For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord
Plans to Prosper you, and not to Harm you
Plans to give you Hope and a Future

Craft: Chapter 1 Part 1

   What a story, really, how can I begin to tell it?  Beginning really is the hardest isn't it?  Or maybe it's the middle of a story, the monotonous parts that seem to mean nothing until the culmination at the end.  Perhaps though I'm wrong on both counts, and it's really the end that's the hardest.  All the pressure that's built up is finally coming to it's apex.  And like a ballerina executing a beautiful leap, any lack of control will send it spiraling into disaster.
   So, perhaps I should just get if over with, and just tell the end first.  But there's no grace to a beginning that starts at the end, cause then it's lopsided.  But starting in the middle is confusing, so I can't start there either.  Well, se la vie.  Looks like I'll just have to begin .... at the beginning!

Craft: Prolouge

   Looking back, I'm struck by the absurdity of it all.  The cliche's, the sad truths, the stubborn lies that people are going to go on believing for the rest of their lives.  And my role in it all; that's what's the most absurd.  I mean really, the way that I just got swept up in it is rediculous. 

   Sometimes I forget now, that the real world is just outside, and sometimes all around us.  But it's true that secrets don't breed friends, and so outsiders rarely get in.  My mind always travels back to that first Halloween spent in Mesa with Mallory and Sullivan.  I remember that we made Logan stay in the apartment for his own safety, seeing as if he had gone out someone probably would have tried to kill him.  He was so pissed about that.  Not that I blame him, living in a hostile nation filled with gun toting fanatics is never fun. 

   Halloween is such a joke in Mesa, a Witch friendly community (though the normal residents don't know it).  When normal people dress up as the scum of the underworld, we go as ourselves, 'cause hell, if we're gonna call ourselves Witches, we might as well play the part, even if it is a lie. 

Soul Eater: Offspring, Chapter 3

I checked the registration list again. There was no way. I never expected this to happen. Why would she do this to me? It must just be a different pronunciation, or maybe there was another family with the name Albarn, it wasn’t that uncommon was it? “Lillian…. Is it Albarn?” I asked the class full of students. I tried to keep my voice steady, to not betray the fact that the name had shocked me so much. I willed the girl who was now raising her hand to correct the way I said it. “Sir, I’m registered as Ripper Albarn; no one really calls me Lillian.” I stared at her for a moment. She was probably about sixteen, short-ish, skinny like her Mom had been, and she had light green eyes that also looked exactly like Maka’s. Damn. But her hair was white, as white as mine, and her nametag read, “Ripper Albarn, Weapon.” She was a Weapon. That probably explained the name. I guess that I had been staring for too long, Stein cleared his throat loudly. I took a deep breath. “Ripper…. Alright.” I continued down the list of names. Albarn, Ripper Albarn, Lillian Albarn. Could she really be Maka’s daughter? I finished the list, there was only one student missing, probably late. A Bad Luck Smith. Oh well, the name said it all. I stepped back, careful to keep my eyes on the floor and off of the young lady in the crowd. Stein asked all the Weapons who didn’t need Meisters to go with Sid. I looked up to see if Ripper would be one of them. She wasn’t. She looked nervous, nervous as all the others were. I wondered what they were all thinking, the others in the room who knew the name Albarn, who knew Maka. Stein finished his little speech and dismissed the kids. They left; I kept my eyes on the ground. No one said anything, yet. I knew it was only a matter of time before they did. So I said nothing, and walked out of the room. I made my way down the lesser known hallways of the academy, keeping my thoughts to myself. If she was really Maka Albarn’s daughter, well, that meant that Lillian ‘Ripper’ Albarn was also my daughter. But she could be a different Albarn. The similarities in appearance between Maka and Ripper, and even between Ripper and myself, could just be me being paranoid. Besides, I thought to myself, even if that is Maka’s daughter. She doesn’t know anything about me. Maka made that very clear. I am not that girl’s father. And no one besides she and I know for sure that the child is related to me. Just then I heard a second set of footsteps on the hard hallway floor. I stopped, but didn’t look behind me. “Lord Death wants to see you in the Death Room.” Liz’s voice was uncolored. She must have some idea what this was about, but she wasn’t showing. “Fine.” I answered, “Now?” “Yeah now.” “Alright then.” Liz’s high heeled footsteps walked away. So, the big man himself wanted to see me. I could be over reacting, which wasn’t cool in the least, or it could just be a normal meeting. In any case, I was a Death Scythe; I had to report to Lord Death. I made my way to the Death Room in silence. I passed underneath the hallway of guillotines and recalled all the times that I had been called through this hall by the last Grim Reaper, as a student, usually because of something I had gotten in trouble for. Only then Maka would have been with me. Ah well, that was a long time ago now. I knocked on Death’s door, and it opened slowly. Across the room, looking into his magic mirror was Lord Death. He was still wearing his Reaper robe and mask, which made him look almost exactly like his father had all those years ago. I was reminded of being called into the principal’s office more than ever. “You wanted to see me?” I asked, my tone on the defensive. “Yes.” He answered me in one word, without an explanation. “Well?” I asked, “What’s this about?” “It’s about Ripper Albarn.” Lord Death answered me, he turned away from his mirror and I could see that he was watching her in it. She was being taken on a tour of the school with all the other new students; she looked rather bored, but also nervous. I pressed my lips together in an attempt to keep myself from immediately yelling. I needed to keep my cool. “Well that’s not creepy at all is it, Kid?” I used Lord Death’s name as I knew it. We’re friends, I reminded myself, there’s no reason to get upset just now. “Why don’t you take off the robe and mask? I feel like I’m talking to your father.” “Well that is kind of the idea.” He sarcastically commented, “Tell you what, I’ll take off the robe and mask, if you take the red napkin out of your pocket, it’s frightfully unsymmetrical, seeing as you don’t also have one on your right side.” I chuckled, that was Kid for you. He had gotten much better at handling his neuroticism in the last ten years or so, but things like that still bothered him. I pulled the silk handkerchief out of my suit pocket and put it inside my jacket. Kid did me the courtesy of lowering the hood of the ragged robe he wore, and removing the white bone mask. “So. What about Lillian Albarn?” I played dumb, reminding myself that there was really no proof that she was my daughter. Kid frowned and ran his hand through the white stripes that colored only one side of his black hair. “Soul, really, don’t make this more complicated than it has to be. Normally I wouldn’t even touch the subject, but she’s a student at my academy. And I am Lord Death. I need the truth. Are you going to tell Ripper Albarn that you’re her father?” His brow was somber and serious; the teasing tone of a moment ago was gone. I stared at him, not blinking, not speaking. My strong emotions were bubbling to the surface, but I kept them hidden, I had always been good at that. “Well?” Kid asked again. “You don’t know that I’m in any way connected to that girl. I’m not interested in your speculation, or the rumors that you’ve heard; they can all go to hell.” I snarled. “Oh please, Soul I don’t need proof. Before you became a Death Scythe sixteen years ago you and Maka Albarn were the most promising Meister and Weapon pair at the DWMA. I watched you two bring down Oshura together. You were closer than close. You know as well as I do that people suspected you were sleeping together. Then, out of the blue sixteen years ago you become a Death Scythe, and as far as I know you and Maka haven’t even spoken to each other since. Partners like you don’t just stop talking when the Weapon becomes a Death Scythe. Three weeks later we all find out Maka’s pregnant. Connecting the dots isn’t as hard as all that, Soul.” Kid sighed heavily. “If you want evidence more concrete than all of that, well then Ripper is a Weapon, a scythe no less.” “She could have inherited that from her Grandfather. He was the last true Death Scythe. Doesn’t seem like that much of a coincidence to me.” I looked at the ground though. Kid was more right than he knew, but the situation was far more complicated than he made it sound. There was no way I was just going to out and admit something that I’d been denying for sixteen years. Not once since that day sixteen years ago had I claimed, out loud, that Maka’s child was also my child. Kid groaned in frustration. “Fine then. Obviously you aren’t going to admit to her or me that you’re her father. I will, however, expect you to treat her the same as you do all the other students. Avoiding her will be impossible. So if you really are planning on keeping up this charade then make sure it’s convincing.” Kid replaced his mask and hood and turned back toward the magic mirror. Ripper was now sitting on the bed in her dormitory with a look of true frustration on her face. I tore my eyes away from her face, which truly was such an incredible mix of Maka and me, and strode out the door of the Death Room. The door slammed behind me. As I stalked out of the school and into the town I did my best to smother the guilt that Kid’s accusations had aroused in me. I had no responsibility to this child. Her mother had not permitted that, and now it was too late. She was grown, and I was a Death Scythe. Maka and I were over sixteen years ago. I would not give away my feelings. I would have to keep my cool more than ever around Ripper Albarn. I could do it. I would do it.

Gandor, Chapter 3

Firo Prochainezo whistled as he strolled along the roads that ran parallel with the Hudson River that morning. He was one of the youngest and most promising of the Martello family camorristi, more commonly known as a Capo. Unlike many of the other Capos of the Martello organization, Firo did not have a father or a brother in the Martillo. In fact Firo had never known his family. As far as he knew he was the bastard child of a prostitute and one of her clients, a no one. But one of the Martillo, a man named Lando, had also seen this woman, and had decided to take on little Firo after his mother died in childbirth. As such, Firo had grown up around the Martillo and he was something of a son to all of them. He was also close with the Gandor brothers, the three Capos who ran the Gandor family organization. The youngest, Luck Gandor, who was five years Firo’s senior was something of an older brother to Firo. And then, of course, two years ago Firo had received his official initiation into the inner circle of the Martillo family, he had become a Capo. What an eventful night that had been. What changes it had brought. This morning he was on his way into the poor section of the city, to a warehouse owned (allegedly) by the Martillo. The warehouse its self functioned as a storage space for one of the legitimate part of the Martillo’s business (manufacture of mechanical parts). But in the basement some of the Martillo’s associates ran a distillery. Firo was going there to inform the managers that the source of their ingredients would be changing. Normally such a low profile errand would have been delegated to someone much lower down in the organization, but Firo wasn’t busy that day, and he was as friend of the manager, Milo. He turned a corner into a narrow alley and knocked on the cellar door to the large building. When the door opened steam seeped out and the delicate smell of raw alcohol rose. The door was opened by a young guy in overalls who recognized Firo as one of his employers and welcomed him. The worker took Firo to a small closet-like office without windows to meet Milo. “Firo! My friend, to what do I owe this transcendence of status?” Milo was a tall thin man with a thin blond beard and curly head of hair; he rose to meet Firo with a smile. “Oh come on Milo, you don’t think that just because I’m runnin’ the show now, that I’m not going to come by and see how things are, do ya?” Firo grinned and they both laughed. “Well what can I do for you?” Milo asked, sitting down and pouring both Firo and himself a small glass of scotch. “I’m just here to tell you that your supplier is going to be changing soon. Next week I think. The crates should be addressed 1287 Blackman.” Firo answered. “Is that all? I would think that they would be giving a Capo like your-self more important jobs than getting messages to distilleries. Don’t you have people for that, Firo? Not in trouble with the Don are you?” Milo teased. “Actually things have been pretty quiet as of recently. I could have sent someone, but then I wouldn’t be here drinking scotch with you now would I?” “That’s true,” Milo chuckled. They finished their drinks and bid each other farewell after a long conversation about what was going on in their lives. Firo saw himself to the back exit and began the lengthy walk back to the Martillo headquarters. Just as Firo turned a corner back to the river-side street he heard shouts coming from a nearby alley. Firo paid no heed at first, but he had to pass by the alley mouth anyway and decided to pause to see what was going on. He was glad he did. In a moment Firo took in the situation. About seven or eight men were crowded against the wall of the building on the left. In their center was a big guy, about six feet tall and built heavily. He was holding a young woman against the wall. With his right hand he had her wrist and his left was ripping off her dress. The look on the woman’s face was agonized, but she didn’t scream. Her lips were parted but no sound came out. It was as if she didn’t have the will to protest. Firo yelled at the thugs, “Hey you! Bozo, get your hands off the lady.” He was enraged, but he managed to keep his cool. That had always been one of Firo’s advantages; he didn’t lose it even when he was angry. The molester turned his head in Firo’s direction and he could tell by the out-of-it expression on his face that he was just drunk enough to be dangerous. The group didn’t do as they were told and they didn’t answer him so Firo repeated himself, “I said, Get. Your. Hands. Off. The lady. Or didn’t you hear me? Last chance. Finally Firo got a response and was relieved to see the drunk take his left hand off the girl’s breasts. Firo could see red marks where his hand had been. “Who in Hell are you?” the drunk demanded. Firo was really pissed now. He didn’t answer the guy till his voice was under control. “I’m Firo Prochainezo of the Martillo family, not that you need to know. All you need to know is that I’m the guy telling you to leave the lady alone, or regret it.” The family reference was sometimes enough to frighten away confrontation, and avoid blows, but Firo really hoped that these thugs were too drunk to make a good decision; he wanted the chance to beat on them. The man responded in a predictable manner, “Like you’re gonna do anything to us, kid. Get lost, mind your own business.” Firo laughed to himself quietly. Often he would get the “kid” comment. It annoyed him, but he figured that he better get used to it, he was going to be getting it for quite a long time. He murmured to himself, “Well, I tried to warn ‘em. But … then again. I’m not sure that they even deserved that chance.” Firo stepped forward languidly, taking his time; he didn’t want to scare them into hurting the girl. But he could see that even in their state one or two of the smarter men were beginning to back away slowly. The others grouped together, sure that the seven of them could handle this smart mouthed punk. The main guy sneered maliciously and jerked the girl up off the ground, taking his eyes off Firo for a second. That was all Firo needed. He ran the last couple steps to give himself momentum and slammed his fist into the guy’s jaw. Damn! Firo thought to himself, this guy’s got a hard head. That drunkard reeled back, howling and let go of the girl in the process. But now two of the others were coming at Firo. He grabbed the first by his swinging arm and twisted him around to slam into the other guy. One of them was knocked unconscious the other ran. Another guy tried to punch Firo head-on, but Firo dodged him, losing his hat for a second, but catching it as he round-house kicked the bastard in the head. The next guy tackled him from behind, but Firo only flipped him over, knocking him out. Two ran away, and Firo finished the main guy with a sound kick in the spine. The dust settled and Firo brushed and re-shaped his felt fedora. He turned to help the girl. This was the first time he had taken a good look at her, she was pretty beat up. He was half-holding herself up half sitting on the dirty ground. The grey dress she wore was completely ripped, exposing a simple cream-colored brazier. Firo averted his eyes, but not before taking in that she had very beautiful breasts, despite the red handprint on them. She was small, anorexically thin. She looked fragile. Her skin was pale in the extreme and her features were delicate. Her gold-brown hair was tangled and fell across her shoulder. Her face was a sweet shape with full lips and hazel eyes underscored by shadows that peered up at Firo with confusion and deep sadness. Was she alright? “Sorry that took so long.” Firo apologized softly. Now, looking at the bruises forming on her wrist and arm in the places where the thug had grabbed her, he regretted wasting any time by talking to her assailant. “You alright? He asked with worry, “My name is Firo Prochainezo, Miss…?” “Aeda...,” the girl started but could not give her last name because she began to cough violently, and fall completely to the ground. Firo’s chest seemed to contract with sadness as he realized that she was very sick. “Please, don’t come near. I have a fever. I’m going to die anyway.” He found himself on the verge of tears for this girl. She was totally giving up on her life; she was going to die anyway. Firo controlled his expression and voice this time to mask sadness and protested, “Now, don’t talk like that! I’m not about to let ya’ die on me, just now that I’ve saved you.” He gently as possible scooped her up in his arms and began walking toward the closest main street; he would hail a taxi cab and take her somewhere that she could get help. The hospital? No. They were always over run with poor patients, and during this time the sick rarely got the help they needed there. But luckily, one of Firo’s close friends in the Martillo was also trained as a doctor of sorts. Perhaps Maiza could help. The sick girl in Firo’s arms murmured, “You shouldn’t.” Firo steeled his voice to answer, “Yeah I should, and don’t worry about me. I don’t get sick.” He expected a question but got none. He looked down with worry and saw that she had passed out; her breathing was shallow and pained. He walked faster, finally coming out on a busy street just as a taxi was passing. It stopped for him and he paid the driver to take them to the Bay Road store. The store was the front for an extensive hideout of the Martillo. In the cab Firo held on to the girl, who said her name was Aeda, hoping that she wouldn’t die on him. He held her head against his chest. She felt so frail in his arms. They reached the store, and Firo practically ran into the back with Adela in his arms. It was a dramatic change from the bland colors of a small convenience store to the luxurious blacks and reds of a high end bar and ballroom that was the real business going on here. Firo took the stairs to the basement and called out, “Maiza! Maiza! You down here?!” As he walked hurriedly down the hallway, which was decorated in the same fashion as the ballroom, Firo ran into a tall, thin young woman with short brown hair wearing a black suit with a white shirt underneath. “Ennis!” Firo exclaimed relieved, “Sorry, have you seen Maiza? This girl needs a doctor, now.” Ennis was quiet by nature and her eyebrows bent with concern and confusion, but she was always good in a tight spot and said, “I’ll go get him. Put her down on the couch in the next room. It’ll only be a minute.” She strode off in the opposite direction and Firo took her advice and walked into the next room, which was a parlor, and set Adela down on one of the red sofas. He crouched beside the couch and felt her forehead with his left hand, she was burning. A moment later Ennis entered the room followed by Maiza. Maiza was a tall man with thin features and a kind face. He wore brown slacks and a white shirt with matching brown vest. To look at Maiza a person wouldn’t think that he was anything special, he had a calm countenance, and no one would guess that this seemingly-young man was over 200 years old. He immediately crouched down beside Firo, placing his left hand on the girl’s forehead and checking her pulse. “Firo, who is this? How long has she been like this?” He asked in a rush, his squinty eyes showing signs of stress. “Why did you bring her here?” “I don’t know her Maiza.” Firo answered, a little embarrassed. Bringing random people into the Martillo hide-out was not particularly smart. “I found her being attacked by a group of smashed bozos. I gave them an ass-kicking that they won’t forget, but then I saw that she was sick, and I couldn’t just leave her. I thought about taking her to a hospital, but I didn’t think she had that kind of time. So I brought her here, I thought maybe you could help her.” Maiza nodded in understanding, but hung his head. “Ennis, would you please get a blanket for her, and a bowl of cold water. Then, would you run a cold bath with ice please.” Ennis nodded and was off. “I hate to tell you this Firo, but I don’t know if we can save her at this point. She’s been sick for some time, and she probably hasn’t received any treatment. She may die on us.” Firo nodded to show that he understood. “But, I was right to bring her here wasn’t I, Maiza? I mean, I shouldn’t have left her should I?” Firo was not used to immortality himself, and sometimes things like this upset Maiza. “You most certainly were right.” Maiza insisted with passion, “We may be mafia, but we do have some standards. And what’s the use of being immortal if you don’t take time to help others?” Firo smiled. Ennis returned with the blanket, which covered Adela’s ripped dress, and Maiza began to mop her face with the water. Ennis, always practical, asked the indelicate question, “Is she going to die, Maiza?” He looked up at Ennis with a sad smile, “Possibly. But not if we can help it. She’s in a bad state.” Ennis was silent, but she did take her right hand and stroke away the hair on Adela’s face. Mid-stroke Ennis suddenly jerked her hand away with a yelp. “What’s wrong Ennis?” Firo was up and to her side in a second. She was dumbstruck, staring at Adela’s unconscious face. “Ennis?” Maiza’s face was just as confounded as Firo’s, but a small light seemed to go off in his head and he very carefully placed his right hand on Adela’s head. He jerked his hand away as well. “My God!” Firo hadn’t seen Maiza this shocked since Szilard Quates had shown up in the Martillo ballroom. “What, Maiza?” Firo demanded, “What is it?” “Firo, take your right hand and put it on her head, carefully though. Tell us what you feel.” Maiza instructed. As Firo reached toward Adela he suddenly had an epiphany as to what might be going on. But that’s not possible. Firo thought, she couldn’t be. But as he set his hand over her head he could feel it, the telltale sign of an immortal. He could feel a mental connection between them, like a light flickering from far away. Firo jerked his hand away as fast as he could. “Maiza! How is that possible? She’s immortal!” Firo was flabbergasted. Not only were Firo and Maiza the only ones who knew the secret of how the elixir of immortality was made, but even if someone did get the elixir it would make it impossible for them to get sick. She defied both these paths of reason. Maiza began to regain his composure, “I don’t know, Firo. But I do know, without a doubt, that she’s dying. Unless either of you feels comfortable devouring her right now, the only way that we’re going to find out what is going on is to save her.” Ennis and Firo both agreed, and Ennis helped Maiza get Adela to the tub full of ice. As they set her in, her weak body writhed a bit, fighting against the freezing water. They held her down through her feeble protests. The water brought her temperature down quite a bit, and finally Maiza said that he thought that it was safe to take her out. Firo had waited outside, and now he carried Adela, wrapped in a blanket to a bedroom on the even lower level of the building. This floor was not red and black anymore, instead the walls were paneled with dark wood. A few of the Martillo lived in the building, Firo and Ennis both did. They set Adela in the bed and began to light the lamps in the room. Maiza left, saying that he’d be back in about an hour. “It feels strange doesn’t it?” Ennis asked Firo quietly. “What feels strange; the fact that an immortal that we’ve never even heard about is lying there sick?” Firo asked her. There was a small wooden table and two chairs in the room, Firo sat down in one of them and covered his face with his hands, he peered at Adela’s body through his fingers. “Well yes.” Ennis answered, “But more than that, that she might actually die. That you saved her, only to find out that she was dying. The whole situation is strange.” “Yeah.” Firo agreed with a deep sigh, and a groan. Ennis looked at him questioningly. “I just don’t like to break promises. By saving her from those men before I feel like I made a promise to protect her. But now…. Even if she lives through this, one of us may still need to devour her, depending on what her story is. How did she even get like this?” He asked the air exasperatedly. Ennis looked off into space contemplatively. “What about an imperfect form of the elixir?” She asked. “But Dallas Genoard and his thugs got that, and even they couldn’t get sick.” Firo protested. “Look into Szilard’s memories.” Ennis suggested. Firo shuddered. “I hate looking into that old monster’s thoughts.” Firo argued, “He was so heartless, it makes me feel dirty.” “But I thought you said you promised to protect her.” Ennis answered. “It might be as simple as saving me was.” Firo thought back to that night. He had just devoured Szilard and knowing what to do to save Ennis, Szilard’s homunculus, had just come to him. But now, years later, if he looked into Szilard’s thoughts, it would take effort. Firo sighed and then stood up, steeling himself for what he was about to do. He took a deep breath and held it. Trying to focus only on what was going on in his own head; Firo began to feel around in the dark recesses of his subconscious. He touched something cold and slimy, he’d found Szilard, the evil immortal, who had created Ennis as his slave. Two years ago Firo had devoured Szilard and now he had access to all the memories of the former murderer. Firo hesitated and then plunged in. Killings, bitterness, and the warped morality of the old man’s mind accosted Firo at first, stunning him. But eventually Firo began to sift through all the experiences and thoughts in order to find anything that might help Aeda. Nothing that Szilard experienced directly concerned Adela’s situation. But perhaps there would be something in the minds of the multiple people that Szilard had devoured. Here thing’s were much more fuzzy. And sound was minimal, an imperfect connection. But there, in the dark corners Firo found something. He opened his eyes and gasped like a whale resurfacing for air. Maiza was back in the room now, inserting the needle of an IV into Adela’s arm. “Find anything?” Maiza asked quietly. Firo dropped into the chair across from Ennis. “Yeah, sort of.” Firo answered. “There was a guy that Szilard devoured. His name was Barns I think.” Firo looked up at Ennis for conformation; he had seen that she had known him. She nodded. “Anyway, he used the finished product of Szilard’s to figure out the formula for himself. But one of his failed attempts might be what she took.” “What did this imperfect formula do?” Maiza asked. “It made the drinker totally immortal, but only if they lived through a potentially fatal disease first. Barns was old, he didn’t want to take the risk, so he kept looking for the finished formula.” “Did he give it to her?” Maiza asked. “I have no idea.” Firo answered, “His memories were fragmented, but I don’t think it was him.” Maiza’s face was troubled. They all sat there in exhausted silence for a few minutes. Finally Maiza spoke again. “Well there’s nothing more we can do right now. Firo, you and I are needed in the conference room upstairs. After the meeting it would be best if you’d try and explain her presence to the Don. It’ll be best if he hears about her from you.” Firo nodded and put his hat back on his head. Ennis stayed with Adela, and the two men headed for the large meeting room of the Martillo. Inside were all the Capos, young and old. At the head of the square table sat Don Martillo, the family head. The meeting itself was nothing interesting or out of the ordinary. But some of the older men continued to flash curiously disapproving looks Firo’s direction, they must have heard about his antics. At the end of the meeting Don Martillo, a short muscular old man looked directly at Firo and spoke. “Well. Firo, my son. I have heard a disturbing rumor this day. Some say you brought a complete stranger into this house. Is this true?” His black eyes peered at Firo’s face from across the room demanding an answer. “It is true.” Firo knew that it was best not to sugar coat it. The expressions on the Capo’s faces seemed to harden. “Did you have any good reason for such an act of stupidity? You know the consequences of your actions; it will not be you that suffers, but her.” “I know what the consequences for such actions are. But, please, allow me to propose my intentions, Don Martillo.” Firo spoke in deep respect. His loyalty belonged to this man; if he was ordered to kill Aeda, he would. But he was obligated by the silent contract that he felt he had signed in saving her life, to persuade the Don to reconsider. Besides, she was immortal. He could not explain this to the Don. It was a secret that those who carried immortality kept fastidiously. He had to find out how she became one of them. The Don silently regarded Firo for a moment, and then nodded. “I felt obligated to try and save the life of a dying girl out of honor. I saved her from a group of molesters only to find out that she was dying. I could not have seen myself as any kind of man if I had allowed her to die there.” There was a small consensus from some of the Capos, but the overall tone of the room was stony. “Please, allow me to bring her back to health and offer her a place working for us.” Firo asked. “What makes you think she is worthy of such an honor?” the Don asked Firo. “I have no reason; but let me assure you. I will take her on as my own responsibility. I will keep a close eye on her. She won’t betray us; and if she tries to, I will kill her.” The room remained silent as both the Don and the Capos considered Firo’s plan. Firo held his breath. “If I may,” Maiza asked the Don. Don Martillo nodded. “I will assist Firo in this venture. I will also take on responsibility for this girl.” Firo let out his breath quietly. Having Maiza support him would mean a great deal to the Don. “Do you really think that you can control this person?” Another Capo, Antonello, skeptically commented, “We gain nothing from this venture. It is only for the sake of Firo’s pride that we would do this.” A few other Capos nodded in agreement. “No.” The Don said; and the room fell silent, “It is for Firo’s honor.” He stood and sighed deeply before continuing, “Firo is our brother, son, comrade. We must support him in this venture. His loyalty is with us. But he keeps his honor. It is what sets us apart from the common criminals of this city. Onorare!” The Capos fell silent as they accepted the Don’s ruling. Firo was filled with relief. There was a knock on the door. “Now, please my brothers, I have a meeting to attend with our good friends the Gandors. This meeting is adjourned.” Firo and Maiza got up and exited with the rest of the Capos.

Milost City of Grace: Chapter 3

“So, I don’t think either of us is going to find our alcoholics tonight. Fancy a coffee?” The strange, tall man stared down at me with perfect innocence. I stared back incredulously. I was too off-guard to think up a good response and I found myself accepting his invitation. “Sure, sounds good.” How lame was that? “Great.” He and I walked to a nearby coffee shop, not the one that I had been in earlier. I ordered tea. “So, is the woman in the black skirt your younger sister?” He asked me casually as we took a couple of leather seats in the corner. He certainly didn’t mince words. I took a sip of my tea before answering. “She’s older than me actually, and she was my foster sister.” His face wore the classic foot-in-mouth expression. “Oh, umm, sorry about that. She just looked kind of … umm.” Instead of being offended I laughed. “Yeah, I get it. Let’s just say you thought her style was a little… juvenile.” I offered him up an excuse. He smiled sheepishly, his wide lips pulling up attractively. “Candy’s always been like that. She loved being seventeen. You know, that blissful existence before real life catches up to you.” He chuckled. “So, you must still live together then, if you’re driving her to meetings.” He made another assumption. “No. Candy lives with a boyfriend. I just drive because he works days, and can’t make it to take her. I live close enough to check on her every once in a while, but not close enough for her to be constantly crashing at my place when Ernie’s fridge is empty.” “Smart. I had to make my alcoholic move in with me. Figured it was the only way to be sure he was cleaning up. He always says to me: Carter, if I wasn’t so stuck on getting sober, I would get up right now and tell you to get a life.” His face had turned a tad serious. “You two must be pretty close. Is he a friend or….” I let the sentence trail off suggestively. This was Portland after all. “Hahahaha!” Carter’s face pulled into a full out laugh. “No, no. Jared is just a friend, more of a colleague actually. Nothing romantic. Away, that’s not really my area.” I blushed. “Sorry.” I apologized, once again embarrassed. “Don’t worry about it.” His amused smile lingered. “So what kind of work do you do, if you and he are colleagues?” I tried to put a positive spin on the conversation topic. “Well, officially speaking, I’m a cartographer. Jared is kind of a jack-of-all-trades. We’ve worked on several projects together when I have to map somewhere remote. We met in the Australian outback. I was mapping plateaus and Jared was in charge of the free-climbing squad. We worked together again when I was mapping large ice floes in the arctic. Jared was working as a dog-sled driver that time.” He said the whole thing nonchalantly, which impressed me. As if free-climbing cliffs and dog-sledding over ice-caps was just another every-day occurrence. “Sounds like thrilling work. But, Carter the cartographer, it’s a bit of a tongue twister. Carter the accountant or Carter the builder would be much easier to say.” I teased him. His smile was warm. “I suppose so, but I kind of like it.” We reached a lull in the conversation, and I took a sip from my earthenware mug. The shop we were in was a tiny, hole-in-the-wall kind of place, but with plenty of personality and pizzazz. There were elaborate rugs hung on the red walls and all the furniture was mismatched and harmonious. “So what do you do?” he asked me seriously. I sighed. There was no way I could compete with ice-caps and plateaus. “I’m a waitress.” I was evasive. “But that’s only temporary. I’m going to school to get my degree in linguistics.” “Really?” He looked genuinely interested. “What kind of linguistics? Do you have a focus for your studies? Do you want to be a translator or something?” “I have a focus, but the only people who I could translate for are dead.” I laughed. He looked bemused. “My focus is in dead languages.” I explained, “Latin, Aramaic, Church Slavic, Langobardic, you name it.” I was pleased with the clearly impressed look on his face. “That’s so intriguing.” He commented. Just as he was about to say something else, a voice called from across the shop.

Soul Eater: Offspring, Chapter 2

Next they took us on a tour of the castle or at least a tour of everywhere that we were allowed. Professor Stein was right; some partnerships were obvious and immediate. The big guy, Bull Ratkin, and a tall skinny boy named Roy parted ways at the end of the day with a handshake and a promise to start training together first thing tomorrow. A short stout boy and a tall skinny girl had clicked immediately. And two girls that had never met each other became fast friends right away. I headed back to my dorm bed and flopped down in exasperation.
“You didn’t find a partner either, huh?” A perky voice that reminded me of apple cider asked from over on my left. I looked over, on the bed next to me was another girl flopped in much the same manner as I. She had thick curly brown hair and watery blue eyes. “Don’t get too depressed. You still have two days to find someone. If you start stressing now, you’re gonna psych yourself out. By the way, I’m Jillia Kozum. I’m a crossbow.”
“Ripper Albarn. I’m a scythe.”
“No shit! Really? That’s awesome.” She was obviously impressed. Being a scythe had its perks. Probably because of the title ‘Death Scythe,’ the stereotype was that all scythes were badasses. I smiled a little.
“Thanks, but it’s no good if I can’t find a partner.” I sighed and stared at the ceiling.
She laughed. “Well I’m not any better off than you. When was the last time you saw a crossbow shoot itself? But it’s like I said, don’t stress. It took my Dad like a week before he found a partner, but he did.”
“Your dad’s a Weapon too then?” I asked curious. Jillia seemed nice.
“Yeah, he’s a longbow. He’s retired now though. When he met my Mom the prospect of being a Death Scythe didn’t seem so nice. So now he’s hoping I’ll do what he never did.” Now she was the one sighing.
“Wow. Pressure much?” I asked and we laughed. I thought I might have made my first friend. If only she was a Meister, I thought, and then we’d both have partners. The next day we attended classes with the current students and did our best to socialize with all the other new students, especially the Meisters. But although I did feel a faint connection with some of them there was nothing strong enough to be called resonance. Even Jillia didn’t seem to be having much luck with finding someone. The second day went by without either of us finding a partner. By the third we were a little frantic. We did our best to expose ourselves to all the Meisters who didn’t already have partners, but nothing seemed to click. At least I wasn’t alone. I still had Jillia. However, even that changed at dinner that night.
We were in line for food in the cafeteria with the older students. It was kind of intimidating, but most of them seemed nice. The guy in front of Jillia reached back to get an orange off the shelf and bumped into her. He was a straight up jock, but the size of the dictionary he was juggling in one hand let us know that this guy wasn’t all muscle. He was very apologetic and before we knew it we were all chatting like good friends. His name was Karnino and it turned out that he was a second year Meister without a Weapon. No one had fit him the year before. He and Jillia resonated like crazy.
By the end of the night Jillia took a good long look at Karnino and said, “I think I’m your girl.” In any other situation this would have sounded weird, but Karnino got it.
“I think you’re right.” He answered and they went to go see Professor Stein that night about getting a dorm.
“Don’t worry, Ripper.” Jillia said to me before bed that night, “I’m sure that there’s someone out there for you. I mean look at Karnino, he had to wait a whole year, but here I am.” I nodded and forced a smile, but I was far from content. The truth was though, that even with the older students, and others my age, I just wasn’t feeling any resonance. I was really starting to worry. Was there something wrong with me? Was I un-partnerable?
That night I went to sleep agitated, I tossed and turned and woke up in a sweat, it was way too hot in there. Jillia was peacefully asleep in the next bed over, which kind of ticked me off. I tossed off the covers and got out of bed. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I needed to walk, I thought that might help me quiet my mind. I didn’t even bother to put on shoes I just grabbed a thin sweater.
I wandered the halls until I came to a small courtyard. Somewhere someone was playing jazz music too loudly in another part of the castle. I sat down on a bench, but couldn’t stay still. I paced around for a bit. I stopped at looked up at the sky. There were no clouds, but the lights from all over Death City were too bright for me to see stars. Instead the sky was cast in a dull burgundy, it was depressing. The jazz music continued to play from across the building. I swayed from side to side, closing my eyes. When I was little I used to take dance classes. Mom had wanted me to be a ballerina. Now I merely danced for fun. My swaying turned to stepping, picking out the pieces of a swing number. I danced with an imaginary partner. But then suddenly I felt a hand light on my waist and another politely taking my leading hand. My eyes peeked open slowly, half expecting no one to be there and deeply embarassed. It was a boy, probably about my age. Tall, thin, and blond. He spun me into a dip.
“Sorry to butt in on your imaginary partner and all, but you just looked so silly dancing her all by yourself.” He had a sarcastic voice. His eyes were dark green and his face held a slightly teasing expression. I didn’t respond at first, I just danced some more. I tried to come up with a sharp retort.
“That’s alright,” I finally answered, slightly suspicious, but too tired and shocked to be rude or witty, “I didn’t have a partner in mind, so you shouldn’t feel guilty.”
“Oh,” His response betrayed the fact that my lack of a rise had thrown him off. We danced for a moment more, “By no partner, do you mean you don’t have a dance partner? Or do you mean you don’t have a Weapon partner?” He looked at me with a politely questioning expression, but without looking like the answer really mattered. I wondered if he was an older student or if I just hadn’t met him yet.
This entire experience was pretty surreal but I answered him anyway, adopting his half-teasing tone, “Well I’m a Weapon myself, but I don’t have a Meister partner, or a dance partner.” He nodded and spun me again.
“You’re a pretty strange girl to dance here all by yourself.” he looked straight at me, the frankness of his stare was slightly unnerving, but he didn’t scare me, I got the feeling that he was testing me out.
“Well I guess I am pretty strange, and silly, but I’m not going to apologize to you for it.” I stopped dancing and stepped a polite distance away from him. Something was different about this boy. “You’re a strange kind of guy to start dancing with a girl just out of the blue when her eyes were closed.”
“I guess that’s just the kind of person I am,” He explained. We stood there for a few minutes without talking.
“Are you a student here?” I broke the silence, thinking that I should say something.
“I am now. I’m a freshman. But I got here too late for orientation. I might even be too late to find a partner.” He smiled wryly, silently suggesting.
“Weapon or Meister?” I asked.
“I’m a Meister.” He answered me, “My name’s Bad Luck.”
I looked at him blankly, “Are you serious?”
“Sure am. What? Is it that bad?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“Well my real name’s Caleb Smith. But that’s got to be the most boring name on the planet, and my brother calls me Bad Luck, so I thought I’d adopt that name as a Meister. I’m registered as Bad Luck Smith. You can just call me Luck if you want.”
I bit my lip to hold back laughter, “Ok, Luck. My name’s Ripper, Ripper Albarn.”
“Nice to meet you, Ripper. Should I even ask about the name?” He jabbed. I smiled sarcastically. I could feel it now; our soul’s wavelengths were meshing. It was like two gears that fit each other. Every once in a while the gears slipped, but for the most part they worked perfectly. I wondered if he felt that too. We stared at each other for about a minute before he spoke again, “I think you should be my partner. I think that the kind of person that you are, and the kind of person that I am might work well together.” He let those words hang in the air for a while and then held his hand out. I bit my lip and took it, we shook.
“I think you might be right, we will work well together.” He smiled. I grinned. We stood there for a bit and then arranged to meet up at the final orientation meeting the next morning; there we would talk to Professor Stein about getting a dorm. I made my way back to bed, wondering if when I woke up the next morning the events of the night would turn out to be my subconscious teasing me. But somehow I thought that it must have been real. I mean, “Bad Luck?” I definitely wouldn’t have dreamed that one up.

Gandor Chapter 2

She lay there, on her thin cot, covered by thinner blankets. She could see through the dirty window-pane that it must be a bright grey day outside. The kind of day when fish-mongers and chestnut peddlers would be out on the street hawking their wares. It was the kind of day that was a time for work and not play, when families in this lower district huddled together at night to keep warm. But for Adela, there was no family, and she reasoned, soon there would be no need for one. She could feel the fever eating away at her from the inside. It was unlikely that she would survive the night much less another day.
She writhed on the cot. She had been lying there for who knew how long. She wanted desperately to get up. Well why not? A little voice whispered from the back of her mind, It’s not like you have anything to loose, I doubt you’ll even live long enough to regret it.
“Your right.” Adela whispered to herself, “I should get up and go out, for one last time.” Getting up was easier said than done, but after much effort Adela was able to get herself up and to the door. She held one of her thin blankets around her shoulders over the calf-length grey dress she wore. She leaned momentarily on the door-handle and took several deep breaths before turning the knob and stumbling outside. The light was much brighter than it had appeared through the grimy window and Adela had to blink several times before her eyes, used to the dim light of the apartment, could adjust. She drew shallow ragged breaths and leaned against the wood-slatted wall of the building for support as she walked. There wasn’t much to see, just the alleyways and back streets of the poor section of town where Adela lived. But coming out wasn’t really about the scenery, it was about that one last act of defiance against the disease that was killing her. Her last rebellion against death.
Adela trudged along without a plan for stopping, she rounded corners, and staggered down alleyways where there didn’t seem to be people. She didn’t want to be stopped by anyone, concerned or otherwise. Also, there was no sadistic wish inside her to infect other people, to pass on the curse that she carried; she simply wanted to walk, alone, until death came to get her.
Finally she reached the breaking point, where she could not walk any further, and so she sank to the alley floor and leaned against the brick wall. The sky was just beginning to darken and the building cast the alleyway in shadow. Adela closed her eyes and waited. But fate, or death, did not smile on her. For a few moments after she sat down, a group of people, all young men, entered the alleyway. They were obviously drunk, even in this time of prohibition, and they talked in boisterous rowdy voices, using crude, slurred language. Adela’s face contorted in distaste, and she hung her head in an attempt to go unnoticed by this group.
“Heeeey there!” the voice came.
Oh no. Adela thought.
“Weeeell, what’s thiiish?” the sloppy words were closer and jeers and cat calls from the others began.
Hasn’t fate dealt me a cruel enough hand? Why this? Why now? A sticky set of fingers grabbed her by the arm and lifted her up. Adela opened her eyes to see an unshaven, leering face with heavy eyebrows and bloodshot eyes. His breath reeked of booze and smoke, his teeth were yellowing. He pulled her face close to his own. One last shot of survival adrenaline coursed through her veins and she tried to pull away from her assailant. But her body was just too weak, and he merely jerked her roughly back, slamming her into the wall. The blanket fell softly from around her shoulders. The other men in the group were obviously hoping to get in on whatever was about to happen, and they pushed closer. The thug holding on to Adela laughed manically and grabbed at the front of Adela’s dress, ripping the buttons open, and exposing her brazier. He was just shoving his hand down onto her breasts and thighs when a shout came from the other end of the alley.
“Hey you! Bozo, get your hands off the lady.” The voice was that of a young man with a strong New York accent. The man and his friends were momentarily stunned by the appearance of a rival, and Adela struggled in the drunkard’s grasp to try and see who was talking. He was dressed in a simple grey-green suit with a beige fedora. His hands were in his pockets, and he appeared unarmed. He was medium build, small but strong looking. His face was young and mischievous at first glance, but there was a hard gleam in his eye, and the sober set of his mouth told the gang that he was completely serious. Adela wanted to tell him to forget it, she was done-for anyway, and that she wasn’t worth five to one odds. But she didn’t. And he took a few steps forward.
“I said, Get. Your. Hands. Off. The lady. Or didn’t you hear me? Last chance.”
“Who in Hell are you?” The drunken guy holding on to Adela demanded, suddenly a tad more articulate. He took his groping hand off her body, but grabbed her by the upper arm and jerked her along with him as he turned to face the young man. Adela fell on her knees beside him.
“I’m Firo Prochainezo of the Martillo family, not that you need to know. All you need to know is that I’m the guy telling you to leave the lady alone, or regret it.” He spoke with a twang that almost sounded like he was teasing them, but that, like his mischievous looks, was underscored by a real threat. The thugs laughed.
“Like you’re gonna do anything to us, kid. Get lost, mind your own business.” The assailant answered him.
The man sighed, “Well, I tried to warn ‘em.” He said to himself, “But … then again. I’m not sure that they even deserved that chance.” And he walked forward a few more steps. The thug yanked Adela upward and at that moment the young man’s fist collided with drunkard’s face. From that point he didn’t throw a single punch, he just seemed to play with them, rather like a cat plays with a mouse before eating it. They all came at him with everything they had in their inebriated states, but it didn’t do them any good. He threw them, dodged them, and used them against each other. He even threw in a few hat tricks. None of them stood a chance.
The fight ended with him sending the leader packing with a sound kick in the back. Adela half sat half lay on the ground, looking at the man who had saved her, and the unconscious bodies of two of the thugs who hadn’t managed to run away. He turned around and crouched down beside her.
“Sorry that took so long.” He apologized with that same hint of cheer; perhaps he was unable to banish it from his tone, “You alright? My name is Firo Prochainezo, Miss…?”
“Aeda...,” she was suddenly overcome by a fit of coughing and faintness. Was this death coming in full force of irony? She fell to her elbow, trying to face away from him; it wouldn’t do to get the man, who had just saved her, sick. “Please, don’t come near. I have a fever. I’m going to die anyway.” She looked up at Firo Prochainezo to make sure that he understood. But instead of fear, or revulsion in his face, all she saw was shock and an incredible amount of sympathy.
“Now, don’t talk like that!” Firo protested. He kneeled and lifted her up in his arms. “I’m not about to let ya’ die on me, just now that I’ve saved you.” He smiled and began walking.
“You shouldn’t.” was all Adela could get out as a protest.
“Yeah I should, and don’t worry about me. I don’t get sick.” Firo answered. Adela could no longer argue for just then she blacked out.

Milost: City of Grace. Chapter 2

The first time I ever saw Carter was at an AA meeting. Now, don’t judge, I wasn’t there for me. I’m not an alcoholic, and strangely enough neither was Carter. I was dropping of my older sister, Candy, there. Candy’s not really my sister; in fact we’re not related at all. But we grew up together, so I felt some strange sense of responsibility for her. I think my logic went along the lines of, I watched her get like this, so now I have to do something about it.
I had been a foster child and Candy’s parents, Ruth and Jerry Stone, took me in. Ruth and Jerry were great in some ways: very accepting and loving, but rather negligent when it came to things like underage drinking and drugs. By the time I came to live with the Stones in their flat in Portland Oregon, Candy was already pretty messed up. She was fifteen and had her finger in almost every pie you could think of, so to speak. She spent more nights out of the apartment than in it. But she was nice to me, mostly, so I felt a kind of sisterly affection for her that would later in life compel me to drive her through that crazy city to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings every Thursday.
The day I met Carter, was sweet and sunny, like honeydew. I had picked up Candy from the apartment of the guy she was living with, Arnie I think his name was, and we had driven through Portland to the church building where AA was meeting. Candy tugged at her black, studded mini-skirt nervously. She hated the meetings, but she seemed to really want to clean up this time, so she went, and I drove. I pulled my little, beat up Honda civic into the parking lot next to a flashy black sports car. I thought it looked suspiciously like the Batmobile.
“You’ll be here at six?” Candy asked me, reassuring her-self that she had an escape plan. Her big, heavily linered eyes stared straight at me with a look that reminded me of a scared bunny.
“Sure thing Candy. Don’t run off again though, ok? Since your cell coverage was canceled I can’t call you to find out who you’ve gone to get drinks with. So just wait for me here.” Candy sometimes forgot about little things like that. She nodded sheepishly and exited the car. Just as Candy opened the heavy red door into the back of the church and entered; a good looking black guy in a leather jacket passed her on the way out. Our eyes met, and I guess I must have been staring a little, cause’ he smiled good-naturedly and waved a little. I smiled and waved back, embarrassed. He went to the Batmobile-esque car and got in the driver’s side. Figures, I thought to myself.
He drove off too fast, threading his way through the jungle paths of Portlandia. I watched and wondered how long it would be before he was pulled over. I got a cup of coffee in a near-by shop as I waited for the hour of AA to be over and all the while I thought about the strange character in the black car. Something about him had struck my fancy and I whiled away the short hour imagining an exciting identity and life for him. By the time I was getting back into my car I had myself convinced that he was a secret military agent who was investigating the AA group that was simply a cover for the local mafia.
I waited outside the church for about twenty minutes for Candy to come out before I went in to look for her. The red back-door of the church was a huge metal industrial one, painted a dark-ish red color. I pushed against it determinedly, willing my muscles to get bigger; I was such a shrimp. But the weight became considerably less as the arm of the Batmobile driver pushed against it for me. I blushed.
“Thanks.” I stared at the floor, suddenly feeling a secret embarrassment for imagining him.
“No problem.” The driver’s voice was a pleasing tenor, rather spicy. “But if you’re looking for the girl in the mini-skirt that you dropped off, I’m pretty sure I saw her walking off with another group member.” I groaned inwardly. He laughed at me. I looked up at him. His face was round with a big happy smile.
“She the type?” He asked in a companionable tone.
“Sort of.” I answered, “She just forgets that I’m coming to pick her up weather she leaves or not.”
“Well, If it makes you feel any better, the person I saw her walking off with is my friend, who has left me hanging too.” I smiled ruefully.
“Any idea where they were going?” I asked him, half hoping he didn’t know.
“Not really. Anyway I don’t really want to go looking for him. Do you think she’ll be ok?”
“Oh, she has a bus pass. I just hope she doesn’t end up getting smashed and throwing up in a public bathroom.” He nodded.
“Well that makes two of us. Anyway, if Jared drinks he owes me his x-box for a week and a half.”

A Completely Completely Different Telling

She was young and pretty and sick. Lillian Gandor, the third daughter of Ricky Gandor and his wife Jeanette. It was 1932 in New York City and the prohibition had given birth to a dark mob mentality.
New York was dominated by the members of the Camorra Martillo family and their cohorts. There were others, rivals who periodically challenged the Martillos, but these were few and were usually too busy feuding with themselves to pose any true threat to the Martillo. However, there were a few Mafiosi families who had aligned themselves with the Martillo, and as such, had gained substantial sway over certain areas of the state. The Martillo operated something like a spider-web of people, all over the country. They dominated the world of organized crime in the USA, or as the FBI called it, the American crime Syndicate.
The Gandors were one such Mafiosi Family in league with the Martillos. Connections between the two families went all the way back to their Italian origins. The Gandors of Italy had strong connections to the Camorra of Naples and by association, the Martillos of New York. When the Gandors began to immigrate to America back in the 1890’s they were warily (as is always the case with the Mafia) welcomed by the Martillo. But they received no immediate integration into the Martillos’ world. The Gandors started out independently. While being careful not to encroach on Martillo turf the Gandors began their own ring of bootleggers, protection rackets, and other shady dealings. In the world of organized crime they were the successful independent business.
Over the next five years the Gandor Empire began to be successful enough to cause even the Martillo genuine concern. Two large criminal powers would inevitably oppose one another eventually, and usually this conflict would result in the ruin of both organizations. Even now brief squabbles were breaking out between the subservient members of both families. One specific event caused particular trouble. One Aberto Gandor and one Renzo Giordano (a peripheral member of the Martillo) met in a neutral bar one night, words led to blows and before anyone really knew what had happened both young men had drawn knifes. It was a fight to remember regardless of which side you were rooting for. It lasted for hours, and resulted in the deaths of both participants.
Afterward a meeting was arranged between the head honchos of the Martillo and the Gandor families. It was a tense situation, no one knew who was going to come out of that room alive, or if this event would cause an all-out war between the Gandor and the Martillo. But the Camorra head, Alfonzo Martillo was not a stupid man, nor was Giuseppe Gandor (the head of the Gandor family) rash. They and their constituents agreed that the deaths of Aberto and Renzo were a tragic event, especially between two families that were not truly enemies. They decided, that in order to preserve the peace between the Martillos and the Gandors they would instead, align their interests. Being on friendly terms was the best resolution for a tragic mistake.
Over the next thirty years this arrangement proved to be perhaps the best decision in the histories of both families. The Gandors and the Martillos operated as separate but friendly organizations, which gave them a unique advantage over many other criminal powers. The fact that the two organizations were on friendly terms was not widely known, which meant that the one family always had a wildcard up their sleeve. The Gandors never grew as numerous as the Martillo due to their preference for keeping the business in the immediate family, but the Martillos never lost the respect they had for the Gandors’ efficient and productive heads for business. The Gandors had a handle on the information industry.
As with every family, and especially the Mafiosi, secrets abound behind certain closed doors. The Martillo and Gandor families were no exceptions to this rule. But, though many were criminal in nature, there was one secret these two families shared that was different from the rest, and infinitely more dangerous. And this is where our story begins, in the year 1935, in the back room of a dingy apartment on the Hudson River, where there once lived the family of Ricky and Jeanette Gandor.

A Completely Different Telling

Ladies and gentlemen please
Would you bring your attention to me?
For a feast for your eyes to see
An explosion of catastrophe

Like nothing you've ever seen before
Watch closely as I open this door
Your jaws will be on the floor
After this you'll be begging for more

Welcome to the show
Please come inside
Ladies and gentlemen

Boom
Do you want it?
Boom
Do you need it?
Boom
Let me hear it
Ladies and gentlemen

Boom
Do you want it?
Boom
Do you need it?

Boom
Let me hear it
Ladies and gentlemen

Ladies and gentlemen good evening
You've seen that seeing is believing
Your ears and your eyes will be bleeding
Please check to see if you're still breathing

Hold tight cause the show is not over
If you will please move in closer
Your about to be bowled over
By the wonders you're about to behold here

Welcome to the show
Please come inside
Ladies and gentlemen

Boom
Do you want it?
Boom
Do you need it?
Boom
Let me hear it
Ladies and gentlemen
[x6]

Soul Eater: Offspring

A rush of light and there it was. A soul. Floating before me, waiting to be devoured. My hand reaches out to take hold of it. I shove it into my mouth and swallow.
I’m on my hands and knees, panting, the rush, the power. I try and steady myself.
Standing up, and before I even know what’s happening, she’s in my arms, looking up at me with a face full of naked joy. I don’t even comprehend it. I whisper into her ear.
Back at the apartment, before anyone else even knows what’s happened to me. But somehow the events of the night have taken on a totally different sheen, and we’re seeing red.
Black blood boiling, panting, what are we doing? A small familiar voice of reason is speaking from the back of my mind. But for once, I’m trying to be like her, and I shove reason out the window of my mind. Is this a kind of madness?
Now she’s sleeping, half-on-half off me. I lie awake and reason has returned. How did this happen? Why did we do this? But I’m still feeling good and right now it doesn’t seem so bad.
Morning, Maka’s awake. A kiss. A pregnancy test, no stress.
Positive.
She leans on the doorframe. I sit on the bed. Madness, that’s what it was.
Before anything, I’m shouting. What have we done? Reason is screaming in my head. The presence inside of Maka. Black soul.
She’s so angry, tears are welling. Two words, “Get Out.”


“Mom, I don’t think I can do this.” I protested one last time. I adjusted the unoriginal grey-brown uniform and nametag and took a deep breath. Mom put her white gloved hand on my shoulder and turned me to look at her.
“Lilly, please. This has been what you wanted to do for the last sixteen years. Don’t give me that crap. You can do this, and you will.” I could tell that this was hard for Mom. She didn’t want me to do this, to enroll at Death Weapon Meister Academy. But she was using my real name, something she hadn’t done since I was ten, and she was reminding me of my own dream. I couldn’t back out now. I squared my shoulders and picked up my bag. I ran my fingers through my silvery white hair, it was unnatural for someone my age, but the truth was that was what I was born with. It hadn’t grayed; I’d just been born with white hair.
I hugged Mom hard. Her floor-length black jacket billowed around me. She squeezed me tightly and let go. “I’ll be here for break, and then we’ll talk about all the awesome things that you’ve learned. You might even be able to show me a thing or two.” We laughed. She began to walk away. I watched her back until she turned a corner off Main Street and was no longer visible. I sighed.
I faced the imposing Death Weapon Meister Academy gate and pushed my way in. The strange gatekeepers recognized my uniform as a non-threat, and allowed me through. My nametag read, “Ripper Albarn, Weapon.” I hadn’t always been called Ripper. My real name was Lillian Albarn. But when I was ten, and we found out that I had inherited my Grandfather Death Scythe’s powers as a Weapon, my Mother had nicknamed me Ripper. I had the ability to transform into a scythe if I wanted to, and with a Meister partner, I could help to fight the kishins (monsters who ate human souls) of the world.
I made my way up the large cement front steps of the academy to join the small crowd of other freshman. Most of their nametags read Weapon like mine, but a few read Meister. Not all weapons need a Meister to fight; some can do it on their own. There have even been Death Scythes that were able to fight all by themselves, like Justin Law. But most Weapons, like me, had to have a Meister partner to resonate with. I could see that the Meisters in the group were already eyeing the Weapons. One big guy whose name tag read, “Bull Ratkin, Weapon.” was chatting with several Meisters at once. But no one was really making moves yet; that wouldn’t start until after orientation.
Finally the huge double doors of the castle opened, and out stepped a tall cloaked figure. Lord Death! Murmurs broke out. Lord Death was about six feet tall and thin as a rail. But that was pretty much all you could tell about him from his appearance, because he wore a traditional black reaper robe that obscured his features. His white scull mask glared out on us imposingly. On either side of him stood the Thompson sisters. Though not identical in human form, every young Weapon and Meister had heard stories of the famed Demon Pistol Twins. Trained by Lord Death himself, as his personal Weapons of choice, these two Death Scythes were the stuff of legend. They stood, in identical black dress suits, staring out on the students with amused smiles.
“Welcome new Meisters and Weapons!” Lord Death called to us, his voice had a curious double tone. “My enrolling at this academy you have made a lifelong commitment. A commitment to keeping the balance of the world intact. Thank you. The road before you is a hard one, full of troubles, and joys. I have no doubt that you will all persevere and do well at the DWMA.” He bowed to us, we bowed back. “Please, would Meisters follow Liz,” he gestured to the twin on his right, “And Weapons follow Patty,” he gestured to the twin on his left, “They will take you to your temporary living quarters.”
We split into our respective groups and followed our twin inside and down the hallways of the school. I was one of few people not talking up a storm at that point so I’m pretty sure that I was one of few who noticed the third person who had come to the door with Lord Death. He had hung back behind Lord Death and the twins. He wore a black pin-striped suit, set off by a red tie. His face was shadowed, but I could make out a pair of dark red eyes and a soberly set mouth. He slouched, hands in pockets, aloof and apathetic. Overall he seemed to emanate a rather effortless cool. His hair was as white as mine. I watched, fascinated, as Lord Death turned to him and spoke, I couldn’t hear what he said over the din of the other students, but the pin-striped suit nodded, and disappeared through a doorway.
We were taken to a hallway full of dorm-like living quarters with industrial furniture and bunk beds. We dumped our luggage.
“It’s only temporary though.” Patty trilled in her ditzy blonde voice. She seemed awfully silly for a Death Scythe. It was hard to imagine that she had eaten over a hundred Kishin souls and defeated a Witch. “Most of you will pair up with a Meister partner and move into a dorm together. Won’t that be fun?” Pairing up…. The thought scared me halfway back home. There was apparently no real way to find a partner for sure, and some Weapons never found a Meister. I wished that I was the kind of Weapon that could fight by myself.
We were led on to a lecture hall where the Meisters were already seated, whispering to each other and being watched over by their twin, Liz. She fit my idea of a Death Scythe better. She was taller than her sister, Patty, and wore her long hair in a professional looking bun. We took our seats and waited.
Eventually, through the doors came four people, including the pin-striped suit. The light was better in here and I could see that he had a sarcastic face, adult, but not wrinkled, probably about my Mom’s age. His companions were a strange crew. There was an old man in a metal wheelchair with spokes looked like knives, a real live (or not) Zombie with blue skin and tattoos, and a Mummy in a nurse’s uniform. We all fell silent because the old man in the wheelchair was fixing us with the look of a scientist examining his new test subject, or perhaps it was the look that a vulture gives carrion.
Anyway, it freaked me out. Stay cool, I thought. He was a very strange character, wearing a dark turtleneck and slacks underneath a stitched up lab coat. His face was covered with stitches as well. But none of that was very strange compared to the giant screw that went in one side of his head and out the other. Some idiot behind me made a crack about “Screw Head” I covered my face with my hand in embarrassment. I peeked out from between my fingers. The old guy rolled himself behind the teacher’s desk and the pin-striped suit followed him. He must have said something funny, because the suit smiled, he had pointed teeth.
“Hello new students, my name is Franken Stein, Professor Stein to all of you.” The old man in the wheelchair wheezed at us, “I have been asked by Lord Death to give you all some pointers on how to get along here and introduce you to the staff, and otherwise orient you in general. Though I’m not sure why Lord Death asked me, I was never a very good student here.” That made my mouth twitch into a smile.
He gestured to the Zombie to his left, “This is Sid, he’s the teaching assistant, coach, and general handyman here at the school. If you have any questions after the orientation, he’s the one you should ask. Though I believe that he reserves the right not to answer.” He looked to Sid for confirmation. Sid nodded; he didn’t look at all like someone that I would want to ask questions of. “This is Nigus, she’s the school nurse. Yes, she is a Mummy, but that just means she’s good with bandages. If you get sick or injured in any way you can go see her. You’ve all already met the Twins, Liz and Patty. They are Death Scythes. Don’t ask them questions, don’t bother them. They have better things to do.” Finally he looked up at the suit who nodded, “This is your temporary Professor, Soul Eater. He is also a Death Scythe, but will be standing in as your teacher until we find someone to fill this post permanently. You may call him Professor Soul.” So he was a Death Scythe! I had been right. I wondered why there was no permanent teacher for this class. Then Professor Soul stepped forward with a clip board. He looked up at us in a way that made me think that he really wasn’t looking forward to teaching us. I resolved not to get on his bad side.
“Ok then.” He had a deep quiet voice, we all listened closely, “I guess I should take role, so that I know who all you squirts are, and we know that none of you have mysteriously disappeared since registering. When I call your name raise your hand, if I call you something that you would rather not be called, please correct me… politely.” We waited for him to begin. “Risha Acban?” a hand raised, “Christopher Agenis?” a hand raised and the freckled boy asked to be called Topher. Soul Eater nodded. “Tarna Alan?” a hand, “Lillian,” He stopped and seemed to stare for a long time at my name, “Lillian… is it Albarn?” His voice was different with my name, unsure at the pronunciation maybe.
I raised my hand, “Sir, I’m registered as Ripper Albarn; no one really calls me Lillian.” This was a bit of a white lie, but I didn’t want him to think that I had changed my name for no good reason.
He looked up at me and made eye contact. I swallowed. Keep it cool. His expression was unreadable but I felt his red eyes take in my thin body, pale complexion, nametag reading, “Ripper Albarn, Weapon,” and unnaturally white hair with a focused and analytical air. Professor Stein cleared his throat noisily. Finally he nodded and said, “Ripper… alright,” He moved on to the next name. I let out my breath quietly, what was that all about?
After a while the list was done with and most, if not all, of the students were accounted for Professor Stein began speaking again, “Well, now we get down to the important business. Would all Weapons, planning on completing their education here at the academy without a Meister partner, please follow Sid.” My heart began to beat a bit faster. He was about to talk about pairing up! A handful of students from the Weapon side of the room got up and warily followed Sid out the door. The rest of us nervously waited for Stein to continue. “You are all anxious to find your partners I take it?” Stein asked. We all nodded. “Well I’m sorry to say that there really is no exact formula for finding a partner. We don’t give you some kind of evaluation and then pair you with who we think will be best for you. We prefer to let you find your partners on your own. The next three days are going to be something of a free for all for you children. You will live together and have no particular duties except find your partner. You’ll see that some people will immediately find each other. Others will take longer. Depending on your soul’s wavelength it will be easier or harder for you to find a partner. If you do not find a partner by the end of the next two days, then you and I will talk about options. Very well, you are all dismissed.” Damn! I was worried that this might be how it was; I was no good at this sort of thing! What if no one picked me? What if I didn’t find a partner? I was a scythe; I had to have a Meister.

The Telling

Once upon a time there was a place called Milost. Milost is Czech for grace, because one day some idiot went there and thought it seemed to deserve a name that meant graceful. Of course Milost is only what we call it, the locals used to call it Trish du Fife which meant City of Canals in their language. But after the revolution they began to call it File Caruma which meant Water Glass, because of all the windows that were broken over the water, lining the bottoms of the canals with sharp sparkling shards. It wasn’t water you would want to swim in anymore.
Milost is a city, sort of. It’s a city in the sense that it is a large collection of very tall buildings in close proximity to one another. But it’s not quite a city because nobody lives there. So I guess it all depends on how you define the word city. Words are funny things aren’t they? Always trying to trick you into thinking they’re something they’re not. But let’s not throw the apple too far from the tree, shall we? The ‘city’ I’m talking about is predominantly grey. All the buildings are made out of concrete and the sky is usually a chilly, muggy overcast, like a cold sweat. All the signs and words are pale blue and any decoration or furniture that was left has mostly rotted away by now. And anyhow the inhabitants were a pretty monochromatic bunch so anything that has survived the last hundred years usually fits the color scheme.
I myself am not a huge fan of Milost. Sure I had some good times there, a laugh or two. But overall I would rather be safe at home. After all, I didn’t even really want to go there in the first place. It was Carter who convinced me to go. That’s why I’m writing this. Because if he comes for you one day, telling you that he’s been looking for you for ages and you’re the only one who can do this really important thing that he needs you to do for the good of the world; you need to know, don’t buy it. It’s not worth it, and he can find someone else to help him on his pointless escapade into the File Caruma. Also, the man lies through his teeth, convincingly, and he’s dangerous.
So, I’m pretty sure that I should start my story off the day I met Carter O’Malley, since that’s really when things get interesting.

Of Printing Retractions

Let me apologize, first of all, for that terrible mess of a blog post that I last annoyed you with. A blog is not for angrily typing

Parental Controls

Why do I have such a hard time just saying "screw you" to my mother? Really, honestly, most other teenagers I know have absolutely no trouble with that. Their parents want them to do something they don't want to do, and they just adopt the "screw you" attitude. It's practically a commonly accepted fact that after the age of 15 kids are pretty much better off not listening to anything their parents say. They're more assertive, more self reliant, they make their own lives. Me? Unfortunately, I love my parents. I find the idea of dissapointing them in any way, heartbreaking. Which is highly inconvenient for me. I'm willing to admit, usually they're right about things. But what about learning from mistakes? I won't let myself make any mistakes becuse I'm terrified of angering my parents. I'm afraid of what they think of me, and I'm afraid of how they'll treat me. I don't want them to think I'm irresponsible, stupid, unmotivated, or self centered. But the truth is, there are times when being more self centered would make my life a whole hell of a lot easier. I know that this whole blog post sounds like a load of venting crap, and that's pretty much what it is.

A Prayer of Contentment....

Let me be content.

In dance, let me be content.
Raising my glass to the head of the class was never easy.
and for the first few months
in that gold windowed studio
I wept after every class
watching as The tall angel-faced blonde
pirouetted across the thin layer of hot air,
just above the floor.

In love let me be content.
I thought that we could be a couple, but I guess not.
every silver, silent day, waiting
half-scared and eager
for those few moments of time that chance might allow
us to meet each-other
for he and I to sit and whisper, and long
toward a time that could allow us to be together.

In money let me be content.
Relying, on those two hard workers, to pay my way is not the way I want to live.
feeling the red flower of shame bloom inside me
every time new costs or expenses came our way
and working all the hours that haven’t already been claimed just isn’t enough
time to grow up Lydia.

God, when will you let me be content?

Butterfly

Today, of all days
I saw a butterfly
Living.

It amazed me.
For I had not knowticed the fact
that all the butterflies had died.
The winter had set in for their demize.

But this butterfly
Lived.

This butterfly
was born and refused to die.
It was not my black butterfly.
It did not die.

She struggled, and complained.
But refused to put cut marks into her wings.
She refused to stop flying.

Proud butterfly
see the happiness in the air
and fly.

this is for we feel fine - I feel like butterflies have saved her life. Thank you Butterflies.

Hindsight's Reflection Ends Up Being Just Like What Happens When You Hold Two Mirrors Up To Each Other

So, dance competition season is over.

What shall I do?

I have made such wonderful friends who I can never forget. Chanelle, Sarah, Kristina, Anika, Merriah. I have delved more deeply into this craft, worked harder, longer, and against greater adversity than ever before. I have cried tears of both despair and joy for dance. I have worked, sacrificed, fought for this. I have lived this to the fullest.

A picture:
I get off the ferry and lugg my huge book/dance bag and portfolio along the sidewalk in a fever of anticipation to get to the studio two hours early. My schoolwork is sacrificed for me to make myself a cup of tea in the closed cafe, change into my dance clothes (which I may or may not have spent more time picking out in the morning than what I actually wore), put a CD into the player, take out my charcoal and paper, and begin to stretch. I pull at my tendons until I feel sufficiently limber and freestyle a bit in the front window studio to Pink Floyd. I transition between breathless dance and black and grey artwork. Just then, Anika drags her self through the door that I entered about a half hour ago and I wait a few minutes for her to change and join me in the window room. We stretch, and talk a little. We dance, and wait for the third party; Merriah. Cause when Merriah gets here, then the party can start. The door opens and here she is! More often than not in an uncomfortably stylish work-outfit and heels, she'll mark through her choriography for the day and we'll mimick to the best of our ability. The best dance classes are impromptu.

A memory:
It's christmas time, I stayed late for nutcracker dance class. I've been droped from the duet, I cried all night over that one. But took my anger and resentment at myself and her out on the page before me. Pouding out those tutus and ribbons in black chalky lines. Now I've decided to bring my stuff with me to the gallery. I'm not sure this will work. Chanelle agreeably poses for a picture that may or may not be a complete failure on my part. That funny yellow tutu over her casual tank top and leggings. Pointe shoes thrown on for style. Marking marking marking marking. People are starting to knowtice and Chanelle is released. I stayed and drew for ages it seemed, till it was almost done. Ohhhhhs and Ahhhhhhhs from children behind me and their parents tell me that oh my freaking gosh I'm actually doing a good job. Thank you God. Pics on FB later of me, and now I'm the artist of the bunch.

A flashback:
1st competition. Spotlight. We have no idea what to expect. What do we do? Why are we here again? FUCK! (oh no sorry I didn't mean that, it's just that I dropped the bobby pins on the motel bathroom floor and we're supposed to be there for call time in fifteen minutes) Curling, primping trying to get everything just so because anything could happen today. Call time and the Gang's all here. Oh dear. Trying to stretch and keep our cool. Let's practice the lift, remember the hands on the sote. Ancient chinese breathing excercises looked up on Google last night. Backstage and we're actually doing this. Heart absolutely POUNDING and ther are the judges, and all our teachers, and what? it's over? But I can't even remember it happening!!!!!! Damn adrenaline. A ruby? That's all? After all our hard work? What????

An Experience:
VIBE. Three days of Dance, Relaxation, and Dance, and Dance, and Dance. Three best days ever ever ever no words to explain

A tragedy:
Encore. The last time. The last competition. The last car ride. The last award. The last redbull and ibuprofen combo. The last time. And I BIFF it !!!!!!!!!!! Tears like armegeten. Hugs and a round that never existed. Oh well. Katie: such a bright future, you were really beautiful. And I can't seem to shut off the waterworks. Everythings gonna be ok, till we have to sit there and watch Chanelle tear up that dance floor like she was born on it. Ending with a profession of love. You're incredible Anika, thanks for the extra dose of salt and H2O. I absolutely RUN to give you a Hug. I can't belive it's over. Lots of oil tonight. ANd the birth of beauty.

Mornin Summer Sun

Sun-shine
so
Sweet and unkept
I need your spacious singing
try to be heard
for me.
Cause I’m tired,
leaning on grey
my hopes are for tomorrow
I have no grace,
today.

And I worry
that
I may not find,
repose of swinging summer
on this cold day.
The chilled wind,
passing through trees
is story shy and silent
Sing melodies
for me

The Artist's Dilema

The portrait I drew of you
gazes
off to one side
an object to be studied

It does not stare me
straight in the face
as you so often do

But instead
is cast
in unchanging
contemplative regret

There is something in
the tilt of the light hitting its cheekbones
and the
almost-parting of its lips

You are so rarely found like that

I can still picture you
poised
as a blackbird on a telephone cable
your eyes so determinedly fixed
on some spot in space
in order to appear for this drawing

The purple
`velvet beret
perched just so
atop your rowdy mess of hair

My memories
do not frame you
sad
or even disturbed

And I wonder
worry
if perhaps it was my own feelings
and fears
which spilled through the pencil
and onto your features

Perhaps it was me
who crafted the shadows
beneath your eyes
and under your chin
and fixed the sullen slope of your shoulders

God no.

The black-framed visage
doesn’t look down on me
from the corner bookshelf
with such sorrow
that if feel
compelled
to rush upstairs in a panic
and find you

And reassure you,
and myself,
of my love and devotion
for you.
My younger sister

Never let me
draw you with such
a heavy heart
ever again

(So I'd like some constructive criticism, this is for poetry class and I'm thinking of using it for a final project, but obviously it needs some work :)

V-Day

Ok, so I know Valentines day and all.... not too popular. I get that, I really do. But one of my favorite things in the world is flowers, and sinse they abound as symbols of devotion on this most hated of days, I decided to make my V-Day post about flowers.

Red, a classic that just can't be beat:



Orange, lively and warm:




Yellow, succulent and sweet:




Green, creative and unique:



(because seriously, I would go for a guy with the guts to get green flowers)

Blue, calm and serious:




Purple!, vibrant and vivacous:




For all you fans of indigo out there, I'm sorry but this blog does not officially recognise that as a color of the rainbow, it's a variation on blue.

Vintage and Fab

I have discovered Etsy.com! I love it and here are some of my favorites:

http://www.etsy.com/listing/64701360/cream-flower-and-gray-satin-headband?ref=cat2_gallery_22

a simply too sweet for words headband, flowers made out of newspaper...

http://www.etsy.com/listing/67476550/vintage-slip-dresswith-gift-jewelry-sash?ref=cat2_gallery_13

this crazy but dainty slip dress looks like a halloween costume but oh so sweet

http://www.etsy.com/listing/64595382/reserved-for-kbaugher-patchwork-sweater?ref=cat2_gallery_7

if you want insanity made out of sweatshirts you should take a look at this work of art

http://www.etsy.com/listing/67768165/home-storage-solution?ref=cat1_gallery_25

these sweet stacking drawers have an almost oriental feel to them

Shabbyness

It's easy to look out on the world and see those who have more, more opportunities, more money, more time, and sometimes it seems like they have more life. It's easy to believe that they have it all and poor little you, with all your dreams and ambitions are never going to get anywhere simply because you don't have as much as them. It's easy to be angry, to resent others what they have been given by God. It's easy to see my own life as shabby, second rate, and not quite worth as much as others. Do they even know? Do they see that they are gifted beyond yourself? Do they even care? But then, do I?
Do I see that I have been blessed? Has the fact that others are not as priveleged as I escape my knowtice? Am I also blind? These questions lead me to ponder the worth of my own life and what I might give others. This shabby life of mine means something, I was given it for a reason. It is my crucible, it shapes me.
"My Poverty is not complete: It lacks me." - Antonio Porchia, Voces, 1943, Translated from Spanish by W. S. Merwin

A Tribute to the Quote Garden

So I have this unhealthy obsession with quotes. It just gives me such delight to look up a subject and read the poetic (or not) groupings of rhetoric. I love the feeling of sharing these snippets of thought and philosophy with my friends, enimies, and english teachers (usually to their dismay). But this posting isn't really supposed to be about me. Today I'm talking about my favorite search engine for quotes. I discovered this handy little website a while back and have used it lovingly since then. The Quote Garden http://www.quotegarden.com/index.html is a collection of things reputable people have said on virtually every subject. For example:

On education: Education is what has remained after one has forgotten what one has learned in school. - Albert Einstien

On breathing: When the breath wanders the mind also is unsteady. But when the breath is calmed the mind too will be still, and the yogi achieves long life. Therefore, one should learn to control the breath. - Svatmarama, Hatha Yoga Pradipika

On Karma: Worthless people blame thier Karma. - Burmese Proverb

Or, for the more specific querries, Quote Garden has:

On Administrative Assistant Day: No one who achieves success does so without acknowledging the help of others. The wise and confident acknowledge this help with gratitude. - Author Unknown

On Censorship: The fact is that censorship always defeats its own purpose, for it creates, in the end, the kind of society that is incapable of exercising real discretion. - Henry Steele Commager

On Needlework: The sewing machine joins what the scissors have cut asunder, plus whatever else comes in its path. - Mason Cooley

And so I feel it is appropriate to end this posting with a favortie of mine.
Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite. Or waiting around for Friday night or waiting perhaps for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil or a better break or a string of pearls or a pair of pants or a wig with curls or another chance. Everyone is just waiting. - Dr. Seuss