Stokes Hall of Darkness: 1-2, “The Stones Grew Strange”

It was junior year that was to add depth to my experience. I chose to study abroad in probably the best country for anyone as obsessed with medieval history and lore as myself: Scotland. My three months there were filled with castles and craig, and core moments to consider my profession. I’ll never forget the trip that made the real difference. It was October, and rain was falling.

The term ‘Avalon’ refers to the land where King Arthur is said to have encountered the Lady of the Lake. A mysterious water-nymph sort of spirit, she gave the young king ‘Excalibur,’ the mighty sword whose possessor would rule all of England. In some Arthurian legends, the sword is said to have magical powers such as to heal or to expel darkness with its own internal light. With it, King Arthur fulfilled his destiny, and with the legends, my imagination fulfilled its fancy.

Ever since I was tall enough to reach the height of the stretches of my imagination, I secretly wished I could be transplanted to the ancient Caledonia. I wanted to ride a powerful steed, my armor shining in the sun, and my arm completed with the extension of a mighty sword to the sky. My bearded face worn from battle and years, I could speak and would captivate, and could instruct others to cultivate their lives like mine. Of course, this fantasy never really made it past the pages of my journals, but now deep in the land itself I could for once let my imagination run my actions.

A likely location for Avalon, according to some scholars, was Newark Castle. Just located a few miles from Glasgow where I studied, I made my way there with a camera and notebook in my hand. I went alone, for I didn’t know what awaited me there. If you say I was being silly and immature, and that all that awaited me was an old fort and a gift shop, then I’d need to let you know…you were wrong. As I stepped out of the cab. I craned my neck to see it all. Dripping from the gentle drizzle, the stone walls were a color mixture of grey muddy sand and the red of worn out brick. Two turrets stood menacingly to my right, the breach in the wall to my left. Its raised gate was black, studded steel, and its points hung above my head as I slowly entered the structure.

On my person was a backpack with the following contents: flashlight, Worst Case Scenario handbook, pocket knife (multi-tool), notebook, pen, small umbrella, and a digital camera powered by two AA batteries. Over-prepared for a typical tourist? You bet. Over-prepared to meet the ghost of King Arthur himself and find the legendary sword of Excalibur and possibly the Holy Grail? Nope.

As I entered the first hallway, I glanced down to the right to observe a source of light. A gift shop sat right off the hallway, with big glass windows to peer through and browse. Figures. Rolling my eyes, I turned to look down the hallway to my initial left and felt more intrigued. I set off to explore.

The building wasn’t gigantic by any standards. Three stories with perhaps 5 rooms on each story, the castle contained all the necessary pieces: the kitchen, bedrooms, dining room, and so forth. It was all very interesting, but not at all surprising or eventful. I seemed to be the only tourist there on that rainy day, which I met with pure delight, as that was how I’d imagined it. I joyfully took in the ancient wooden chandelier and the weathered tapestries. I ate them up with my camera; I spit it all back out in my notebook.

It was as I descended the spiral stairs back to the gift shop hall to go when I got stuck. All of my senses functioned, I just couldn’t move. I was stuck. Stuck.

Stuck.

And without warning, my reality altered before my eyes. The stone walls grew lighter in shade. The torch nearest me burned brighter. The rope I held onto for balance, formerly bolted to the walls like a banister, fell away into dust. Though frozen, I held onto nothing. I heard loud crashes like thunder above. It sounded close.

Stokes Hall of Darkness: 1-1, “A Hopeful Start”

Boston, Massachusetts. 2008. With every new season comes a life change. For me it was college. As I rode comfortably in the back of my parents SUV, I held on to my welcome packet and felt the firm, warm feeling of resolution. I had made to Boston, to the school of my dreams, and I was going to finally be able to figure out who I was to become in this world. High school was great, don’t let me fool you. I had held back tears more than a few times that past summer thinking about leaving it for good, but the timing of this change couldn’t have been better. I was never more ready than I was at that moment.

Our car pulled up to the dorm, and piece by piece we moved things into my small, double room to try to make it feel like home. Posters truly are an interesting thing. What is on your walls could either say everything about who you are or absolutely nothing, or somewhere in between too. Depending on how you consider the publicity of your room, your decorating strategy might cater to the thought of others seeing your walls. But that’s only if you’ve supposed others will be seeing your walls. The other end of the spectrum of course is that only you will truly be the viewer of the walls, and so then the items might be more personal or vague in immediate meaning to someone else. Which is more genuine? Which is truly more honest? I thought these things as I scotch taped posters and flyers to the egg-shell brick walls in my room: A V for Vendetta poster, a flyers to a friend’s violin concerto back home, my Class of 2000 college banner just received at the bookstore, and an artist’s rendition sketch of King Arthur that a good friend had made for my birthday one year. Hmm. Even I wasn’t sure what it added up to, but it somehow brought the cramped room a little light.

My college experience was fairly typical. Made lots of friends, yet struggled with loneliness. Had lots of fun but plenty of pain. Every step of the way grew me ever closer to the final result of the man I would be on the outro. I studied English and History. The legends and language of old. I loved humanity and was exceedingly optimistic about its capacity to do good. Ever since Mr. Frank’s history class, I knew that my heart pulled me to the teaching profession, and so into the ‘School of Ed’ I worked. Some of my friends were always a bit cynical about my hopeful mindset, but the way I saw it, how can you pull off a positive change in the world if you don’t believe in it yourself?

I knew that something out of the ordinary had to happen though. All of this was so…normal. So typical. I didn’t think I was typical, but then again I was a middle-class white American at a liberal arts college in the Eastern United States who grew up with two parents, went to a public school, and enjoyed good music and playing sports. I guess I’d be fooling myself if I said I wasn’t part of the majority demographic, but there was something missing from it all.

I also loved to read and write. A lot. And I loved legends of old more than anyone I knew. Sometimes, my dreams would pull me into character roles I’d been reading about, and before I knew it I was battling Hydras or fighting the high seas. Understand me when I said that these dreams would pull me in. Some mornings, after a dream of fighting hand-to-hand with ‘bad guys’ I’d wake up with sore knuckles. Some days, after carrying my fellow crusader to the safety of the next village, my quads would ache for hours. I never told anyone, it all seemed so bizarre. I just assumed it was psychosomatic somehow, all in my head. But even this wasn’t enough to quench my concern. What was supposed to happen to me? Or was anything supposed to happen? And how was I supposed to know to be ready for it?

Stokes Hall of Darkness: Prologue

Why? The only question I can muster up right now is this, for I know where I am and how I got here. I just need to know why. With every crack of lightning I shuddered, as the room was illuminated but for an instant. I kept expecting any sort of spectre or demon to appear with the introduction of each burst of light, but nothing ever did. I was alone it seemed, and stood up to observe my surroundings further.

The cloistered ceiling was high above my head, and the curved support ran from ceiling to floor like the inside of a giant’s ribcage. I was at the heart, which was appropriate as mine was about to leap out of my chest. I wasn’t entirely sure how I got here, although a few blurry memories brought me to the entirely unfounded conclusion that I had been abducted and left here to die. Or live? I wouldn’t know until I knew where ‘here’ was. A flashlight rolled across the stone floor as I shifted my foot to stand up, startling me. I grabbed it and rose.

The beam of light revealed how much dust was falling around me:

None.

The room was practically sterilized, which seemed uncommon for a place resembling a historical society. I flooded the tapestries that hung on the walls with my torch, and discovered the vibrant colors of majesty weaving from long-since past. The circular room was also lined with bookshelves, glass display cases full of pottery and crystal, and two armchairs. One red, mahogany leather (almost maroon), and the other a worn sort of brown. Once that the chair might have been a radiant gold, with a shine it’s new leather could easily boast. Today it no longer did, but although worn it was spotless like the rest of the room. Curiosity got the better of me, and I strode over to the once-gold armchair. I swept my finger on the armrest and examined the outcome.

Not a speck.

How could a place full of so many ancient things be so…clean? As if it were just constructed? I asked myself all of this as I turned my beam to the long, wide hallway leading away from the circular room, and strode forth to find answers.

Town of an Unknown Name: Chapter One (‘Prologue’ and ‘Driving’)

Prologue

“In… excelsis…”

The choir rang high into the steeple. Their harmonies were layered like clouds high above, pulling the listeners’ eyes up to the heavens. My hands were still in so much pain, but I would take care of that after mass. Right now, I needed God. I needed something or someone to remind me there’s something out there on my side.

Stained glass windows filtered the sun into the aisle as I watched my steps. I nearly dropped the host, how embarrassing. As comforting as mass was, I needed to get out of here. I wasn’t right to be around other people right now. After closing blessings and announcements for the parishioners, I left my pew and joined the cattle crawl to the anterior end of the chapel. After a shaky handshake with Father Leahy, I re-entered the world I needed to get to know. Still couldn’t remember how I got here…

Breathing in the foggy air left my chest feeling tight. I walked across the gravel back to my Chevrolet Blazer and got in the drivers’ seat. I sat and watched: It was extraordinary to observe.

A sea of white, with not a seam to break it. Was I the only one to notice? Surely, I was new here, but this was unbelievable. The congregation moved slowly back to their lives, clad head to toe in white garments. Shoes, pants, skirts, and hats. White, white, white, and white.

I looked at my hands which had started to hurt less by now. My bloody knuckles were a portal for my memories, and so I dove in as I rested my forehead on the wheel…and closed my eyes.

Driving

“For the love of God man!”

“Haha, who knew this car was so awesome?”

“Shit! Slow down!”

Dirt flew from my SUV’s rampaging path to the cabin. I was tired of driving slowly and safely down roads I knew too well. The blood in my veins was on fire for speed, and this engine was crying for some cruising all day long. My hands gripped tight as my fishtail turns were as wide as the smile on my face.

I hadn’t always been such a  daredevil, you know. Back in high school I was the safe driver, who your mom was glad to see driving when we came home late from that concert or roadtrip. It’s fair to say that this character of mine translated to most things. I was safe, controlled, calculated, and calm in everything I did. I did my homework and I over-achieved for my school and for college acceptance. Hell, I might have been the most predictable boy in the world. But college changed all that. And the years after too. Life sure is fun, if you let it be…

“[singing] I’m not the man they think I am at home… oh no no no! I’m a Rocket Man!”

I sang along boisterously as my gas-guzzling terror ripped around another turn. Jimmy was going to vomit if I kept this up, so I grudgingly pulled back on my rally driving. After all, what are friends for?

“I swear to God man. You really need to get on something. Immediately.”

“Such as?”

“Gee, I don’t know, maybe Ritalin? Or perhaps just the ROAD every once in a while!”

“Will you please relax? How many times have we been here? I just wanted to open up my girl here and see what she could do.”

“Well, are you satisfied?”

“She’s satisfied, and so I am too. After all,  that’s the proper order of things, you know this.”

“Oy.”

Sane driving led us to the clearing where we were headed. Stepping out into the cool, damp night, Jim and I gazed up at the best place in the world. Standing 12 feet tall, at a whopping 400 sq. feet of strong lumber on a cement foundation, the fishing cabin might as well have had a big sign saying “Ritz-Carlton” over the door. It held everything two men needed for a week, and for the 8th year in a row, would house Jim and I for yet another annual retreat of manhood.  Heading up to the door, I checked back to Jim. He actually stumbled a few steps out of the car before regaining his balance, now that he was back on solid ground. Maybe I was going a bit fast…

Interviewing a Climber

*Questions from actual employers, found through glassdoor.com

“Tell me about yourself.”

Tell you about myself? Well that’s a loaded question. I’d like to start by saying my name and the educational institution that I just graduated from. I’ll take a kind congratulations graciously as a I can, and then make it clear that I’m not about to sit back and rest on my laurels.

I’ll do my best to explain who I am, but forgive me as this is the part I’m the worst at. You see, who I am has two meanings for me.

1. Either A) Who I am: what are the things you need to know about me that are solely and immediately relevant to this position
2. or B) Who I am: the man who sits before you fully of dreams, ambitions, ideas, and complications.

I think, as I’ve found myself in more and more interviews, I’ve become more in touch with that second answer, and seeing the increased frequency in follow-ups like this has proven a good ROI on the strategy. Definitely worth the time (and money if it were a factor).

So what do I say, now that I’ve chosen B?

Well, I’m not going to say I’m a “hard worker” and a “fast-learner” and ensure you that I’m just the guy to be an “asset to the company.” I’m going to tell you about how I’ve been a musician and performer my whole life, and a director and composer at every chance I get. So, you already know the things I didn’t say. They are givens.

I’m not going to say that I’m great at “customer focused work” and am a “people-person,” so you know I’m good on the phones. I’m going to tell you how Boston College’s call to become “men and women for others” actually means everything in the world to me, and you’ll already know the things I didn’t say. I might mention them briefly, but I’ll focus on the latter.

I’m not going to tell you that I’m a “team player” and tout “enthusiasm” and “integrity” in my speech. No, I won’t. I’ll tell you about co-leading for the Pedro Arrupe Program though, where I joined 13 amazing individuals and co-led a program to Belize City to help put people’s lives together while staring injustice in the face. I won’t say the first things. I’ll just say the rest.

“What are your ambitions?”

“How do you deal with conflict within the team?”

“How have you gone above and beyond for a customer?”

“Do you think you can handle a sales environment?”

Oh… we never got to those last questions. I’m sorry about that! I didn’t mean to answer them inadvertently…

I guess who I am pretty much defines those answers though.

I want you to know that I don’t plan on being great for this position though. I plan to work my ass off and give it my every last breath, and infuse levels of value in the position that may not have yet been seen. I plan to fill my work-space with an atmosphere of productivity, activity, and vitality.

But I plan to scream at the top of my lungs, and to build trust and connections and ideas. I plan to burst through the door every day as a new employee, bolstered with the confidence of tomorrow’s potential in my heart. I plan to climb this hill until I can see all the way to Belize and beyond. Don’t worry, I plan to take you with me, but when I get there, I’m not doing this anymore. When I get there, I plan to see all I can see, since after all we’ll be on top of the world. When I get there, I’ll reach with arms as long as God lets light stretch from the sun. And I’ll snap my fingers, and see what happens when someone new makes a change.

This world is too big to see from down low. I plan to climb. Now give me that first leg up, so I can show you just how I plan to do it.

I’m in LAG-mode.

Everyone once in a while, I find myself using the phrase “LAG-mode.” LAG, of course, the acronym for the Liturgy Arts Group (of Boston College), has always seemed to put me into a certain place in my soul. I find that I open up to laughter and joy. I forget the gravity of life’s pitfalls, and floating over them I can keep my eyes to the mountaintops ahead. It is the family of LAG that raises me to these heights, and I love them all individually and dearly.

And so I use this “LAG-mode” term in such a context. For example: “I’m absolutely in LAG-mode today.” Another: “I know I’ll be in LAG-mode all this weekend.” Usually, these comments refer to actual time spent with LAG, but sometimes I’ve found myself just describing a great mood I’m in. It seems that I’ve been changed over my years with the group, and I must admit that this mood has runneth over to my life entire.

And so, tomorrow I’ll be in the biggest LAG-mode ever, for my senior year LAG Arts Fest Concert is upon me. The songs will ring through the Heights Room, and for a final time solos will be sung with clapping (hopefully) induced. Certainly, the concert is not the last LAG event of the year, quite the contrary indeed. However, it will be an incredible night of powerful music, of some meaningful senior reflections, and of invitation. Invitation to our families and friends who join us tomorrow to be a part of our world for the night.

We invite you all to sit with us for just about 90 minutes, after your Thursday night dining plans just downstairs, and share a bond of faith, love, and joy that goes beyond the bounds of our choir. Like our prayer circles no matter where we sing, no person is excluded, whether a part of the choir or not. There’s always a spot for you, between the holding hands of our singing souls (that means yours too, you know…).

The program is as diverse as it is meaningful. Spanning the genres of Gospel power, to Renaissance sacred, to contemporary Christian, and everything in between, there’s a song to touch every heart and soul in the room. Believe me when I say it’s not all your standard “church music;” your toes will be tapping for sure, and I can’t guarantee there won’t be audience-participation in clapping rhythms… (voluntary of course, but peer pressure is a beautiful thing)

Come and join us for this amazing evening, I implore all who may read this. Whether you know me well, or even just a bit, or maybe not at all, know that I love you as my brother/sister, and it would mean the world to me if you came and shared tomorrow night with LAG.

7:30PM-9PM

The Heights Room, 2nd floor of Corcoran Commons (Lower dining hall), Boston College Chestnut Hill Campus, free admission. All are welcome.

The Final Maze Chronicle

Quite often in my journey home, my heart found times to question my actions. I wondered if somewhere, way back, I’d made a wrong turn, to find myself in the world I’d now generated. I could clearly remember the times I’d turned left and not right, was silent when I had a voice to speak, or rested when I could have stayed awake. With every step down, which I took carefully in the darkening stairwell, I found those questions falling away like rain drops off windows. My heart felt warm and true, my bones and muscles felt strong and firm. With every step, my purpose was clearer, and though the path grew darker, light shone in my heart and mind.

At what seemed to be the bottom, there was no light. Stone carpeted the floor, and no sounds greeted my ears but that of the stale air echoing around me. The room must have been large, or at least stretched on somewhere. A part of me told me to stay put, like the feeling of waiting for someone else to catch up, but another part told me to take a leap of faith and press on.

I did the latter.

Before my foot could fully detach from the floor, flames burst in front of me upon torches on the walls. They did not startle me. I moved confidently through the room as if it were mine. My steps took me down a corridor turning left at the end, at which time my eyes were greeted by, as expected, the unexpected.

It would seem that the builder of the maze had laid links of rope about the ground. Despite the dark, dungeonesque surroundings, I found it quite necessary to keep my eyes where I walked.

Indeed, not once, but twice did my gaze hold too high for my feet to follow safe motions, and a trip or two resulted.

The funny thing about falling in a rope course? The ropes hold you up…

Besides the knotted situation below, I could hear drums beating further on. Accompanied by an increase in temperature, I felt as though I had on my first memory of a summer’s day, yet with no nature in sight. When not encountering the riggings at my ankles, I walked with long strides. I felt the starched cotton of my slacks slowly stick to my legs as I perspired. I was doing good, though the heat was stifling my breath. I felt a strength in my fingers, and my eyebrows furrowed slightly with every swing of my arms.

Within any confidence, like any good fighter will tell you, constant offensives will take away from defenses, and I never saw it coming until it was too late. As I managed to my feet once more, I looked in front of me and faced my opponent. His claws were sharp, and his eyes were as red as the torchlight around us. We grappled as I avoided his killing strokes. I threw him off my back, after prolonged wrestling, and he landed on his feet.

We locked eyes. We locked. Eyes. We. Locked. And in guaranteed displacements, the tiger fell apart.

Only prior experience had taught me this way to treat such a challenge, and certainly, not all challenges can be met with sheer reasoning.

Suddenly, the walls around me shattered, and I was left back in the grassy maze I’d once known well. The ground was dirt, the walls grass, and the sky a crisp shade of blue quite uniform like glass. In front of me was a table and chair. On the table was a book. I quickly realized I was at the center of the maze. I was home.

I approached the table slowly. The book was plain. A brown leather cover protected its pages, the table a rickety wooden one with a center support splitting to three legs even. The chair matched the table, and as suspected my weight cause it to creak gently, revealing its age. I took up the quill next to the book and dipped it in the ink just appeared. Opening the cover, I flipped through hundreds of blank pages.

Sitting back in my chair, I soon realized that my journey was my destination, and my only goal was to record it. A pass through life with the purpose of that pass alone. Fulfillment resides within the halls of legends, for there a life can ring on and ring true. I felt… a little disappointed. No fireworks? No grand finale? No long-lost love running to me to share my ending years with?

Suddenly, I threw open the book and wrote furiously. It was as if I had no choice, the words flying off my quill in a stream of conjured thought. I found quickly that the details I recalled were striking and vivid, and captured more than just my life, but the lessons weaved throughout it.

No, there were no fireworks or grand finale or long-lost love running to me. But there was this book, and this was where I was. There was this purpose, and this was where I was. Hoping for another ending, someone else’s ending wouldn’t make any sense, as this was my own and no one else’s. And my restlessness came to a close, as I wrote…

“The End.”

Life is a maze. I can’t tell you the way to go, I  followed the path I found most true. I can tell you a few things I’ve noticed about the maze:

The maze isn’t just the standard lines and space between. The walls are not uniform. The paths are not replaceable or mistakable. You can know a good path from a bad one.

Essentially.

Keep following this path you’re on right now. Let me know how it’s going.

Mark this the last of Notes from inside the Maze.

Maze Chronicle #3

It felt so strange being out in the sun again. Knee-deep grass surrounded me, as I looked about my new horizons. In contemplating the 5 door dilema, I had fallen entirely asleep. Now woken up by the gentle breeze blowing across this field, I stood upon to see that indeed I was in a field on an island. Perhaps 1 or 2 squares miles only, the island seemed just a mound of field sticking out of the ocean. Although my currently placement seemed to be at the center of it all, I could hear the sound of the waves crashing against rocky shores somewhere off at the coasts around me.

Walking in some general direction, it was hard to adjust to the sunlight for a very long time. I felt almost as if I’d never seen it before, and the glare at times was positively blinding. But through my somewhat blind gaze there was one sight I couldn’t possibly miss. The castle off in the distance. Sitting atop another island similar to mine, sun shined down upon its high, sandstone walls. Mighty turrets boasting archer positions and stone pathway leaving to its massive entryway created an impressive presentation, not to mention a way across to it. I didn’t really have a choice. It was where I was going.

As I continued toward it, nearing the pathway, many thoughts tried to halt my very steps. You don’t know who or what is calling you there! What if you don’t make it out alive? All of this journeying will be for nothing, and what have you even really done yet? It’s not worth the risk. Turn back. Turn back! My legs were unable to be persuaded however, and onward I marched through the grass to the a rocky slope leading to the castle pathway. I had to remind myself that courage was not to have no fear, but instead it was to have fear but to not change because of that fear. To transcend it, and thus defeat it.

The steps to the massive wooden door were wet from the mist of the sea, and on this much smaller extension of the island, I felt like the castle walls were hiding an entire world of their own behind them. Imagining sights of new animals never see, deep secrets of history and meaning, or even something terrifying, gave me a rush unlike anything I’d ever felt before. Grasping the large, metal ring, I pulled.

A cold wind brushed against my cheeks. A stairwell. Stone and cold, it led up on the left and down on the right. Lit by the sunlight pouring down from the top, there was no decoration of any sort anywhere, just stone. Cold, grey stone. I headed up the stairs and through a door on the left of the chamber thrusting me into a series of long, barely lit hallways. Only lit by the cracks in the walls giving way to the persistent rays of midday, the candle-lit-like atmosphere returned to sun at the tunnel’s outlet, the castle courtyard. Within the mighty sandstone walls,

I did not find a whole new world; it was very much similar to the world outside of it for sure. Two major differences stood to make their case though; the tower and the chapel. A cylindrical stone tower stood in the middle of the field inside the castle walls, perhaps 15 feet wide and 40 feet tall. Like the castle itself, the tower was made of cold, grey stone and had no ornamentation. All it seemed to exhibit was a single window at the top below the roof and a single, intimidating doorway into the base of the tower.

Beyond this was the chapel, beautiful in design, on the other side of the courtyard. The thing that I didn’t feel strange about the this whole situation was that the castle indeed felt hundreds and hundreds of years old. None of the structures had a full roof at the moment, or boasted any sort of furnishings. I could easily infer from this that the time was present day, and that was certainly a relief to feel for once…

Frustration so strong, for no matter how hard I tried, the door simply would not open to the tower. I gave up and headed to the chapel, stepping heavily through the dew-covered grass. By the time I had reached the chapel, my boots were soaked, which just elicited a chuckle instead of anger or annoyance. Suddenly, my senses heightened; movement somewhere in front of me. I had not seen any movement not of my own or by nature for years now, and I found that I could barely breathe with so much fear running through me. I couldn’t decide whether I could run or investigate, or just stay and watch further… I currently looked down into the chapel from the entry which faced down to the altar. Lacking a roof or floor, the “chapel” was really just more field sectioned off by walls, but the altar still stone at the end opposite me, and now obscured whatever had just slinked behind it. It looked black, and though I couldn’t be sure from the split-second within which I saw it, it seemed to be hairy. A dog? A bear? I just couldn’t be sure! I felt weight against my lower back, and reached back to find a 9mm pistol tucked into my jeans. This wasn’t mine… but it was all I had now.

“Er…err…. AHH!”

I screamed in an attempt to motivate the unknown being to emerge, but to no avail. My exclamation had only been met with the increasingly loud noise of the increasingly powerful gusts, slicing through this elderly structure I stood poised to enter.

I stepped in a step. I saw it.

The dark figure perched upon the altar, it’s red eyes glowing even in the daylight. I knew what I had found, and with my weapon cocked and raised, I exclaimed its name in the proper Manx pronunciation…

“Moddey Dhoo!“

We looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity, my gaze lost in his crimson eyes. Neither of us moved an inch, until I planted my foot a bit closer, implying offense. The dog came off of the altar and walked toward me. At first, I thought I would be terrified if such a thing were to occur, and my hands shook a bit as he came back the altar. But watching him walk, and truly observing his behavior, I lowered my gun and felt no fear. As he arrived at my feet, he sat and looked up. His eyes were no looked red, but a gentle silver now. I did exactly what I felt the strongest resistance to… I brushed his hair.

Petting the ghost dog, I knew there had to be some reason why he liked me, and why he sought me out. I asked him…

“Why am I here, dog?”

“Because no one else is.”

“Do you mean to say that anyone could be in my shoes?”

“No.”

“…I get it.”

“Good.”

“What do you want of me?”

“You have a mission, don’t you? A place you’ve been heading to and trying to find?”

“Yes…how did you know? I-I’ve been trying to get home. I know that this is the way, that’s for sure, I just… was terrified of the thought of coming through here.”

“Terrified of what?”

“You.”

“Fair enough.”

“Why have you not killed me?”

“Because you’re not done here yet. You have more planned for you, meant for you, needed of you. I cannot take you away from you life until you have finished it.”

“I understand… how much more do I have left?”

I stopped petting and looked to the sky, observing the clouds drifting by.

“How would I know that?”

“I guess I just figured…”

I looked down and the dog was gone, but a stone floor now rested under my feet.

Looking up, the chapel was restored entirely, the sun shining through the gorgeous stained-glass windows above the altar. Observing further, a staircase led down into the crypt of the chapel, at the end of the aisle that now laid before me. I knew where I needed to go, and I was no longer afraid, for I now knew I had more planned for me, meant for me, and needed of me.

With my purpose in my heart, I forged down the stairs into the crypt.

A Growing Story

I find myself on grass. Sunlight is shattered into thatched patterns across my face, and I lay back against the bark to think. Who would think all things considered would bring me to this place? Life tends to feel like a sort of chemistry; What will adding more and different ingredients, day by day, bring? That, of course, is entirely unknown, for it seems that the same combination can produce quite offsetting results. In the same terms, varied summations may bring about equal outcomes. Like two paths converging, within an endless wood, they may just cross, or continue on together for a bit, a while, or even forever…

Rising, my feet carry me down mild hills. The sun now shines warm upon my face, but soon rain falls soft upon the fields. Over the next hill, a charming estate rises into view, nestled low in the proceeding valley. A dark warmth is in the brown of the walls, and mighty trees thwart gravity, standing tall about the surround yard. Fine, mathematical symmetry designs windows upon the facade of the house. It’s simple grandeur almost impairs my ability to admire the gardens and fences residing left and right to the house, respectively. Cobblestones greet my bare feet, and I walk the meandering path to the door. Strong and firm, yet a symbol of something that brings opportunity and possibilities. Still, it has no knob. I’m puzzled, but then I see. Above the door, an inscription: “Libera.” I speak it. It opens.

…As I enter the room, the walls and space are filled with beautiful art and elegant furniture. The foyer opens to a strong, impressive staircase; a deep mahogany pathway. As I ascend, there are no creaks, no hint of weakness, wear, or tear, and my fingers glide gently along the smooth, contoured railing. As I reach the top floor, the first room is presented, and is directly in front of me. The wood of the door matches the warmth of the stairway’s shade, and the golden knob gleams in the corner of my eye. A soft light emanates from under the door, and with no possibility of retreat or return, I am pulled toward it. I enter the doorway.

A blinding white light shrouds all in my world. The sounds of an angelic choir are heard, singing, “What dreams may come…both dark and deep…,” but I am suddenly full of anxiety, fear, and uncertainly as their chords reach a head-splitting, complex dissonance. The sound crescendos to the point of no return, and my hands covering my ears can do nothing to shield myself from it. Suddenly, the sound stops, the light is gone.

I look around and see that the house is gone. I stand on a platform of dark concrete, held aloft by one steel pillar directly underneath, and a concrete stairway leading up. The concrete is not sturdy like the house, but cracked and weathered. The frame of the house seems to still remain, yet only slightly, broken down to not two feet above the ground. Embers and flames rise from the remains, and I descend back down to the “foyer,” a somewhat imaginary place, taking each step gingerly down the broken pathway. The stones are still warm from the flames on my bare feet, and as I look down to see, I notice that my clothes are tattered and ripped, and I am bruised and bleeding… “What’s happened to me?” I ask aloud…

…but with no audible reply, I make my way through the wreckage until I have left the vicinity, untill I have left the yard, indeed until I have returned atop those heights where this story began. The beautiful tree I had leaned against, like everything else, has gone through a radical transformation. It’s warmth and tranquility are now cold and unstable, for standing in it’s place is a steel door. It stands by itself, as if to open to the only more field, but as I pull it open with a good measure of strength to do so, a dark stairway leads down… down deep into the earth. Torches light the way, but the stairway turns to the left, and I can not see beyond the bend. I step back from the door and take a minute to look around. I want to give it all one more chance: this once beautiful tree, this once vibrant field, this once sturdy house. But in flames and ruin, the grey skies looming overhead seem to make it abundantly clear that nothing is left to cultivate. Pressing forward through the steel door, making my way down, I know that this iss really my only choice.

As I round the bend and lose sight of the door, I turn my attention in front of me and come to an open door way. Above it, “λαβύρινθος,” or “labyrinthos.” I have arrived at the Labyrinth.

Turning turns and making my way, the damp underground is a winding mess of logic. Where my mind would expect a left turn, I find a right one. Where I would predict a straight hallway, I arrive at a hilly, up-and-down oscillation. The ground is a consistent surface of packed dirt, somewhat damp, deeply brown. As if thousands of men had walked here before me, it appears to be trampled flat. The walls bound the mind, in solid rectangular bricks, ceiling to floor, and the ceiling was a mirror image of its counterpart beneath my feet. My walking seems to go on for days, yet I do not feel tired or hungry, nor do my bruises and scars and tattered clothes seem to bother me in the least. I am walking. I am making progress. And nothing can manifest itself in my psyche to distract me. Finally, something is to be happening. The walls, still full of stone-cold tenacity, begin to angle gently inward. As my feet plod forward, the passageway thins until approaching only a shoulder-width’s breadth. At the point to which I thought I would have to turn sideways, the hallway breaks open into an expanse, pitch-black. I step cautiously out of the torch-lit hallway into the void-like darkness, and stop upon what seems to be a man-hole. Though my sight is dim, and it is hard to make out, it seems to be the logical place to stop walking.

The room is flooded with light.

Complete candidus. My chapped hands fly to my blinded eyes as I sink like a stone to the cold, tiled floor. Tears gush to sooth my scalded sensors and my slowly contracting pupils as I methodically rock back and forth. As the shock subsides, I uncover my eyes and look around.

Another hallway. The whitewashed walls scream for color and the ceiling is abuzz with the hum of long fluorescent bulbs. I push myself to my feet using the wall as leverage. My hands leave smudges on the pristine white and I feel guilty to rue such perfection. I take the bottom of my torn shirt and go to wipe away the dirt when all of a sudden, the wall consumes the stain. I jump back in seeing the stark colorlessness again and quickly start down the hallway.

I begin to run. My heart thuds like a frightened animal in my ribcage and I begin feel a burn in my muscles. The burn becomes smoke, the smoke becomes spark, the spark beomes flame and the flame becomes fire. The fire gets hotter and hotter to the point where I can almost see the flames, and I do.

The world is in slow motion as I sprint faster and faster down the corridor, and I look down to my legs, for the fire has become unbearable. There is no way to describe it. My legs are there, both of them, as solid and believable as ever…yet I can see the flames raging within them. My skin is translucent, and looking down I can see the bones with powerful flames surrounding them, as if fire has replaced my muscles. My whole body begins to burn in this way, as my internal fury rises through my hips, torso, and arms. Soon, nothing is left but my head, but that doesn’t last long.

I see a white-washed door at the end of the hall, approaching at break-neck speed at the rate I’m running. I slow down enough to rip open the door and continue through. Why do I rush? I feel as if I’m being chased…

But dead in my tracks, I stop and look around. Now removed from the perpetual hallways of the deafening white, this room is small, octagonal, and dirty. Reminiscent of a cellar or attic, the wooden floor is cold, and properly spaced support beams are visible from wall to ceiling. In front of me: a mirror; I can not believe my eyes…

The massive mirror, though covered in a cloudy haze of dirt and dust, tells no lies. It is not prejudiced, racist, or sexist. It has no concience. It is neither good or evil. It leaves no omissions. It elaborates on nothing. It is shadow.

The outline of my other half waves at me from the other side. Like a fogged up window in winter, I see no distiction of them. A blur, like putting on grandpa’s spectacles or adjusting the knobs of a microscope. I wave back. Their body language reads “impatient.” Hands on hips, head tilted to one side as if scrutinizing me. They tap their foot. Waiting.

‘What do you want of me?’ I ask without making a sound. In this place, speech only hinders. Words lose their true meaning and are turned in on themselves if abused. They become corrupted. Nothing is what it seems.

I reach out to the glass.

Maze Chronicle #2 – Part 2

I couldn’t help myself. My skin itched with excitement, and unable to resist their needs my legs sprung into a sprint. But something very… very interesting occurred. I suddenly realized how quickly I was arriving at the fork, and before I really knew it, a split in the path left a gaping hole in front of me, cutting me off from the fork. Stopping my legs as fast as I could, I teetered on the edge of what looked like a water slide made of stone, slipping down into the Earth. With no ability to make the jump across… I dropped down.

Landing somewhat gracefully as the slide spat me out, I found that I was directly below the fork, at another fork in its stead. Yet instead of green, leafy walls and crisp blue sky, my world was now anew. It was cold. It was steel. It looked very modern. Small lights of different colors shimmered on and off amidst importantly-looking control panels around the walls. The ceiling was a cold gunmetal grey, and the floor was a lighter color. It was metallic and shiny from the reflections of the runner lights that ran along the tops of all the walls. They put everything in a soft, whitish-blue glow.

I looked down and realized that my clothes had changed too. Unlike my original outfit of jeans, boots, and a fall jacket, I was in some sort of space-aged costume. It almost looked nu-military. I checked my self out briefly, but moved on to assessing the choice at hand.

Standing at the fork, I deliberated between the two identical paths, finally settling on right, and took a step in that direction. Immediately, a loud whirring sound stopping me, the fork walls were pulled mechanically into the floor. There was now no choice, I was left with a large, wide room. I strolled to the middle and looked out to see doors. Dozens of them. Stretching entirely from one peripheral to the other. Yet another whirring noise broke the cold silence, opening a hatch in the ceiling, and an old man was lowered to my side. His wrinkled brow and slight hunch marked his age, but the focus of his eyes and tight jaw told me otherwise. This man knew much.

“Who are you?”

“Did you like the costume change?”

“You got my size right.”

“Of course we did.”

“That’s funny.”

“Tell me, why did you go ‘right’ back there?”

“What”

“You were about to make the choice to go to the right, as opposed to your left. How come?”

“To be honest, I really had no clu– wait, what? Who are you? You never answered my question.”

“What about now? How would you make this choice?”

“My maze. My rules. Now answer me, who are you?“

“Call me Louis.”

“Fine. Louis. Umm… I really don’t know. I have no choices to make as I have no positives or negatives to weigh. How on earth can I make a choice between hundreds of doors?”

“Well, you made the choice before to go to the right, correct? Just do that again.”

“But that was between two options! Not THIS many.”

“I’ll pose to you that you had more than two options just now.”

“…how?”

“Well, consider it. You could have turned around before the sinkhole. You could have tried to jump across incessantly, and perhaps made it. You could have sat on the ground and sang Christmas tunes at the top of your lungs. You could have played hopscotch with yourself and named as many baseball players as you could think of while slowly flapping your arms, with one eye opened and–”

“Alright. I get it.”

“I’m not trying to point out the absurd, I’m simply giving you direction.”

“Direction?”

“Of what the right door is. For once you truly acknowledge all of your options, all of them, the choice becomes abundantly clear. Look on.”

I turned and saw that the doors were shaking. They suddenly collapsed together like a dealer’s deck, and I was left with only 5 doors. Louis looked pleased.

“Fascinating, yes?”

“I don’t feel any different… and yet I do. You’ve told me nothing new. How has my mind changed so much?”

“My friend, it hasn’t. You’re simply using knowledge about the world, choices, and so forth, that you already had. Unlocking it. Tapping it for use. What’s that down there?”

I looked at my feet to see… my feet, and looked up to see no more Louis.

Walking cautiously toward them, I stopped before the 5 doors. Upon them were numbers and letters all about. They all looked equally perplexing, and I began to realize that it was my clouded mind that had made them so. The choice was clear. I just needed to see it.

I sat on the ground and thought. Like so many lost watches, forgotten trivia, and choices in life, I knew it would hit me as soon as it was no longer in the center of my mind.