her from the inside out like an invisible snake breathing.

A majestic knight came from the Sparring Grounds, looked her up and down and decided on a course of action. He began listing off all her faults. "You are ugly. You are unintelligent. You cannot walk. You are not graceful." He paced back and forth, stabbing her ego with his sword of truth. As the hours dragged on he became creative. "The sky sags a little because it cannot bear your weight. The air around your head is disgraced when you take a breath in. I was told once that you lost a servant in your folds. Your lips appear like worms. You sweat more than a pool of grease on a hot day. The cows feel beautiful when they look at you."

As he stabbed her again and again, she deflated, and started to sob, crying out all of her excess. "Sir, sir. You underestimate. I am all these and more." Soon enough she was all deflated, but her skin hang low and sagged. She had coats and coats of skin around her, and she could no longer move under its weight.

The Knight had to decide what to do with her. He went to the Master, who promptly nodded knowingly. "I knew she would grow this way, but it was the only option. Do with her as you like." The good sir went back to the pile of woman, and decided that although bizarre, she would make a watertight roof. And so she was hung, from the top beams of his house, forever to protect his family from the rain, wind, and snow. Gazing down at the safety for years, she learned her lesson again and again. Humbly, she would sometimes whisper down to her inhabitants, "You each are unique and beautiful, but do not be so beautiful that you can no longer hold up your vanity."

The Burning of the Cube

Day 267- The Burning of the Cube

I entered Necrovion at the end of the battle, and the Sentinels had already won. Jester reigned supreme, and all that remained to be sorted out was the business with Yrthilian.

Yrthilian made the declaration that should he continue to be separated from his Alliance, he would kill Khalazdad the White's soul. Akasha heard this, and told him that she wanted to do a test with the cube before he destroyed it. She took him to the Gates of Despair, and told him to approach the Gate with the cube and enter it. He did as she told, and his shadow began to be sucked in, his hands shaking. Through the Gate he went, and out somewhere else.

Akasha and others looked into the Portal after him, and they moved into it. Some ran, some crept, but many went through to the other side. I myself closed my eyes, and approached the Gate, concentrating on my connection with Akasha. I opened my eyes, and there I was, at the Stone of Despairing Souls.

The heat was the first thing I noticed, and it permeated my very body. A weird heat, burning the outside and the mind more than the skin. Yrthilian thanked Akasha for her hunch, which was that the two Gates were connected, and made a final declaration. With that, he approached the stone with the cube held in front, and began to step into the flames, not caring for the heat or whether he be burned.

All those around him watched in horror as he ripped off a side of the cube at a time, and threw it into the heat of the Stone. One by one the cube was ripped apart and burned.

Those surrounded attempted to stop him, but no one succeeded. Shadowseeker attempted a spell, but did not have the proper form, and failed multiple times. This continued on, until I could not handle the heat. The heat increased with each piece, and my head began to buzz.

I fainted.

However, a friend has told me that after I left Yrthilian destroyed all pieces of the cube but one. He decided to keep this final piece, and touching it, it began to mold into a life figure of Khalazdad the White. A strange thing occurred. Standing there, all of a sudden, was Khalazdad the White, as we all remember him. However, yrthilian had total control over him. Yrthilian would move a hand, and so too would Khalazdad the White. It seemed Yrthilian now controlled the soul of Khalazdad the White.

More people began to come, though how they got here I do not know. Soon, there was a crowd. People were shocked by what Yrthilian had been able to accomplish. Soon thereafter, Yrthilian left, with the White Khalazdad in tow.

At this point Muratus del Mur came, and mentioned that the stone was not working. He told us that there was an issue, and we had better not burn anything. With that, he told us to all go, and we were instantly woken up at the Gazebo of Equilibrium. This is where the story ends, for now, I believe.

Power Hungry

Day 269- Power Hungry

With this story, you might perhaps expect me to rant about how awful Yrthilian is, and how he is doing wrong to his people and his land. But... that would be repeating the obvious, and any slanderous man can do as good as job as I at that. So I will explore something you probably did not think about.

Yrthilian began as a normal player, in a normal land. He was close with Renavoid, and the two of them talked for hours about their theories on magic and technology. You see, Yrthilian loved to combine the two together, and wanted to go to Golemus and continue his research. This was how he was first introduced to the land of Golemus Golemicarum. From there things have grown and expanded substantially, from a techno-mage, to a general in Wodin's Army. When Wodin left, someone was needed to fill his shoes, and Yrthilian, the man standing directly behind him, had but one step to take to do so.

Yrthilian made the power-switch smoothly, and for this I respect him. Yrthilian showed no signs of being power hungry, no more than you or I show. He was humble, guarding over Golemus by way of the Guerrila Golemicarum, and protecting it as he saw fit.

Things change, though, and how quickly intents are twisted. There was the crowning, that was the first crossroads. He could leave, as Khalazdad did, or he could continue expanding, first for the good of his nation, and then for the good of himself. And this is what led him to attack Loreroot. So easy to justify the attack, for Raven was not fit to be a King, and Yrthilian was backed by most of the land. Loreroot was picked off, and left to eat itself.

And how simple the jump from Loreroot to Necrovion was. How simple to justify, to blind oneself, saying, "Look, he is a war monger! We must bring Peace back." And so easy, for those to follow him, for to fight for any cause feels good, to blindly go. Things fall apart, the center cannot hold.

When you underestimate, you are decimated, and this is what occurred. But stop there? Never. Forge ahead, without a backing, for the crown on your head will keep your head strong. Forge ahead, and gain an ally in the ancient history of the past, gain another warrior, at the sacrifice of others.

Then, when you have achieved total power, then you will strive for more, until you fall into yourself, your feet fallen through the cracks.

But remember, he started out as you and me. And should we be given the same opportunity, can you honestly know that you would not choose the same?

It is an interesting thought. Veer from being given too much power, so that you do not try and take more. Take more, and you cannot stop, until you too have fallen down, and your statues become gravel for the paths of the average.

Cutler's Rejection

Day 286- Cutler's Rejection

You undoubtedly have seen Cutler wandering around the land. He is renowned for his ability to write puzzles, and their tests have stumped even the sharpest of brains I have attempted a number of them, but I find myself woefully inadequate.

Cutler was once approached by Muratus del Mur. Mur told him that he wanted to promote Cutler to RPC, because he had heard of his puzzling skills and thought that the realm could benefit from a puzzle master. Cutler looked at Mur, confused by his words, and said, "Why would I want to be an RPC? I am perfectly content with what I have." Having refused RPC, Cutler walked away.

Some look at Cutler's decision, and could not understand it. Why is this man, who is in all ways qualified for RPC, refusing it? The truth is that those who are most qualified are those who will not take the job. The wisest know to accept and love what they have, and not to aspire beyond what they can handle.

The death of RPCs is a direct result of this paradox. The best and the brightest are content with their stations in life. So never feel bad if you are not asked to be a role, or be a member of anything. Tell yourself, "I am content where I am, more things does not equal more happiness."

Khalazdads

Day 295- Khalazdads

Khalazdad was an old fellow, known for his insanity, or perhaps it was only that he was saner than the rest of us. In either case, he was able to accommodate for the need he felt on himself by splitting himself into two. He understood that a leader needed to be two things at once, and how he reconciled this difficult problem was by creating two separate personalities, each coming out when the time was right.

There was Khalazdad the Black. He was aggressive and strong. A being with no mercy, he broke down walls and built in their place a Kingdom that was all his. Khalazdad the Black was someone not to cross, and he was feared by many.

Khalazdad the White was all things pure and submissive. A beacon of knowledge and kindness, he came out only very rarely. His words shaped the minds of his followers, forcing them to go beyond the comfort that they knew before.

And so Khalazdad was able to rule his Kingdom switching between the two. But there were issues; with such a double standard, deep inside he realized that he was not serving his subjects well. With the help of some outside influence, he was able to fuse the two selves together, joining them together in harmony.

Khalazdad the Grey was the result of this fusion. He was not overly aggressive, nor was he extremely kind. A strange mix of all emotions, he reacted inconsistently enough to instill surprise at his actions, but enough to gain the trust of those around him. Teaching by lessons, and ever learning from others, Khalazdad the Grey was the image of balance. The balance would falter every once in a while, but only for a day would he fall into his old ways of split personalities. Khalazdad the Grey was there to stay, however, and his rule was solidified under his wise yet strong guidance.

Gnawing Ivories

Day 120- Gnawing Ivories

The smile was what you would notice first. It was warm, it was sunny. It reached your eyes first, with sparkling teeth. They were like pebbles, bleached white by the constant motion of water over them. Those pebbles in the streams, they are tossed and turned around, and carried from one place to another with no control over their hurtling bodies. She was that way. The only thing she had control over was that skin she wore, and those sparkling teeth. Truly, they were a work of art. Perhaps she brushed them diligently every day. Perhaps she woke up in the morning just so that she could look in the mirror and see them winking back at her in the soft feel of the morning.

When you first saw her, it seemed that the world was going her way. I imagine her like that sunlight directly after a cloud has passed. It is a bright day, but there are clouds in the sky. Then you look around and everything looks dull, and it is because a large cloud has obscured the day. You don't notice the onset of the black, but the reappearance of sunlight is apparent and stark.

So she was like that. Like a girl who had things in her back pocket that she knew and you didn't.

I said hello, and I smiled. Soon after I opened my mouth to copy my gesture, I stopped short and hid my teeth again. Mine were yellow, and too sharp at the edges. Good for chewing, bad for spewing. Instead, I had the edges of my lips fly upwards. My eyebrows mimicked the motion.

It was as if she didn't even see me. Her teeth continued to sprinkle joy and relief, and I continued to stare diligently at them. That was the danger though, I see it now. She soon walked past me, and I was left staring at the darkened places left in my field of vision.

They say staring into the sun too long can make you blind. I didn't believe them, so I stared into the sun, because I was certain there was some sort of beautiful object to be seen. Everybody was going to miss it, and me, I was going to catch it and tell everyone of my cleverness.

A few days into my determined adventure I gave up. Instead of seeing something beautiful, all I could see when I blinked was a black hole in the middle of my vision.Gaping and guffawing at my foolishness. That's what I thought it did. So I stopped staring at the sun. And staring at her teeth was like staring at that round circular object.

I've said once, I'll say it again: that was the mistake. Thinking back a few days later I realized that I had not the slightest idea what her face looked like. Not her hands either, or her feet. But most starkly, her eyes were blank to me. I didn't meet her or see her. I just met her teeth, and even those now were just dark splotches of memory, fading fast into dervishes of dust.

It wasn't until later that I had the chance to meet the woman I had once knew intimately through the white pillars between her lips. It was when I looked up, and saw her. Looked into her eyes, this time. She cried to me. That was when I knew, that everybody just looked at her big blazing glory of ivory. They didn't see the small globules of water forming just as the tips of her eyes. As she passed with her bright beaming, I smiled again. With my teeth. I showed her my yellow ugly teeth that looked like an old man's fingernails. I was proud. I was proud, because she looked at them, and quickly looked into my eyes. And there she stayed, as a little dash on my pupil. Her teeth stayed black dots of nothing. My smile stayed haunting. I laughed a short guffaw.

Maybe now she knows what happiness is all about.