Short Story: A Dream I Had

I found myself looking down a long road, the trees on either side bent and ancient. The sun burned low and golden on the horizon as my feet made crunching sounds on the gravel below. The path arched out, snakelike in front of me and I could not see more than a stones throw in front of me at any time. I walked through this path, smelling the long slow summer wind and listening to the rustle of tree leaves dancing, the cicadas tremolo made a counterpoint to the endless swell of the trees.

Travelers met me, smiled and waved and went on about their way. They were dressed in poor cloth, most hunched over like pack mules carrying their wares to market. Their faces blurred in and out of reality as the day wandered with me into sunset. As the leaves drank up the last of the day I came at last to the end of the path.

A blank obsidian wall loomed up ahead of me. consuming every bit of my vision. I looked to my right and could see the wall, a thousand feet high stretching out into the horizon. To my left the wall went on forever. The path lead right up to the edge of the wall and abruptly stopped. I walked over to the end of the path and put my hands on the wall. It was warm and pulsing, as if it had been soaking up the sunlight all day long and drinking in the life of the forest around me.

I stood there, staring at the wall for half an hour when an old man and his cart came teetering up to the wall. I walked over to his ox and cart and asked him.

"Excuse me sir, how does one get around this wall?"

"You do not go around the Wall, you go through it."

"Through it? Tell me, how do you go through the Wall?"

"Well, you'll need a sword." He said, patting the blade strapped to his side.

At this, he ticked his reigns and drove his ox-cart right up to the wall. As he approached, a seam appeared in the middle of it where it met the road. The wall swung open and he drove his cart right through the middle of it.

I ran after him as fast as I could and smacked face first into the wall. I could not understand this, the doors had become a blank face of black stone once more, no trace of the doors remained. I scratched at the Wall, trying to find where it had opened, I screamed and cursed the Wall, kicked and punched at with all of my energy and I cried until I could move no more. At last, when all of my energy had been depleted, I fell into a deep sleep at the base.

When dawn crept over my cloak I found the Wall stretching up into the sky still. A thousand feet tall, a thousand feet thick and no end as far as my eyes could tell. I squinted up through the morning haze at the travelers approaching the wall. A young woman and her child were standing nearby, waiting for someone and peering down the road every few minutes. I dusted myself off and walked over.

"Tell me miss, where can I get a sword to cross through the Wall?"

"Oh, there is a smith about three miles back up in the forest. In the village off to your left."

"Thank you very much!"

I knew this was what I was waiting for and I leapt up the trail, bounding past the faceless traffic on the road. Around three hundred bends, across the open field and back into the forest I ran. The fork to the village was as she said, about three miles from the Wall and by the time I had run there I was thoroughly exhausted. Panting and soaked in sweat, I turned off of the main road and made my way to the village.

The village rose into view as I passed over a small hill, it's size obscured by the trees surrounding it. Most of the buildings were low, conical reed roofed buildings with small chimneys. In the center of the village was a large well and market. Only when I got closer to the village did I realize how large it truly was. People were overflowing all over the center of the market, a thousand fruits and vegetables lined up, small crafts and smoked meat, bolts of cloth, a hundred packs of children running through the mess of it all. I wandered closer and found the closest stall.

"Step right up sir, we've got all a weary traveler could need right here."

The man behind the stall was as blurry as every other person I had seen. His face a pale blur like he was shaking it too fast for my eyes to follow.

"Can you tell me where the blacksmith is? I have need of a sword to get past the Wall down the road."

"Oh, so you're trying to get past the Wall are you? Very well then, the blacksmith keeps his hut on the outskirts of town. Just keep going down the main road through the market, you'll see it."

"Could I buy some water and food from you sir? My night was spent at the base of the wall and I ran all the way here this morning."

"Well, no man trying to get past the Wall should do so hungry, let's see what we can do for you."

I ate the eels and bread he had to sell after I walked over to the well and drained it dry. The wild packs of children kept their distance from me and the people of the village smiled and nodded, but said nothing to me as I lay against the cool stone of the well and rested. After eating and cleaning up, I made my way once more down the road, towards the edge of town and presumably, the blacksmith.

As I left the market area, the houses of the village got less crowded and I could hear the forest life once again. I smiled at the serene beauty of it thinking, "A man could live and die happy here." My resolve continued though, as did my walk towards the edge of town. As the houses stretched out into pasture I could see a single column of black smoke curling up into the summer skies. Aha, the blacksmith.

I approached the hut slowly, unsure of what I would find. The acrid smell of sulfur and etching acid washed over me and i could feel the heat of the furnaces from the road. A steady clanging issued from the front entrance and as I made my way towards the front of the building I could see the blacksmith hunched over an anvil. He stood six feet tall, a slight man, bent over in his back and covered from head to toe in a worn out red robe. The hood of his robe covered his face completely and he made no sign of recognition as I made my way into the front of the shop.

At once, the hammer stopped falling and a dead quiet fell over the hut. The cloaked figure turned it's head slowly towards me and all I could see were the hint of two eyes in a endless sea of shadow. He placed the hammer down next to the blade he had been hammering on and started shuffling towards me.

"What do you want?" His voice creaked out of the hood like parchment unrolling in the basement of a temple.

"I have come to buy a sword from you smith. I want to cross through the black wall down the road."

He made no movement, no sound. The world came crashing to a halt and the only thing that moved was the heat waves dancing through the hut.

"I do not sell swords here. I do not sell swords anywhere. Go somewhere else."

I stared at the old man, unbelieving. "There is no other smith in this town, you must be selling swords. Practically every person here has a sword on their belt."

He said nothing, shuffling back to the anvil and resuming his work. I stood there in disbelief and eventually gave up. Noon had passed me by and despondent, I set back out for the village.

I had no where to go. The road leading away from the wall lead back to the past and I knew that no passage could be granted there. I was stuck here in this place between worlds with no idea why.

Years went by. I worked at the nearby farms until I had saved enough money to take over one of the smaller plots. I learned the sun and wind until I knew them by name. My hands grew gnarled and thick as bark. I could grasp a burning log and never feel a thing. My muscles grew corded and my skin bronzed until I looked like the trees surrounding the fields.

I married by the fading light of my 40th summer. The village had become my home, my entire life spent feeding the people who worked there. I would spend my evenings turning wood in my hands and carving figures to sell in the market. Two fine sons, blurs in my memory came from our happy home. We worked long summer days, sweated through the harvests and whittled through the long dark winters. The years went by in a blur and I found myself blessing my oldest boy as he started a family of his own.

Death found us in front of the fireplace. He slipped in silently in the night and took my wife away from me while we dozed away a long dark winter night. Not a week later he returned for me. A sudden fever, a balsting chill and visions of my son standing over me. In my minds eye I could still see that looming Wall. Cold and unfathomable it taunted me by its mystery. It had been years since it loomed in my dreams and here it was on the eve of my demise, silently judging me from afar. I lamented never seeing the other side, my heart and mind clouded with remorse. With my dying breath I cursed it.

I awoke sleeping in front of the Wall the day I arrived there. I staggered around, confused and scared. The same young woman was walking towards the Wall. I waited for her to near and asked her if she had seen me before. She backed away and shook her head, shuffling towards the Wall with her children and hurried through.

The morning mist wound around my ankles and I wondered at the sureness of my memories. I had felt Death's hand close around my heart. I had seen my sons grow and be married. I had wept for a week when my wife went to the gods. Still, I was here.

My feet turned and took me back along that road towards where memory told me the village would lay. Sure enough, it was exactly the way I remembered it. The town square still bustled with a faceless crowd of people, the air tinged with commerce and chaos.

"Excuse me young sir, but are you not the blacksmith's apprentice?"

The man in front of me was covered from head to toe in trinkets and junk. He clanked and whistled just standing there.

"Well, no actually."

"Oh, my mistake. I'm on my way to see him and I thought I could hire you to carry my cart. Seems my porter has gone a bit deep into his cups while I attended to my affairs. Why, even if you are not the apprentice, perhaps you could be convinced to assist me for a few coppers?"

"I suppose it couldn't hurt. A few coppers are always a good thing. Where are your goods?"

He pointed to the handcart across the street. I muscled the lopsided pile of junk up through the deep rutted streets and out into the open fields beyond. The junker was a man of merry mood and he whistled softly in time to the rattling of his clutter. The countryside peeled back and the smoke from the furnace filled my face once more.

The old man didn't acknowledge us as we approached and the junk trader stood there silently for a moment, turned to me and pressed two coppers into my hand. We sat in silence, listening to the constant clanging of the hammer on steel, the hiss of a red hot blade burning water away and the crows fighting over dinner until the sun started to set.

The hammer fell quiet as the sun dipped low behind the mountains. The old man put his tools down, wiped the sweat from his brow and spoke.

"Junkman. I see you have brought me what I asked for."

Clanking, he replied: "Of course I did old man. There is no need to thank me. I'll be taking my payment now."

The old man sighed and brushed back his hood.

"Let's get this done then."

The junk trader stood and walked over to where the old man was sitting. He reached back into his pack and brought out a small hand axe. The old man pulled up the sleeve on his faded old robe and placed his wrist on the anvil. I cried out: "What are you doing? You can't be serious!" I stood up and started casting around for a weapon.

"SILENCE!" The old man boomed. "You cannot interfere here. It is my price to pay."

The trader looked back at me and smiled. "You fetch a hefty price son."

The axe fell and blood poured out from the stump of the blacksmith's arm. He didn't make a sound, he simply reached for a blade resting in the red furnace and the air filled with cooking flesh as he cauterized the arm.

I stood motionless, uncomprehending and terrified. What did the trader mean, I fetch a hefty price?

The clanking pile of rags reached down and scooped up his prize and sealed it in the wax from a candle. I watched in growing terror as these two men completed their transaction. The hands of the trader shoved the hand deep into one of the bags hanging from his belt and he turned to me at last.

"Well, there you are son. I'm off to the next town past the Wall. Thanks for your troubles, enjoy the grumpy old man here."

"Wait, why did you take his hand? Who are you people, what madness have you brought upon me?"

The heap of dirt and rags just smiled and took up his cart. Only a merry whistling was the answer to this burning question. I turned back to the blacksmith, screaming for a reply. Only a wall of silence greeted me in the ever darkening air. I slumped against the wooden stool near the furnace dazed.

"Hmmph. What a terrible start to this. Alright apprentice, get to working those bellows while I figure out how to work this blade with only my left hand. Gods only know why I paid that much for you but such is the way of the world."

"I am not your apprentice, that man did not sell me. No one owns me, why would you say such a thing?"

"What wil you do then?" he spat in my face. "Go back to farming? Raise sons and grow old and fat in some stinking farmhouse? Tell me boy, how well did that work for you? Was that how you envisioned your life then?"

I reeled back and felt my blood drop into my toes. How could he know these things? Was it not a dream? I knew then that he spoke truth. I belonged here. I could feel my hand reaching out for the steel. It sang to me.

"Very well old man, I will learn your craft. You seem to know something of me. I have not the pleasure of your name sir."

"Nor shall you. You may call me Master. I will call you Boy. That is final. you will obey me in all things, is that understood?"

"Yes Master"

The days fled fast in that shack, I learned more in a week about the craft of forging than any man may learn in a lifetime. I knew that Master was truly more than the title of honor for this strange old man. It was the truth of him. Just as in the past, my weeks flew by me, seasons reeled through the heavens above and in the blur of time I lost my way.

I learned the sword with blood and bone. I poured my very soul into that forge day and night. We lived there in the forge, trading horseshoes and nails for food and cloth. I drew water every morning from the well in the village and carried it back up the road. It was a simple, unhurried life.

We would work on a sword for years on end, perfecting every fold in the metal, working it until it was as supple as grass in the wind with and edge harder than the anvil we worked upon. Once the edge was honed perfectly sharp, Master would wrap the blade in silk and carry it off to his customers. I never saw the customers or the money he received. We made everything we needed trading with the village and I never asked too many questions for fear of the old mans wrath. For years I trained under the Master and in time became known as Apprentice. By the time he stopped calling me Boy, I was 50 years old.

Master has died. This winter was too much for his ancient bones and he passed to the next world a tired and angry man. I am Master now, two young villagers apprenticed to me summer last have taken the role of Boy. I do not know their names, they call me only Master. We sweat each day in the fires of the forge and bend this earth to our wills. Every day I see the Wall looming in the horizon and every day I pine more and more to see the other side.

It is my turn to fade into the horizon now. I am too old for the world and no one has seen my work. 12 perfect blades I have turned out in my life. I can see them there on the wall behind my Apprentice as he damps the sweat off of my brow. I am dying and I have never gone through the Wall. I recall my previous life in that moment, the farm, the houses, my loving wife, my boys and their children. How could a man get another chance at living and find himself at the same place again? The Wall loomed heavily in my mind once more and I was wracked with suffering at having wasted not just one, but two lives in this foolish quest.

I awoke once more.

The mist, the Wall, the clacking of horses and the murmur of morning travel washed over me again. I could not believe I was here again. The woman and her child passed me by, the same look on her face, the same sunlight filtering through the trees.

I ran as fast as I could through the village, past the farmlands and to the blacksmiths shack. There was the tattered old red robed Master, clanging away at the anvil. I looked to his hands. Both appeared firm and whole.

"Master! You have your hands!"

He turned his face towards me scowling. "Of course I do. Why on earth would I not?"

"I thought..."

"You know nothing. Sit down Apprentice. Let me tell you a tale."

Long ago there was a young boy born of a simple family who sought to travel the world. Every day he would lie awake in bed and dream of the world far off in the horizon. While other children played in the rivers and forests, he would dream alone in the fields near his parents farm. His father indulged him for a time but when his majority came to him he sat him down at the hearth and spoke.

"The time for your dreams has passed my son. Now you must grow to be a man and take on more of the farm. This constant dreaming will do you no good in the days to come. You must keep your mind focused here, in the real world."

The boy was scared. He had no interest in farming or horses or the ruddy faced farmers daughters that surrounded the farm. His was to be a life of legend, full of adventure and the riches that it would bring him. Deep in the night he stole away from the farm, one foot falling in front of the other to bring him to his destiny.

By dawn he was further from the farm than he had ever been in his life and he chanced upon a travelling hermit at the spring near the crossroads. The hermit looked at the boy and smiled.

"Well, what have we here? A boy on his own? Are you lost young man?"

"No sir, I have set upon the path of adventure and this road has led me here. I am off to see the world."

"A noble cause to be sure! One I have undertaken myself these many moons. Are you prepared for the world? How will you defend yourself, what of food and shelter?"

"I have my knife here sir and a good stock of food. My camp tent is in my backpack and this fine walking stick."

The boy held aloft his hard wooden staff to the hermit.

"Fine it is indeed young sir, but what of the wolves that stir in the hills? What will you do when ill spirits rise against you in the night?"

The boy thought for a moment. "I don't know sir, I hadn't thought of that."

"What of the dragons lurking in the mountains?"

"I don't know!"

"And the terrible Guardians of the East? So foul that to describe them would cause the skies to darken and worms to boil from the ground?"

"Oh good sir, I do not know. Please tell me no more!"

"Such is the world you seek to see. I have seen all of these and more. It is a cold and unforgiving place full of demons beyond count. There is no rest, there is no respite. I bid you to return to your home and seek this world no more. It is nothing but a den of monsters and thieves."

The boy fell to the ground sobbing. His dreams shattered onto the crossroads in a thousand pieces. He reached down to scoop them back up and felt nothing but air. He scooped up what he could and pulled himself off the ground.

"I did not know. Thank you for telling me these things. I will return to my farm and see my parents."

"Good that you do son, good that you do."

As the boy turned back towards the valley the old hermit chuckled and sat down. He removed his hood and shook off his beard. There at the crossroads sat the boys father, laughing and drinking his wine.

The blacksmith unfolded his hands and looked me squarely in the face.

"Tell me then Apprentice. What is the moral of this story?"

I thought for a moment and replied: "One should know ones station in life and respect it."

He moved so fast I thought he never moved at all. His hand knocked me reeling onto the floor of the shack.

"WRONG you stupid child! The moral is simple. Do not believe in what you see. The world is more than simple stories, more than darkness and death, more than beauty and warmth. It is more than we will ever know and unless we push past our eyes, we will never know what lays beyond. This is the third time you have come to me in this place and still you have learned nothing. Why do I continue to speak? I gave you every secret of sword making I possess and for your whole life you sat here waiting on me hand and foot. What were you waiting for? Why did you not take a sword and leave?"

I stammered out "I thought it would be ungrateful of me..."

"You never asked. First you try to ply me with money, an insult to the concept of sword making. Next I decide to be kind and give up a hand for the chance to teach you. For fifty years I watched you yearn for the blades we forged and yet you remained silent. Why? Explain yourself."

I could not reply. I had no answer. I had never thought to simply ask.

"I do not know Master. Please forgive me."

I bowed low onto the dirt and felt his hand smack me across the top of my head again.

"Forgive you? Hmmph. Three lifetimes I have wasted here in this shack trying to show you the obviousness of the truth and you think it that simple?"

I said nothing. I kept my face on the ground and pulled back my tears. I had failed completely.

"Bagh, get up Boy. I wouldn't have done it if I didn't care. Besides, someone must fetch the water if we are to make you a sword."

I looked up at the face of the Master and smiled weakly.

"Thank you Master, I will not disappoint you this time."

"You'd better not or your next lifetime will be spent as a cockroach."

A selection from a forthcoming story

This is an excerpt from a as of yet untitled short story/novella/thing that I've been working on.

Enjoy!

The flavor set off a supernova in my head, like fire had been cooled, condensed into liquid and poured into this cup. I reveled in the heat of the coffee rolling around in my mouth, every nerve ending leaping up and down like a toddler in a toy store.

David stared at me.

"Umm, that's a bit hot don't you think? Be careful, you'll burn your mouth like that and ruin the flavor."

I thought for a moment. This was hot. Damn hot. So that's what hot is. Huh.

"So tell me what you can remember. Let's start with your name."

"My name is Adeline Rabinowitz. I'm 36 years old, I am a teacher at Mary Mumford Elementary School in Richmond, Virginia and I live in the Museum District."

I reeled a bit as the memories clicked into place. I didn't know how I could remember anything.

David cocked his head. "Well then, it appears you remember quite a bit ma'am."

"I suppose I do."

"So what's the last thing you remember before waking up on the street? I'm quite curious how you ended up in Cincinnati."

"I remember walking home from work. I had left late after grading papers and eating dinner at work and was walking through Carytown on my way home. It was, I think, a little past 11 that night."

"I decided to cut through the alleys behind some shops to try and make it home a little faster. I was about three blocks north of Carytown when I heard screaming. About a half block down I saw this guy trying to force a woman into his car, she was screaming at the top of her lungs and trying to fight him off. I started running over and drawing my taser out of my purse. The guy stopped, turned towards me and I saw a bright flash."

My hands started shaking, coffee spilling over the rim of the cup.

"Oh god. He shot me. I was trying to stop him from hurting that woman and he shot me."

David leaned over the table and placed his hand over mine.

"Are you certain that he shot you? You appear to be in perfect health, well, aside from being a bit chilly and nerve wracked."

"No, I'm certain of it, he fired three shots at me. One of them hit me."

David drew a long, shuddering breath.

"Well, that's a hell of a tale miss. It still doesn't explain how you ended up shivering here in Cincinnati."

"No, I suppose it doesn't. I can't really remember much beyond that, there's this hole in my memories that I just can't explain. Listen, David, I know this may be a little weird for you but I'd like to ask a favor."

"I'm all ears."

"I'd like you to help me figure out what's going on here. I can't remember anything in order, I'm trying to remember someone's phone number. Someone I know..... I know they can help but I just can't seem to recall their face or number or anything."

I felt the tears well up in my eyes again, the coffee shop closing in around me. Why the hell am I here? What the fuck is going on? The questions rolled around in my head as it started spinning out of control.

David sighed. "Alright then, I can help you out. The greatest joy of being retired is having no plans in particular. I think the first thing we should do is get you some new clothes, some solid food and then we'll go speak with the police and see if there's a missing person report filed on you."

I nodded and smiled. We sat in amicable silence for another fifteen minutes or so, sipping the coffee in front of us and listening to the patter of the winter rain on the street, the clanking and whooshing behind the espresso bar and the murmur of the patrons talking in quiet tones. I felt warmth returning to my bones and seeping into my heart. As strange as all this was, I knew that in this place none would cause me harm.

David walked over to the bar and paid our tab while I gathered myself up and headed to the door. The wind and rain was a cold as it looked, I felt my skin tense as we stepped out onto the street.

"There's a thrift store about a block from here Adeline, let's get you something warmer to wear."

The door opened to a thousand relics of past lives, broken dreams and passing fancies. Porcelain statues, worn out baby strollers, lamps of an indeterminate age, mysterious kitchen utensils that made no sense rolled past my eyes as we made our way to the clothing racks. I pawed through the women's clothing until I had found some passable pants and shirts. There was even a rack of used underwear for me to look through. I had to wonder at this, who drops underwear off at a thrift store?

Soon enough I had warm clothing in hand and was heading with David to the counter when I felt a strange tug in my mind. David peered curiously at me as I wandered over to the electronics section. I stood there staring at the obsolete computers, piles of old beige mice and keyboards and ancient video games. Something was calling me here. Something from my past.

David stood next to me. "What is it? Do you recognize something?"

"I don't know, there's something here I need to see. Give me just a moment David."

"Take your time, I'm in no hurry."

I walked over to the shelves full of electronics and peered closely. There it was, tucked up behind a dusty old Sega Master System. A slender leather case was lurking in the shadows. I reached back and pulled its considerable weight out and opened the cover. Inside was a fairly new smartphone.

"Well that's not something you see every day!" David peered over my shoulder as I tried to turn it on.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, that particular phone hasn't been released yet. Finding anything made within the last five years is rare in a thrift store. Finding a prerelease model is akin to finding the Fountain of Youth in a Wal-mart bathroom."

The power button wouldn't work. I fiddled with the switch for a while until I realized the battery must be dead. I looked at the bottom of the phone for a power connector. Thankfully it charged via USB so there wouldn't be any problems getting it charged.

"David, I know this phone is mine. I don't know how I know it, but this is definitely mine. I hate to put you out, you've already done so much for me. Can you buy this for me? I don't have anyone else to turn to. I can pay you back as soon as I figure out where my money is."

David smiled and took my hand.

"Of course, that's why I'm here. To help you."

Curious turn of phrase, I thought.

David tried to pull a USB charger out of the squidlike horror of the cabling bin and cursed under his breath. I looked back down at the shiny screen of the phone. My past was in there somewhere, lurking in the binary memory of this innocuous looking device.

The clerk at the counter cocked her head at the cellphone.

"Wow, I wonder who dropped that off. Nice find lady!"

I nodded my head and smiled weakly. Who did drop this off here? Did I do this at some point? There are too many mysteries here. My stomach began to turn. David waved his credit stick over the reader and stuck his thumb on the scanner.

A few beeps later I found myself changing into the second hand clothing in the back of the store. As I pulled the shirt down over my head I noticed a tattoo on my left arm for the first time. Three solid parallel lines right below my armpit.

☰

Weird, I thought. What does that mean? How did it get there? I looked over the rest of my body for anything else I had missed. There was a light scar running down my right thigh, just above the knee. That's not that unusual I suppose, plenty of people have scars. Eventually I'll figure out where that came from.

I headed back to the front of the store where David was waiting for me.

"Better?" he asked.

"God yes. I'm actually warm. David, I found a tattoo while I was dressing. Three lines right under my left armpit. I have no idea what they mean."

"How curious! More mysteries from your past no doubt. I must be honest, this is by far the most interesting thing that has happened to me since I retired."

"I'm glad you're so intrigued." I scowled.

David looked aside and muttered an apology.

"No, no, it's alright David. I'm just really burned out, my head isn't working right and nothing makes any sense to me."

David turned and looked me in the eyes. "You have nothing to apologize for my dear. These are extraordinary circumstances and you are perfectly within your rights to be testy. Let's see if a good meal doesn't help you out. What's your pleasure?"

I thought for a moment. "Indian? Is there an Indian joint around here somewhere?"

"I believe so, let's see."

David pulled out his phone and started looking for a place to eat. He glided his fingers over the surface of his phone with practiced ease, painting mudras over the glowing screen. I watched his fingers dance with amazement. His face went calm and focused in that moment, his eyes clear and a faint smile on his face. It was like watching a dancer, if the dancer used only their fingers to paint a picture in your mind.

My reverie broke with his words. "Ah, there's a highly recommended Indian restaurant three blocks from here. Good Yelp reviews, decent price and... there we go, online booking. We've got a table."

I pulled my new overcoat tight around me and headed with David out into the street. The rain kept coming in waves as we walked through another series of dimly lit streets and old cars. We made it to the Indian place without getting too drenched, though my raincoat was starting to leak a little as we made it up to the door.

The smell of the Indian restaurant nearly knocked me out. Spices laced with sweat and meat trailed past my face in a stream of wonders. I had never smelled anything so tempting, so unspeakably delicious in all my life. My mouth began to water as I watched a plate heaped with curry pass on a waiters hands to a table. David looked over and smiled.

The maitre'd walked smoothly over to us and bowed slightly, his AR headset bobbling slightly.
"Dr. Halifax? A pleasure sir, your table is waiting for you right this way."

As we sat down at the table I peered over at David. "Doctor?"

"Well, yes actually. I have a Doctorate in Computer Science and Psychology. I spent most of my life as an AI researcher and programmer. It's been a strange time, no doubt. I've seen and done things I never dreamed possible."

"Oh..."

I reached down to plug in the USB charger and hooked in the cellphone I found in the thrift store. The LED blinked red, angry at its badly powered state. That'll take some time, I thought. The rain continued to pour outside, I gazed out the window and got a chance to let my mind wander for a while as David poured over the menu. This has got to be the strangest day I have ever had, I mused. The menu slid across the table with a hush and David recommended the yellow curry.

"Sure, that's fine."

The meal arrived silently, the waiter gliding across the carpet and sliding the dish of curry under my nose with practiced ease. I ate the entire dish without chewing, one swoop of the spoon. David stared at me silently, his jaw hanging slightly open.

"Uhhh, that's quite an appetite there miss...."

"I guess I was hungry. Sorry to be so impolite David. I feel like I haven't eaten in weeks."

"No, it's of no concern. I hope you don't mind if I eat at a slightly slower pace."

I blushed slightly, "No, of course not."

While David made his way through the curry I reached over for the cellphone and checked to see if I could power it on. The angry red LED was steady now and the power button was glowing. Great, now I can see what the deal is with this thing.

The screen flashed as I powered up the phone, hiccuping a few times and loading the boot screen. Android, good. At least it wasn't some locked down carrier written bullshit. The service light flared up and it got a steady data connection. There is one thing I need more than any other. The Dialer list showed the most called numbers and there at the top was the one I needed most.

I punched the record up and saw a face I couldn't quite place. John? John Wilton? The entry had his name and information, but I couldn't connect the picture with any memories. The last call to his cell went out just over three days ago so I dialed it again.

"Hi, you've reached John's phone. Leave a message or just send me a Wave and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

Crap.

Next on the list was the schools office number.

Voicemail.

I went through the entire dialed list and got voicemail on every number. What the hell? How can everyone I apparently know be offline at the same time? I checked the wireless connection again to make sure I was connected. 65% signal strength, more than enough for VOIP. This makes no sense, I thought. If I was in a deadzone I couldn't dial out.

David set his glass down and leaned over the table.

"Can't reach anyone? Try my number, see if you can get through."

I dialed his number and without pause his phone started singing across the table and vibrating a waltz. Strauss?

"Nice ringtone David."

He smiled. "Thanks! Well now we know it's not your phone that's broken. Have you figured anything else out?"

"There's a ton of pictures in the memory card, mostly a cat. I imagine it's my cat but I can't understand why I need a hundred shots of it sleeping in the window."

"Ha! I imagine that most people would wonder that given your situation. I for one, would wonder why trees are so interesting if I lost my memory."

"So is your data connection working? Can you get on the web?"

"Yeah, looks fine to me."

"Look through your browser history and bookmarks and see if you can find anything relevant. I'd take a gander but that's far too personal."

I waved over to the browser and waited for the bookmarks to pop up.

"There's nothing special here so far. Amazon, craigslist, Boing Boing, a bunch of cat sites."

"Wait... what the hell is this? It's just an IP address."

2f01:03b8:85a3:ff00:0000:8a2e:0e7b:7334

David leaned over the table with his hand out. "May I?"

I shrugged and passed the phone over the table to David. He reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a small grey box covered in ports. I must have looked baffled.

"It's a portable firewall I built. Damn useful when you don't know what you're getting into. The last thing we need is to brick your only source of information."

David fiddled with the phone and firewall for a while, then sighed.

"You'd think that setting up a proxy with this thing would be a little easier. Well, I didn't spend all my time in a lab for nothing."

He squinted though a pile of menus and eventually his head popped up.

"Right then, here we go. Cross your fingers, I hope this gives us some answers."

I pulled my chair along side his and watched the phones screen as it loaded the IP address. A simple frame popped up and a bar of outdated HTML loaded on the left hand side of the screen. Plain white background with blue text. It looked like something from before I was born.

1. About this page

2. Log in to Devnotes

3. Contact the Webmaster

4. External Hyperlinks

David looked like he was having a heart attack. His face dropped ten shades to pale and he slumped back in his chair, reaching for his water glass.

"Holy crap David, are you alright? What is it?"

"This is... this is mine."

"What?"

"This is my website. I mean, it's really old but I clearly remember this page. This is from my thesis project at Stanford."

I was stunned. "How the hell did that end up on my phone. David, what the hell is going on here? What are you not telling me? Do you know who I am?" I fumed at him and people started looking over at the table we shared.

"I don't know, I've never met you before in my life. I mean, you say you teach at an elementary school I have no idea why you would have this address. I don't even know why this is on the web, this was an intranet site when I was using it."

I grabbed the phone off the table and yanked out the cable leading to the firewall. I stuffed the phone and charger into my pockets and stood up.

"Fuck you man. I don't know who you are or why that's on my phone but I'm going to the police right now god dammit. Don't you dare try to follow me you freak." I flicked him off and stormed out of the restaurant. I could hear David saying "Wait!" faintly as I slammed the door and started running down the street. My phone started ringing immediately, David trying to stop me no doubt. I ignored the ringing and ran as fast as I could towards the end of the block.

Short Story: Bonnie Is Magick

People never really knew what to do with Bonnie.

When she was very young, most people treated her like there was something wrong with the way she acted. At three years old she drew a map of the entire world all over her grandmothers living room furniture. When she was six, she hypnotized a boy in her class and covered him with ink, drawing symbols all over him. When the teacher asked her what she was doing, she looked at her work and simply said, "I'm preparing him for the end of the world." Later that afternoon, the world ended. But the only person who noticed was Bonnie. Even the boy she covered in sacred symbols never saw the dragons crushing the planet under their wings, the demons howling up from the ocean and consuming the shore. The only person who saw it was Bonnie, the only person to thank the Warriors who beat them back and rebuilt reality was Bonnie.

At eight years old she helped a dying kingdom rebuild its crumbling walls. The king thanked her for all her help and a very confused gardener walked away from the farm, grateful for this strange magickal girl that lived there and knew where all the roots were.

From her view, everything seemed normal. Cars were terrible beasts, legends were born in every sentence and the fantastic never stopped when she woke up from the night. The reality that every other person tried to stuff her brain into was so flat and dull that her mind wouldn't accept it as true. She would lose herself in the afternoon sky and people always said, "Oh what an active imagination! She's so creative!". What they didn't see were the endless battles of the Sky Giants protecting their Ring Hordes from the Black Dawn. At age ten she brought a pumpkin to school for lunch and when the teacher asked her why, she said nothing.

Bonnie looked up from her desk at this gargoyle leering down at her and could not understand why the pumpkin would seem out of place to it. It's a gargoyle, she thought, why does it care if I have a pumpkin? As she held on to her pumpkin with all her might, she saw the faces of the other kids in her class, laughing and pointing, jeering or just looking away. Gargoyles were everywhere then, grasping and tearing at her skin and trying to wrestle this food away from her grip. She closed her eyes and wished them all away. All the laughing kids, all the gargoyles, even the pumpkin.

Bonnie was alone. The classroom was completely empty. No desks, no papers, no chalkboard. She stopped shaking and looked around, pleased at the quiet of it all. She could see glittering rivers of light flowing through the hallways and could smell the fresh green air from the open doors. She walked slowly out towards the doors of the school and peered outside. The world was silent, still. No hordes of children thronging in the playground, no cars. The roads in front of her school had disappeared and all she could see was green grass and clouds. She stood there, soaking it in and laughing.

The tear in the sky swallowed the sun. Dark clouds bore down where she stood and rain poured out of the sky. Bonnie shielded her eyes as much as she could and tried to make it back inside. The hallway was wet and her foot slipped up as she tried to make it back under cover through the open doorway. Her face hit the ground hard and she could feel something important give way as she fell. Blood oozed from underneath her chest and her head swam in clouds of confusion.

The teachers stood over Bonnie and glared down with disapproval. She lay face first in a pile of broken pumpkin in the hallway and was crying and moaning. She stood up and looked down at her chest in horror and desperately tried to stuff the shattered remains of the pumpkin into her shirt. When chunks would fall off, she would scream and try even harder. All she can remember is the horror of a crushed pumpkin. The jeers of the children, the dying of a sunny day in the grass.

When the school counselor asked Bonnie how she feels, all she did is sit and stare at her, shirt and hair covered in pumpkin. The conversation ignores her. Her mother is there. The words float above and beyond her. All she can think of is the loss of that sky, the end of a perfect day. Her tears flow like rain now, her cries reach out past the school and into the echoing hallways of the universe. Something wakes up. Something starts to fly.

The next morning as Bonnie feeds her invisible spider and gets ready for school, her mother comes to her room to meet her.

"Bonnie, it's time to go see the doctor honey. You're not going to school today."

Bonnie looked up at her mom and simply smiled. "OK mom. Can we go get breakfast afterwords?"

The car ride passes slowly and Bonnie is watching the horses try and keep up with the car. Laughing the whole way there, she pats the white one on the nose when they get out of the car and follows her mom up to the entrance to the building. Inside, all is cool and bright. The glare of the white light pushes into her brain and she starts getting nervous. Her mom tightens her grip slightly and leads her into the office of the doctor.

The doctor asks Bonnie a lot of questions. How many horses were there on the way here? How often do you see them? Does your invisible spider eat? The morning drags on and Bonnie starts to get bored with the doctors questions. How can he not know the answers already? What kind of doctor does not know about the Sky Giants?

As the car pulls away from the office she can see the horses start to gallop again. They follow her all the way to the diner and hang out right outside the window where Bonnie and her mom sit.

"Bonnie, I've got a pill I want you to take every morning. The doctor said that these will help you concentrate. They'll help you with schoolwork and keep you focused on important things."

Bonnie stared at the tiny white pill. It was so tiny. So blindingly brilliantly white. It must be good. Besides, she wanted to do good in school, it made her mom so happy. She popped the pill in her mouth and swallowed it with a big gulp of orange juice. Not too bad, she thought. Breakfast arrived and she devoured it whole.

As she followed her mom out to the car she started to panic. The horses were gone. Not even a trace remained. No hoof prints, no smell. She worried the whole way home. What could have happened to the horses? They had been running alongside the car ever since she could remember, they kept other cars away from her and her mom, kept them safe from the other beasts that roamed the streets. What would they do now that the horses weren't protecting them?

The hit never registered in her mind. All she remembered was waking up in the hospital with her mom crying and leaning over her. Her mind felt like someone had stuffed cotton in her head and everything she looked at was blurred out. She looked down at her feet and saw that the right side of her body was covered in a cast. "Mom? what happened?" Her mother sobbed more and held her hand tight. "We were in a bad car accident. You leg got hurt when the truck hit us and now you're in the hospital." Bonnie thought for a moment and looked at her mom. "You shouldn't have made the horses go away."

After three years of pills, Bonnie didn't see the Sky Giants any more. She didn't miss the horses and she had long ago gotten rid of the tank for her invisible spider. Her mind was sharp, focused and her grades in school were excellent. The kids in her class didn't call her Bonnie Bonkers any more. The past was the past.

The dreams were not so easily ignored. Every night she woke up sobbing in the dark, some unknown sadness gripping at her and not letting her go. She could never put a finger on it and the wear it put on her was starting to show. Her performance at school was starting to lag. The doctor and her mom took note of this and decided that it was time for her to start a new pill.

"Bonnie, these are anti-depressants. They will help you deal with your sadness and make your life easier to bear."

Bonnie was willing to do anything to push the shadows from her mind and she took the new blue pills with resignation. That night she swallowed the blue pill and drifted off to sleep. She woke in the morning with a start. She had dreamt nothing. For the first time in here life, she slept without a dream. This scared her more than the nightmares so she went and talked with her mom.

"Mom, I don't know if these blue pills are helping. I didn't dream anything last night, and I always dream."

"That's good sweetheart, you slept all the way through the night. How do you feel this morning? Are you sad?"

"No, I'm not sad. I'm not.... anything."

"That's great honey, that's great. I'm glad to know you're not sad anymore."

Bonnie stared out at the farm and saw nothing. Felt nothing. Was Nothing.

She went to school.

She came home.
She studied and she ate.

Something panicked and started flying faster.

The Nothing that had overtaken Bonnie started to have its own needs. It needed sensation. It needed fire. It called out at night and made its wishes known. Bonnie listened and found what nothing wanted most. Booze. Drugs. Sex. Money. Power. Armed with this knowledge she fed it everything it could ever dream of.

Nothing purred and curled up close against her heart. It kept the dreams at bay. It shielded her from pain and fear, Nothing can fill the void, Nothing can keep you content. Nothing led her down the road, across the country and deep into the dark forests of her mind. Bonnie and Nothing lived together for a long time, purring and petting each other. But what she did not see was that while Nothing grew fat and content, Bonnie was withering away.

Something arrived almost too late. Bonnie had become one tiny flame of what had been a bonfire when Something started its journey. It barely recognized her when it flew over the new bridges and concrete that grew over the fields. Something squinted at the tiny light below and rushed down towards the ground. The air screamed and the clouds ran away from the terror of Something. Nothing never saw it coming, it was too busy counting gold and enjoying another drink to pay any attention to the skies.

Something slammed into Bonnie at full speed, bowling her over a picnic table and spilling her beer all over the ground. Something grabbed Nothing in its teeth and wrestled it to the ground. Nothings gold went flying all around and Nothing threw Something off its back.

"Who are you to come barging in here like this? We're quite happy, Bonnie and I."

Something smiled and glared. "I am Something. I have come to kill you for draining all the magick from this girl."

Nothing sneered. "It was not I who drained the magick. It was not I who cast these shadows. Do you blame the mold that takes hold when bread sits out too long?"

Something thought deeply and started circling. "No, I do not blame the vine for choking the tree but I will chop you off at your root."

Something lunged for Nothings throat.

For three years they tore away at each other and Bonnie shook with earthquakes every day. A hundred kingdoms vanished under the might of their battle, a thousand seas went dark with the blood, ten thousand birds flew in terror. Bonnie could only look at the battle that raged and wonder what she could do. The people around her began to wonder at the change. Something had returned but it wasn't there all the time. Bonnie started to notice it too. She worried and fretted, she gnashed her teeth and drank another beer.

After three years of endless warfare, the hundred kingdoms were in tatters. Something and Nothing lay beaten and bleeding under the trees near the edge of the forest. For the first time they noticed Bonnie sitting near them, watching. Too tired to move, they stared at Bonnie with confusion.

Something spoke. "What are you doing here little girl? I have come to save you from Nothing. I will protect you and keep you safe."

Nothing coughed up blood and rasped. "You are a fool Something! She needs me here. She is here to send you away. Bonnie, don't you want to go have a drink with me?"

Bonnie didn't move. She sat there for a long time looking at the pile of fur and broken bones that Something and Nothing had made of each other. As the sun set behind her the Sky Giants peered down from their castles and waited. The birds returned to hear the words and the Demons looked out from their caves.

Finally as dusk set in, Bonnie spoke.

"I remember it now,
those years ago.
Before the anger
Before the pills
Before this warfare
Before the thrills.

Before Nothing and Something
bled the skies red
I had dreamt up a world for me
laying in bed
I see now the truth there is
In what's called psychosis
By demons of logic
Who speak like they know this:

I am Everything, I am my dreams
Everything is exactly just as it seems
I am the savior, I am the sin
Alpha and Omega I scrawl on my skin
To burn this moment into my head
The sight of you both here, verging on dead.

Thank you both for your lessons
I shall not forget
But if there's one thing
I've come to regret
It's believing a savior
could find me my rest.
Believing there's challenges
I need help to best.

I'll be walking away now
to leave this behind
To recognize Everything
and live free in mind."

Bonnie got up and left Something and Nothing behind, their death throes echoing off the mountain sides and their blood soaking the earth. She held Everything tight and it pawed at her hands, curling up against her chest. It was a tiny Everything but she knew it would grow. The Sky Giants were so tiny when they first came to be, but look at them now. No Black Dawn had ever touched their Ring Hordes in all those years she missed. Everything must grow in the fullness of time. As she climbed up the trails towards the home of the Sky Giants she saw the horses playing down on the field below for the first time in a decade and Everything knew she would make it.

She stayed with the Sky Giants until the night, when their vigil begins. She bade them all fare well and headed off to her apartment. Everything was curled up on the bed and begging for food. She sat down and fed it four chapters from a book, a few cigarettes and three beers. Everything was satisfied, Everything was alright.

Musical Etiquette: At The Grocery Store

Originally Posted at Crappy Indie Music.

Dear Musical Etiquette:
I was walking through the grocery store the other day and ran into XXXX from XXXX shopping! I was so nervous, but I walked up and said hi anyway. I told him I was his biggest fan ever and gave him my demo CD. Good thing I keep some on me! He didn't really talk to me, he just sort of stared at the CD, said thanks and kept on walking. Did I do something wrong here? Why would he ignore me? I'm his biggest fan, I've been to like every show!

Help! XXXXX


The answer is yes, you did do something wrong. See, the thing is, your local celebrity is a human being. I know it's sometimes hard to see, but this guy just probably just wanted to get his grocery shopping done and go home. At the risk of sounding rude, I must inform that you're being annoying. You see, the grocery store is one of those times where he just gets to be normal and boring and to someone who spends a great deal of time on stage and under the lights, it's a great relief. You just shattered his illusion that he is just a normal guy, buying food and deodorant.

It's a Job
You must realize that being in a band is a job. It's true. His role in the band is what he does for a living, even if it's not a full time job. So walking up to him in the grocery store and slobbering all over him is akin to someone walking up to you and demanding a spreadsheet of your time clock entries, or being told to make a sandwich. He's not "on the clock" right now. Don't expect him to jump up and down and thank you profusely for interrupting him while he's trying to select the right breakfast cereal. A few brief words introducing yourself, a handshake and an appreciative compliment is sufficient. Please, don't give out demos for your band or try and set up a show here in the cereal isle. If you're really interested and you think you've got a good chance to work together, feel free to give them your card and leave them in peace.

Quit slobbering
Frankly, this sort of worshipful fawning over someone at the grocery store is demeaning to you and can be very uncomfortable to the person you're worshiping. If you're really trying to impress this person with your music, act like a human being. Granted, there are people who enjopy this kind of attention and they are hollow, insecure shells and you probably belong together. If you are convinced that they will enjoy this kind of attention then don't do it halfway. Have a chorus of singers behind you, offer burned sacrifices, light candles and chant, waft incense over their body as you sing their praises. I mean really do it up. Offer them your first born child, show off that tattoo you got of their first album cover artwork, read them that tear stained poem in your back pocket you wrote in the darkest hour of your life for them. Worship them wholly and fight the police when they show up.

Be People
If you really are interested in this person that you worship so much, talk to them about food. Share a recipe, comment on the quality of their selections, amuse them with an anecdote about what they're buying. You'd be surprised by their reaction to it. A great deal of "famous" people lose the opportunity to have honest dialogue with random people and it's nice for them to not worry about being that guy on stage. When you approach someone, remember that they are a stranger. No matter how much you think you know about that person from their songs, you really don't know this person at all.

OK, Now You're Good
There are good times to drop a CD in someone's hand, or pay them more than a passing compliment on their work. A musician that just got off stage, is signing CDs or posters or is at an industry event is more than open to hearing about how much their art inspires you, makes you cry or fills your enpty life with meaning. This is the time they put aside to hear this kind of thing and interact with their fans. It's not wise to take up too much of their time still, remember you're a stranger and you don't have the right. So just play it cool, say what you want to and move on.

Please don't be offended if their is a luke warm reaction to your demo or contact information. Successful musicians deal with hundreds of people every day and if you meet them after a really long day they might not be in the best of moods. Don't be pushy, don't be rude. Just remember that they're people too and they have lives that don't involve music. Let the man shop.

Till next time!
Eriq Nelson

Send me your inquiries and horror stories at musicaletiquette@gmail.com

Album Review: Iron and Wine - Fall 2007

Originally posted at Crappy Indie Music

Essentially the demo versions of Shepherd's Dog, this feels like a personal concert playing in my bedroom. It is stripped completely naked, just Sam and a guitar and it's great to hear these songs like this. There's some serious differences here too. "Boy With A Coin" has an extended vocal section that I've only heard live. "Innocent Bones" has a slightly slower tempo and achieves even more intimacy than the album cut.

The entire thing is so intimate and warm it makes me feel like Sam Beam is hitting on me while I'm sitting in front of a fireplace. He reaches over in between songs and fills my wine glass again. I reconsider my commitment to the heterosexual lifestyle as he winks subtly at me and picks up his guitar.

This brings me straight back to The Creek Drank the Cradle and falling head over heels in love with this mans voice and guitar style. It's not nearly as scratchy as earlier works (let's hear it for the cash of success!) but it still feels like a bedroom album, raw and unapologetically simple. It's good songwriting technique, filling an entire track with voice and guitar and only lending support to the song with other instrumentation.

The collection closes with Resurrection Fern, my personal favorite track off of Shepherd's Dog and a lullaby of quiet beauty. Revisiting one of my favorite records from 2007 in it's raw state has been a great experience and I look forward to Around The Well, the upcoming collection of rare and unreleased Iron and Wine due on May 19th this year.

Available for free on Iron and Wine's website.
Released today: "The Trapeze Swinger" from the film "In Good Company"

Rant: Derivative Crap

Originally posted at Crappy Indie Music.

There is no doubt that other forms of music are a huge influence on anyone creating music in the 21st century. With the huge collection of recorded music available to the modern artist and the speed at which this music comes to us, it becomes difficult to distinguish a bands influences from it's creativity. So what qualifies a band as being derivative? I believe it is the extent to which they are able to synthesize these influences and progress the art form. Derivative music can be traced back to a tiny handful or perhaps just one major influence. Truly good modern music can trace it's lineage to a thousand different influences and a progressive form that pushes the boundaries of how you define what you're hearing. It is said that imitation is the greatest form of flattery. That may be so, but I don't feel compelled to listen to it.

Any decent musician has spent a huge amount of time listening to music; absorbing, reacting, analyzing and deconstructing their favorite recordings. They will have spent innumerable hours listening to their own work and the performances of others and reflecting on what they like about it. Likewise, they have an opinion about what they don't like. Taste is everything in music production. There is little doubt that what you listen to has a deep rooted influence on what you play, they are both extensions of your musical tastes and come from the same place. This is an inescapable fact of music. It doesn't mean that you can't innovate.

Derivative music is music without risk. It is the safe road, the comfortable pair of shoes. It is familiar and does not challenge the ear. Papa Roach is a perfect example of derivative music. It's actual worth as music can be debated endlessly, such things are the realm of taste but even a most ardent fan of their work must admit that there is little innovation present. Their music is a culmination of modern rock radio habits. The song structure that they employ varies by no more than 10% per song. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, out. It is a method that has evolved significantly in the last 30 years and left this particular canker sore of pop music behind. There is nothing distinctive whatsoever about this band, they pass through my ears like every other craptacular band with a Digitech pedal rig and a few bad ideas about songwriting that radio calls "modern rock".

In another sense music that, while derived from a great number of influences, fails utterly to either properly synthesize these influences or innovate upon them is just as bad. Ne-Yo is little more than a place marker sitting on top of twenty years of dull eyed, radio friendly R&B music. It is the culmination of a generation of mediocrity in soul, artists unwilling to take a risk with their sound or truly flex their vocal abilities; choosing instead to play to the least common denominator and appease the lazy listening habits of a pre-defined market. It is a grand example of the major label music form, as bland and lifeless as a bowl of cold oatmeal. The fact is, there is a great deal of room for innovation even within the context of soul music and performers like Ne-Yo fail to even recognize it's existence. If you don't believe me, go listen to Cee-Lo.

In that light there is merit to traditional forms. Soul music is becoming a tradition slowly, and it is still very young. If you want to see the progression of a traditional form that has a longer lineage look no further than bluegrass. Abigail Washburn is a banjo player of considerable skill. This is not why she stands out. Bluegrass is chock full of extremely talented pickers and the dexterity with which they play amazes me constantly. Her talent is in the arrangement of her material, her fine sense of timing and her inclusion of Chinese folk forms in her music. There are deep parallels between Celtic root and Chinese root music but I won't bore you with the technical aspects of this. Instead, look to the beauty and uniqueness of her art. One can draw a direct line between her and her influences and still, we must stand in awe of her brilliant fusion. It is what distinguishes her from so many other bluegrass musicians and it shows a deep commitment to progressing the tradition instead of keeping it locked away in a glass box to be admired from afar.

Broken Social Scene stands in as my example of truly excellent modern music. I can dissect the influences that lead into it, I can analyze the structure and it would take me far too long. It is a finely woven mesh of music, pulling from so many areas of culture that it takes in a life of it's own. It is transcendent art, recognizing it's past while embracing the future. Broken Social Scene is becoming an influence on music moving forward, which is the mark of true innovation. You could debate the relative worth of their contribution to music but one cannot escape the fact that they have made a contribution, which is more than I can say for the vast array of trite, boring crap that occupies so much of popular culture. Even within their collected recordings and side projects there is a remarkable amount of diversity and creativity. They give me hope, they make me think that I'm not doomed to listen to the same music over and over again until I die.

High quality modern music is more than the sum of it's influences. It is a unique synthesis of other musical forms but achieves far more than acting as a single point at the end of an extensive lineage. It expresses the personalities of the musicians involved and ensures that their voices come through in the song. It challenges our preconceptions of what music is capable of and keeps the lifeblood of art flowing forward. It synthesizes and improves on music we thought we knew so much about and keeps people like me from getting burned out and cynical. On occasion an entirely new form of musical expression will come along. Many times it is simply not worth listening to, a great deal of modern music theory revolves around concepts so cerebral, so disconnected from reality that it has little resemblance to an enjoyable experience. I would not presume to know the future history of musical innovation (who in the 60's could predict the rise of hip-hop?) but I can tell you one thing. Influence is no bad thing, there is a considerable amount of synthesis that has yet to be explored and music will continue to evolve. I hope we will always have artists that refuse to be derivative and take big artistic risks for the chance to make me wake up and pay attention.

Short Story: Spacemonkeyz Vs. Gorillaz - Laika Come Home

I packed a suitcase with a few essential belongings and headed outside to the waiting cab. It was early that Saturday morning and I still had a hard time believing my good fortune. I'd been selected to pilot the first orbiting music studio in human history, a joint venture between Virgin Galactic and Apple Computers.

A few months before this, the head of the project contacted me through my website to let me know I'd made the short list to head the LEO (Low Earth Orbit) Remix division. It seems that my essays on astropolyrhythmics had made some waves with management. Soon I was confirmed for training and tendered my resignation to my then employer, Beat Science Ltd. I spent three months in a training facility in California, getting my body into shape for long term low gee and learning from the Duboligists at the newly founded Institute for Low Gravity Recomposition.

So the day had finally come and I stood there staring out into the horizon when the cab driver hit the horn and gave me a nasty look. I had spent my entire professional career studying astropolyrhythmics and the time had come to put it into practice. When we arrived at the guard shack in front of the launch site the entire facility was in a state of complete panic and disarray. I found the rest of my team near the crew prep area and was quickly filled in by Ian, my Chief Beat Engineer for the mission.

It seemed that the monkeys that were used to test our module had broken out of their holding pens about half an hour before then and were putting the ship into preflight checks. The monkeys had shut ground control out of the systems and the capsule was designed to be completely secure, guarded against industrial espionage. The rocket lifted off that morning packed full of a $150 million in experimental studio equipment and three stoned out test monkeys.

The world watched and listened in wonder as over the course of one year, the Spacemonkeyz released one of the greatest dub concepts ever given form track by track back to the planet on pirate radio. People ask me if I'm upset by this turn of events and in interviews I always say the same thing. Those monkeys have fulfilled my greatest dream, to remix an album in orbit and elevate the science of astropolyrhythmics to legitimacy.

They're still up their and last week I sent them new source material from Thievery Corporation, Scientist and King Tubby.

Good for: Traveling without moving. Founding a colony on Mars based entirely on slick beats and reverb.

Get into orbit on Amazon.

Short Story: Broken Social Scene - Bee Hives

The swirling dirt and dust around her feet seemed to guide Julie forward, waving in her direction from ground level. Hoping that the air could tell her what last night could not, she followed the tiny vortex down the quiet concrete of the abandoned main street. Two birds flew quietly overhead as she crossed to the other side, still following this jinn of cigarette ash and road dirt. Clouds gathered overhead, threatening to mask the rays of a wan and silvery sunlight that pervaded the atmosphere of Stuart Nebraska.

Julie Wainsworth was not a tall woman. This particular morning she reflected that it is at times an advantage to be short, the wind passed over her while the trees looked as though they might lie down for a nap after straining so long to stand up. She had been born to a mixed family, her mother's Omaha side lost somewhere in the history of family bibles and alcohol and her father's ancestry some uniquely American mix of French-Canadian, Irish and something else. Her mother had been a quiet woman and she inherited most of her features, broad face, good hips, short height and a quiet demeanor. The other people here had always treated her with a distanced respect and she preferred it that way.

All of this past seemed to fade into dream as she continued following the tiny tornado west out of town and into the endless fields of commercial farming and cattle. It always hit her like a punch in the gut, seeing the pesticide laden soil groan under the weight of profit and the endless ambition of American business. Trying to find an audience for her feelings had always been impossible in a town of a few hundred farmers and their kin. Julie spent her nights alone as a child, staring out at the stars from a tree and wishing there was some way out of here, laughing deeply as age and wisdom taught her that "out there" was no different for a thousand miles on either side of the town.

It was mid-morning now and the crowded farm buildings gave way to the open sky and endless fields of their pursuits. Her feet stopped short as the vortex halted suddenly next to an access road, about 20 feet in front of her. It moved very slowly down the access road and she stood there, wondering just what the hell she was doing. She was certain that the bank manager had been calling her mother's house for several hours at this point, she was at least three hours late for her shift. Why did it seem so far away? So unimportant? Fuck it, she thinks and walks down the access road, chasing this tiny spirit.

An hour and a half later, the jinn stopped again near a telephone pole and suddenly dropped it's payload in a poof of dust and ash. Julie coughed and wiped her eyes , red sparks playing against her eyelids and Nebraska trying to force it's way into her throat. As the faerie light of her eyes cleared into the glare of the afternoon, a pay phone resolved into focus sitting next to the pole. It looked as though it had been there for sixty years, wind worn and faded from a life in the wild. A wild pay phone? Is it tamed?

The musings of herds of wild pay phones broke into iron tinged fear as the phone began to ring, piercing the windy solitude of her portable temple. Three shrill rings and she stood there, petrified at the way her day had gone. Silence for a moment, a released breath escapes her lips. The phone rings again and her chest seizes up. It's still ringing. Her hand reaches for the receiver, shaking and terrified. As the earpiece hits her ear and she begins to say hello, her lips freeze mid speech as the tinny speaker springs to life.

A sound like bees swimming through an ocean of digital waves gives way to a guitar in the distance telling the tales of her life. She strains against the hot black plastic to hear each note as the story unfolds in her mind's eye. The ground gives way beneath her, an earthquake lifts the red brown dust into the sky and the farm folds back in on itself. Every emotion of her life is turned into a digital pulse, converted by the aged and worn out telephone system and output through this minuscule electromagnet. Her eyes roll back in her head as the sky stares down at this strange sight, birds chirping their questions at the trees and the trees retaining their knowing silence.

Julie Wainsworth is dead now. That's what everyone in Stuart knows to be true. The county coroner confirmed that heart failure led to her demise. If he only knew how true that was. Her heart had failed years ago, this tiny town had never spoken to her and it was sheer willpower that kept her limping along. I know the truth says the tree. She has gone home across the wires around my fingers. Her body lay at my feet that spring morning, but Julie was racing across the plains, waving her goodbyes to the land that gives us life. Julie was my friend, she lived among my branches as a young-ling and stared at the stars until her tears fed my roots. I know Julie Wainsworth, I know her fears, I know her wishes and I know she smiles now.

Julie Wainsworth is not dead.

Short Story: DJ Cheb i Sabbah: As Far As: A DJ Mix

The low red sun burned through the fog of the last few sleepless nights. I rolled out of the borrowed sleeping bag and onto the hard packed dirt floor of the tent. Camp coffee, cruel black gunk that burned like lava was all that we had left in the supplies so I launched a healthy dose down my throat and got dressed. The clothes I borrowed from Madin three days ago were stale and smelled like I'd borrowed them three years ago. We'd been waiting for almost a week to get into the Bhimbetka rock shelters to see the petroglyphs with our own eyes.

Moving to India in my early twenties was an impulse move. Tired of the relentless pace of Western life and the excesses it brings, I packed a bag and headed to the subcontinent with no real plan. How could I have predicted that that shit would follow me, even here. Now every corner of India is plastered with ads for American products, Internet cafes and cheap knockoffs from up north in China. Authenticity in the age of plastic is a fools dream, but I have always been a fool.

Thusly did I find myself staring at 10,000 year old human settlements squinting in the early morning with Madin, my friend and mentor. Well dosed on shitty coffee we parted the tarps covering the nearest cave and set up our mats just inside. I had been practicing my meditation techniques and learning from Madin since I'd arrived in India and I quickly stilled my mind and peered past the rock carvings and into the earth. I saw the hands of a thousand generations lain upon this stone, trying to see what the carvers had meant so many years ago.

As the glyphs settled into the back of my conscious mind the cave fell away and the scene opened up on the sea of green spread before me. The jungle went on as far as I could see and for the first time I saw the India I had come looking for. The land before even the times of Siddhartha Gautama. The rhythm of the land swept through my mind's eye and shook the last bit of disbelief from existence.

In a rush the world around me blurred as vision ans sensation fast forwarded. Time and space become concepts as I moved through Asia and into Arabia. Before I could catch my breath the mighty empires of the Middle East and North Africa rose and fell in front of me. Egypt ascendant, then nothing but wind blasted monuments to an era long past. The vision swept me north once more, to the high mountain reaches of Nepal. Past the endless expanses of the Tibetan highlands and into the Gobi. When I arrived here the journey stopped.

All of these visions came at once then, threatening to overwhelm me. Just when I thought I could take no more, I woke to the cool inside of these ancient caverns to find Madin smiling softly at me. I lay cold and shivering on my mat inside the cave and confused, my body stiff and sore from what felt like years of sitting.

There it was, in a moments flash. I realized then that this endless quest for the real was but one more illusion to strip from my awareness, one more bridge to cross in life. I bowed deeply to my friend, to the cave and to the thousand hands that came before me. Outside, the air had taken on a new lightness. I realized in that moment that it was I that had become lightness, laughed and put my feet upon the road once more.

Short Story: Portishead: Third

People don't understand why I do this work. It's certainly not the money and there's no real glamor in being a private investigator. Most folks just think I'm a flunked out cop, one of those guys who couldn't cut the mustard on the force so I settled for second best. I always let them think that, they underestimate me and it gives me an edge. I started out as an insurance investigator, hunting down fraud and trying to protect good people from bad things. That's what I thought anyway. Like most jobs the finish wore thin after a few years and I realized more and more that I was protecting the bottom line more than our customers. The underside of every job looks the same, it's covered in blood and gold.

My first freelance case came while I was still working for the company. A good friend of mine had been working in film for a while and something had come up that he needed help with. Why John thought of me, I'll never know. There were a thousand more qualified men out there, ex-spooks, military men. But the letter landed in my hand that afternoon, certified post from London with his name on the top. I read the letter immediately, curious why it would arrive like this. I couldn't remember the last time a paper letter crossed my hands. The letter was straight to the point.

Henry;
I know you've got some experience with these matters. I need your help. Some asshole is trying to blackmail me and I can't get from underneath it. Please, help me find out who this is and get them off of my back. I'm sorry I haven't called but I know they're listening in on my cell and reading my e-mails. I included some money to get you over here in a hurry. Meet me here in the lobby at 4 whenever you get in, I'll be looking for you.

Thanks buddy, I know you'll get me out of this

-John-

Inside I find a cashiers check for $7000 and a card for a hotel in London, Sanctuary House Hotel. What the hell John? Why would I drop everything to help you out? Right, why wouldn't I? This man had pulled me out of some nasty situations when we were younger and he even took a beating that was rightfully mine one night. Some quick arrangements with my boss pushed my vacation up a few weeks and some quickInternet wrangling got me my ticket to Heathrow. I ordered in some food and spent the night looking up things to do in London.

Airports are the same. I don't care what dress you put on them, they all do the same dance. Bored people looking thin and pasted over a fluorescing backdrop. I spent my flight time writing down everything I knew about John and his various "problems". As good of a friend as he was to me, he was kind of a dick. I could see how someone could get a handle on one of his skeletons and give him a good shaking. The shit he'd done, fighting a clown at his nephews birthday, sleeping with his brothers wife, drinking a 30 year old bottle of scotch that his roommate had been saving. You know, that last one doesn't seem that bad, except that it ended up on his roommate. You begin to see my point.

The plane skidded to a halt on a strangely sunny day in London. I checked my GPS to make sure I had landed in the right city. I guess the sun does shine here on occasion. After a half on hour of fighting baggage claim I made my way to the tube station to get to the hotel. I had about an hour and a half to kill before John would meet me in the lobby so I checked into my room and relaxed for a while, pondering the mystery of finding myself in London.

What weirdness. My cell beeped it's alarm and I made my way down to the lobby and waited, looking to the doorway. People came and went on their way, tourists, business types and staff. The time shift started to crawl up my spine and slipped into the aether land of international sleep deprivation. A tap on my shoulder snapped me back into the lobby.

"Mr. Withers? Henry Withers? My name is Rachel Warrington, we'd better have a talk. John has been killed."

Next time: Japan seems to bleed neon.

Short Story: Balkan Beat Box

Legends had been whispered at campfires for years in the valleys surrounding my home. A circus of Gypsies, but not the folk we'd known. The Gypsies I'd known growing up had been merchants, entertainers and hired help during harvests. Foreign certainly but nothing beyond the ken of a well versed man of the world. It was said that these others possessed magics untold, pathways to other worlds and strange devices that no wise man could fathom. They travelled far beyond our the world and brought back with them goods that defy description. Cloth that could not be torn, a flame held inside a bulb with no source of fuel or spark and a thousand fold other fanciful devices were at their command. Most educated persons regarded these whispers as nothing more than the idle talk of peasants and the fevered dreams of occultists and their kin. I pity them now for their inability to see beyond this grey world and into the next.

Talaitha had been around the camps of the Gypsy for as long as I could remember. She had the dark eyes of her folk and always seemed to be in a trance of sorts, peering this way and that at things unseen. Most of the villagers avoided her when the caravan pulled into town, fearing her witchcraft and Gypsy curses. I had always watched her from afar as a boy, hiding myself behind the skirts of my mother and ducking behind stalls as limb turned long and lean in the years to come. When the age came upon me my father passed his knowledge of metals onto me I began trading with the gypsies more and more often. Their metals were exceptional for this region and I could not go a season without bartering for at least some of their wares.

It was late in the harvest season and the caravan was soon upon it's way when I at last summoned forth the courage to speak with Talaitha. No sooner had I approached the camp when behind me leaf and dry grass stirred. Talaitha had been following me since I left my father's workshop. I was carrying to her the pinnacle of my apprenticeship, a trombone made of pure Gypsy brass and lacquered with English silver. She took me then lightly by the hand and bade me sit beside the fire. I sat, waiting with quivering anticipation for her next silken words. She asked me then what had brought me here. "To present you with this, my dear. A token of my undying affection." I spat out in a rush. It would appear that youthful mastery of language appears only in the privacy of ones room.

She smiled at me with that otherworldly glint in her eyes and told me thus. "A fine token it would make, you sweet young man. I could not decline such an offer but I know of a place where such a fine instrument would be better loved than upon my clumsy lips. Have you heard tell of the Balkan Beat Box." I replied that I had not. "Folk here may speak of them as Gypsy, a strange tribe even for our ways and versed in magics not known in these lands." A spark of early childhood campfires brought legend to life in my mind's eye and I nodded emphatically. "Come with me then, let us see if fate may bring us this joy."

She stood there, radiant in her tattered clothes and began casting about her person for some unknown reason. Upon her exclamation she pulled from a pocket a strange dark object. Putting the small blackened box to her face she began talking in a language I could not understand. No sooner had she replaced this thing back into her pocket than I blinked and found myself sitting far away from the familiar camps of her tribe. A queer array of light bled down from some source above my head and the air was stifled with the scent of tobacco, crowded with the din of people talking and hotter than any summer I'd known. The surrounding space was full of items beyond my knowing and people moving in such a rush that my head began to spin.

A cool hand lay upon my shoulder and soothing words swept into my senses, "Fear not, my sweet young man. Let me see that trumpet you labored over so fiercely and we shall see what the fates have in store for us. You must remain here, do not allow your eyes to wander overmuch. It is a forbidden thing, what I have done, and I fear what may pass if you are discovered." Seeing the intensity in Talaitha's eyes I believed her and passed the trombone into her hands. She walked across the floor to a dark skinned man who seemed pleased to see the instrument. A few tentative whispers upon the horn and then a note of such pure radiance that I may never hear anything quite so sweet as long as I live. The man smiled and nodded in my direction and I replied likewise, dazed at the strangeness of it all.

The rest of the people gathered near him and began playing music such as I have never experienced. So this is the legend, Balkan Beat Box, I thought to myself. They are no mere necromancers as legend would have you think, they are true magicians of the highest order spinning spells of drum and brass into enchantments that lasted well past the trailing note of that night. I had never heard such fire, such overwhelming passion played upon a stage and to this day I have never heard the like again. The time passed me by without knowing, each blast of the horn and beat upon the drum lining up with the next tune without pause. I danced with Talaitha upon that strange scene, sweat pouring out of my body as rivers into the ocean deep and I swooned at the joy of it all.

My body spent, my mind overtaken by the pulse of such a place I fell back into my seat and closed my eyes. The magicians had begun packing their constructs into dark casings and the crowd beyond was thinning. Talaitha took my hand once more and spoke, "You must return now, shall I retrieve your Masterpiece for you?". "I would not think of it, it has found it's place here in this magicians hands. It would be a sin to deprive him of my work and this night has left me with payment enough." The mystic smile crept back onto her face. "I thought as much. Come now, we must be off. Take my hand and do not open your eyes."

No sooner did I close my eyes than I felt air around me shift, a chill flowing up my legs and the scent of wood smoke in my nostrils. Alas, I felt no hand in mine and I finally cast my eyes about searching for the smile that had brought me here. It was no more, nor was there any sign of the caravan that had brought her into my life. I wept upon my knees and cried at the moon until I could stand no more. Slumber held me tight that night after I walked the lonely path back to my father's shop.

Morning next I sat in bed and pondered whether any sane man would hear my tale and do anything but laugh or refer me to Father Anders. I thought it might be wise to remain silent and have kept these words still in my breast until this day my son. Should you find yourself standing with a Gypsy girl deep in the night, armed with your intentions and the product of this family's craft, be careful what words you speak. They may lead you into dreams and madness, but a madness you will treasure all of your days.

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